“Thanks be to God we are not governed like France, where two citizens speaking ill of a person is enough to prove guilt. This fama must be put to rest for what it is: rumor, or worse, deliberate lies.” I too was glad Siena wasn’t like France. “Messer Accorsi had just returned from Messina when the Podestà’s police force paid him a visit. He was brought up on charges and imprisoned until the matter could be brought to trial.”
Why didn’t he finish the painting? How did he get back? Did his family survive? I envisioned Gabriele pushing open the front door of his uncle’s house to meet the untended corpses of his relatives, the fragrance of Martellino’s baking bread replaced by the stench of death. But it was just fear, not empathic vision. More than half of Siena’s inhabitants had died in the Plague of 1348—what was the chance that Martellino, Bianca, Ysabella, Rinaldo, and little Gabriella had all survived? And Clara? Umiltà hadn’t mentioned her, but she might have died in Messina where I’d left her.
“Ser Accorsi was denounced by an informant,” Umiltà continued grimly as we stepped from a narrow street into the thin winter sun of the Campo, “an anonymous informant. The painter was accused of killing Cristoforo Buonaventura, of the night watch.”
This was blatantly outrageous. “Giovanni de’ Medici killed him! I was at the trial when he was convicted and hanged.”
“The informant seeks to overturn the verdict and clear the Medici name. He avers that Ser Accorsi made his accusation to deflect suspicion from himself.”
“And one anonymous letter to the Podestà is enough to throw the whole process of justice on its head? That’s ridiculous!” Fear laced my indignation.
“I have heard there is a witness prepared to confirm that Ser Accorsi brought Ser Buonaventura to his death.” A witness. What witness? I saw the net drawing tight, with Gabriele at the center. And here I was, heading straight into it.
Umiltà put a hand on my shoulder to calm my obvious anxiety. “I am certain it is a false charge; our painter is no murderer. The details will be revealed at the trial, and there, you will testify and, God willing, all will be well again and Accorsi released from prison.” All I could do was nod. It was a relief to be back in Umiltà’s presence again, where things always got taken care of. Maybe this is what it would have been like to have a mother.
“Well, then, your arrival is well timed,” Umiltà said briskly. It was surprisingly difficult to keep up with her. I couldn’t see her legs beneath her gown and robe, but I imagined them spinning around in a blur, like the Road Runner’s in old cartoons from my childhood.
“Where are we going?” I panted as we headed out of the Ospedale.
“The Iudex Maleficiorum likes to hear the most serious crimes—treason, homicide, blasphemy—before dinner. He leaves the minor offenses—petty thievery, defamation, and such—for later in the day.”
That’s a nice orderly approach to the administration of justice. I always preferred to have my most complicated OR cases early in the morning too. We were out in the Piazza del Duomo now, and turning onto the street that led to the Campo. Something from my bag was digging into my back but I couldn’t stop to readjust.
“What is the Iudex Maleficiorum?” It sounded nasty in Latin.
“The criminal judge appointed by the Podestà. Is Lucca’s system of justice really so different from ours here in Siena?”
“Oh . . . we just have a different word for it.” Umiltà accepted my explanation.
“Now, Beatrice,” she said, steering me by my elbow, “are you well enough acquainted with the painter to speak in his defense?”
I floundered, not knowing how much to reveal. “He did save me from the fire, you know that, of course. We met periodically after that. Accidentally, of course, when he was painting the Ospedale fresco. It was right outside the scriptorium windows.”
Umiltà stopped walking, and I stopped next to her. She was looking at me with a penetrating stare.
I felt my face get hot. “Messer Accorsi and I also happened to be on the same ship to Messina. You know he had a commission there?”
“I helped him secure that commission,” Umiltà said.
“Oh, really? That was nice of you.” Clearly it was best not to underestimate Umiltà. “I was certainly happy to find him on board. I mean, his presence was most welcome, since he took it upon himself to protect me. Messer Accorsi is quite chivalrous.”
“Indeed, I can see the painter has made an impression upon you.” I wasn’t sure whether Umiltà looked amused or disapproving.
The Palazzo Pubblico occupied the low point of the sloping piazza; it felt like we were succumbing to the pull of its gravity as we approached. I remembered Giovanni de’ Medici’s face, his features leonine and merciless. He’d been hanged for a murder Gabriele was now accused of committing. A murder to which Gabriele had once been the sole witness, though now another witness had appeared for the second round. Someone wanted revenge for Giovanni’s death.
. . . The painter must pay the price for his testimony. Send me word when it is done.
Back in modern Siena this was an absorbing academic question worthy of publication; now it meant Gabriele’s survival. Which of the surviving Medicis wanted revenge—his wife, Immacolata? His putative son, Iacopo, absent birth records notwithstanding? I was thinking so hard I didn’t hear Umiltà’s question.
“Can you speak on his behalf? You have not answered me.” Umiltà stopped at the main entrance of the Palazzo. The white stone of the building’s first story was bright against the red brick above, and the castle-like crenellations on the top of the Palazzo looked like they were moving, silhouetted against shifting clouds. I pulled my eyes away to look at Umiltà.
“Of course. But what sort of questions will I be expected to answer?”
“If you knew the facts you might be asked to provide them, but in this case you will simply vouch for the painter’s character.”
Character I could do. But I had more than character. If the documents I’d brought from the twenty-first century had made the trip through time with me, then I had hard evidence too. And I’d have to figure out how to use it, fast.
* * *
The Sala del Mappamondo, the Council Hall of the Palazzo Pubblico, was jammed with people. I scanned the room but couldn’t find Gabriele. A massive wooden wheel attached to the far wall of the sala was painted with a map that had given the room its name, and that I knew wouldn’t survive the centuries. On the opposite wall a fresco depicted a Madonna enthroned, surrounded by angels and saints. Donata would know the artist, I thought, but I had someone else to ask now. I leaned down to the level of Umiltà’s ear.
“That Maestà, who painted it?”
“Why, Simone Martini, of course, our own departed master, and Accorsi’s teacher. I hope the Maestro’s work above him will give him strength in his own defense.”
“Where is Ser Accorsi?”
“He will be kept under guard until his name can be cleared.” Umiltà’s voice dropped a few decibels. “Do not despair, Beatrice. He will not be harmed in any way before the trial. Afterward, depending on the outcome, I may not be able to protect him. But I will do everything in my power to see him acquitted.” I wanted to believe her power would be sufficient.
* * *