Back in my own time, I had often tried to remember Gabriele’s face. But I’d always failed, and the further I got from my break with the past, the harder it had become. I’d stored a shorthand description of his features, but those made a catalog of details, not a coherent picture. So when I saw Gabriele again in person, I was not at all prepared.
He was escorted by two menacing armed guards wearing parti-colored tunics of Siena’s black and white. I saw him from behind, but even that view of him cut through me with an intensity that was almost painful. I took in the way his arms rested against his sides, the measured grace of his steps. There were no jeers from the crowd, or even whispered comments; the assembled citizens felt his gravity, and respected it. As Gabriele entered the sala, he lifted his head and tilted it to the side in that gesture I knew, like a falcon listening. I could see part of his face now, his right ear, the slope of one cheek with several days’ growth of beard, the straight profile of his nose, and in seconds, the real Gabriele took the place of months of inadequate imagination.
A court official began the proceedings with a bow to the judge. “Gabriele Beltrano Accorsi, a citizen of the Commune of Siena, has been accused of the murder of Cristoforo Buonaventura, a guard of the night watch. We are assembled to hear the testimony of witnesses, and to resolve the question of his guilt.”
I shot a look at Umiltà, whose eyes were narrow with anger. “Someone has accused him of the selfsame crime for which he bore witness. It reeks of vendetta, Beatrice,” she hissed. Vendetta. The word sounded just like what it meant—vengeful and dangerous.
As the first witness was called my heart sank: Ser Vitalis Signoretti. He wore a belted red velvet tunic embroidered with an intricate pattern of diamonds in gold, and over that, a dark blue cloak lined with fur. Was I really going to go to bat against this powerful nobleman with only a scrap of time-traveling parchment to support Gabriele’s defense? And if I won, what would Gabriele’s and my future be like with Signoretti as an enemy, in addition to a vengeful Florentine?
As Signoretti was led to the witness stand, my head went in another direction. Why was Signoretti testifying now, against an innocent man? Did Signoretti actually think he had information linking Gabriele to the crime, or had he been bought? I thought of the Medici ledger, with its columns of payments to this member of Siena’s casati. Gabriele’s denunciation of Giovanni would have made him a Medici target, and it was possible that some remaining Medici was using Signoretti as a weapon.
“On the night in question, I overheard an argument through a window facing the street—of course my family and I were well inside by curfew.” He spoke with the infuriating confidence that comes with being born into privilege. “I opened the shutters and saw Ser Accorsi, who stands before you today, in conversation with the much-mourned Ser Buonaventura. I overheard Ser Buonaventura demanding an explanation for Ser Accorsi’s late-night wanderings. Their words became heated, and the crime for which he has been detained followed.” It was all going to rest on the force of one witness against another, one a marginally solvent fatherless painter and the other a powerful member of the aristocracy. Unless I could tip the scales.
I leaned over to open my bag. A clerk was reading the denunciation verbatim now. I felt the desperation that comes when you suddenly realize, at your doorstep, that you might have lost your keys. Was it still here?
There, squeezed between my jewelry case and five bras, was the envelope I was looking for. I said a silent prayer to the god of primary sources and time travel as I pulled out the letters from Giovanni to Iacopo, written during Giovanni’s imprisonment. They looked new again, back in the century where they had been written.
The Iudex Malificiorum, a big-jowled, appropriately ominous-looking administrator of justice, spoke from his great wooden chair. His low voice rumbled out over the crowd. “As there are no further witnesses to corroborate the accusation, we will now hear from Messer Accorsi himself, in defense of his position. This is an unusual matter, since to indict the accused would require overturning a prior conviction of a man executed at the hands of the Commune.”
Gabriele stepped up to speak, and I finally saw the rest of his face. He had lost weight, and his skin was paler than it had been when I’d met him in the summer of 1347. But his eyes were the same, and today, taking on the color of an angry sea. He spoke briefly.
“I confirm my prior testimony. I witnessed the murder of Cristoforo Buonaventura by Giovanni de’ Medici. I am innocent of the crime in question.” His voice wasn’t loud but I could hear every word.
“Messer Accorsi, have you nothing further to add in your defense?” The judge leaned forward.
“Nothing, Your Honor. It has been said before, and recorded. I will not trouble the court with repetition of the truth.”
“Very well, then. Are there further witnesses who would speak on behalf of the accused?”
Umiltà’s piercing voice rang out into the room. “To Your Honor I recommend the witness Beatrice Alessandra Trovato, chief scribe of the Ospedale. Monna Trovato transcribed the trial in which the Medici murderer was convicted, and was thereby privy to the original account of that fateful night’s events. Furthermore, she is a grieving widow and a pilgrim, holy in God’s sight, and Ser Accorsi’s intended. Her word is to be trusted on matters of character, and fact.”
Chief scribe and Gabriele’s intended? A job promotion and an engagement, all in one sentence. I would have to speak to Umiltà later on these two points.
“Monna Trovato, step forward to give your testimony.”
I moved through the crowd, which parted to let me pass. Everything around me took on a strange distorted quality, like an image seen through a kaleidoscope—faceted and flecked with color. At the end of the path through the assembled people Gabriele faced me. Even across the room, and despite his obvious efforts at composure, I could see the shock register on his face. A force emanated from him like heat from a furnace. I stopped at the spot directed by the judge’s clerk and held up the letter.
“I am in possession of a document that proves the role Giovanni de’ Medici had in the death of Ser Buonaventura. I present it respectfully to the court.” The clerk delivered the letter to the judge, who spread it out on the table in front of him. He read silently.