On the morning of the third of January, 1349, I made my way to the Campo to hear the heralds announce the verdict. The Mortalità had gone quiet when the cold weather began, and the few who were left in the city came out for the spectacle. Heralds raised gleaming horns and filled the piazza with their high, bright sound. Gabriele was not the first to have his fate proclaimed that day, and I waited, shivering. One indictment for homicide, another for theft. I could hardly breathe. Then Gabriele’s name rang out across the assembled crowd, his ancestry, the crime for which he was tried, and finally the news of his acquittal. I am not usually a fan of noisy public demonstrations, but this time I yelled myself hoarse.
I had hoped to see Gabriele again at the proclamation of his verdict, but none of the reprieved were present for the announcement of their innocence nor were the indicted. I left the Campo and headed back to the Ospedale to keep my meeting with Umiltà.She smiled at me as I entered her studium.
“Your painter will be released later today; God works wonders through those who serve him.” I loved how the medieval mind could seamlessly intertwine belief and fact. “Have you thought about my proposal?”
“Yes. And my answer is yes.”
Umiltà beamed. “In that case, I shall execute the necessary steps.”
“Steps?”
“I remember you as more quick-witted than you now seem. Whatever happened to you on your voyage to Messina? It seems to have affected you adversely.”
“I fell ill in Messina.” Umiltà’s smile vanished abruptly.
“What sort of ill?”
“The Mortalità magna sort.”
“You did not say.”Umiltà inhaled once; I saw her shoulders rise and fall under her cloak. “Both you and Messer Accorsi were touched by the grim hand of the Mortalità, but escaped its grasp. You and the painter must have been watched over by the same protecting saint.” Or we took similar antibiotics. And Umiltà had survived too—maybe helped by my attempt to set up a rat-catching operation before I’d left for Messina? “I will dedicate myself to the furthering of your betrothal. In the wake of these miracles there is no more fitting way to honor our savior.”
“Excellent,” I said. So long as she was heading in the right direction, I didn’t care how she got there. “When can we visit Messer Accorsi?”
“We?” Umiltà laughed for the second time in my memory of her. “Now that I know the cause of your dimmed wits, I shall excuse you a bit more readily. You will stay at the Ospedale, demonstrating the piety of your widowhood and the industry of your scribal duties. I shall approach the Accorsi household. It would not be seemly for you to meet at this early stage, and all must be conducted without a breath of impropriety. I shall take my role as protector of your honor quite seriously, have no doubt about that.”
I had no doubt whatsoever, looking at Umiltà’s belligerent stance and jutting chin. She reminded me of a petite bulldog. “In any case,” she said, leading me to the door of her studium, “in your new role as chief scribe, you will be far too busy to do anything else.” Umiltà, as usual, was right.
* * *
When I entered the scriptorium I saw a man bending over the paper trays in the corner. At the sound of my entry, he turned to face me. Little Egidio was no longer little. His transformation over the months I’d been gone had an Alice-in-Wonderland quality—his body had elongated and his small round boy’s head sat on top of his new height awkwardly. When he saw me he dropped the tray he was holding. It hit the stone floor with a clatter.
“Egidio? You’ve grown into a man since I left, I hardly recognized you.”
I saw more evidence of his new adulthood as he looked at my face, then body, then rapidly back to my face again. He flushed to the roots of his hair. “Signora, to see you well is a great blessing.”
“I’m very happy to be back.” Egidio bent to retrieve his work; the rag pulp had scattered onto the floor. “The Virgin herself must surely have you in her hands. I know of no one else touched by the Pestilence who lived to tell of it.”
I could think of one other person. “Can you show me what needs doing? I’m sure much has changed.”
“Gladly,” he said simply, and we went to work.
I had explicit instructions not to go looking for Gabriele, so I applied myself to scribal tasks, glad for the distraction. I fell back into the rhythm of the scriptorium as the familiar movements reasserted themselves: smooth the parchment flat, weight it with lead, lay out inks, select a quill, set the lines to rule the page. But my preoccupation with Ser Signoretti’s role in Gabriele’s near conviction, and the possible Medici threat to his welfare, kept me on edge. I felt like I had to do something—but what?
*
I had an opportunity to interrogate Clara on Sunday evening after Vespers. I had not experienced medieval January before, and I discovered that there was no effective way to get warm. Fireplaces warmed only one side of me at a time, and were banked before bedtime. As a result, I became obsessed with the idea of having a hot bath. I wouldn’t let Clara fill the tub, despite her protestations, so a kitchen maid and I lugged the buckets of steaming water upstairs to the women’s baths. I was the only person desperate enough to bathe so late, so Clara and I were alone in the room. I sank into the water gratefully. Clara took a seat on a wooden stool behind me and began washing my hair with a fragrant mixture of dried winter herbs. The feel of her fingers on my scalp made my words come easily.
“Clara, where did you go after I left Messina? A penniless orphan in a city overrun with pestilence?”
“I had the good fortune to find accommodation with Messer Provenzano in the contado,” she said crisply. I sat up out of the water to look at her face. A small smile played at the corners of her mouth. “The good man gave me a place in his household as a cook. At first.”
“At first?”
“We found ourselves quite well-suited. I was without recourse, as you said, and he did not like to be alone. His staff was much reduced and many of his acquaintances perished in the Mortalità.” Her voice trailed off, and we were both quiet for a while. I sank into the bath again, and after a few moments she resumed scrubbing.
“Where is Provenzano now?”
“He is on a business voyage at present. Do you mean where does he reside?”
“Yes, please, enlighten me.”
“Why, here of course.”
I sat up again, splashing water out of the tub. “Here? In Siena? But isn’t he from Genoa?”
“Why would I not leap at the chance to find passage back home?”
“Provenzano brought you here? That was generous of him.”
“Yes, I am fortunate to have found such a generous husband.” Clara said it without a trace of drama, but to my ears the word husband hit the air like an explosive.
Wow, nice work, Clara. “Congratulations on your marriage,” I said, too stunned to say anything else. That explained the new baby, though I was beginning to realize that it was never quite safe to make assumptions about Clara. I sank back into the bath, done with questions. But after she was gone, I wondered whether she’d stay with me, since she was, amazingly, a married woman now.
* * *