The Phoenix of Florence

by Philip Kazan

  ‘An only son.’

  ‘Oh, really? But you will not inherit?’

  ‘No, Capo. There is nothing for me to inherit. We lost our lands. And my family lost their lives.’

  ‘Lost?’

  ‘After Scannagallo there were some local upheavals between those loyal to Siena and those who supported Duke Cosimo. My family always stood with Florence. These things run almost as deep as the mountains, Capo. I won’t bore you, but I was the only one who escaped. I was very young.’

  ‘Hmm.’ Scarfa grunted, evidently satisfied by this. ‘So you became a soldier.’

  ‘It was my father’s trade. He led his own company; in fact, he fought for Duke Cosimo at Scannagallo, under Il Medeghino. It was my fortune to be taken up by Don Orazio, who found me when I was a fugitive. My father was a master swordsman, and I was my father’s favourite pupil, which has always helped me.’ I allowed myself to tap the pommel of my sword, almost playfully, but I saw Scarfa’s eyes glance down and then up again. ‘Yes, I became a soldier, Capo. I believe that’s the usual career for a dispossessed gentleman. Though I confess I never considered the Church. Is it too late, do you think?’

  To my surprise, Scarfa raised an eyebrow and gave the briefest of grins. ‘It’s never too late, Condottiere.’ He lifted his chin until the point of his beard was aimed at my face. He wrinkled his brow and puffed out his chest. Then he appeared to come to some internal decision. ‘Lepanto,’ he said. His head came down and he offered his hand. I took it, the captain’s rough palm and bulging knuckles almost swallowing mine. He squeezed, and I dutifully squeezed back.

  ‘Lepanto.’ Scarfa was growling again. ‘Lepanto. Hmm. Can you read and write?’

  I blinked. ‘Of course.’

  ‘Of course?’ Scarfa sounded incredulous. ‘Do a lot of soldiers of your acquaintance read, Condottiere?’

  ‘I was taught by my mother. She … really did want me to go into the Church.’

  ‘But instead you became a mercenary? That’s an interesting change of plan.’

  ‘I had no choice.’

  ‘No.’ Scarfa sighed, and there was a moment’s silence in the gloomy office. ‘No, one rarely does.’ He rubbed his nose thoughtfully. ‘Wait a minute. Celavini … Are you the man who fought that duel in Sicily? What was the man’s name … Ricci? Riccardini?’

  ‘De Ricca. Yes, that was me.’

  ‘I’ve read an account of it. Almost as famous a duel as the one Ascanio della Corgna fought outside Bologna.’

  ‘I don’t really think that’s true.’ I smiled politely and looked around at the office of the Guardia. Three of the desks were unoccupied, and at the other two, men in red, white and blue Medici livery were working, one studying a dirty roll of parchment, the other scratching something in a ledger with a quill that had seen happier times.

  ‘Don Onorio.’ His attitude had completely changed. ‘Listen. You will be used to a different sort of life. This work isn’t for an adventurer. A good policeman has few friends and he should want fewer. He must harbour no desire to be loved. There is little enough reward. Look at poor Ginori Milanesi. He lived alone, you see. No one knew he was dead until the holiday was over. I wouldn’t wish this life on a man who has seen the grand sweep of things. Lepanto! You’d go mad with boredom, Condottiere.’

  ‘You were a soldier once too, unless I’m mistaken, Capo Scarfa.’

  ‘I suppose it’s obvious. Yes, I was. But I haven’t seen any action for a long time. Unless you count the time we went chasing after Vico Aldobrandeschi a couple of years ago, in the Maremma.’ He sighed at the memory.

  I’d only been half listening as I looked around again at the men at their desks, none of whom were remotely interested in me. Everything seemed blurred with boredom. But now Scarfa had my attention. ‘You have authority in the south?’ I asked. ‘To deal with the bandits there?’

  ‘Well, yes. But we didn’t have the men or the funds …’

  ‘Tell me, Capo. How much does this job pay?’

  Captain Scarfa chuckled. ‘Twenty lire a month.’

  ‘That’s … what? Thirty-five scudi a year?’ I was almost lost for words.

  ‘Dreadful, isn’t it? A bank clerk here in Florence makes three times that amount. Of course that isn’t really what you would earn. Every fugitive from justice trails a reward, and in the city, only one of the Guardia may collect that reward. There are a lot of fugitives, and it’s a small city.’

  ‘So you work not for pay but for plunder?’

  ‘That’s more or less it, exactly.’ Scarfa grunted. ‘But this is Florence. Everyone comes here sooner or later. Bees or flies; shit or honey. Take your pick. But even the worst outlaws can’t keep away.’

  ‘Is that really true?’

  ‘It is. This is the centre of Tuscany. The heart. Every man of ambition, every fool with a scheme, every bandit or outlaw noble: there will be something they need or desire here. They come, we catch them, we get paid.’

  In the blink of an eye, everything came into sharp focus. I rubbed my scar, trying not to seem too eager. ‘Any other inducements?’

  ‘There are two comandantes. They split the work between them. Two months on, two months off, which gives a man time for …’ He shrugged. ‘Other pursuits. A house comes with the job – Ginori’s house. It’s in a dismal neighbourhood. I wouldn’t exactly call it an inducement.’

  ‘You’ve been very honest with me, Capo Scarfa. Soldier to soldier, may I repay the compliment?’ I said. Perhaps my mind was already made up, but if I was going to jump into the dark, I did at least want to make sure I wasn’t wearing a blindfold. ‘I am tempted, I must admit,’ I said. ‘But here’s the thing, sir: what I know of your Otto is that they are the instrument of your Grand Duke’s tyranny; that they have spies everywhere in the Duchy and indeed in all of Christendom; that they use deceit, and torture, and assassination, all at the whim of Duke Francesco, who is nothing more than a modern-day Nero. They oppress the many and enforce silence. That the duke rules with fear, and the Otto are his instrument. And, of course, they are monstrously corrupt and venal. This is what I know. Will you tell me I am wide of the mark?’

  We stood staring at each other for a very long moment. Then Scarfa broke into a wide and genuine grin.

  ‘Well done, sir! I know, I know: you aren’t looking for a job, but honestly, you have all the qualifications. You are unreadable, you can fight. You are, if you’ll forgive me, unremarkable and yet oddly striking. And you’re right, of course, the whole world regards our Otto with equal measures of loathing and fear. Men talk about us up and down the length of Italy. In France – even in London. Some of what they say … I wouldn’t like to play you at cards, sir, your face is like a wax mask. Yes, I’ll be frank with you. The Otto are reviled by His Excellency’s enemies, and he has many enemies.’ Scarfa lowered his head and stared at me from under his brows. ‘Yes? You know all this. You served with Ascanio della Corgna, who had more than one Florentine exile in his ranks. You fought alongside Don Paolo Giordano: the Romans who are his followers are full of opinions about His Highness. So yes, what you said is true, and then again it is not. It’s true that we – the state – use spies. What state doesn’t? It’s true we use torture. Again, name me a judiciary anywhere in the world that does not. But compared to Venice, say, we are the gentlest of states. As for Duke Francesco, well, he is a ruler. But I have known this city all my life and I can assure you that Medici rule owes far more to Augustus than to Nero. They bring peace and stability. The Otto are their instruments.’ He looked up. ‘Oh, God’s teeth. Excuse me, Don Onorio.’

  A man in courtier’s clothes was picking his way reluctantly through the maze of tables and desks. ‘Capo Scarfa,’ he called.

  ‘Messer Antinori,’ Scarfa said with studied politeness. ‘I expect you’ve come about your friend Rinaldi.’

  ‘Hardly my friend, Capo. Can we …’ Antinori glanced at me.

  ‘We can speak in front of Don Onorio. Yes – Rinaldi. It
was obviously him. There was no need for torture – just came right out with it like a true gentleman.’

  ‘You wouldn’t have tortured him, surely!’

  Scarfa laughed humourlessly. ‘Of course not. Meanwhile, I’ve talked to the chief magistrate, and he said he will be fine with Rinaldi just staying away from Florence for a couple of years. He’ll have to pay a small forfeit, of course. Do you want to speak to the magistrate?’

  ‘No need. I’ll write a report for His Highness and I think he’ll agree. It won’t be such a dreadful thing to keep Rinaldi locked up for a few more days.’

  ‘Really? I’m having to keep him in fine wine and choice delicacies.’

  Antinori chuckled. ‘I’ll bid you good morning, Capo.’

  ‘Two years’ exile,’ I remarked when Antinori had gone. ‘He can’t have done anything too bad.’

  ‘Actually, he killed his niece.’

  ‘He’s a murderer?’

  ‘Well, the niece was betrothed, but she started an affair with someone else. As the head of the family …’ Scarfa made a gesture that spoke of inevitability.

  ‘So murder is not much of a crime here in Florence?’

  ‘Not if you own half the Mugello and go hunting with the Grand Duke’s son. If it had been anyone else, they’d certainly have got a longer exile. And a much bigger fine.’

  ‘A fine.’

  ‘A large one. Just because honour demands something, it doesn’t mean that there are no consequences.’ Scarfa, finally seeing my frown, raised his hands. ‘Rinaldi is an absolute shit, to be blunt – I’d ask you not to tell anyone I said that. And the whole city knew his niece, who was beautiful and … intelligent.’ He rubbed his chin sadly. ‘Witty. I expect the boy was to blame. It’s a dreadful thing. But if Rinaldi hadn’t killed her, someone else would have. That’s the way of the world.’

  ‘What about the boy?’

  ‘Vanished. He’s either halfway to Milan or they’ll find him in a fish trap downstream.’

  With that, my mind was finally made up. I stood up and put out my hand. ‘I won’t keep you any longer, Capo Scarfa. I’d be delighted to take up the position of comandante if you’re still offering it.’

  Scarfa laughed delightedly and pumped my hand. ‘Excellent!’ he said. ‘Welcome! I’ll need to … No. Come back tomorrow. Your counterpart, Comandante Mondavio, has two more weeks of his shift to complete, which should give you time to put things in order.’

  ‘My things are perfectly in order, Capo,’ I said. ‘Now, you said something about a house.’

  ‘Ach.’ Scarfa looked around the office. ‘Poverini!’ he shouted. A young man with an ambitious moustache decorating his pleasant face came over. ‘Celavini, this is Lugotenente Damiano Poverini. He’ll be directly under you. Poverini, this is our new comandante, Don Onorio Celavini.’

  Poverini grinned. ‘Welcome, sir!’ he said.

  ‘Do you have time to show him around poor Milanesi’s house?’

  ‘Of course! I’m not on patrol until eleven.’

  ‘Until tomorrow, Capo.’ I bowed, and Scarfa slapped me on the shoulder.

  ‘Delighted,’ he said.

  ‘Likewise.’

  I followed Poverini out onto the street. Perhaps I should have been wondering what I had just done, but oddly, I had never been so certain of a decision in my life.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  ‘What happened to Comandante Milanesi?’ I asked Poverini.

  We were heading east, and he had been pointing out things of interest as we went along: The Piazza Signoria is just down there. Over there is the Church of Orsanmichele. This? It’s the Mercato Nuovo …

  ‘The gossip is that poor Comandante Milanesi died of neglect. Actually …’ The lieutenant lowered his voice and looked around himself conspiratorially. ‘What nobody is saying is that he killed himself. Dreadful scandal if it got out. But it was the loneliness. A woman turned him down, I understand, and after that he festered there in Borgo Ognissanti for years, until …’ He rolled his eyes superstitiously. ‘It isn’t the most cheerful place to live, signore, I warn you.’

  ‘Let me decide that. Is it far?’

  ‘It isn’t all that near,’ Poverini said. ‘But it’s a beautiful day, signore, and the sun will even be shining in Borgo Ognissanti.’

  ‘What’s wrong with the place?’

  ‘It’s a rough neighbourhood. A slum, basically. Mostly dyers. The farther towards the walls you go, signore, the more dyers there are.’

  ‘Why is that?’

  He shrugged. ‘You know what dyers are like – or perhaps you don’t. They’re like savages from the Indies, all patterned with dye, only speaking to their own kind. Their vats stink. But to be honest, they don’t cause as much trouble as other people.’

  We passed the church of Santa Trìnita, where men were dismantling last night’s funeral, and carried on eastwards. ‘Palazzo Corsini,’ my guide intoned. ‘That’s the Ponte alla Carraia.’ The river was very close, and the sound of the weir was a constant roar. The street we were in now was narrow, and the houses were interspersed with patches of waste ground. But the street itself was full of life. Men were pushing barrows and pulling handcarts piled with cloth, rags, leather, firewood. The doors of most houses were open, and from inside came the sounds of hammering, of clacking shuttles. We went past a large, shabby building, part chapel, part house. ‘This is the Casa della Pietà,’ said Poverini. ‘One of the homes for abandoned girls. You’ll become well acquainted with this place. And here we are, sir. We’ve arrived.’

  Poverini was standing in front of an unprepossessing door. The house was on the corner of Borgo Ognissanti and a narrow alley, a few steps from the church of Ognissanti. From the far end of the alley came a welter of noises: the clanging of a hammer on tin fought it out with a screeching baby, a barking dog and several men having a conversation at the tops of their lungs. I examined the door. It was old, made of plain oak, bleached by the weather, its nails and hinges losing a long war against rust. Poverini’s nose was twitching with comic revulsion, and it was true: the air was heavy with a complex stink which seemed to be made up of the briny tang of iron and the eye-watering vapours of old, concentrated piss. It was far from pleasant, but I had smelt far worse. This was nothing to the below-decks of a fighting galley, or the aftermath of a town sacking. It was merely people dyeing cloth. That thought seemed quite comforting.

  ‘Open it, then,’ I said.

  Beyond the door was a small square courtyard, no more than eight paces from end to end. In the centre was a brick well with a worn marble cap. One side of the courtyard was the street wall. Adjoining houses made up two other sides, but I saw that their windows and doors had been bricked up a long time ago. On the third side was another, slightly newer door, two small windows on either side and one larger one above, all pointed in the ancient style. The building was at least three centuries old and it seemed a kind of miracle that it had survived that long, as the mortar was crumbling between its stones and looking up, I could see plants, even a small tree, growing from the gutters. In the courtyard the air smelt of old stone and cats, and the things that grow in places where the sun can’t be bothered to shine, but the throat-catching fumes of the dyeing vats had barely seeped in. Orange and grey lichens mottled the walls with streaks and bullseyes. A pile of olive twigs, stacked for firewood, was slowly rotting in a corner. It was as private a place as you would ever find in a city like Florence.

  Poverini picked his way over the mossy flagstones, carefully pushing a dry cat turd out of the way with the toe of his shoe. ‘Lovely, eh?’ he said cheerfully. The key, which was large and archaic, barely clicked in the lock, much to Poverini’s surprise, and the door swung open on hinges that had been recently oiled. We stepped into a room that was as neat as the courtyard outside was unkempt.

  ‘A fastidious man, was he, this Milanesi?’ I asked. I knew next to nothing of policemen, but it seemed appropriate that tidiness might be important to them. To ke
ep order, one should be orderly. Was that anything like me? I had never lived in a house for more than a few weeks since I’d fled from Pietrodoro. My travelling chests were tidy, my accounting ledgers meticulous. That had to be a good start, I decided.

  ‘It’s no palazzo,’ Poverini said. ‘This was Milanesi’s study—’ He pointed through a door, and I looked into a small room with plastered walls that had once been crudely frescoed with geometric patterns and, very optimistically, faded heraldic devices. There was an old table and a plain, high-backed chair with a fraying upholstered seat. A pair of newer bookshelves was empty. The chair was positioned so that its back was towards the window, which let out into the street. Shutters hung half off their hinges.

  ‘He’d nailed them shut,’ Poverini explained. ‘All of the windows. I was one of the ones who found him. He was upstairs in his bed – they had to burn the mattress and all the linen.’ He shuddered, and his face suddenly lost all of its good cheer. ‘Across there is the kitchen. He had a woman who came and cooked for him, but he’d sent her away.’

  ‘I’m going upstairs, Poverini. You don’t have to come.’

  The staircase was as old as the rest of the house, but the treads did not creak as I climbed. I imagined Milanesi at work with nails and oil. I was beginning to like him. There were two rooms at the top of the stairs. One was completely bare: no furniture, no hangings on the wood-panelled walls, no rugs, only a dead tortoiseshell butterfly on the windowsill. In the other room, a surprisingly ornate bed of dark brown wood took up most of the floor, its four posts carved with elaborately twining vines and topped with satyrs leering through pointed beards. The headboard was decorated with geometric garlands and masks in the grotesque fashion. Where the mattress should be, the ropes sagged forlornly.

  ‘They should have burnt the hangings too,’ Poverini said behind me. ‘But they had to sell them to pay Milanesi’s debts. Owed a small fortune to his tailor, though I never thought he looked that remarkable. He bought the bed for his bride-to-be, and …’ Poverini went over the window and opened it. Dead flies and maggot husks crunched under his shoes. ‘Venetian silk hangings. Bloody hell. It still reeks in here. Can’t you smell it?’