by D. V. Bishop
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Historical Note
Acknowledgements
For Clement John Bishop,
13.12.1933–16.12.2018
Upon this a question arises: whether it be better to be loved than feared, or feared than loved? One should wish to be both but, because it is difficult to unite them in one person, it is much safer to be feared than loved.
Niccolò Machiavelli,
translated by W. K. Marriott (1908)
Author’s Note
During this period, the Florentine calendar year started on March 25th. December 31st, January 1st and the days immediately after were all considered to be part of 1536.
Chapter One
Sunday, December 31st, 1536
Cesare Aldo took no pleasure from killing, but sometimes it was necessary.
There was no honour in ending another man’s life, no wisdom found in the moment when that last breath left his body. Most killings were bruising and brutal, the violence of steel and blood. Then the stench as a corpse lost control, voiding itself of dignity. Poets never mentioned that when they wrote about the nobility of the battlefield.
There was something else poets never wrote of: a tightening in the palle when death felt close. The blood quickened, yes, and so did the breathing, becoming fast and shallow as instinct demanded a choice: stand and fight, or flee the threat. In that moment every part of the body clenched – especially the palle.
Aldo felt his body tensing as the road ahead narrowed between two steep stone slopes. The birdsong that had accompanied them from Scarperia was gone, an unnerving quiet in its place. This early in the day, the road south from Bologna was more shadow than sunlight, giving potential attackers plenty of shelter. With Florence still twenty miles off, and not a castello or farmhouse in sight, this was the perfect place for an ambush.
Aldo twisted in the saddle to glance back at the man he was guarding. Samuele Levi was past his prime, thick of waist and weak of chin. Doubtful he’d ever held a blade, except to open letters. If an attack came, Aldo would have to fight for both of them. He slid a hand to the stiletto tucked in his left boot. Better to be—
Something hissed through the air, and Aldo’s horse flinched as if stung. A bolt was buried in the beast’s neck, a mortal wound. He gripped tighter as the horse’s front legs kicked at the sky. As he tumbled from the horse, another bolt cut the air where Aldo had been. His left knee hit the ground first, pain lancing through him from the sudden impact.
Levi’s horse panicked, unseating its rider. The moneylender tumbled towards the stones and scrub that lined the side of the road, still clutching the two leather satchels he always carried. Levi’s cry cut off abruptly as he hit the ground head first. Knocked senseless, if he was lucky. Levi’s hired horse raced forwards, hooves thundering past Aldo. It sprinted away and his mount followed, hastening death with every stride.
Aldo rolled over, feigning moans of pain as loud as possible to mask slipping the stiletto from his boot. Whoever had fired those bolts would be closing in for the kill. Boots approached from the south, more than one set – two, maybe three. The last did not come close; probably the one with the crossbow, a weapon more effective at distance. Aldo moaned again, sounding as weak and vulnerable as possible. ‘Please . . . please, somebody help us.’ He gave a pathetic, feeble cough as a bandit loomed over him.
‘Too easy.’ Not Florentine, judging by the voice.
‘Please,’ Aldo whimpered in an effeminate tone. ‘My friend, I fear he’s hurt.’
‘Shut up.’ The bandit spat rancid phlegm at Aldo’s face. It took every ounce of willpower not to strike back. Shoving a knee into Aldo’s chest, the bandit pinned him to the ground. Rough hands scoured Aldo’s prone body. He offered no resistance, keeping the stiletto hidden up one sleeve, a hand closed round the hilt. ‘Nothing,’ the bandit announced.
‘Find the other one,’ a stern voice called from further away – probably the man with the crossbow. He sounded authoritative, used to giving orders.
‘Over here,’ a third voice called from where Levi had fallen. Aldo watched a heavyset thug with a musket examining the limp body. ‘He’s dead.’
‘Make sure he is,’ the ringleader said. ‘We need to be certain.’
Aldo’s attacker turned to look – and Aldo plunged his stiletto into the man’s boot, stabbing through leather and flesh. The bandit screamed in pain, doubling over. Aldo twisted his blade to widen the wound before pulling it free. A swift thrust drove the stiletto up behind his attacker’s chin, piercing the tongue. The bandit collapsed, fingers clawing at the blade.
The ringleader shouted a warning to the man standing over Levi. The bandit whirled round, firing in haste. A musket ball fizzed past Aldo’s head, missing by a finger’s width. He rolled closer to the fallen bandit, using him as a shield. While the bandit with the musket reloaded, Aldo found a blade still in its sheath on his crumpled assailant. ‘A wise man draws his weapon before confronting an enemy.’ The fallen bandit was too busy bleeding to reply.
Aldo pulled the dagger free, balancing it in one hand to test the weight. The bandit with the musket was still reloading, but any attempt to flee meant risking the crossbow. There was only one way to improve the odds. Aldo rose for a moment, pulling back the dagger. Palle, the musket-bearer was shouldering his weapon. A fresh bolt pierced Aldo’s sleeve, brushing skin. He hurled the dagger, the blade flying end over end as it cut the air. A misfire born of haste spat hot gunpowder across the musket-bearer’s fingers as the dagger buried itself in his throat. He stumbled over Levi and fell, one blackened hand twitching.
Aldo dropped back close beside the bandit he’d stabbed, counting himself lucky.
The ringleader cursed his men from the shadows. Cover for sliding another bolt into that crossbow, no doubt. Would he retreat, or close in to finish the job? Most bandits melted away when facing determined opposition. But the sound of approaching boots proved this was no ordinary robbery. The ringleader wanted his prize.
‘You fight well. Most guards would’ve run for their lives.’
‘I’m no guard.’ Aldo searched for another weapon. Any weapon.
‘A condottiere, then? Didn’t know Florence still had any.’ The ringleader was circling round, using the conversation to distract from his quest for a clearer shot.
‘A condottiere leads men at arms. As you can see, I’m on my own.’ Aldo stared at his stiletto, its blade still wedged through the fallen bandit’s lower jaw and tongue. ‘I’m an officer of the Otto di Guardia e Balia.’
‘Ahh, a law enforcer – a professional. That explains a lo
t.’
Aldo rolled the bandit on his side, wrapping an arm round the man’s shoulders, other hand grasping the hilt of the stiletto. ‘When I get up,’ Aldo hissed, ‘you do too. Understand?’ The bandit shook his sweat-soaked face, the stink of shit thick in the air. This one didn’t wait for death to empty his bowels. Aldo twisted the stiletto. ‘Understand?’ This time, a nod.
The ringleader edged closer. ‘I thought your jurisdiction ended at the city walls?’
Aldo rose, pulling the bandit up in front of him. ‘You thought wrong.’
The ringleader stopped, crossbow ready to fire. He was shorter than Aldo expected, with a grizzled face sun-browned even in December, making the pale pink scar on one cheek all the more vivid. Beneath greying hair flint-blue eyes narrowed. ‘So I can see.’
‘Back off,’ Aldo warned, ‘or I kill both your men today.’
‘Let me save you the trouble.’ The crossbow fired straight and true, its bolt puncturing the wounded bandit in Aldo’s arms. ‘Don’t come this way again,’ the ringleader warned as he backed away into the shadows. ‘Next time you might not be so fortunate.’
Aldo waited till the ringleader was long gone before dropping the punctured bandit. He limped across to where Levi had fallen, cursing the moneylender as each step brought a fresh stab of pain from the injured knee. The task had been simple: escort Levi from Bologna back to Florence, safe and unharmed. So much for simplicity. Now he would have to take back a body instead, and get it to the city without any horses to help.
But as Aldo approached, Levi opened one eye to peer around. ‘Is it safe?’ His face was streaked with blood from a deep cut to the forehead, but he looked otherwise unhurt.
‘For now,’ Aldo replied, shaking his head. ‘You make a good corpse.’
Levi sat up, wincing. ‘My kind know how to stay alive, even if it means playing dead.’ He rose to one knee but sank back down again.
‘Don’t try moving yet.’
Levi nodded, touching two fingertips to his bloodied face.
Aldo checked the bandit who had fired the musket – he was dead. But the man who had first attacked Aldo was still alive, faint gasps audible in the narrow hillside pass. The stiletto wedged behind his jawline was trembling, as was the bolt embedded in his chest. Aldo limped back towards the dying bandit. ‘Why did you attack us?’
The bandit coughed, unable to reply with a blade still pinning his tongue. Aldo pulled the stiletto free, and blood poured from the wound. ‘Your capo murdered you. Tell me his name so I can make him pay.’ The bandit gurgled, crimson bubbling from his lips. Aldo leaned over the bandit’s mouth and got blood spat in his face, along with two final words.
‘Get fucked.’
For most Florentines, attending church on Sunday was a chance to pray and give worship to God. For courtesans, church was a chance to be noticed. Mass offered a rare opportunity for unmarried women to meet and mingle with men of means. Whether those men were single made little difference to the courtesans, though married men were less likely to be possessive, or occupy too much of an independent woman’s time. So common was the practice that some churches used a curtain of coarse cloth to divide the sexes, keeping those women without families on the left-hand side – the sinister side, in Latin. But a mere curtain was no match for the courtesans, women of cunning and guile.
The imposing church of Santa Croce so dominated its surroundings that the eastern quarter of Florence was named after it. Outside the church sprawled a huge, open piazza – one of the largest in the city. The piazza remained cold all morning in winter due to the long shadow cast by Santa Croce. But inside the vast church courtesans were doing their best to raise the temperatures of any man watching. They spent the precious minutes before mass competing for the pew that offered the best chance to see and be seen. Overt displays of flesh were not possible, but a sly smile and a gown that accentuated a woman’s natural assets were enough to turn the head of many a wealthy merchant. If this also turned his wife’s face to vinegar, well, that was simply proof of success. A sour wife usually meant her husband was liable – even eager – to reward those who offered more willing, more imaginative company.
Among the courtesans at Santa Croce, two were acknowledged as the queens of the curtain. Venus Cavalcante was a slender woman with a hawkish face whose artistry inside the bedchamber was as celebrated as the sharpness of her tongue outside it. Time’s cruel passage meant she no longer drew the gaze of younger men, but Venus argued for the virtues of her mature clients. They were unlikely to rise to the occasion more than once, and their conversation afterwards was often as valuable as any payment they might leave behind.
Her chief rival was Bella Testa, a younger and more voluptuous woman with greater enthusiasm than skill, if the rumours were true. The twinkle in her eyes and the generous swell of her bosom made Bella the courtesan of choice for quite a few clients, especially the sons of wealthy families. Young Florentine men of means were happy to spend their seed in anyone willing to accept it. Make the recipient a beautiful woman – readily available, at a suitable price – and the lure was often overwhelming.
Each Sunday Venus and Bella did battle for the most prized seat in the vast church, one that provided the best position from which to be seen by men on the other side of the curtain. To achieve that, the winner had to be last into the desired pew, forcing those already seated to move along. From a distance, the courtesans’ polite gestures and smiling faces were the image of courteous civility. Step closer and their hissed insults told another story.
‘My dearest Venus, I wouldn’t dream of making you stand a moment longer. A woman of your many, many years shouldn’t be expected to remain on her feet.’
‘You’re too kind, my darling Bella, but I must insist you sit first. Someone in your condition shouldn’t put such a strain on herself.’
‘My condition?’
‘You are with child, are you not? How else to explain the spreading of your waist?’
A sharp intake of breath from those nearby brought a smile to the face of Venus. Her barb had struck a nerve with the other courtesans. But when she turned to savour their expressions, Venus found her rivals staring elsewhere.
A newcomer was approaching them, narrow of hip and dressed in a sumptuous gown. A coy face hid behind a veil, but what could be seen was exquisite – and devilishly young. The new arrival paused by Bella and Venus. ‘I believe mass is beginning. Shall we sit?’
The warring women found themselves ushered into the front pew, accepting less favourable seats while the fresh face stole their prized position. Venus glanced at the newcomer during mass. This usurper was unfamiliar. The voice had been sweet and definitely Florentine, yet the features remained unrecognizable. Most galling of all, the new arrival was attracting the gaze of every likely prospect in church. Venus had been hoping to lure one man in particular, Biagio Seta, the middle-aged middle son of a family of prominent silk merchants. His childless elder brother was ill, unlikely to see another summer, putting Biagio in line for the business and all its wealth. But he had not a glance for Venus this Sunday, only for the newcomer beside her.
When mass was concluded, most families hastened home to eat together. But a few men remained in the cloister beside the church or the piazza in front of it, claiming an urgent need to discuss business. The courtesans also lingered, gossiping with their maids about who was wearing what. Once the families were gone, men with a need for company could send a message to the maid of their preferred courtesan.
Most Sundays, Venus and Bella had their pick of the offers. But today the messages were going to another courtesan. The upstart did not even have a maid, instead accepting the invitations personally. Venus watched Biagio make his approach, a coy look passing between him and the one he desired. Biagio blushed – he actually blushed! – when the narrow-hipped vixen nodded at him. The couple departed the piazza in different directions, but Venus had little doubt they would be together soon, in all the most intimate ways.
‘Must be losing our touch,’ Bella observed.
Venus sniffed her disdain. ‘Men. They always want first taste. But the novelty soon wears off. Did you hear a name for our new friend?’
‘Dolce Gallo, according to my maid.’
Venus couldn’t help laughing. ‘I wonder what her real name is?’
With no horses to ride, Aldo and Levi had to continue their journey south towards Florence on foot. But hours of marching did no good for Aldo’s bruised, swollen left knee. It had already been unreliable before the bandit attack, weakened by an old injury from years spent as a soldier for hire, riding alongside one of the great condottieri. A bad fall had ruptured the joint, forcing Aldo to abandon life as a mercenary and sending him back to Florence. Falling from his horse as the bandits attacked hadn’t been as bad, but the pain was all too familiar.
Levi seemed to be suffering even more, his body and spirit ill prepared for marching of any kind, so progress was slow and painful. When they stopped for the third time, Aldo pressed Levi for answers. ‘You never told me why you wanted a guard for this journey.’
The moneylender dabbed a cloth to the wound on his forehead ‘Isn’t what happened proof your protection was necessary?’
‘Yes, but it doesn’t answer my question. What made you think you were in danger?’
Levi waved a dismissive hand. ‘It was a sensible precaution. Bandits are common on this road – too common, from what I’ve heard.’
‘And I’ve heard you make this trip three times a year, but never before have you asked the Otto for a guard. In summer, I’d understand it. But robbing people in winter is treacherous, with few rewards.’ No answer. Levi might be little use against a blade, but he was a master at avoiding sharp questions. ‘I’d go so far as to say today’s attack was no happenstance. Those bandits were waiting for us. For you.’
That got a reaction, though Levi masked it in moments. ‘They attacked you first.’
‘If a target can protect himself, he doesn’t need a guard. I was obviously guarding you, so it made sense to deal with me first. To eliminate the more significant threat.’
