by D. V. Bishop
‘Anything,’ she said, and meant it.
‘Nobody wakes me before dawn. Not unless it’s a matter of life and death.’
Agnolotti Landini was celebrating. After days of worry, three ships laden with wool from Flanders were now safely in port. Better a delay than the loss of such precious cargo, or the ships carrying it. Crews could be replaced if need be, but the wool was essential to keep his dyers busy through the winter, and losing the vessels would have broken Landini at the bank. Few in the Arte di Calimala risked shipments this late in the year, but among all the cloth merchants in the guild, fortune had favoured him once more.
Landini smiled at those round the dining table in his palazzo: his three strong sons, all blessed with comely wives, and at the far end of the table was his Pasqua, still beautiful after all these years. She was the iron in their marriage, an implacable resolve whenever disaster seemed certain. To Pasqua, success was not enough – they had to be seen to be successful. Landini had built this sumptuous palazzo for her, at considerable cost. The dining room was decorated with brocades of many colours, damasks and velvets, while bright geometric carpets adorned the chairs and window seats. Only the finest ceramics from Montelupo were allowed to be used. Appearances mattered above all else to Pasqua, above even money.
Landini tapped his goblet and a servant refilled it with wine. After a delicate sip, the merchant rose to his feet. ‘Let us drink! To risking the wrath of the high seas and emerging triumphant! To doing what others dare not and proving them wrong! To our family –’ his sons and their wives all lifted drinks in response – ‘and to my wonderful Pasqua, without whom I would be but a shadow of the man I am. Cento di questi giorni!’
Everyone drained their wine and banged on the table, echoing his call to have a hundred such days. Servants came with wooden platters of spiced veal and roast kid, while those following brought spiced pies and sweetmeats. The rich aromas of saffron and nutmeg filled the air as the feast was laid out. Landini noticed his maggiordomo approaching. Careful not to draw the attention of others, Piero stepped close enough to whisper in his master’s ear.
‘Excuse me, sir, but an officer of the Otto is here to see you.’
Typical. For every moment of triumph, there was always an official ready to interfere. Florence had dozens of different courts overseeing every aspect of city life. Didn’t the guilds do enough to bring prosperity to the people? Well, not all the people, but certainly to those who deserved it. Anyone who couldn’t – or, more likely, wouldn’t – work could always go to church for alms. It was the way of things, and some things never changed.
Landini sighed, pushing back his chair. ‘Forgive me, everyone, but a small matter needs my attention. Please, stay seated. I will return as soon as I can.’
He followed Piero, pausing to whisper in Pasqua’s ear. ‘Someone from the Otto, probably soliciting for a bribe.’
She nodded, the smile never leaving her face.
Landini sauntered down the marble steps to his palazzo’s ground level. The visitor was lurking by the outer doors, admiring the building’s rich interior. No, not admiring – coveting. At Landini’s approach the visitor bowed, a sneer visible beneath his drooping moustache. There was something unsettling about his features: beady eyes, a sharp nose and a thin chin. Yes, that was it: he resembled a rat. Repulsive.
‘Signor Landini, I’m sorry to interrupt your meal. It sounds like a happy occasion.’
‘It is. My family is here, so if we can make this quick?’
‘Of course. My name is Meo Cerchi. I represent the Otto di Guardia e Balia.’ The visitor held out a hand, Landini took it. The grip was clammy and grasping. Cerchi leaned closer. ‘A pleasure to meet you . . . Bentprick.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘That’s what Corsini calls you. Sorry, called you. He’s dead now. Beaten to death last night. But you knew that.’
Landini pulled his hand free, a shiver of dread twisting inside him. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘Your little friend, Luca Corsini.’ Cerchi smiled. ‘You remember him, don’t you?’
Landini was suddenly aware of his maggiordomo close by. ‘Thank you, Piero, that will be all for now. Please return upstairs and look after the guests.’
‘Yes, signor.’ The servant moved away. Landini waited until he was out of hearing before speaking again.
‘Now, what was that name you mentioned?’
‘Luca Corsini,’ Cerchi replied. ‘I doubt anyone will weep for that buggerone. But, as an officer of the Otto, I’m obliged to find whoever killed him.’
Keep calm. This man was a parasite. Given nothing, he would soon go away.
‘The violent death of any citizen is regrettable and, of course, deserves investigation – regardless of who the victim might be. But what has this to do with me?’
‘I’m glad you asked.’ Cerchi pulled a slim, leather-bound book from his tunic. ‘Corsini wrote about all the men who visited him in here, describing the sordid little details of their meetings, the things they would have him do.’
‘Sorry, I still don’t—’
‘You’re in here,’ Cerchi said, his smile twisting into a leer.
No, no, no. ‘That’s impossible.’
‘Really? Well, let’s see if any of this sounds familiar.’ Cerchi flicked through the diary. ‘Corsini called you Bentprick because your manhood curves in quite a distinctive manner. Normally, I doubt the magistrates of the Otto would require you to disprove such a sordid accusation, but when it comes to murder – and a brutal one, at that . . .’
This couldn’t be happening. How had . . .?
‘There’s more,’ Cerchi volunteered, brandishing the book. ‘It seems you liked to brag about how many ships you send to France and Flanders for woollen cloth.’
‘That’s common knowledge. I’m a leading importer within the Arte di Calimala.’
‘It might be common knowledge among merchants, but not to perverts like Corsini. And how many of your guild members boast about business while being sucked by someone young enough to be their son? Corsini is quite explicit in his descriptions.’
Landini’s stomach was churning, the rich food and wine threatening to come back up. He steadied himself. These accusations were nothing without proof of fact. He would have been arrested by now if someone had made a denunzia against him. ‘I’m sorry, but I can’t speak to the idle fantasies of this young man, whoever he was.’
‘He sometimes dressed as a courtesan, if that helps? I suppose it meant clients could overcome their shyness about fucking another man.’
‘Have you anything to confirm these accusations?’
‘I’m glad you asked.’
Oh God. He did have proof.
Cerchi opened the diary so Landini could see a particular page. There it was: a likeness of him in ink. Ridiculous boy, how could he have been so stupid? But nowhere was the name Landini, just Bentprick. Perhaps there was still hope. Perhaps. Perhaps.
‘I suppose that bears a passing similarity to me, but other than that . . . The words could be describing any merchant who imports woollen cloth.’
‘Yes,’ Cerchi agreed. ‘That’s why you’ll come to the Podestà tomorrow.’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘I need to question you about this. It’s important we clear you from any suspicion as soon as possible.’ Cerchi’s eyes flicked sideways, towards the marble staircase. ‘I notice you haven’t asked where or when he was killed. Not that it matters – dead is dead, after all. But if rumours were to circulate that you had some involvement with these . . . this . . .’
‘I had nothing to do with any of it,’ Landini insisted. ‘You, you said he was beaten to death last night. I was here the whole time with my wife Pasqua, she will vouch for me.’
‘Good. Then we can ask her now.’ Cerchi turned to the stairs. Landini saw Pasqua descending to join them.
‘What’s taking so long?’ she asked, pausing halfway down. ‘O
ur guests are wondering where you are.’
‘I’ll be right back,’ Landini replied, forcing a smile.
‘Very well, see that you are.’ Lifting the hem of her gown, she swept back upstairs. Her questions would have to be answered later.
‘No wonder you went to little Corsini,’ Cerchi sneered. ‘I doubt that witch would offer any man pleasure without claiming his palle as payment. Or did she watch?’
‘That’s disgusting! My wife would never involve herself in anything so—’
‘So you visited Corsini alone. How often did you see him?’
‘You will not put words into my mouth—’
‘We both know you prefer putting things into other people’s mouths.’
Don’t lash out. ‘I’ve had quite enough of this. You will leave. Now.’
‘Of course, whatever you wish. But I commend your bravery, signor.’
‘My bravery?’
‘Yes. Most men say anything to avoid having their good name destroyed.’ Cerchi’s face was stricken with apparent regret. ‘But if this is how you wish things, be at the Podestà first thing tomorrow to face these accusations.’ Cerchi turned away.
‘Wait, no, please.’ There had to be a way out of this. There had to be. ‘Perhaps I was hasty before. I apologize if my words offended you.’
Cerchi stopped, but did not look back.
‘You said it was important to clear my name. Is there another way to achieve that?’
Still Cerchi did not show his face. ‘There might be.’
‘How might that be done? A generous donation to the court, perhaps?’
Cerchi turned, eyes full of greed. ‘I’d be happy to accept a gift on the Otto’s behalf.’
So that was it. He wanted payment for his silence. Landini felt on surer footing at last. Driving a bargain was his greatest talent, after all. ‘And how much should this gift be?’
Cerchi smiled. ‘I’m sure a wealthy merchant like yourself can set his own terms. Bring your purse to the Podestà tomorrow and we’ll settle this matter.’
Landini bolted the door once Cerchi was gone. But a pinprick of doubt still scratched at him. They had not agreed a price. They had not agreed a price.
Aldo knew it was a dream when Vincenzo lifted the red mask, but that didn’t matter. They hurried away from the procession, finding a dark alley. Urgent hands pulled at each other’s clothing, lifting tunics and tugging down hose, while their mouths met – kissing, tasting, wanting. But Aldo felt another hand at his shoulder, pulling him from this precious—
He snapped awake. ‘What? What do you want?’
Robustelli was clutching a lantern. ‘There’s a constable downstairs. He says it’s—’
‘A matter of life and death.’ Aldo dragged himself upright, shifting the bedclothes to cover his erect cazzo. ‘What time is it?’
‘Early. Or late, depending on how you see it. Still dark, either way.’ Robustelli grimaced. ‘You want me to send him away?’
It was tempting to say yes. But sleep was gone now, taking Vincenzo with it. ‘No, I’ll deal with this. The constable, what does he look like?’
‘Young. Eager. Wide-eyed. Haven’t seen him in here before.’
Probably a recruit. Cerchi was fond of giving night patrols to newcomers, seeing how long they’d last. Aldo pulled on fresh clothes, his boots and the heaviest cloak he owned.
The constable waited by the front door, his hands worrying a cap clutched over his crotch. ‘First time inside a bordello?’ The young man nodded, blushing to the roots of his tousled hair. ‘You’ll get over it. Tell me what’s happened.’
‘A body’s been found in via dei Giudei. Stabbed.’
That was the Jewish commune, not far from Ponte Vecchio. ‘Male or female?’
‘It’s a man. Apparently he’s a moneylender. His name is—’
‘Samuele Levi.’
The constable frowned. ‘How did you know that?’
Aldo ignored the question. So much for Levi being safe here in the city. Had the bandit ringleader stalked them back to Florence? Unlikely. Whoever the killer was, they couldn’t leave the city until the gates were unlocked at dawn. ‘What’s your name, constable?’
‘Benedetto.’
‘Open the door, Benedetto,’ Aldo urged. ‘We haven’t got all night.’
Chapter Six
Tuesday, January 2nd
Jews had been part of Florence as long as Aldo could remember, though less than a hundred lived in the city. They kept to their own kind, living and working south of the Arno, in and around via dei Giudei. Unlike Christians, Jews were free to operate as moneylenders. That marked them out as different, but also gave their community a minor importance. The Medici respected that and let the Jews observe their own laws. Most days it was not a problem.
Today was different.
‘You can’t keep denying me,’ Aldo warned the line of bearded men in his way, stopping him getting any closer to Samuele Levi’s house. ‘I’m an officer of the Otto with authority to investigate crimes involving the loss of a life.’
Still they remained steadfast, arms locked together, staring past him. Aldo gestured at the first hints of dawn colouring the sky. ‘Once the sun rises, the city gates will be unlocked and Samuele Levi’s killer will be able to escape. Is that what you want?’
‘It does not matter what they want,’ a stern voice replied. A familiar figure with an impressive long white beard was approaching, dressed in full-length robes and skullcap. ‘It only matters that they do what is right and proper.’
‘Yedaiah.’ Aldo bowed, showing the new arrival proper respect. This man was a leader to the Jews of Florence; his word was beyond question among them. ‘Your people have their own beliefs and traditions, I understand that. But this city has laws that must be obeyed. Murder is murder, it cannot go ignored.’
Yedaiah stopped within touching distance, his eyes a warm hazel. ‘We do not plan to ignore this senseless act. We take care of our own, as we always have. It is how we have survived so long. We will see that justice is done.’
‘When it comes to an unlawful killing, the will of the Otto overrules your laws. And the longer your men delay me, the more likely it is that justice goes undone.’
Yedaiah shrugged. ‘Be that as it may, we cannot let you pass. I’m sorry. Our beliefs, our culture, must come first.’ He rested a gentle hand on Aldo’s shoulder. ‘You look tired, Cesare. Go home, get some sleep. Come back later.’
‘I sent my constable away to rest, I can’t leave until his replacement gets here.’
Yedaiah nodded before strolling by. The line of men parted to allow him through before closing ranks again. A second set of footsteps approached, demanding attention. But this Jew was unfamiliar to Aldo. He was short and stout, his eyes only just level with Aldo’s chest. The newcomer’s hands rubbed together, like a greedy child eager to snatch fresh food from a table. The agitation of his dark, bushy brows and gleaming eyes betrayed a hunger for news. ‘Is he dead?’ the man asked, craning to see past.
‘Who?’
‘Samuele Levi, of course – rumour is he’s been murdered.’
‘Never mind that,’ Aldo said, a firm hand against the man’s chest to stop him getting any closer. ‘What’s your name, and what has this to do with you?’
The newcomer grabbed at the hand, intent on pushing it away. Instead Aldo shoved him face-first against a wall, one wrist pinned against his back.
‘Let me go!’
‘Your name. Don’t make me ask again.’
‘Sciarra. Aaron Sciarra.’
‘And what is this to do with you?’
‘You can’t—’
A shove upwards brought a satisfying cry of submission.
‘He’s one of my rivals. Levi and I, we’re both moneylenders.’
Aldo stepped back, releasing Sciarra’s arm. The man cowered like a beaten dog, wincing as he nursed his wrist. ‘You’ve no right to do that.’
‘Don’t tell me wh
at I can’t do,’ Aldo replied, studying the new arrival’s face before gesturing at Levi’s home. ‘You don’t seem upset about this.’
‘Why should I?’ Sciarra replied. ‘Levi’s a cheat and a liar, making promises he never keeps. Go ask his partner – sorry, former partner. Ask Malachi Dante if you don’t believe me. I’ll be glad if Levi is dead. All the more business for me.’
‘Keep this up and you’ll talk your way into an interrogation cell.’
‘I didn’t kill him, if that’s what you’re suggesting. But good luck finding who did. Levi has plenty of enemies. That’s what comes of doing deals with those you shouldn’t.’
‘Such as?’
Sciarra scowled. ‘That’s your job, not mine. But you’d best start with the outsiders.’ He made one last effort to see past Aldo before skulking away, muttering under his breath.
Strocchi was waiting in the Podestà courtyard when Cerchi sauntered in, a smug smile creasing his narrow features. Strocchi had spent a sleepless night fretting about the list he’d made of Corsini’s visitors. Two names were beyond dispute thanks to the descriptions and their likenesses in the diary, but the others were little more than guesses. To accuse innocent men was wrong, Cerchi had to agree with that.
‘Sir, I need to talk to you about the Corsini case.’
‘What?’
‘Luca Corsini – the young man who was murdered.’
The puzzled expression on Cerchi’s face cleared. ‘And?’
‘That list I gave you, I’m not sure about all the names on it. I’d like to help with the investigation.’ Strocchi held his breath, waiting for a response. But instead of berating him, Cerchi began laughing. ‘What’s so funny?’
‘You, Strocchi! Maybe you haven’t heard, but someone killed a Jewish moneylender last night. Segretario Bindi is far more concerned with that than he is the death of some little pervert with no family and no connections.’
‘Corsini was beaten and kicked to death,’ Strocchi protested. ‘His killers are walking around free. They could strike again at any time.’
Cerchi sneered. ‘One less pervert is one less pervert. If it were up to me, I’d give the men who attacked him a reward.’ He strolled away but Strocchi followed.
