by D. V. Bishop
Aldo noticed an older Jewish man with a silver-flecked beard lurking not far behind Benedetto, watching them. The man’s robes were cut from rich cloth but had become ragged at the hem through wear. He had known wealth and plenty, but not of late. Dark smudges beneath his eyes were evidence of worry or lack of sleep, or perhaps both. The man gave Aldo a subtle nod. Word had spread about the outsider asking questions.
The constable was still waiting, doubtless told not to return without a response. ‘Did you get some rest?’ Aldo asked him. Benedetto nodded. ‘Good. Go back to the Podestà, and tell the segretario I’ve read and understood his orders.’ The Jewish man waited until Benedetto was well away before introducing himself with an ingratiating smile that didn’t stop him looking haggard.
‘My name is Malachi Dante, I am—’
‘Samuele Levi’s former partner,’ Aldo said. ‘Why did your business fall apart?’
That slapped the welcome from Dante’s face. But after hours of being ignored or abused, it was time Aldo got some answers. The Duke would expect progress, evidence, even suspects by curfew – no, he would demand them.
‘I-I wouldn’t agree that our business fell apart . . .’
‘Levi forced you out. It was acrimonious, everyone says so – Sciarra, Rebecca . . .’
Her name brought a show of concern from Dante. ‘Rebecca? How is she?’
‘Her father is dead, slain in his own home, and not one person seems willing to help me find who did this. So, are you here to ask questions or to answer them?’
‘I . . .’ Dante faltered at the accusation. ‘I’ll do anything I can to help.’
‘Good. Then tell me why your partnership ended.’
Dante glanced round before answering, his voice lowered to a husky, tired whisper. ‘Samuele is . . . was . . . a difficult man. Short on temper, long on recriminations. He had no sympathy for those who couldn’t meet their debts.’ Dante paused, fingers rubbing at his tired eyes. ‘Samuele started loaning coin to strangers, people I didn’t know. It was asking for trouble, and I told him so. He said I’d no right to question his judgement.’
A scowling Jewish woman stalked by, glaring at Dante. He waited until she was gone before leaning closer to Aldo. ‘I was like a brother to Samuele after his wife died. And Rebecca, she’s the daughter I would have wished for. But her father forced me out. He bought my half of the partnership, and then blackened my name so I couldn’t start a new business.’
‘That must have made you angry.’
‘I was furious,’ Dante admitted, ‘at first. But mostly I was worried. Samuele had been taking on powerful, dangerous clients. I never knew their names, but I could tell by the way Samuele acted that he was out of his depth. Now this . . .’ Dante succumbed to tears, burying his face in both hands. The grief seemed real, but was it born of loss or guilt?
Aldo waited for the moneylender to recover a little before asking another question. ‘When was the last time you saw Samuele?’
‘Last night,’ Dante said, regaining control. ‘I had heard he was back. I went to his door, hoping to plead with him, to make him see sense. He let me in, but we didn’t speak for long. Samuele seemed . . . defeated. Like a man expecting the worst. And now this . . .’
Levi had been anxious on the road back from Bologna, but not defeated. If what Dante said was true, something must have happened after Levi’s return to Florence.
‘Did you see anyone else near Samuele’s house last night? Someone out of place?’
Dante shook his head. ‘Only Rebecca, and she was leaving as I arrived. The poor girl was so upset, I don’t think she even saw me. They must have been arguing again.’
Aldo confirmed Dante’s address and warned him against leaving the city.
‘Is there anything else I can do to help?’ Dante asked. The offer appeared genuine, his face full of apparent concern.
‘Perhaps. People round here are suspicious of anyone asking questions. Levi wasn’t well liked – but murder is murder. Unless people talk to me, I have little chance of finding who did this – or stopping them from killing again.’
Dante nodded. ‘Leave it with me. Samuele’s funeral will take place before curfew. I’ll talk to Yedaiah and my neighbours then, make them understand. Maybe I can open some doors for you. Samuele and I were partners a long time; let me do this last kindness for him. Come back tomorrow and people will talk, if I can persuade them.’
At first, Renato Patricio was amused by the visitor to his sewing room near Santa Croce. The eastern quarter of the city was a respectable area, for the most part, but he still had to pay bribes to ensure it stayed open. Indeed, paying greedy men to smooth the path of transactions was so common, Renato included the cost of such bribes in the price of his exquisite gowns.
It was the same with the young men Renato invited to his bed. Petty thefts and demands for money were now often the price for such encounters. It was a sad truth that getting older meant his young lovers only pretended their passion in exchange for favours or gifts. But most at least had the courtesy to smile while they were fucking him.
This Cerchi seemed to expect money for his silence and was offering nothing in return. Not that Renato would have wanted anything from the unwelcome visitor. Cerchi had all the charm of an unwashed, pox-ridden cazzo. He had blundered into the sewing room, ordering Renato to send everyone outside so he and Cerchi could talk in private.
Once the workers were gone, this ugly little-minded man strutted about as if he owned the sewing room, grasping at delicate cloth with grubby fingers and making veiled remarks about the different ways people sought their pleasures. Plainly Cerchi had spent no time – or money, for that matter – in the world of fine clothes, otherwise he would know his heavy-handed hints were wasted. Renato’s love life – such as it was these days – was an open secret among his customers, but they were all wives of rich merchants. That had protected him from arrest, so long as he was discreet and pursued his private passions behind closed doors.
‘You’ve no shame about being a buggerone,’ Cerchi sneered.
Renato shrugged. ‘I wouldn’t use that word, but I am what God made me.’
This seemed to infuriate Cerchi further. ‘God had nothing to do with you, or your sickness. You will suffer eternal torments for your perversions.’
‘Well, I’ll be in good company. All the greatest artists prefer the company of men.’
It was an exaggeration, of course, but put a stop to his ugly tirade. Instead, Cerchi pulled out a slim book and pointed to a page inside. On it was a rather flattering drawing of Renato, alongside some flowery handwriting.
‘This belonged to Luca Corsini, a pervert who satisfied men like yourself.’
‘Ahh, what a lovely boy. I haven’t seen him in ages, how is he?’
‘Dead,’ Cerchi snapped. ‘Murdered on Sunday night.’
‘But that’s terrible! He’s such a sweet thing. So pretty, too.’
‘Not any more. He was beaten to death in an alley, his face smashed in.’ Cerchi seemed to rejoice in saying that. ‘I’ve been ordered to find out who’s responsible.’
‘Well, I hope you catch them – and soon.’ Renato’s hands were shaking. It was horrible to picture anyone suffering such a death. The pain didn’t bear thinking about.
Cerchi smirked. ‘The buggerone got what he deserved. If I’d my way, perverts like him – like you – wouldn’t be allowed to live in a city where people worship God.’
‘Then I consider myself fortunate you are not in charge of Florence. Now, if you don’t mind, I have gowns to complete and workers waiting to come back in.’
Cerchi brandished the book again, a greedy gleam in his eyes. ‘All of the men inside this are potential suspects. That gives me the right to interrogate or torture them until I get the truth, no matter how long it takes.’
Renato was finding it hard to swallow, his mouth too dry. He’d been quite wrong. There was nothing amusing about this man. Cerchi was dangerous, quite dan
gerous. ‘But you’ve no proof any of them are involved in this.’
‘Not yet. But people are eager to talk once you suspend them from the strappato. That device can loosen the most silent of tongues. Have you seen it being used?’
Renato couldn’t speak at all now, so shook his head.
‘The suspect is bound by the wrists, arms behind them. The arms are then raised so they are lifted on to their toes, all their weight going through their shoulders.’ Cerchi leered with satisfaction. ‘The strappato isn’t usually fatal, but those suspended from it for too long – well, their hands and arms are never the same again.’ He gestured at the exquisite cloth strewn around the room. ‘For someone who does such fine work – it’d be a shame.’
Cerchi came closer, until his foul breath was all Renato could inhale. ‘But you know all about shame, don’t you?’
‘Surely there must be another way? Some other means of finding the truth?’
Cerchi frowned. ‘Who said anything about the truth? The purpose of the strappato is to obtain confessions. A suspect tells us anything we wish once they’ve been subjected to it. That could be admitting their guilt – or naming others. Friends. Colleagues. Former lovers.’
He was like a cat toying with a mouse before the kill. ‘Who knows which poor men of Florence will be revealed as visitors to this little pervert?’
Renato sank onto a wooden stool, the world he’d built crumbling around him. Even if he eluded torture at the hands of this vile creature, others might name him to save themselves. This was a nightmare – one without hope of waking. Or was it?
Cerchi was watching him, waiting for something. Who knows which poor men of Florence, he had said. Of course! Only the poorest of Florentines had to face the full weight of justice. Those with the means could buy their freedom by paying fines – or bribes. Few public officials could not be purchased for the right price, if it was draped in enough flattery. But what would satisfy this grasping intruder?
‘I’m not sure I have shown you the proper respect,’ Renato said.
Cerchi did not reply, his narrow face impassive.
‘As an officer of the Otto, your time must be of great value. Perhaps I could offer something for your trouble in investigating this matter.’
Cerchi gave the smallest of nods, as if acknowledging the truth in Renato’s words. Good. The sneering merda was open to bribery. But what amount? Too little would be taken as an insult. Too much had the potential to be ruinous. ‘I was thinking twenty scudi might be sufficient,’ Renato ventured. That was half a year’s wages for the skilled workers who finished his gowns – generous by any measure.
Cerchi smiled. ‘That would be acceptable,’ he said. ‘As a first payment.’
‘A first payment?’
‘You did not expect to buy your way out of this with a handful of coins?’ He loomed over Renato, waving that damned book. ‘Keeping your behaviour away from the Otto will mean regular payments. But taking money from someone like you turns my stomach, so it must be worth my while. I want twenty a month from now on.’
‘A month?’ Renato spluttered.
‘Should I make it twenty a week?’
‘No, please, I didn’t . . . please, no.’ Renato held out both hands, showing his empty palms, making himself subservient to this bully. This bastardo. To his surprise, the display seemed to satisfy Cerchi.
‘Twenty a month it is. Bring your first payment to the Podestà early tomorrow. Meet me outside the gates. And don’t make me wait.’
Aldo knocked at the door to Yedaiah’s home on Borgo San Jacopo, round the corner from via dei Giudei. It was one of the older buildings south of the river, and still had its original stone tower. That a Jew owned such a home showed how successful Yedaiah was as a cloth merchant, one of the few professions men of his faith were allowed. But Yedaiah was respected both within and beyond the Jewish community, as much for his wisdom as his wealth. Aldo couldn’t depend on Dante’s promise alone; he needed the approval of Yedaiah if anyone was going to discuss the murdered man.
There was no answer at first, so Aldo kept knocking. Eventually the sound of hurried footsteps approached, and the door swung open. Yedaiah frowned at seeing Aldo again. ‘This can wait, whatever it is,’ the elder said, closing his door behind him. ‘I’ve a funeral to lead, and tomorrow I must journey to Lucca to visit my sister. She’s gravely ill.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ Aldo said, ‘and I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important.’ He followed Yedaiah along Borgo San Jacopo, turning right into via dei Giudei, away from the river. Aldo explained the lack of progress in finding who attacked Samuele Levi, and Dante’s promise to persuade neighbours to talk. If Yedaiah urged others to do the same, it would greatly increase the chances of finding the killer. ‘Jews were abused at Mercato Nuovo last summer, now one of your kind has been murdered. Help me stop this happening again.’
Yedaiah paused his progress along the narrow, muddy road to peer at Aldo. ‘You think those past attacks and what happened to Samuele are related?’
‘In all honesty? No,’ Aldo admitted. Ahead he could see Rebecca emerging from her home, supported by a handsome young man, with Dante close behind. ‘But I can’t be certain of that, not until I find and catch the man who killed her father. Don’t you want that too?’
The Jewish elder scowled. ‘I only let you into this because Rebecca pleaded with me, and now you want my help to do what I could be doing myself.’
‘Would you rather go to Lucca and see your sister, maybe for the last time? Or stay here and spend a day asking members of your community what they saw last night?’ Aldo didn’t enjoy using Yedaiah’s own troubles against him, but it was a necessary evil.
Yedaiah shook his head. ‘You’ll say anything to get what you want, won’t you?’
Aldo shrugged. ‘If I have to.’ He watched six Jewish men bringing a simple wooden coffin out of the Levi house before hoisting it up onto their shoulders, accompanied by the sound of Rebecca’s weeping. ‘Well?’
‘I’ll talk to our neighbours, for her sake,’ Yedaiah agreed. ‘But on one condition. Stay away from the funeral. Leave that young woman to mourn in peace. Can you promise that?’
‘I’ll do my best,’ Aldo replied.
Chapter Eight
Maria heard the horse approaching the castello long before the messenger came knocking at the door. Living in the countryside all year round was irksome, but it meant there were few arrivals that came as a surprise. Cosimo was out hunting with one of the servants, but they had gone on foot. The sound of hooves coming up the stony path this late in the day could mean only one thing: the letter she’d been expecting from Florence had finally arrived.
A few minutes later the maid Simona brought the letter, red wax sealing it shut. Maria waited until the servant had gone before examining the correspondence. The hand that had addressed it was firm and confident, no hesitation visible in the ink, while the seal pressed into the wax confirmed her suspicion about the sender: Francesco Guicciardini. His was a strong voice among the Palleschi, the pro-Medici faction in Florence’s senate. Alessandro was the Duke, certainly, but men like Guicciardini helped smooth the path for him in matters affecting the city state. In return, the Palleschi had profited greatly from Medici patronage.
Maria broke open the seal and unfolded the letter. It was brief, almost never a good sign. The opening paragraph was full of thanks for Maria’s own correspondence, the usual pleasantries expected in such a letter. The closing paragraph would be just as bland, ending with platitudes and well wishes that had all the worth and value of horse merda. The middle was where the knife was wielded, where the favour would be given or withheld.
It is with regret . . .
Maria bit back a curse, fighting the urge to hurl Guicciardini’s words into the fire burning close by. Her request had been simple: that Cosimo be allowed to accompany the senator on his next journey outside the city. Maria sought no charity, she’d offered to pay her son’s way, but
Cosimo needed more experience of diplomacy and statecraft. He had been to Venice and other cities with his tutor, but to travel alongside the great Francesco Guicciardini and witness such a man at work . . . Perhaps her flattery had been too blunt, her true intention too obvious. Spending time with Guicciardini would enable Cosimo to build his own loyalties among the Palleschi. Stuck out here in the country, a young man could create few alliances for his future. A few months beside Guicciardini could have changed things.
But that wasn’t to be.
It had been a gambit with limited prospects of success, but Maria did not regret trying. Guicciardini was a man of discretion. He would not tell others of her letter, or the desperation that no doubt seeped from every line. To be a woman in this world was hard enough; to be a mother and a widow was worse still. All the responsibility and none of the power.
Shouted voices and laughter in the courtyard outside the castello announced Cosimo’s return. Maria looked out through the shutters at her son. He had the proud stance of his father, the same strength of body and spirit. But he possessed other qualities Giovanni had never displayed. Cosimo was patient when patience was needed, and steadfast in his devotion to her. He could see past easy deception too, and understood the value of letting others win a battle when a longer war was being fought. Cosimo might not yet have seen eighteen summers, but he had a maturity his father had lacked. If only her boy could have a chance to use those qualities.
He would show them all, one day.
After an unanswered visit to Sciarra’s home, Aldo headed north. He paused to buy scraps of cured ham and the end of a stale loaf from a peasant girl on her way back from the market. Fresh food cost more during the winter, and the best always sold early. He stopped on Ponte alla Carraia, leaning against the side of the bridge. Sitting down to eat was a luxury when working for the Otto, as was cooked food.
