by D. V. Bishop
Aldo gnawed on his meagre meal while watching workers on the riverbanks busy washing wool in the discoloured water, making the most of the few daylight hours at this time of year. The low winter sun was already arcing towards the hills west of the city. All too soon the bell inside Palazzo della Signoria would ring out over the city, heralding the end of another day. Curfew helped prevent plenty of trouble, but it also made bringing the truth to light that much harder. Suspects could hide behind closed doors at night, and so could secrets.
Aldo threw the last of his food into the Arno, not bothering to watch it join the other detritus in the river. Butchers on Ponte Vecchio threw their most rancid offcuts into the water, whatever couldn’t be sold or made into lardo. There it joined all manner of refuse, soap, tannin, shit and dyes from the workshops along the riverbank. You never knew what you might see if you looked over the side of Florence’s bridges.
He crossed the river before cutting a ragged path east along narrow backstreets towards Zoppo’s tavern. A familiar figure was waiting outside.
‘Closed,’ Strocchi said, pointing at a sign on the door. ‘Seems Zoppo is ill.’
‘Might teach him not to drink his own poison – assuming it’s true.’ Aldo had met the constable here before, when they needed to talk away from the Podestà. ‘Must be important if you’ve waited for me.’
Strocchi nodded. ‘It’s Cerchi.’
‘That coglione. What’s he done now?’
‘How long have you got?’
‘The Duke is expecting me at his palazzo to report on Samuele Levi’s murder. You’d best talk to me on the way.’ Aldo strode off, doing his best to ignore the pain in his left knee. The constable followed, matching pace. Strocchi told Aldo about the diary, and the list of potential suspects. ‘Sounds reasonable enough,’ Aldo agreed when they reached the wider expanse of via Calimala. He turned left, heading north. ‘So what’s troubling you?’
Strocchi described Cerchi’s meeting with Agnolotti Landini. ‘At first it seemed he was paying a bribe but, the more I think about it, the more this looks like—’
‘Blackmail,’ Aldo agreed. ‘Cerchi must be using the diary to extort money. And if it succeeded with someone as powerful as Landini, the greedy bastardo won’t stop there. Cerchi will work his way through that list, tricking each man into paying.’
‘What do you mean, tricking them?’
‘Knowing Cerchi, he’ll wave the diary in their faces, telling them about the terrible secrets inside without quoting any words. You see, Cerchi has his own secret – he can’t read.’
Strocchi stopped, amazement filling his face. ‘What?’
Aldo paused to appreciate the constable’s reaction. ‘He hides it well, but he always makes others read out documents and papers for him.’ Strocchi shook his head. ‘Who’s next on the list?’
‘The dressmaker, Renato Patricio.’
Aldo nodded, keeping his alarm hidden. Landini he had never met, but Renato – that was a different matter. Before becoming a mercenary, back when Aldo was still learning how to survive on the streets, Renato had befriended him. Their different tastes meant they never became lovers, but Renato knew well enough the kind of man Aldo was. The dressmaker was fond of gossip but could be trusted to keep a confidence. Indeed, it was one of the reasons why he’d become so beloved by wives of rich merchants – they could tell Renato anything, safe in the knowledge it would go no further, and in return they kept his secret too. But there was a world between the idle nonsense of bored wives, and the threats an officer of the Otto could wield. If Cerchi went to Renato demanding money or answers, there was no telling how the dressmaker might react.
‘Patricio is a rich target,’ Aldo said. ‘But threatening him is dangerous, too. His clients have important, influential husbands, and that means powerful allies.’
Aldo squinted between the buildings to spy the Duomo. Late afternoon sun was hitting the orange bricks. No way he could make his report to the Duke and warn Renato before dusk, but visiting the dressmaker after dark was far too incriminating. Better to wait for morning when a passing encounter could be explained away.
‘I’ll talk to Cerchi, see if I can’t make him listen to reason.’
As if that had ever worked before. Aldo resumed his journey, Strocchi falling in step beside him.
‘What’s happening about the Corsini murder?’
The constable confessed to taking on the investigation himself. But nobody near via tra’ Pellicciai remembered the victim, even when Strocchi showed them the distinctive dress fabric. Corsini’s possessions were gone, and his body would soon be rotting in a pauper’s grave. The only apparent clues were in the diary – and Cerchi had that.
‘Stop blaming yourself,’ Aldo said, careful to keep recrimination out of his voice. ‘You couldn’t guess what Cerchi would do with that book. Focus on what happened to Corsini, and why it happened. Ask yourself, who benefits from his murder?’
‘He didn’t have family. There was little of value in his room, aside from a few gowns given to him, so that probably rules out robbery.’
‘Was the killing quick, or did they take their time?’
Strocchi’s expression hardened as he described how Corsini had been kicked and beaten, the brutal injuries to his face. ‘They made him suffer. They wanted to destroy him. But why kill Corsini on a Sunday night? Why take such a risk by doing it then?’
‘Good questions. Something must’ve happened on Sunday, forcing the killers to attack when they did.’
Aldo led the constable round the Battistero di San Giovanni, avoiding all those hurrying home after mass. ‘You said Corsini was wearing a courtesan’s dress?’
Strocchi dug into his tunic and pulled out a fistful of fabric. ‘Looked like it was custom-made for him, and high-quality cloth, too.’
Aldo recognized the intricate pattern – that had to be Renato’s work. The dressmaker must have created it as a present for Corsini, or for someone else who gave it to the young man. Either way, Renato was linked to the victim. Aldo and Strocchi headed north again, away from the Duomo.
‘Was there anything strange about his room?’
Strocchi shook his head. ‘It was a mess, the place had been ransacked.’
‘When?’
‘Not long after Corsini was attacked. His landlady disturbed two men, and they fled.’
‘They were looking for the diary,’ Aldo surmised. ‘Where did you find it?’
‘Hidden, under a floorboard.’ Strocchi paused. ‘When I first opened it, there was a scrap of paper caught in the binding – as if someone had torn out a page.’
Aldo nodded. ‘Whatever was on that page could well lead you to the killers – or whoever paid them to attack Corsini.’
‘But Cerchi has the diary, and he’s refusing to give it back.’
‘There’s more than one way to the truth. Constable, it’s time you went to church.’
Strocchi frowned. ‘What do you mean? I go as often as I can.’
‘No doubt. But tomorrow, you’re searching for the last man to visit Corsini’s bed.’
It was part of the Jewish faith to bury the deceased as soon as possible. Rebecca had sent word to her uncle Shimon and cousin Ruth in Bologna, but she knew that would take a day to reach them. It would be another day if not more for them to travel to Florence, assuming they were able to make the journey immediately. Better to bury Father now, Yedaiah had said, so she could begin to mourn properly. Rebecca had raised no objection.
At the funeral it seemed as if all feeling had left her body. She stumbled through what needed to be done, saying the words when it was expected of her, but she remained empty and numb. It was a simple service, because all were equal in death. The plain wooden coffin was lowered into the ground at the only graveyard in Florence that permitted Jewish burials.
When the time came Rebecca put earth on Father’s coffin, the dirt hitting it with a dull sound. She stepped aside to let others do the same, watching them come f
orward one by one – Dante, Yedaiah, Dr Orvieto and others. During it all Joshua was at her side. He wept, but Rebecca could not. She willed tears to come but her face remained dry. She had cried for days and days when Mother died. Why did burying Father bring her no sorrow? Was she that bad a person, that bad a daughter? Was some tiny part of her glad Father was dead?
She staggered on her way out of the graveyard, the ground muddy and uneven. Joshua was there to stop her from falling. She smiled at him in gratitude, and he reacted as if stung. Why? Could he see there was no grief in her eyes, her heart? Joshua took his hand from her arm and the moment passed. He opened the gate for the mourners, and Rebecca noticed a dark crimson stain at the front of his boot, discolouring the leather.
The officer from the Otto, he had asked to see beneath her shoe. When Yedaiah had finally let her into the house, she had realized why: there was a puddle of blood under Father’s body, with a shape where someone had stood in it. Joshua had gone to see Father that night. A terrible thought struck Rebecca. Could Joshua have been the one who killed Father?
No. No, she did not believe that for a single breath. She had seen the pain in his eyes the next morning, there was nothing to suggest Joshua was a killer. But he did have a crimson stain on his boot. Had he found Father dead on the floor, and kept that discovery to himself? By doing so, he had let her have one last precious night without sorrow. For that, she was grateful. Yet she could not help envying Joshua. He cried for her father in a way she seemed unable to do.
After Strocchi went home for the night, Aldo strode on to Palazzo Medici. The ducal residence was imposing, its ground floor made of formidable, rough-hewn stone. The level above was all elegant brickwork, while the top floor was even more refined. The palazzo windows became smaller on each level, so the building appeared taller and lighter as the eye moved upwards. The result was impressive, even to someone who had spent his childhood living and playing in a rich merchant’s palazzo. The death of Aldo’s father had put an end to that.
Aldo presented himself at the entrance and was ushered to a courtyard surrounded by interior colonnades. Through stone arches he could see polished marble and exquisite sculptures, fine tapestries and golden ornamentations. Tall windows overlooked the courtyard, the Medici shield of six round palle adorning stonework above each central archway. There could be no doubting who lived here, or their wealth.
Dusk was gathering overhead. Aldo blew into his hands, rubbing them together and stamping both feet to keep warm. Men of power might require attendance at a particular time and place, but it was no guarantee they’d be ready then. Such was the nature of privilege.
Aldo heard a familiar voice approaching. Cardinal Cibo emerged from an archway, a red cape over his cream cassock, scarlet zucchetto atop his dark hair. The representative of the Holy Roman Emperor Charles V in the city, Cibo was a man of importance. It was the Emperor’s forces that had besieged Florence, ending the republic and returning the Medici to power. Alessandro was the Duke of Florence, but Cibo’s reports and recommendations held a significance far greater than his quiet, watchful demeanour might suggest. The cardinal was busy muttering instructions to an attendant, but waved them aside after spying Aldo in the courtyard. ‘I didn’t expect to see you here,’ Cibo said.
‘His Grace summoned me.’ Aldo could have elaborated, but said no more. Never volunteering more than necessary was safer and wiser in most circumstances, especially when encountering men of power and significance.
The cardinal came closer, his piercing gaze fixed on Aldo. ‘So you’re investigating the murder of this moneylender? Good. Then we may yet find out what happened.’
‘We?’
Cibo stroked his greying beard. ‘Those I represent are eager to see Florence flourish, and this city relies on men like Levi to keep its business flowing.’
‘Indeed.’ Aldo noted the cardinal’s evasion, and that Cibo knew the dead man’s name. ‘I haven’t seen your cousin much lately. How is he?’
Cibo’s eyes narrowed. A distant relative had disgraced himself the previous summer, and only a timely intervention by Aldo prevented the matter becoming a far greater scandal. ‘Much happier now that he’s living with his sister in Massa Carrara, thank you.’
A courtier appeared from the archway where Cibo had been, beckoning for Aldo. ‘It seems His Grace is ready for me now.’
But the cardinal raised a hand to stop Aldo leaving. ‘I wonder, might you be able to provide me with news of this matter? A brief report in writing will suffice.’
‘My first duty is to the Duke, and to the Otto.’
‘Yes, of course,’ Cibo agreed. ‘Nonetheless, a daily summary would be appreciated.’
Aldo nodded his acquiescence. Better to placate an ally than needlessly make a foe. But why was the Emperor’s representative so interested? Did Cibo simply crave knowledge, or was there another motive? ‘If you’ll excuse me, I must share what I know with His Grace.’
Aldo was ushered up stone stairs to the palazzo’s middle level, where the corridors were adorned with ever more ornate tapestries and statues. The courtier introduced himself as Francesco Campana, administrative segretario to the Duke. Aldo had heard of Campana, but never encountered him before. He was said to have the Duke’s ear, guiding Alessandro and helping to mitigate rumoured excesses. Campana knocked on a pair of richly decorated doors.
‘Come!’ a male voice called.
Aldo entered alone, Campana closing the doors behind him. Two guards stood within on either side of the entrance. Too many Medici had been targets for enemy blades in the past. Even here, inside his own palazzo, Alessandro liked to have guards close at hand. Aldo crossed the marble floor to stand before an imposing desk, his gaze lowered.
‘Ahh, you must be the officer Bindi has looking into the murder of this Jew.’
‘Cesare Aldo, at your service.’
Having been spoken to, Aldo could raise his eyes. Duke Alessandro was as dark skinned as people said, with thick curly hair and a prominent nose. It appeared the rumours about his parentage were true. The Duke wore a metal breastplate for protection, but his black satin sleeves displayed the finest of embroidery. He lounged in an ornate chair behind the desk, one leg draped over an armrest, his confident eyes studying Aldo. Everything about the Duke confirmed his authority. Aldo had at least ten summers in age and experience more than Alessandro, but there could be no doubting who was in charge here.
The Duke waved a hand. ‘Your report.’
Aldo offered a brisk summary – where and when the murder had taken place, along with the apparent means. ‘Most likely it was a trained killer, or a hired blade. The person who did this may have already escaped the city, but I believe whoever paid them lives here in Florence. Discovering who, that is, their identity, is my next task.’
‘You have suspicions?’
Aldo kept his face expressionless. ‘Levi’s main rivals both had reason, as did his daughter. His debtors may have cause – but whether they possess the means is unknown.’
The Duke nodded his understanding. ‘Could this killing be linked in some way to the attacks on moneylenders at the Mercato Nuovo last summer?’
‘It’s possible,’ Aldo replied, ‘but I do not believe it likely. Those incidents were the work of surly debtors, too drunk to know better, and too stupid to avoid arrest. This murder required skill and cunning. And of the two men we arrested last year, one has since drowned after falling into the Arno while drunk, and the other hung himself to escape his debts.’
The doors opened behind him, but Aldo stayed facing forwards. Turning away from the Duke would be a sign of disrespect. The doors closed again and a thin, pale figure strolled past to stand beside Alessandro. There was a familiarity between the two men, yet something subservient – even craven – about the new arrival.
‘Lorenzino, where have you been?’ the Duke said. ‘Now our visitor will have to repeat everything he’s just told us. You don’t mind, do you?’
‘Of co
urse not,’ Aldo lied. His second summary was even brisker than the first, and Lorenzino showed little interest until it ended.
‘How long?’ he asked. ‘How long until you know who killed this Jew?’
‘I can’t be certain,’ Aldo admitted. A fire in the hearth kept the room warm. Yes, that must be why beads of sweat were soaking into the collar of his tunic.
‘That isn’t good enough.’ Alessandro stood, his mood darkening. ‘Segretario Bindi assured us you were the best officer for the job. We want this killer found. If you cannot do it, we will hold both you and the Otto responsible. You’ll report to us every evening before curfew until this matter is concluded to our satisfaction.’
Aldo nodded. Levi’s murder was fast becoming a curse for those touched by it. Lorenzino leaned close to the Duke, whispering in his ear.
Alessandro’s smile returned. ‘Well said, cousin – please, share your suggestion.’
A thin smile twisted Lorenzino’s lips. ‘The commander of the Duke’s guard is out of the city at present, but Captain Vitelli is due back from his country estate after the feast of Epiphany. If the Otto and its officers are unable to bring the killer to justice by then, Vitelli and his men shall take over.’ He paused. ‘So, you have until Saturday to solve this murder.’
Biting back an unwise reply, Aldo bowed to the Duke. ‘It will be my pleasure.’
‘Very well,’ Alessandro said, settling back into his chair. ‘You’d best get started.’
Aldo marched to the doors and let himself out. Four days. Four days to find an unknown killer who was likely long gone from the city. It was impossible.
Chapter Nine
Wednesday, January 3rd
Massimo Bindi believed in Florence. The city was home, and he was its humble servant. At times Florence stumbled beneath the influence of those who did not have its best interests at heart. Mad monks that held sway over the people and their fearful souls. Wilful men clouding minds with talk of a republic where all might be equal. Guilds and merchants battling for financial supremacy. Armies fighting for territory. Kings and cardinals grappling for control.
