by D. V. Bishop
Cesare was not looking his best. The years had added to his rugged charm, and the wrinkles at the corners of those piercing eyes only enhanced that. But he hadn’t shaved for at least a day, and those greying bristles made him look jowly. Then there were his crumpled clothes, a distinct aroma of fish about them – never Renato’s favourite scent.
Aldo cleared his throat. ‘I haven’t got long. I need to ask you about a young man—’
Renato held up a hand. ‘I hope you’re not planning to demand money. I’ve already handed over plenty to that vile colleague of yours.’
Aldo frowned. ‘Cerchi’s come to you already?’
Renato wrinkled his nose. ‘What a repulsive creature, how do you work with him?’
‘Tell me what happened.’
Seeing the urgency in Aldo’s eyes, Renato did his best to recall both encounters with Cerchi – the grasping visit to the sewing room, and then handing coin to the ungrateful cazzo outside the Podestà that morning. ‘The cheek of him! First he threatens to have me tortured, and then he expects me to be grateful when I pay what he demands.’
A boy passed them, pushing a barrow laden with cloth for another sewing room. Renato lowered his voice so as not to be overheard. ‘I’m not the only one who was friends with that poor young man, you know. I’ve been warning others to expect a visit. Not all of them can afford to pay what the Otto is demanding.’
‘Cerchi fills his own purse,’ Aldo said, scowling. ‘The Otto works to protect citizens.’
‘Well, it’s not doing a very good job. There are several important men in this city who are rather worried. Some of them might start naming others to save themselves.’ Renato edged closer, despite the fishy smell. ‘What would happen if Cerchi found out what kind of man you are, Cesare? He doesn’t seem to respond well to people like us.’
‘And I don’t respond well to threats,’ Aldo replied, anger flashing in his eyes.
‘I wasn’t threatening you,’ Renato said, shocked anyone could suggest such a thing. ‘But you have to stop him, before someone gets hurt. For your own sake, if not for others.’
Aldo rubbed a hand across his stubble before giving a curt nod.
‘Thank you,’ Renato gushed, reaching for Aldo’s arm. A cold look made Renato withdrew his hand. ‘Of course, you’re right. Forgive me.’
Aldo shook his head. ‘No, you’ve done nothing for me to forgive. Take care.’ With that he was gone, striding away into the afternoon, headed north. Renato couldn’t help notice his old friend limping a little. Perhaps Cesare was the one who needed to take care.
Chapter Thirteen
Strocchi hammered at the doors of Palazzo Landini. The homes of most merchants stood open during the day, encouraging those with business to enter and be known. The Landinis had closed their doors to visitors, but Strocchi refused to leave. Not this time. After what seemed an age, a timid servant unlocked one of the doors. ‘Signora Landini warns you to leave,’ he said, ‘otherwise she’ll summon a constable.’
‘I am a constable,’ Strocchi snapped, pushing his way inside. He marched to the courtyard at the heart of the building. ‘Has your master returned from church?’
‘Ch-church?’ the servant stammered, peering up to the palazzo’s middle level. Pasqua Landini was watching them from a window. She stepped back out of sight.
Strocchi went up the main staircase two steps at a time, making no effort to be quiet. Signora Landini emerged as he reached the top, her face sour as turned milk. ‘You’ve no right coming here. How did you get in?’
‘I came to question your husband, signora. It’s obvious he is here, otherwise you wouldn’t have shut the doors.’
‘My husband isn’t well,’ she maintained. ‘Come back tomorrow, he may be better.’
‘This morning he was busy at church, now he’s too ill to see me. Which is it?’ She gave no reply. ‘I’ll find him if I have to search every room.’ Strocchi strode along a wide corridor, calling for Agnolotti Landini, the signora scurrying after him.
‘Please, you must understand,’ she said, panic rising in her voice. ‘My husband has been under a terrible strain—’
Strocchi stopped so sharp they almost collided. ‘A young man was beaten to death, and I want to know why. I doubt your husband had anything to do with it, but he can help me find those responsible. Where is he?’
Signora Landini wrung her hands before pointing past Strocchi to ornate doors at the end of the corridor. Strocchi stalked towards them, calling ahead of himself. ‘Signor Landini, I’m Constable Strocchi, from the Otto. I need to ask you some questions. Can I come in?’
Silence.
‘Signor Landini, may I enter?’
Still no reply.
Strocchi turned the handle, expecting it to be locked. Instead the door opened on a grand bedroom full of rich fabrics and furniture. Late afternoon sun poured in through tall, elegant windows. One of them was wide open, with Agnolotti Landini sitting naked on the window ledge, staring out at the city. From there it would be all too easy for Landini to throw himself over the side and tumble to the stone street below.
Now Strocchi understood why the palazzo doors had been closed.
Aldo quickened pace as Porto San Gallo loomed ahead, bare orchards on either side of the road, the city wall sprawling beyond them. Two days ago he and Levi had come through the gate together. Now the moneylender was dead and Duke Alessandro was expecting – no, demanding – a progress report soon. With so few people using the gate this late in the day, there was no need to be subtle. Aldo cracked his knuckles. Good.
Benedetto crossed himself as Aldo approached. ‘Madonna, I feared you wouldn’t get here before dark.’
‘The bandit, is he still here?’
‘In the guard house,’ Benedetto replied. ‘Says his name is Marsilio Carafa. The guards are convinced he only came through the gate early this morning. I sent a messenger to the other gates, telling them to watch out for him, like you said. All of them reported back while I was waiting for you to arrive. None of them have seen anyone matching Carafa in the last week.’
‘Bring him out,’ Aldo said.
Benedetto fetched the prisoner. Carafa’s wrists were bound together, the ropes so tight his wrists were raw and bloody. ‘Finally,’ the bandit complained as he emerged. ‘Now cut these and let me go. I don’t want to spend another minute in your pox-ridden city.’
‘Sorry,’ Aldo said, ‘but you’ll be staying a while longer.’
Carafa’s scarred face fell. ‘You again.’ He sniffed the air. ‘Enjoy the fish?’
Aldo stepped so close their noses were almost touching. ‘You tell me.’ He snapped a knee up into Carafa’s groin. The bandit crumpled, breath whistling out between his teeth. He mouthed curses from the ground, but no sound came out. ‘Sorry,’ Aldo said, ‘I can’t quite hear you.’ Carafa made an obscene gesture in reply. ‘Benedetto, get him up.’
The constable helped Carafa to his feet, the bandit still wincing.
Aldo punched Carafa in the stomach, doubling him over. Benedetto looked at Aldo with obvious concern. ‘This man led a gang of murderous bandits who attacked and almost killed me,’ Aldo said, loud enough for anyone watching to hear. ‘We can take him back to the Podestà and use the Otto’s interrogation tools to loosen his tongue – or he can talk here.’
Carafa straightened up, pain still contorting his face. ‘Get fucked.’
‘Maybe later.’ Aldo clamped a hand round the bandit’s palle. ‘Right now, I have to stay here and question you.’ The hand tightened into a fist, bringing a gasp of anguish. ‘Who hired you to kill Samuele Levi?’ The bandit shook his head. Aldo squeezed harder.
A whimper escaped Carafa’s mouth. ‘It was one of his rivals.’
The grip loosened, but didn’t let go. Not yet.
‘One of the other Jews. Cheap bastardo hasn’t paid me yet, so I came to collect.’
Aldo nodded, suspicions confirmed. ‘That’s why you risked coming to Florence. When
did you arrive?’ Another squeeze. ‘When?’
‘This morning, I got here this morning!’
The grip loosened again.
‘So this man didn’t kill Levi?’ Benedetto asked.
Carafa frowned, confusion evident. ‘What do you mean? My men and I killed Levi on Sunday, twenty miles north of here.’
‘Not quite,’ Aldo replied, letting go. ‘Levi only pretended to be dead. I got him safely back here the next day. Somebody else murdered Levi in his own home a few hours later. It’s likely your employer took matters into his own hands – or got someone else to finish the job. Either way, you’ve had a wasted trip.’
The bandit spat at the ground. ‘Can I go?’
‘Not yet. I’ve still got one question,’ Aldo replied. ‘Who hired you to kill Levi?’ The answer was obvious, but having him named would put it beyond doubt.
Carafa sneered before replying. ‘Dante. His name was Malachi Dante.’
That cast a new light on the last two days. Aldo stepped away from the bandit. ‘Very well. We’re done here.’ He strode away from the gate, heading south, back into the city.
‘What do you want us to do with the prisoner?’ Benedetto called.
‘Take him to Le Stinche!’
‘What? No!’ Carafa protested. ‘You said you’d release me!’
‘I said I still had one more question,’ Aldo replied. ‘Don’t worry, you won’t be there long. You’re a hired killer who tried to murder an officer of the Otto and a citizen of Florence. The Otto doesn’t look kindly on the likes of you. Justice will be swift.’
Strocchi wasn’t sure his words were reaching Landini. Yes, the merchant had stepped away from the open window and put a robe over his nakedness, but Landini’s mood kept lurching between grief-stricken guilt and self-loathing anger. He would never hurt that boy, Landini muttered to himself, would never even dream of it. They were friends, good friends yes, but nothing more. No, that wasn’t true, he loved that young man, loved him like no other. It was . . . Landini broke down weeping.
Strocchi spared a glance round the bedroom, having never been in such a lavish room dedicated solely to sleeping. A carved wooden chest stood against one wall, while a wash basin occupied the far corner. But much of the chamber was occupied by an elaborately carved bed. The sheer size of it was twice anything Strocchi had seen before. He shuddered to think how much it must have cost. The constable could see mulberry twigs lying beneath the bed, put there to draw fleas away from the mattress.
Landini was back up, pacing again, his agitation worrying the constable. Keeping his voice low, Strocchi made sure his words were soothing: the murder was senseless, a tragedy. Those who killed Corsini deserved to be punished, to suffer for what they had done. Landini could help make that happen. His name need never be known . . .
Landini shook his head. He’d handed over a ransom to preserve his good name, with no assurances in return – only the promise of further payments, further humiliation. His family would be shamed if the truth was known, their business destroyed. Landini stared into Strocchi’s eyes. ‘I did love him, truly I did.’
‘I know.’
‘Thank you.’ The merchant smiled, his back straightening. ‘Let me get dressed, then you can ask all the questions you wish.’
Strocchi nodded, happy to see the merchant’s burden lifting. As Landini opened one of the drawers in a chest the delicate scent of violet and rose filled the room, no doubt from bags filled with petals to cleanse the air. Reassured, Strocchi went to the bedchamber doors, aware Landini’s wife must still be waiting outside, stricken with worry. No wonder she’d been so dismissive earlier. She’d been wearing a brittle mask to hide what was happening in her home.
As Strocchi reached the doors, heavy footsteps pounded across the room. He spun round to see Landini hurtling towards the open window. Strocchi shouted at him to stop—
But it was too late.
Aldo couldn’t hide his limp by the time he reached the Arno, dusk already approaching. It’d been tempting to report to the Duke while passing Palazzo Medici. But Carafa’s claim had to be investigated first. Better to be certain before naming a suspect. Orvieto’s door was open as Aldo struggled along via dei Giudei. A slip on the icy stones sent a fresh stab of pain through one leg. That settled it. Aldo found Orvieto was in his back room, grinding herbs in a pestle. ‘I’m not seeing anyone else today,’ the doctor said without turning round.
‘Then you should shut your front door,’ Aldo replied, leaning on the wall for support. Orvieto took one glance at him and brought Aldo a chair. ‘I look that bad?’
‘Where does it hurt?’ the doctor asked as Aldo sank onto the seat.
‘My knees. One’s an old wound, the other got injured today.’
Orvieto knelt by the chair. ‘Can you push down your hose?’ Aldo rolled them to his calves with difficulty. Orvieto’s hands were warm and firm, massaging and flexing both knees. It would have been even more pleasurable had the pain not made Aldo wince.
The doctor sat back on his haunches. ‘Nothing torn, but you’ll have quite a bruise. Mostly you’re suffering from exhaustion. You need to rest.’ He inhaled, nose wrinkling a little. ‘And stay away from fish stalls.’
‘Don’t remind me,’ Aldo said. ‘I have to report to the Duke before I can get some sleep.’ He reached to pull his hose back up.
‘Wait,’ Orvieto said, a hand on Aldo’s thigh. ‘I’ve something that will help.’ He went to a shelf of heavy glass jars, a thick stopper on each. The doctor selected one and opened it, slapping a thick cream out onto his palms. He returned and rubbed the lotion into each knee. Aldo expected a heavy, acrid stench of the kind that seeped from apothecary shops. Instead the scent was pleasant and its effect was swift, warmth seeping into both joints.
‘That’s remarkable. How much do I . . .?’
Orvieto waved away payment. ‘Come back when we can talk. I appreciate a man with experience and a strong stomach.’ Before Aldo could reply, Orvieto was handing him a cloak. ‘Now, put this on. It’ll help keep you warm and hide that smell. You could do with both.’
Aldo was approaching Dante’s home as Levi’s former partner was emerging. ‘Going somewhere?’
Dante reacted with dismay before composing himself. The dark smudges beneath his eyes were even blacker now, while his cheeks looked hollow and empty.
‘I’m sitting shiva with Rebecca tonight,’ Dante replied, walking on.
Aldo fell in step beside him. ‘You look like something’s troubling you.’
Dante hesitated before nodding. ‘I’m worried what Samuele may have put in his zava’ah. It’s a letter some Jews write when they sense that death is near, passing on the wisdom they have learned. It can be used to give thanks or to forgive, others use it to chastise and rebuke. It can be a lasting message of love – or a way to punish those you leave behind. Samuele was not an easy man. If he wrote a zava’ah, it could be devastating for Rebecca.’
Aldo studied Dante as they walked. ‘I met an acquaintance of yours – Carafa.’
Dante stumbled a little. ‘Who?’
‘You might not know his name, but I’m sure you’d recognize his face,’ Aldo said, ‘especially since you commissioned him for a murder. He’s named you as the person who hired him to kill Samuele Levi on the road from Bologna.’
Dante stopped, his shoulders slumping. ‘How did you find him?’
‘He came looking for you – looking for his payment.’
‘I tried to call him and his men back, I honestly did – but it was too late.’ Dante rubbed a hand across his temples. ‘One mistake, undoing a lifetime of good work.’
No wonder Dante had rushed to see his former partner when Samuele returned from Bologna. That guilt also explained why he’d been so helpful to the investigation. ‘Why did you do it?’ Aldo asked. ‘Why hire someone to kill Levi?’
‘Samuele betrayed me, tricked me out of the business I’d spent years building up alongside him. He cast me aside
like I was nothing, and then blackened my name to everyone he met. I took to drinking, hoping it would take the pain away . . .’
There had to be more than that, something to push Dante past all his beliefs. Aldo didn’t speak, trusting that guilt would prompt an answer. It didn’t take long.
‘I could have borne all that,’ Dante said in a trembling whisper, ‘but Samuele forbade me from speaking to Rebecca again. She was like a daughter, and he . . .’ Words failed him for a moment. ‘I had nothing to live for, nobody left. I decided Samuele had to pay for that.’
‘Why pay to have Levi killed away from Florence?’ Aldo asked. ‘Why not here?’
‘To spare Rebecca,’ Dante said. ‘I didn’t want her seeing Samuele’s body.’
‘Your mistake nearly got me murdered on the road from Bologna.’
‘I know. I’m sorry.’ Dante paused. ‘Was Carafa the one who killed Samuele?’
‘No, Carafa only entered the city this morning.’ Aldo smirked. ‘Squeeze a man’s weak spot hard enough, and he’ll always tell you the truth.’ He studied Dante. ‘Could Samuele have known that you had hired bandits to kill him?’
‘I don’t see how. Nobody knew, except Carafa and the man who introduced us. He’s a cripple, runs the tavern north of the river where I went to drink sometimes. I didn’t want anyone from our community seeing me like that.’
Zoppo. Aldo would give that merda far worse than a black eye the next time they met, but that could wait. More important was the fact that Levi had believed someone other than Dante wanted him dead, otherwise Levi wouldn’t have paid for a guard on the road home from Bologna. The attack by Carafa and his men, which Dante had commissioned, was simply an unhappy coincidence. Aldo put that to one side. Levi had far more debtors than he did competitors. That made it just as likely the person behind Levi’s murder was someone who owed him money, and decided to repay him with a blade to the chest.
