by D. V. Bishop
‘When you worked together, how did Samuele keep track of loans?’
The question seemed to surprise Dante. ‘We had a ledger,’ he replied, ‘a book, bound in leather. Our names were inscribed on it in Hebrew. Samuele scratched mine off when he forced me out.’ Aldo recognized the book Dante was describing. Levi had carried the ledger in one of his satchels on the journey from Bologna, checking it was secure several times.
Dante paused as they neared the Levis’ home. ‘What will happen to me now?’
Aldo knew he should arrest Dante for conspiring to have Levi killed, throw him in a cell alongside Carafa, let the two of them rot together in Le Stinche. But curfew was close, and Aldo believed Dante was no threat to anyone but himself now. ‘That depends on the judgement of the Otto when this matter comes before the court. I will be making a denunzia against you, and you are prohibited from leaving the city. All gates will be barred to you till the court makes a decision. Is that understood?’
Dante nodded, meek and weighed down by his guilt.
Aldo knocked on the door. A young woman – one of Joshua’s sisters, judging by the resemblance – opened it. ‘I need a moment with Rebecca.’
The young woman refused, but Dante intervened to persuade her. When Rebecca came to the door, her face was blotchy with grief. Aldo asked to see Levi’s ledger. She searched for several minutes before returning empty-handed. ‘I don’t understand why anyone would take Father’s ledger. All the entries are written in Hebrew – only a Jew would be able to read what’s inside it. Father spent years building up the business, every detail was in that . . .’ Her eyes widened. ‘The man Joshua saw, he must have taken it.’
Aldo nodded. Samuele Levi was almost certainly killed for what was inside that ledger.
Aldo made a breathless dash north to Palazzo Medici, grateful his knee was pain-free. He reached the ducal residence just as the bell high in the tower of Palazzo della Signoria rang out over the city, announcing the start of curfew. As an officer of the Otto, Aldo had the authority to be out after nightfall. But arriving late to see the Duke would not go unnoticed, nor unpunished. He kept the details of his report brisk, all too aware how soon the patience of powerful men could wear thin, but did mention the missing ledger and its potential significance. ‘Well done,’ Alessandro said. ‘You’ve learned much in a day.’
‘Levi’s former partner is preparing a list of the clients he can recall from the stolen ledger,’ Aldo replied. ‘That won’t include any new debtors added to the book since their partnership ended, but it’s a start.’
Lorenzino lurked at his cousin’s side, a sneer twisting his face. ‘That could take days, and the feast of Epiphany is only getting closer. Captain Vitelli has mentioned in the past that he believes the ducal guard could be more efficient at enforcing the city’s most serious laws. It would give his men a suitable task to occupy them during times of peace.’
Aldo bowed his head, seeming to acknowledge the wisdom of such a suggestion. As if any reminder was needed of how few days were left to bring Levi’s killer to justice. Having been a mercenary, Aldo knew how blunt and brutal men at arms could be. Putting Vitelli’s guards in charge of enforcing the law would soon lead to bloodshed, with tyranny not far behind. That had to be avoided, for the city’s sake as well as for the future of the Otto.
Lorenzino raised an eyebrow at Aldo. ‘You said the dead man knew that someone planned him harm – how can you be so certain?’
‘Levi paid the Otto to supply a guard – myself – for his trip from Bologna. He believed his life was in danger, but refused to tell me who wanted him dead.’
‘Yet he only paid for you to guard him on the return trip,’ Lorenzino said. ‘If he believed himself to be under threat, surely he would want guarding in both directions?’
It was an astute question, and one for which Aldo didn’t have a swift answer.
‘That’s enough for now,’ Alessandro said, dismissing Aldo with a gesture. ‘We’re expecting company this evening and we wouldn’t wish to keep them waiting.’
Aldo bowed deep to the Duke – and less so to Lorenzino – before withdrawing. If the rumours were true, Alessandro was unlikely to be meeting his wife Margaret. She was half the Duke’s age and lived at another Medici residence nearby with her ladies-in-waiting. Alessandro was known to visit his mistress Taddea Malaspina and their two illegitimate children. Taddea and her older sister Ricciarda resided with Cardinal Cibo at Palazzo Pazzi because Ricciarda was married to Cibo’s wayward and often absent brother, Lorenzo. But if Alessandro was expecting company at his own home, that suggested someone else was coming. Those less favoured by the Duke muttered that he was too fond of preying on the daughters and wives of noble families, the pale Lorenzino often at his side. But rumours and mutterings were not proof, least of all for the fornications of those in power.
As he left the palazzo, Aldo glanced across the courtyard. A heavyset man was arguing with a servant. Shadows hid much of the man’s face, but he had a prominent hooked nose. Aldo paused to adjust his borrowed cloak, Orvieto’s scent enveloping him. As he did, the hook-nosed man strode away. There was no mistaking the book he was carrying, nor the Hebrew on the binding.
It was Samuele Levi’s stolen ledger.
Chapter Fourteen
Thursday, January 4th
Aldo was exhausted, his limbs aching with weariness. He’d spent the night willing sleep to come, but couldn’t stop thinking. It was almost a relief when the sky outside his shutters became a mottled bruise of dark blue, and the struggle to fall asleep could be abandoned. The cream Orvieto had rubbed into Aldo’s knees was still helping, for which he was grateful.
Aldo shaved in cold water, scraping away bristles by touch in the inky pre-dawn light. Dressing fast, the warmth of Orvieto’s borrowed cloak was a welcome addition. Then out into the cold morning air, careful not to disturb Robustelli or the others still asleep inside the bordello. The streets would still be empty, with the city’s night patrols already bound for their beds, making it a good time to walk and think, to ponder the questions that had defeated sleep. Heading north-east towards Ponte Vecchio, Aldo sidestepped a patch of ice left behind by overnight rain and early morning frost.
It seemed certain now that Samuele Levi’s killer had taken the ledger. The book’s presence at Palazzo Medici suggested a link to the ducal household. Was it possible that Alessandro was behind the murder? That made no sense, not when the Duke and Lorenzino were so keen to see the case solved. So why was the ledger inside Palazzo Medici, and how had it come to be there?
Ponte Vecchio stood empty as Aldo crossed the bridge, butcher shops on each side still shut. Their doorways were stained crimson from the previous day, and countless days before. Most of the blood got sluiced into the Arno but the rest froze overnight, tainting the cobbles. Above the shops were the shuttered windows of those who lived on Ponte Vecchio, their homes perched above the shops and other businesses. In winter the smells of rotting meat and offal were masked by the cold, but in summer the stench must infest every part of those homes, as would the flies drawn by the rancid offcuts and spilled blood.
Aldo continued north-east through slumbering streets. The sky was getting lighter, day replacing night. Something else about Levi’s ledger nagged at Aldo – why hadn’t it been destroyed? The book was a direct link to the murder. Most killers would discard it, or tear out any pages concerning them and throw the rest into a fire or the Arno.
Traders began opening shops as Aldo passed, putting their goods out on hinged shelves, making best use of the limited space in the narrow thoroughfares. A few hawkers were already looking for trade, though their meagre winter produce would not be easily sold. A servant knocked in vain at a buchette del vino, getting no reply from the small wooden window set in a palazzo wall. Wealthy families with vineyards on their countryside estates sold the excess wine through such windows, but it was too early for that, even in Florence.
Aldo pressed on. For the murderer t
o keep hold of the ledger was madness, unless . . . Of course! Dante had said the entries were all written in Hebrew. Few outside via dei Giudei would be able to read that. Finding a non-Jew to translate the ledger would not be easy. It would need a man of education, someone from the church . . . Was that why Cibo had been visiting the Duke so late on Tuesday? Aldo realized he had stopped outside Le Stinche. The prison was a glowering stone stronghold. Most inmates were debtors, making it a place of suffering and despair for anyone unable to buy their way out. But Aldo had put more than a few prisoners inside it over the years for other crimes besides debt. Carafa was being held inside it now, but his case could wait. Solving Levi’s murder came first.
Turning west, Aldo headed towards the Podestà. Cibo’s interest in the case raised another question: why was the Holy Roman Emperor’s representative so intrigued by the Levi murder? Was Cibo involved with it somehow? Or did the cardinal simply crave information, which was currency to men like him? Answering that meant paying a visit to Cibo, and the sooner the better. The feast of Epiphany was only two days away.
Strocchi stumbled from Santa Maria Nuovo after another night spent at the bedside of a dying man. This time he’d been praying that Agnolotti Landini might survive his fall. The nuns offered little hope, and their pessimism proved wise. Landini’s shallow breathing caught one last time before stopping as dawn broke over the city. All the prayers in the world would not have been enough, Strocchi knew that, but he had been the only one on his knees. None of the Landini family visited during the night. Were they too overcome by shock, or too ashamed? To be so forsaken by those meant to love . . .
Forget them, Strocchi decided. They didn’t matter. Landini was dead, another victim of Corsini’s diary. But it was men of flesh and blood who had murdered Corsini. They kicked and beat the young man until he was all but unrecognizable, ending his short life. The killers deserved to be found and punished for their crime – for their sin.
But the silly gossip of a young man had now become a weapon in the hands of Cerchi. How many others would it destroy? Strocchi strode away from the hospital. No more. No more extortion, no more lies. No more threats and bullying. No more would Cerchi use that diary to fill his pouch. Finding the men who murdered Corsini – that would be justice.
Aldo kept his report to Bindi brief, omitting any mention of the stolen ledger until he had a better understanding of why it was at Palazzo Medici.
‘You’ve heard what happened to Agnolotti Landini?’ the segretario asked.
Aldo shook his head, careful to show no reaction. Had the merchant reported Cerchi for extortion? Unlikely. Perhaps Cerchi had subjected Landini to the strappato to make the other men in Corsini’s diary loosen their coin pouches? Maybe, but – like most bullies – Cerchi preferred making threats to taking action.
‘Jumped from a window at his palazzo last night,’ Bindi continued. ‘Seems he was involved with the dead buggerone. Strocchi was there when Landini fell.’
That would weigh heavy on the constable. Aldo shrugged for Bindi’s benefit. ‘Unfortunate, but I can’t see any connection to Levi’s murder.’
Bindi nodded his agreement. ‘Do you still need Benedetto?’
‘No.’ The recruit had proven more useful than expected, but things would move faster without him following along like an over-curious dog. Raised voices seeped into the officio. It sounded like Strocchi shouting, and someone sneering back at him – was that Cerchi?
‘Deal with that,’ Bindi snapped. ‘Tell those men to take their dispute elsewhere, or else they’ll suffer the consequences.’
Aldo bowed on his way out. Hurrying down the wide stone staircase, he could see Strocchi raging at Cerchi in the Podestà courtyard, two guards holding the constable back. ‘You did this,’ Strocchi shouted, red with rage. ‘You drove that poor man to kill himself!’
‘Landini was anything but poor,’ Cerchi sneered, ‘his family won’t suffer. In fact, they’re probably happy that he’s dead. His kind don’t deserve to live.’
Aldo put himself in front of Cerchi, in case Strocchi got free. ‘Enough. Bindi is threatening to discipline both of you unless this shouting ends now.’
‘He started it,’ Cerchi said. ‘Make him apologize.’
‘For telling the truth?’ Strocchi spat. ‘Should I tell them what you made Landini do?’
‘Enough!’ Aldo glared at the constable, willing him to see sense. ‘Strocchi, I want you to wait outside in the street. Go. Now.’
Strocchi’s mouth twisted but eventually he gave in. Shaking off the others, he stalked out of the Podestà. Once Strocchi was gone, Aldo feigned ignorance rather than acknowledge the smugness on Cerchi’s face. ‘What’s got him so angry?’
‘Just another dead pervert,’ Cerchi replied. ‘A visitor to your friend Corsini.’
‘I’ve told you already, Corsini was my informer,’ Aldo said, making sure his words were loud enough for everyone watching to hear. ‘Are you any closer to catching the men who killed him?’
Cerchi smirked. ‘Are you any closer to arresting whoever murdered that Jew? From what I hear, the Duke’s demanding answers by Epiphany.’
Resisting the urge to kick Cerchi in the palle, Aldo went outside. Strocchi was pacing back and forth in front of the Podestà gates. ‘This is your fault,’ the constable snarled on seeing Aldo. ‘You said you’d talk to Cerchi.’
Aldo nodded, accepted his mistake. Visiting Cibo would have to wait a while longer. ‘Getting the diary yesterday might have saved Landini,’ Aldo said, ‘but he’d been on that path a long time before Cerchi got to him. I’ll need your help to stop anyone else getting hurt.’
Strocchi’s hands kept clenching and unclenching. ‘What do you want me to do?’
‘Apologize to Cerchi. And make it convincing.’
Rebecca craved solitude: to be alone, to have the chance of going for a walk, to have nobody helping, or watching, or worrying about her. But sitting shiva was a duty she must complete, seven days of mourning to be endured, whether or not she’d loved Father. It meant the house was full of neighbours and friends of the family. Her friends, of course – Father didn’t have any. Not since he drove Malachi away. Not since Mother died.
At first, the presence of others had been a comfort. People bringing food, though she had no hunger. People talking to her – or talking at her, since she had little to say. No matter where she turned, someone was close by. It was meant as kindness, no doubt, but the constant, suffocating presence denied her any chance to know how she felt, what she felt. Maybe that was the point of sitting shiva, but it made her want to scream.
Joshua did his best to help. Rebecca could see her pain reflected in his eyes. Others came and went – his sisters, Malachi, Dr Orvieto – but Joshua was the most frequent presence. She’d seen more of him in the past two days than they had managed in two months of stolen moments. He was here again with his sisters, ready to do anything she asked. It was strange. What had seemed exciting and forbidden about him – about them, about what they might do or be one day – was different now. At first she had worried that her reason to be with Joshua had died a little with Father. It had, but what replaced that was something more meaningful, something deeper. She was seeing Joshua for himself, for all the qualities that he had, not simply as the temptation of the forbidden.
By far the worst part of sitting shiva was being unable to stop her thoughts racing, to stop dwelling on things. She hadn’t felt like this when Mother died. Then, it had been as if her heart was missing, replaced by a gaping hole of loss and longing. Now all she felt was angry.
How many more days before she could go back to being herself?
She paid no heed to the knock at the door. Yet another person coming to share their grief, to say how sorry they were. But this voice at the door was different. ‘I’m her cousin, and these are my brothers. We’ve come a long way to be here, so you will let us in.’
Rebecca got to her feet without even noticing, lifted by that voice. Th
e darkness fell away, clouds parting on a bitter day to reveal the warmth of the sun. Then Ruth was hugging her. This was what she’d been missing: a loving family.
Tears streamed down Rebecca’s face.
Aldo marched Strocchi back into the Podestà, pushing the constable ahead of him. ‘Where’s Cerchi?’ Guards gathered to watch, no doubt hoping for another fight. Cerchi swaggered out of the small storage chamber reserved for use by officers. Aldo shoved Strocchi at him. ‘You know what to do,’ Aldo commanded the constable.
Strocchi glared over his shoulder at Aldo. Good. That anger would make this all the more satisfying for Cerchi. Strocchi mumbled something. ‘Louder,’ Aldo urged as he strolled by, heading for the officers’ chamber.
‘I’m sorry,’ Strocchi repeated, raising his voice a little.
‘Still can’t hear you,’ Cerchi replied, smirking.
Aldo didn’t bother listening to the rest, certain Cerchi would do everything possible to make the apology long and painful for Strocchi. The more drawn out, the better – it meant there would be more time to search through Cerchi’s things for the diary.
Once inside the officers’ chamber, Aldo pushed the door to so nobody could see him. The air inside was rank, and the light of a single lantern made it hard to see. Cerchi’s things were strewn round the small room, forcing Aldo to search through them one by one. The clothes reeked of body odour and stale piss, while Cerchi’s boots were caked in mud and merda.
No sign of Corsini’s diary. But there was something lying in the shadows beneath a low wooden bench fixed to a stone wall. It must have fallen from Cerchi’s tunic while he was changing. Aldo dropped to the stone floor, stretching out an arm.
