by D. V. Bishop
But there were pieces of the puzzle that didn’t fit together. Why was the Duke so eager for the Otto to investigate Levi’s murder? Didn’t that risk the involvement of his own men being discovered? Another possibility troubled Aldo. His investigation into the killing might be a ruse, a feint serving another purpose – to draw out or identify the plotters so the Duke’s guards could strike against them first. Alessandro’s apparent concern for the murder of a Jewish moneylender had always seemed out of proportion. Despite himself, Aldo grimaced.
Cibo was watching him. ‘You have a different theory?’
‘Nothing I can prove. Not yet.’
‘Then keep looking, and keep me informed. There may be more to this than either of us realize. This city has suffered enough in recent years. What it needs now is stability.’
It was a good speech, Aldo decided on the way out, but the cardinal had omitted another reason for his interest. If the Duke fell, the city would be left vulnerable to forces from inside and outside its walls – and that could lessen the Emperor’s hold over Florence.
Madelena Seta smiled as a servant ushered Strocchi into the richly decorated room. ‘Back again, constable? If we keep meeting like this, people will talk.’
Strocchi bit back a sharp reply. He’d come to Palazzo Seta for answers, not to indulge this woman’s taste for intrigue. In his home village there was no need for such games. But in Florence the daughters and wives of merchant families were kept cloistered. Any young man visiting a palazzo could become a prime target for mischief. ‘You’re too kind, signorina,’ he said, bowing low. ‘I’m here to see your brother Biagio. Has he returned from Pisa?’
Madelena sighed. ‘Yes, though you will find him poor company.’ She gestured at a waiting servant, who hastened from the room. Madelena set aside her embroidery to approach the constable, playful dimples appearing in her cheeks. ‘Tell me, do you have someone special in your life? Someone who lifts the burden of your manliness?’
Strocchi’s brow furrowed. What exactly was she asking?
Madelena stopped in front of him, close enough that he could inhale the scent she wore. Its exotic aroma curled into his nostrils, intoxicating the constable’s senses. ‘You seem like a man full of . . . spirit,’ she whispered, reaching out a hand to cup his groin, making Strocchi gasp. ‘Is there someone that helps to relieve your . . . pent-up feelings?’
Not trusting himself to speak, Strocchi shook his head. Holy Madonna, the hand was moving up and down now. It was like having the sun there, warmth spreading through him. She stared into his eyes, clearly enjoying the power she had.
The sound of approaching footsteps saved him. Strocchi stepped back, arranging his own hands to hide any evidence of what had happened. Madelena retreated to her embroidery as a flustered, cherub-faced man of thirty summers bustled in.
‘I’m Biagio Seta. You wanted to see me?’
‘Yes.’ Strocchi was all too aware of Madelena, her playful eyes still full of forbidden promises. ‘Perhaps it might be best if we talked in private.’
‘Of course.’ Seta turned to his sister. ‘Madelena, would you mind leaving us?’
She pouted her way from the room, pausing only to blow the constable a kiss when her brother wasn’t watching. Strocchi waited till he could no longer hear her footsteps before speaking, giving himself time to focus and Seta time to worry.
‘A young man called Luca Corsini was attacked on Sunday night. He was kicked, beaten and left for dead by two men. Corsini may have looked weak and delicate to his attackers, but he lived for several hours before dying.’
Seta shook his head. ‘You can’t think I had anything to—’
‘You were outside the city when this happened,’ Strocchi cut in, ‘so you can’t have been part of it.’ Seta nodded, relief evident on his chubby face. ‘Not directly, at least.’
Seta’s hopeful expression faded.
‘On Sunday morning, Luca attended a mass at Santa Croce. He was dressed as a courtesan, quite a striking one, I’m told, and using the name Dolce Gallo. This newcomer caught the eye of several men at the church. Including you.’
Seta stared at the floor, offering no attempt at a denial this time.
‘Two witnesses saw you contacting this new young courtesan after mass. I believe you arranged to meet Corsini that afternoon. If so, you were one of the last people to see him alive.’ Still no reply. ‘I’ve spoken to Corsini’s landlady. She remembers the men who visited his room on Sunday.’ Signora Mula had only talked about the intruders who came later, but Seta wasn’t to know that. ‘If I brought her here, she would have little trouble recognizing you.’ That was a lie, but Strocchi could confess his own sins later. ‘Well?’
Seta dabbed at his face with a cloth before slumping into his sister’s empty chair. ‘I didn’t mean any of this to happen. I swear, I didn’t know what they’d do.’
After days of lies and evasions, the last thing Strocchi had expected was a confession. It was so long since anyone had given him a direct answer, he wasn’t sure what to say next.
‘I certainly didn’t mean the young man any harm,’ Seta continued, squirming in his seat. ‘He was so beautiful and so . . . But when I saw that drawing, I had to do something . . . It wasn’t my fault, I swear it wasn’t . . .’
Strocchi held up a hand to stop the words tumbling from Seta. ‘You admit you were with Corsini on Sunday?’ Seta nodded, biting his bottom lip. ‘What time did you leave?’
‘Four. I know because I heard a clock chiming somewhere nearby. I was late, terribly late, scrambling around for my clothes, and that’s when I found it.’
‘His diary.’
Seta nodded, hands twisting the sweat-soaked cloth he was clutching. ‘It was . . . I’d never read anything like it. That silly boy, he wrote about the men who visited him. He even drew sketches of them. I recognized one.’
‘So you tore that page out.’
‘Yes.’
‘What did you do next?’
‘Stuffed the page inside my boot and got away from there, fast as I could.’
‘And who was on that page? Who had you recognized in Corsini’s diary?’
Seta shook his head. ‘I can’t tell you. He’d destroy me.’
Strocchi moved closer till he was looming over Seta. ‘You’ve admitted being with Corsini not long before he was beaten to death. What do you think the Otto will do, if you’re brought before it, charged with sodomy and conspiracy to kill a man?’
‘I didn’t conspire with anyone,’ Seta protested, close to tears. ‘I never wanted anyone to get hurt. I thought they would warn him, that was all.’
‘Who?’
No reply.
‘Who was it?’ Strocchi demanded, grabbing Seta by the robes, pulling him up off the chair. ‘Who sent the men that beat and kicked and murdered Corsini?’
But Seta didn’t reply, fear all too evident in his face. Strocchi stared into the stricken man’s eyes and saw himself reflected, anger and hatred twisting his features until he looked like Cerchi. Strocchi let go and Seta slumped into the chair, a blubbering mess.
Was this justice? Was this what it took to uncover the truth?
Strocchi turned away, giving himself a moment to think. The page Seta had torn from Corsini’s diary was the key. Someone’s likeness had been on it, someone who Seta knew – his older brother? No, the courtesans had said Alessio was sick. The sister had confirmed Alessio was too ill to go to Pisa. Strocchi studied Seta. He was squirming in the chair, as if at war with his own body. Or his own conscience. Seta wanted to tell the truth, it just needed the right questions to draw him out.
‘I was sorry to hear of your brother’s illness.’
‘Thank you,’ Seta replied.
‘Has he been sick for some time?’
‘Since last summer.’
Not a likely visitor to Corsini’s bed, then. If Alessio was not in the diary, there was no reason for him to have Corsini slain. So who, then? When Strocchi first cam
e to the palazzo, Madelena had mentioned a business partner. ‘Your family are silk merchants?’
‘Yes.’
‘You must be grateful Alessio has someone to manage the business while he’s ill.’
Seta flinched, so much that the chair moved under him. Strocchi stared, but Seta wouldn’t meet his eye. ‘Your family’s partner lives in Florence, yes? What’s his name?’
Seta waved a trembling hand, refusing to answer.
Strocchi gestured to the doorway. ‘Shall I call a servant, and ask them? Or should I question your sister? Madelena seemed eager to please me a few minutes ago. I’m sure she would tell me anything I wanted to know.’ A long silence. ‘Well?’
Seta mumbled a reply, too quiet to be heard.
‘Who?’ Strocchi demanded.
‘Ruggerio. His name is Girolamo Ruggerio. But you can’t – you mustn’t . . .’
‘The man you saw sketched inside Corsini’s diary – it was Ruggerio, wasn’t it?’ Seta gave a tiny, timid nod. ‘Was it Ruggerio who ordered Corsini’s murder?’
Seta curled himself up on the chair, knees tucked into his bulging belly.
‘If you can’t speak it aloud, just nod,’ Strocchi said, lowering his voice. He didn’t want to frighten Seta out of admitting the truth, not now. ‘Was it Ruggerio?’
A nod.
‘Did he tell you what was going to happen?’
A shake of the head.
‘But you knew.’
Another nod.
‘That’s why you fled to Pisa on Sunday. You heard him arranging the attack.’
Seta hesitated, then gave a third nod.
There, the truth at last. It still wasn’t proof, but far more than Strocchi had hoped. Now, for the hardest part. ‘Biagio, you need to make a denunzia against Girolamo Ruggerio.’
Seta stared at Strocchi, wide-eyed. ‘You don’t know him, what he’s capable of . . .’
‘The denunzia wouldn’t have to name you as his accuser.’
‘He would still know it was me. Who else could it be?’
‘One of the men who carried out the attack,’ Strocchi suggested.
‘The twins are completely loyal, they would never—’ Seta clamped a hand over his mouth, horrified by what had slipped out. He shook his head, rising from the chair.
‘Corsini was attacked by twins? Do they work for Ruggerio?’
Seta bolted from the room, flapping a hand as if to deflect any more questions. ‘He’ll destroy us,’ Seta insisted on the way out. ‘All of us.’
‘What about Corsini?’ Strocchi called. ‘Doesn’t he deserve justice?’
But Seta was gone.
Chapter Sixteen
Aldo resisted the temptation of going back to the tavern for quick answers from Zoppo. Give him time and the results were always better. Besides, getting that damned diary away from Cerchi had to take priority, before it caused any more damage. Aldo returned to the Podestà and found Benedetto laughing with a guard outside the gates. ‘The segretario needs someone to fetch Cerchi,’ Aldo said to the young constable. ‘Can I trust you to do that?’
‘Yes sir,’ Benedetto replied, looking as eager to please as ever. That wouldn’t last long if he stayed working for the Otto, but it was useful enough now. ‘Where will I find him?’
‘Cerchi is a creature of habit,’ Aldo said. ‘Every Thursday he visits a particular house near the Mercato Vecchio, run by an old friend of his, Signora Nardi. You know it?’
‘The bordello?’ Benedetto asked, blushing.
‘That’s the one. Cerchi won’t appreciate being interrupted, but Bindi said this was important. Still think you can do it?’
‘I won’t let you down.’
‘Good. You’d best hurry.’ Aldo watched the constable scurry away before following, careful to stay well behind him. Coming round a corner, Aldo almost collided with a stooped young man who was begging for alms. Waving the sandy-haired youth away, Aldo continued stalking his quarry. Benedetto was soon knocking on the door to Signorina Nardi’s bordello, no doubt bemusing those inside – regulars never waited for an answer. Aldo used a side entrance to enter while the constable was occupied talking to a black-haired woman out front.
Erotic frescos adorned the walls inside, while golden statues of nubile women pouted and posed in corners. The air was thick with musk and sandalwood, along with the sound of men grunting and women crying out in apparent ecstasy. This place might attract a richer standard of visitors than those south of the Arno, but a bordello was still a bordello.
‘You lost?’ Signorina Nardi asked when he slipped into her officio. She was a buxom woman of thirty summers, filling her robes. ‘Or did Robustelli see sense and throw you out?’
‘Neither. Is Cerchi in his usual room?’
Nardi arched a well-plucked eyebrow. ‘What are you up to, Aldo?’
A knock at the door interrupted them. The black-haired woman who’d been teasing Benedetto at the bordello entrance stuck her head inside. ‘There’s a constable asking to see Cerchi.’ She smirked. ‘He’s very polite.’
‘Is the entire Otto planning to relocate itself here?’ Nardi asked.
‘Thought you’d appreciate the extra business,’ Aldo said.
‘Our visitors don’t appreciate meeting officers of the court inside these walls. It tends to wilt their enthusiasm – and their cazzi.’ She gestured at the woman in the doorway. ‘Isabetta, go tell Cerchi he’s wanted.’
‘That’ll be a first,’ Aldo said as the door closed again.
‘You still haven’t answered my question,’ Nardi persisted. But Aldo ignored her, listening as heavy footsteps stomped past, Cerchi complaining as he went by.
‘I’ll be gone before you know it,’ Aldo promised, winking at Nardi on his way out.
The best room in the bordello was equipped with a bed on a raised dais, draped in the finest silks. A young, naked woman kneeled on the floor in front of the bed, eyes covered by a thick cloth secured behind her long red hair.
‘I’m ready,’ she giggled in a girlish tone. Ignoring her, Aldo searched Cerchi’s clothes, which were strewn across the floor. ‘Master,’ the young woman asked, ‘is that you?’
‘Shhh,’ Aldo replied while listening for footsteps outside. Cerchi’s tunic and hose were missing – he must have pulled them back on to go to the front door. Luckily, his boots were still on the floor. Aldo found Corsini’s diary tucked inside one of them, the pages featuring a selection of lurid sketches, and the dead youth’s flowery hand. Such a slender volume, yet it had cost two men their lives. Aldo slid the diary inside his tunic.
‘What you’re saying makes no sense.’ Cerchi’s anger echoed through the bordello. ‘Why would the segretario need me now? Did Bindi say this to your face?’
‘No, it was Aldo—’
A string of obscenities heralded stomping feet, getting louder by the moment. Palle, he was coming back! Aldo pressed himself against the wall in the shadows behind the door. Cerchi stalked in, snatching up his belt, boots and discarded clothes.
‘Master, is that you?’ the young woman asked again, her voice trembling now.
‘Who else would it be?’ Cerchi demanded, pulling on his boots. He stopped with his left leg halfway inside its boot. ‘Why’d you ask that? Has someone else been in here?’
‘I don’t know,’ she said, lifting her blindfold. ‘I couldn’t see anything.’
Cerchi searched both boots, muttering under his breath. ‘Where is it?’ He spun round, gaze scouring the floor. Aldo held his breath in the shadows.
‘Are you looking for something?’ the young woman asked. ‘Can I help?’
Cerchi slapped her across the face. ‘If I wanted anything but your mouth, I’d take it.’
She put a hand to her reddened cheek, eyes blazing with anger. Turning to confront Cerchi, she caught sight of Aldo. He put a finger to his lips. Don’t say anything. Please.
Cerchi pulled on the rest of his clothes, still cursing as he stomped out of the
room. Aldo stayed by the wall, listening to Cerchi arguing with Nardi and swearing at Benedetto before finally leaving. ‘Sorry,’ Aldo said. ‘He’d no right to hit you.’
The young woman shrugged. ‘He takes what he wants. Bastardo doesn’t even pay. But he usually only hits me when he can’t get it up. That’s why I have those.’ She pointed to a table laden with concealing powders and rouge. ‘What was he searching for?’
‘Better you don’t know,’ Aldo replied on his way out.
Maria Salviati had set off at first light from the castello at Trebbio, leaving Cosimo with strict instructions to watch for any messages. In truth, Maria held out little hope of achieving great success during this trip to the city. But she had to try if her son was ever to attain his rightful place within Florentine society. Perhaps she could shame Alessandro into action? No, that was too fanciful a notion. She had considered appealing to his young wife Margaret for help, but the Duchess was little more than a child and still recovering from a miscarriage. It was doubtful Margaret had much influence over Alessandro at present.
The journey south was tiresome and exhausting, hours of bouncing along rough roads before entering the city through Porta San Gallo. Once inside Florence the progress was slower, but the streets far smoother. Maria watched from the carriage window as it passed the front of Palazzo Medici, guards standing sentry outside the ducal residence. When Giovanni was alive she had dreamed of becoming mistress of this grand palazzo. But her husband had no ambitions to become ruler of Florence, preferring battles and the company of his soldiers to the more subtle warfare of courtly intrigues. Then one such battle had taken his leg and, after the rot spread from the amputation wound, his life.
The carriage turned east before stopping outside Casa Vecchia. It was a far less impressive residence than that of the Duke, but would have to do for this brief visit. Most insultingly of all, she would have to sleep on the top floor, while the Duke’s cousin had the more desirable middle level. Giving way to Lorenzino was vexing, but she had little choice.
