by D. V. Bishop
Enough. The task was to find who had killed Levi. This conspiracy was something much larger, far beyond an officer of the Otto. He should take what he knew to Bindi, or to the Duke. But there was precious little evidence to support such a denunzia. Until he could prove beyond doubt that there was a conspiracy to overthrow Alessandro, making such an accusation against Lorenzino was asking to end up like Levi.
Aldo emptied his bladder and washed in icy water, dressing in haste to stay warm. He could ignore what he’d found. Let the Medici have their intrigues, let the conspiracy run its course. Alessandro would survive or fall, Lorenzino would succeed or fail. Did any of that matter? One duke was little different from the next. But Cibo had been right to mention the city’s suffering in recent years – a siege, so many needless deaths, so much instability. If Alessandro fell, all of Florence would suffer.
No, Aldo would not allow that to happen. He loved Florence, though that love had often gone unrequited thanks to the city’s laws, and sometimes its people. Florence was a cruel home at times, but it was where he had become a man, and the place he had come back to when injury ended his time as a soldier. He had been born in this city and had little doubt he would die here as well, one day. If he could save Florence from the plotters, he would. He had to try.
Besides, he had the ledger and Lorenzino knew it. There was no ignoring that.
Bindi had no sooner sat behind his desk at the Podestà when somebody was knocking at the door to his officio. Could these people not think for themselves? He had a report to prepare for the Duke. ‘Come in,’ Bindi called, not bothering to hide his irritation. Better they know his mood, and keep their interruption short.
Aldo entered, with something wrapped in cloth under one arm. He looked haggard, heavy bags under both eyes, greying stubble on his jaw. Bindi beckoned the officer forward and the harsh, burnt aroma came with him. What had he been doing? But when Bindi asked that question aloud, he didn’t like the answer Aldo gave.
‘Absolutely not,’ the segretario said. ‘His Grace trusts me to offer wise counsel, to act as his strong right hand in guiding the deliberations of the Otto. What would he think of me if I repeated your wild claims about a plot against him? I would be judged a madman or a fool, and the credibility of this court would be damaged.’
Bindi glared at Aldo, wondering what had put such folly into his mind. Those who served the Otto could be hot-blooded, even foolhardy, but Aldo had always been reliable – until today. Was the man drunk? He gave no sign of that, no slurring of his words and no unsteadiness in his stance. Had he gone without sleep so long his reason had suffered? Aldo certainly looked tired enough for that to be the case, but it was no excuse for this display. Whatever the reason, Bindi would not let himself be dragged into it.
Nevertheless, Aldo persisted. He pulled the bundle from beneath his arm, shoving it on the desk, demanding the segretario unwrap it. Reluctantly, Bindi did so and the source of that stench was revealed. Aromas of burnt leather assaulted his nostrils as the rough cloth fell away to reveal a charred book, a few Hebrew symbols still visible on the cover.
‘This ledger belonged to the murdered moneylender,’ Aldo said. ‘Levi was murdered for reneging on a loan after he realized the coin was meant to fund an armed uprising against Duke Alessandro. The killer stole the ledger to conceal his master’s name, and later tried to burn the book. One of my informants obtained the ledger, and gave it to me.’ He leaned over the desk, opening the book to jab a finger at a blackened page of smudged text. ‘This entry shows a client with the initials L D M wanted to borrow a small fortune from Levi.’
The segretario peered at the Hebrew notations. ‘That could mean anything.’
‘I believe Lorenzino and the other conspirators plan to overthrow the Duke tomorrow, during the feast of Epiphany. Vitelli and his men are due back any day, the conspirators have to strike before then. You have to warn the Duke,’ Aldo said. ‘He wouldn’t listen to me.’
Bindi recoiled. ‘You’ve mentioned this madness to His Grace?’
‘Not his cousin’s part in it, but I told him about the plot.’
The segretario rose, struggling to control his anger. ‘You had no right to do that! I gave you a simple task, reporting your findings about the murder investigation to the Duke before curfew each day, nothing more than that. But you went to His Grace, and told him this nonsense about conspiracies and threats against him? Where is your proof for any of it? A burnt book and some whispers you’ve heard somewhere?’
‘Cardinal Cibo was the one who—’
‘Enough!’ Bindi slammed the ledger shut on his desk. ‘You have brought the Otto into disrepute with your high-handed belief that you knew better than anyone else. Get out of my sight, before I have you dismissed from the court’s service.’
Aldo opened his mouth to reply, but nothing emerged. At last the depth of his error seemed to be dawning on the officer. He reached for the ledger but Bindi snatched it away.
‘Go!’
Aldo hesitated a moment before retreating to the door, pausing to bow on the way out. Bindi wrapped the rough cloth round the foul-smelling ledger and locked it in a drawer under his desk. He sank back into his chair, both hands clenched into tight fists. He shuddered to think what was waiting at Palazzo Medici when he made his morning report.
Strocchi was shivering in the Podestà courtyard when Aldo stalked down the stone staircase. The early morning chill was not nearly so bitter as Aldo’s face. Strocchi hesitated before speaking, but a promise was a promise. ‘Sir?’
‘What?’ Aldo snapped at him.
Strocchi swallowed hard. ‘I’m going to talk to Ruggerio about the murder of Corsini. You agreed to help me question him.’
‘I don’t have time for that now.’
‘Please, I can’t do this alone.’
Aldo looked like a man at war with himself, ready to lash out at anyone who got in his way. But whatever was eating at him, he swallowed it down and gave a curt nod. ‘Where?’
‘Ruggerio works from his palazzo near Santa Maria Novella most mornings,’ Strocchi said, leading him out through the gates. They strode without talking for several streets, Strocchi struggling to keep pace with Aldo. But as they passed the Mercato Vecchio, the constable dared to make a comment. ‘I asked people about Ruggerio – not mentioning why I wanted to know, of course. They say he’s a powerful man, with important friends.’
‘You don’t lead the silk merchants’ guild without accumulating power.’
‘So how do we question him about Corsini? I did what you suggested with Biagio Seta; that worked well. But he was a weak, frightened man. Ruggerio is different.’
‘Ruggerio is dangerous, and no fool. If he ordered Corsini’s murder—’
‘He did,’ Strocchi insisted. ‘I’m certain of it.’
‘If he ordered the murder,’ Aldo continued, ‘he’ll never admit that. Men like Ruggerio don’t bloody their own hands. That’s why he has the Basso brothers, to do what he won’t.’
‘But how do we get justice for Corsini?’
Aldo grimaced. ‘Forget justice. The most we can hope for is that Ruggerio makes a mistake, or stumbles on his own self-importance. Threats will not trouble him. The only person who can undo Ruggerio is Ruggerio.’
Strocchi suspected Aldo was probably right, but that didn’t make it easier to hear. ‘Sir, can I ask – what has made you so angry?’
‘If you wish to remain with the Otto, it’s better you don’t know.’
‘I’m not sure I do wish to stay,’ Strocchi said. The thought of leaving the court’s service – of leaving Florence – had been on his mind all night, but it was the first time he’d given it voice. ‘Not if men like Ruggerio can order a murder without any consequences.’
‘Give it time,’ Aldo replied. ‘You’ve potential, Strocchi, but you also have an unbending way about you. We work for the Otto, hunting those who break laws and – where possible – stopping others before they can. But it’s the m
agistrates who sit in judgement on those who trespass against the law, not us. If you believe in the teachings of the Church—’
‘I do.’
‘—then you must trust that everyone faces their true judgement, sooner or later.’
Strocchi nodded. It made sense, but the injustice of life in Florence still rankled. ‘Are you any closer to knowing who killed the moneylender?’
‘That’s why I was arguing with Bindi,’ Aldo said, his tone a warning not to ask more. A grand residence loomed ahead of them – Palazzo Ruggeri. Its three levels were built of the richest materials, every aspect of the design intended to show off its splendour and beauty. The wealth required to maintain such a palazzo was beyond imagining for most citizens.
‘This must have cost a small fortune,’ Strocchi observed.
‘Yes, it’s—’ Aldo stopped. ‘What did you just say?’
‘That this must have cost a small fortune.’
‘Of course . . .’
For the first time that morning, the constable saw a smile on Aldo’s weary face. ‘Sir?’
‘Let’s see what Ruggerio has to say,’ Aldo said, resuming his brisk pace. ‘Whatever happens, don’t let him make you angry. Trust me, losing control with men who hold more power than you never makes things any better.’
Renato had been having a lovely morning. Free from the worries of recent days, he’d enjoyed a night of drinking and delicious flirting. Better still, he’d woken with a clear head and a most beautiful companion at his side. Second helpings were always more enjoyable, especially as they gave a chance to savour the most succulent of treats.
He strolled to the sewing room, expecting to find his staff assembling a beautiful gown he’d designed for that old strega Lucrezia Fioravanti. Instead the benches were clear and the room empty, except for one glowering face he’d hoped never to see again: Cerchi.
‘Where are my workers?’
‘I gave them the morning off.’
‘You’d no right,’ Renato spluttered. Cerchi gave an insolent shrug.
‘I thought you wouldn’t want them listening to our conversation.’ He pointed to the door. ‘I can have a constable fetch them back, if you wish.’
‘I’ve nothing to say to you,’ Renato snapped, struggling to keep his temper. ‘Poor Corsini is dead. You should be finding those who killed him, not harassing innocent citizens.’
Cerchi’s smile faded. ‘There’s nothing innocent about buggeroni like you,’ he said, coming so close his stale breath assaulted Renato’s senses. ‘But this isn’t about that pervert.’
‘Then what . . .?’
‘Aldo. You’re good friends with him, aren’t you?’
‘What makes you say that?’
‘I’ve been talking to your workers, to people in the houses round here. He’s visited you twice in the last few days. You were seen with him outside, talking like old friends.’
One of his neighbours must have been watching them. Renato thought back to what he and Aldo had discussed. ‘Why are you spying on me?’
‘Not on you.’ Cerchi rubbed a hand across his greasy, drooping moustache. ‘I wanted to know why Aldo came here.’ Renato stepped back to escape this vile bastardo, but was trapped against a bench. ‘You warned Aldo to be careful,’ Cerchi said. ‘“What would happen if Cerchi found out what kind of man you are, Cesare?” That’s what you said.’
No, not that. Anything but that. Renato shook his head.
‘Do you deny saying those words?’ Cerchi hissed. Renato looked away, unable to hold the officer’s gaze. Cerchi grabbed him by the jaw, rough hands digging into Renato’s delicate skin. ‘Look at me when I’m talking to you, buggerone. Do you deny saying those words?’
Renato willed himself not to cry but couldn’t stop the tears. He’d always been a coward, had known that long before he knew his own talent and tastes. ‘No,’ he whispered.
Cerchi stared deep into Renato’s eyes. ‘Now, I want you to think carefully before you answer my next question. I’ll take you to the Podestà and have you tortured if you don’t give me the truth. Do you understand?’
Renato nodded, ashamed of the tears running down his cheeks.
‘So, tell me – what kind of man is Cesare Aldo?’
Chapter Nineteen
Aldo and Strocchi were kept waiting in the courtyard of Palazzo Ruggerio while a pinch-faced servant went to ask if his master was free to receive unexpected visitors. Aldo knew the strategy well, but the constable was soon pacing the stones.
‘Patience,’ Aldo said. ‘The more agitated you look, the longer they’ll have us wait.’ Strocchi did as he was told, and the servant returned soon after.
‘These men will take you to Signor Ruggerio.’ He gestured to a marble staircase. Two mountains of muscle were waiting, their impassive faces framed by short blond hair. These must be the Basso brothers. They were even more formidable than Zoppo’s description.
Aldo noted bruises and cuts across their thick, meaty knuckles. The wounds were healing, but neither man had a single mark on his face. Anyone beaten by these brutes would struggle to survive the experience. ‘Those look painful,’ Aldo said, pointing to their hands.
Neither man spoke. The one on the left gestured at Aldo and Strocchi to go up. The brothers fell in step behind them. When they reached the top, the other Basso pointed through a doorway to a richly decorated room. Aldo and Strocchi went inside to wait, while the brothers marched away in unison, heavy feet pounding the marble.
Aldo noticed Strocchi’s hands trembling. ‘Put them behind your back, then they can’t betray you.’ Someone was approaching, the footfalls lighter than those of the brothers.
A close-eyed man in his later years appeared from a side door, a smile fixed on a much-lined face. His scalp was smooth and gleaming without a trace of hair, while thin, pursed lips gave him the look of a reptile. Aldo almost expected a long tongue to slither out.
‘I’m Girolamo Ruggerio,’ the silk merchant said in a smooth voice. He wore an exquisite robe, his family crest woven into the silk. ‘How can I help two officers of the Otto?’
Either the servant had made a mistake, or Ruggerio was inviting the visitors to correct him. Aldo smiled, ignoring the error. ‘Signor Ruggerio, we are investigating a death.’
‘A death? How regrettable. Who was it?’
‘A young man called Luca Corsini.’
‘The death of the young is worst of all,’ Ruggerio said. ‘So much lost potential.’
Strocchi was bristling at the platitudes, but Aldo bowed his head as if in grateful acknowledgement of such wisdom. ‘Even more regrettable is the way it happened.’
‘Really?’ Ruggerio replied, showing no more than polite interest. Most merchants would have asked why such matters concerned them by now – but not Ruggerio.
‘Yes, he was beaten to death on Sunday night.’ Aldo affected a look of polite confusion. ‘I’m surprised a man of your influence and importance had not already heard about it. Murders are few in this city, thankfully, unlike some.’
‘Indeed,’ the merchant agreed. ‘These are dangerous times for those who venture beyond the places where they belong.’ A warning, hidden inside another platitude. Clever.
‘Did you know him?’ Strocchi asked, restraint failing him.
Ruggerio’s smiled widened. ‘Know who?’
‘Corsini.’ The constable’s hands clenched into fists at his side. ‘The victim.’
‘Not that I recall.’ The merchant lowered himself into a grand golden chair with decoration so ornate it would be suitable as a throne. Ruggerio crossed his legs, delicate fingers adjusting his robe to cover thin, naked legs, but he did not invite them to sit. Another show of power. ‘Why do you ask? Should I know this . . . Cortini?’
‘Corsini,’ Strocchi corrected him.
Another mistake. The constable was so capable, it was easy to forgot how little grasp Strocchi had of the city’s intrigues. Time to see if Ruggerio could be unsettled.
&n
bsp; ‘The dead man was wearing a dress made of silk from your workshop,’ Aldo said. ‘Beautiful, and far beyond his means. It seems likely it was a gift – from an admirer.’
‘Perhaps one of my partner’s family gave this gift. I’ve heard his brother Biagio can be quite generous, though I never listen to such gossip.’
A sly comment, stepping aside from any suspicion while pointing towards Biagio as a suspect. Aldo returned the merchant’s smile. ‘And then there’s the matter of your guards.’
‘Yes?’ Ruggerio’s smile faded, eyes flickering to one side – a tiny hesitation.
‘Constable Strocchi here saw the attackers fleeing. He says they both bore a strong resemblance to your guards – the Basso brothers, I believe they’re called.’ Strocchi stiffened at this stretching of the truth. Ruggerio must have noticed too, his gaze shifting to the constable.
‘Is that correct?’
Strocchi nodded.
‘You saw the Bassos fleeing this attack? In the dark?’
Say yes. Say yes!
‘The brothers look a lot like the men I saw,’ Strocchi replied.
Ruggerio’s smile returned. ‘Did you see their faces, perhaps their hair?’
The constable swallowed. ‘The attackers wore cloaks, with hoods over their heads.’
Aldo watched the merchant settle back into his throne. The moment was lost.
‘So you can’t be certain it was them.’ Ruggerio spread his hands wide. ‘In which case, I’m sorry but I can’t help further. And I have urgent business that needs my attention.’
‘We’ve another witness,’ Strocchi blurted. Aldo willed the constable to fall silent, but he blundered on. ‘Two men broke into the victim’s room that same night to search his possessions. They were seen running from the building.’
Ruggerio arched a dismissive eyebrow. ‘And can this witness be any more certain of what they saw than you, constable?’ He drew out the last word with utter disdain.
