City of Vengeance

by D. V. Bishop

  ‘I see why Aldo sent you. He also prefers blunt truths.’ Cibo pursed his lips. ‘Being only a constable, perhaps you don’t understand my role. I represent the Holy Roman Emperor here in Florence. I can advise those who lead this city, but unless I am witness to or have direct knowledge of something that can be deemed a danger to the Emperor, I am not empowered to intervene personally. Florence has its own laws and men who enforce them. It has ducal guards whose job it is to protect the Duke. I’m sorry, but my hands are tied.’

  Strocchi stared at a tapestry of winged angels on the wall behind the cardinal. How could a man of God refuse to help others? How could he stand by and let injustice be done like this? There had to be a way.

  ‘Your heart is in the right place,’ Cibo said. ‘Take comfort from that, constable.’

  That wasn’t enough for Strocchi. Not nearly enough. ‘What if I kept watch over the Duke, from a distance? If I saw something proving he was in danger, would you act then?’

  The cardinal put the cloak back round his shoulders. ‘It would need to be compelling. I will only step in if you can convince me the threat is imminent and real. I will not be made a fool to satisfy Aldo’s allegations, nor will I disgrace the Emperor by my actions.’

  It was better than nothing. ‘Do you know if the Duke has any public duties today?’

  ‘I don’t believe so. There is a joust in front of Palazzo Medici tomorrow that Alessandro is expected to attend – assuming he makes it out of bed in time.’

  Strocchi nodded. Aldo had been certain whatever was coming would happen today. Keep watch over the Duke until dark and all should be well.

  Aldo and the young woman were summoned to see Duro, while Maso was taken to the ospedale, still breathing but senseless. Aldo wasn’t feeling much better, but at least he could talk and walk unaided. The captain berated him and the woman – Tomasia – for attacking another inmate. Aldo was going to protest, but she beat him to it.

  ‘Attack him? That devil meant to rape me!’ She gestured at Aldo. ‘If this man hadn’t come in, I’d be the one in the ospedale. Or dead.’

  Duro glared at her. ‘A guard in the watchtower saw you run out of the cell. If Maso was trying to rape you, why return a minute later? Changed your mind about him?’

  Tomasia spat on the floor. ‘I wouldn’t go with that merda if he paid me.’

  ‘She saved my life,’ Aldo said. ‘If Tomasia hadn’t returned, Maso would have killed me. She pushed him away from me. He fell, hit his head on a loose stone.’ No need to tell Duro what Tomasia had actually done. The captain would suspect, but couldn’t prove it – not unless Maso regained his senses. There was little chance of that.

  ‘You’re claiming Maso fell?’ Duro asked. She nodded. The captain’s eyes narrowed but he sent her back to the woman’s ward with a warning. Aldo was ready to leave too, but Duro had other ideas. ‘Not so fast. Don’t think I believe a word of your little fable.’

  Aldo leaned against the nearest wall. He’d been admonished, accused and browbeaten many times. Might as well get comfortable. ‘Then why let Tomasia go?’

  ‘Maso was imprisoned for rape. Besides, her words sounded true. Yours sounded convenient.’ The captain leaned forward in his chair. ‘You’ve been in Le Stinche a few hours and a man is close to death because of you. I can’t prove what you did. If I could, you’d be spending the night in an open cage outside. But make no mistake: if anyone else is hurt today, you’ll suffer for it – whether you’re close by or not.’

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  ‘Cesare Aldo is in prison?’ Maria Salviati found it hard to believe, but the young constable at the Podestà was adamant. Apparently Aldo had been plotting to overthrow Duke Alessandro, believing this would return Florence to a republic, restore the city to its people. The young constable – Benedetto – confided that the Duke’s own cousin was among those who’d sworn a denunzia. Bindi was furious about the disgrace this had brought on the Otto.

  Maria thanked the constable for his candour before departing the Podestà. There went her chance to get an assessment of the Duke’s mood. She’d heard Aldo was reporting directly to Alessandro on some matter. The officer could have been a useful source, but not while he was in Le Stinche. She could pay him a visit in the prison – but what purpose would it serve? They were not friends, and what she knew about him had no value now. A pity.

  Talk of a conspiracy to overthrow the Duke set Maria’s mind racing. Alessandro was far from being beloved inside Florence. His sexual exploits were notorious amongst the wives Maria had met since arriving in the city. He had helped to resolve some difficult disputes among the people, earning the appreciation of some citizens, but others called him tyrant, bastardo – and far worse. So a campaign to overthrow him was not out of the question. But Maria dismissed any notion that Aldo might be a leading figure in such a conspiracy. The man who’d visited her in Trebbio certainly gave no sign of being political. Besides, he was an officer of the court, nothing more. She doubted Aldo had either the alliances or the coin necessary to execute such a plan. No, that was nonsense.

  If someone did attempt a strike against Alessandro, it could create instability, perhaps even a chance for Cosimo to shine. Whenever Florence sought to rid itself of the Medici, the family always found a path back to power. Maria quickened her pace, heading for the home of a prominent member of the Palleschi. While the Medici and their supporters still held sway in the city, there remained hope for her and Cosimo.

  Bindi was not impressed. He had sent Cerchi away to find evidence of Aldo’s plot against the Duke, but the fool came back empty-handed. No proof of a conspiracy. Nothing. Cerchi was far from being the Otto’s best officer, but his vendetta with Aldo should have motivated him to find what others might miss.

  ‘We searched Aldo’s room, and questioned his informants. I even went to the Jews, the daughter of that murdered moneylender you said was involved.’ Cerchi did look ashamed by his failure. Or was that wine colouring his cheeks? The segretario hauled himself out of his chair, waddling round the desk to sniff Cerchi’s breath.

  ‘Did you think I wouldn’t notice that stench?’ Bindi asked.

  ‘I was thirsty, stopped at a tavern on my way here—’

  ‘Get out. Now.’

  Cerchi retreated from the room, but Bindi’s problem remained. Alessandro had asked for – no, demanded – proof. Aldo would have been first choice for that task, if he wasn’t in Le Stinche. It would be dark soon. Come morning, the Duke would expect a full report – names, accusations, everything.

  There was one faint hope. This might be another of the many ideas that Alessandro mentioned, yet never recalled the next day. If he did indeed spend the night bedding some unfortunate merchant’s wife, the Duke probably wouldn’t be worrying about this thwarted conspiracy come morning. And it was not uncommon for Alessandro to miss the daily report altogether, especially if he was busy sleeping off a night of drink and debauchery. Such dissolute behaviour usually sickened Bindi, but for once it might be his saviour.

  Aldo spied the Bassos as soon as he returned to the courtyard. It was hard not to notice them, standing a head taller than everyone else in Le Stinche. Careful to avoid their eyes, he joined Lippo on a bench outside the condemned cell. ‘When did those two arrive?’

  ‘Guards brought them in while you were with Duro. From what I hear they confessed to killing a buggerone dressed as a courtesan.’

  So Strocchi had brought the brothers to justice. It was typical of the constable not to mention that. Such modesty wouldn’t help if he wanted to be an officer. Lippo gave a low whistle when Aldo shared what he knew of the case. ‘Better keep away from them. Sounds like they’ve got good reason to hate anyone from the Otto.’

  Aldo had reached the same conclusion. Bad enough he was sharing a prison with Carafa. Now there were the Bassos to watch out for as well.

  ‘Duro must be delighted with you,’ Lippo said.

  ‘Overjoyed. If I put anyone else in the ospedale
, he’s promised me a special cell all of my own. More of a cage really, out in the open air.’

  The pick-purse paled. ‘Last man who spent a night in the gabbia froze to death.’

  Duro was the least of Aldo’s troubles. He doubted Maso’s attack on Tomasia had been driven solely by lust. More likely it was a test to see what Aldo would do. The answer cost Carafa a man, but that was one sacrifice in a longer game. Aldo cursed himself for forgetting one of the rules he’d learned as a mercenary while riding with Giovanni dalle Bande Nere: pick your battles carefully, you never know when the next will come.

  ‘It’ll be dark soon,’ Lippo said. ‘You thought about where to sleep tonight?’

  ‘Doubt I’ll get much rest,’ Aldo replied. ‘Not while keeping both eyes open.’

  ‘The guards don’t bother locking the wards at night, as there’s no way to escape except out through the main door. You won’t be welcome in the male wards, Carafa rules them. The women’s ward is out of bounds, the guards keep too close an eye on it.’ Lippo frowned. ‘You’d be safe from Carafa in the ward for the insane, but not from the lunatics.’

  ‘Can’t risk the condemned cell again,’ Aldo said. ‘It’s a death trap, in every sense.’

  ‘Running out places to go, unless you want to try the ospedale?’

  ‘Not my first choice. Maso might recover.’

  Lippo’s eyes widened. ‘Of course, the answer’s staring right at us.’ He pointed across to the small chapel. ‘Slip in there just before curfew. You could push one of the pews against the door, stop anyone else from getting in.’

  ‘Or me from getting out,’ Aldo observed.

  ‘Don’t want my help? Fine. But I don’t see anyone else offering.’

  Strocchi wished he’d brought a cloak. Lurking in the shadows opposite Palazzo Medici meant he could see everyone coming and going from the Duke’s residence, but the cold was fast seeping into his bones. Soon he could see his own breath in the air as it slipped from his lips. At least Florence was far enough south to avoid snow most winters. Strocchi didn’t want to think what it must be like in places further north, let alone high up in the mountains. He stamped both boots again, struggling to get warmth into his toes.

  There’d been no sign of Alessandro since he returned from a ride. Now twilight was claiming the city. Lorenzino and his fellow conspirators must have abandoned their plan, or else it was happening behind closed doors. Had Aldo been wrong after all? Either way, there seemed little point in staying. Let Alessandro look after himself.

  No sooner had Strocchi decided to leave than the palazzo doors opened. Three men slipped out into the gloom. All wore cloaks, but while two were drab and ordinary, the other was lined with silk that shimmered in the twilight. Rumour had it Alessandro spent more on Neapolitan silks and satin than many merchants earned in a year. His companions were burly men with wide shoulders and barrel chests. They must be his guards. Alessandro never went out alone. Good, while those two were at his side the Duke should be safe. But where were the trio going this late? Strocchi followed the three men, keeping well back.

  They headed north towards Piazza San Marco. But as they approached the wide square the three turned back, returning the way they’d just come. Strocchi slipped into an alley thick with shadow, holding his breath. He feared the guards must have seen him, but the group passed his hiding place without pause. Had the Duke changed his mind, or forgotten something?

  Strocchi followed them south on via Largo, staying even further back. The trio passed the entrance to Palazzo Medici, turning right at the southern corner of the grand building. Hurrying to catch up, Strocchi reached the corner in time to see the Duke knock on a door. Light spilled out when it opened, silhouetting a man in the doorway. The Duke greeted him as a brother, both men laughing. The man inside resembled Aldo’s description of Lorenzino, but it was hard to be sure from so far away. The Duke was a public figure, his face familiar to most citizens, but Strocchi had not encountered Lorenzino since coming to Florence. The Duke went inside, gesturing at his guards to stay out on the cold, empty street. Neither seemed pleased by the order, and Strocchi didn’t blame them.

  Aldo had stolen into the small chapel as darkness fell. Inside was plain, a few wooden pews facing a bare altar, with none of the rich decoration found in most Florentine churches. Two thick wooden candle stands on the altar and a plain tapestry on a wall close by were the only ornamentation. This was a prison, after all. The pew Aldo had shoved against the door wouldn’t stop a determined force, but it would slow them down – and give him a warning. He settled on one of the other pews, hoping for sleep.

  ‘Lippo was right,’ a voice said.

  So much for sleeping.

  Carafa emerged from behind the tapestry, stepping through a hidden door – a way out for the priest if inmates turned on him. Aldo rose, studying Carafa. No blade in his hands. Keep him talking. ‘About what? Lippo isn’t very reliable, in my experience.’

  ‘You dismissed his idea of sleeping in the chapel, but he said you’d still come here.’

  ‘Hard to trust a man who’ll betray you to please a killer.’

  ‘He seemed more interested in making you pay for his arm.’ Carafa moved in a slow circle around Aldo. ‘You’re not going to call for the guards?’

  ‘I’m sure you’ve persuaded those on duty to ignore this.’

  Carafa nodded, smiling. ‘You think of everything.’

  ‘Come on,’ Aldo said, blowing him a kiss. ‘Show me what you’ve got.’

  Carafa swung a fist, a clumsy attack. Aldo swayed out of the way, but it’d been a ruse. Another fist punched below the first, into his ribs. Palle! He staggered sideways, towards the altar. Carafa followed – another punch, and another. Aldo parried them, but he was gasping for air already. A solid hook thudded into his left ear, ringing bells in his head. Stumbling feet, going backwards. The altar dug into his back, trapping him.

  Carafa closed in. ‘You’ll die in here.’ The thick wooden candle stand smacked the smile from his face, the sound of Carafa’s nose breaking a whip crack in the chapel. The bandit lurched back, blood streaming. ‘Bastardo!’

  ‘So I hear,’ Aldo replied, clutching the candle holder in both hands.

  Carafa reached into his boot and pulled out a blade. He swiped it through the air twice, before lunging. Aldo blocked him with the candle stand, but more attacks came. The blade cut upwards, slicing Aldo’s left hand. Fight back, fight back! A wild swing. A snarl of dismay, the blade scraping across the stone floor.

  Carafa dived for it, Aldo too tired to follow. His left arm hung down, blood dripping from the fingers. He couldn’t breathe, sweat was blinding his eyes. Two, maybe three more attacks, then he’d be done. Finished. Was it too late to ask forgiveness for his sins? Assuming he could remember them all.

  Carafa rose, blade in hand. ‘Why are you grinning, fool?’

  ‘At least now they won’t get to execute me.’

  Then the chapel door came crashing down. The Basso brothers forced their way into the chapel, shoving aside the pew blocking the door.

  ‘Who are they here for,’ Carafa hissed, ‘you or me?’

  Aldo grimaced. ‘Both of us.’ Lippo had suggested the chapel as a safe refuge, planting the notion in Aldo’s head and laying the trap for Carafa to spring. Then Lippo doubtless made an arrangement with the Bassos to have them kill both men in the chapel. Carafa was the most powerful prisoner in Le Stinche. Murder him and the Bassos could take his place, force other inmates to do their bidding. Killing Aldo made no difference to the Bassos, but it would satisfy Lippo’s craving for revenge over his imprisonment and lost arm. Aldo tightened his grip on the candle stand. Fighting Carafa had been a losing battle. Taking on the brothers alone was doomed. ‘How about a truce?’ he suggested to the bandit. ‘A real one, this time?’

  ‘Us against them, till this is over?’ Carafa brandished his blade. ‘Agreed.’

  The brothers lunged at them, hands reaching out. Aldo swung
the candle stand up into his attacker’s jaw. The brother staggered back, spitting blood and broken teeth.

  He grinned. The lunatico grinned.

  Aldo retreated behind the altar. Across the chapel Carafa was using the blade, cutting and slicing at those huge hands, but it wasn’t doing much good. The bandit dived for the doorway behind the tapestry. A bloody hand grabbed his leg, pulling him back.

  The toothless brother facing Aldo gripped hold of the altar – and threw it aside. Palle, how had Strocchi arrested one of these monsters, let alone two? Moonlight from a high window glinted on the brother’s glistening temples, revealing a bruised lump. Maybe that was how Strocchi had stopped this brute? It was worth trying the same.

  Aldo beckoned his attacker closer, ignoring cries of pain close by. The brother lunged and Aldo swung his weapon through the air—

  —but it hit a muscle-bound arm, bouncing out of Aldo’s grasp.

  He staggered back, helpless, defenceless.

  The first punch was a hammer blow.

  The second was worse.

  He swung his right arm, more a flail than a punch. It was caught in the air. Twisted. Something popped in his shoulder. Aldo heard a scream of pain – it was his own.

  ‘Aldo,’ a weak voice whispered.

  The blade scraped across the stones.

  Aldo dropped to his knees, bloody left hand searching for the blade.

  Where was it? There. There!

  Fingers closing, gripping.

  Stab it. Stab it deep.

  Now – twist.

  Strocchi watched the Duke’s guards. They looked as bored and frustrated as him. One was dozing, the other picking his nose and eating what came out. Ugh. Neither was paying any heed to their surroundings. Strocchi didn’t blame them. The streets were deserted.

  No, there was someone else out in the freezing night air. Strocchi could see round the corner of the building into which Alessandro had gone. Three male figures, all in cloaks with hoods hiding their faces, were leaving by a side door. The first had a stoop, but still moved like a young man. That could be the youth Aldo had described, the one who killed Dante. Il Freccia, that was his name. The second also wore a plain cloak, but the hood slipped for a moment, revealing his hooked nose. That must be Scoronconcolo. The third figure was nursing a hand bound in cloth, a dark stain seeping through it. That could be blood. But who was injured? Strocchi glimpsed the man’s face – was that Lorenzino? Staying to the shadows, the three men hurried away, leaving the guards none the wiser.