by D. V. Bishop
Strocchi wasn’t sure what to do. Follow the three men and leave the Duke at risk, or stay and hope the cloaked figures weren’t important? He chose to follow. But by the time he’d reached the corner, each of the trio was already on a horse. The last struggled, that wounded hand troubling him. Strocchi watched them ride away, the sound of hooves echoing between the buildings. There was no way he could keep up.
Strocchi returned to his watch. The guards were both dozing against the door, oblivious. Strocchi hoped his life never relied on them. He considered going to Palazzo Pazzi to share what he’d seen with Cardinal Cibo, but how would that sound? The Duke had gone into a building round the corner from his own palazzo, leaving his guards outside. Later three men came out of a side door of the same building and rode away, one of them with a wounded hand. The cardinal had demanded proof, not more speculation. What Strocchi had seen was strange, but he didn’t know what it signified – assuming it meant anything at all.
No, he would wait a while longer and see if the Duke emerged. There was one thing about which Strocchi could be certain. The city gates were already locked for curfew, so there was no way whoever had ridden away could leave Florence before dawn.
Aldo’s face was being slapped. ‘This one’s still alive,’ a gruff voice announced. ‘Can’t tell how much of the blood is his. Should we take him to the ospedale?’
‘No. If he’s alive, he can go in the gabbia.’ Aldo opened his eyes. Duro was looming over him. ‘I warned you not to trouble me again. Instead I get pulled out of bed for this.’
The chapel was awash with blood and worse. The toothless Basso brother was dead, a blade jutting from his groin. Four guards were carrying the other brother out, his head rolling from side to side. Carafa had put up an almighty fight. The bandit sat in a corner, smiling. Aldo raised a hand to thank him before realizing there were shoulder blades under Carafa’s face. His head had been twisted round, like a cork in a bottle.
Aldo fought back the bile rising in his throat.
Two guards dragged him from the chapel, Duro following. An open metal cage leaned against a wall in the courtyard, thick iron bars enclosing a space no bigger than a coffin, its door hanging open. ‘Put him in,’ the captain said. The guards forced Aldo inside the gabbia. The door slammed shut, a key twisting in the lock. Duro pulled it free, showing the key to Aldo. ‘I’ll bring this back in the morning, if you’re still alive.’ The captain and his guards stalked away, disappearing through the door into the watchtower.
What was it Lippo had said? The last man who had spent a night in the gabbia froze to death. Aldo had expected to die in the chapel, had been ready to die. But now he wanted to live, just to see the captain’s disbelief in the morning.
Duro could get fucked.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Sunday, January 7th
It was cold, so cold in the gabbia. The night sky was visible through the open bars of the cage, stars shining bright above the courtyard. There were no clouds, nothing to keep any warmth from escaping. Icy gusts whistled through the prison enclosure, punishing anyone foolish enough to be outside. The watchtower guards had abandoned their posts, retreating indoors. Aldo didn’t have that choice.
He’d torn fabric from a sleeve with his teeth, using it to bind his left hand, staunching the cut. Being dragged outside and thrown into the gabbia had wrenched his right arm back into place, but the shoulder was now swollen and throbbing with pain.
The first few hours he spent listening to the city, its sleeping silence broken only by distant church bells and the occasional howling of cats. Shaking took hold as the night fell colder. Each breath in chilled his throat and chest, while every breath out left a lingering cloud of vapour. Colder than the air were the metal bars of the gabbia – pushing icy numbness through cloth and skin, like a burrowing animal.
Five winters on the streets as a youth had been a brutal scuola, but those lessons stayed with Aldo. Falling asleep was tempting, so tempting, but fear of never waking again staved that off. Curling into a ball was the only way to stay warm.
It must be Sunday by now. Had the conspiracy succeeded? If the plotters usurped Alessandro, all those who’d resisted would be dead or exiled within days – it was the Florentine way. Foes from rich families could expect to be banished from the Dominion, skulking away to Venice or Milan, planning for the day they might return. Troublesome officers from the Otto would not be so fortunate.
Aldo knew he could expect a short stay in the cell for the condemned, and a brief visit from two men. One would be a priest, to ensure the condemned man’s soul had a chance to save itself. The other would be an executioner, come to deliver extra-judicial justice. Strangling was the preferred method for prisoners that displeased those in power: quick, clean and effective. A cart would take the corpse away to an unmarked grave, a shovel of quicklime waiting to hasten the decay.
Would anyone mourn him? Teresa, perhaps, though Aldo hadn’t seen his half-sister in months. Her mother Lucrezia would probably laugh at his fate. Strocchi and Bindi might notice at the Podestà, but few others would. Knowing Cerchi, he’d be at the graveside waiting to piss on the corpse, assuming he hadn’t taken the job of executioner.
A pity. Aldo had hoped to do the same to that merda one day.
Orvieto. Would anyone tell the doctor, or would Saul be left wondering if he’d done something to push Aldo away? There had been a spark there, and the promise of more. After so long alone, it was galling to think they might never be together, even if only for one night. Aldo pictured the doctor’s face – that wry smile, those warm hazel eyes. The deft touch Saul had with his hands, how his strong fingers could ease life into weary limbs and send blood rushing to other parts. What other talents did he possess? It’d be a shame to die not knowing.
Aldo leaned his forehead against his knees. Maybe he’d just rest his eyes. He hadn’t slept in days, not properly. What harm could it do to close his eyes?
Strocchi strode through empty streets, wishing for a cloak. It would be dawn soon; dark blues were colouring the sky. Sleep had proven fitful, too many questions left unanswered. He needed to know if the Duke had emerged from the palazzo during the night. Strocchi needed to know if Aldo was right.
If Alessandro had been attacked, then the men who had left on horseback must be part of the conspiracy. The city gates would be unlocked at dawn, giving the trio a way out. That assumed they wanted – or needed – to flee Florence. If Lorenzino and his men planned to seize power, they would be staying to make their claim. Strocchi shook his head. Let rich merchants and senators worry about who was in charge.
The constable turned a corner, boots skidding on frosty stones. The guards were still outside the same door. Strocchi realized it was Casa Vecchia. He’d passed the palazzo before, but hadn’t recognized it in the dark. Judging by their surly faces, the guards had been there all night. Strocchi approached, identifying himself as a constable of the Otto.
The guards confirmed what he suspected: yes, the Duke was still inside. No, they’d seen nothing of Alessandro since he went into the residence, leaving strict instructions that they were not to come inside. Yes, the Duke’s cousin Lorenzino lived on the middle level. One of the guards – Giomo – thought a widow called Salviati was staying on the upper level. Strocchi could tell the men were losing patience, so he made them an offer. One of them had to remain outside the residence so the Duke’s orders were being fulfilled, but the other could come with Strocchi to ask about ending their long vigil.
Saying yes took a moment – choosing who stayed behind took longer.
Aldo knew this was a dream but he couldn’t stop shivering. Everything round him was white, a frozen wasteland as far as he could see. Had it snowed in the night? That made no sense, Florence rarely saw snow, even in the coldest of winters. He’d been in a cage, locked in the gabbia, left outside in the courtyard of Le Stinche overnight. Now he was huddled naked on fresh snow, unable to stop himself from shaking and trembling. Dream or no
dream, he would die if he didn’t find shelter soon, that much was certain.
There was a crunching sound, getting closer. Someone was coming, marching across the crisp snow towards him. Aldo looked up, hoping for sympathy, for someone who cared enough to bring him warmth. But the sour face approaching was twisted with disgust. Her scowl he knew well, though they had not spoken in years. She had always resented him, the cuckoo in her loveless nest. His father’s body was still warm when Lucrezia Fioravanti had Aldo hurled out into the street. Now she glowered down at Aldo, her thin lips pinched in disdain . . .
‘Wake up!’ a male voice shouted.
‘I think he’s dead,’ another said.
‘He’s not dead. He’s too stubborn to be dead.’
Aldo opened his eyes, but everything was a blur, whirling around him. He squinted until the shapes became people. Two guards were peering at him through the bars, their stale breath fogging the air. Beyond them, Captain Duro stood with his arms folded.
‘Is it morning already?’ Aldo asked, teeth chattering together.
‘Get him out,’ Duro snapped. A guard fumbled the key. The captain hissed a curse, snatching the key and forcing it into the lock. Once the gabbia was open, the guards pulled Aldo out and onto his feet. Both legs threatened to give way, no feeling left in them. Duro gave a fresh warning about what would happen if Aldo fought another inmate. Several female prisoners watched from across the courtyard, Tomasia among them.
The captain had fallen silent, waiting for an answer.
When in doubt, agree. ‘I understand,’ Aldo said.
Duro stalked away, followed by his guards. Aldo staggered, willing his legs to keep him upright. They obeyed, for a few moments. Then everything was lurching sideways and the courtyard stones rose up to claim him.
For the second day in succession, Strocchi waited at Palazzo Pazzi. This time he was with Giomo, one of Alessandro’s personal guards, but that didn’t persuade Cardinal Cibo to admit them any sooner. Eventually a servant opened a door to the officio where Cibo was warming his hands by the fire.
Giomo told the Cardinal how Lorenzino had welcomed Alessandro to Casa Vecchia the previous night, but left both guards on the street. Strocchi revealed seeing the cloaked trio – one with a bloody hand – leave the palazzo by another door and ride away.
‘I didn’t see the injured man’s face,’ Strocchi admitted, ‘but the other two – they looked a lot like Lorenzino’s servants.’
Cibo stopped warming his hands. ‘You’ve seen them before?’
‘No, but Aldo described them to me.’
The cardinal studied Giomo. ‘Did you see these men leave?’
‘No. And I didn’t hear any horses.’
The guards hadn’t noticed Strocchi watching them either, but he kept that to himself. He needed Giomo as a witness, however limited.
The cardinal wrote a brief note before summoning a servant. ‘Take this to Bishop Marzi, fast as you can, and wait for his reply.’ Once the servant was gone, Cibo gestured to Giomo. ‘If you’ve been outside all night, you must be hungry. Go to the kitchens. It’s warm, and you can eat all you want.’
Giomo didn’t hesitate, thanking Cibo on his way out. Once the guard was gone, Strocchi approached the cardinal. ‘You believe me, don’t you? You think it was Lorenzino and his servants who left by the side door.’
‘I believe in being certain,’ Cibo replied. ‘For now I have other matters that require my attention. You may wait outside until my servant returns.’
Aldo regained his senses as he was lowered onto a straw mattress. A concerned face appeared in front of him – Tomasia. She touched his cheek. ‘He’s colder than snow.’
‘What did you expect?’ another woman asked, her voice as gruff as her face. ‘Outside in that cage all night, he should be dead. Why even bring him in here?’
‘He helped me,’ Tomasia said, laying a coarse blanket across him.
Aldo wanted to thank her but couldn’t stop his teeth chattering. Female clothes were drying on ropes strung across the room. He must be in the women’s ward.
‘Are there any more blankets?’ Tomasia called out.
‘Won’t do any good,’ the gruff woman replied. ‘The cold’s got too deep inside him. Blankets will warm the skin, not the bones.’ She was right. The gabbia hadn’t ended him, but death was close now. ‘Another person’s heat is all that will save him.’
Tomasia stared at Aldo. ‘Keep your hands to yourself, or I’ll throw you back outside.’ Rough hands rolled Aldo onto his back, the gruff woman pulling the blanket away.
She forced Aldo’s legs flat, tugging his hose down. ‘Do what Tomasia says, or I’ll rip your cazzo off.’ The rest of his clothes were removed, leaving him naked on the straw mattress. ‘Roll on your side again.’
Aldo saw Tomasia undressing and closed his eyes, hunching into a ball. She lay down behind him, pressing her warm skin against his exposed back, buttocks and legs before pulling the blanket over them. ‘Sleep,’ she whispered, reaching over Aldo to take his icy fingers in her own. ‘Dream of being anywhere but here.’
Strocchi saw the servant returning to Palazzo Pazzi, a written note clutched in his hand, but it was a while before the constable was summoned to Cibo’s officio.
‘You can read?’
Strocchi nodded, and the cardinal gave him the note. A florid hand revealed the Duke’s cousin had visited Bishop Marzi the previous evening. Lorenzino had sought and obtained a letter granting passage through the city gates during the hours of curfew because his brother Giuliano de’ Medici was gravely ill at the family villa in Cafaggiolo – or so he’d claimed.
‘I didn’t know anyone could get such a letter.’
‘Only those of particular importance,’ Cibo replied.
Marzi had seen no reason to deny the Duke’s cousin. Lorenzino and his servants were also given three post horses for the journey, the fastest means of travel outside the city. Marzi confirmed Lorenzino had presented the letter at Porta San Gallo during the night. The gate was opened, and the trio had ridden north in haste towards Bologna.
Strocchi couldn’t read the final sentence. ‘What does this say?’
‘Marzi’s writing gets worse every day,’ Cibo replied, taking back the message. ‘Guards at Porta San Gallo claim Lorenzino had a bloody bandage on one hand.’ The cardinal threw on a crimson cape. ‘I need to find the Duke. Come with me to Palazzo Medici.’
Strocchi shivered. Somehow he’d got caught up in matters far beyond a simple constable. Aldo was an officer, and look what had happened to him.
Sandalwood and decay, Aldo knew them both well. One was the scent of the house where he’d been a boy. The other was the stench of death, seeping out through sores and skin and holes and wounds. The two smells together could only mean one thing: he was back in Palazzo Fioravanti. He was waiting for Papa to die.
Aldo caught his reflection in a burnished bronze bowl. He’d been twelve when Papa perished, but already aware of what his heart desired and his palle craved. But the face staring back at him was that of a grown man, wrinkled round the eyes, greying stubble along the jawline. This was not real. ‘Come in, my boy.’ There was no ignoring that voice.
The bedchamber was barren, just a high bed, and the dying man atop it. Papa had been strong and vital. Now a husk lay in his place, yellow as a melted candle, skin stretched taut over jutting bones. Being a child in this palazzo had taught Aldo how to hide his feelings. He smiled for the man made old by illness.
‘You grew up. You got so big.’
‘I’m older than you were when you died.’
A thin smile. ‘You and I, we’re dreams now. Nothing more.’
‘Am I . . .?’
‘You’re not dead. Not yet. But you will be if you don’t remember what I said.’
Aldo nodded. ‘To survive, you must endure what others cannot.’
Papa shook his head. The skin across that cadaverous face split open, revealing the skull underneath. ‘Find
someone to trust, to love.’ Aldo staggered back as the bones became dust, a breeze blowing them away. ‘In the end, that’s all we have. That’s all we ever are . . .’
‘Thank you for coming,’ Rebecca said, letting Orvieto inside.
‘It’s the least I can do,’ the doctor replied, concern in his eyes. ‘I heard about what happened yesterday. Men searching through your things, it’s disgraceful. The officer in charge of those men, what was his name?’
‘Cerchi.’
‘He should be made to pay for that intrusion.’ Rebecca motioned for Orvieto to sit with her at the table. ‘Tell me, how are you?’
‘Tired. I’m not sleeping.’
‘Have you eaten today?’
She shook her head, gesturing to food nearby. ‘People keep bringing more, but . . .’
The doctor nodded. ‘So, why did you want to see me?’
Rebecca hesitated. If only Ruth hadn’t gone back to Bologna.
‘Whatever you want to say or ask, I won’t judge.’
‘It’s about Joshua.’
‘Ahh.’ Orvieto pursed his lips. ‘That young man has great affection for you.’
‘I know. And I have feelings for him, too. But Father forbade me from ever being with Joshua.’ Rebecca struggled to keep hold of herself, the turmoil inside her. ‘If I tell Joshua I love him, I will be breaking with Father. But if I do as Father wished . . .’
‘You fear your own heart will be broken – and so will Joshua’s.’
She nodded.
Orvieto sighed. ‘I know bodies and how they work,’ he said. ‘But I’m no sage when it comes to who we do or don’t love. The heart wants what it wants. Learning to accept we can’t always have that is no easy lesson.’ He gave a sad smile. ‘No matter how old you get.’
