by D. V. Bishop
Bindi had never seen the cardinal so angered before. It made the segretario wonder what was driving Cibo to act in such a manner. If something had happened to Alessandro – and the Emperor discovered it was due to negligence or apathy on the cardinal’s part – the consequence would be ruinous, at best. Cibo knew he was at fault, and he was pouring his guilt out onto anyone else he could blame. Yes, that would explain . . .
‘Are you even listening to me?’ the cardinal demanded. ‘Is it true that Aldo warned you of an imminent threat to the Duke’s life, a warning that you ignored?’
Bindi wanted to shake his head, but dared not deny the truth.
‘I thought as much.’ Cibo drew back. ‘Should you wish to continue as segretario – or, indeed, hold any other administrative position in this city – you will release Aldo. Now.’
Bindi nodded, conscious of the sweat soaking his collar.
‘Have him meet me south of Palazzo Medici within the hour.’ Cibo swept away, and Bindi sank into his chair, hands trembling. But the cardinal was not done yet. He paused at the door. ‘I don’t like to be kept waiting, segretario. Remember that.’
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Aldo stayed inside the condemned cell, waiting for Lippo to creep along from the poor men’s ward. He finally appeared when the late afternoon visitors were admitted, bringing alms. Lippo scuttled across the courtyard, his pitiable face securing half a tired loaf. But when he retreated towards the safety of the poor men’s ward, Aldo was waiting.
‘Th-there you are,’ Lippo stammered. ‘I wasn’t sure if—’
‘If I’d survive? Unfortunately for you, my time in here isn’t over yet. But I have to thank you.’ The pick-purse stumbled back, still clutching the half-loaf of bread.
‘W-Why? I haven’t done anything.’
‘But you did. You arranged for Carafa to come after me in the chapel last night, and for the Bassos to follow him in and kill both of us. Carafa must have humiliated you once too often. But for the Bassos, I might not still be alive. Of course, you expected the guards would find me dead in the morning, alongside Carafa. Didn’t plan for this, did you?’
Lippo tumbled over his own feet, losing hold of the loaf. ‘No, you’re wrong. I would never do that. I mean, how could I?’
‘Carafa would have killed me if the brothers hadn’t come in. Their arrival forced us to work together. I survived, he didn’t. Lucky me. Not so lucky for you.’ Aldo loomed over Lippo, ready to kick him. The pick-purse curled into a ball to protect his palle.
‘Don’t hurt me,’ Lippo begged.
‘You don’t have anyone’s protection. Nobody to keep you safe.’
‘Aldo!’ Duro emerged from the main doorway into the courtyard, two guards flanking him. ‘Come here. Now.’ Aldo made sure to stand on Lippo’s bread while passing. The captain studied him. ‘You’re recovered from what happened in the chapel?’
Why was Duro asking that? Unless . . . ‘I’m being released?’
A nod. ‘Orders from Segretario Bindi. You’re to meet with Cardinal Cibo, south of Palazzo Medici, before curfew.’
Bindi would not have ordered the release unless required to by someone of power. The direction to meet with Cibo told Aldo who was responsible. The plotters must have struck against the Duke – but whether they’d succeeded was less clear.
‘Just as well I survived my night in the gabbia, isn’t it?’
Duro bristled. ‘One of my men can escort you there, if you wish.’
‘I’ve had more than enough help from your men,’ Aldo replied. ‘But they can fetch the things you took from me when I arrived – my stiletto, my coin.’
The captain nodded, stepping aside to let Aldo out of the courtyard.
Aldo paused to look back round the courtyard. Lippo was gathering his crushed loaf, while Tomasia watched from the women’s ward. Aldo gave her a brief nod. He wouldn’t neglect his promise, not if he could help it.
Dusk was approaching as Aldo neared Palazzo Medici. Cibo waited by the south corner with Francesco Guicciardini, a blue berretto casting heavy shadow on the senator’s jowly features. Guicciardini was a key member of the Palleschi. His presence underlined the significance of this meeting. The senator looked down his hawkish nose, but Aldo ignored that. He’d come directly from Le Stinche, still in the same clothes he’d had since Friday. Let Guicciardini spend two nights in the prison, then he could judge.
Cibo made introductions. ‘This was the officer who first suspected the plot. Lorenzino had Aldo imprisoned to silence him.’
‘You’ve yet to produce any proof of this supposed plot,’ Guicciardini sniffed.
‘Follow me,’ the cardinal replied. ‘I fear we’ll find all the proof you need.’
Aldo fell in step as they strode away, Cibo outlining recent events: the Duke being lured to Lorenzino’s bedchamber in Casa Vecchia; Alessandro’s guards left outside all night; Lorenzino and his servants fleeing Florence that same night, the Duke’s cousin with a wounded hand; and the locked bedchamber, bloody boot marks leading away from it.
A guard remained outside Casa Vecchia, blocking the way in. Cibo led Guicciardini and Aldo inside and upstairs, urging both men to silence. But the constable standing sentry outside the bedchamber did not stay quiet.
‘Aldo?’ Strocchi gasped. ‘What are you doing here?’ Aldo clasped his hand, pleased to see a trustworthy face. ‘I’ve been here for hours,’ Strocchi whispered in his ear. ‘You know who’s in this bedchamber, don’t you?’ Aldo nodded, putting a finger to his lips.
Guicciardini sighed. ‘Can we finally see this evidence you keep promising, Cibo?’
‘Very well.’ The cardinal gestured at Aldo. ‘Open it.’
He considered putting a shoulder to the heavy wood, before recalling Orvieto’s words. Instead Aldo braced one leg on the floor and kicked out with his other. The wood splintered, but held. Another kick and the door gave way, swinging inwards.
The bedchamber was dark, but the stench of blood and shit and death left little doubt as to what was inside. Aldo paused in the doorway, letting his eyes adjust to the thin light creeping between closed shutters. Dark boot marks converged by the door. Whatever had happened in here had not been the work of a single attacker.
A four-poster bed dominated the chamber, but scarlet curtains draped round it hid whatever was on the mattress. Sheets spilled out from beneath the curtains, stained with dark fluids. Was that a hand, stretching from between the curtains, clawing at the air? A memory shook Aldo, the sight of his dying father. No, that was a fever dream, born of delirium and regret. Papa was not here.
Guicciardini muttered a curse. ‘That smell! What is it?’
‘Death.’ Aldo stepped aside so the others could enter. Cibo was first through the door, a cloth over his nose and mouth, eyes wide. Guicciardini followed, his face twisting with disgust. Strocchi was last, seeming least affected by the ripe, thick air. Perhaps he’d grown used to it while standing outside the door. ‘Open the shutters,’ Aldo urged.
Strocchi crossed to the windows, stepping round a sticky crimson puddle on the floor. As he opened the shutters, light poured into the bedchamber, revealing the full violence of what had happened. There was blood, so much blood – on the floor, the rugs, spattering the plaster wall beside the bed, even on the scarlet curtains round the mattress.
A dagger had been left behind, its blade stained red, with fingermarks on the hilt. A breastplate lay by the bed, unbuckled and set down carefully. Aldo recognized the design adorning the metal, he’d seen it while visiting Palazzo Medici. Alessandro wore the breastplate for protection, even inside his own residence. Yet the Duke had been persuaded to remove it, anticipating the arrival of a beautiful young woman, no doubt. That had been his undoing – that, and the folly of trusting his cousin.
Aldo approached the bed, careful not to step in the worst of the blood. Reaching for the closed curtains, he glanced at the cardinal. Cibo nodded, his face pale. Aldo flung them open, staggering back from
what was revealed. Alessandro’s pale body sprawled across blood-soaked sheets, his mouth wide as if to scream, eyes staring in accusation. The Duke’s throat had been sliced open, silencing his cries and likely ending his life. There were at least a dozen more wounds on his hands and chest.
It had been a brutal attack. Cuts to Alessandro’s hands showed he fought back, despite having no weapon. Was that skin caught between his teeth? Had he bitten one of his attackers? It would explain the bloody hand Lorenzino was seen nursing. The Duke was dead, but he’d left a lasting mark on his cousin. No matter where Lorenzino went, or how others might celebrate his boldness here, the Duke’s cousin would always bear that scar, always be reminded of what had truly happened.
Cibo whispered a prayer while Guicciardini swallowed hard, unable to stop staring at the bed. Aldo could see Strocchi’s discomfort too, but the constable was better at keeping hold of his horror. Good, that would help with what must come next. If Benedetto had been guarding the bedchamber, the floor would bear fresh stains by now.
‘What do you want us to do with him?’ Aldo asked.
Cibo ignored the question, continuing his prayers. Guicciardini recovered enough to study his surroundings. ‘How long has Alessandro been dead?’
Aldo put a hand to the Duke’s outstretched arm. The skin was cold as the room, the limb rigid. ‘All day, and much of last night too.’ Guicciardini arched an eyebrow at such certainty. ‘I’ve seen more than my share of death,’ Aldo said. The cardinal finished, Strocchi nodding respectfully. ‘What do you want us to do?’ Aldo asked again.
‘His body can’t be found here,’ Cibo replied. ‘The widow Salviati is staying on the level above. She came by earlier, inquisitive about what was in this room.’ Aldo didn’t doubt that. Salviati was a woman with an eye for opportunity.
‘No doubt the servants already know something is awry,’ Guicciardini said. ‘They will have been gossiping among themselves, at church today, or at the markets.’
‘Where do we take the body?’ Aldo asked.
The cardinal and Guicciardini exchanged a look. ‘The family crypt at San Lorenzo would be a fitting place,’ Cibo suggested.
‘He could be put inside his father’s sarcophagus,’ Guicciardini added. ‘Until a more permanent place – one suitable for a Duke – can be found.’
Aldo pondered how to get the body there. They’d have to carry the body, without anyone noticing. Guicciardini and Cibo wouldn’t be bloodying their hands, and fetching a cart would invite unwanted questions. ‘Strocchi, choose the largest rug and bring it to the bed,’ Aldo said. ‘We’ll roll him in it.’ Cibo looked aghast. ‘You have a better suggestion, Your Eminence?’ The cardinal considered a moment before shaking his head.
The body was as rigid as a length of wood. Good, that’d make moving it easier. Both legs and one arm were close to the torso, but the right arm was clawing at the air. Aldo pushed the limb against the body, but it sprang back. He’d have to break the arm.
Aldo clambered on the mattress while Guicciardini and Cibo were muttering strategy. ‘Word will spread,’ Guicciardini warned, ‘no matter what we do. Hiding him gives us a few hours, maybe a day, but we need a new leader. If the city doesn’t have a Medici in charge, others will try to take Alessandro’s place. By force of arms, if necessary.’
Guicciardini’s words were wise, but Aldo noticed the senator was already shaping the path ahead. Florence had seen many leaders, not just the Medici, yet Guicciardini was intent on that family continuing its hold over the city. No surprise from a leading Palleschi. Men like Guicciardini had grown rich under the Medici, acquiring influence at court in exchange for their loyalty. The Palleschi helped ensure any rebellious elements within the Senate, those among the Forty-Eight with sympathies for the old Florentine Republic, were kept quiet or persuaded to leave the city. But the cardinal was an imperial representative with other loyalties to consider.
‘I’ve sent word to militia out in the Dominion,’ Cibo said, ‘and despatched a rider to hasten Captain Vitelli’s return from his country residence, bringing all the troops he can muster. They can keep peace on the streets, and defend the city if needs be.’
‘You fear an uprising?’ Guicciardini asked.
‘It’s happened before.’
Aldo grabbed the dead man’s protruding arm and snapped it in two at the elbow. The crack echoed in the bedchamber, shocking Cibo and Guicciardini into silence. ‘We couldn’t carry him with one arm sticking out,’ Aldo said. He had Strocchi place the rug by the bed, before rolling the body onto it. Alessandro hit the floor with a thud, a long sigh escaping him. Strocchi stepped back, startled.
‘Don’t worry,’ Aldo reassured the constable. ‘It’s just the body settling.’
He rolled the rug around Alessandro, while Guicciardini and Cibo concluded their planning. ‘The Senate meets tomorrow to appoint a successor,’ the cardinal said. ‘The Forty-Eight shall ensure that the will of the people is respected.’
Aldo suppressed his disbelief. The people could have all the will they wanted, but the future of Florence would always remain in the hands of the few.
Strocchi was exhausted by the time he and Aldo reached San Lorenzo. Helping carry the body to the Medici crypt took all his strength. How Aldo kept going was beyond the constable. It was doubtful Aldo had slept much while in Le Stinche. At least Cibo had sent word ahead so the crypt was already open. A priest with a lantern ushered them down stone steps to the vault, their breath misting the air. Aldo took the lantern, sending the curious priest back up into the church. ‘Let’s stand the Duke in a corner,’ Aldo said when the priest was gone.
It seemed wrong to treat the body like a tiresome fallen branch, but Strocchi was grateful to shed the dead man’s weight. Aldo kept rubbing his right shoulder, muttering blasphemous curses. Strocchi chose not to listen, not here, not in this place. Instead he looked at the sarcophagi, struggling to read inscriptions in the gloom. Aldo found the right one, on the other side of the crypt. ‘You’ll have to open this for me.’
Strocchi pushed a shoulder against the sarcophagus lid, but it didn’t move.
‘Harder,’ Aldo urged.
Strocchi put all his anger into the stonework. Pushing and straining, the top of the sarcophagus shifted sideways. Foul air blossomed out, forcing him to stagger back. ‘We can’t put him in there, can we?’
‘Dead is dead,’ Aldo replied. ‘Doesn’t matter whether you feed worms in a pauper’s grave or rot away in a grand crypt, the end is the same.’
Strocchi prayed the cardinal would ensure Alessandro got the interment he deserved. After rolling the corpse into the sarcophagus, rug and all, Strocchi pushed the lid back into place. ‘What happens now?’
‘Go get some rest.’ Aldo picked up the lantern. ‘We’ve both earned it.’
‘I meant – what happens to the city?’
‘There was war when the Duke of Milan died without an heir. Plenty of fools dream about Florence becoming a republic again, and many exiles are eager to reclaim the city. From what I know of Guicciardini, the Palleschi will fight to keep the Medici in charge. But Cibo’s loyalties are more divided.’
Strocchi frowned. ‘But what about the citizens, what happens to people like us?’
‘We do what those like us have always done. We live, we drink, we love, we fight, and we endure. The fools in charge do their worst, and we try to survive.’ Aldo smiled at the constable. ‘Tomorrow will come, whether we welcome it or not.’
Much as Aldo craved sleep, there were things that couldn’t wait for the morning. He returned to Casa Vecchia after sending Strocchi home. Cibo had posted fresh guards at the entrance. Inside, a beady-eyed servant with a silver beard stood outside Lorenzino’s bedchamber, the splintered door pulled shut. ‘The cardinal asked me to make sure nobody goes inside,’ the servant confided. ‘Anyone who does could face banishment, even excommunication.’
‘Including you,’ Aldo said.
‘What do you mean? I haven’
t—’
‘Go and wash your hands, before anyone else sees the dried blood under your nails.’ The servant paled as he noticed the dark crimson stains. ‘I’ll keep watch until you return.’
When the servant had scuttled away, Aldo went into the bedchamber. Someone had drawn the curtains and closed all but one shutter. The Duke’s breastplate was gone, along with the bloodied knife. Guicciardini and Cibo were wasting no time shaping how this murder would be known, all too aware of the effect it could have on Florence.
What about Alessandro’s killers – what of Lorenzino, and his servants? It seemed certain the Duke’s cousin had been in the bedchamber when the murder took place. Had he inflicted the fatal wound, or did he leave that to the others? Three men left the room alive, with blood on their boots. Three men had fled Casa Vecchia, and Strocchi’s description suggested two of them were Scoronconcolo and Il Freccia. The last was Lorenzino, judging by the report from guards at Porta San Gallo. It didn’t matter who cut Alessandro’s throat and who stood watching. In the end, all three of them were partners in the killing.
Lorenzino and his complici were a full day and much of a night’s ride away. They could be in Bologna by now. Would Lorenzino be bragging about what he’d done, seeking glory for striking down Alessandro? Or would he be skulking in the shadows, fearful of retribution when his crime was discovered? Lorenzino would certainly need allies, a place to stay. Was that why he had sought the loan from Levi, to buy safe passage? Had the plan to overthrow the Duke been no more than a ruse hiding Lorenzino’s plans to murder Alessandro?
Aldo leaned against a wall, weariness close to claiming him. With each hour Lorenzino was likely to be further away. Someone would have to go after him, and Aldo knew where that task would fall. But there was nothing more to be done tonight. Lorenzino’s crime would catch up with him eventually. The Medici had a long reach.
The creak of a floorboard warned of someone lurking outside the door. But it was Maria Salviati in the hallway, not the servant. ‘Aldo? I heard you were in prison.’
