by D. V. Bishop
It was only after Tomasia had gone that Strocchi realized he was blushing.
‘You need treatment again?’ Orvieto sighed. ‘There are other healers in this city.’
‘Illness is a weakness in my job,’ Aldo said, following the doctor through to the back room. ‘I prefer to see someone I can trust.’
‘How’s the shoulder?’
‘It hasn’t got worse. I’ve been trying to do as you said, but . . .’
Orvieto gestured at his table. ‘Sit on there, take off your tunic.’ He examined the joint, probing fingers forcing grunts of pain from Aldo. ‘I can give you a herbal mixture to ease the swelling, that will help a little. But rest is what you need.’
‘What I need and what I get don’t often share a bed.’ Aldo explained his trip away from Florence, riding fast for hours, even days. ‘Something for the pain would help.’
Orvieto opened a drawer and pulled out several twists of paper. ‘Put these powders in your drink, one first thing, and another at night. Too many and they become your master.’
‘Thank you.’ Aldo let Orvieto ease him back into the tunic, enjoying their closeness. ‘I’m not sure when I’ll be back. Several days, at least – or not at all, if the worst happens.’
‘You seem to attract pain, yet are very good at surviving it,’ Orvieto replied. He rested a gentle hand on Aldo’s good shoulder. ‘There’s something I need to say. Last time you were here, you were . . . bold.’
Aldo couldn’t bring himself to look Orvieto – Saul – in the face. Was this to be a kind but final farewell? They’d only known each other a few days. He’d no right to hope this man would risk all he had, all that he was for what – lust? Passion? A chance of something more?
‘Cesare, look at me.’
Aldo forced himself to stare into those warm hazel eyes.
‘I liked it. I liked you being bold. I don’t know what to expect with you, and I haven’t felt that for a long time. So, make sure you do come back, yes?’ He slipped a hand behind Aldo’s head, pulling him into a long, deep kiss.
The first time they’d kissed had been urgent, hurried. This was slower, more assured. Aldo reached both hands to Saul’s head, fingers in his hair, pulling him closer, their lips parting. Aldo breathed Saul in, savouring his scent, his closeness. Their hands found one another, holding, embracing and exploring each other’s muscles and limbs and warmth. When at last Saul broke the kiss, he was smiling. ‘Think about that while you’re away.’
Chapter Thirty
Strocchi got down from his horse on the approach to Porta San Gallo, following Aldo’s example. The city wall stretched away on either side of the north gate, less impressive than Strocchi remembered it. Coming to Florence, the wall had seemed vast, a great barrier capable of keeping out all those who did not deserve to go within. But from this side, it was not so imposing. Had the city altered him, what he saw? Strocchi did not wish to believe that.
They neared the gate, Aldo nodding to the guards. A few questions confirmed previous reports. Lorenzino and his servants had passed through Porta San Gallo well after dark on Saturday, the Duke’s cousin nursing a wounded hand. But the guards had questions of their own. Was it true Lorenzino had murdered the Duke? Aldo shrugged, and Strocchi kept his counsel. The truth – or some of it – would be known soon enough.
They walked their horses through the gate, mounting again once outside the city walls. The effort caused Aldo to groan, but the constable knew better than to offer help. Once in the saddle, Aldo glanced across. ‘Ready?’
Strocchi gave a nod, resisting the urge to look back through the gates.
Aldo urged his horse forwards and it sprang away, eager to escape the city. Strocchi did the same, the two of them gathering speed as they raced towards the hills.
The invitation from Guicciardini came as no surprise. Maria had been generous with her coin, making sure his household servants were just as generous in sharing what they knew. A man of importance should know to pay his staff more if he valued their silence. She took her time going to his palazzo, careful not to seem eager. This was the chance she’d sought so long. Meet it with poise, and Cosimo would have the measure of them all in no time. Stumble, and she would see out her days in a crumbling castello, knowing it was her fault.
Maria practised her words, prepared speeches to convince Guicciardini. But she needed no words to win the favour of the leader of the Palleschi. Instead, he did all the talking. The city stood at a precipice. The death of Alessandro – not murder, Guicciardini wouldn’t call it that, not yet – had left an absence. The Duke’s bastardo boy could not fill that, and it was quite the understatement to say that Lorenzino had shown his unsuitability for the role.
She feigned a cough to hide her laughter, blaming some ailment. Guicciardini pressed on. Word of Alessandro’s fate was already across the city, and no doubt spreading throughout the Dominion too. There were those who would see Florence fall into the wrong hands, or into darkness. And there were others who held republican ambitions. None of that could be allowed, but preventing it required someone untainted by the intrigues of court and the politics of the past.
Finally, Guicciardini got to his question: did Maria believe that her son Cosimo might be the man Florence needed, and would she consent to him being proposed as its leader?
It took all of her restraint not to say yes before the question was even complete.
Aldo didn’t recognize it at first. They’d been riding all afternoon, eager to reach Scarperia before dusk. The last time on this road, he had come in the other direction, headed south. But that familiar clenching in the palle made him pause. The road ahead narrowed, passing between two steep stone slopes. Birdsong died away, the sounds of the horses’ hooves echoing around him and Strocchi.
This was the place. This was where Carafa and the bandits had tried to kill Levi. The attack had been what – seven, eight days ago? Levi survived only to be slain the next night. Was dying at home a comfort for the moneylender? Doubtful.
Dead was dead, whatever priests might say.
‘Are we stopping here?’ Strocchi asked.
The horses were uncertain, skittish. Was there a reason? There, the sound of another rider, coming from the north. Aldo reached for the stiletto in his boot. He wouldn’t be caught unawares this time. But when the rider came over the hill, Aldo was still surprised. ‘Cosimo?’
The widow Salviati’s son was alone, no guards or escort at his side. He slowed to a halt as he reached them. ‘Aldo, isn’t it? You rode with my father.’
‘This is Carlo Strocchi, a constable with the Otto. Strocchi, this is Cosimo de’ Medici, son of Signora Maria Salviati. His father was the condottiere Giovanni dalle Bande Nere.’
The young man nodded to Strocchi. ‘It’s not often we see two representatives of the Otto together out here in the Dominion.’
‘We’re riding to Scarperia,’ the constable replied, but said no more. Good, he was learning not to offer information needlessly. Cosimo leaned forward.
‘I’ve just come from Scarperia. The town is alive with rumours. Militia are being mobilized, with orders to ride to Florence. I’m bound for the city myself to see if everything being said is true. Some are claiming Duke Alessandro is dead.’
‘For once, the gossip is correct,’ Aldo replied. ‘The Duke died two nights ago, murdered by men who fled the city afterwards, but his body was not found until yesterday. We are pursuing those believed to have killed Alessandro.’
Cosimo sank back in his saddle, as if struck in the chest. ‘So it’s true. He is gone.’
Strange to see someone made sad by this killing. Aldo had witnessed shock and dismay, but most seemed to regard the death of Alessandro as a threat, or an opportunity. Nobody mourned the man. But here was Cosimo, not yet eighteen summers, grieving for Alessandro.
‘Forgive me asking,’ Aldo said, ‘but why were you in Scarperia? Trebbio is south of here, as is your family’s castello.’
‘I heard my c
ousin Lorenzino had been seen galloping into Scarperia, with two servants. Some claim he had one hand jammed in a bloodstained glove. He spent time with a doctor, before going on north, towards Bologna.’ Cosimo frowned. ‘I went to Scarperia to see if the rumours were true. Tell me, what can I expect to find in Florence?’
Aldo hesitated. Whatever he said now could lose or gain the trust of a young man who could soon be ruler of Florence.
Strocchi watched Aldo and Cosimo talking, the two men at ease despite their differences. Aldo having ridden with Cosimo’s father seemed important to the young Medici. Strocchi reminded himself that he was only a few summers older than Cosimo. But he could see how that young face might fool some into dismissing Cosimo.
‘The city faces a grave decision,’ Aldo said, ‘though most of its people do not know that yet. The Duke must be replaced soon, or those with their own interests will intervene. Whoever takes Alessandro’s place faces many challenges in the days and months ahead. To lead the city will require courage and a resolve that few possess.’
Cosimo listened, gripping the reins of his horse tight. ‘Do those who decide the city’s fate have someone in mind for that burden?’
Aldo glanced at Strocchi before answering. ‘A Medici is favoured by many.’
Strocchi felt the hairs on the back of his neck rising at Cosimo’s next words. ‘How should a Medici little-known in Florence enter the city, this of all days?’
‘Respectfully,’ Aldo said. ‘Some might perceive him as meek. There are men who will see the new leader’s youth as a sign of weakness. He will know better, but need not show that yet. He is patient – much like his father.’
Cosimo gave the slightest of nods, as if Aldo’s words confirmed his own thinking. ‘Come closer, and I will give you a message for Lorenzino, should you find him.’ The young man murmured into Aldo’s ear, the words too quiet for Strocchi to hear.
‘I understand,’ Aldo said. ‘May your journey lead you to what you seek.’
‘And the same for your journey north,’ Cosimo replied. He nodded to Strocchi before riding away. Once Cosimo’s horse was out of hearing, Strocchi moved alongside Aldo.
‘What did he say to you? What message did Cosimo have for Lorenzino?’
‘I’ll tell you if we find him,’ Aldo said. ‘Let’s get to Scarperia. I don’t want to be out on this road at night.’
Chapter Thirty-One
Tuesday, January 9th
Finding fresh horses in the village of Scarperia proved all but impossible. Strocchi and Aldo had arrived not long before dusk the previous night, riding between beech and chestnut trees, the scent of spruce thick in the air. In such a small settlement it didn’t take long to confirm much of what Cosimo de’ Medici had told them. But the militia preparing to ride south meant there were no fresh horses available, despite brandishing the Otto’s letter of authority and offering plenty of coin. Staying on the horses they had ridden north from Florence would mean travelling at a slower pace today.
Strocchi expected sharp words from Aldo at this, but he seemed untroubled. ‘You’ve worked with Cerchi too long.’ While their horses were being readied, the constable helped Aldo discover the doctor who had treated Lorenzo. Coin put in the right hands led them to Barbani, a keen-eyed man who licked his lips whenever payment was mentioned.
‘Yes, the Medici was here,’ Barbani admitted. ‘He claimed a wild dog savaged his hand. I did find a tooth lodged in the wound – but it was a human tooth.’ Looking past the grasping healer, Strocchi noted a rich, colourful rug taking pride of place among Barbani’s tired furniture, the floor around it freshly swept.
‘We heard they went west from here,’ Aldo said. Strocchi kept his silence at the lie.
‘You heard wrong,’ Barbani replied. ‘Lorenzino was in pain, snapping at both his men. The younger one went to fetch supplies for a long ride.’ The healer hesitated, licking his lips. Aldo obliged him with a coin. ‘They were bound for Bologna.’
More coin was offered, but withdrawn again before Barbani could snatch it away. ‘Bologna’s a big place,’ Aldo said, ‘and it doesn’t welcome many Medici these days. Who did Lorenzino think would give him sanctuary there?’
Barbani’s tongue wet his lips once more, reminding Strocchi of tiny lizards that emerged on hot summer days back in his home village. ‘Strozzi – Filippo Strozzi.’ Barbani grabbed the coin, grinning at his reward. Aldo asked more questions but the doctor had nothing further to add. Strocchi was grateful he’d never have to visit Barbani for treatment.
‘Did you see that rug?’ Strocchi asked, following Aldo away. The sound of iron being tempered rang out in the air, and smoke billowed from artisans’ chimneys. Scarperia was well known for the quality of its blades and knives. ‘Barbani was well paid for his services.’
‘Probably for his silence too.’
‘We’ve no way of knowing for certain that Lorenzino and his men are riding towards Bologna. He might have bribed Barbani to lie if anyone came asking questions.’
‘I’m not convinced Lorenzino was thinking that far ahead. Besides, it makes sense for him to go to Bologna. There are plenty of Florentine exiles living there, driven out by the current Medici and past generations of the family. Strozzi in particular is known for giving shelter to the banished. Lorenzino can expect a warm welcome for killing Alessandro.’
Strocchi noticed Aldo was moving well this morning, and his mood was lighter too. Perhaps it had something to do with the powders he was taking. Whatever the reason, the result was welcome when they had a long ride ahead of them.
Maria had feared it would be a struggle to keep Cosimo calm when they arrived at Palazzo della Signoria, but her own temper was close to fraying. Why were the Forty-Eight taking so long to confirm him as the next duke? What caused the raised voices she could hear from the senate chamber, even with the doors closed? The Forty-Eight were all men, of course. No woman had a voice in such matters. Indeed, it was possible she was the first woman ever to venture this close to the senate chamber. But wives and mothers still held sway in homes and bedchambers. The decision about who should lead the city had already been taken, or so Maria had heard. The Palleschi were of one mind that Cosimo be made ruler of Florence and its Dominion. Yet convincing the rest of the Senate was taking far too long.
Cosimo had arrived the previous afternoon, entering the city with a humility that made her proud. Not that she wanted her son to be humble – or, worse still, humbled. But his arrival showed how much he had learned: how to behave when all around you were watching, how to win favour from those whose approval would be important in the days to come. He looked a simple country boy who could easily be guided. Let them believe that. They didn’t know her son.
Cosimo stood at a tall window, watching the piazza below. In this light he looked so much like his father. Noticing him frown, Maria went to his side. ‘What is it?’
A crowd was gathered outside. Alessandro’s murder was no secret any more, and the citizens had come to see who would succeed him. But the long deliberations seemed to be trying everyone’s patience. Arguments and scuffles were spreading through the throng. Was it her imagination, or were militia moving among the crowd? Did they hope to force the Forty-Eight into a decision – or were they coming to stop it? Cosimo opened the window to hear what was being shouted.
‘Cosimo! Cosimo!’ Maria’s breath caught in her throat. ‘Cosimo, son of the great Giovanni, must become Duke of Florence!’ More voices joined in. The shouts became a chant, the crowd calling with one voice for her son. Maria could see those shouting loudest were militia, urging the others into chanting for her son. No doubt one of the Palleschi had arranged for that to happen, adding to the demands for Cosimo’s selection.
Pounding boots approached the antechamber, and Captain Vitelli of the Duke’s guard burst in. Stern-faced, with a breastplate worn over his dark clothes, he nodded to them before striding to the meeting room entrance. ‘Hurry,’ Vitelli shouted, throwing open the doors. ‘The
soldiers can’t be held any longer!’
Cosimo straightened, his chin rising to meet the challenge ahead. This was the moment when the boy became a man. All her sacrifices had not been in vain. She wanted to hold him close one last time, but he belonged to the city now – and the city belonged to him.
Rebecca was outside for the first time since Dante’s death. She felt ready to face the world, her week of sitting shiva complete. It was strange to stand on the narrow stones of via dei Giudei again. People brushed by on their way to the mercato or to visit family. All had a reason for their journey. What purpose did she have? No longer did Father need her to cook and clean for him, she was free of that. But no longer would he be putting food on the table, or fire in the hearth. She could not expect the charity of neighbours to last much longer. They had worries and cares of their own.
A young mother passed with two infant boys, holding their hands tight. She wasn’t much older than Rebecca, but already had a family. Not long ago Rebecca had believed that becoming a wife and mother was the only path ahead. Ruth’s offer of a new life in Bologna had shown there were other ways, other paths for the taking. An old head on young shoulders, that was how Father had always described Ruth. He’d been right about that, at least.
Rebecca looked up through the narrow gap between buildings to the sky. It felt good to be back outside, to rejoin the world. It felt even better to have made her choice. Yes, it would disappoint, perhaps even shock others. But the decision was for her to make alone.
She breathed in. The air was cold and fresh, especially after so long indoors, so long with nothing but grief and guilt and tears. Rebecca strolled away from her front door, away from the house of her parents, heading north towards the Arno. That house would be her home a while longer, until everything could be arranged. But she would not be spending the rest of her days there, as they had. There was another path ahead of her.
