by D. V. Bishop
Rebecca smiled. She was at peace.
Men came and went, but Maria still waited for Cosimo to emerge. His name had been acclaimed behind the doors, the voices of the Forty-Eight echoing into the antechamber, so she had no fear for him. But she wanted to share this moment with Cosimo – she was his mother, after all.
The arrival of Francesco Campana did put a flutter of fear in her heart. She knew the ducal adviser by sight, despite his face being rather forgettable. He was someone of quiet importance, someone who had had the ear of Alessandro. That duke was dead, but men like Campana endured. It was the city’s way, administrators serving one leader and then the next. How else could commerce continue? Rulers rose and fell, but Florence endured.
Campana had nodded on his way into the chamber, acknowledging her presence. No doubt he was now whispering in her son’s ear, advising Cosimo on what to say and whom to trust. How long before she was left in the shadows? The wife of a ruler had influence and importance – his mother far less.
The doors opened and Maria watched Campana usher her son from the chamber. Cosimo saw her and smiled. Bless him. He took both her hands, leaning close to kiss a cheek. ‘Smile,’ he whispered in her ear. ‘Don’t let them see anything but joy in your face.’
‘Of course.’
‘They refused to name me duke,’ he said, venom cloaked in his voice. ‘The Forty-Eight elected me as leader of Florence and the Dominion, if recognized by the Emperor. But I must leave a Florentine in charge whenever I leave the city. And I’m to be paid only twelve thousand scudi a year – Alessandro got half as much again.’
Maria pulled him closer, beaming over Cosimo’s shoulder at Campana and the Palleschi. ‘These fools think they can shackle you,’ she whispered. ‘They believe you’re a child without the palle to challenge them. These men do not know you, Cosimo. You will outlive them – but first you will outwit them. You shall serve this city well, and make you father proud.’
Cosimo’s embrace tightened. When he let go, he was smiling. ‘I shall not forget this.’ He strode from the antechamber, Campana and the Palleschi in step behind him.
Maria turned to the window, smiling to herself. Her son never forgot a slight, however small. To belittle him at the start of his rule was foolishness. But for her, it was a boon. By treating Cosimo this way, the Forty-Eight had bound him to her a while longer. He would be duke, perhaps even grand duke one day – and she would remain safe in his shadow.
The journey north was arduous, made worse by having to ride the same tired horses all the way. It was late in the afternoon when Aldo and Strocchi finally approached the walled city of Bologna. For Aldo, Bologna lacked the majesty of Florence or the simple village beauty of a settlement like Scarperia. Yes, it had the impressive Due Torri, twin towers that loomed over the city, but they were brutish fingers of stone stabbing at the sky – nothing to match the wonder that was the Duomo. Strocchi admitted he had never been to Bologna as they dismounted and led their horses through the southern gate. ‘Should I be worried?’
It was a good question. The more Strocchi knew about what they were likely to face here, the more useful he could be. The constable certainly needed to know what not to do while they were in the city, if nothing else.
‘Bologna is a papal state,’ Aldo said, keeping his voice to a murmur to avoid being overheard as they went to the nearest stable. ‘That means our letter of authorization holds little meaning here. If we get in trouble, nobody is coming to save us. Word of Alessandro’s death may well have reached here already, and many Florentine exiles will rejoice in that.’
‘Celebrating a man’s murder is barbaric.’
‘Perhaps, but the Medici have driven many families out of Florence over the years, and more than a few lost all their wealth as a consequence. It’s no surprise that they long to see those who banished them from Florence fall. We can expect few welcomes here.’
After stabling the horses, Aldo led Strocchi on foot deeper into the city, trying to recall the way to Bologna’s Jewish commune. This far north it was much colder than in Florence, their breath forming a cloud in the air. One thing the city did have in its favour were the many porticos, the walkways beneath vaulted ceilings saving those on foot from have to traipse through so much mud and merda. Would that Florence had the same.
Aldo explained to Strocchi how Bologna had long been a seat of learning. Becoming a papal state had naturally increased the influence of the Church over the city. ‘You say that like it’s a bad thing,’ the constable muttered.
Aldo pointed to the many churches being restored and the new ones being built as they pressed on, early to reach their goal before curfew. ‘Does even God require this many places built to worship him? Could not that coin be spent on helping those in need of alms?’ The constable grumbled under his breath, and Aldo chided himself for breaking his own rule: never argue with men of true faith, as changing their minds was almost always a lost cause.
Aldo led Strocchi to the home of Rebecca Levi’s uncle and cousin, tucked away in a minor street of the Jewish commune. Aldo banged a fist on the door. There was no reply at first, but shuffling feet could be heard approaching from inside. ‘Who is it?’ an uncertain, frail voice asked. That must be the father.
‘I was here with Samuele, the last time he came to Bologna.’
The feet shuffled closer. ‘If that’s true, what did my brother take with him?’
‘He carried away no coin. But Samuele did leave a letter with you in case he died.’ Strocchi opened his mouth to speak, but Aldo silenced him. ‘It was Samuele’s zava’ah.’
Bolts were undone and the door swung open, revealing an old man with a silver beard and milky eyes. He squinted at Strocchi and shook his head, but nodded after staring at Aldo. ‘You I remember. You were meant to guard Samuele, keep him alive.’
‘I did, all the way to Florence. Your brother was murdered in his own home, after he left my protection.’ Aldo introduced the constable. ‘Strocchi, this is Shimon Levi.’
‘Father, who is it?’ Ruth appeared behind Shimon, wiping her hands on a cloth. She paled at seeing Aldo. ‘Has something happened to Rebecca?’
‘No, she’s safe. Your cousin gave me this note for you.’ Aldo handed over the Hebrew message, which Ruth read.
‘She asks us to give whatever help we can. She says we can trust you.’ Ruth studied them. ‘You must be tired, if you rode here from Florence.’ She put a hand on her father’s shoulder, moving him aside. ‘Please, come in.’
Ruth was only a summer or three older than Rebecca, but seemed far more mature. She gave them simple food and wine while Aldo explained their task. Ruth offered directions to Strozzi’s palazzo, describing landmarks that would help them find the way through the city. She also offered a room for the night, which Aldo accepted. Word of two Florentine law enforcers staying the night in a tavern would soon reach the ears of curious exiles.
After eating, Aldo took Strocchi aside. ‘We need to be sure Lorenzino is still here. We don’t want him slipping away again. That means finding a way inside Strozzi’s palazzo.’
‘We won’t see much if we go now, it’ll be dark soon.’
‘Exactly. Strozzi won’t invite us in during the day. This is our best chance of getting to Lorenzino.’ Aldo adjusted the stiletto in his boot. ‘Then I can deliver Cosimo’s message.’
The afternoon had been spent in meeting after meeting, Campana introducing Cosimo to the worthy men of Florence, all the while whispering in his ear. Maria followed, dutifully staying two steps back. Enough distance to be respectful, but close enough to hear whatever was said. Her back and feet ached, but she refused to sit or rest. Not while she might be needed.
It was almost dusk when it came time to enter Palazzo Medici. They’d been to the ducal residence before, but now Cosimo was arriving as head and leader of the city. Maria knew that title was vexing him; she recognized the anger lurking behind his gaze. But her son was also wise enough to mask his anger. She had readied
Cosimo for this moment should it ever come, more in faith than expectation. Years spent under the tutelage of Pier Francesco Riccio, visits to Bologna and Venice to train Cosimo in the ways of diplomacy. He might be nervous, even fearful inside, but her boy knew better than to let that show.
Cosimo stopped at the threshold of Palazzo Medici, Campana going ahead of him. Maria went to her son’s side, keeping her voice hushed. ‘What is it?’
‘Alessandro’s dead, but what of his wife?’ Cosimo asked. ‘Will she be inside?’
Maria hesitated. In the tumult of the last few days, she had all but forgotten young Margaret. The Duke’s wife – widow, now – was only fourteen, but Margaret was also the illegitimate daughter of the Holy Roman Emperor. What happened to her could have profound importance for the city and Cosimo’s future as its leader.
‘She was residing at the home of my late sister Francesca, with your uncle Ottaviano. I’m sure Campana will have made suitable arrangements for the widow,’ Maria said. She left that to fester. If the adviser had failed to do so, it showed his reputation was unwarranted. If Campana had done so, it showed he was capable at his job – but no more. Maria slipped her hand through the crook of Cosimo’s arm and they went inside.
Campana was arguing with a courtier in terse whispers. Something was amiss. He sent the courtier away before facing Cosimo. ‘Forgive me, but it seems that there has been a disturbance within the palazzo while you were occupied elsewhere.’
‘What do you mean – disturbance?’ Cosimo asked.
‘Soldiers entered the palazzo and took whatever they could carry – coin, jewels, silver plate and other valuables. I will need to undertake a full inventory to know what has been removed, but it seems the loss was . . . considerable.’
Maria saw Cosimo’s fists clenching tight. ‘Who? Who did this?’ he demanded.
Campana stared at the marble floor. ‘There seems to be some confusion about that. Some of the servants are suggesting it was Vitelli, and his men.’
The captain of the ducal guard had led the ransacking of the Duke’s home? If true, it was outrageous – Vitelli spitting in the face of the city’s new leader. Yet Cosimo showed a restraint Maria had not always witnessed before.
‘Where is the late Duke’s widow?’ Cosimo asked.
Campana hesitated. ‘Captain Vitelli has taken her to Fortezza da Basso. He suggested her life might be in danger, following the murder of Alessandro.’
Clever. Any attempt to strike back against Vitelli would never breach the fortress walls. Besides, no one was foolish enough to attack those guarding the Emperor’s daughter. To do so would be an act of war, a war Florence would surely lose.
Cosimo took a deep breath before nodding. ‘Send a message to Vitelli. Commend him on this bold action. The Emperor will be grateful to know his daughter’s well-being rests in the hands of such a skilled soldier.’
Maria permitted herself a smile. Vitelli had won this battle. But Cosimo’s words made it plain that if anything happened to Margaret, it was the captain who faced the Emperor’s wrath – not Cosimo, not the city. Campana nodded. He too saw the strategia behind the bland words. Good. The sooner all Florence knew her son was no foolish boy, the better.
Strocchi was relieved when they discovered Strozzi’s palazzo was vacant. A few servants remained in residence, but the exiled banker was not there – and neither was Lorenzino. The constable’s conscience had been uneasy since he and Aldo had met with Cosimo north of Florence. Aldo still refused to reveal the message he had promised to give Lorenzino, but Strocchi feared the sharp end of a stiletto was involved. The constable could not – and, given the choice, would not – be a complice to murder.
For a handful of coin one of Strozzi’s servants confirmed Lorenzino had come to the palazzo on Sunday afternoon. Having been told Strozzi was in Venice, Lorenzino sought directions to another address. That set Aldo and Strocchi on a trek around Bologna, trying to find where Lorenzino had spent Sunday night. Eventually they found Francesco Dall’Armi, a tall exile with a weak chin and weaker will, who admitted giving the fugitive and his men shelter. By then pain was twisting Aldo’s face and his patience seemed spent. He shoved his way inside, demanding answers. Dall’Armi described the Duke’s cousin as desperate, a man near afraid of his own shadow. But wine had soon set Lorenzino bragging about what he’d done.
‘And what was that?’ Aldo asked.
‘Lorenzino claimed he had murdered the Duke of Florence.’ Dall’Armi shook his head. ‘I didn’t believe him at first, but the way he described it was quite compelling. He even showed me the wound on his hand where Alessandro bit him to the bone.’
‘Did Lorenzino say why he murdered the Duke?’ Strocchi got a glare from Aldo for interrupting, but it was still a question worth asking.
Dall’Armi frowned. ‘Lorenzino called his cousin a tyrant, a despot who used the city for pleasure when it had once been a great republic. Lorenzino seemed to believe the people would rise up and reclaim Florence, all while giving thanks to him. I thought his words were fanciful, but . . .’
‘Where did Lorenzino and his men go after staying here?’ Aldo demanded. ‘Where are they now?’
‘Venice,’ Dall’Armi replied. ‘Filippo Strozzi has his other palazzo there. Lorenzino and his men left early the next morning, riding hard. They’ll easily be there by now.’
Aldo marched from the exile’s home, muttering curses under his breath. Strocchi hurried after him. Dusk was falling on Bologna and the constable wasn’t sure he could find the Jewish commune again on his own. ‘Where are we going now? Venice?’
‘Not tonight.’ Aldo stomped onwards, favouring his left knee. ‘I need sleep.’
‘But we’re leaving for Venice at dawn?’
‘Stop asking fool questions if you still want to have all your teeth in the morning!’
Strocchi hesitated. Whatever he did or said seemed to infuriate Aldo, but he needed to know. ‘I’ve been patient as long as I can, but I want to know what you plan to do next.’
‘Don’t you understand?’ Aldo hissed at him. ‘It’s over.’
‘What is?’
‘This, this fool’s errand! If we go to Venice, the odds on us finding Lorenzino are much the same as for us getting killed. Our coin will buy us no favours there, and certainly no friends. Even if we did find Lorenzino, he’ll be the hero of every exile in that city by now. Protected by Strozzi and all his allies, safe from harm. Safe from us.’
Strocchi swallowed hard. He’d never been on the wrong side of Aldo’s anger.
‘Don’t you understand? We’ve failed.’ Aldo stalked away from Strocchi. ‘It’s over.’
Chapter Thirty-Two
Wednesday, January 10th
Aldo woke early, his right shoulder throbbing. The powders had been numbing the worst of the pain, but only one dose remained. He didn’t want to use that until they turned for home. Bad as his shoulder felt, worse was the memory of bullying Strocchi. Pain was part of why he’d snapped, but frustration was most of it. To come so far and find Lorenzino was already in Venice – maddening. If Bindi and others had listened, Alessandro would still be alive.
Did it matter who led Florence? One ruler was little different from the next. No, it was the injustice of what had happened that rankled most. He could have died in Le Stinche because of Lorenzino’s stratagemma. Instead, he’d survived to be sent north on a wasted journey when every part of him wanted to be back in Florence, getting to know Orvieto. Was wounded pride part of his frustration too? Yes. To be right but not to be believed was like a burr beneath a saddle, scratching at the skin.
Aldo rolled over, expecting to see the constable asleep across the borrowed room. But Strocchi was gone, his mattress stripped bare. Palle. Strocchi hadn’t said a word when they got back to the Levi home. Aldo wouldn’t blame the constable if he’d chosen to leave for Florence already. Making the long ride together in bitter silence was not a welcome prospect.
Aldo rose, washing in haste
. Dressing took longer thanks to his shoulder, with plenty of cursing for company. He found Ruth in the kitchen, dropping herbs and stale crusts into a steaming pot of ribollita. Baking smells mingled with the broth’s warming aroma. She halved a lemon and squeezed its juice into the liquid. ‘Hungry?’ He nodded, stomach aching. It’d been too long since his last warm meal. She gestured for him to sit at the plain table.
‘Have you seen Strocchi?’
‘He left early.’ Ruth lifted a cloth from a fresh loaf of black bread, and put it on the table with a gleaming knife. ‘Cut that for me.’
Aldo did as he was told. ‘Did Strocchi say where he was going?’
‘No, but he left his satchel.’ She pointed at the bag hanging on the back door. That was something, at least. Ruth filled two bowls with broth, sprinkling salt on each. She handed one to Aldo and carried the second away with two slices of bread.
The ribollita was good, the tomato broth thickened with beans and offcuts of dried meat, brought to life by the herbs and seasonings. When Ruth returned, Aldo was using his bread to mop up the last few mouthfuls. ‘We should pay you,’ he said.
‘There’s no need,’ she insisted. ‘You brought Rebecca’s note, I’m grateful for that. But you can tell me how she is. I worry about her.’
Aldo hesitated. He had devoted so much time to investigating the conspiracy against Alessandro – all to no avail – that the consequences of Levi’s murder had been neglected. ‘I’m not sure,’ he admitted. ‘Joshua Forzoni was there when I’ve visited. They seem close.’
Ruth frowned. ‘If I give you a letter, would you deliver it to my cousin?’
‘Yes, if I can have more of that ribollita.’
He was finishing a second bowl when Strocchi returned, red-cheeked from the cold but with a gleam in his eyes. Ruth brought him food, before going back to her father. Aldo let Strocchi eat before asking where he’d been.
‘Thought if I found out where Strozzi lives in Venice, we could take the address back to Bindi. Then it’s up to the segretario to decide what should be done next.’
