by Paul Doherty
As we approached one of the main gates, little Maria, looking pert as a pie on the small donkey Lord Roderigo had hired, described the city's recent history under the great ascetic and fiery monk Savonarola. He took over the government of the city after the expulsion of the de' Medici and tried to turn it into a saintly republic. He organized processions: five thousand girls and boys clad in white, wearing crowns of olive leaves and carrying branches and following a tabernacle on which was painted Our Lord riding into Jerusalem. All amusements were banned. The banks were emptied, the money handed over for good works. Women gave up their finery, smashed their cosmetic jars and walked through the streets reading the service of the Mass. Taverns closed at six o'clock. On saints' days shops were shut and whores were banned. Blasphemers had their tongues pierced, fornicators and sodomites went to the stake. 'I wouldn't have survived there long!' I interrupted.
Maria just grinned. She described Savonarola's police -children aged between ten and eleven, who carried crucifixes and stormed private houses confiscating harps and flutes, boxes of perfumes and books of secular poetry.
'Then,' Maria continued chirpily, 'Alexander VI excommunicated Savonarola. His monastery at San Marco was stormed, Savonarola and two companions were condemned and hanged, their bodies burnt as black as rats in the public square.' Maria shook her head. 'Then Florence swung to the other extreme. Worn-out horses were released in the. cathedral, filth burnt in place of incense, horse-dung heaped into pulpits, ink poured into holy-water stoups and the Crown of the Virgin put on the head of a courtesan.' Maria smiled up at me, innocent as an angel; never once had she even acknowledged the conversation in the boxwood garden at Eltham. 'So, this is Florence; be careful, Master Shallot, be most prudent how you go!'
Of course I ignored her. I found Florence fascinating. We entered the city, crossed the Rubaconte bridge and walked along the streets, which are fairly wide and nearly all paved with flag-stones. On each side is a footpath supplied with a gutter to carry rainwater down to the Arno. The streets are dry and clear of mud and slime in winter, though in summer, as on the day we entered, the paving stones catch the heat and turn the city into a cauldron. We passed Brunelleschi's cathedral with its classical dome and continued across the city.
The din and the clack of tongues was incredible as people of various professions plied their trade – whores resplendent in yellow robes, greengrocers with their moveable booths, butchers behind their open stalls. On each angle of the crowded piazzas or squares stood a church. Barbers shaved people in the open and the din was worse than in London. We went down the Mercato Nuovo where, under the awnings of their shops and booths, the dealers in silk and other textiles plied their trade. Beside them, grave-faced money-changers sat at their desks.
Florence has many open squares and spaces and it seems that the Florentines, certainly in summer, live life in the open. Maria explained that in the early afternoon they Have a siesta and everyone, except the poor, takes refuge on the first floor in a cool room with glass windows and curtains to hide them from the heat. The houses are very spacious, even those of the burgesses. I glimpsed terraces, courtyards, stables, passages, antechambers, fountains and wells which provide fresh water. One thing I did notice is how the Florentines love a good story. On the Piazza San Marco, a crowd of couriers, tanners, porters, donkeymen, dyers, second-hand clothes dealers, armourers and blacksmiths gathered round a little platform on which a fable-singer was recounting a story. So avid is the audience, Maria explained, that the chanteur never finishes his story in one day. He makes a collection in his cap and tells the people to return at the same hour the following day. I was astonished – in London the poor bugger would have been pelted with horse-dung and held hostage until he told the story from beginning to end.
We passed the great palace of the Medici. Great banners hung from the open windows, carrying the balle or 'balls' of the Medicia insignia. More prosperous citizens thronged here. 'Look at how they dress, Roger,' Benjamin murmured.
And I did, particularly the women, who wore dresses so low-cut some of them displayed their bodices to well below the armpits. Others sported helmet-shaped headgear decorated with necklaces, bells and trinkets; the sleeves of these dresses were so puffed out they looked more like sacks. The younger women wore skirts of red and blue satin, gold embroidery, silver buttons and blouses of precious tissue; their hair was arranged in a flat bun behind with ringlets down the side of their faces and a cluster of pearls hanging about their necks. The colours of their clothing were breath-taking: crimson, green, red and scarlet, embroidered and painted with all sorts of singular devices – parrots, birds, white and red roses, dragons and pagodas.
The peasants and artisans wore grey or brown robes, but the wealthier citizens and burgesses wore a long gown over a shirt and hose. The dandies, however, were the real butterflies. They wore waist-length capes of various hues edged with broad bands of velvet; satin jackets, velvet caps and shoes, gold chains round their necks whilst the hilts of their daggers were ornamented with gold or silver. Their movements and gestures were exquisite – a host of butterflies fluttering and shimmering under the sun.
At last we crossed the city and left the Gate of Suffering where criminals were executed. We continued through the countryside, turning off down a white, dusty track where the great Albrizzi villa stood behind its own wine groves and gardens. The villa was three storeys' high, built around an enclosed piazza with a fountain in the middle and a porticoed colonnade on either side. As we entered, Maria explained how the Albrizzis had a town house but, like other nobles, much preferred the fresh air and clean water of the countryside. Retainers came to take our horses and, for the first time since we arrived in Italy, Lord Roderigo deigned to talk to us.
'Well, signors.' He stood before us, slapping his gloves against his thigh. 'What do you think of Florence?'
'Bellissima,' Benjamin replied. 'I have heard of its greatness but never imagined it could be so beautiful.'
Roderigo's eyes became sad. He gazed around as the yard thronged with more servitors, who had hurried down to unload the sumpter ponies and greet their masters.
'Years ago,' he said, 'it was even more beautiful.' He sighed. 'But enough of that, you must be tired after your journey.'
He stood aside and a smiling servant took us up into the main building by outside stairs. We went down a gallery whose floor was of polished cedar, and into a spacious chamber. The ceiling was timbered, the walls alabaster white and so smooth that they seemed carved out of marble. Half-moon windows filled with glass were pushed slightly open and a soft breeze wafted in the fragrance from the flowers below. Our beds were beneath a large window, a table on either side. At the foot of each bed stood a large, steel-bound coffer. There were cupboards in the corners and a lavarium was fixed to the wall, a wooden stand bearing a large earthenware bowl, jugs of fresh water, clean napkins and the most fragrant tablets of soap. No rushes lay on the floor, these were polished wooden planks, covered with woollen carpets in the Persian fashion depicting marvellous coloured squares and strange devices. I sat on the edge of my bed and admired the small painting on the far wall depicting, in brilliant colours, the triumph of Judith in the Old Testament. Beneath the lavarium, in a wooden bucket of ice-cold water, was a large jug of white Frascati wine and two cups floating there to keep cool. Beside it, a carafe of Trebbia, the favourite Florentine white wine. On a polished table beside the wine-tub stood bowls of fresh fruit.
Benjamin gazed round and shook his head in wonderment. -'If Henry of England could see this,' he murmured, 'his heart would shrink with envy.'
'If Henry of England saw us in such luxury,' I snapped crossly, 'he'd summon us home tomorrow! Master, we have to be careful. Remember the attacks at Eltham and the murder of poor Matteo on board ship.' I lay back on the bed carefully, making sure nothing was hidden there. 'You'd almost think,' I continued sourly, 'someone has declared a secret blood feud with the Albrizzis. Who will be next, eh?' I felt tired and hot.
I pulled myself up and stared at Benjamin, who was now stripping, ready to wash the dust of the journey from his hands and face. 'Master,' I hissed, 'how can we solve in Florence one murder that took place in London and another that happened on board ship?'
Benjamin finished drying his hands and face and came over. He sat on the edge of the bed and patted me on the shoulder.
'Roger, we have three tasks. To deliver uncle's message to Cardinal Giulio, bribe the painter to return with us to England and, if possible, discover the assassin of the Lord Francesco.' 'Easier said than done,' I murmured.
I got to my feet and walked over the window. I stared down at the garden that stretched out from the back of the villa. It was an Eden in itself, with its porticoed walls, pleasances and small, flower-covered arbours. I was about to turn back when a flash of colour caught my eyes. It came from one of the arbours, down near a vine-covered wall – a perfect place to hide, concealed from all eyes except mine, because of the angle of my view from the window. Again I saw the flash of colour. Then two people moved in the arbour and came into my vision. I gazed in astonishment. Giovanni the condottiero, his back to me, seemed to be moving jerkily. I glimpsed his hand on a soft, brown velvet breast, saw a flash of bright hair and realized what was happening. Giovanni was making violent, passionate love to the Lady Beatrice. I didn't know what to do! To call my master over would turn us into Peeping Toms. I also felt a thrill of fear as well as excitement. Giovanni was, as Iago almost said to Othello, 'tupping someone else's white ewe'. If anyone came into the garden and caught them, the love tryst would end in murder. I turned away, admiring the lovers' cunning. Everyone else would be too busy in their chambers, recovering from the rigours of the journey, to even think of going out into the garden.
I undressed, washed and climbed into bed. I stared up at the rafters, wondering what would happen next, and quietly cursed both Henry and Wolsey. Benjamin poured a goblet of wine. He brought across a cup. I drank it gingerly before drifting into the most restful sleep.
When my master shook me awake hours later, darkness was beginning to fall. The room was cooler and thick with the fragrance of the roses from the garden below.
'Roger,' my master whispered. 'We must go down. Lord Roderigo has prepared a banquet.' He smiled at me. 'It's not in our honour but his guest, the Cardinal Prince Giulio de Medici, will now be arriving.'
We dressed carefully. A servant came to take us down to the garden where, on a raised patio which gave a good view of the whole garden, a large table had been prepared under a silk-fringed canopy. For a while we just stood on the lawn. Benjamin and I felt awkward. The rest of the household, except for Maria, ignored us, and she kept up an inane chatter as if to prove to us, and everyone else, that all we had in common was our Englishness. Suddenly a chamberlain came out of the door of the house and tapped his silver-edged wand on the pavement.
'The Lord Roderigo,' he announced, 'and His Eminence, Cardinal Giulio, Prince of the Church and Master of Florence!'
A few other dozen titles were added. Benjamin and I, like the rest, bowed as the bastard offspring of the great de' Medici swept into the garden, resplendent in purple robes edged with gold silk.
Giulio was a tall, striking man, swarthy-faced and hollow-eyed; he looked dangerous and haughty. Were it not for the petulant cast of his lips he would have been very good-looking. He came into the candle-lit garden, fingering his gold pectoral cross and sketching the most cursory benediction in the air. Two strange creatures trailed behind him. One was a blackamoor. He wore a turban round his head and one gold earring. His fingers never strayed far from the hilt of the scimitar pushed into his belt. This was the cardinal's bodyguard. The other, small, smiling, bald-pated and cherubic, was dressed like a monk in a black robe edged with lambswool. The cardinal and his party were immediately greeted by the Lord Roderigo and pleasantries were exchanged, though they were cool and distant. 'There's no love lost between those two,' I whispered.
'What do you expect?' Benjamin asked. 'Roderigo is for the restoration of the Republic while the cardinal is a Medici amongst Medicis!'
The cardinal greeted the rest of the household; momentarily his sombre eyes shifted to study Benjamin and myself. A chamberlain blew on a silver horn as a sign for the meal to begin, and we moved up on to the great dais. Now it wasn't like in England, where we'd sit around stuffing our faces until we could hardly move. With the Italians you choose from an array of dishes laid out on the table, carry your meal on a silver platter, and sit and eat it wherever you wish. After years of eating beside people who have the manners of drunken pigs – bishops who pick their noses, clean their teeth and offer you fruit after they have taken a bite out of it and nobles who don't know one end of a knife from another and who hawk, spit and lick their fingers -1 strongly recommend this arrangement.
Benjamin and I took our places in the line, choosing from boiled and roast meat, dishes of fresh vegetables, wafer marzipan, sugared almonds, pine seeds and pots of sweetmeats. Naturally, we scuttled away to sit by ourselves on a small garden seat. Everyone else ignored us. We watched the cardinal intently.
'He claimed he was just passing,' a merry voice piped up behind us. 'Oh, don't turn round!' The lady of the boxwood had returned.
'Must you always hide in bushes?' I snarled. 'For God's sake, come out!' 'Sod off, Crosspatch!'
'Roger is right,' Benjamin said quietly. 'Too much subterfuge, and suspicions will be aroused.'
We heard a scuffling in the bushes. I thought the little minx had fled but she suddenly appeared before us, dipping her fingers into my bowl of fruit. She stood in her purple, gold-fringed little dress staring up at us, her head cocked to one side like a merry sparrow.
'The cardinal claims he was just passing,' she repeated. 'For in Florence you only call in on your friends.' 'So, Lord Roderigo is the cardinal's enemy?' I asked. Maria bubbled with laughter and licked her fingers. 'Watch him, Crosspatch.'
I stared across the lighted garden and noticed how the cardinal refused to eat or drink anything until the blackamoor had tasted it.
'Well,' Maria jibed. 'What do you think, Crosspatch?' Her grin widened. 'Dinner parties in Florence are very dangerous occasions.'
'Who is the Lord Giulio?' I asked. 'I mean, what are his origins?'
Maria paused to clear her mouth. 'He's the bastard son of Lorenzo the Magnificent's brother. One day Lorenzo and his brother were attending Mass in the cathedral when assassins struck. Lorenzo escaped with a neck wound, but his brother was killed. Lorenzo later discovered that his dead brother had sired a bastard child.' Maria's voice fell to a whisper. That bastard child is now a Cardinal Prince of the Church and ruler of Florence. He trusts no one! Not a crumb, not a drop of wine passes his lips which has not been tasted by others.' 'And who's the monk with him?' Benjamin asked. Maria popped a sugared almond into her mouth. 'If I told you that,' she muttered, 'they'd know I'd been talking to you about more than the weather or the customs of Florence.'
And, spinning on her heel, the Lady of the Boxwood trotted away.
Benjamin and I shrank deeper into our flowered portico. Maria's words had slightly upset my digestion.
'You think it's safe, Master?' I murmured, pointing to the food.
'Oh, yes,' Benjamin replied. 'Why do you think we eat like this, Roger?' His face creased into a smile. 'No one knows which piece of meat you are going to pick up and you watch as they pour the wine.'
Benjamin paused as musicians at the far corner of the garden, hidden by a privet hedge, struck up a lilting romantic tune which tugged at the heart-strings and provoked whispering dreams.
'Paradise,' Benjamin whispered. 'Yet there are more demons here than angels. What do we have so far, eh, Roger? A man shot in a London street. Another killed on board ship and sent into a watery grave by an assassin who resents our interference.' He swilled the wine round in his cup and stared around at the brilliantly dressed members of the household. 'They all have cause for murder. It's time we closed with th
em. If the Lord Roderigo wants the truth, then we will have to stand on people's toes.'
I was about to reply when the cardinal suddenly broke off chatting to the Lady Bianca. He placed his wine cup on a small garden table and swept across to meet us. His two strange companions flitted, shadow-like, behind him. Benjamin and I shoved our plates aside. 'Kneel!' my master hissed. We did so. I smelt fragrant perfume and saw the fringe of a purple robe above the cream, gold-edged boots of the cardinal. 'No, no, rise.' The voice was soft, the English perfect. Benjamin and I clambered to our feet.
The cardinal extended one long, cool hand. First my master, then I, kissed his ring. Close to, the cardinal looked more friendly, less haughty.
'Signors, welcome to Florence.' He studied Benjamin carefully. 'You are the Lord Cardinal Wolsey's nephew. I see the likeness.'
(I never did but, there again, I tried not to see Wolsey in anything, unless I had to!)
He asked questions about our journey and drew closer, still smiling.
'Do not change the expressions on your faces,' he whispered. He glanced sideways at me. 'Keep that ingratiating smile upon you. We are in the presence of assassins. The Lord Francesco was my friend. I regret that I cannot bestow such a title on the Lord Roderigo, his brother. Have you any idea who murdered him?'
I was mesmerized by that smile, and by the soft words pouring out of those sensuous lips. 'Just yes or no,' he added. 'No, your Grace,' Benjamin replied. The cardinal breathed in deeply. 'Any suspicions?' 'Everyone in this garden has a motive, Your Grace.'
'Be careful!' the cardinal murmured. 'As I leave you, I'll extend my hand and you will kiss it. Take the medallion concealed there. If you ever need my services, just show it, that will be enough.' He stepped back. 'And what message have you from my brother of England?' 'England will say yes,' Benjamin murmured, 'if, when England asks, Rome says yes.' The cardinal's smile widened. 'Then our answer is yes,' he said enigmatically and, raising his hand, allowed Benjamin to kiss it.
