by Alana White
The old yellow dog yelped in surprise and pain.
Evangelista, pouring wine at a table, gasped. Her pottery pitcher hit the floor and shattered. Red wine splashed her simple dress. The fellow holding his cup out to her hopped off his stool, swearing and wiping the front of a much-worn tunic not easily kept clean.
“Bastardo!” Neri raced after Castruccio. “You, Castruccio Senso!” Purple-faced with outrage, Neri stood in the stone doorway, shaking his fist and shouting after a wine seller now fleeing Ognissanti as fast as his spindly legs would carry him, Guid'Antonio would bet his house.
“I'll have your cock in a stew for kicking my dog, you son of a murdering Turk!” Neri bent down: “Biscotto, are you all right?”
The dog, mercifully unharmed, licked his hand.
“I'll coldcock Senso myself the next time I see him,” a hardeyed old man swore, a cobbler or slipper maker by trade, judging from the leather punch in his belt.
With all eyes on him now, Salvestro Aboati strolled to the counter, where he put down two coins and ordered wine all around from Evangelista, a request met with good-natured swearing and cheers. He rested his lean back against the bar, but did not partake of the wine himself. He smothered a yawn and handed Evangelista a coin from his scrip. “For your spoiled gown.” The girl stared, her eyes bright and questioning.
“Take it,” her father said, his expression grim.
Everyone watched Aboati's departure from the tavern; gently his fingers brushed Biscotto's pale yellow fur as he sauntered up the steps.
“Do you think Castruccio Senso is safe with that cutthroat shifting along behind him?” Amerigo said.
“Palla's with Castruccio, too,” Guid'Antonio said.
Together, he and Amerigo approached the counter. Neri was vexed, wringing out a wine-stained cloth vigorously, as if it were Castruccio Senso's neck. “Those two villains.” He leaned toward Guid'Antonio, offering him a whiff of the garlic on his breath. “That tall blade. A southern Italian, of course. From Naples, I'd wager my right arm. Though he's tight-lipped enough about his origins and his reason for lingering here in Florence.”
“Naples?” The domain of King Ferrante and Prince Alfonso, when Alfonso wasn't riding herd over Tuscany, down Siena way.
“Yes,” Neri said. “The fellow's foreign speech and rough manners give him away.”
Guid'Antonio wondered why a Neapolitan would have intimate dealings with Castruccio Senso. Surely, Castruccio wasn't selling wine to foreign families; not so far as Naples on Italy's southern tip, past Rome and on down. “Neri, when did Salvestro Aboati first show his face in the Red Lion?”
“A few days ago.”
“And took accommodations?”
“Yes. And spreads his coins around as few others do.”
“Has he stayed here before?” Guid'Antonio said.
“No, he's a stranger.”
“Did Castruccio visit him soon after he checked in?”
“Ahhh.” Neri lowered his voice. “The Vespuccis are investigating something involving those two.” He motioned towards the back room. “Come.”
To his patrons, the tavern owner shouted, “If any one of you so much as glances at my daughter, I'll torture you with red-hot pincers and set fire to your feet before hanging you!”
Like dutiful children, Guid'Antonio and Amerigo followed Neri into the storage room. Wooden casks lined the walls. Whole hams, prosciutti, dangled from the rafters alongside fat salame seasoned with black pepper and garlic. Neri bolted the door from the inside. “You know everything I know about Salvestro Aboati. As for Castruccio Senso, he's a Medici man, yes?”
Guid'Antonio made a dismissive sound down in his throat. “Only insofar as any other wine merchant who may occasionally broker wine for Lorenzo's family.”
Neri leaned over, thumping his chest with his fist. “I'm a true Medici man, like my father and his father before him. I'm proud to say it. For that reason, I tell you this, but don't say where you heard it: There's talk—hushed—that evildoers dispatched Castruccio Senso's wife and have been causing the Virgin Mary to weep, all to blacken Lorenzo's good name. To rid Florence of his supporters, men like you and me. Turks? Pah!”
“You mean evildoers here in the city.”
“Yes.”
“Are there many who believe as you do?”
Neri hiked his shoulders. “As I say, talk is hushed. No one takes any chances.”
Guid'Antonio nodded. If they were smart, they didn't. “Neri, what do you know about Camilla Rossi da Vinci?”
“Mama.” Neri kissed his fingertips. “Such a beauty. And married to that rabbit! If such a woman were mine, I never would let her out of my house, much less put her on the road alone.”
“She had traveling companions,” Amerigo said.
“A slave boy of twelve and a half-blind old woman. A crone in worse shape than my dog, Biscotto. And here's this: Castruccio, in his cups, brags he toasts Bacchus often because he first glimpsed Camilla Rossi while purchasing wine for resale at the Rossi farm in Vinci.”
“And?” Guid'Antonio said.
Neri blinked in wonderment at Guid'Antonio's lack of understanding. “And she brought with her a sizable dowry. If I wanted to know who killed her, I'd have a close look at Castruccio Senso's accounts. The money's now as free and clear to him as he is of her. And if it should happen he owes money to a thug like Aboati and can't repay it—” Neri made a slashing motion across his throat.
“Why,” said Amerigo, “would Castruccio Senso owe Salvestro Aboati money? How does he even know him?”
“That,” replied Neri, his palms touching as if in prayer, “is for you and your uncle to discover.”
“Neri,” Guid'Antonio said, and he was thinking perhaps he should have spoken with Neri sooner, “there's been no talk of the lady and a liaison of any sort?”
“A what?”
“An affair of the heart,” Amerigo said, twinkling.
“Ah. The husband, a cuckold?” Neri unlocked the door. “Evangelista!”
But no, Evangelista Saginetto had heard nothing of the kind. In fact, all the mothers of Florence offered Camilla Rossi da Vinci as an example of virtue: Camilla, that flawless beauty, with wisps of curly black hair caught up in a pearl and lace cap peeking from her hood as she made her way to church, was an obedient wife and devout Christian. “Messer Vespucci,” Evangelista said, “people say before she went missing, she spent every free moment on her knees in church.”
“And which church was that?”
“Yours, Messer Vespucci. Ognissanti.”
TWENTY-FOUR
Who is Brother Martin, and why did Brother Paolo shadow me under the cloak of darkness the first night I set foot back in our walled city? For I suspect strongly it was he. Brother Paolo's anxious manner today in Ognissanti indicated guilt about something concerning me, and although he said only one word to me in the alley—“No!”—after hearing his voice again, I believe I have my man. Why tail me and risk his neck? To whisper some information, surely. If so, has fearsome Abbot Roberto Ughi found him out? If so, there is no way in hell the trembling fellow will approach me again, particularly with Ferdinando tailing him.
Guid'Antonio ceased writing and inserted his pen in the inkwell on his desk, aware of night creeping steadily across the bedchamber. Near to hand, he found a lamp and oil; the wick flared and held. A pool of light illuminated his papers, nothing more. He smoothed the curling parchment, squinting. It was a wonder he wasn't blind as Plutus.
Who's angry and afraid? Camilla's Rossi da Vinci's husband, Castruccio Senso.
Why?
Who is Salvestro Aboati?
Who's lying?
Everyone again, again, and again.
He rubbed his face. Jesu, he was weary. A memory flashed in his mind: Palla Palmieri, a shadow this afternoon in the Red Lion, slipping in, and then quietly out again.
The studiolo door creaked and swung open. Guid'Antonio leapt up, almost knocking over his chair. His eyes
locked on the woman standing on the threshold. She stood before him in a dark brown mantle, hair spilling from her hood, silk ties loosely tied at her throat. He put down the dagger in his hand.
“Am I dreaming?” he asked. “How, when I'm not in bed? Do you mean to say after all this time—?”
“You will be in a moment, Guid'Antonio. In bed, I mean.”
Undoing the ties, she let her cloak drift slowly to the floor.
TWENTY-FIVE
This was Maria's scent, the soft touch of her flesh, her fingers caressing his face. He stroked her hair, the curve of her breasts, lying with her in a tangled sea of pillows and sweaty sheets. “Is your mother sleeping?”
“Praise God, she is. Was it wicked of me to leave her tonight? And to leave Giovanni, too, although a nurse and Olimpia are with him.”
“I'm sure they're fine, Maria.” He kissed her hair, her throat, and nuzzled her nipples with his lips.
Breathlessly, she laughed. “What have you been doing besides traveling to Morba? Have you learned anything concerning the girl?” She lowered her voice: “Did you see the Turks?”
He slid his hand between her legs, up high. “Nothing much. No sign of Turks or any others.”
She placed her hand on his and gave it a gentle push, quivering with delight. “I can't breathe.”
He moved his finger softly, rhythmically, back and forth, teasing her. “I've been checking our accounts.” He nibbled her ear. “And attending meetings at Palazzo della Signoria.”
She gasped with pleasure. “Mother Mary, you're stealing my breath.” In reply, he ran his tongue along her belly and down.
“Slower . . . ,” she said.
He was not certain how much longer he could wait. Two years was long enough. She drew a sharp breath, her laugh weak and pleased. “Oh!” she panted and slid her hands over his back, pulling him to her. He held on, his limbs consumed with heat. This fire, this was worth the wait.
He entered her with one hard, blazing thrust and she bucked then moved rhythmically with him, gazing at him through half-closed lids, her head tilted back. The candles on the bedside chest flared, oozing melting wax. Finally exhausted, they fell apart. “I wanted you,” he breathed.
“And I, you.” She touched his lips with her fingers and smiled, her eyes shrewd with satisfaction. “Has anyone ever mentioned you have a beautiful mouth?”
“Yes.” In the light of the sputtering candles, his eyes roamed her body, the rosy patches of color splotching her naked breasts. “You.”
She snuggled into the curve of his arm. “You never did tell me about France. I know the women adored you there.”
He gazed silently at her, stroking her glossy black hair, surprised she had returned to this topic. The pretty young widow Ameliane Vely had been half in love with him, he was almost sure. He would not let his thoughts linger on Francesca Vernacci. Not when he was in bed with his wife. Since coming home, he had had no excuse—no valid reason—to consult with Francesca in Spedale dei Vespucci.
He felt himself harden. So quickly, too. He pressed himself to his wife, his skin hot with desire. He said, “They adore Lorenzo more.”
“Lorenzo? He's never been there.”
“Where?”
“France!” She punched him playfully.
“They've heard about him, nevertheless. Everyone has. They admire him, too.”
Maria kissed the silver tangle of hair on Guid'Antonio's chest. “Have they heard his heart belongs to Lucrezia Donati?”
Lucrezia Donati again. “She is pretty,” he said, loosening his arms around Maria.
“I suppose. If you like willowy blondes without any coloring. Apparently, our Sandro covets her for his paintings, now Simonetta's in her tomb.”
“There's no need for you to be jealous, Maria.” Not anymore.
She gave him a little smile. “I'm not.”
“I am.”
“You know I would never betray you.”
“Nor I, you.”
There was silence in the room. Then: “I wish this could last forever.” She made a sweeping motion, indicating him, the quiet apartment. “Instead—” Her words, muffled against his chest, were inaudible to him.
He frowned, puzzled. “What's wrong,” he said, adding to himself, now.
“I'm afraid.”
“Of what?”
“Losing you.”
He stared at her, uncomprehending. “What in God's name do you mean, Maria?”
“Must you always answer every question with a question?” she flared. “I know you'll leave again. It's just a matter of when Lorenzo demands you go on some mission or other for him.”
Mama Mia. He said, “I've done my duty as an ambassador, Maria. Several times, as you have already pointed out. Now it's time for me to tend my house. Antonio can't handle the family business without my help, and Amerigo's help, too, particularly now their father is in San Felice and unable to lend a hand.” He brushed her hair from her face and kissed the skin at her temple. “I'll not be leaving Florence anymore.” Except, mayhap, for short trips, he reminded himself.
“What about Lorenzo?”
He sat up against the headboard. “What about him?” he said.
“You'll tend him. You have obligations to him. Made all the more serious because you're cohorts, and he depends on you.”
“As does our government,” Guid'Antonio said. “That's my—” He had started to say, “That's my life, Maria.” Instead: “That's my lot in this life, Maria. But I don't have to leave Florence to serve her. Not if it means leaving you again for any length of time. And Giovanni.”
One corner of his mind had already tripped down the street and across town to the Golden Lion district in the San Giovanni quarter of Florence. It was still very early morning. He meant to go to the Medici Palace today and speak with Lorenzo and Giuliano's mother, Lucrezia Tornabuoni. But would Lucrezia receive him? Once upon a time, the prospect of visiting Lucrezia would have filled him with immense joy; he liked Lucrezia and relished her company. She was kind and exceedingly intelligent. Over the years, they had become close acquaintances. Now the thought of facing her twisted in his gut like a sharp blade. Because of him Lucrezia Tornabuoni de' Medici had lost Giuliano, her beautiful young son.
“What is it?” Maria said, her face watchful as she sat up beside him in the bed.
“Nothing. Maria, did you ever notice Camilla Rossi at Mass in Ognissanti?”
If Maria considered the question an odd one to ask at this particular moment, she hid it well. “She seemed a sweet girl. But sad.”
“Sad? How?”
“Her movements were melancholy, and she looked around frequently, as if she had lost something.”
“What, I wonder?”
Maria smiled. “Why is a girl, or woman, ever sad or watchful, Guid'Antonio, if not because of an inconstant lover? But, of course, Camilla was married.”
Of course, yes, with no hint of wantonness about her, according to those he had asked about her character—Lorenzo, Evangelista—she was a proper, even timid, girl.
“I have something for you,” he said. A necklace of pearls painstakingly chosen from Paris's finest jeweler, a man Ameliane Vely had recommended highly. Beautiful in their simplicity, their color a delicate peach blush, the pearls would glow against Maria's luminous skin.
He retrieved the pearls from the casket locked in the drawer beneath the bed and presented the packet to her, smiling as she gasped with pleasure, plucking the necklace from its black velvet wrapping. “Guid'Antonio, they're beautiful!” She twisted up her hair, and he clasped the pearls around her throat, symbols of purity, according to the Romans, the Greeks, and Ameliane Vely, who had helped Guid'Antonio choose them.
He kissed the tender flesh at the back of Maria's neck, and she laughed, shivering, fingering the costly beads. “They feel cold against my skin.”
He drew back.
“Oh, no, they're lovely!” she said. “We need more light to see them properly.”
She rose, naked, sweeping aside the damp, tangled sheets with one hand, and replaced the spent tallow candles beside the bed with a single tall one of creamy beeswax. Suspended like precious jewels in the wax were cloves for affection, leaves of jasmine for the sweet perfume of happiness, and lemon verbena, meaning, You have bewitched me. The sizable candle burned with flames of pure light, suggesting the unquenchable, the utterly enchanting. Swarms of bees had traveled long distances collecting nectar from clover and other wildflowers to produce not only honey, but also the honeycombs that had yielded this single candle of costly beeswax.
“There's a dear candle,” Guid'Antonio said, smiling. “Where did you get it?”
“Lorenzo brought it from Naples.”
In the stuffy warmth of the bedchamber, Guid'Antonio felt a sudden chill. “He did.”
“Yes, he came home with gifts for his closest friends.” Maria unclasped the pearls, rewrapped them, and slid back into the bed, her hair a sea of black flowing over her shoulders. They made love quickly, panting in the slippery heat, Guid'Antonio's blood pulsing as he kissed her feverishly, thinking, One day I will eat you alive.
Afterward, with Maria asleep in his arms, he lay awake in a sultry haze, watching the candle's steady flame.
The church bells tolled at dawn. He stood at the bedroom window, listening to a melody of sound as monks across the city and in the surrounding hills and valleys gripped strong ropes woven in Pisa, arms pumping, faces tilted toward the day's first glimmering rays of sun. From the southeast, a particularly sweet, ringing peal echoed down from San Miniato al Monte.
He rested his hands on the stone windowsill and cast his gaze toward the church, considering the decapitated Greek soldier who had taken up his head and flown with it across the Arno to the hill where he wanted his head buried with his body. What happened in that old monastery at night? Did the monks hear Saint Miniato's ghost rustling in the nave as his footstep skimmed the images of lions and lambs inlaid in the marble floor? Did they hear the long-dead soldier descend step-by-step into the crypt, where human corpses lay moldering amongst dust and bones? Did they hear the sighs of young lovers made bold by passion, heightened enough to risk slipping into the unlit chapels under the cover of night, the youngsters' feelings for one another thwarted by arranged marriages, most often between girls of thirteen and fourteen and prosperous, withered guildsmen? Most men in Florence did not marry until their late twenties or even well afterward, hence Amerigo's single status. The city teemed with budding, married maidens and hot young bachelors. The secret corners and shadows of churches made lively meeting places. This Guid'Antonio Vespucci knew with certainty.
