The Sign of the Weeping Virgin (Five Star Mystery Series)

by Alana White

  But it was not Castruccio Senso's violent death for which the populace blamed Lorenzo de' Medici. Rather, it was the alarming news from southern Italy delivered to City Hall by a courier on horseback later in the day. After reconnoitering Rhodes, Mehmed the Conqueror's Turkish army had encamped on the island. For more than a week now, enemy soldiers had been firing messages into the fort held by the Christian Knights of Saint John. “They say the Turkish admiral has seventy thousand soldiers backed by an armada of one hundred ships, and the Knights a force of only six hundred men,” the courier said, wiping tears from his eyes with his fist.

  “They say the assault is imminent. Against them, our good Knights haven't any chance.”

  THIRTY-ONE

  “Seventy thousand against six hundred.” Imagine cheeks going pale as Tommaso Soderini repeats the news in Palazzo della Signoria: the Turks say the Knights of Rhodes are on the verge of such bitter fighting as they have never witnessed nor imagined in their wildest dreams. The Turks say that at the end of the day, they will fly their black flag high atop the fort tower, sack the city, and slaughter or enslave its Christian men, women, and children.

  Imagine Lorenzo's powerful body bent over a parchment map unfurled and its corners weighed down with pebbles on the meeting table. “Here's Italy's southern tip with King Ferrante on the Bay of Naples. Moving south-southeast across the Mediterranean, here's the island of Rhodes, her battlements blown open by Admiral Mesih Pasha's artillery.”

  No one present in the hall needs this geography lesson; we all know exactly where Rhodes is located. We know its defeat will give Mehmed II naval command of the Mediterranean along Italy's eastern shore. We know Mehmed wants to create a new world Islamic Empire.

  Lorenzo's presence in City Hall as the unofficial ruler of the Florentine Republic is remarkable and yet undisputed. All eyes follow his ringed finger up the map. “After devouring Rhodes, the Turks will take Naples, then march north to Rome.”

  “My God,” Pierfilippo Pandolfini gasps, and Bartolomeo Scala rubs his temples hard. Just the thought of Turks on Italian soil gives our Lord Chancellor a roaring headache.

  Lorenzo's finger taps the parchment. “Overland travel from Rome north to Tuscany takes less than two weeks. By ship and horseback, it is at most four days.”

  Piero di Nasi laughs shrilly. “Boats off the coast of Naples? Then Rome and Tuscany besieged? What happened to ‘There are no Turks in Italy’?”

  A scarlet line streaks Lorenzo's neck. “The defeat of Rhodes will wash them up on our shores.”

  “And we're to prevent this how?” Chairman Tommaso Soderini's faded blue eyes are unnaturally round, his voice sour.

  “By presenting a united front against them. Florence, Rome, Naples, Venice, and Milan.”

  “Oh, please.” Antonio Capponi rallies once more. “You are a dreamer, man.”

  Lorenzo regards him with an intensity that makes Antonio squirm in his seat. “Where are we without dreams, Antonio?”

  The Italian peninsula's five major powers constantly bicker and war amongst themselves. Pope Sixtus IV and King Ferrante against Florence, the Sforza in Milan against their own kinsmen, the Lion of the Adriatic against everyone else, including the small but mighty independent states like Urbino and Ferrara led by dukes and despots of every stripe. The notion of a united Italy surfaces from time to time, a puff of smoke riding the air only to evaporate when it loses strength. Yet somehow Lorenzo still believes in it, just as his grandfather, Cosimo de' Medici, did when Cosimo negotiated the Peace of Lodi in 1454 after the fall of Constantinople to Turkish forces.

  Moments drag by in silence. Finally, I say, “Will we propose a general league to Milan and all the others?” We. I include myself in the question, though I am not currently one of the nine Lord Priors.

  “No,” Lorenzo says. “We'll let them stew awhile. They will have received this same news and be thinking hard upon it.”

  Imagine Piero di Nasi making a last feeble protest. “Maybe the Knights of Rhodes will beat the Infidels back. On their side the Knights have God and the Virgin Mary.”

  “Di Nasi!” Antonio Capponi shouts. “It's David and Goliath all over again! This time, with an army of thousands at his command, the giant will win!”

  In the end, we say a prayer for the good Knights and the island of Rhodes and abandon them both. After all, what can we do for them now? For all we know, the Knights are already dead, along with the island's other inhabitants. It is our own future, our own dreams, our own safety we protect. And so, we speak of closer issues, how to placate our town, a festival, perhaps? And of the Pope, Girolamo Riario, and Prince Alfonso of Naples, a trinity of devils already plaguing our city.

  Think of Lorenzo saying in an undertone to me as I shrug into my roomy, crimson cloak, “Whether City Hall likes it or not, I will unite our homeland.”

  22 July In the Year of Our Lord 1480

  Guid'Antonio Vespucci, Florentine

  THIRTY-TWO

  “You miss your lady, don't you?”

  Luigi gave Guid'Antonio a measuring look and pressed his lips shut.

  They were in the Vespucci courtyard, seated on the stone bench encircling the fountain. Coming in from the meeting at the Signoria, he had found Luigi in the kitchen with Giovanni and Maria and been glad to see his son showing the other boy his seashell from the Neapolitan shore. As for sending Luigi home with Amerigo, Guid'Antonio could kick himself. Now the entire town knew Luigi had been in Castruccio Senso's house when Castruccio was bludgeoned to death with the candlestick. Thus, Luigi was a witness, and Guid'Antonio fretted for his safety. Still, where else could the boy have gone? To the Bargello? At least there at the city jail, he would have been under Palla's watchful eye. He would have been scared to death there. And silent as a clam.

  Guid'Antonio had told Amerigo to post guards here at home, and this had been done. His feeling of urgency regarding questioning the boy had not abated. If Palla did find Salvestro Aboati, would Luigi say whether or not it was Aboati's voice he had heard last night? No matter what Luigi said, could they believe him?

  In the garden now, the dog was their sole company, soaking up the sun and the touch of Luigi's hand on his shoulder. Calming the boy. Good. The gate latch squeaked. “Been to Mass?” Guid'Antonio said, glancing up.

  “It happens, Uncle. Mattina.” Yawning deeply, Amerigo joined the little garden party.

  Guid'Antonio gestured to Luigi, smiling. “We're having a chat.”

  “One-sided, hey?”

  “Not for long.”

  “I mean to go to the stable and rescue Tesoro from that sorry stable keep,” Amerigo said. “Since there's no one else to claim her. And I had better go soon. That ass will sell her and worry later about the fact the mare is evidence.”

  And now an Andalusian horse.

  Luigi licked his lips, breathing rapidly. Amerigo's mention of Tesoro had struck a chord. Hmmm. Guid'Antonio touched the boy's shoulder. “Luigi. In a moment you can find Giovanni in the nursery, or go see Domenica and Cesare. You saw Amerigo latch the gate. You're safe.”

  Luigi kept his silence.

  “When you were in the fireplace, what happened first? Did the men come in and wait for your master? Or did he admit them?”

  Luigi scrunched his toes in the tips of his sandals. “I think . . . he let them in.”

  “You couldn't tell?”

  “I'm not sure, Signore.”

  “He knew them?” Guid'Antonio pressed.

  Luigi closed his eyes and bent his head. “I don't know, Signore.”

  “I'm not sure” and “I don't know,” would not suffice for this. “Did they have a conversation? Or did the yelling start immediately?”

  “They talked, of course, Signore, but I—I couldn't distinguish what they said. Then one of them screamed at my master, and he shouted, ‘No! No!’ and ran. After that it was quiet except when one of them smashed the strongbox.”

  “One more thing, then you can scoot to the nursery,�
�� Guid'Antonio said. “The piece of fabric you had in your hand . . . did your lady's nurse pack the gown it came from on the day the three of you left on your trip?”

  Luigi hesitated. “I think so, Signore. Yes.”

  Hedging, again. “And was the gown whole? Of a piece, I mean?”

  Luigi looked offended. “Whole, Signore! My lady would not wear torn clothing.”

  Guid'Antonio closed his eyes, smiling. So. Camilla had the gown in her possession of a whole, and yet later a piece of it was in Castruccio Senso's hands. “Did your master have the piece of fabric before last night?” he said.

  The boy looked confused: how should he answer this? “I don't know,” he said, falling back into evasion.

  “Maybe he doesn't,” Amerigo cut in.

  “Luigi, did you actually see Turks accost your lady the day you accompanied her on the road?” Guid'Antonio said.

  “No! No, Signore. I didn't,” Luigi said, beginning to tremble again.

  “Then how do you know that's who they were?”

  “I mean—yes.”

  Luigi's eyes fluttered with such violence, Guid'Antonio feared the boy might faint, or have a seizure. “Grazie, Luigi, you may go now,” he said quietly. “Go.”

  Luigi couldn't have vanished from the garden and up the apartment stairs faster if he had sprouted wings and flown.

  “Uncle Guid'Antonio,” Amerigo said, “he's just a boy.”

  Guid'Antonio held up his hand. “Time is of the essence. Palla will be much harder on him. And we don't know what mischief is afoot or how Camilla fares in all this.”

  “Well, what do we know?”

  “Something wicked happened on the road to Morba. And I believe Luigi holds the key to unlocking that terrible secret. Something niggles at me.”

  “Only ‘something’?” Amerigo said as they ascended the palace stairs. “I'm completely in the clouds. Come along, Dog.”

  So the cur bore an appellation now, insignificant as the name was. “No,” Guid'Antonio said. “Animals belong in the yard. Especially one as big as he is.” And plush. The dog's fur was growing thicker by the hour. In a month or so—Guid'Antonio didn't want to think about it. His mind was already an explosion of facts and semi-facts and curious wanderings.

  He said: “Whoever killed Castruccio Senso must know about the boy, whether he, or they, had anything to do with Camilla's disappearance or were disgruntled business patrons, or whatever. Why didn't they tear the house upside down, looking for Luigi to prevent him from bearing witness?”

  “They didn't know he was there,” Amerigo said. “They thought he was still in Vinci, like we did. That reminds me, Luigi told me Castruccio Senso was selling him. That's why Jacopo Rossi brought Luigi to town last Tuesday. Good God. You don't suppose Luigi killed Castruccio to prevent that happening? As cruel as Castruccio was, at least he was a known entity.”

  “Luigi's no killer, Amerigo.”

  “Let us hope. Speaking of killers, is there any news of Forli and Count Girolamo Riario?”

  “No. The boy, Sinibaldo Ordelaffi, has only been dead four days.”

  Amerigo laughed dryly. “Silence is dangerous. How long do you think Riario needs? What is it, Uncle? You look pale.”

  Guid'Antonio shook his head. Only the uneasy feeling he was back in the grassy lawn at Poggio a Caiano watching Lorenzo fix his arrow and shoot it straight into the eye of the target.

  THIRTY-THREE

  “You could set Sandro Botticelli's workshop down in here a dozen times.” Amerigo glanced back over his shoulder into the byway. “No, no, Dog, stay here. In the alley, Signore.”

  Guid'Antonio scrunched up his face, as if that would help him hear Amerigo over the noise in Andrea del Verrocchio's enormous bottega: nails banged into picture frames and hammered into furniture under construction, a heated argument between apprentices over whose cartoon drawing of an angel would best suit the master. “Sorry?” he shouted over the din.

  Amerigo raised his voice. “Andrea's busy as always, no matter what mischief and misery happens in our town.”

  “Yes.” Guid'Antonio's roving glance found stout Andrea del Verrocchio standing in the midst of Verrocchio and Company with a tall young fellow studying drawings laid out on a trestle table. Ah: Leonardo da Vinci. One of Leonardo's apprentices had told Guid'Antonio where his master could be found this morning.

  “Come along, Amerigo.” Guid'Antonio picked a path around goods packed in wooden crates set for delivery throughout Italy, dodging the boy dashing toward them with an armload of brass candlesticks.

  “Look who's ventured to our part of town.” Andrea del Verrocchio's plump cheeks lifted in a cherubic smile. “Welcome, Messer Guid'Antonio, Amerigo. Welcome.”

  All the typical questions followed. They had been back from Paris for how long now? Two weeks? And been met by the devil's own news: kidnappings, weeping paintings, murderers loose in town, terrible, terrible. “And now, the Turks at Rhodes,” Andrea said, crossing himself. “You'd think it was the end of the world.”

  Above the babble and buzz of activity of the workshop, Guid'Antonio answered by rote: two weeks, yes. God help the last of the Christian crusaders. And, yes, the girl was gone and her husband killed. “But Palla is on it,” he said. “And the painting is quiet.”

  “I see you brought a friend,” Leonardo da Vinci said, indicating Dog, who sat with one paw just over the threshold, smiling at them with drool on his jowls.

  “Not really,” Guid'Antonio said.

  “Who wanted those two out of the way, do you think,” Andrea said, his forehead a dimpled frown. “The wife, and now, him. Someone must have had a grudge against him. Else that fellow sold truly terrible wine.”

  Guid'Antonio smiled. Poor wine as a motive for murder? Well, in Italy, perhaps. He said, “No murderers, only a robbery gone wrong.”

  “But Uncle,” Amerigo said.

  “Do you have something to add?” Guid'Antonio said, whipping around.

  “No. Not now.”

  “Because a murderer running loose would cap all our troubles,” Guid'Antonio said.

  “It certainly would.”

  Guid'Antonio glanced at Leonardo and told Andrea del Verrocchio he and Amerigo just happened to be in Sant'Ambrogio parish and thought they would stop by to say hello.

  Andrea's eyes showed he did not believe this for a moment. Just happen to be in Sant'Ambrogio? Come round on a whim? It was not in Guid'Antonio di Giovanni di Vespucci's nature to just happen by anywhere. Moreover, Andrea's bottega, the largest and most productive in the city, sat no short distance from Ognissanti, east of the Cathedral toward Porta alla Croce in the Keys district of the San Giovanni quarter. “I am honored,” he said.

  Smiling, Guid'Antonio regarded Andrea's former apprentice, Leonardo da Vinci. Leonardo was slender with light auburn, almost blond, hair worn well past his shoulders. His loose white linen shirt lay open at the throat, revealing a mass of golden chest hair. “I hear you have your own shop now,” Guid'Antonio said. Small talk with this talented craftsman who shared his hometown with Camilla Rossi and her father, Jacopo Rossi da Vinci.

  “I do,” Leonardo said, nodding. “But—”

  “But!” Andrea gestured wildly around the shop and back toward a room where plaster casts of hands, feet, and knees lined the shelves, models for his apprentices to work by. “I have boys to teach, a silver relief to finish for the baptistery altar, the monument of Forteguerri for Pistoia to complete, and the Doubting Thomas for Orsanmichele to wrangle into place. I did finish a bust of our Lorenzo. Terracotta. Good as it turned out.”

  “I wouldn't expect otherwise,” Guid'Antonio said.

  “By comparison, in my own shop I've precious little work,” Leonardo said, and grimaced. “Of the sort that pays.”

  Andrea pushed back his cap, revealing a receding hairline, and swiped perspiration from his forehead. “He's a great help to me. Keeps me calm when I see everything crashing down.”

  “I do what I can,”
Leonardo said, smiling.

  “So you don't have much work of your own,” Amerigo said.

  “Not since the portrait I painted of Genevra de' Benci. A Madonna or two, and some drawings, also an alterpiece here and there. Nor do many of our craftsmen, given the present economy, except Andrea, which is only just, since he taught most of us.”

  “No, no,” Amerigo protested, “I know for a fact our Botticelli is doing extremely well. Moreover, he's set to paint me.”

  “Good for Sandro,” Leonardo replied neutrally.

  “Leonardo whiles away the hours dreaming up ideas for Florence's future defense: canals, weapons, all manner of outrageous machines,” Andrea said.

  “Not outrageous. Only time-consuming,” Leonardo said. “Given the war and now the Turks breathing down our necks, someone needs to think about homeland security. Messer Guid'Antonio, do you know how it goes with the Pope's new chapel in the Vatican?”

  “I've no idea,” Guid'Antonio said, not wanting to go into it and thinking of Sandro, who had asked him the same question at Botticelli and Company.

  “Oh,” Leonardo said. “That would be a good commission.”

  “If you don't mind working for the devil in Saint Peter's,” Amerigo said.

  Glancing away from him, Leonardo said, “Along with all the rest, Verrocchio will no doubt win the right to do the latest sculpture planned by the Venetians.” He indicated the drawings on the table.

  “What is it?” Guid'Antonio said. Time enough in a moment to get down to the true nature of his business with Leonardo da Vinci.

  “An equestrian monument of Bartolomeo Colleoni. Big!” Andrea said. “Means traveling north. How I long for the days when Sandro and Leonardo were in this shop together, frescoes, portraits, wedding chests. Easy work.”

  “The air wasn't always so quiet when Botticelli and I were apprentices here,” Leonardo said, smiling again, “and any man like our Andrea who can mount a sphere and cross atop the Cathedral dome as easily as he paints tournament banners can do anything.”