The Mammoth Book of Historical Whodunnits Volume 3 (The Mammoth Book Series)

by Mike Ashley

  We soon arrived at the great plaza. I liked the baptistery, despite my usual aversion to ecclesiastical profligacy. Like the cathedral, it was covered with pirated marble, white with dark green ornamentation. The campanile was beyond them, surrounded by scaffolding and cranes. It was about three stories to the good now, and the design was becoming apparent, the arcades echoing those of the cathedral opposite. Quite nice, yet there was something off about it.

  “What is wrong with it?” I asked my companion. “I keep wanting to tilt my head slightly.”

  He shook his head. “Our greatest folly. They planned to build a tower to rival Babel, but they only dug the foundation ten feet. Everyone knows the ground is soft around here. It couldn’t possibly support the weight. It’s starting to go off the vertical. They’ve stopped construction temporarily and are trying to figure out what they are going to do next. I keep telling them that they should tear it down and start over, but they are talking about building it higher on one side to compensate. Ridiculous. One of the architects was from Innsbruck, but the other, Bonanno, is from here. He should have known better. So instead of increasing the glory of Pisa, we’ll become the laughing stock of the Mediterranean.”

  “There’s still ample competition for that title.”

  He shrugged. “In any case, your colleague lives on the Via Roma. Take this road, then turn right when you reach the Arno. It’s an inn across from the third wharf that you see.”

  “Thank you, Signore. I hope that you have favourable winds for your voyage home.”

  It didn’t take me long to find Fazio. He was out the back near the stables, practising his rope-walking while juggling four knives. He caught sight of me, somehow managed to wave in the middle of all of that activity, then did a back-flip off the rope, catching all of the knives in midair before landing.

  “Not bad,” I said. “Stultorum numerus . . .”

  “Infinitus est,” he replied, completing the password. “Theo, riding Tantalo’s ass. That can’t be good. What happened?”

  “He got drunk and thought he was you,” I replied. “A broken leg.”

  “Oh, dear. Well, it’s good to see you again. It must be three years.”

  “Five.”

  “Really? Yes, I remember now. You were coming back from beyond the sea with some minor royal personage or other. I take it you bring instructions from our childless father?”

  I handed him the scroll from my pouch. He slit the seal, read it briefly, then snorted.

  “Reconcile the Pisans with the Genoese by midsummer. Is that all? Maybe he would like me to resolve the Ghibelline-Guelph matter while I’m at it?”

  “If you have the time. I’d help, but he wants me to unify the Latin and Eastern Churches.”

  “By King David, if I didn’t know better, I’d say we were undertaking fools’ errands.”

  “Did you make that up yourself?”

  “Hmph. Theo, I can’t even get the Pisans talking to each other. Everyone here is so rich that they can’t be happy unless they have more than their friends and neighbours. The only thing that ever unites them is their hatred of the Genoese. And the only thing that ever unites them with the Genoese is their mutual fear of the Saracens. Tell Father Gerald that this place is getting too big for just one fool. There must be ten thousand people here year-round, plus whatever the tradewinds bring.”

  “I’ll tell him.”

  “Well, please stay a few days. It’s been too long since I’ve done any two-man work. We could do the Mirror, and the Puppeteer, and throw knives and clubs at each other.”

  “Sounds like old times. I’d be delighted.”

  “But please, for goodness’ sake, don’t be funnier than me. I have to keep working here after you leave. What instruments did you bring?”

  “Lute, flute, and tabor.”

  “You always were good on the tabor. Excellent. Here, watch this.” He whirled and flung the knives with both hands in rapid succession. They plunged into the post supporting the stable roof, one above the other.

  “Nicely done,” I said, inspecting the alignment. “Only they’re slightly off the vertical.”

  “Of course,” he said, grinning broadly. “We’re in Pisa.”

  We rehearsed through noon, then gathered our gear.

  “There’s a party at the Gherardesca palace,” Fazio informed me. “No particular occasion, just the usual ostentatious display. The Podestà will be there, along with the Viscontis, the Gualandis, the Albizzonis, and so forth.”

  “Any topics I should play with? Or avoid?”

  “I completely forgot!” he cried, stopping short. “You don’t know about the Great Conundrum.”

  “What Great Conundrum?”

  “Oh, it’s the main topic of gossip here,” he said. “About two weeks ago, one of our more patriotic ladies of pleasure informed the Guard about a Saracen spy. They broke through the door, but the fellow leaped out the window and unfortunately impaled himself on the spears of the soldiers outside.”

  “Ouch.”

  “Indeed. So, they seized his things and found a letter written in Arabic script, only the words are complete nonsense.”

  “Some form of code.”

  “Of course, but it’s a very good one. And that leads to the Great Conundrum: What does it mean, and more importantly, who is it for? The spy was coming here, which means that somewhere in Pisa, a Saracen agent is in place. Now, the Podestà has the letter in safekeeping. He can’t show it around because he may end up showing it to the spy as a result.”

  “A pretty puzzle. How do they propose to solve it?”

  “I planted an idea in their heads which may help. Send for an outsider who is a scholar of such things. That way, his loyalties won’t be questioned. They’re thinking about it. So, that’s the Great Conundrum.”

  The palace in question was decked with pink marble. A giant pair of ebony doors led to the great hall. Above them were a series of balconies overlooking the family wharf where even now dozens of men were scurrying about unloading barges from further inland.

  We, of course, did not use the ebony doors, but skulked around to the rear and came in through the kitchen. The household staff greeted Fazio, or Frenetto, with a great deal of warmth that they also extended to his friend and colleague Forzo once I had been introduced as such.

  We worked our way through the crowd of guests, dropping a deft pun here, a pratfall there. The Mirror went well, the Puppeteer delighted the children. Yet we were not the principal entertainment, as it turned out.

  While we were rigging Fazio’s ropes from one balcony to another, a debate broke out in the group feasting below us. To my surprise, I saw the young man I had met in the morning at the centre of it, his dreaminess replaced by a fierce passion.

  “I am telling you that the Islamic world has surpassed us in almost every way,” he shouted. “They have preserved all that is good from antiquity and are building upon it. We just continue to close our minds and refuse to change anything because change frightens us.”

  “These are strong words, Signor Fibonacci,” said the lord of this particular house. “Are you prepared to back them up?”

  “Bring on your champion,” challenged the youth. “The best man you have.”

  I was fully expecting armed combat at this point, but the man they brought in was of slight build and some fifty years. He was neither armed nor armoured, and carried only a flat wooden case tucked under his left arm. Neither was Fibonacci prepared for instant battle. I saw not a trace of steel upon his person. I beckoned to Fazio, and we sat on the rope above the group and watched.

  The challenger reached into the case and produced . . . an abacus!

  “What on earth are they going to do?” wondered Fazio. “That’s Biolani, the chief abacist for the Gherardescas. Fastest beader in the city, according to those who care about such things. The young man . . .”

  “His name’s Leonardo Fibonacci. I met him on the way in. Says he’s a merchant’s son.”
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  “He’s being modest. His father now holds some diplomatic post in Bugia. The son’s been all over the Mediterranean, knows the Arabs inside and out. So well, in fact, that many wonder if he’s the Saracen spy the message was meant for.”

  A crowd gathered around the two, many actually betting on the outcome before they even knew the nature of the contest.

  “Ten librae on your man,” said Signor Albizzoni. “I don’t see how this fellow could possibly do it short of conjuration.”

  “Ten on Fibonacci,” cried Bernardo, a lesser Gualandi. “I have no idea what you’re doing, Leonardo, but I knew your father well. You have smart blood in you, lad.”

  Leonardo bowed in his direction and settled on a chair, crossing one leg over the other. Biolani glared at him and set his abacus on the table before him.

  Signor Gherardesca stood at the head of the table. “Forty-seven plus one hundred and ninety-three,” he called out.

  “Two hundred and forty,” said Fibonacci as Biolani clicked away. “Too easy.”

  “Three hundred and twenty-seven less two hundred and sixty-three.”

  “Sixty-four,” said Fibonacci. There were shouts of astonishment from the assemblage. “Try multiplication.”

  Gherardesca glanced around the room as money changed hands furiously. He cleared his throat. “Four hundred and fifty-three times ninety-eight.”

  Fibonacci leaned back-in his chair with his eyes closed, his fingers twitching slightly. Apart from the chattering beads of Biolani’s abacus, there was not a sound in the room.

  “Forty-four thousand, three hundred and ninety-four,” said Fibonacci, smiling.

  “No!” cried Biolani, hands flying. “It isn’t possible. He can’t be right.” He worked for another minute, then slumped in his seat, his hands falling by his sides.

  “What magic is this, Leonardo?” asked Signor Gherardesca.

  “No magic,” replied Fibonacci. “Just superior mathematics. The Roman system is ridiculously designed for advanced calculations, but this Hindu-Arabic system is near miraculous. And I can teach anyone in this room how to use it, even Signor Biolani.” All laughed, excepting the abacist, who flushed angrily.

  “He’s made an enemy there,” whispered Fazio. “Biolani and the rest of the abacists virtually control the finances around here, thanks to the ignorance of the rest of us.”

  “Fibonacci’s right, though,” I said. “I learned the Arabic numbers when I was in Alexandria, although I would still need paper and ink to work them out. He seems to have mastered doing it with his mind alone.”

  “All right, check those knots again. I have work to do.”

  The Great Frenetto soon had the crowd enraptured, and I took the opportunity to observe them. I noticed a particularly stunning young woman in a crimson gown talking to Bernardo, the Gualandi brother who had won his bet on Fibonacci. She was gazing at the prodigy with an intensity bordering on ravin. The Gualandi said something. She laughed, never taking her eyes off Fibonacci. He turned, caught sight of her, and turned nearly the colour of her gown.

  A little while later, Fazio came up to me. “Yon genius has conquered more than an abacist tonight,” he said. “The widow Lanfranchi seems desirous of private instruction.”

  “Would that be the lady in crimson?”

  “I see you’ve spotted her. She married young and old. That is to say, she was young, her husband old. And rich, of course. One day, his ship came in with silks and spices in the hold and the husband in a coffin. Ever since then, she’s galloped from one young swain to the next.”

  “She does tend to attract the eye.”

  “And other parts, apparently. I hope Signor Fibonacci is well fortified. He at least had the good taste to hire me for a serenade to start things off right.”

  “Good. Do you need me for a second voice?”

  “No, thank you. Wait a second.” He glanced around the room and laughed. “Would you be up for a bit of amusement?”

  “It is only my reason to exist.”

  “See that unintelligent-looking fellow sulking by the fire?” I followed his gaze to see a somewhat horse-faced man staring at his feet. He looked up only to moon after the widow Lanfranchi.

  “Luigi Tedesco, a merchant from Lombardy,” Fazio informed me. “Her most recent former lover. I think he’s just figured that out. Wouldn’t it be funny if he hired you to serenade her tonight. A duel by proxy, with fools as their weapons of choice.”

  “I take it that the widow has wronged you sometime in the past.”

  “An unpaid serenade.”

  “A capital offense. All right, let me work my magic on the longing, long-faced Lombard.”

  I sidled over to Tedesco and leaned against the wall in an exact replica of his posture. “You seem distraught, Signore,” I commented. “Perhaps I can be of assistance.”

  He sighed. “What could you possibly do to help me, Fool?”

  “Sir, my mission in life is to fortify the forlorn, to rescue those in the fearsome clutches of boredom, and to bring parted lovers together again.”

  He looked up. “How do you manage the last one?”

  “Signore, I am a practitioner of the craft of wooing through song. I have learned at the knees of the greatest masters of the art of courtly love. Retain me for a serenade tonight, and I assure you that you will want me for an aubade in the morning.”

  He brightened. “That sounds promising. What’s an aubade?”

  “The song sung to alert illicit lovers that dawn approaches, and that they must part to preserve appearances.”

  “I like the sound of that. All right, do you see that lady yonder?”

  “By whose side Venus herself would blush with envy?”

  “That’s good!” he exclaimed. “Could you work that into the song?”

  “Consider it done.”

  “And something with my name. It’s Luigi.”

  “Meet me under her balcony at sunset,” I said, wondering what on earth rhymed with “Luigi”.

  The party began to break up. Fazio and I collected our gear and some silver and returned to his room to plan the evening’s entertainment.

  “We should arrive by different routes,” he said. “When we get close enough, I’ll go ahead and seek out Fibonacci. You go around the other way and find Tedesco. This will be one well-serenaded widow.”

  As the sun began to set, we set forth for the lady’s villa on the south part of the city. Fazio stopped me short of our destination and gave me directions to the side where her balcony was situated. I walked, tuning my lute and rewording a ballad by de Bornelh that I thought would suit the occasion. I was still puzzling over how to insert the merchant’s name when I heard a woman scream. I peeked around the corner to see Fazio running in my direction. Someone was shouting for the guard. Dogs barked in the distance, followed by the clanking of armour.

  “Come on,” cried Fazio, and we took to our heels. He stopped abruptly and pulled me into an alleyway. We hid behind a pile of refuse just as several guards came running by.

  “What’s happening?” I whispered.

  “Looks like neither of us is getting our fee tonight,” replied Fazio. “My mathematician has slain your merchant.”

  “What?”

  “As I was approaching, I heard the widow scream. Then I came upon Fibonacci standing over the body of Tedesco. He must have stabbed the poor fellow when he found out they were after the same thing.” He struck himself on the side of his head. “Stupid, stupid Fazio. Have a little joke, and a man dies.”

  “Something’s wrong there.”

  “Murder is rarely a righteous action, fellow fool.”

  We hid as the guards returned, dragging Fibonacci in chains. Four more carried the body of the late merchant on a plank.

  “But he was dead when I arrived,” the mathematician protested. “I never even saw him before.”

  “Save it,” said the captain. “Plenty of time to confess in the morning.”

  We waited until
it was quiet, then emerged from the alley.

  “Poor mathematician. I fear his days are numbered,” said Fazio. “It’s all my fault.”

  “Did you see a knife?” I asked.

  “What?”

  “Did you see a knife? In his hand or in the body?”

  “I don’t think so,” he said, considering. “I turned tail pretty quickly.”

  “Fibonacci was dressed in the same clothes he wore at the party this afternoon. Did he say he would come straight from the Gherardescas to meet you here?”

  “Yes. There were going to be some games after we left.”

  “Then he couldn’t have stabbed him. He was completely unarmed when we saw him earlier.”

  He stared at me. “Someone else killed Tedesco.”

  “Yes.”

  “But now Fibonacci’s going to lose his head for it.”

  “Unless we do something about it.”

  He sighed. “I guess we have to, don’t we? All right, let’s go and take a look at the widow’s balcony.”

  We strolled and strummed together, looking the way two fools ought to look in early evening. There were still several guards scurrying beneath the balcony when we went by. There was a crowd of onlookers watching from a distance, kept back by the sight of several spearpoints glinting in the light of the ascending moon.

  “What do you think they’re looking for?” wondered Fazio.

  “Maybe the missing knife. Look, up there.”

  The widow was momentarily at the window, watching the activity below.

  “Would you say that she is smiling?” I murmured.

  “I would. Strange. One might think that the terror of such an experience, coupled with the simultaneous loss of past and future lovers, would have more of a heartrending effect on such a tender soul.”

  “Yet it has not. Let’s go back to your place. I don’t think we can get anything accomplished tonight.”

  He lit a candle while I unrolled my bedroll and stretched out.

  “Who else would have a motive for killing Tedesco?” I asked.

  “If we’re talking about rivals for the widow’s favors, then half the eligible bachelors in town, not to mention quite a few married men.”