by Mike Ashley
“Any other reasons? Enemies of Lombardy? Commercial competitors?”
“He’s never struck me as the sort to make enemies. He’s an unassuming fellow, competent but not exceptional at his work. Pays his debts on time, doesn’t drink to excess, and is not possessed of sufficient wit to insult anyone to that extreme.”
“Then why was he killed? Unless . . .” I sat up. “What if he was not the intended victim?”
“There’s a thought. Someone wanted to kill Fibonacci, and waited in the shadows for a lusty swain to arrive. Only he got the wrong lusty swain.”
“And fled, leaving Fibonacci to be caught with the body. Now, the Podestà may finish the task for him.”
“Which leads us to the question of why kill Fibonacci?”
I fluttered my fingers across a row of imaginary beads. He nodded.
“It’s a good place to start,” he said. “We’ll seek out Biolani in the morning.”
The abacist was in the counting house, counting someone else’s money. We barged in and sprawled across his table.
“Get out, fools,” he growled. “Unlike you, I have to work for a living.”
“As do we,” protested Fazio. “Harder than you, in fact, with far less in return. Oh, that these fingers could have acquired your skill with beads rather than the useless plucking of lutestrings.”
Biolani sat back and glared. “I have no need of entertainment. Leave before I call the guard.”
“It is those who say they have no need of entertainment who oft need it the most,” I observed. “But call the guards if you must. We have no objection. We would welcome their presence in your office.”
He looked at us suspiciously. “What would you here?”
“We just dropped by to congratulate you on your good fortune,” cried Fazio. “A recent rival of yours has been most discomfited.”
“Rival? Who, the Albizzonis’ abacist?”
“A rival to all of your profession,” I said. “And one who publicly humiliated you yesterday.”
He snorted. “That pup, Fibonacci. So, what happened? Did he fall into the Arno?”
“Haven’t you heard?” asked Fazio. “He was on his way to an assignation, only to find an assassination.”
“Is he dead then?” asked Biolani.
“Would that grieve you?” I asked.
“I’m sorry for any man’s loss,” he replied carefully. “Actually, I was quite impressed by the lad. If he knows a faster way of doing this, I would be happy to learn it.”
Fazio and I looked at each other. “But wouldn’t that deprive you of your domain?” I asked.
Biolani chuckled. “My lords and masters are wealthy, stupid men who need poor, smart people like me to do their work for them. Whether by beads or by this Arabic system, it will still be Biolani who is trusted to count their money.”
“So, you aren’t worried about Fibonacci’s fate?”
“Hasn’t it been decided already?”
“It is in the Podestà’s hands.”
He looked puzzled. “But I thought you said he was murdered.”
“Oh, dear,” said Fazio. “I’ve muddled it again. No, Luigi Tedesco was killed, and they are saying Fibonacci did it to gain the widow’s favours.”
Biolani shrugged. “Foolishness. A pity that the young don’t see the futility of lust until it’s too late.”
“Or greed,” I said. “Consider sharing a coin with those who share such priceless news.”
“Gossip is always free. Get out.”
We got out.
“Not much reaction there,” I commented.
“He even sounded sincere about wanting to learn the new system,” said Fazio. “Maybe we should go back to the idea of another suitor for our widow.”
“You know the gossip of this town. Who is a possibility?”
He pondered the question for some time as we walked along the river. “She’s been dallying with Tedesco quite happily for the last two months. I was a little surprised that she would drop him so readily.”
“Even given the impressive performance at the party? It may have piqued her interest when she saw what Fibonacci could do.”
He shook his head. “That puzzles me as well. She’s not a creature susceptible to the attractions of the mind. Her desires are decidedly more physical in their expression. And Fibonacci, although a pleasant enough fellow, is not exactly what I would consider meat for her table.”
“Then maybe it was her intention to kill him,” I said. “She lured him into a trap.”
“But what would she have against him?” he protested. “What would anyone have against him? He’s just a merchant. And he’s been here all winter. Why now?”
“Something had to happen recently to make someone see him as a threat. Maybe something at the party.” I stopped.
“Why are you striking yourself on the head?” asked Fazio with concern. “That’s one of my moves.”
“Chastising my brain for working so slowly,” I said. “It’s your Great Conundrum. What if the code requires not only knowledge of Arabic, but of the Arabic numbers?”
“And Fibonacci revealed that he had the ability to break it when he gave his demonstration last night! Excellent. You’ve narrowed the suspect list down to the hundred people at the party. Tell you what, let me buffet you a few times about the noggin and see if anything else falls out.”
I waved my hands over my head like a cheap magician, tapped it once, and pretended to pull something out of my mouth which I then mimed reading.
“Tell me what you know about Bernardo Gualandi,” I said.
“Why him?”
“Because he was talking to our widow right before she sought out Fibonacci.”
“Interesting. Let’s see. He’s the third brother, so not in line for the lion’s share of the business. Probably has the most talent in the family, but gets shipped around looking after their interests overseas. Speaks Arabic, which qualifies him. As far as the widow – I remember now, he came back on the same ship that carried her husband’s body home for burial. He was unusually solicitous towards the poor grieving waif. Tongues were wagging briefly about it, but nobody knew for certain what they were up to.”
“Maybe he knows something he could blackmail her with. Sounds like an excellent candidate.”
“Even so, how do we go about proving it?”
“I have one idea.”
Later that morning, we unfortunately got into an argument in the street.
“It couldn’t have been that many,” he protested.
“It was,” I said. “How would you know? You weren’t the one who went with them, you coward.”
“Me? A coward?” he shrieked. “How dare you! Look, you’ve always stretched the truth, but this time I have you.”
“Tell you what, we’ll settle this fairly,” I said. “You, sirrah. A favour, if you please.” I grabbed a man passing by. It just so happened that it was Bernardo Gualandi. He stopped and looked at us in exasperation.
“What do you want?” he asked.
“Just to settle a wager between my brother fool and myself,” said Fazio. “My colleague Forzo believes that since he trailed after the last Crusade begging their crumbs in exchange for his piteous attempts at amusement that he is now an expert on military matters.”
“We’ve been having a dispute over how many soldiers passed through this town en route to the Holy Land,” I said. “Now, I remember that there were fifteen boats leaving from Venice, and they each carried a hundred and thirty Crusaders. I say that makes two thousand men.”
“And I say it makes eighteen hundred,” said Fazio.
Gualandi looked at us wearily. “You’re both wrong. It’s nineteen hundred and fifty. Now, settle your differences and leave me alone.”
“A thousand pardons,” I said, bowing low.
“Nineteen hundred and fifty pardons,” said Fazio, bowing even lower.
Gualandi walked away.
We turned into a narrow alleyway.
The Podestà was standing there, watching Gualandi disappear.
“Very interesting,” he said. “Come with me.”
Fibonacci was being held in, what else, a tower, guarded heavily from below and inaccessible by any other means. The Podestà produced a set of keys from his robes and opened the entryway. The guards looked at us with mild curiosity, but made no comment. We climbed a long, spiral staircase until we came to the highest landing in the building. Another door gave way to the Podestà’s keys to reveal Fibonacci sitting disconsolately by the window of his cell. He leapt to his feet upon our entry.
“Signore, you must believe me,” he said urgently. “I am innocent of this foul deed.”
The Podestà looked at him for a moment, then reached into a pouch at his waist and pulled out a sheaf of papers which he tossed onto a small table.
“These papers contain a message to someone in this town,” he said. “I want you to decipher it, and tell me what it is you are doing as you do it. I will then take it to someone else to see if you are correct.”
Fibonacci looked back and forth at us and the papers, then sat by the table and scanned them. “The characters are Arabic,” he said. “But they make no sense. There are no words here. However . . .” He stopped. “Look how the letters of the words line up vertically. If you read them that way, they spell out the names of the Hindu-Arabic numbers. And if you were to take the numbers and apply them to the corresponding Arabic letters as they occur in their alphabet, they start to spell out, ‘Bernardo Gualandi. Your information regarding the Pisan shipping routes proved accurate. Return by messenger the Gherardesca shipments and the boats carrying them.’ It goes on.”
“No need,” said the Podestà. “I shall return later. Take hope, Leonardo.” He motioned to us, and we followed him back down the stairs.
“I would prefer it if you kept quiet about your roles in this,” he said.
“Suits us fine,” said Fazio. “And we would request that you keep quiet about our roles in this as well. It’s hard enough work being a fool without being called upon to solve murder cases all the time.”
“I wouldn’t worry about that,” said the Podestà. “How often do people get murdered around here?”
There would be one more, as it turned out.
Fibonacci’s solution to the Great Conundrum was confirmed, and he and Gualandi soon traded places. Shortly thereafter, Fazio received a message that we found greatly disturbing.
“Gualandi wants to speak with us,” he informed me.
“What on earth for?”
“Let’s go and find out.”
We received permission to entertain the prisoners and eventually climbed to the top cell in the tower which Gualandi now called home.
“What shall it be?” asked Fazio. “A song? Some juggling?”
“I was thinking more along the lines of an escape act,” said Gualandi.
“Really?” I replied. “Why would we do that?”
“Because I know about the Fools’ Guild,” he said.
“Everyone knows about the Fools’ Guild,” said Fazio. “All the best fools get their training there. So what?”
“Not everyone knows about the Guild’s underlying mission,” he said. “I know that you are spies and manipulators of kings, popes, and everyone underneath.”
“Given that we regard kings and popes as the lowest of the low, that doesn’t leave many others,” commented Fazio. “But you speak of vague fancies, Signore. What proof have you?”
“It just so happens that I got drunk with a troubadour of your acquaintance,” he replied. “One Tantalo. He got even drunker than I, and told me quite a few interesting stories.”
“Oh, dear,” Fazio and I said simultaneously.
“I know that you are working with your counterpart in Genoa to bring peace between the two cities. Not a bad idea on its face, but there are many here who might resent the effort. Such knowledge of your activities could be kept secret for a small price.”
“Your freedom,” I stated.
“There you have it. There’s little time. A decision concerning my fate will be made by tomorrow.”
“But we can’t just walk you down the stairs past the guards,” protested Fazio.
I glanced out the window. It was a good sixty feet to the flag-stones below. Another tower faced us from across the street.
“There’s a way,” I said.
Around midnight, Fazio and I perched on the top of the tower facing the jail. A candle was lit in the uppermost cell, and I drew my bowstring back past my ear and sent an arrow arcing across the street into Gualandi’s cell. The string tied to the end uncoiled rapidly. Gualandi pulled the arrow from his door and held the string taut. I slipped the bow over the string and sent it spinning across. He took it, threaded the arrow and string around the leg of his cot, and shot it back in our direction. It landed on the tower roof beside us.
We tied a sturdy rope to our end of the string and began to coil up the end by the arrow. The rope travelled the string’s route to the cell, then around the cot leg and back to our perch, giving us a two-rope bridge high over the guards below. So far, nothing we had done had made enough noise to attract their attention.
I tied both ends of the rope tight around the iron loop of the door leading to the steps. Then, the Great Frenetto, another rope secured around his waist, walked lightly across the street into Gualandi’s cell.
He held the second rope about four feet over the first. I held it tight at my end, and Gualandi carefully made his way from one tower to another, clinging to the upper rope for security. Once he had made it over, Fazio practically danced his way back, carrying the bow. We untied the rope ends, then pulled carefully back until the end repassed the anchoring cot leg. Then I gave it a good, hard tug, and it sailed safely back into our waiting arms, leaving another Great Conundrum for the Pisans: How did Gualandi escape the highest cell of the jail without leaving a trace of his flight?
We sneaked him down the stairs and through a back alley, then scampered northwards.
“Nicely done,” he whispered as we approached the holy trinity of cathedral, baptistery, and campanile. “I’ll definitely be able to make good use of you fellows.”
“What do you mean?” I asked. “We’ve done our part.” Fazio drifted behind us, looking back to make sure no one was following.
Gualandi smiled. It wasn’t a pleasant sight. “If my knowledge of the Guild will make you do this, then it will make you perform other tasks I have in mind. I’m taking the two of you with me.”
“Maybe we should leave you here,” I said. “As it happens, I heard that the Podestà was thinking of using you to Pisa’s advantage. He was planning to keep you alive.”
“Unlike us,” said Fazio, and his hands fluttered in the darkness.
Gualandi pitched forward, four knives in a perfect vertical formation in his back.
“Nice placement,” I commented.
Fazio shrugged. “Just wanted to show you I can do it if I want to.” He turned suddenly. “There’s a patrol coming! What are we going to do?”
“Run?”
“We can’t leave him,” he said in panic. “The Podestà is sure to suspect us. We have to get rid of his body. But how?”
And then . . .
“And then what?” asked my wife, shaking me awake.
“What?” I mumbled.
“You fell asleep before you finished,” she said accusingly. “What did you do with Gualandi’s body? And why was Fazio still worrying afterwards?”
“There was a construction pit nearby,” I said. “We dragged him to it, pulled our cloaks over it, and buried him with our hands.”
“Oh, is that all?” she said, disappointed. Then she frowned. “Wait a minute. The only construction site would have been . . . You mean to say you buried him at the campanile?”
“As Fibonacci said, the ground was soft there,” I said, grinning. “The scandal died down eventually, but the tower of Pisa leaned more and more, a
nd Fazio lived in constant terror that they would dig up the foundation and find a corpse with a characteristic set of knife wounds in its back.
“We saw Fibonacci later that day . . .”
“I understand that I have the two of you to thank for my freedom,” said the mathematician, blushing slightly.
“Us?” said Fazio, puzzled. “It was the Podestà who freed you, and you who led him to the true murderer. We were just passing through.”
“If you say so,” said Fibonacci.
“We do,” I said. “This will all be forgotten soon enough, and we will be forgotten even sooner.”
“Not by me,” he said firmly, and he clasped our hands in a friendly farewell. “By the way,” he added. “Did you hear that Gualandi escaped?”
“He won’t get far,” Fazio assured him.
“Not horizontally, anyway,” I added.
Fibonacci looked at us, puzzled. “Your meaning, Fool?”
“It is my belief that he’s going straight to Hell. Good day, Signore.”
“I remember him!” my wife said excitedly. “When we were at the court of Frederick the Second, we visited Pisa. The emperor challenged this mathematician to solve some incomprehensible problems, and we all gathered and watched while he did it. That was your Fibonacci!”
“It was, my dove. Look at this.” I pulled down a copy of the Liber abaci from a shelf and handed it to her.
“From him?” she asked. I nodded. She opened it to where I had placed a bookmark. “There it is! ‘A certain man put a pair of rabbits in a place surrounded by a wall . . .’ ” she read. “Let’s see. One, two, three, five, eight, thirteen, twenty-one . . . Well, it’s a pretty series, but of what use could it possibly be?”
“None that I know of, but I’m just an ancient fool.”
“There’s an inscription here.”
“Read it.”
She smiled at me as she did, which was all the reward I needed in life. “ ‘To my many-named friend: The number of fools is finite, but of the counting of many rabbits there is no end. Yours, Fibonacci.’ ”
AUTHOR’S NOTE: The Fibonacci sequence has tantalized mathematicians and scientists for centuries. Related to the so-called Golden Mean, its numbers have been found to describe the patterns of seeds in sunflowers, scales on pine cones, and possibly even atomic nuclei and business cycles.
