by D. V. Bishop
Levi shrugged. ‘Speculation proves nothing.’
‘Having taken me down, our attackers didn’t finish me when they had the chance. “Find the other one,” the ringleader said. “We need to be certain.” They wanted to be sure who you were before killing us both.’
Levi avoided Aldo’s gaze. ‘You’ve a strong memory.’
‘Being that close to death sharpens the mind. The ringleader was calm, he didn’t panic when the first attack faltered. And he didn’t hesitate to kill his own man on hearing I’m with the Otto. Few robbers are that ruthless.’
‘You want to meet ruthless men, try being a moneylender.’
‘Had the ringleader employed better men,’ Aldo snapped, ‘we’d both be dead by now. Think on that.’ He peered at the sky. ‘We won’t reach Florence before dusk at this pace, and the horses bolted with all our provisions. We need to find shelter, and soon.’
Levi got to his feet with difficulty. ‘Where do you suggest?’
‘I rode with a condottiere who kept a home near Trebbio. We might find a welcome there. It’s a few miles south. Can you get that far before sunset?’
Chapter Two
Dusk was close when Aldo and Levi reached a modest castello on the outskirts of Trebbio. Their approach set dogs barking. ‘Let me do the talking,’ Aldo said, thumping a fist against the sturdy wooden door. The blows returned as hollow echoes from within.
‘Perhaps nobody lives here any more,’ Levi suggested.
Aldo pointed at a weak light spilling from a window above them. ‘That’s a candle.’
Footsteps grew audible from inside, coming closer.
‘Who’s there?’ a frail voice asked.
‘Cesare Aldo of the Otto di Guardia e Balia. I’m on official business for the city. My travelling companion and I require lodgings for the night.’ Invoking the Otto was no guarantee of a welcome, especially this far outside the city. But the court still commanded some respect – and fear. Coin also helped smooth the way. ‘You will, of course, be paid.’
Sure enough, the heavy door opened a crack. Clutching a lantern, a gimlet-eyed old man glared at the visitors. His yellow tunic was faded from years of wear and washing, while his dull green hose had been darned too many times. ‘What did you say your name was?’
Aldo repeated himself, struggling to hide his frustration. The ageing retainer nodded before shutting the door. When it eventually reopened, a woman in a dark, plain dress stood behind it. Her hair was covered by a fine shawl of light wool and her face showed no fear. In fact, she looked delighted. ‘Aldo? Is that you?’
Her features were hard to discern in the flickering light of her lantern. She had seen plenty of summers, but was still a handsome woman, even in the dour mourning clothes of a widow. There was something familiar about those eyes, too. Of course!
Aldo bowed from the waist. ‘Signora Salviati, I— It is many years since I last came to Trebbio. I hoped your husband’s kin might still live here, I did not realize— Forgive me.’
She smiled. ‘There’s nothing to forgive. And who is your travelling companion?’
Aldo stood aside to let the lantern reveal the moneylender. ‘This is Samuele Levi, of Florence. I’m guarding his journey south from Bologna.’ Aldo gestured at the widow. ‘This is Signora Maria Salviati. Her husband was the condottiere Giovanni de’ Medici.’ Levi didn’t respond. ‘Many called him Giovanni dalle Bande Nere, because his men wore black armour.’
Levi’s eyebrows rose. ‘I’ve heard of him. It is said he fought for those who could not defend themselves, and often refused to accept payment.’ Levi gave a respectful nod.
‘His deeds made him a hero to many,’ Maria said, a frown creeping across her face, ‘yet such heroism pays few bills. My husband’s family does not favour us with its wealth so our comforts are few, but you may break your journey here for the night, if you wish.’
‘We’ll be grateful for any shelter you can offer.’ Aldo dug an elbow into Levi’s ribs.
‘Indeed,’ Levi agreed, reaching into his satchels for coin. ‘Most grateful.’
Maria waved aside payment. ‘You have no horses?’ she asked, looking past them as they came inside. A strong scent of dried lavender filled the entrance hall, but couldn’t mask an underlying odour of mildew and neglect. Aldo gave a brief account of the bandit attack.
‘I’m not surprised,’ Maria sighed. ‘The road from Bologna is not so safe as it was.’
‘Especially for those with determined enemies,’ Aldo agreed, glaring at Levi. But the moneylender ignored the comment, focusing all his attention on their host.
‘I urgently wish to be back in Florence,’ he said. ‘How long is the journey from here?’
Maria studied both men. ‘At least another day on foot, especially if you are injured.’
‘It is nothing,’ Levi said, dabbing a hand to his head wound. ‘I hardly notice it.’
Aldo suppressed a snort of derision.
‘You must take two horses in the morning,’ Maria replied. ‘My son Cosimo was out hunting all day and is already asleep, but he will saddle them for you at dawn.’
‘Most kind,’ Aldo said.
A pretty young maid appeared beside Maria. ‘Simona, prepare rooms for our guests.’ The maid nodded before hurrying away. Maria smiled at both men. ‘You probably haven’t eaten all day. When you’re ready, Simona will show you to the kitchen. Afterwards, there is something I wish to discuss with you, Aldo.’
It was the cold nights that most made Constable Carlo Strocchi miss the comforts of home. In the village where he’d grown up, a person could always find a welcome and a warm fire to banish the cold from their bones, even on the most wintery of evenings. But after his father died from a long and lingering illness, Strocchi’s lack of talent and enthusiasm for working on someone else’s farm had prompted him to leave the countryside. Now, after seven months in Florence, he was learning to tolerate the city. He might even like it one day, but it could never truly be home. There were certainly few comforts for those patrolling it after dark.
Strocchi stamped his boots on the trampled dirt of the street, blowing into cupped hands before rubbing his palms together. Major roads inside the city were wide and laid with stone, shallow channels running along them for waste. But away from the likes of via Largo, the narrow backstreets and connecting alleys were packed earth, which turned to mud part of the year and dust the rest. Standing still here too long in winter was asking the chill to have its frozen way. The sound of pissing nearby was not making the wait any warmer.
‘Haven’t you finished yet?’
‘Almost!’ an enthusiastic voice replied from a dark alley.
Strocchi looked up through the narrow gap between buildings at the sky. Stars, they were something else he missed from home. There a person could stand outside at night and see all the heavens above, those tiny points of light in the blue and black of evening. But in Florence buildings stood two and three rooms high, looming over you, blocking out the stars.
At last fresh-faced Benedetto emerged from the alley, wiping both hands on his hose. ‘Knew I shouldn’t have had another wine. Always goes straight through me.’
Strocchi stepped back from the liquid spreading across the dirt. ‘So I can see.’
‘Where to next?’
‘Via tra’ Pellicciai.’ He strode away, trusting the new recruit had the sense to follow. Benedetto came hurrying after, asking a question. Another one.
‘What’s there?’
‘It’s a short street favoured by men who crave the company of other men.’ Strocchi led Benedetto past the Mercato Vecchio. The stalls and shops had closed long before curfew but would be open again in the morning. ‘Cerchi has a particular hatred for such men. That’s why he insists on us going there.’ Of course Cerchi had a hatred for many things, but the recruit would learn about the officer’s angry ways soon enough.
‘But only night patrols and people with ducal authority are allowed out after dark,’ Bene
detto said. ‘That’s why we have a curfew, to keep people safe during the night. Won’t the street be empty?’
‘If lust drives a man to break God’s law,’ Strocchi replied, ‘then breaking the laws of Florence will be of little concern.’ As he and Benedetto approached via tra’ Pellicciai, Strocchi heard the sound of heavy blows and frail cries of pain. He quickened his pace.
Two heavyset men burst from a side alley and raced away, hooded cloaks hiding their faces. Strocchi sprinted after them, but the two fugitives disappeared into the night, losing themselves in the shadows cast by overhanging buildings. Realizing the pair were beyond catching, Strocchi returned to the alley from where they’d first appeared. Benedetto was staring into the darkness, one hand clamped across his mouth. Whatever he saw was draining all innocence from his cherubic features. Strocchi girded himself before looking.
A woman was sprawled in the shadows, battered and bloody. Her legs were spread apart, the hem of her camora up around her thighs, exposing bruised knees. The rich woollen fabric was soiled by boot marks where attackers had kicked and stamped. Her fingers splayed out at unnatural angles, bent and broken. Her face was worst of all, beaten beyond reason, blood matting her hair. Benedetto staggered away to retch, leaving Strocchi with the victim.
He whispered a prayer before moving closer. The camora was a dress of quality, fine embroidery evident even in pale moonlight. The bodice flattered her slight build. It was a garment made to draw the eyes of lustful men – the dress of a courtesan. But she looked young for a courtesan, twenty summers at most.
Strocchi leaned nearer to the woman to study her bruised, swollen features, hoping he might recognize what was left of her – and she gasped in air! The shock of it rocked Strocchi back on his haunches. The victim had seemed dead, still did from any distance. But up close the faintest movement of her breathing was visible.
‘Benedetto! Benedetto, get over here!’
The young constable stumbled back into the alley.
‘She’s alive! We need to get her to a doctor – now!’ But Benedetto stayed where he was, hands flapping like a fish pulled fresh from the Arno. ‘Bang on doors till you find someone to help.’ Still Benedetto didn’t move, his gaze on the victim. ‘Go!’
Benedetto pointed at her. ‘Sh-she’s talking.’
He was right. The victim’s lips were moving, but she made no sound. Strocchi threw his cap aside, lowering an ear to her mouth. ‘What is it?’
‘Al—’ she breathed. Strocchi shifted his head to stare into her eyes.
‘I’ll find who did this,’ he vowed. ‘I’ll make them pay.’ This close, Strocchi could see just how young she was. Her eyes, there was something familiar about them—
‘Aldo,’ she said at last. Her head slumped sideways and she fell silent.
‘Aldo?’ Benedetto gasped. ‘He did this?’
‘Don’t be a fool,’ Strocchi hissed. ‘Aldo’s still out in the Dominion. Besides, we saw two men. Go find help. Getting this poor soul to Santa Maria Nuovo is what matters now.’
Maria Salviati did not expect to find love again, not while stuck in this crumbling castello, but she missed having someone in her bed. Even when her husband was alive, Giovanni had spent much of their marriage fighting for righteous causes elsewhere. He was a Medici, but from the junior branch of the family. Where his cousins revelled in political intrigue and expanding their fortunes, Giovanni had cared only for ensuring his men were well paid, well treated, and well equipped with the finest armour. That often meant spending his wife’s dowry to support his battles. When he died at twenty-six, little was left behind for Maria and Cosimo.
Ten years was a long time without a husband or his coin, but she had chosen to stay a widow, devoting her time to Cosimo and preparing him for life as a Medici. She would not remarry, and certainly not to the sort of men suggested by her brothers. Maria still shuddered when remembering one of those put forward. Signor Lionelle Pio da Carpi had been at least thirty summers older than her, with a most unpleasant body and rancid breath. It had taken a letter to her uncle, the Pope, asking for his intervention to save her from marrying da Carpi. That was a favour she could only call upon once, but it had been worth using.
Once Levi went to bed, Maria dismissed Simona for the night. Aldo remained in the kitchen, warming his legs by the fire. He looked more sinew than muscle, long of limb and lean of face. Time was adding silver to his dark hair and creasing his features, especially around those ice-blue eyes. But little else about him had changed in the many years since she’d seen Aldo last. He must be closer to forty than thirty, yet he had not surrendered to indulgence. That jawline remained strong and resolute, while his shoulders were broad and his waist narrow. Aldo could still turn a mature woman’s head, if he wished. Maria filled his cup with more wine, pulling a chair close.
‘It gets cold here at night,’ she said. ‘Worse in the winter.’
Aldo nodded, his face giving nothing away.
‘Giovanni favoured you of all those who rode with him.’
‘He was a great leader. We would have followed him to death.’
‘He believed you’d become a great condottiere yourself.’
‘In that, he was wrong – I prefer not to lead.’
‘You’d rather others showed you the way,’ Maria said, resting a hand on Aldo’s thigh.
‘Signora Salviati—’
‘We’ve known each other a long time, Cesare. You may call me Maria, if you wish.’ Her hand slid further up the firm, muscular thigh to cup his groin – but found no response there. She gazed into his face, searching for answers. Was it her advances that failed to excite him? Or did he prefer another kind of company? He’d paid no attention to Simona earlier, and she was a comely young thing. The discomfort in his eyes confirmed the suspicion.
‘Forgive me,’ he said. ‘An old wound means I’m unable . . .’
‘Please, say nothing more of it.’ Maria removed her hand, settling back in the chair. She knew his excuse was a lie, designed to preserve her dignity and shield his nature. So, no woman would turn Aldo’s head. In her younger days that might have been shocking, but she had seen enough of the world to know better. Besides, such secrets could be useful.
‘You had something to discuss with me, signora.’
‘Yes. My son Cosimo is a young man of considerable promise. I’ve fought to see him schooled in letters and diplomacy. He is a true Medici, born within wedlock – unlike some others that I could name. Yet my son is denied his rightful place in Florence because he is not one of the favoured family line.’ There, it was said. Years of frustration, poured out to a passing acquaintance. It was a risk, but she had the upper hand here – so to speak.
Aldo put down his wine. ‘I understand your concern, but what would you have me do? I am a court functionary, nothing more.’
‘You are not part of the nobility, true, but you are still an officer of the Otto. That gives your words and actions consequence – even importance, in the right circumstances.’
‘My word carries no weight in Florentine society.’
‘Perhaps you underestimate your influence.’
Aldo shrugged. Maria wanted to slap him, to threaten him with what she now knew. But that would achieve nothing beyond making an enemy of someone who might be useful.
‘I’m waiting on a letter,’ Maria continued. ‘If I receive the response I hope, then my son could soon be going to Florence to prepare for his future. It would help to know he had an ally in the city, should he ever need one. Please. If my husband’s memory means as much as you claim, then you must be willing to help his son.’
Aldo hesitated before nodding. ‘Very well. I’ll do what I can, signora.’
‘Thank you.’
He rose from the chair and limped towards the door, favouring his left leg. ‘One last thing,’ Maria called after him. ‘In the morning, Cosimo will help you with the horses. Please, talk to him about his father. Tell him . . . tell him the good stories.’
>
Aldo gave a wry smile. ‘With Giovanni dalle Bande Nere, all the stories are good.’
Chapter Three
Monday, January 1st
Aldo woke early in the cold castello. The temptation to linger in a warm bed held little allure, even in winter – sleeping men made easy targets. Rising before dawn gave a better chance of surviving the day. He pulled yesterday’s clothes back on, nose wrinkling. Both the tunic and hose stank of too long on the road, but his change of clothes had been carried away on the lost horses. He could have asked Signora Salviati for replacements, but knew borrowing further from her was not wise. Bad enough they were accepting fresh horses. She might only be a Medici by marriage, but the family expected its debts to be settled, one way or another.
After emptying his bladder, Aldo searched for the stables. The castello had seemed careworn at night, but dawn revealed how decayed it truly was. Broken shutters hung across openings, and everywhere plaster was crumbling. No wonder the signora wanted her son’s star to rise in Florence. They would not survive much longer in a home fast becoming a ruin.
The stable housed a handful of horses. It was obvious someone cared for the animals; they were in good shape. A young man strode in, full of easy confidence, nodding to Aldo before ensuring each horse had water and fodder. Aldo watched him work, appreciating the assured movements. Cosimo Medici was certainly his father’s son: he had the same piercing, intelligent eyes; that noble brow and firm jaw; and an obvious affection for animals, treating them with love and respect. Cosimo was still young, seventeen summers at most, with only a few wisps of hair on his chin and below his nose. But the taut physique showed a love of being outdoors. In that he resembled another young man Aldo had known long ago. Vincenzo lived for the countryside as much as he’d lived for pleasure. It was what had made him . . . Aldo frowned. That had been a different time, a different place. Little good ever came from digging into broken feelings, or broken promises. Let the past be the past.