by D. V. Bishop
‘Mama says you rode with my father?’ Cosimo asked while tending to the horses.
‘He was my condottiere before you were born. I owe him much.’
‘I struggle to remember what he looked like, even when I look at his portrait.’ The words sounded more regretful than bitter. What did the son truly think of his father?
‘He died far too soon,’ Aldo said.
Cosimo fetched a saddle from a hook on the wall, nodding at another beside it. Aldo brought the second, helping to put it on a chestnut mare. ‘Mama tells me stories about Papa, but I’ve heard them all so many times. It’s hard to know what’s true.’
‘Ask me. I know some of the truth, what I can remember of it.’
Cosimo tightened the saddle on the mare before straightening up. ‘There’s a tale from not long after I was born. A nurse was holding me at an upstairs window when Papa returned from battle. He shouted at the nurse to throw me down. She—’
‘She refused, but Giovanni insisted, promising he would catch you.’ Aldo smiled. ‘Poor girl, don’t think I’ve ever seen someone so scared.’
Cosimo laughed. ‘So it’s true?’
Aldo nodded. ‘Your father bellowed at her, losing patience. Finally, after praying for forgiveness, the nurse threw you down for your father to catch. And caught you were.’
‘Of all the stories, I was certain that one must be a myth. One of the servants first told it to me when I was a boy, but they claimed my mother was the one who threw me down. Mama says she would never have been so foolish. She always insists it was a nurse.’
‘Myths are stories told too many times. The truth is usually still inside them.’
Cosimo smiled with the unblemished love of a son. Aldo didn’t mention that it was he – not Giovanni – who had caught the baby. Let the young man enjoy his myth.
Reporting to Florence’s ruler was a daily duty for segretario Massimo Bindi. Each morning he waddled to the ducal residence, wearing his thickest woollen cloak to ward off the early chill, hands tucked inside the long wide sleeves for warmth. Bindi preferred sober black or red for his cloak, doublet and hose, colours befitting a segretario. Not for him the vibrant blue worn by some preening merchants, or the lurid hues favoured by younger men these days. Some of them even sported hose with legs of different colours, as if determined to see their stupidity displayed to all and sundry. Peacocks had more sense of decorum.
Bindi passed the Duomo and continued his slow progress north along via Largo, cursing as his boots slid on cobbles left icy by overnight frost. The imposing shape of Palazzo Medici appeared ahead, a hefty monolith of sharp corners and impressive size. Its three levels were all pale sandstone, but the stonework became finer and more elegant on each successive floor. The street level had coarse, rusticated stones with small windows set high enough in the wall to prevent anyone seeing inside. The middle level had smaller stones and numerous arched windows, while the upper level bore the finest stones of all beneath a jutting roof. Merchants sat on the cold benches outside the palazzo, each man hoping for an audience with the Duke, their horses tied to thick metal rings bolted to the palazzo wall. Bindi savoured their envy as he marched straight inside.
The Duke’s administrative segretario was waiting within, as he did most mornings. Francesco Campana ushered Bindi up to the palazzo’s middle level, few words passing between them. Campana was dressed in the traditional black gown of an administrator, the simplicity of his clothes giving little indication of his closeness to the Duke. Bindi knew better than to share idle comments with Campana, whose plain face and reserved manner belied his significance. He was known to have the Duke’s ear when it came to appointments. Should Bindi wish to leave the Otto for another post as segretario, the approval of Campana would be needed to secure a more prestigious and more lucrative position.
Campana escorted Bindi to the private officio of Alessandro de’ Medici but did not follow him inside. Most mornings Bindi’s report was mundane: a brisk summary of cases due before the magistrates of the Otto di Guardia e Balia, if they were sitting that day; a tally of prisoners in the cells at Le Stinche; and an accounting of the court’s current finances. Rare was the day when there were more dramatic matters to report; incidents of violence, sexual depravity or significant civic disorder. There was no need for Campana to be present.
Bindi was master of all he surveyed within Palazzo del Podestà, but he could never relax in Alessandro’s company. The Duke was the most powerful man in Florence and could ask a question about anything at any moment. If the answer dissatisfied him, he could dismiss Bindi from the hard-won position of segretario on a whim. It was terrifying.
Alessandro ignored him at first, too busy laughing with someone else. Bindi did not permit himself to look up until addressed – that would not be proper – but sometimes risked a peek to discover who else was present. Today Alessandro was holding court from an ornate gold chair behind an imposing desk, an armoured breastplate worn over his lavish doublet of black satin. Rumour had it that the Duke owed his thick, curly hair and dark skin to his mother being an African slave. Some even dared call him Alessandro the Moor, but not to his face – not unless they wished to end their days in Le Stinche.
To the Duke’s right lurked his insipid cousin, Lorenzino. The younger Medici was a brooding presence, clammy and pale. Two years ago Lorenzino had achieved notoriety after beheading four statues in Rome, leading to his expulsion from the city by the Pope. Only Lorenzino’s youth – he was twenty at the time – and family connections spared him a harsher punishment. Now he clung to Alessandro, basking in the Duke’s reflected glory, even after his cousin sided against Lorenzino’s branch of the family in a costly legal dispute. The matter hadn’t come before the Otto, but Bindi knew the relevant court officials. Most men would have broken ties after such a costly betrayal, yet Lorenzino had become even closer to the Duke.
‘Ahh, there you are,’ Alessandro said. ‘We’re looking forward to your report, Bindi.’
‘Indeed, Your Grace?’
‘Of course. It’s a highlight of our day.’ The Duke smirked, and his cousin laughed.
Bindi smiled, accepting this derision with apparent equanimity. Little merda.
‘What delights do you have for us this Monday?’ Alessandro continued. ‘Perhaps a fascinating new case involving pickpockets on Ponte Vecchio?’
‘An amendment to the number of recent arrests?’ Lorenzino chimed in.
‘Or is it an awe-inspiring account of the Otto’s revenues and expenses?’
Bindi bowed his head a moment, masking the anger in his eyes. ‘My apologies if these daily reports are too dry, Your Grace. I could submit them on paper, if you prefer?’
The Duke made a grand gesture with both hands. ‘Bindi, we wouldn’t dream of denying you the opportunity to thrill us. Please, we pray you – report.’
The segretario did as he was bid, outlining the status of the Otto and its current cases. Alessandro and Lorenzino whispered to one another throughout the recitation, the younger Medici sniggering and sneering in deference to his cousin. Very well. Be like that. Bindi included far more detail than he did most days. It seemed the least he could do in the circumstances for such distinguished nobility. When his report was finally at an end, both men had fallen silent, bored into submission. Never belittle a civil servant.
‘Thank you for that,’ Alessandro scowled. ‘Most thorough.’ Bindi feigned a smile, turning to leave. ‘However, you omitted something. An important matter, in fact.’
‘Your Grace?’
‘An attempted murder, last night, within the walls of Florence. We learned about it via a doctor who came from Santa Maria Nuovo to deliver a tonic for Lorenzino. Why did you not include that in your most fulsome report?’
Bindi froze. If there had been such an incident, he should know about it, he should have been told about it. Could this claim from the Duke be a ruse of some sort? But the mocking tone in Alessandro’s voice and the curl of Lorenzino’s li
p left little room for doubt. Bindi willed the grand marble floor to swallow him whole – without success.
‘Well?’ Alessandro said. ‘You had plenty to report before, have you no reply now?’
‘I . . .’ The segretario opened and closed his mouth, helpless. He shook his head.
‘Then we suggest you find out,’ Alessandro said. ‘Include it in tomorrow’s report.’
Bindi bowed as low as his ample belly would allow before scuttling away. Someone would pay for making him suffer this humiliation. Someone would pay dearly for it.
When Aldo went to rouse Levi, the moneylender was awake, washed and ready to leave. ‘Should I expect any more bandits between here and Florence?’ he asked.
‘It’s possible,’ Aldo conceded, ‘but unlikely. The ringleader from yesterday lost both his men; he won’t have had time to hire any more. And most attacks happen up on the high, narrow passes. It’s why the Bologna road is less dangerous in winter.’
‘Good. I need to get home to my daughter.’
Aldo led the way to the stables. ‘How old is she?’
‘Twenty. Rebecca has looked after me since her mother died.’
‘Then she’s no doubt capable of looking after herself for another few hours.’
‘You don’t have children, do you?’ Levi grabbed Aldo by the arm, stopping him. ‘I promised my wife before she died that no one would hurt our daughter. A young, unmarried Jewish woman in Florence is easy prey for those who would exploit the vulnerable.’
Aldo glared at Levi until he let go. ‘I know what the city can do to the vulnerable.’
Cosimo was waiting with two horses, Signora Salviati by his side. Aldo introduced her son to the moneylender, but Levi was more interested in leaving. Had he not insisted on staying in Scarperia for Shabbat, they’d have been in Florence days ago. But Aldo chose not to raise that again. Changing the minds of those with faith was almost always a lost cause.
Aldo suppressed a smirk as Levi struggled to climb atop one of the borrowed horses. ‘He’s not a natural rider,’ Cosimo observed, joining Aldo by the second horse.
‘Not exactly,’ Aldo agreed. He paused, sensing the young Medici had a question to ask. Cosimo moved closer, his voice hushed so his mother wouldn’t hear.
‘That story you told me about the nurse throwing me down as a baby for my father to catch – was it true?’
‘Every word.’
Cosimo studied Aldo’s face. ‘I’ve been thinking about the way you phrased it. “The nurse threw you down for your father to catch. And caught you were.”’ He smiled. ‘My father didn’t catch me, did he? That was somebody else.’
Aldo hesitated before nodding. Giovanni’s son was no fool. He had all his father’s perceptiveness, and something else too – the cunning of a Medici.
‘If I asked who it was that caught me,’ Cosimo continued, ‘would you tell?’
‘I promised I would not say. Your father is gone, but my loyalty to him remains.’
‘Can we leave?’ Levi called out, at last safely in the saddle. Aldo mounted his own horse, wincing at the pain from his stiff and swollen left knee. Cosimo gave a small nod.
‘Your loyalty to my family is appreciated.’
Aldo rode away from the castello at a slow trot, Levi bouncing along beside. All being well, they should reach Florence well before curfew.
In the ospedale at Santa Maria Nuovo, Strocchi willed himself to stay silent. Never contradict an officer of the Otto, not even a bastardo like Cerchi. But staying silent wasn’t easy, having spent an entire night praying by a bedside for a miracle, only to watch the victim die as dawn approached. It was even harder to keep quiet while Cerchi was stalking back and forth in front of Strocchi and Benedetto, thumbs shoved into his belt either side of an ornate silver belt buckle. It featured a lily, the emblem of Florence. Cerchi had been given the buckle as a reward for helping a prominent merchant avoid prosecution, and had worn it ever since.
‘You’ve made me look a fool!’ Cerchi’s narrow face was crimson with rage, spittle flecking his thin brown beard and drooping moustache. ‘The segretario was waiting for me when I arrived at the Podestà this morning, demanding a full report and wanting to know why I’d let him go before the Duke without knowing about this!’ Cerchi stopped in front of Strocchi. ‘All you had to do was send –’ he glared at the trembling Benedetto – ‘this idiot, whatever his name is, to tell me what had happened. Then I could have forewarned Bindi.’
‘Benedetto’s a new recruit, he doesn’t know where you live. And I couldn’t come,’ Strocchi added, before Cerchi could hurl another accusation, ‘in case the victim recovered enough to describe the attackers.’
Cerchi couldn’t deny the truth of Strocchi’s words. Instead, he snorted like an angry bull stuck behind a locked gate before asking a question. ‘Do you know how shit travels?’ Strocchi fought to urge to reply with the first words that came into his head. ‘Down, it travels down,’ Cerchi snarled. ‘The Duke shit all over Bindi because of this mess. The segretario then shit all over me. So, from now on, I’ll be shitting all over you two. Understand?’
Strocchi nodded, his gaze fixed on the floor.
Cerchi shoved him aside to see the body. ‘Who is she exactly?’ The constables exchanged a wary glance. Cerchi pulled down the sheet, exposing the beautiful, bloodied gown still clinging to the victim. ‘She’s obviously some merchant’s wife. Either that, or a courtesan. If she is somebody’s wife, her husband will come looking for her. If she’s just a courtesan, another puttano should recognize this dress.’
Strocchi hesitated before replying. ‘In most cases you’d be right, but—’
‘What do you mean?’
‘—but this victim isn’t female.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ Cerchi insisted. ‘She’s wearing a dress!’ He pulled the fabric up to expose the groin, and lurched back in surprise at the proud maleness there.
‘The doctor examined the victim to see if she had been . . . forced,’ Benedetto said, blushing with embarrassment. ‘That’s when we discovered she is – was – a he.’
‘Yes, I have eyes,’ Cerchi snapped. He gestured at the victim’s groin. ‘Cover that up!’
Benedetto blundered forwards to help, kicking a bowl of bloody water over Cerchi’s legs in the process. Strocchi had to bite his tongue to keep from laughing as Benedetto bent to dry Cerchi’s brown hose.
‘Get away from me,’ Cerchi hissed. ‘What idiot left that bowl there?’
‘It’s my fault,’ Strocchi volunteered. Benedetto was in enough trouble already. ‘I was washing the victim’s face to see if I could recognize who it was. The face looked familiar last night, but now the features have swollen—’ He stopped, staring at the exposed legs lying on the bed. There was an angry red birthmark on the right calf.
‘Well? What is it?’ Cerchi demanded.
Ignoring him, Strocchi moved closer to study the victim’s face. The eyes were still open. Yes, it was him. ‘This man was in the cells last week. We arrested him after you ordered us to arrest anyone visiting via tra’ Pellicciai after curfew.’
‘Quite right,’ Cerchi scowled. ‘The depraved men who use that street, looking for their next cazzo to suck – they should all rot in Le Stinche.’ Benedetto nodded along, either in agreement or appeasement. Neither was a pleasing quality. ‘So what’s the pervert’s name?’
‘Corsini – Luca Corsini.’
‘Well, he got what he deserved. Sodomites are a plague on the good name of this city, but dressing as a woman to trick other men – that’s beneath contempt.’ Cerchi’s face soured further. ‘His kind deserve no justice. Whoever killed him did the court a favour.’
‘Murder is murder,’ Strocchi insisted, ‘no matter the victim.’
Cerchi jabbed a finger at the constable’s chest. ‘Are you questioning my judgement?’
‘No sir, of course not, but—’
‘But nothing. Let the good sisters bury this pervert and that can be
an end to it.’
Strocchi didn’t trust himself to respond wisely.
Benedetto was less hesitant. ‘Won’t the segretario want a report?’ Cerchi rounded on him but Benedetto kept talking. ‘You said that Bindi was demanding more information. Won’t he want your report?’
Strocchi hid a smirk. Perhaps the new recruit wasn’t so shallow as he first appeared.
Unable to refute the facts, Cerchi claimed the suggestion as his own. ‘Much as the city might wish an end to such perversions, there is still a murderer at large—’
‘Two murderers,’ Strocchi said. ‘We saw two men fleeing.’
Cerchi chewed on his moustache, knuckles whitening at his sides. ‘Anything else you’ve forgotten?’ He peered at both constables, eyes narrowing. ‘Any other details?’
‘The victim did say one word to us,’ Benedetto replied. ‘It was a name: Aldo.’
That caught Cerchi’s interest.
Aldo eased back on the reins as his borrowed horse crested the hill. Spread across the valley below was Florence: a jumble of grand palazzos and humble hovels, bustling marketplaces and quiet piazzas, churches and workshops, all elbowing one another for room. Above them loomed the Duomo, terracotta bricks divided into curving vertical segments by columns of pale stone, keeping a proud watch amid the plumes of smoke billowing from the city’s chimneys.
A high wall guarded Florence from outside attack. To the east, the Arno shimmered before disappearing into the city. The river emerged again to the west, bound for Pisa and the Ligurian Sea. Farms and orchards lined the road down to the northern gate, producing food for the sixty thousand souls inside the city.
‘Why are you grinning?’ Levi asked as his horse stopped beside Aldo.
‘Good to be home.’
‘We’re not there yet.’
Aldo leaned back, smacking Levi’s horse on the rump. It cantered down the road with the moneylender bouncing in the saddle, protesting all the way. Aldo urged his own horse forwards, catching up with Levi as they neared Porta San Gallo.