by D. V. Bishop
‘There’s still time.’
‘For what?’
‘One last chance to tell the truth,’ Aldo said. ‘Who wants you dead, and why?’
The moneylender stayed silent, staring straight ahead.
‘A debtor who finds it cheaper to have you slain than pay what they owe, or a rival eager to cut the competition?’ No reply. Aldo snatched the reins from Levi’s grasp, pulling both horses to a halt. ‘My protection ends once you pass through that gate. Tell me who or what it is you fear, and maybe I can help you – or your daughter.’
Levi hesitated before giving Aldo a thin smile. ‘Thank you for getting me here, but I have few doubts about my safety inside the city.’ He tugged the reins free and his horse trotted towards Porta San Gallo. Aldo scowled. He’d spent five days and nights with Levi, yet was no closer to knowing the moneylender or his motives.
Chapter Four
It took Strocchi hours to find a true address for Corsini. The Otto’s records revealed several arrests of him in recent months: petty theft, pickpocketing and indecent acts. But the accused gave a different address each time, forcing Strocchi to eliminate them all. After narrowing the list to a single address in the city’s southern quarter, Strocchi persuaded Cerchi to come with him to the dead man’s last home.
‘We’re wasting our time,’ Cerchi complained as they crossed Ponte Vecchio, picking a path through the blood and rancid offcuts spilling from the butchers’ shops that lined the bridge. ‘Corsini was obviously killed for soliciting someone disgusted by his sodomite ways.’
‘We saw two men fleeing via tra’ Pellicciai. Why would he proposition two men?’
‘Probably wanted a cazzo at both ends,’ Cerchi scowled. ‘His kind like that.’
Strocchi ignored the comment, guiding him right as they left the bridge. ‘There could be another reason. The way Corsini was attacked, that many blows to the face – as if they were trying to destroy who he was. It was only by chance that I recognized him.’
Cerchi shrugged, his lack of interest putting an end to any further debate. It made for an uncomfortable silence as they marched alongside the Arno, but that was better than listening to Cerchi sneering at the vices of others. As if he was without sin.
Oltrarno was the quarter of Florence that Strocchi had yet to explore fully. It had few of the grand palazzos seen elsewhere in the city, though some buildings still had an old tower, stretching up like stone sentinels above the roofs of humbler wooden houses. Oltrarno was home to many Florentine artisans and skilled craftsmen, living alongside those whose days were spent dyeing fabrics and tanning skins for merchants to sell. Corsini’s last address was down a forlorn, neglected alley west of the last bridge. The sun never touched these stone walls, and the packed dirt pathway stank of stale piss and boiled brassica water. The stench would be unbearable in summer. For once Strocchi was almost grateful for the cold.
‘This is the place.’ He banged on a door. Most of the other buildings were neglected, but this one showed signs of care. Whoever lived there had not abandoned hope. Not yet.
Another hammering brought feet stomping to the door. It swung open, revealing a sour-faced woman dressed from head to foot in black. Her teeth were yellow and broken, but her shoulders remained proud and her back firm. ‘What took so long?’
‘You’re expecting us?’ Strocchi asked.
‘I made my denunzia this morning. The constable at the Podestà said he’d pass it on to an officer called Cerchi.’ She sighed. ‘You don’t know what I’m talking about, do you?’
Strocchi noted how Cerchi was avoiding her gaze, suggesting he had been given the complaint but ignored it. Any citizen could make out a denunzia accusing someone of a crime. The document could be signed or remain anonymous if the complainant believed they would be in danger if their name became known to the accused. Cerchi ignoring a denunzia was typical. He was always eager to pass judgement on others, but slow to help anyone besides himself. Strocchi pressed on.
‘We’re looking for where Luca Corsini was living, Signora . . .?’
‘Signorina,’ she corrected. ‘Signorina Mula. What’s happened? Is he dead?’
This woman was quick. The Otto should employ her instead of Cerchi.
‘What makes you ask that?’
Mula gestured at a narrow staircase behind her. ‘I haven’t seen my tenant since yesterday, but I caught two men up in his room last night, searching for something.’
‘Can you describe them?’
She hesitated, before shaking her head. ‘It was too dark, and they were wearing cloaks with the hoods up over their faces. I told all of this to the constable.’
Strocchi nodded. Nobody paid her any attention, even when she reported a crime. Florence could be a cruel city. ‘Did they take anything?’
‘Not that I saw.’ Mula jerked her head at Cerchi. ‘Doesn’t this one say anything?’
‘I speak when there’s something worth saying,’ Cerchi snapped.
‘Then you must be silent a lot.’ She stepped to one side. ‘See for yourselves.’
Cerchi pushed past her. Strocchi followed, mouthing an apology on his way by.
The victim’s room was an attic, tucked into the eaves. A bed took pride of place, facing the only window. The few pieces of furniture were tipped over or broken, contents strewn across the wooden floor. Male and female clothes were everywhere – dresses, blouses and expensive embroidered undergarments mingling with waistcoats, caps and discarded hose. An ornate coat splayed across the bed, its vibrant red lining torn out.
‘The intruders were definitely looking for something,’ Strocchi said. ‘It’s not chance that this happened the same night Corsini was left for dead.’
Cerchi shrugged, making as little effort as possible to help. He picked at the male garments with only a thumb and forefinger. Strocchi worked his way from one side of the room to the other. It didn’t take long for Cerchi to get impatient. ‘Let me know if you find anything useful,’ he said, stalking from the attic. ‘And don’t waste all day in here.’
Strocchi heard Cerchi arguing with Mula on the way out. She didn’t sound happy, but few did after encountering him. Still, it prompted an idea. If the landlady had interrupted the intruders, they probably hadn’t found what they sought. That meant it was still in the attic. But an hour of effort revealed nothing more than the dead man’s love of rich undergarments and shoes – gifts from admirers, no doubt. How long had Corsini been dressing as a woman to find fresh clients? None of the Otto’s records mentioned him being arrested in female attire.
The attack took place after curfew on Sunday. Courtesans often used the communal mingling after mass to entice new men. Had Corsini done the same, and brought home a client with a violent streak? No, that didn’t make sense. The attack was by two men, north of the river and after dark. But it might be worth questioning other courtesans in case any recalled seeing the female Corsini at mass.
Content at having a new lead, Strocchi did his best to tidy the attic before leaving. As he put a small table back on its legs, there was a creak from underneath. The floor was made up of long, wide boards but one section under the table was a short length – tricky to spot in daylight, let alone after dark. Strocchi prised at the shortened section with his nails and found a snug hiding place beneath it. Inside were a few pieces of jewellery – little more than trinkets, truth be told – and a slim, leather-bound book.
Reading was not easy for Strocchi, though it had improved from having to search the Otto’s dense, closely written records. Thankfully, this volume had large, flowery writing. But the words! Graphic descriptions of copulations and penetrations and . . . Living in Florence had broadened Strocchi’s knowledge of the world, but he still felt such an innocent at times. Far more innocent than Corsini, it seemed!
Each page described a different encounter, a new visitor. Corsini wrote about their urges, inventing names for them: Tickleballs, Bentprick and Horsecock. A simple code rated endowment and abiliti
es – Horsecock scored well on length, but less for technique. Corsini had been quite an artist too, sketching a likeness of each man’s face and cazzo.
None of the men had their true names mentioned, but Strocchi recognized one of them from the sketch and Corsini’s gushing, gossipy writing: ‘Bentprick loves to brag while I kneel between his thighs sucking him. How many ships he uses to bring woollen cloth from Flanders and France, how bold he is compared to his rivals. I think he counts the ships out loud to extend his pleasure – mostly it just gives me a sore jaw! But he’s promising me the most gorgeous new giornea, so I let him brag.’
Bentprick could only be Agnolotti Landini, an importer of foreign cloth and a much-feared force in the Arte di Calimala, the guild of cloth finishers. In one of his first tasks as a constable, Strocchi had been to Landini’s workshop after a foreman stabbed a worker in a dispute. Landini was there too, but seemed more concerned about a lost day’s work than the fate of either man. He had several large moles on his face, making him easy to recognize in Corsini’s drawing. There were others in the diary that sounded and looked familiar. Had Corsini become a favourite among powerful men? Was he – or she, sometimes – passed from one to another? That would explain the lavish items in Corsini’s humble room.
The lurid details in the diary could destroy a prominent merchant, or at least his reputation. Anyone brought before the Otto for sodomy faced punishments ranging from public humiliation and fines to floggings, imprisonment – and worse. The severity depended on the accused’s age and whether he was using someone else, or being used. Strocchi had heard of men being hanged, their bodies set alight while still swinging in the air, and the ashes flung into the Arno to prevent a Christian burial. More than enough reason for murder.
A scrap of torn paper was caught in the binding. Had one of Corsini’s visitors found himself there, and ripped out the evidence? Strocchi frowned. It was guesswork, but still rang true. Cerchi would have to see the diary. There were two murderers to be found, and the killing deserved a proper investigation, no matter what Corsini did with his time or his body.
The tavern lurked in a narrow road just north of the Arno, in the city’s western quarter. It was little more than a hovel serving dregs, and anyone crossing its threshold craved oblivion, or the women upstairs. Aldo wanted neither. He stopped in the doorway, eyes adjusting to the dark interior. Two men slumped at the bar, while the rhythmic thudding of a bedhead on the floor above broke the dreary silence. At least the cold kept away flies.
A pox-faced cripple hunched in the far corner, nursing a mug of wine. One leg ended at the knee, while a sloppy leer twisted his features. Few of the women upstairs would part their thighs for him, even if he paid double. But Zoppo paid for nothing if he could avoid it.
‘You’ve been staying open past curfew,’ Aldo announced. ‘Again.’
Zoppo shrugged. ‘What the nose doesn’t see, the eye can’t smell,’ he slurred.
Aldo glared at the drunks by the bar. ‘Go. Now.’ Once the men had lurched out, Aldo bolted the door shut behind them. Zoppo straightened, his apparent inebriation gone.
‘Wondered when you’d be back.’
‘Almost didn’t make it back,’ Aldo replied, joining him in the corner. A sniff of the wine in Zoppo’s mug revealed its rancid stench. ‘You got anything better than this?’
A new bottle appeared on the table, accompanied by a crooked smile. Broken teeth pulled the cork free, and a generous glug filled a fresh mug. ‘Only the best for you.’
Aldo took the drink, swirling the liquid round before inhaling. It’d have to do. Besides, he didn’t come for the quality of Zoppo’s cellar. The tavern keeper was a valuable source, with friends among many of Florence’s less law-abiding citizens. Zoppo could find out truths and secrets that were beyond the reach of a court officer – for a price, naturally. When Bindi had ordered Aldo to guard Levi on the way back from Bologna, Aldo wanted to know why the moneylender needed guarding. He’d leave for Bologna before Zoppo could report back, but the question still remained. Guarding Levi had nearly got Aldo killed, and he wanted to know why. ‘So, what did you learn about Samuele Levi?’
Zoppo emptied his old wine onto the floor, startling a flea-bitten cat, before filling his own mug from the fresh bottle. ‘Not much,’ Zoppo admitted. ‘You know the Jews, always keeping to themselves. Can’t say I blame them, the merda gets thrown their way. But I heard a few things. Wife died three years ago, slow and painful, leaving him with a daughter—’
‘Rebecca.’
‘That’s her. Of marrying age now, and pleasant on the eye too.’ Zoppo licked his lips.
‘Never mind her,’ Aldo scowled. ‘Tell me something I don’t know about Levi.’
‘He’s got plenty of enemies but few friends,’ the cripple said, downing his drink and pouring another. ‘Too fond of undercutting his rivals, and he takes on clients most won’t touch. One of the other moneylenders comes in sometimes to drown his sorrows.’
‘Must have plenty of sorrows to come here.’
Zoppo ignored the jibe. ‘Levi has always had enemies, but things fell apart after his wife died. From what I hear, he’s been even worse lately. Shouting at neighbours, cutting off any debtors who can’t make their payments. Levi won’t have a business at all soon if he keeps this up.’ Zoppo raised a hand to stop a question forming on Aldo’s lips. ‘And before you ask, no, nobody knows why the sudden change. Or if anyone does, they aren’t talking.’
Aldo downed the wine, one hand digging in his coin pouch.
‘Paying for a drink?’ Zoppo gasped in mock surprise. ‘This’ll be a first.’
Aldo slapped a fistful of giuli on the table. ‘Spread these round. Levi is hiding something. Whatever that is, it nearly got both of us killed on the road from Bologna. I want to know what he’s concealing, and why.’
Zoppo swiped the coins into his eager right hand. ‘Anything else?’
Aldo rolled up both sleeves. ‘Where do you want it?’
The cripple frowned. ‘Hit the face this time. Visible bruises are always better for the reputation. Besides, one of the girls might give me a pugnetta out of pity.’
Aldo cracked his knuckles. ‘I wouldn’t hold your breath.’
Rebecca Levi smiled. Joshua Forzoni knew she’d never let him inside without Father’s permission – the unlikeliest of possibilities – but it didn’t stop Joshua asking. His warm brown eyes got a playful glint as she chatted with him on via dei Giudei, his lips curving into a mischievous smile. She enjoyed spending time with him, despite what Father thought.
‘Why do you ask the question when you already know the answer?’
Joshua beamed. ‘Because I like seeing you smile before you say no. It makes me think that one day you might say yes.’
His eyes, she could get lost in those eyes. Rebecca punched his arm instead. When he winced, she laughed at him. It was safer.
‘You’re stronger than you look,’ Joshua complained, though with no hurt in his voice.
‘And you’re not as handsome as you think.’ The words slipped out, spoken too fast.
‘So you agree that I’m handsome?’
‘I agree that you think you are.’
Joshua moved closer, his fingers intertwining with hers on the doorframe. The touch of his skin created a warm shiver of excitement. She knew this was wrong, but it felt—
‘What are you doing?’ a voice shouted.
Rebecca pulled her hand free, willing herself not to blush as she turned to face her father. He stomped towards them, a leather satchel tucked under each arm. He’d been away for days. Why did he have to come back now? ‘Please, Father—’
‘You bring shame on our family by flaunting your lust out here in the street. Worse still, to do so with this non-believer—’
‘You’ve no right to say that,’ Joshua insisted. ‘My father may not have been born a Jew but my mother was, and so was I.’
Samuele’s nostrils flared as he quoted the teaching
s. ‘“You shall not give your daughter to his son and you shall not take his daughter for your son; for he will cause your child to turn away from Me and they will worship the gods of others.”’
But Joshua persisted. ‘We were only talking . . .’
Rebecca stepped in between them. ‘Go home, Joshua. This is between Father and I.’
‘But he said—’
‘Go!’
She stared into his eyes, those beautiful eyes, willing him to understand. Instead he looked wounded, betrayed. Still, he maintained respect, bowing to them both as he left. As soon as he was out of sight, Rebecca stalked inside. Her father followed, closing the door. People might hear raised voices, but only a fool shouts at their family in front of the world.
‘Is this how you behave when I am away?’
‘We were talking,’ Rebecca insisted, ‘nothing more.’
‘Has he been inside my house? Has he been in your bed?’
How could Father think such a thing? ‘You know I would never do that. I’m still your daughter, whatever you think of me.’
He shook his head, dumping the satchels on a table. ‘If your mother were alive to see this, her only child, tempting on our doorstep—’
‘We were talking, Father. Talking!’ Rebecca stopped herself, willing the anger inside to settle. Be like a stone in the river, Mother always said, let the water pass over you. It shall get lost in the sea, but all you will be is smoother. Put aside anger and it cannot control you.
Samuele was leaning on the table, his shoulders hunched. The long trip from Bologna always left him exhausted. But this was worse, as if the whole world was pressing down on him. Pride would not let him give way, but what price must he be paying for that?
She went to his side, resting a hand on his gnarled knuckles. ‘Are you hungry? Thirsty, perhaps? I could fetch—’
‘No.’ He pulled his hand away to grapple with the binding on his satchels. ‘You will not see this Joshua again. Put him from your mind. He is not worthy of you, of this family.’