City of Vengeance

by D. V. Bishop

  ‘He says he loves me.’

  ‘That means nothing.’

  ‘And I think I might love him.’

  The hands wrestled with the bindings, but the knots wouldn’t undo.

  ‘Did you hear me, Father?’

  Fingers twisted and tugged, but still the taut ties did not yield.

  ‘I said—’

  ‘I heard you!’ Samuele hurled both satchels across the room. ‘Whatever you think you feel, it shall not be,’ he spat. ‘You are never to see him again. Never!’

  Rebecca could take no more. ‘Why are you being like this? I know something is worrying at you, I hear you pacing every night.’

  ‘Do not talk to me of things you cannot understand.’

  ‘If Mother was here, she would make you see sense.’

  ‘If your mother was here, she’d be ashamed of you.’

  That was too much. Grabbing her shawl, Rebecca strode to the front door.

  ‘Where are you going?’ Samuele demanded.

  ‘Wherever I want,’ she snapped, pulling open the door. ‘When Mother was dying, she made me promise to look after you. That’s the only reason I’ve stayed. But no more.’

  ‘Rebecca, come back here!’

  ‘I wish you were the one who had died!’

  Palazzo del Podestà always put a chill through Strocchi. The tall brick fortress loomed over the surrounding streets, its sparse windows far too high for anyone to see in. Few Florentines went inside by choice. But it was home to the Otto, so Strocchi had no option. Pulling his coat close, he marched through the gated entrance, Corsini’s diary in hand.

  The interior of the Podestà was even colder than the narrow streets outside. Sunshine might brighten the bricks and stones in the high walls, but it never made them any warmer. Ahead of Strocchi was a courtyard with a well at its centre. Cloisters with vaulted stone ceilings stretched round three sides of the courtyard, metal brackets secured to each column for burning torches at night. Beyond the cloisters were heavy wooden doors leading to ground-level rooms. Most were storage areas or cells, but several led to interrogation chambers. Strocchi could hear no screams today.

  On his right a wide stone staircase rose to the middle level, where a loggia led to the court’s administrative area. Aside from the chapel in the north-east corner, it was all Bindi’s domain. Ugh, that man. Fat and bloated as a well-fed spider – and just as poisonous. He was present whenever the Otto sat, advising the magistrates. All eight men were replaced several times a year, as was customary, but the segretario remained a constant presence within the Otto. To cross Cerchi was dangerous; to anger Bindi was far worse. A third level at the top of the Podestà was accessible only by passing through Bindi’s domain, so Strocchi had yet to see it – constables had no reason to go there.

  Strocchi’s gaze scoured the courtyard for Cerchi, but he saw only other constables and a few guards. He glanced up to the second level. Cerchi was there, glaring out from the loggia. Santo Spirito, he was with Bindi. Strocchi considered withdrawing, but Cerchi spied him, and summoned the constable with a gesture. Strocchi muttered a prayer on his way up the stairs, asking the Madonna to watch over him. Miracle of miracles, it worked. The segretario was waddling away when Strocchi reached the loggia. But the scowl on Cerchi’s face was a swift reminder of his early morning promise: shit always travels downwards.

  ‘Let me guess,’ Cerchi snapped. ‘You didn’t find anything in the buggerone’s room.’

  ‘Not in the room.’ Strocchi held out the diary. ‘But this was under the floorboards.’

  Cerchi took the slim book, skimming the pages without bothering to read a word. ‘Doesn’t look much to me.’ He thrust it back at the constable.

  ‘If you look at what Corsini put here,’ Strocchi said, opening the book again, ‘and here – and here – you can see how it might be important.’

  Cerchi sighed, his impatience all too obvious. ‘I’m a busy man, I don’t have time to read every sick word that pervert wrote.’

  ‘It’s an account of all his lovers. Older men, mostly.’ Cerchi’s expression soured, but Strocchi pressed on. ‘Corsini didn’t name anyone, but his descriptions and these drawings are enough to identify several of his visitors. There are some very important men in here.’

  ‘An example, give me an example.’

  Strocchi turned to the page that had first caught his eye. ‘This one, Corsini calls him Bentprick. But the description of a business importing wool from Flanders, and this sketch of the man’s face – that has to be the cloth merchant Agnolotti Landini.’

  Cerchi grimaced. ‘Landini was a magistrate here when I was a constable. Treated us like something to scrape off a boot.’ He peered at the drawing. ‘That does look like him, though – I remember those moles on his face.’

  ‘There are a few others I recognized. Rich merchants, most of them.’

  Cerchi’s eyes narrowed. ‘You think the pervert was blackmailing them?’

  ‘There’s nothing in the diary to suggest that,’ Strocchi replied. ‘It reads more like a foolish boy in love with older men and dressing up. I think this book was where he kept his secrets, things he dared not tell anyone else.’

  ‘If he was extorting money from these sodomites, they would have reason to kill him.’ Cerchi looked down at the courtyard, tapping a finger against his mouth. ‘Well done, Strocchi. Maybe you’re not as useless as I thought.’

  Never had praise tasted so sour. ‘Thank you, sir.’

  ‘I need you to go through that diary, noting all the men inside it. Each one is a potential suspect for the murder of this buggerone. What was his name again?’

  ‘Luca Corsini.’

  ‘Yes, him. He’s the victim here, remember.’

  Strocchi swallowed a bitter laugh. ‘Sir, I would never question your judgement—’

  ‘I should hope not,’ Cerchi interjected.

  ‘—but these men are merchants, not trained killers. I doubt any of them has held a weapon, let alone kicked or beaten anyone to death.’

  Cerchi shrugged. ‘So Landini or whoever paid someone else to do it. They’re still guilty of murder, even if they never got blood on their hands.’

  That morning Cerchi couldn’t be bothered to search the victim’s things, now he was eager to find potential suspects. Why?

  ‘Get to work. I need those names today, and the diary too.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Strocchi headed for the steps, but a last command stopped him.

  ‘Oh, and don’t tell anyone else.’ Cerchi gestured at their surroundings. ‘You know what the Podestà is like. Wouldn’t want any of the suspects hearing about this, would we?’

  Chapter Five

  Aldo strode into the Podestà courtyard, struggling not to favour his left knee. Most of those working for the Otto were limited by their laziness or lack of learning. Being guards was the best they could hope for between wars. But amid the indigent and the idiots nestled a few vipers, men whose ambition helped overcome other flaws. Revealing a weakness to them was asking to be bullied, or worse. Aldo gritted his teeth and kept walking.

  He nodded to Strocchi in passing. An upbringing in the Tuscan countryside had given Strocchi strength of body and spirit. The constable was one of the few working for the Otto to show promise, so Aldo had been teaching him the ways of the city, how to cultivate the likes of Zoppo as sources. Normally Strocchi’s tall back stayed as straight as his morals, but today the constable appeared borne down, a slim, leather-bound book in his grasp. Before Aldo could ask what was troubling him, a sneering voice echoed round the courtyard. ‘You must be upset, Aldo. Your little whore got beaten to death last night.’

  That had to be Cerchi. The man was little more than a bully, but a shrewd, ruthless streak made him dangerous. Aldo spied his fellow officer smirking down from the loggia. If something was amusing Cerchi, that meant trouble. It likely explained what was worrying Strocchi too. ‘What are you babbling about?’

  ‘Corsini. Two men attacked hi
m last night.’ Cerchi swaggered down the staircase. ‘Of course, we didn’t realize the victim was male, at first. The little buggerone was dressed as a courtesan, probably trying to trick good, decent men into filling his bony behind. It was only after the body was examined we found out what the pervert had been doing.’

  Aldo didn’t react, letting Cerchi glory in his own voice. Corsini was a mischief-maker and too fond of a strange cazzo, but otherwise harmless. Why would anyone beat him to death? It was understood – if not accepted – that young, unmarried men needed to sate their lust. Older men did too, married or not, but that was another matter.

  ‘Poor little Corsini didn’t survive the night,’ Cerchi said, reaching the bottom of the steps, ‘but he did whisper one word before the end: your name. Now, why would a dying pervert waste his last breath naming you?’

  Still Aldo didn’t speak, certain there was more. Cerchi was being far too smug. Let him say what he wanted to, get the bile out of his system.

  ‘Then young Strocchi remembered seeing Corsini here, in the cells. He was arrested twice in the last month for luring other men into satisfying his sick cravings.’

  Cerchi seemed fascinated by this. Perhaps it excited him more than he cared to admit? He wouldn’t be the first to turn self-hatred into a crusade against others. Or else he truly was repulsed by the way some men sought their pleasure. Probably the latter, Aldo decided. Cerchi lacked the imagination for anything more adventurous.

  ‘I talked to our guards,’ Cerchi continued, ‘and found those in charge of the cells when Corsini was last brought in. He was due before the Otto but you had him released. No reason given, no penalty paid. You just let the buggerone walk free. That got me thinking.’

  It must have been a new experience.

  ‘Why would an officer of the Otto have a pervert freed? And why would this pervert say that same officer’s name as his final word?’ Cerchi stepped so close Aldo almost gagged on the stench of rancid body odour. ‘Well? What was Corsini to you?’

  Aldo stared at Cerchi’s face, the fervour and avarice behind that drooping moustache and beady eyes. Cerchi had become an officer after throttling a man inconvenient to Bindi. To the segretario, promoting Cerchi was a small price to pay for ending a problematic case. But for Cerchi, becoming an officer of the Otto was the gateway to countless bribes and rewards. Worst of all, it gave Cerchi power. That made him dangerous, if nothing else.

  ‘Isn’t it obvious?’ Aldo asked. ‘Corsini was a useful source. He could get people to tell him things they’d never say to anyone else. That’s why I had him released. He was no help in the cells. But I warned him it wouldn’t – couldn’t – happen again.’

  Cerchi’s eyes narrowed. ‘What about him saying your name before he died?’

  Aldo shrugged. ‘I’m not the only person with that name in the city.’

  A snort of dissatisfaction.

  ‘Is that all? Or do you need more help to solve your case?’

  Cerchi glared, his face souring by the second. Finally he spat on the stones in front of Aldo before stalking off. Angering Cerchi was satisfying, if not very wise. Aldo knew why his name had been the last word Corsini said, but didn’t feel like sharing the reason with a bastardo like Cerchi. The last time Aldo freed his informant from the cells, he had been blunt with Corsini. There would be no more interventions, no more reprieves from the Otto. If Corsini got himself arrested again, he would have to face the consequences.

  Corsini had fluttered his eyelashes, but without success. Aldo had no interest in young men, nor those who dressed as women to attract a lover. Instead he offered a warning: sooner or later, that fondness for strange cazzo would get Corsini a beating – or far worse. But the young man had been unrepentant. If something like that did happen, he had trusted Aldo would make sure justice was done. That was why his last word had been Aldo’s name. But justice was not so easily found in Florence, not for the likes of Luca Corsini.

  Rebecca hesitated, knuckles clenched in front of the door. She’d been walking and walking, the shawl round her shoulders not enough to keep out the cold. The sun was already hidden behind buildings. A young, unmarried Jewish woman alone outside after dark: it was wrong.

  But what Father had accused her of . . . He was to blame for this.

  Did she really love Joshua? Or had she said that to shock Father, to make him listen? The truth of it would have to wait for another time. For now, she needed a place to get warm, a place to be safe. She knocked four times, her heart pounding. If anyone other than Joshua came to the door, she’d go home. But the door opened and it was him.

  ‘Rebecca? Is something wrong?’

  ‘Father, he . . . He said terrible things to me. We both did, but I . . .’ Words failed her. She wouldn’t cry. Not here, not like this – not in front of him.

  Joshua took hold of her hands. ‘You’re shivering. Come inside.’

  ‘No, I shouldn’t.’

  Joshua put his coat round her shoulders. The scent of him filled her nostrils, woodsmoke and hard work. He stepped out, shutting the door. ‘What did Samuele say to you?’

  Rebecca shook her head, not wanting to repeat those hurtful words.

  ‘Please. Tell me.’

  Shame reddened her cheeks as she repeated Father’s accusations.

  Joshua’s grip on her tightened, his lips becoming a thin line. ‘He had no right.’

  ‘Samuele is my father, he has every right—’

  ‘No. He should treat you with respect, the way that you always respect him.’ Rebecca had never seen Joshua like this. ‘I’m going to talk to him.’

  ‘You mustn’t,’ she insisted. ‘Father didn’t mean what he said. Long days and nights of travelling would make anyone tired and angry. Besides, this wasn’t about me. Something else is worrying him. He snaps at me because he can’t face whatever’s wrong.’

  ‘That’s no reason to hurt you,’ Joshua insisted, shaking his head. He opened the door to call inside. ‘Rebecca Levi’s out here, she needs somewhere warm to wait.’

  ‘Father will calm down,’ Rebecca said. ‘He’ll be sorry by morning.’

  Joshua shook his head. ‘It’s time someone told your father he cannot always do as he pleases. Go inside. I won’t be long.’

  Signora Tessa Robustelli was humming a lullaby to Piccolo when Clodia ran into the officio, her painted breasts bouncing. ‘Come quick, there’s a man who won’t leave,’ the wide-eyed young woman wailed. Typical. Ten minutes until curfew and some fool had chosen their bordello by Piazza della Passera as the place to spill his seed. No doubt he’d come south of the Arno to get drunk and was now too far gone to stagger home.

  Robustelli scooped up her tiny dog and strode out to confront this fool, Clodia close behind. The bordello was humble, a plain wooden building with two levels, pressed between grander stone houses. Given the chance, the families living either side would happily have driven Robustelli and her women out. But there’d been a bordello at Piazza della Passera for decades, and she’d no intention of that changing. It was three minutes’ walk south-west from Ponte Vecchio, a most convenient location. It gave a safe place for everyone who lived here. What happened inside these walls was legal, so long as they observed the laws enforced by the Office of Decency. Besides, it was home. ‘What does this man look like?’

  ‘Tall. Unshaven. Tired. He looks old. Even older than you, signora.’

  Robustelli rolled her eyes. To Clodia, anyone over twenty-five was grave fodder.

  ‘Did he ask for anyone in particular?’ Robustelli asked. Most regulars had favourites. Some favoured Elena, who always appeared innocent, even as she straddled a cazzo. Matilde from the Low Countries was popular because she had a wicked way with her hands. Clodia was new and that always excited men, even if her painted breasts took some getting used to.

  ‘No, signora. I think he might be asleep. Or dead.’

  That was the last thing they needed. Explaining a dead body to the Office of Decency was always a ni
ghtmare. The court’s officials turned a blind eye to most things, if their vision was clouded with enough coin. But a corpse was too much, even for the greediest of them.

  Robustelli paused outside the doorway. A sound like someone dragging stone answered one question: the visitor lived, though his snoring could wake the dead. Piccolo whimpered at the cacophony. Robustelli handed the dog to Clodia before marching inside.

  ‘Cesare Aldo, I should have known it was you – wake up!’

  The man slumped across the cushions continued snoring.

  ‘Wake up!’ Robustelli kicked the tall, rangy figure. Aldo’s piercing eyes snapped open, a hand reached for the stiletto in his boot. ‘No need for that,’ she said. Piccolo jumped from Clodia’s hands and scampered across to lick Aldo’s face. ‘You’re home.’

  He waved the dog away, struggling to a sitting position. ‘Must’ve fallen asleep.’

  Robustelli ushered Clodia forwards. ‘This is Cesare Aldo, an officer for the most powerful criminal court in Florence. Aldo, this is Clodia. She’s new, down from Milan.’

  Clodia covered herself with both hands. ‘He enforces the law?’

  ‘In his way,’ Robustelli replied. ‘But don’t worry, Aldo won’t arrest you – he lives here. His room is upstairs, the one at the back.’ She smiled. ‘Aldo is a rarity – a man with no interest in women. He doesn’t give us any trouble. In fact, having him here helps keep most trouble away.’

  ‘I see,’ Clodia said, her voice suggesting otherwise.

  ‘Don’t worry your pretty head about it,’ Robustelli insisted. ‘Off you go – and take Piccolo with you.’ Clodia collected the dog on her way out.

  ‘Not troubled too much by thinking, that one,’ Aldo observed.

  ‘We could charge more if she could think.’

  Robustelli studied Aldo. Five days on the road had aged his face five months, but she kept that to herself. Enough years on her back had taught Robustelli that most men valued compliments over truth. ‘Drink?’

  ‘Not tonight. Sleeping in my own bed is all I need.’ He shuffled to the doorway, a hand rubbing the side of his left knee. ‘But you can do something for me.’