by D. V. Bishop
‘Who’s this witness?’ Aldo demanded as he and Strocchi left Palazzo Ruggerio.
‘Corsini’s landlady. I went to see her again after what Zoppo told us.’
‘And she’s made a denunzia against the Bassos?’
‘I think she will. In time.’
‘You think she will?’ Aldo stopped. ‘She refused, didn’t she? Do you realize how much danger you’ve just put her in?’
‘I didn’t name her.’
‘You didn’t have to. The Bassos know where Corsini lived, and who saw them that night. Sooner or later, Ruggerio will send his men to make sure she doesn’t talk.’
Dismay consumed the constable’s face. ‘Santo Spirito. I didn’t . . . It was Ruggerio, he was so . . . He knew we couldn’t prove . . . Sir, I’m sorry—’
‘Don’t waste my time with apologia,’ Aldo said. ‘Take that landlady to somewhere that’s safe. Drag her into the Podestà if you have to, but get her away from that house.’
‘And if she refuses? Signorina Mula’s a stubborn woman.’
‘Then you’ll have to stay there with her.’
Aldo left word with the Podestà he would be at via dei Giudei, before marching south. Strocchi’s mention of a small fortune before their meeting with Ruggerio had brought a realization. Levi was not the only moneylender in Florence. The plotters had almost certainly approached others, and Aldo was willing to wager that Sciarra would be near the top of their list. If Sciarra could identify Lorenzino or Scoronconcolo as one of the men seeking the loan, it would be proof that the conspiracy was rooted deep inside Palazzo Medici.
Aldo crossed Ponte Vecchio, pushing through the butchers and their customers, careful to avoid the fish sellers at the southern end. From there it was a brisk stride to Sciarra’s house. Many moneylenders ran their business from the Mercato Nuovo, but it was still early so it was likely he would be home. When Aldo reached Sciarra’s door he could hear movement inside. He demanded Sciarra come out, battering at the sturdy wood. Soon neighbours were looking out of their windows and doors to see who was making so much noise.
‘I’m here from the Otto di Guardia e Balia,’ Aldo shouted, nodding to those watching. ‘Sooner or later you’ll answer my questions. We can do it here, or at the Podestà.’
‘This is a Jewish commune,’ Sciarra hissed through the door, ‘you have no authority here.’
‘Before he left to visit his sister, Avraham Yedaiah told everyone to help the Otto find who killed Samuele Levi. Only those with something to hide have refused.’ That brought whispers from those watching. They all knew Sciarra and Levi were rivals.
‘I didn’t kill anyone,’ the moneylender protested. ‘I’ve nothing to do with this.’
‘The longer you refuse to help,’ Aldo replied, ‘the more suspicion falls on you. That can’t be good for business.’ No reply. ‘An innocent man has no fear of the truth. A guilty man hides behind locks and doors. Which one are you?’
After a long silence the bolts were drawn back, and the door cracked open, Sciarra peering up at Aldo like a caged animal.
‘Can I come in, or do you want to be questioned out here?’ Aldo gestured at those watching. Sciarra opened the door for him, slamming it shut once Aldo was inside.
The house was fetid, the stench of rotting food and cat’s piss clouding the air. How long had it been since Sciarra last opened a window? Aldo followed him to a dark room, a single lantern providing the only light or heat. The moneylender retreated to a chair, covering himself with a heavy cloak. A cat whined in a nearby basket. ‘Ask your questions.’
Aldo moved the lantern closer to Sciarra, its light revealing a fresh bruise under one eye. ‘Who are you hiding from? An angry client, or somebody else?’
Sciarra shook his head, scowling. ‘I’m not afraid of anyone.’
‘They’ve been here, haven’t they? Was it the Medici cousin?’ No reaction. ‘Or did he send his servant, the one with the hooked nose and the eager blade?’ Sciarra flinched. So, he’d had a visit from Scoronconcolo. ‘Before or after Levi’s murder?’ Sciarra shook his head. Aldo loomed over the moneylender. ‘Was it before or after they killed him?’ Sciarra’s face twisted with guilt or pity or shame – it didn’t matter which.
‘Both,’ he whispered.
That was why Sciarra had come running when rumours spread of Levi’s murder. He knew he could have been the one stabbed, and feared those responsible would return. ‘When did they come back?’ Sciarra shook his head, refusing to answer. In the last day or two, judging by the bruise under his eye. He probably had others, hidden beneath his clothes. Another possibility occurred to Aldo. ‘The last time the Medici servant came, it wasn’t about a loan, was it? He wanted you to translate the Hebrew entries in Levi’s ledger.’
Sciarra shifted in his chair, wincing. ‘I tried to read it,’ he admitted, ‘but I couldn’t make sense of what the fool had written.’
‘And that’s why the servant beat you.’ Sciarra sniffed, and nodded. Aldo stepped away from Sciarra, giving him room. This snivelling little merda could help provide the proof needed to show there was a plot against Alessandro, but convincing him to come forward was going to be difficult. ‘You need to make a denunzia against them.’
Sciarra laughed – a bitter, fearful sound. ‘And end up like Levi?’
‘The Otto can protect you.’
‘From the Duke’s own cousin? You must think me a fool.’
‘So you admit Lorenzino de’ Medici threatened you?’
‘If you say I admitted that,’ Sciarra said, ‘I’ll swear a denunzia against you. I’ll say you were the one who beat me. People will believe that after you forced your way in.’
‘I’m not the person you should fear.’
Sciarra spat at Aldo, but his aim was weaker than his courage. ‘Get out of my house.’
Strocchi was doing his best but Signorina Mula would not listen. Not to him, not to reason, and not to any suggestion of leaving her home. She was even more stubborn than he’d feared, refusing to open the door. ‘You’ve been here again and again,’ she said from behind it. ‘Why can’t you leave me in peace?’
‘Because your life may be in danger.’ Strocchi explained why, keeping his voice low so people in the nearby homes wouldn’t hear.
‘I didn’t see anyone and I can’t describe those intruders,’ Mula insisted. ‘Send anyone you like, I’ll tell them the same thing.’
‘The Bassos won’t be asking questions. We believe they beat and kicked your tenant to death. They’ll do the same to you.’
‘And whose fault is that? Go away. Leave me in peace.’
Strocchi sat down against the door. If the brothers came, he’d be no match for one of them, let alone both. Maybe being a constable of the Otto might deter them. But Mula was right: this was his fault. He had to face the consequences.
She opened the door a few minutes later. ‘You’re still here.’ Mula scowled, pulling her black robes together beneath her chin. Strocchi got to his feet.
‘I’ve orders to protect you,’ he said. ‘Whether you want that or not.’
The signorina was younger than Strocchi remembered, but her sour attitude added years to what must once have been a pretty face. Mula emptied a bowl of dirty water into the ditch outside. ‘Can’t have you out here all day, people will think I’ve broken your heart.’ She opened the door for him. ‘But keep your hands to yourself. I’m a respectable woman.’
Frustrated by Sciarra’s cowardice, Aldo strode along via dei Giudei to question Dante. It was doubtful Lorenzino or Scoronconcolo had gone to Levi’s former partner for coin. But the bruise under Sciarra’s eye was fresh, so the plotters might still be trying to secure their loan.
As Aldo approached Dante’s home, a young man with a stooped back stepped out of the doorway. There was something familiar about his fresh face, that sandy hair. Aldo had seen the youth before, but where? That was it, he’d been begging for alms the previous day. They’d almost collided when Aldo was
following Benedetto to Nardi’s bordello.
The youth smirked. ‘Spare a giulio?’
‘What are you doing here?’
‘Delivering a message,’ the youth replied. ‘I’ve a message for you too, Cesare Aldo.’
Aldo stopped. How did this upstart know his name? He shouldn’t, unless . . . ‘You were the one following me yesterday.’ The youth nodded, still smirking. ‘What’s the message?’
‘A new power is rising in Florence, one that needs capable men. Men who understand the way the world works.’ The youth pulled from his tunic a pouch that sounded heavy with coin. ‘Step aside, let history find its path, and you’ll be well rewarded.’
Aldo had no intention of taking the money but was curious to know the price of his silence. ‘How much? How much is Lorenzino willing to pay?’
‘More than enough.’
‘And if I refuse to step aside?’
‘Then you’ll suffer for it, as others have. Well, what’s your answer?’
‘Tell me your name, and I’ll tell you my answer.’ The youth laughed. ‘What are you afraid of?’ Aldo asked. ‘We both know whatever is happening will take place tomorrow. You said it yourself, if your master succeeds, you will be part of the new power ruling this city. But if he fails, my knowing your name will be the least of your problems. So, what is it?’
The youth hesitated, but only for a moment, arrogance getting the better of him. ‘They call me Il Freccia.’ Nicknaming someone with a stooped back The Arrow was a cruel jibe, but Il Freccia had embraced it. ‘Now tell me, what’s your answer?’
Aldo bent forwards, rubbing both hands against his left knee. ‘It’s a tempting offer, especially for an old soldier whose joints aren’t what they used to be.’ As he talked, Aldo slid one hand to the stiletto in his left boot. But before he could pull it free, Il Freccia had his own blade pressed against Aldo’s neck, sharp metal scraping across the stubble.
‘Touch that stiletto and I cut your throat,’ the youth hissed. Aldo lifted both hands out sideways in the air, palms open. ‘I’ll tell my master that you said no.’
‘Tell him what you like, he won’t succeed.’
Il Freccia slammed the hilt of his blade up into Aldo’s jaw, making him tumble over. As Aldo tried to regain his feet, the youth kicked him in the left knee. Aldo cried out in pain, and the youth strolled away, still smirking. By the time Aldo could stand, Il Freccia was gone.
A wet trickle ran down Aldo’s neck. He touched two fingers to it and they came away red. The blade hadn’t cut him, so the blood had already been on its edge. Il Freccia had come from Dante’s home. Delivering a message, the youth had said.
Aldo called ahead as he staggered to the door.
No answer.
Dante was sprawled on the floor inside, a crimson stain on his chest, blood pooling out beneath him. Aldo rushed to Dante’s side. His eyes were open. ‘Can you hear me?’
Dante opened his lips, but instead of words he coughed crimson. The dark smudges beneath his eyes had gone grey, the skin around them ashen. Aldo snatched a discarded cloth from a nearby table to staunch the bleeding. A sound from outside: someone was coming in. Was Il Freccia returning to finish his work? Aldo pulled the stiletto from his boot.
‘Hello? Is anyone there?’ That voice sounded familiar.
‘In here!’ Aldo shouted. Moments later Benedetto wandered in. His eyes widened at Aldo clutching the stiletto, and Dante’s bloody body. ‘Quick, go and fetch Orvieto!’
‘Orvieto?’ Benedetto didn’t move, his gaze still fixed on Dante.
‘The Jewish doctor, along the road! Say my name, tell him Malachi Dante is dying. Go! Now!’ The recruit backed out of the room, stumbling away.
Dante’s eyes had closed. He coughed more blood, red flecking his face. Spasms took hold of his body, his legs kicking the air. Aldo heard shouting voices and running feet.
‘In here!’ He slid the stiletto back into his boot while keeping the blood-soaked cloth pressed tight against Dante’s chest. Orvieto rushed in with a satchel, his face stricken by worry. ‘Someone stabbed him,’ Aldo said as the doctor crouched by them.
Orvieto nodded, leaning over Dante to listen. ‘He’s still alive.’ The doctor replaced Aldo’s hand on the wound with his own. Aldo stood up, both hands and knees wet with blood. Benedetto blundered back in, his face curdling at the red mess on Aldo’s hose.
‘Is he . . .?’
‘Alive,’ Aldo said, ‘for now. Go back to the Podestà, find the segretario, and tell him another moneylender has been stabbed. Go!’ Benedetto nodded, backing out of the room. Orvieto was muttering under his breath in Hebrew. ‘What is it?’
‘Two of our kind attacked,’ the doctor said. ‘I thought Florence was safe for Jews, so long as they stayed among their own.’
‘Faith wasn’t why Levi or Dante were stabbed. This was about money and ambition. They got in the way of that.’
‘Joshua should be at my home by now,’ Orvieto said. ‘Find him, and send him here. I’ll need his help.’ Aldo nodded, taking a last glance round the room. Two chairs had been turned over, and books were strewn across the floor. Dante had fought with his attacker. That was different to how Levi was attacked. ‘Cesare, please,’ Orvieto said. ‘Hurry.’
Aldo found Joshua knocking at the doctor’s door. The young man looked horrified by the blood all over Aldo, but didn’t hesitate in going to help Orvieto. Aldo went on to the bordello for a wash and change of clothes, his left knee throbbing from where it had been kicked. Il Freccia must have seen him favouring the leg, knew it was a weakness. Robustelli was taken aback by his appearance.
‘It’s not my blood.’
The matrona peered at him. ‘Cesare, when did you last sleep, or eat a meal?’
‘It can wait,’ he said, pushing past her.
‘I’m sending Clodia with food,’ she called after him.
Upstairs Aldo removed both boots and peeled off his blood-soaked hose, throwing them in a corner. The tunic was dark enough to hide most stains, but his face and hands both needed washing. By the time he’d finished and pulled on fresh hose, Clodia was blocking the doorway. She thrust a plate of meat, cheese and bread at him, plus a half bottle of wine. ‘The signora says you’re not allowed to leave without eating.’
Aldo gnawed on the food while Clodia watched, using the time to think. Why had the youth stabbed Dante? He was no threat to Lorenzino’s plans. The only thing he’d done was— Aldo stopped chewing. He’d taken the ledger to via dei Giudei for translation the previous night. Il Freccia must have been following him all that day, staying out of sight. The youth had realized what Aldo was carrying, and told Scoronconcolo or his master. They sent Il Freccia to find out what Dante had discovered in the burnt ledger. Dante was dying because he’d helped Aldo.
Attacking Dante, the attempt at bribery – it all showed how desperate Lorenzino was becoming, what he was willing to do to stall the investigation. Aldo considered taking what he knew to Bindi, but dismissed that notion. It was unlikely the segretario would even listen now after what happened earlier, let alone act on what Aldo knew.
There was still one person who could intervene, one person who could change the course of events. Cibo’s help would not come cheap, but Aldo had little choice left. It was his fault Dante was dying. How many more people had to suffer before there was an end to this? Aldo took a mouthful of wine, and spat it back out – it was too bitter to swallow.
Chapter Twenty
Strocchi hadn’t meant to fall asleep. He withstood as many sharp comments from Signorina Mula as he could before retreating upstairs. Tucked into the eaves, the attic room was at least warm. Strocchi lay on the bed, wondering how long he’d have to stay on guard duty. With any luck, the Podestà would send another constable soon . . .
A loud noise woke him. It sounded like a door being attacked. Mula was shouting. Santo Spirito, the Bassos. Strocchi cursed himself for a fool. He had come straight to Mula’s home, instead of stopping by t
he Podestà on his way for a blade or bludgeon. He scoured the attic for a weapon, finding only a broken chair leg on the floor. It would have to do.
He reached the top of the stairs as Mula’s front door gave way. She fled into the house as two men pushed their way in, hooded cloaks masking both faces. But their size left little doubt about who they were. They had no knives or clubs, but the Basso brothers didn’t need weapons. After offering a silent prayer, Strocchi shouted at them to stop.
The brothers exchanged a nod. One went after Mula, the other came up the stairs. Strocchi stood his ground. Being above should give him an advantage. But as the intruder got closer, fear was clenching Strocchi’s gut. He swiped the chair leg through the air. ‘I’m a constable of the Otto di Guardia e Balia. Attack me and you’ll suffer the consequences.’
The brother stopped, pushing back the hood to expose his slab of a face. A slow smile split his grim features. ‘Only if you live.’
Strocchi’s fists tightened round the scavenged weapon.
The brother stormed up the narrow staircase, two steps at a time. Strocchi swung the chair leg downwards, smashing one of those meaty fists. The crack of bone brought a snarl of rage. Strocchi pulled his weapon back for another hit – and the intruder lunged at him, grabbing Strocchi’s left leg. One sharp tug and he was down on his back, the impact forcing all the breath out, making him gasp for air.
Somewhere below Mula screamed, her cries cut off by the smack of a fist against skin. Strocchi willed himself to breathe in as his attacker clambered the last few steps, nursing a broken fist. ‘You’ll pay for that.’ He grabbed a handful of Strocchi’s hair, lifting and then smashing the constable’s skull into the wooden floor. Pain exploded in Strocchi’s head, dancing before his eyes. Praying for strength, Strocchi kicked out with both legs.
His boots collided with something soft, crushing it. There was a sudden gasp, and a sound like a tree toppling. The intruder went back down the stairs head first, hitting each one on the way. He slid straight to the bottom and slammed into the broken door. Strocchi whispered a prayer to himself: don’t get back up. Please, don’t get back up.