City of Vengeance

by D. V. Bishop

  Joshua rolled over in her bed, one arm hanging over the side, his nose pressed into the pillow like a child. He was a good man, she was certain of that – but was it enough? Father had forbidden her from being with Joshua, yet never gave any reason for that beyond matters of faith and birth. Were those enough to deny the feelings growing inside her for this man?

  She was falling in love with Joshua. There, she had admitted it to herself. Should she stay with him, and become his wife? That would be breaking with Father’s final wish, knowing that the shame and guilt of doing so would haunt her for years, perhaps forever. Or should she accept her cousin’s offer and move to Bologna, a city she had never visited? Give up everything and everyone she knew here in Florence for the hope of another life, a better life? Whatever she chose, it would mean stepping into the unknown. And that was terrifying.

  Aldo woke in more pain than he’d known for years. Someone must have put a block of stone inside his head during the night – it was the only way to explain the dull thudding that met each tiny movement. Shackles bound his wrists and ankles, rough metal edges rubbing and grinding against the skin. Every part of him was stiff and sore in the bitter cold.

  He hadn’t seen much of Le Stinche when the guards brought him in, still reeling from Cerchi’s cudgel. A dark blur of scowling faces and muttered threats were all Aldo could recall. A gruff voice ordered him thrown into the cell for the condemned. That explained why there was nobody else in the cramped chamber, no bedding on the frozen earth floor.

  Aldo touched two fingers to his battered head. White stars burst across his vision, even with both eyes closed. When the pain settled back to a dull throb, he peered round the cramped cell. Cold stone walls enclosed a space just big enough to store two coffins side by side. Pale daylight spilled in round the edges of the cell door, revealing a floor of dirt and broken stones. The stench of stale piss left little doubt where the latrina was. Pulling down his hose wasn’t easy in shackles, but worth the effort to empty a bladder close to bursting. Palle, he was thirsty.

  Aldo tugged his hose back up as a jangle of keys heralded the door opening. Murky dawn light poured in past a burly guard. ‘Captain wants to see you.’

  Aldo held out his shackled wrists. ‘Get there quicker if you take these off.’ The guard stomped away, leaving the door open. Aldo shuffled over to look out, stumbling on a broken stone the size of a fist that had fallen from the crumbling cell wall.

  Le Stinche was even bleaker than it looked from the street. Tall walls enclosed the cramped central courtyard, the stones blackened by smoke and damp. Across from the condemned cell huddled a small chapel, a tabernacolo beside it for those in need of swifter salvation. Doorways led off the courtyard into the surrounding buildings, most likely wards for the different inmates. Both men and women were housed in Le Stinche, mainly debtors, but the remaining inmates were convicted criminals, suspected criminals and the insane. Looming over them all on the prison’s northern side was a watchtower, a brooding stone citadel above the main doorway.

  It was early, inmates still in their wards. Outside, dawn was breaking over the city’s piazzas and grand palazzos. Citizens would soon be celebrating Epiphany. Lorenzino and his conspirators were doubtless preparing to strike at Alessandro, whatever form that might take. Aldo almost admired the cunning that had turned him from investigator into suspect. But that same cunning was now free to overthrow the Duke, with nobody to impede the conspirators. If Lorenzino succeeded, it would prove Aldo’s innocence – but plunge Florence into chaos. Enemy armies, anti-Medici exiles and republican zealots would all be eager to fill the void.

  The guard returned with more keys and removed the shackles. Aldo was still rubbing his raw wrists when he was shoved into a cramped room. Behind a plain wooden desk sat Captain Duro, the formidable commander of Le Stinche. A shaved head and grizzled face showed every year of his forty summers, and more besides. Duro sifted through what had been in Aldo’s possession the previous night: the gleaming sharp stiletto from his boot, a pouch for paying bribes and informants, plus papers proving his status with the Otto.

  ‘Not much to show for a life,’ Duro said.

  ‘I don’t carry my whole life around with me,’ Aldo replied. Duro looked past him to the guard. A heavy boot kicked Aldo’s bad knee, collapsing him to the floor.

  ‘Get up,’ Duro said, no feeling in his voice. Aldo reached for the desk, using it to—

  Another kick caught him in the ribs, making Aldo cry out.

  ‘No inmate touches my desk,’ Duro said. ‘Get up, before Bruno kicks you again.’

  Aldo struggled to his feet, one hand nursing his ribs.

  ‘Speak without permission and Bruno will hurt you. Do anything to challenge my authority and Bruno will hurt you.’ Duro looked up. ‘This is my prison. All inmates receive the same treatment, regardless of who or what they once were. Judge, thief, whore or law enforcer, it doesn’t matter. Inside Le Stinche you are an inmate – nothing more, nothing less.’

  Aldo nodded. Past meetings with the prison’s captain had been equally abrasive.

  ‘You’ve no authority here,’ Duro continued. ‘You will abide by the same rules as everyone else. Attack another inmate, and you will be punished. Do so again, the punishment becomes more severe.’ Duro emptied Aldo’s pouch on the desk. ‘This will pay your arrival fee, and for the first night. You’ll need more tonight. If you want one of our better cells, you’ll have to pay extra for that. Assuming you have any coin left.’

  Aldo opened his mouth to make a comment about how gratifying it was to see the prison turning a profit but stopped himself, remembering the warning. ‘What?’ Duro demanded.

  ‘I arrived after dark,’ Aldo replied. ‘Isn’t tonight my first night?’

  Duro ignored the question. ‘You are now in debt to the city. Every day you remain in Le Stinche – every day you stay alive within these walls – increases that debt. Food, water, lodgings – everything has a price here. You could beg for alms from our charitable visitors, but that probably won’t be enough. Family and friends outside can meet your debts, assuming they possess the means to pay. Any other questions?’

  Aldo couldn’t resist. ‘When’s lunch?’

  It was almost worth the pain.

  For once, Bindi had a report rich with incident for the Duke. Yet Alessandro was yawning within minutes. ‘Yes, yes, our cousin told us how he helped uncover this conspiracy. One of your men was behind it, apparently – the same man you recommended to investigate that moneylender’s murder. Do you have an explanation for that, segretario?’

  Bindi dared not look up, not with Lorenzino lurking by the Duke. ‘No, Your Grace.’

  ‘And we understand there’s been a second killing – another Jew?’

  ‘Yes, Your Grace.’ The segretario hesitated. ‘Another moneylender.’

  ‘This isn’t good enough,’ Alessandro said, slapping a hand on his grand desk. ‘The murder of one moneylender is bad for business. The murder of two is bad for the whole city. You promised to catch those responsible. Now it seems they were under your nose!’

  Bindi spluttered a response, but the excuses sounded weak to his own ears. The segretario fell silent, waiting for the Duke’s tirade to resume. Instead, he heard whispering. Lorenzino was murmuring in his cousin’s ear. Bindi leaned closer, straining to hear.

  ‘Your Grace has long wished to become acquainted with a particular young woman,’ Lorenzino whispered. ‘I understand her guardian is away in Naples at present. Now could be the perfect time to meet her. If you wish, I could arrange an appuntamento at Casa Vecchia.’

  Bindi suppressed a sigh of disapproval. Must he witness the Duke and his cousin discussing the latest conquest being procured for Alessandro? The segretario cleared his throat to remind them he was still in the room.

  Alessandro waved a dismissive hand. ‘Thank you, that will be all.’ Bindi bowed on his way to the double doors. But the Duke had one last ignominy to inflict. ‘Now that we think abo
ut it, there is something else you can do. The officer who plotted against us – what was his name?’

  ‘Aldo, Your Grace. Cesare Aldo.’

  ‘He seemed an unlikely sort of conspirator. We want you to look further into this.’

  Bindi noticed Lorenzino’s surprise at this intervention. ‘It was your cousin who swore one of the denunzie against Aldo, Your Grace.’

  ‘True, but there’s something curious about all of this.’ The Duke arched an eyebrow at Lorenzino. ‘Don’t you agree?’ His cousin gave a gracious nod, but Bindi could see a tightness in Lorenzino’s jaw. Alessandro smiled, oblivious to his cousin’s feelings or paying them no heed. ‘Good, then it’s settled. Have one of your officers – your other officers – find out whatever they can about this Cesare Aldo. After all, one man can’t be a conspiracy on his own. If he truly planned to overthrow us, he would have needed help. Hunt down the other plotters, segretario. This is a matter of urgency. You don’t want to disappoint us again.’

  Aldo chose a bench against a wall in the courtyard as his place to watch Le Stinche coming to life. Female inmates emerged first, coming from the women’s ward in the south-west corner. A water-carrier brought them fresh supplies. Male inmates of limited means were next into the courtyard, stumbling from a ward beside the condemned cell, their ragged clothes a sign of the debt that had brought them to Le Stinche.

  Nobody came from the ward in the south-east corner, but sobbing and screams were audible from it. That must be where the insane were kept, hidden from view. Some of the other wards occupied two levels, with windows on the higher floor enabling those inside to look down on the prisoners below. Judging by the quality of their robes, it was mostly merchant families in the upper levels. Le Stinche observed much the same hierarchies as the rest of Florence.

  A few wardens moved between rooms, keeping an eye on inmates, while two guards were visible in the watchtower. There couldn’t be more than one sentry for every ten prisoners, yet there was no sign of trouble between captors and captives. The debtors seemed accepting of their fate, with Le Stinche the price they paid for their mistakes or misfortunes.

  A church bell chimed beyond the high walls, and a guard opened the sturdy wooden door. Visitors ventured into the courtyard, some anxiously searching for friends or family among the inmates. Others had an easy familiarity with what they would find inside. Two distributed food to those most in need; they were probably people atoning for their sins by attending to the needs of prisoners.

  ‘Bread’s always stale,’ a wry voice said. ‘Our visitors want forgiveness, but not so much that they give us fresh loaves. Still, it fills the belly, if you’ve the teeth for chewing.’

  Aldo had wondered when Zoppo’s brother would approach him. Lippo bore a strong resemblance to the tavern keeper, but was missing an arm instead of half a leg. He’d been the best pick-purse in the city – when he still had two hands. ‘What happened to your arm?’

  ‘First night I was in here, another inmate decided I should be his cagna,’ Lippo replied. ‘Show weakness and you become a hole for anyone who wants his palle emptied. I put a stop to that, but didn’t have enough coin to pay the fine.’ He looked at the stump where his right arm used to be. ‘The wardens took this instead.’

  Amputation was an extreme punishment, even in Le Stinche. There must be more to the story than Lippo was telling, but Aldo didn’t pursue it. To survive within these walls meant finding allies, and Lippo was the likeliest-looking candidate so far. ‘About your arrest . . .’

  Lippo gave a shrug. ‘It’s your job – well, it was. Word is you’re in here for plotting to murder the Duke. Apparently you want to free the city from his tyranny and restore Florence to a glorious republic – or something like that. Didn’t know you were political.’

  ‘I’m not. I was –’ Aldo paused, knowing how his words would sound – ‘framed.’

  It took a long time for Lippo to stop laughing.

  Strocchi had spent a sleepless night. The charges against Aldo beggared belief. Conspiring to overthrow the Duke? He’d never shown any interest in who ruled the city. Was the murder of Levi somehow part of this? Striding to the Podestà, Strocchi realized how little he knew about that investigation. All his time had been spent pursuing the men who killed Corsini. Marching through the gates, Strocchi vowed to visit Aldo in Le Stinche once the Basso brothers had been interrogated. At least an end to that case was within reach.

  Strocchi had no wish to use the strappato on either brother, but it might be necessary. Most suspects confessed before guards finished securing the ropes, such was the fear of that infernal device. But the Bassos were muscular and looked familiar with pain – they might not be so easily broken. Once Ugo Basso was secured in the interrogation cell, Strocchi went to find Bindi. The segretario had to approve all uses of the strappato, often attending interrogations.

  Strocchi was crossing the courtyard as Bindi came through the Podestà gates, muttering under his breath. Maybe now wasn’t the time to approach him. But Cerchi didn’t notice the segretario’s mood and stopped Bindi on the stairs. Strocchi wasn’t close enough to hear them, but a jabbing finger was never a good sign. Soon Cerchi was stalking from the Podestà as if chased by wasps, taking two guards with him. Ugo and his brother could wait until Bindi was calmer. Maybe now was the best time to visit Aldo after all.

  But as the constable was preparing to leave, Ruggerio strolled into the Podestà, flanked by two of the Otto’s eight magistrates. The silk merchant was dressed in robes of midnight blue, his head gleaming in the early morning light. Strocchi recognized the magistrates from a recent sitting; both men were members of the same guild as Ruggerio. ‘Ahh, constable,’ Ruggerio said. ‘I would like to speak with my men, if I may.’

  ‘That’s not possible.’ Strocchi chose his words with care. ‘They admitted attacking a defenceless woman and are due to be interrogated about another crime – a murder.’

  Ruggerio waved a dismissive hand. ‘Yes, I know all of that. I’ve already told these magistrates the details. But I believe a brief conversation with my men would avoid the need for any time-consuming interrogations. That would be for the best, I’m sure we all agree.’ He glanced at the magistrates, who dutifully nodded. Of course they did.

  ‘I do not have the authority for that,’ Strocchi said. ‘You’d need to ask—’

  ‘Segretario Bindi!’ Ruggerio called, pushing past the constable. Bindi was watching from the loggia, his gaze no doubt drawn by the unexpected arrival of two magistrates. Ruggerio repeated the request, his words echoing round the courtyard.

  Bindi pointed at Strocchi. ‘Have the Basso brothers moved to the same cell, and put a chair in there for Signor Ruggerio. He’s to have as long with them as he wishes.’

  Aldo watched inmates leaving the small chapel after mass. His head had stopped trying to split open, and slow circuits of the courtyard had put life back into his stiff, sore limbs. A few days of rest and good food would bring a full recovery. But that wasn’t very likely in Le Stinche.

  Lippo emerged from the chapel weeping, aglow with fervour. Visitors were giving alms to the inmates, and Lippo received twice that of anyone else. When there was no more left, he went to the poor men’s ward. Lippo soon reappeared with only a single end of bread.

  ‘You still know how to fleece a crowd.’

  ‘I stole nothing but their hearts, and gave as much as I took.’

  Aldo laughed. ‘What did you give them?’

  ‘The gift of being a good Christian,’ Lippo said, chewing on a crust. ‘They return home believing they’re better people for helping me. Seems a fair exchange.’

  Aldo nodded at the poor men’s ward. ‘Who’d you make payment to?’

  Lippo smiled. ‘Nothing gets past you, does it?’

  ‘Answer the question.’

  The smile faded. ‘This isn’t the Podestà. You’re not an officer of the court any more, Aldo. You can’t make me do anything I don’t want in here.’


  ‘Try saying that to the man who’s got your alms,’ Aldo replied. ‘Who is it? Who runs this place when Duro and his men aren’t looking?’

  Lippo hesitated before replying. ‘Used to be a beast called Riccio, but he was getting old. A new inmate came in two, three days ago. Didn’t notice him at first, but he put Riccio in the ospedale without any wardens seeing. He’s cunning, dangerous – you’d like him.’

  Aldo counted back the days. ‘What’s his name?’

  ‘Carafa – Marsilio Carafa.’

  ‘Merda.’

  ‘Friend of yours?’ Lippo asked.

  ‘He tried to kill me on the road from Bologna. I’m the one who put him in here.’

  ‘Ahh.’

  ‘Yes.’ Aldo took a deep breath. ‘So long as nobody tells him . . .’ Lippo was doing his best to look innocent. ‘You’ve already told him.’

  ‘An officer of the Otto, thrown in here with us? Of course I told him. Didn’t matter, he knew. Probably got it from one of the guards. Santa Madre, the whole prison will know soon.’ Lippo smirked. ‘I’m taking bets how long you’ll survive. Want to make a wager?’

  ‘Isn’t gambling illegal in here?’

  ‘So are brawling, assault, murder, rape, drinking, whoring and plenty more besides. But they all happen. I can get you a blade, for a price. You’ll need one.’

  Aldo shook his head. ‘Nice try. I know the punishment if I’m found with a weapon.’

  Lippo saw something over Aldo’s shoulder. ‘Well, don’t say I didn’t warn you.’

  Aldo turned round, masking the pain that caused. Carafa was strolling towards him, a muscle-bound brute at his side. ‘So it’s true,’ the bandit said, stopping a safe distance away. ‘I didn’t believe Lippo when he claimed you had joined us.’

  ‘Don’t worry, I won’t be here long,’ Aldo replied. ‘I’ll be let out in the next few days – or executed.’ He nodded at the burly figure shadowing Carafa. ‘Who’s your friend?’