by D. V. Bishop
The constable was learning fast. ‘You’ll make a good officer one day, Carlo. And I’m sorry for what I said last night, you didn’t deserve it.’
Strocchi accepted the apology with a simple nod. ‘You were frustrated, we both were.’ He dropped pieces of black bread into the broth. ‘I did learn where Strozzi lives in Venice, but it doesn’t matter now. Seems he’s coming back to Bologna. Took most of our remaining coin, but one of the servants told me Strozzi is leaving Venice this morning. He’s due here tomorrow, bringing someone called the Brutus of Florence with him.’
‘That’s got to be Lorenzino.’ Alessandro’s killer had just ridden to Venice; why was he coming all the way back again so soon? ‘Strozzi must be hoping to convince all the other exiles here in Bologna to join him in funding an attempt to reclaim Florence,’ Aldo said. ‘No doubt he believes the city is vulnerable after what Lorenzino did. But why isn’t Strozzi due back here today? It’s possible to ride from Venice to Bologna in a day with good horses.’
‘Apparently Strozzi finds the journey too much for a single day. He always stops and spends the night at a coach house in a small village called Le Casette, near the Po.’
Aldo smiled. ‘If we ride north-east today, we could meet Strozzi and Lorenzino when they stop for the night.’ He stood up. ‘The sooner we leave, the better.’
Bindi stood outside Palazzo Medici, preparing himself for the ordeal ahead. Days had passed with no call to offer a report to the Duke. Indeed, days had passed when the city had no duke. If the gossip was true, Florence still did not. Instead, the Forty-Eight had seen fit to elect the widow Salviati’s whelp as leader and head of the city.
Cosimo bore the name Medici – legitimately, unlike his predecessor – but giving some pock-faced youth charge of the city was dangerous. The purposes of the Palleschi might be met, but what of the people? What of those who faithfully served Florence? The answer came at dawn, a summons from Francesco Campana. Bring everything about the Duke’s murder, especially the Otto’s investigation. Bindi had gathered what he had, grumbling to himself.
As ever, the city’s latest leader had no grasp of how the Otto worked. First and foremost it was a criminal court, entrusted with the prosecution of particular laws. Yes, it had men to enforce those laws and bring to justice anyone who broke them, but resources were limited. This was Florence, after all, and the Otto was expected to turn a profit. If that couldn’t be done, the court was certainly not allowed to lose money.
Bindi realized he had no idea what to call the new leader. The Duke had been Your Grace, but how did one address the head and leader of a city? He had to hope Campana would be present for the briefing and could offer some guidance. Failing that, Bindi would have to respond as best he could once in the room with the newly elected Medici.
The segretario strode into the palazzo, nodding to the guards by the doors. There seemed little value in having sentries outside if the threat came from within your household, but the need for such a display was understandable. The city’s leader should be guarded, seen to be deserving of protection. The true worth and value of Cosimo to Florence would become apparent – or not – soon enough.
In the courtyard Bindi found Campana arguing with a woman dressed for mourning. The segretario had encountered Signora Salviati twice before, each a bruising occasion. She was a forceful creature, with a stubborn streak that could outlast stone. How much sway did she have over her son? Better not to test that by interrupting them. Bindi caught Campana’s eye and the adviser nodded, gesturing for the segretario to go up. Cosimo was using the same officio as his predecessor, it seemed, but Campana was too busy to attend the meeting.
Bindi made his way along the corridor to the officio. Gaping absences were apparent where rich tapestries and silver plates had adorned the walls and cabinets. So the tales of ransacking and pillaging were true. Fools. Goading a new leader was asking for trouble. Bindi had no intention of making the same mistake.
The segretario knocked at the double doors, and was commanded to enter. Inside was much as it had been in Alessandro’s time, though the imposing desk and throne were absent. Cosimo stood alone in the centre of the chamber, facing away from the doors.
‘Sir, my name is Massimo Bindi, and I’m—’
‘Segretario to the Otto di Guardia e Balia,’ Cosimo said, turning round. He was older than Bindi expected, though that attempt at a beard still betrayed his youth. ‘Campana says someone in your position is the most powerful individual at any court. Magistrates come and go, but the segretario remains – is that correct?’
Bindi feigned a modest smile. ‘Campana flatters those of my position. We have some minor influence, but it is magistrates who pass judgement.’
Cosimo did not reply, standing quite still. Bindi knew this stratagemma well, but that didn’t stop beads of sweat forming on his brow. Finally, blessedly, Cosimo strolled away to look out of a closed window. ‘Tell me, how goes the quest to find my predecessor’s killer?’
Bindi let himself breathe. ‘Evidence suggests your cousin Lorenzino was responsible for the murder, assisted by his servants. They fled the city after dark on Saturday, riding north. I sent two of my men into the Dominion to pursue Lorenzino.’
‘Cesare Aldo and a constable – Strocchi, that’s his name, yes?’
How did . . .? The segretario put the question from his head. Focus on what was being asked, not on how this youth knew so much. ‘Yes, sir.’
‘Aldo’s a good man,’ Cosimo said, turning round. ‘He rode with my father.’
Bindi nodded, as if this was familiar knowledge. It seemed Aldo had Cosimo’s ear – or his confidence, at least. ‘If anyone can bring Lorenzino back to face justice, it’s Aldo.’ And if he failed, that would reflect only on him, not the Otto.
But Cosimo was shaking his head. ‘I’ve already given Aldo instructions on how to deal with Lorenzino, should he get close to that traitorous bastardo. While I have breath in my body, Lorenzino will not be returning to Florence. Not alive.’
Progress was slow on the ride north-east. The horses Strocchi had hired in Bologna were tired before leaving the stable, and the road was rough and uneven. Aldo’s knuckles whitened on the reins with each jolt, but he was keeping his pain to himself today. His mood seemed lifted by the prospect of facing Lorenzino. But the closer they got to Le Casette, the stronger Strocchi’s misgivings became.
When they stopped to eat a simple meal provided by Ruth, the constable knew he had to say something. It might not change what happened, but his conscience demanded a voice. ‘I won’t be a complice to murder,’ Strocchi said as Aldo chewed a mouthful of food. ‘I didn’t hear the message Cosimo de’ Medici asked you to deliver to Lorenzino, but I can guess what it was. If you plan to kill Lorenzino tonight, I can’t be part of that.’
The constable watched, waiting for a response. Aldo swallowed and wiped his mouth before finally replying. ‘Why not?’
‘It’d be murder. What Lorenzino and his men did to the Duke was a crime, just as what happened to Corsini was a crime. But that doesn’t give us the right to murder Lorenzino if we get the chance.’
‘And who gives you the authority to judge what’s right and wrong?’ Also asked. ‘I killed one of the Bassos in Le Stinche, when he was going to kill me. Was that wrong?’
Strocchi frowned. ‘You were defending yourself. That’s different.’
‘I believed he would kill me, yes, but he never said so. Not out loud.’
‘Your injured shoulder is proof of what he intended.’
‘That only proves he meant to hurt me.’
Strocchi shook his head. ‘You’re kicking mud into the water. I’m talking about you and Lorenzino, what you plan to do to him tonight.’
‘I haven’t said what I plan to do.’
‘Lorenzino killed the Duke, and the Duke’s cousin wants you to strike back. You might be able to kill a man in his bed, I can’t,’ Strocchi insisted. ‘It is for God to take a life.’
; ‘What about during war? Would you take a life then?’
‘We’re not at war. I’ve never been a soldier, and I hope I never will be.’
‘You can turn back if you don’t wish to come any further.’
‘That’s not what I said. You’re twisting my words . . .’
‘I’m testing your loyalty,’ Aldo replied. ‘Lorenzino will have servants with him, not to mention Strozzi and his men. If I can get close to Lorenzino tonight – and that’s far from certain – I’ll need someone by my side I can trust.’
‘You know you can trust me,’ Strocchi insisted, ‘but you choose not to. If you did, you would share Cosimo’s message with me. Trust me to use my own judgement, to make my own choice. I want to help if I can, but I won’t do that unless you tell me.’
Aldo rose and strode away, towards the horses. He stopped short of them, hands on his hips. Strocchi offered up a silent prayer for the officers to see sense. Eventually Aldo spat at the ground before turning back. ‘You’re right. I don’t trust people easily, because plenty have given me reason to be careful. So I’m not going to apologize for keeping my own counsel, Carlo. But if you are coming with me, you deserve the truth.’
Strocchi’s eyes widened as Aldo kept talking.
Rebecca was jolted awake by shouting outside. ‘Samuele’s daughter! I know you’re in there!’ She stumbled to the front door, dazed from sleeping late. It was the first good rest she’d had since staying the night with Joshua’s family, the night Father died. It was dark in the house, shutters still closed over the windows, all the candles burnt down.
‘Who is it?’
‘I am – I was – a colleague of your father,’ the man replied. ‘A friend.’
Rebecca didn’t recognize the voice. Father had driven away almost anyone who ever cared about him. But if this man did consider Father a friend, she had a duty to welcome him, even now. Rebecca slid back the bolt and opened the door. Sciarra shoved his way in. ‘You were no friend of Father,’ Rebecca protested. ‘He despised you, said you had no honour.’
Sciarra strutted round the room, his swagger belying his lack of height. ‘Samuele had no right to judge me. He was little more than a thief, stealing others’ business.’
Rebecca didn’t reply, knowing what Father had done to Dante. She opened shutters to let some light into the house. Sciarra was as unpleasant as she recalled. His sour expression softened when he looked back at her.
‘But my quarrel was with Samuele, not with you. So I’ve come to make a proposition to you, my dear, one that will put food on your table.’
‘A proposition,’ Rebecca said, queasiness stirring in her belly.
‘I intend to take over your father’s business. Now, I could do that without giving you a giulio. Samuele is dead, so is Dante. Sooner or later anyone who lives south of the Arno will be coming to me for a loan. But I’m prepared to be generous and pay you a small fee in return for your father’s list of debtors.’
Rebecca struggled to grasp what this vile man was saying. ‘A fee?’
‘Yes, in exchange for your father’s ledger.’ Sciarra acted as if he was dealing with an idiota. ‘The ledger contains the names of his debtors and what they owe. I assume you’ve been too busy to collect since he died, my dear?’
Sciarra’s arrogant presumption was too much for her. This merda seemed to believe he could march into her home and decide her future. ‘Of course I haven’t been collecting debts. I was sitting shiva for Father. If you had any respect for him, you would know that. And I am certainly not your dear, or your anything else for that matter.’
Sciarra reached inside his tunic for a folded piece of paper, and offered it to Rebecca. ‘I think you’ll find this offer more than generous, in the circumstances.’
She took the paper, hands shaking as she unfolded it. The number was small, an insult to Father’s memory. Enough to live on for a month, if she was careful.
‘We have an agreement?’ Sciarra asked.
‘I need to think about this.’
‘Why? I won’t be increasing my offer.’ He arched an eyebrow. ‘Don’t tell me you’re thinking of running the business yourself? A woman, working as a moneylender?’ Sciarra laughed, he actually laughed at her. ‘The ledger – fetch it for me.’
‘I’m not your servant,’ Rebecca replied, anger rising like a fire in her. ‘If you want Father’s ledger, come back tomorrow. But I will not hand it over until you pay what his ledger is worth – not this insulting amount.’ She threw the piece of paper aside.
Sciarra’s face curdled. ‘Like father, like daughter? Very well. I will return at noon tomorrow. But if our bargain is not made then, you shall get nothing from me.’ He stalked out.
Only when he’d gone did Rebecca remember what had happened to the ledger.
Riding hard, Aldo and Strocchi reached Le Casette well before dusk. It was little more than a huddle of simple, single-level houses by the Po. The village probably wouldn’t have survived if it hadn’t stood beside an easy place to ford the river. The tallest building was the church with its bell tower, while the coach house and stables stood across the dirt road from it. Salvation and God on one side, drink and the potential for devilment on the other – it was often the way.
Aldo wanted to confirm Strozzi and Lorenzino were expected before sundown, but didn’t dare go asking questions at the coach house. Instead he sent Strocchi. The constable was unknown to Lorenzino, so the Medici fugitive would be none the wiser if any of the coach house workers described Strocchi. The constable did well, charming a servant girl with flattery and giving a coin for her to stay silent later.
As dusk approached, Aldo and Strocchi found a vantage point inside the church bell tower, looking down at the coach house and stables across the road. Strozzi and Lorenzino arrived soon after, with half a dozen men following on horseback. Scoronconcolo and Il Freccia were at the back, while Lorenzino was at the front alongside Strozzi.
Stable hands came to greet the arrivals and tend the horses, welcoming Strozzi with easy familiarity. That gave Lorenzino’s servants a chance to approach their master, but he dismissed them with a gesture. Aldo smiled. Good. Getting to Lorenzino would be much easier without Scoronconcolo and Il Freccia close by. The travellers went inside to feast. The aromas from the coach house kitchen were delicious, but Aldo and Strocchi had to make do with the last scraps provided by Ruth while they waited.
Dusk brought a bitter chill. Aldo and Strocchi remained in the bell tower, listening to laughter from the coach house. Aldo folded both hands beneath his arms to stop the fingers going numb, clenching and unclenching his toes for warmth. At long last the meal ended, the travellers going to their rooms upstairs in the coach house. Lorenzino’s servants stomped off to the stables, forced to spend the night with the horses.
When the last sounds below had ceased, Aldo set to work rubbing life back into his limbs, Strocchi doing the same. They clambered down the creaking wooden ladder and crept through the church to a door facing the coach house. Nobody was standing guard. Strozzi had no reason to believe he or Lorenzino were in any danger. Let them believe that.
Pulling the stiletto from his boot, Aldo stepped from the church, waiting for a shout or a cry of alarm – but none came. He hurried to the coach house door, Strocchi close behind. They slipped inside, climbing up to the humble bedchambers, testing each step for creaks before putting any weight on it. Along the narrow corridor, passing the first door, on to the second. The servant girl had said that Strozzi always took the first bedchamber. On the rare occasions when the Signor brought guests, they were given the second bedchamber, which was almost as good. Strocchi believed she could be trusted.
Aldo closed his fingers round the door handle and opened it, letting his eyes adjust to the darkness within, listening for any change of breathing. Whoever was in bed kept snoring. Aldo slipped inside. Strocchi came too, but remained on watch at the door, looking out. Aldo went to the bed, staying on the balls of his feet, blade in hand.
A shaft of pale moonlight fell across a single figure beneath the covers: Lorenzino. Aldo placed the tip of his stiletto into the notch below Lorenzino’s neck, before clamping the other hand across his mouth. Lorenzino jerked awake, his arms flailing and thrashing, calls for help stopped by Aldo’s palm.
‘Cry out, and I bury this blade in your throat.’
Chapter Thirty-Three
Aldo pressed the metal against Lorenzino’s neck and his struggling stopped. The Medici fugitive glared as Aldo slowly removed his hand from the sneering mouth.
‘I had you sent to Le Stinche,’ Lorenzino said, voice hushed. ‘How did you get here?’ Aldo pushed a thumb into Lorenzino’s bandaged hand. He gasped in anguish.
‘I ask the questions,’ Aldo said. ‘Understand?’ No reply, so he pushed harder, forcing a fresh sob of pain. ‘Understand?’ Lorenzino nodded, his face contorting. Aldo eased the pressure, but only a little. ‘Why kill the Duke? Why murder your own cousin, a man you served?’
‘I was never Alessandro’s servant,’ Lorenzino replied. ‘He was no kinsman of mine. He proved that by ruling against my branch of the family in a dispute. His decision cost us dear, but he never showed a moment of regret. Alessandro was not one of my family.’
‘You deny the Duke was your cousin?’
‘He had nothing in common with me. He was nothing more than the son of a servant woman from Collececchio who happened to work for the Medici family. It shamed all of Florence to have a bastardo as its leader. The city deserved a true-born Medici, not that pretender.’ Lorenzino was already creating justifications for the murder. No doubt he’d been practising them among the exiles in Venice. A sharp squeeze of the thumb put an end to that.
‘Answer the question: why did you kill the Duke?’
Lorenzino whimpered, the pathetic noise of a snivelling child. ‘He was a tyrant. No one doubts that Alessandro – so-called de’ Medici – was a tyrant, apart from those who grew rich through flattering and supporting him. In whatever way they are toppled, tyrants should be slain.’ Recovering himself, Lorenzino affected an air of nobility. ‘My aim was to liberate Florence. Killing Alessandro was a means to that.’