by D. V. Bishop
‘It’ll be a cold night out there tonight,’ Strocchi said as he strolled in. ‘Some of the stones in the street are already icy.’ He stopped in the doorway. ‘Am I late?’
Joshua grabbed a blade from the table and swung it round, slicing the air. Rebecca screamed as Orvieto shielded her. Aldo raised both hands, voice hushed. ‘Strocchi, step aside. Let Joshua leave, if that’s what he wants.’ The constable glared at Aldo. ‘Carlo, do as I say.’
Strocchi moved to one side. Joshua hesitated, sorrow twisting his face.
‘Rebecca, I’m so sorry,’ he whispered. Then he bolted from the room.
Strocchi raced after Joshua without hesitation, ignoring voices shouting behind him. They couldn’t have a madman roaming the city with a knife. Thankfully it was close to curfew, and via dei Giudei was near empty. Joshua was ten paces ahead, racing north towards the Arno, close to reaching the junction with Borgo San Jacopo.
Strocchi yelled at people to clear the way. Nobody else need get hurt. He was closing the gap – eight paces, six. Joshua glanced back, panic in his eyes. He didn’t see the cart rolling across Borgo San Jacopo in front of him, pushed by a butcher’s boy.
‘Look out!’ Strocchi yelled.
Joshua slipped and fell, legs going out from underneath him on an icy puddle. There was a fearful crack and Joshua screamed, grasping at his right leg. Even in the dim light, Strocchi could see stark white bone stabbing through Joshua’s hose. The fugitive tried to get back up but collapsed to the stones again, crying out in pain and anguish, the knife still in his grasp.
Strocchi moved closer but Joshua brandished the blade at him. ‘Stay back!’
The butcher’s boy was staring in horror. Strocchi sent him to the doctor’s house. ‘Tell them Joshua’s hurt! Hurry!’ By the time Aldo arrived with Orvieto, Joshua was weeping and howling, overcome by pain or something worse.
Aldo approached Joshua, empty hands raised. ‘You don’t have to suffer like this. Put the knife down so Saul can tend to your leg.’
A young woman came hurrying along via dei Giudei, the same young woman who had been in the doctor’s home. Strocchi moved to stop her getting any closer. She saw what had happened to Joshua and howled in anguish.
‘It’s what I deserve,’ Joshua sobbed at her. ‘Rebecca, I’m sorry . . .’
A strange calm fell across his face, the same calm Strocchi had seen in Agnolotti Landini before the merchant jumped to his death. ‘No,’ Strocchi shouted, ‘don’t do it!’
Joshua stabbed the blade into his own neck, slicing up to the jawline. Strocchi heard the young woman screaming, and the cries of dismay from Aldo and Orvieto, but he couldn’t take his eyes from Joshua. Blood spurted from the wound, soaking Joshua’s tunic a vivid crimson within moments. He gasped wordlessly before slumping over.
Strocchi turned away. Another senseless death.
What was wrong with people in this city?
Aldo watched Saul lead a distraught Rebecca away before dealing with Joshua’s body. The butcher’s cart held only a few barrels; the boy had been fetching water to wash waste from the butcher shops on Ponte Vecchio into the river. Aldo sent the pale, shivering youth home before helping Strocchi load Joshua’s corpse onto the cart. ‘Take him to the Podestà, and leave the body there. Bindi will no doubt want a full report, but it can wait till tomorrow.’
Strocchi nodded. ‘So this man was the one who stabbed Samuele Levi.’
Aldo nodded. At least Joshua’s death had been swift. ‘Don’t go over Ponte Vecchio, it’ll be bloody enough by this time of day. Ponte alla Carraia should be clear.’
‘You’re not coming with me?’
‘There’s something else I need to do.’ As Strocchi had pushed the cart away, Aldo strode in the other direction. He had to make things right before facing Cerchi. He had to try.
Aldo knocked at the Levi home, and Orvieto answered the door. He looked exhausted, his face strained, anger all too evident in those hazel eyes. ‘You can’t see Rebecca. I’ve given her something to help her sleep, though I doubt she will. Not after what’s happened.’
‘I came to see you, Saul.’
‘Why?’
‘To say I’m sorry. I never meant for that to . . .’ Aldo stopped, unable to hold the doctor’s stern gaze. ‘I never meant to hurt Rebecca, or you.’
‘I asked you to stop. I pleaded with you to let me bring Rebecca home before you accused Joshua. She didn’t need to see his shame. She didn’t need to see him die.’
‘I couldn’t know that would happen—’
‘But it did!’
Aldo stepped back, stung by the fury in Orvieto’s voice. Maybe this was for the best. Maybe the two of them had been a foolish whim from the start. At least if they were apart, Saul could be in no danger from what was to come. He would be safe.
That was something.
‘She was going to marry him,’ Orvieto said. ‘Joshua asked Rebecca to be his wife not long before you arrived, and she agreed. I’d never seen her so happy. But this . . .’ The doctor straightened his shoulders. ‘Her cousin was offering a new life, a new beginning in Bologna. I imagine she will go there, once all this is settled. There is certainly nothing left here for Rebecca, nothing but sorrow and unhappy memories. Not after tonight.’
Aldo nodded. He heard a sound behind him. No doubt neighbours were watching, listening to what was being said. He looked at Orvieto one last time, before limping away.
It had gone curfew.
Cerchi would be waiting.
Aldo went to the bordello, retrieving a pouch of coin hidden in the wall behind his bed. He didn’t ask Robustelli or her women for their earnings – they shouldn’t pay for his mistakes. Then he limped towards Ponte Vecchio, dread gnawing at him.
He’d brought this on himself. No, that wasn’t true, not completely. But no matter what he did, no matter whom he loved, this day had always been coming. Enforcing laws in a city where how he loved made him criminal had been a stone in his boot for too long. It was galling enough to face punishment for that. For Cerchi to be the executioner, that was what bit and tore and ate at him most.
Aldo staggered onto the bridge, boots slipping on the blood as cold air hardened the crimson swill to ice. Cerchi was waiting at the highest part of the bridge. Thumbs tucked into his belt either side of the silver buckle, one foot tapping the stones. ‘Where have you been?’
‘There was a death in Oltrarno—’
‘Show me my coin.’
Aldo’s shoulders sagged, the last twelve days weighing heavy. Going to Bologna to guard Levi, and the bandit attack on the way back. Sleepless nights struggling to solve the moneylender’s murder, when his killer had been in plain view. Those failed efforts to stop Lorenzino’s conspiracy, and the bloody, painful days in Le Stinche. Another journey north, more frustrations, more exhaustion – all for nothing, yet all leading to this.
He pulled out the pouch and Cerchi snatched it away. ‘Is that all you’ve got?’ Cerchi shoved the pouch into his tunic. ‘I expect at least this much again tomorrow.’
‘Tomorrow?’
‘Unless you want those denunzie given to Bindi, you’ll do whatever it takes.’
Aldo shook his head, letting all his exhaustion show. ‘Please, you mustn’t . . .’
Cerchi placed his hands on Aldo’s shoulders. ‘You don’t want anyone seeing you like this, do you?’ Aldo shook his head. Then the bastardo slammed a knee into Aldo’s stomach, doubling him over. He crumpled to the bloody stones, coughing, choking. If he’d eaten in the last few hours, it would be spattered all over the stones. Cerchi strutted past.
‘I should have guessed what kind of man you are much sooner, I suppose, but you did a good job of hiding your perversion. Then I heard how your name was the last thing that buggerone Corsini said before he died, and it put the idea in my head. The more I thought about it, the more things made sense.’
‘Corsini was only ever my informant,’ Aldo gasped.
‘I don’t c
are,’ Cerchi snarled. ‘And you certainly have more urgent things to worry about. More than your pathetic life is at stake now.’
Keep him talking, find out what he knows. ‘What do you mean?’
‘I’ve been talking to young Benedetto. He doesn’t seem like much, but he watches and listens. It was Benedetto who noticed how fond you are of that Jewish doctor, what’s his name – Orvieto?’ Cerchi loomed over Aldo. ‘The doctor – he’s like you, isn’t he? Tell me, does the Jew like to put it inside you, or do you put it into him?’
‘You’re wrong about him,’ Aldo insisted, his voice sounding feeble in the cold night air, his body still hunched over on the bloody stones. Cerchi strolled away again.
‘Maybe, but a denunzia directed against the doctor would certainly destroy him. Do you want that on your conscience? Assuming the likes of you even has a conscience?’
Aldo had heard enough. More than enough. Bad enough to be abused like this by Cerchi, but nobody else should have to suffer the same. ‘Please, don’t do this,’ Aldo said, sounding as weak and vulnerable as possible.
Cerchi returned, stopping in front of him again. ‘I’ll do whatever I want. And as of tonight, you’ll do whatever I say, whenever I say it. From now on, you’re my whore.’
Aldo slid the stiletto from his boot and buried it in Cerchi’s torso.
The merda gasped, disbelief filling his face. Aldo rose, abandoning all his pretence, one hand still gripping the stiletto. Staring Cerchi in the eyes, Aldo twisted the blade a quarter turn. ‘You didn’t think I was actually going to let the likes of you control me, did you?’
Cerchi staggered back, freeing himself from the blade, hands clutching at his ribs. Blood was soaking through his tunic. Cerchi lurched to the side of the bridge, leaning on the parapet for support. Aldo followed, glancing round to be sure no one was watching. Curfew had emptied the streets, and clouds covered the moon.
Aldo grabbed hold of Cerchi, wiping the bloody stiletto on his tunic before reaching inside to reclaim the money pouch.
Cerchi shook his head, that ugly mouth gasping for air. ‘But you—’
One hard shove in the chest, and Cerchi toppled over the side of Ponte Vecchio, arms flailing. He fell into the water below and sank beneath its surface. The river claimed him. Aldo returned the stiletto to his boot before strolling away, stepping around the spilled blood and rancid offcuts that littered the bridge. Come morning, the butchers’ boys would wash all of it into the Arno, along with any evidence of what had happened here tonight.
Cesare Aldo took no pleasure from killing, but sometimes it was necessary.
Historical Note
City of Vengeance is a work of fiction, but the story is based in part upon real incidents and people. Lorenzino de’ Medici did murder his cousin Alessandro, the Duke of Florence, though historians disagree whether it happened on Saturday, January 6th, or the night before. According to several accounts of the killing, Scoronconcolo helped Lorenzino, while some versions of history suggest the pair were assisted by a young man known as Il Freccia.
Scoronconcolo stayed at his master’s side for several years after the murder, until Lorenzino dismissed Scoronconcolo and his other companions for insolence. Lorenzino never returned to Florence, living in exile for eleven years and publishing his Apologia about the murder of Alessandro. The Duke’s killer was himself murdered in Venice, though on whose orders is still disputed.
Cosimo de’ Medici moved the official ducal residence out of Palazzo Medici within three years of his election, and the building was sold to the Riccardi family during the seventeenth century. Like many other grand buildings in Florence, the Palazzo Medici Riccardi is now a museum open to visitors most days of the year.
The Jewish community was relocated from via dei Giudei across the Arno to a ghetto near the centre of Florence in 1571, decades after Jews in other Italian cities were forced into such enclosures. The street in Oltrarno that was via dei Giudei is now called via de Ramaglianti.
The Palazzo del Podestà became known as the Bargello in 1574 when the city’s Capitano di Giustizia was stationed there. Large sections of the building were converted into prisons that remained in use until the nineteenth century. The Bargello became a museum in 1865, and now houses a collection of sculptures by Donatello and other artists among its treasures.
The prison called Le Stinche stood for five hundred years in the eastern quarter of Florence, before being demolished in the nineteenth century. Teatro Verdi theatre now stands on that site.
If you would like to read about Duke Alessandro de’ Medici, Catherine Fletcher’s book The Black Prince of Florence is without equal. To discover more about his killer, The Duke’s Assassin by Stefano Dall’Aglio is the comprehensive work on Lorenzino.
Acknowledgements
This novel has been a long time coming, so there are too many people to thank – apologies in advance to anyone I omit. The initial spark for City of Vengeance came from a monograph by historian John K. Brackett, Criminal Justice and Crime in Late Renaissance Florence 1537–1609. I was struck by its compelling description of how the Florentine criminal justice was similar to modern police procedure in many ways, and yet still starkly different.
Brackett’s work inspired years of further reading. Eventually I realized my research had become as much an excuse to delay writing as a means for enabling it. Two things helped overcome that inertia. The first was starting a PhD in Creative Writing at Lancaster University. My supervisor until 2020 was Professor George Green, who helped bring rigour and discipline to this narrative, asking difficult questions and nudging me to dig deeper.
The second event to accelerate my efforts was a Robert Louis Stevenson Fellowship award from the Scottish Book Trust and Creative Scotland. That gave me a month in France during the summer of 2017, where I drafted the first fifty pages of this novel. Without that opportunity, I fear it would have taken me much longer to finish City of Vengeance.
I also must thank the Bloody Scotland crime fiction festival in Stirling. I won its Pitch Perfect competition in 2018, using the pseudonym C. O. Vollmer to spare any blushes. That early vote of encouragement gave a welcome boost as the first draft neared completion.
Numerous friends have helped by giving advice, reading sections of the manuscript, or simply offering encouragement along the way. Special thanks go to Nell Pattison and Liz King from Creative Thursday at the 2016 Theakston’s Old Peculier Crime Festival in Harrogate; to my colleagues Laura Lam and Daniel Shand on the creative writing programme at Edinburgh Napier University for their patience; to Tamar Hodos for reading and reassurance; and to my former colleague Sam Boyce for being part of this journey over many, many years.
I am indebted to everyone at Pan Macmillan for making City of Vengeance look so resplendent, and read so well – any errors that remain are my fault alone. Special thanks to editor Alex Saunders, whose insightful notes made the novel so much the better.
Being represented by the wonderful literary agent Jenny Brown is a blessing, and one for which I am ever grateful. Her enthusiasm for Aldo and my writing is a continuing boon.
But most of all I must thank my wife, Alison. Without her support and encouragement this book would not exist. Thank you!
D. V. Bishop is an award-winning screenwriter and TV dramatist. His love for the city of Florence and the Renaissance period meant there could be only one setting for his crime fiction debut. City of Vengeance won the Pitch Perfect competition at the Bloody Scotland crime writing festival, and he was awarded a Robert Louis Stevenson Fellowship by the Scottish Book Trust while writing the novel. When not busy being programme leader for creative writing at Edinburgh Napier University, he plans his next research trip to Florence.
First published 2021 by Macmillan
This electronic edition published 2021 by Macmillan
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ISBN 978-1-5290-3880-4
Copyright © D. V. Bishop 2021
Cover Images: Florence images © Alinari Archives, Florence / Bridgeman Images
Medici coat of arms © Bettmann/ Getty Images
Author photo © Paul Reich
The right of D. V. Bishop to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
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A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
Map artwork by Neil Gower
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