by Paul Doherty
'Slaves,' Benjamin murmured, standing beside me. The galleys are packed with Christian men who, until the day they die, have to man their oars. Pray, Roger, that such a fate is never yours or mine.'
Believe me, I did. And for once the good Lord must have heard me for, at dawn the next day, the galleys had disappeared and we continued our journey. At last the lookout spied land and I ran to the rail searching the horizon until I made out a dull grey line.
'Italy!' Maria said, coming up beside me. 'Soon, Master Crosspatch, Lord of the Onion, we shall be in Florence.'
She sauntered off when I refused to react to her teasing. I stood and stared at the fast approaching land, gaping like a schoolboy. This was Italy, of which I had heard so much. Now I look back and laugh. I have had my fill of Italy! Venice has a price on my head. The Roman cardinals would love to burn me at the stake, and there are certain noble families who would pay large amounts of gold to have me as their guest in some stinking dungeon. Now I know Italy for what it is - a violent country, drenched in wine and blood, stuffed with the glories of the past and the promise of things to come; a country where you will see the best and worst of what the human soul can fashion.
By evening we were in port. The anchor came rumbling down and the decks were cleared for a convivial feast. Boatloads of urchins came out from the grubby port offering fruit, wine, women, anything a sailor could desire. But Lord Roderigo was strict - the bumboats were driven off and the
Florentine nobleman had his own feast, broaching a special cask of wine which he served us personally in small, fluted goblets. Today I hold this strange memory, of a banquet under the stars, on board a ship where I'd almost died. The sky was of dark-blue velvet and the stars glittered like a wild spangle of precious jewels. On one side of me sat Benjamin, on the other Maria. The Florentines sat further up the table. Lord Roderigo raised his cup in a toast and sipped the blood-red wine.
Maria identified it for me. 'Falernian,' she said. 'The same wine, Onion, Pilate is supposed to have drunk when he sentenced Christ to death on the cross.'
I find it hard to describe what happened after the banquet. Maria had stopped her teasing and begun to yawn. She hurled a final good-natured insult at me and retired. The Albrizzis, who had virtually ignored us throughout the meal, also left. Matteo the steward had been trying to draw me into conversation throughout the meal - he had offered some conventional phrases of good-will that Maria had interpreted. Now, just as I rose from the table, he grabbed my arm and whispered something in Italian. (I can't remember the words, but Maria later told me they meant, in a little while, in a little while!') I was very unsteady on my feet, full of Falernian and almost beside myself with the prospect of being back on terra firma. I went below decks feeling I loved the world and everybody in it. I sat for a while wondering if Italian women were golden-brown all over, whilst Benjamin dozed beside me.
The sound of a small explosion shattered my dreams. I heard a cry, followed by a splash and the sound of running feet. I shook Benjamin awake. We clambered up the ladders and back on to the moonlit decks. Roderigo, in hose and shirt, came out of one of the small cabins; he joined a group of sailors clustered around their captain and staring over the ship's side. Roderigo questioned them quickly. 'What is it?' my master asked.
Roderigo turned and even in the moonlight I could see that his face was pale. 'Matteo has gone!' 'What do you mean, gone?'
Roderigo waved the captain towards him. The monkey-faced sailor in his sea-stained velvet tunic shuffled forward, his battered hat in his hands.
'What happened?' Benjamin asked.
The man shrugged and spread his hands. 'Everybody else is below decks,' he replied in broken English. 'But Matteo was on the bulwarks. He was holding a rope, staring into the water. We heard an explosion, like an arquebus being fired. Matteo gave a cry, now he's gone!'
Others were now coming on deck. Benjamin and I hurried to the ship's side and looked over.
'It's useless.' Roderigo murmured. 'The sea looks peaceful enough but there are powerful undercurrents. Matteo will never surface.'
My master turned. 'Quick, Lord Roderigo, the ship must be searched!'
Roderigo passed the order to the captain and the decks became alive with the slap of bare feet as the sailors hurried hither and thither. Benjamin and I stared out at the distant shoreline.
'Why Matteo?' Benjamin whispered.
'I think he wanted to speak to me,' I replied.
'He knew something,' Benjamin said. 'Perhaps he used the voyage to reflect on what has happened.' He smiled bleakly at me. 'Well, at least we've established one fact, Roger. The assassin's definitely on board the ship and not back in England.'
After an hour the captain called the search off. He shook his head, muttering that there was no sign of any gun.
As we walked over to join Roderigo and his household, Benjamin said, 'How on God's earth, Roger, can a man load and prime an arquebus on board ship, kill poor Matteo and hide the gun - all without leaving any traces?'
The Florentines were asking themselves the same question.
'It's ridiculous!' Giovanni declared roundly. 'Lord Roderigo, this is impossible!'
'Well, it's happened!' I snapped. 'Someone came on deck with a primed handgun.' I looked at the mercenary meaningfully. 'It would have taken a good marksman to hit his target in this poor light.'
'Did the sailors on watch,' Benjamin asked, 'see anything at all.'
Roderigo shook his head. 'They admit they were half-asleep or staring out to shore. They saw Matteo at the ship's side but paid him little attention. Then they heard an explosion - a crack - and Matteo's cry and the splash as his body hit the water.'
'And where was everybody else?' Benjamin asked.
His question provoked a babble of answers. People had been in and out of cabins, some had even seen Matteo sitting on the ship's rail, but no one's movements seemed suspicious. The assassin had chosen his time well. I remembered Benjamin's oft repeated remark, that the most skilful murders are those carried out in public and in busy places.
'You see, Roger,' Benjamin observed as we returned below deck, 'everyone is tired and fuddled with wine.'
'But, Master,' I exclaimed, 'how could anyone carrying an arquebus not have been noticed?'
Benjamin stopped on the ladder, putting his hand out to steady himself as the ship rolled slightly. He looked at me, his face sombre in the poor light.
'God knows I can't answer that, Roger. But I tell you, most solemnly, this is only the beginning!'
Chapter 6
We disembarked and made our way inland. You have to know the glories of northern Italy, the exotic colours of Tuscany, to appreciate what I saw. Imagine, in your mind's eye, brilliant blue skies, a sun which hung like a golden disc, thick grass and wild flowers of every variety and colour, bees humming as they plundered for honey. To be sure, the roads were dusty but, as we began to climb into the Tuscan hills, cool breezes fanned our brows. I love England and its soft, wet greenness, yet Tuscany must be very close to Paradise. The same is true of the countryside around Florence; lush green hills where pines and cypresses shimmer in the sunlight. Orange trees perfumed the air. Now and again the beautiful wildness was broken by a cluster of whitewashed cottages. This is the contrado, the countryside, the source of Florence's wealth, which makes it self-sufficient in everything - cereals, vegetables, wheat, even silver. The city itself nestles among the hills on either side of the Arno, which runs through the city like a silver ribbon. If you went there now, you'd find that Florence has been ravaged by war, greed and the moria, the dreadful pestilence which sweeps in and, every so often, harvests the people with its cruel scythe. Now my journal is no travel book and there are plenty of
descriptions of Italy - of its warmth and opulence, of its cool porticos and silver fountains. You can read elsewhere about the sound of a lyre on a moonlit velvet night, and of beautiful men and women locked in the dramatic dance of love. Everything I know about Italy, and
Florence in particular, I have told to Will Shakespeare. Read his plays and you will see what I mean. I have met Duke Orsini from Twelfth Night and been introduced to two gentlemen of Verona. I witnessed the tragedy of the star-crossed lovers, Romeo and Juliet. Oh, yes, I don't lie! I've met Portia, but she was not like the Portia you meet in The Merchant of Venice, black-haired and golden-hearted. The one I met years later was golden-haired and black-hearted. And the Jew Shylock was one of the most generous-hearted men I have ever met. I was angry with Will when I saw how he had described him. I respect the Jews -they are like the Irish, full of black humour without a grain of pomposity.
Ah, Florence, home of Donatello, Fra Angelico, Giotto and Machiavelli! I suppose that's it in one sentence. Florence is a city of contrasts: on the one hand, love, wine and roses; on the other, a world of intrigue - the secret police known as the Eight, the stiletto in the dark, the garrotte string around the throat. It is a city of churches, convents, priories and monastries, but its real God is commerce.
As we approached one of the main gates, little Maria, looking pert as a pie on the small donkey Lord Roderigo had hired, described the city's recent history under the great ascetic and fiery monk Savonarola. He took over the government of the city after the expulsion of the de' Medici and tried to turn it into a saintly republic. He organized processions: five thousand girls and boys clad in white, wearing crowns of olive leaves and carrying branches and following a tabernacle on which was painted Our Lord riding into Jerusalem. All amusements were banned. The banks were emptied, the money handed over for good works. Women gave up their finery, smashed their cosmetic jars and walked through the streets reading the service of the Mass. Taverns closed at six o'clock. On saints' days shops were shut and whores were banned. Blasphemers had their tongues pierced, fornicators and sodomites went to the stake.
'I wouldn't have survived there long!' I interrupted.
Maria just grinned. She described Savonarola's police -children aged between ten and eleven, who carried crucifixes and stormed private houses confiscating harps and flutes, boxes of perfumes and books of secular poetry.
'Then,' Maria continued chirpily, 'Alexander VI excommunicated Savonarola. His monastery at San Marco was stormed, Savonarola and two companions were condemned and hanged, their bodies burnt as black as rats in the public square.' Maria shook her head. 'Then Florence swung to the other extreme. Worn-out horses were released in the. cathedral, filth burnt in place of incense, horse-dung heaped into pulpits, ink poured into holy-water stoups and the Crown of the Virgin put on the head of a courtesan.' Maria smiled up at me, innocent as an angel; never once had she even acknowledged the conversation in the boxwood garden at Eltham. 'So, this is Florence; be careful, Master Shallot, be most prudent how you go!'
Of course I ignored her. I found Florence fascinating. We entered the city, crossed the Rubaconte bridge and walked along the streets, which are fairly wide and nearly all paved with flag-stones. On each side is a footpath supplied with a gutter to carry rainwater down to the Arno. The streets are dry and clear of mud and slime in winter, though in summer, as on the day we entered, the paving stones catch the heat and turn the city into a cauldron. We passed Brunelleschi's cathedral with its classical dome and continued across the city.
The din and the clack of tongues was incredible as people of various professions plied their trade - whores resplendent in yellow robes, greengrocers with their moveable booths, butchers behind their open stalls. On each angle of the crowded piazzas or squares stood a church. Barbers shaved people in the open and the din was worse than in London. We went down the Mercato Nuovo where, under the awnings of their shops and booths, the dealers in silk and other textiles plied their trade. Beside them, grave-faced money-changers sat at their desks.
Florence has many open squares and spaces and it seems that the Florentines, certainly in summer, live life in the open. Maria explained that in the early afternoon they Have a siesta and everyone, except the poor, takes refuge on the first floor in a cool room with glass windows and curtains to hide them from the heat. The houses are very spacious, even those of the burgesses. I glimpsed terraces, courtyards, stables, passages, antechambers, fountains and wells which provide fresh water. One thing I did notice is how the Florentines love a good story. On the Piazza San Marco, a crowd of couriers, tanners, porters, donkeymen, dyers, second-hand clothes dealers, armourers and blacksmiths gathered round a little platform on which a fable-singer was recounting a story. So avid is the audience, Maria explained, that the chanteur never finishes his story in one day. He makes a collection in his cap and tells the people to return at the same hour the following day. I was astonished - in London the poor bugger would have been pelted with horse-dung and held hostage until he told the story from beginning to end.
We passed the great palace of the Medici. Great banners hung from the open windows, carrying the balle or 'balls' of the Medicia insignia. More prosperous citizens thronged here.
'Look at how they dress, Roger,' Benjamin murmured.
And I did, particularly the women, who wore dresses so low-cut some of them displayed their bodices to well below the armpits. Others sported helmet-shaped headgear decorated with necklaces, bells and trinkets; the sleeves of these dresses were so puffed out they looked more like sacks. The younger women wore skirts of red and blue satin, gold embroidery, silver buttons and blouses of precious tissue; their hair was arranged in a flat bun behind with ringlets down the side of their faces and a cluster of pearls hanging about their necks. The colours of their clothing were breath-taking: crimson, green, red and scarlet, embroidered and painted with all sorts of singular devices - parrots, birds, white and red roses, dragons and pagodas.
The peasants and artisans wore grey or brown robes, but the wealthier citizens and burgesses wore a long gown over a shirt and hose. The dandies, however, were the real butterflies. They wore waist-length capes of various hues edged with broad bands of velvet; satin jackets, velvet caps and shoes, gold chains round their necks whilst the hilts of their daggers were ornamented with gold or silver. Their movements and gestures were exquisite - a host of butterflies fluttering and shimmering under the sun.
At last we crossed the city and left the Gate of Suffering where criminals were executed. We continued through the countryside, turning off down a white, dusty track where the great Albrizzi villa stood behind its own wine groves and gardens. The villa was three storeys' high, built around an enclosed piazza with a fountain in the middle and a porticoed colonnade on either side. As we entered, Maria explained how the Albrizzis had a town house but, like other nobles, much preferred the fresh air and clean water of the countryside. Retainers came to take our horses and, for the first time since we arrived in Italy, Lord Roderigo deigned to talk to us.
'Well, signors.' He stood before us, slapping his gloves against his thigh. 'What do you think of Florence?'
'Bellissima,' Benjamin replied. 'I have heard of its greatness but never imagined it could be so beautiful.'
Roderigo's eyes became sad. He gazed around as the yard thronged with more servitors, who had hurried down to unload the sumpter ponies and greet their masters.
'Years ago,' he said, 'it was even more beautiful.' He sighed. 'But enough of that, you must be tired after your journey.'
He stood aside and a smiling servant took us up into the main building by outside stairs. We went down a gallery whose floor was of polished cedar, and into a spacious chamber. The ceiling was timbered, the walls alabaster white and so smooth that they seemed carved out of marble. Half-moon windows filled with glass were pushed slightly open and a soft breeze wafted in the fragrance from the flowers below. Our beds were beneath a large window, a table on either side. At the foot of each bed stood a large, steel-bound coffer. There were cupboards in the corners and a lavarium was fixed to the wall, a wooden stand bearing a large earthenware bowl, jugs of fresh water, clean napkins and the most fragrant tablets of soap. No rushes lay on the floor, these were polished wood
en planks, covered with woollen carpets in the Persian fashion depicting marvellous coloured squares and strange devices. I sat on the edge of my bed and admired the small painting on the far wall depicting, in brilliant colours, the triumph of Judith in the Old Testament. Beneath the lavarium, in a wooden bucket of ice-cold water, was a large jug of white Frascati wine and two cups floating there to keep cool. Beside it, a carafe of Trebbia, the favourite Florentine white wine. On a polished table beside the wine-tub stood bowls of fresh fruit.
Benjamin gazed round and shook his head in wonderment. -'If Henry of England could see this,' he murmured, 'his heart would shrink with envy.'
'If Henry of England saw us in such luxury,' I snapped crossly, 'he'd summon us home tomorrow! Master, we have to be careful. Remember the attacks at Eltham and the murder of poor Matteo on board ship.' I lay back on the bed carefully, making sure nothing was hidden there. 'You'd almost think,' I continued sourly, 'someone has declared a secret blood feud with the Albrizzis. Who will be next, eh?' I felt tired and hot. I pulled myself up and stared at Benjamin, who was now stripping, ready to wash the dust of the journey from his hands and face. 'Master,' I hissed, 'how can we solve in Florence one murder that took place in London and another that happened on board ship?'
Benjamin finished drying his hands and face and came over. He sat on the edge of the bed and patted me on the shoulder.
'Roger, we have three tasks. To deliver uncle's message to Cardinal Giulio, bribe the painter to return with us to England and, if possible, discover the assassin of the Lord Francesco.'
'Easier said than done,' I murmured.
I got to my feet and walked over the window. I stared down at the garden that stretched out from the back of the villa. It was an Eden in itself, with its porticoed walls, pleasances and small, flower-covered arbours. I was about to turn back when a flash of colour caught my eyes. It came from one of the arbours, down near a vine-covered wall - a perfect place to hide, concealed from all eyes except mine, because of the angle of my view from the window. Again I saw the flash of colour. Then two people moved in the arbour and came into my vision. I gazed in astonishment. Giovanni the condottiero, his back to me, seemed to be moving jerkily. I glimpsed his hand on a soft, brown velvet breast, saw a flash of bright hair and realized what was happening. Giovanni was making violent, passionate love to the Lady Beatrice. I didn't know what to do! To call my master over would turn us into Peeping Toms. I also felt a thrill of fear as well as excitement. Giovanni was, as Iago almost said to Othello, 'tupping someone else's white ewe'. If anyone came into the garden and caught them, the love tryst would end in murder. I turned away, admiring the lovers' cunning. Everyone else would be too busy in their chambers, recovering from the rigours of the journey, to even think of going out into the garden.