Renaissance

by Oliver Bowden

  Sitting on her bed, he told her the whole story.

  ‘I knew something was amiss,’ she said. ‘My father seemed troubled this evening. But it does sound as if all will be well.’

  ‘I need you to let me stay here tonight – don’t worry, I’ll be gone long before dawn – and I need to leave something with you for safekeeping.’ He unslung his pouch and placed it between them. ‘I must trust you.’

  ‘Oh, Ezio, of course you can.’

  He fell into a troubled sleep, in her arms.

  4

  It was a grey and overcast morning – and the city felt oppressed with the muggy heat that was trapped by the overhanging cloud. Ezio arrived at the Piazza della Signoria and saw, to his intense surprise, that a dense crowd had gathered already. A platform had been erected, and on it was placed a table covered with a heavy brocade cloth bearing the arms of the city. Standing behind it were Uberto Alberti and a tall, powerfully built man with a beaky nose and careful, calculating eyes, dressed in robes of rich crimson – a stranger to Ezio, at least. But his attention was caught by the sight of the other occupants of the platform – his father, and his brothers, all in chains; and just beyond them stood a tall construction with a heavy crossbeam from which three nooses were suspended.

  Ezio had arrived at the piazza in a mood of anxious optimism – had not the Gonfaloniere told him that all would be resolved this day? Now his feelings changed. Something was wrong – badly wrong. He tried to push his way forward, but could not press through the mob – he felt the claustrophobia threaten to overwhelm him. Desperately trying to calm down, to rationalise his actions, he paused, drew his hood close over his head, and adjusted the sword at his belt. Surely Alberti would not let him down? And all the time he noticed that the tall man, a Spaniard by his dress, his face and his complexion, was ranging the mass of people with those piercing eyes. Who was he? Why did he stir something in Ezio’s memory? Had he seen him somewhere before?

  The Gonfaloniere, resplendent in his robes of office, raised his arms to quieten the people, and instantly a hush fell over them.

  ‘Giovanni Auditore,’ said Alberti in a commanding tone which failed, to Ezio’s acute ear, to conceal a note of fear. ‘You and your accomplices stand accused of the crime of treason. Have you any evidence to counter this charge?’

  Giovanni looked at once surprised and uneasy. ‘Yes, you have it all in the documents that were delivered to you last night.’

  But Alberti said, ‘I know of no such documents, Auditore.’

  Ezio saw at once that this was a show-trial, but he couldn’t understand what looked like deep treachery on Alberti’s part. He shouted, ‘It’s a lie!’ But his voice was drowned by the roar of the crowd. He struggled to get closer, shoving angry citizens aside, but there were too many of them, and he was trapped in their midst.

  Alberti was speaking again: ‘The evidence against you has been amassed and examined. It is irrefutable. In the absence of any proof to the contrary, I am bound by my office to pronounce you and your accomplices, Federico and Petruccio, and – in absentia – your son Ezio – guilty of the crime you stand accused of.’ He paused as the crowd once more fell silent. ‘I hereby sentence you all to death, the sentence to be carried out immediately!’

  The crowd roared again. At a signal from Alberti, the hangman prepared the nooses, while two of his assistants took first little Petruccio, who was fighting back tears, to the gallows. The rope was placed round his neck as he prayed rapidly and the attendant priest shook Holy Water on to his head. Then the executioner pulled a lever set into the scaffold, and the boy dangled, kicking the air until he was still. ‘No!’ mouthed Ezio, barely able to believe what he was seeing. ‘No, God, please no!’ But his words were choked in his throat, his loss overcoming all.

  Federico was next, bellowing his innocence and that of his family, struggling in vain to break loose from the guards who wrestled him towards the gallows. Ezio, now beside himself, striving desperately forward again, saw a solitary tear roll down his father’s ashen cheek. Aghast, Ezio watched as his older brother and greatest friend jolted at the rope’s end – it took longer for him to leave the world than it had taken Petruccio, but at last he, too, was still, swaying from the gallows – you could hear the wooden crossbeam creak in the silence. Ezio fought with the disbelief within him – could this really be happening?

  The crowd began to murmur, but then a firm voice stilled it. Giovanni Auditore was speaking. ‘It is you who are the traitor, Uberto. You, one of my closest associates and friends, in whom I entrusted my life! And I am a fool. I did not see that you are one of them !’ Here he raised his voice to a great cry of anguish and of rage. ‘You may take our lives this day, but mark this – we will have yours in return!’

  He bowed his head and fell silent. A deep silence, interrupted only by the murmured prayers of the priest, followed as Giovanni Auditore walked with dignity to the gallows and commended his soul to the last great adventure it would travel on.

  Ezio was too shocked to feel grief at first. It was as if a great iron fist had slammed into him. But as the trap opened below Giovanni, he couldn’t help himself. ‘Father!’ he cried, his voice cracking.

  Instantly the Spaniard’s eyes were on him. Was there something supernatural about the man’s vision, to pick him out in such a throng? As if in slow motion, Ezio saw the Spaniard lean towards Alberti, whisper something, and point.

  ‘Guards!’ shouted Alberti, pointing as well. ‘There! That’s another one of them! Seize him!’

  Before the crowd could react and restrain him, Ezio muscled through it to its edge, smashing his fists into anyone who stood barring his way. A guard was already waiting for him. He snatched at Ezio, pulling back his hood. Acting now on some instinctive drive within him, Ezio wrenched free and drew his sword with one hand, grabbing the guard by the throat with the other. Ezio’s reaction had been far faster than the guard had anticipated, and before he could bring his arms up to defend himself Ezio tightened his grip on both throat and sword, and in one swift punching movement ran the guard through, slicing the sword in the body as he drew it out so that the man’s intestines spilled from under his tunic on to the cobblestones. He threw the body aside and turned to the rostrum, fixing Alberti with his eye. ‘I will kill you for this!’ he screamed, his voice straining with hatred and rage.

  But other guards were closing in. Ezio, his instinct for survival taking over, sped away from them, towards the comparative safety of the narrow streets beyond the square. To his dismay, he saw two more guards, swift of foot, rushing to cut him off.

  They confronted each other at the edge of the square. The two guards faced him, blocking his retreat, the others closing in behind. Ezio fought them both frantically. Then an unlucky parry from one of them knocked his sword out of his hand. Fearing that this was the end, Ezio turned to flee from his attackers – but before he could find his feet, something astonishing happened. From the narrow street he was making for, and was within a few feet of, a roughly dressed man appeared. With lightning speed he came up on the two guards from behind, and, with a long dagger, cut deep under the pits of their sword arms, tearing through tendons and rendering them useless. He moved so fast that Ezio could scarcely follow his movements as he retrieved the young man’s fallen sword and threw it to him. Ezio suddenly recognized him, and smelled once more the stench of onions and garlic. At that moment, damask roses couldn’t have smelled sweeter.

  ‘Get out of here,’ said the man; and then he, too, was gone. Ezio plunged down the street, and ducked off it down alleys and lanes he knew intimately from his nightly forays with Federico. The hue and cry behind him faded. He made his way down to the river, and found refuge in a disused watchman’s shack behind one of the warehouses belonging to Cristina’s father.

  In that hour Ezio ceased to be a boy and became a man. The weight of the responsibility he now felt he carried to avenge and correct this hideous wrong fell on his shoulders like a heavy cloak.
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br />   Slumping down on a pile of discarded sacks, he felt his whole body begin to shake. His world had just been torn apart. His father… Federico… and, God, no, little Petruccio… all gone, all dead, all murdered. Holding his head in his hands, he broke down – unable to control the pouring out of sorrow, fear and hatred. Only after several hours was he able to uncover his face – his eyes bloodshot and run through with an unbending vengeance. At that moment, Ezio knew his former life was over – Ezio the boy was gone for ever. From now, his life was forged for one purpose and one purpose alone – revenge.

  Much later in the day, knowing full well that the watch would still be out looking for him relentlessly, he made his way via back alleys to Cristina’s family mansion. He didn’t want to put her in any danger, but he needed to collect his pouch with its precious contents. He waited in a dark alcove that stank of urine, not moving even when rats scuttled at his feet, until a light in her window told him that she had retired for the night.

  ‘Ezio!’ she cried as she saw him on her balcony. ‘Thank God you’re alive.’ Her face flooded with relief – but that was short-lived, grief taking over. ‘Your father, and brothers…’ She couldn’t finish the sentence, and her head bowed.

  Ezio took her in his arms, and for several minutes they just stood holding each other.

  Finally, she broke away. ‘You’re mad! What are you still doing in Florence?’

  ‘I still have matters to attend to,’ he said grimly. ‘But I cannot stay here long, it’s too big a risk for your family. If they thought you were harbouring me –’

  Cristina was silent.

  ‘Give me my satchel and I’ll be gone.’

  She fetched it for him, but before she gave it to him said, ‘What about your family?’

  ‘That is my first duty. To bury my dead. I can’t see them thrown into a lime-pit like common criminals.’

  ‘I know where they have taken them.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘The town’s been talking all day. But no one will be there now. They’re down near the Porta San Niccolò, with the bodies of paupers. There’s a pit prepared, and they’re waiting for the lime-carts to come in the morning. Oh, Ezio – !’

  Ezio spoke calmly but grimly. ‘I must see to it that my father and my brothers have a fitting departure from this earth. I cannot offer them a Requiem Mass, but I can spare their bodies indignity.’

  ‘I’ll come with you!’

  ‘No! Do you realize what it would mean if you were caught with me?’

  Cristina lowered her eyes.

  ‘I must see that my mother and sister are safe too, and I owe my family one more death.’ He hesitated. ‘Then I will leave. Perhaps for ever. The question is – will you come with me?’

  She drew back, and he could see a host of conflicting emotions in her eyes. Love was there, deep and lasting, but he had grown so much older than she since they had first held each other in their arms. She was still a girl. How could he expect her to make such a sacrifice? ‘I want to, Ezio, you don’t know how much – but my family – it would kill my parents –’

  Ezio looked at her gently. Though they were the same age, his recent experience had made him suddenly far more mature than she was. He had no family to depend on any more, just responsibility and duty, and it was hard. ‘I was wrong to ask. And who knows, perhaps, some day, when all this is behind us –’ He put his hands to his neck and from the folds of his collar withdrew a heavy silver pendant on a fine chain of gold. He took it off. The pendant bore a simple design – just the initial letter ‘A’ of his family name. ‘I want you to have this. Take it, please.’

  With trembling hands she accepted it, crying softly. She looked down at it, then up at him, to thank him, to make some further excuse.

  But he was gone.

  On the south bank of the Arno, near the Porta San Niccolò, Ezio found the bleak place where the bodies were arranged next to a huge gaping pit. Two sorry-looking guards, raw recruits by the look of them, patrolled nearby, dragging their halberds as much as carrying them. The sight of their uniforms aroused Ezio’s anger, and his first instinct was to kill them, but he had seen enough of death that day, and these were just country boys who’d stumbled into uniforms for want of anything better. It caught at his heart when he saw his father’s and his brothers’ bodies lying near the edge of the pit, still with their nooses round their scorched necks, but he could see that, once the guards fell asleep, as they surely soon would, he could carry the corpses to the river’s edge, where he had prepared an open boat which he’d loaded with brushwood.

  It was about the third hour, and the first faint light of dawn was already bleaching the eastern sky by the time he had completed his task. He stood alone on the riverbank, watching as the boat bearing his kinsmen’s bodies, all aflame, drifted slowly with the current towards the sea. He watched until the light of the fire flickered away into the distance…

  He made his way back to the city. A hard resolve had overcome his grief. There was still much to do. But first, he must rest. He returned to the watchman’s shack, and made himself as comfortable as he could. Some little sleep would not be denied; but even as he slept, Cristina would not leave his thoughts, or dreams.

  He knew the approximate whereabouts of the house of Annetta’s sister, though he had never been there, or indeed met Paola; but Annetta had been his wet-nurse, and he knew that if he could trust no one else, he could trust her. He wondered if she knew, as she must, of the fate that had befallen his father and brothers, and if so, whether she had told his mother and sister.

  He approached the house with great care, using an indirect route, and covering the distance where he could by running at a crouch over rooftops in order to avoid the busy streets where, he was sure, Uberto Alberti would have his men searching. Ezio could not rid himself of the thought of Alberti’s treachery. What faction had his father referred to on the gallows? What could induce Alberti to bring about the death of one of his closest allies?

  Paola’s house lay in a street just north of the cathedral, Ezio knew. But when he got there, he didn’t know which it was. There were few signs hanging from the fronts of the buildings here to identify them, and he could not afford to loiter in case he was recognized. He was about to depart when he saw Annetta herself, coming from the direction of the Piazza San Lorenzo.

  Pulling his hood down so that his face was shadowed, he made his way to meet her, making himself walk at a normal pace, trying as best he could to blend in with his fellow citizens as they went about their business. He passed Annetta herself, and was gratified that she did not give any sign that she had noticed him. A few yards on, he doubled back and fell into step just behind her.

  ‘Annetta –’

  She had the wit not to turn round. ‘Ezio. You’re safe.’

  ‘I wouldn’t say that. Are my mother and sister…?’

  ‘They are protected. Oh, Ezio, your poor father. And Federico. And –’ she stifled a sob, ‘– little Petruccio. I have just come from San Lorenzo. I lit a candle to San Antonio for them. They say the Duke will be here soon. Perhaps –’

  ‘Do my mother and Maria know what has happened?’

  ‘We thought it best to keep that knowledge from them.’

  Ezio thought for a moment. ‘It is best so. I will tell them when the time is right.’ He paused. ‘Will you take me to them? I couldn’t identify your sister’s house.’

  ‘I am on my way there now. Stay close and follow me.’

  He fell back a little, but kept her in sight.

  The establishment she entered had the grim, fortress-like façade of so many of the grander Florentine buildings, but once inside, Ezio was taken aback. This was not quite what he had expected.

  He found himself in a richly decorated parlour of great size, and high-ceilinged. It was dark, and the air was close. Velvet hangings in dark reds and deep browns covered the walls, interspersed with oriental tapestries depicting scenes of unequivocal luxury and sexual pleasure. The
room was illuminated by candlelight, and a smell of incense hung in the air. The furniture mainly consisted of deep-seated daybeds covered with cushions of the costly brocade, and low tables on which there were trays bearing wine in silver carafes, Venetian glasses, and golden bowls of sweetmeats. But what was most surprising were the people in the room. A dozen beautiful girls, wearing silks and satins in green and yellow, cut in the Florentine fashion but with skirts slit to the top of the thigh, and plunging necklines that left nothing to the imagination except the promise of where it should not venture. Around three walls of the room, beneath the hangings and tapestries, a number of doors could be seen.

  Ezio looked round, in a sense not knowing where to look. ‘Are you sure this is the right place?’ he asked Annetta.

  ‘Ma certo! And here is my sister to greet us.’

  An elegant woman who must have been in her late thirties but looked ten years younger, as beautiful as any principessa and better dressed than most, was coming towards them from the centre of the room. There was a veiled sadness in her eyes which somehow increased the sexual charge she transmitted, and Ezio, for all else that was on his mind, found himself stirred.

  She extended her long-fingered, bejewelled hand to him. ‘It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Messer Auditore.’ She looked at him appraisingly. ‘Annetta speaks quite highly of you. And now I can see why.’

  Ezio, blushing despite himself, replied, ‘I appreciate the kind words, Madonna –’

  ‘Please, call me Paola.’

  Ezio bowed. ‘I cannot sufficiently express my gratitude to you for extending your protection to my mother and sister, Mado – I mean, Paola.’

  ‘It was the least I could do.’

  ‘Are they here? May I see them?’

  ‘They are not here – this would be no place for them, and some of my clients are highly placed in the city’s governance.’

  ‘Is this place then, forgive me, but is it what I think it is?’