by Alana White
“And so last night when your master, Ser Castruccio Senso, was killed, you were here,” Palla said. The boy nodded and seemed about to burst into tears again. “Did you see what happened?” Palla said.
Luigi clutched his toes in the tips of his sandals. “No!”
Palla made a dismissive sound. “Luigi, the house is small. You must have seen something. Where were you?”
“On my pallet in the fireplace.”
Across from Luigi, Guid'Antonio leaned back. “In the fireplace?”
“You heard him,” Palla said.
“You were in the hearth? In the main room of the house?” Guid'Antonio said.
“Sì, Signore.”
“You didn't rise when you heard the ruckus?” Guid'Antonio said, still not sure he understood the boy's meaning.
“No.” Luigi kept his head down.
“Well, of course not, Uncle,” Amerigo inserted from his post at the gate. “He was scared.”
A steady stream of tears had wet the collar of Luigi's tunic, a tunic appropriately short and skimpy, befitting the boy's role as a slave. All Castruccio Senso's pride of ownership was on display: Luigi's shirt was not uncolored cloth, but sewn from a cotton-linen blend dyed a warm white hue to emphasize his dark skin. His hose were relatively inexpensive brown jersey, but fit him well, and so were probably new to accommodate his constant growth.
Guid'Antonio removed his handkerchief from his scrip. “Wipe your eyes.” Luigi accepted the handkerchief with his free hand and did as he was told. “The intruder didn't notice you in the fireplace?” Guid'Antonio said.
Luigi went very still. “Either he did, or he didn't,” Guid'Antonio said, staring at him.
A small snuffling sound escaped Luigi's lips. “Master Senso had filled the opening with the chimney board. Every night he did the same. In the mornings, he let me out.”
Amerigo gasped. “He boarded you up?” Slaves were a commonplace in Florence, as was true throughout Italy. Tartars from the Black Sea, Russians, Greeks, Turks, Moors, and Albanians: all were fair game for purchase, so long as they weren't Christian. Although slaves were meant to work hard, usually as family servants, they generally were not mistreated. “The bastard,” Amerigo said.
“And since you were behind the board you couldn't see anything,” Palla said. “But what did you hear, Luigi?”
“They—they yelled at Master Senso.”
“They?” Guid'Antonio pounced. “There were two of them or more?”
“Yes! Ten or twenty, at least!” Luigi sobbed as if his heart might break.
The boy had survived a terrifying experience, yes, but this? From what Guid'Antonio had seen inside the house, to say a dozen men or more were there last night was preposterous. But why lie about it? It was then he realized they knew nothing of Luigi's character. Luigi could be a liar. He could be a thief. Guid'Antonio caught Palla's eye: Go easy, or we will learn precious little from him.
“Luigi, Luigi, you're all right now.” Palla placed his arm around the boy, his black eyes fast on Guid'Antonio over the top of Luigi's head.
“Luigi,” Guid'Antonio said, “we need to know as much as possible about last night so we can catch the men who did this and chain them in the Stinche.”
“You'd like to help us do that, wouldn't you?” Palla said.
Luigi's glance slipped away from them, toward the middle distance. “Yes,” he said in an emphatic, clear voice.
“Last night was terrible,” Guid'Antonio said, careful to keep his knees from bumping the boy. “I'm glad you were in the fireplace, nice and safe from those bad men. Sometimes it's best to keep quiet, isn't it?”
“Yes. That's what Margherita said.”
“And Margherita is?” Guid'Antonio asked.
“My lady's nurse.”
“Ah. Where is Margherita now?” Guid'Antonio said, hoping against hope Camilla's nurse was here in Florence.
“Vinci,” Luigi said.
Guid'Antonio glanced at Palla, who chose then to stand and arch his back, easing the soreness in his muscles. “Luigi, do you know what things Castruccio Senso kept in his strongbox?” Palla said.
Luigi eyed Guid'Antonio but answered Palla softly. “Ser Senso hid some florins there. And my lady's jewelry. He didn't know I saw him do it,” he said, smirking.
Jewelry. The jewelry Camilla did not take on her trip, was not allowed to take in all probability. And now stolen by Castruccio Senso's killers. “Luigi, did Castruccio keep a private journal?” Guid'Antonio said, tilting his head, hoping.
“They stole it,” Luigi said.
“How do you know that?”
“It was in the strongbox. It's gone now.”
Guid'Antonio gritted his teeth. Where was Lady Fortune when he needed her? Castruccio Senso's journal might have gone a long way in revealing the fate of Castruccio's lost wife. But Lady Fortune helped those who helped themselves. And Luigi had become very quiet again.
“Here come the beccamorti.” Amerigo thumbed toward the sound of creaking wagon wheels. The grave diggers would wash, shave, and anoint Castruccio's body and also report his name, parish, and quarter to the doctors' and spicers' guild. Unless his family spoke up for him, he would be buried with little or no pomp, given the umbrella of excommunication the Pope held over the city. Give me that rascal, Lorenzo de' Medici.
“Luigi, I'd like to see the item you're holding in your hand,” Guid'Antonio said.
The boy hunched his shoulders. “What item?” Palla said.
Guid'Antonio held out his palm. “It's important, Luigi. If you found something in the sala this morning, it could help your lady.”
There's a cheap shot, Palla's expression said. Well done.
“You have no choice, Luigi,” Guid'Antonio said.
The boy wilted, and Guid'Antonio took a small swatch of white cotton fabric from his shaking hand. “It's her guardacuore,” Luigi said.
“Her nightgown?” Amerigo said, incredulous.
“A piece of it, yes.”
“Wherever did you get this? It has blood on it.” Palla's friendliness had evaporated. Now, he was alert as a cat and ready to pounce.
Luigi glanced from the courtyard to the door leading back into the household. “I found it on the floor when your sergeant fetched me from the fireplace and then ran to fetch you,” he said, looking away from Palmieri. “I borrowed it. Please don't chop off my hand!” He cried again, aching tears from a bottomless well.
“Luigi. Swear on the Bible, no one is going to do anything bad to you.” Guid'Antonio handed Palla the small white cotton scrap. On it were embroidered the initials CR. And, yes, the cloth was damp with blood; Castruccio Senso's, Guid'Antonio guessed, though there could be no way of knowing with certainty. It could be the blood of a cat. Or a dog.
“Those are my lady's initials,” Luigi said, appearing about to faint. “Camilla Rossi da Vinci.” Anything to say her name.
“Well, well,” Palla said. “Show me exactly where you found it. Then—” Taking Luigi by the hand, glancing at Guid'Antonio, he escorted the boy into the house.
“Then what?” Amerigo's stare at Luigi's retreating back said it all: What about that boy, now he has neither master, nor home, nor anywhere to live? To the foundling hospital in Piazza Annunziata to grow up as an orphaned slave boy? Luigi was far too valuable for that. Someone would take him, perhaps in trade. He was twelve, fatten him up, and he might live and toil for a long time, a strong, healthy slave.
“Senso's relatives?” Guid'Antonio said.
Palla, having returned to the garden with his charge, used his handkerchief to wipe dried tears from the boy's face with water from the fountain. “Castruccio Senso has no family,” Palla said. “I found that much out when I was actively investigating Camilla's—” He glanced down at Luigi. “Departure,” Palla said.
“Where did Luigi find the fabric?” Guid'Antonio said.
Palla grinned. “Beside the body, of course.”
Amerigo said, “He'll be in grave danger shoul
d Castruccio Senso's killers realize Luigi was listening from the safety of the fireplace during the night. He might recognize their voices if ever he hears them again. They'll figure that out.”
Luigi looked surprised, and his sobs filled the garden, louder and louder.
A starving dog and now a mistreated boy. Guid'Antonio frowned unhappily. “Amerigo, take him home and tell Domenica to get some food in his stomach. Give him a clean pallet. Tell everyone to keep quiet about him. We don't want anyone to know his whereabouts. Certainly not Castruccio Senso's killers.”
Palla arched his brow. “Not that you asked, but I agree. For now.”
The gate closed on Amerigo and Luigi with a soft click. After a moment, from Piazza Santa Maria del Carmine there came the fading sound of Amerigo talking to his charge. Palla plucked a twig of rosemary from a nearby bush and sniffed it thoughtfully. “Our little slave knows something.”
“Yes.” From inside the Senso household there came the sounds of the beccamorti cursing as they heaved Senso's corpse onto the litter.
“Now what?” Palla said.
Later, I'm going to have Luigi tell me exactly what happened on the road to Morba, Guid'Antonio thought. He said, “I think we should go to church.”
“Excellent idea,” Palla said.
After giving instructions for his sergeants to stand watch over the crime scene, with a graceful wave of his arm, Palla swung open Castruccio Senso's gate.
They stood together in Santa Maria del Carmine Church, gazing up at The Expulsion of Adam and Eve from Paradise painted fifty or so years earlier in Cappella Brancacci, Eve with her head thrown back in a howl, her face wracked with anguish. Overcome by shame and grief, she covered her naked breasts and nether region with her hands. Gone forever were the days of flat renderings of angels and saints.
“I know how she feels,” Guid'Antonio said, and immediately regretted expressing his feelings to anyone, flippantly or no.
Palla's laugh echoed softly in the chapel. “Masaccio would be proud,” he said, and let it go at that, chewing the rosemary twig reflectively. “Luigi claims he heard voices besides Castruccio Senso's. Could be he knows them. Could be he was in league with them.”
“All ten or twenty?” Guid'Antonio said skeptically. “He also claims Turks kidnapped his lady.”
“That's my point.”
Guid'Antonio waved his hand. “Much as I dislike eliminating any possibility, I don't think Luigi's one of them, however many there were. Were they some of Castruccio Senso's disgruntled clients? If so, in the past Luigi would have been around them enough to distinguish one voice from the other. But why not finger them? Because he's afraid they'll get to him?” he said, half to himself.
“My money's on Salvestro Aboati,” Palla said.
“The Neapolitan you tailed after the argument at the Red Lion. Maybe.” They moved to the right toward The Tribute Money frescoed on the church wall.
“I left Salvestro Aboati when his path turned opposite Castruccio's,” Palla said. “I'll have my men search the taverns and inns for him again. By the way, they scoured the countryside for evidence of where Camilla's horse might have been held captive these last weeks and found nothing.”
“That would have been too good to be true,” Guid'Antonio said. “Why bother looking for the Neapolitan? If he was involved in Castruccio's death, he's long gone by now. Along with whoever might have assisted him.”
“I'll leave no stone unturned,” Palla said.
“What of the account sheets torn from the ledger?” Guid'Antonio said. “Find Salvestro Aboati's name there and—”
“I'll sift through the papers,” Palla said, “though surely if any of them incriminated Aboati or anyone else, they've been destroyed. There's the motive, perhaps.”
Somewhere in the chapel, a door opened. Skirts swished across the nave; in a far corner, a door closed. Quietly, Palla said, “Killing a man's one thing. The scene in Senso's house is quite another.”
True. There had been more than avarice in Castruccio Senso's household last night. There had been malice and extreme cruelty, the likes of which Guid'Antonio had witnessed only once before. For an instant, he saw Giuliano's knees buckle as he sank to the Cathedral floor, saw Francesco de' Pazzi stab him relentlessly, ten, twenty times, and more. . . .
“What do you think about the fabric?” Palla said.
“Countless possibilities,” Guid'Antonio said, swallowing hard.
Palla turned his shrewd dark eyes him. “But what do you think about it, since thinking is our modus operandi?”
Palla would press him. So while good Saint Peter poured water over the head of a muscular, barely clothed young man in Tommaso Masaccio's Saint Peter Baptizing the Converts, and a viper tempted the naked and unashamed couple in the Garden of Eden in Masolino's gentle Temptation of Adam and Eve, Guid'Antonio removed the monogrammed fabric from his scrip. “The cloth is smoothly cut and in a rectangular form. Done with scissors, not ripped. Deliberate, then. The fabric is good quality, albeit not fine. Still, any decent clothing is precious to its owner. Not many people would cut up a woman's shift.” He slid the small piece of cloth back into his purse.
Palla smiled. “I will want that back. Cut by Castruccio Senso himself, mayhap? Why?”
“Or someone else and why, again?”
“If he had her killed, why keep the fabric? There's a macabre souvenir.”
“But remember the blood on it is fresh,” Guid'Antonio said. “This bit of nightgown has been recently soiled, while the girl's been missing almost three weeks now.”
By silent agreement they turned and strode down the single nave enclosed by a barrel vault. Despite the rough stone face Santa Maria del Carmine showed the world, its interior was rich with frescoes lit by candles and natural light provided by ten large arched windows. Turning to Palla, Guid'Antonio said, “What did the elusive nurse Margherita state when you questioned her in Vinci?”
“Nothing. 'Cept she, Camilla, and the boy were beset by Turks, and you know the rest.”
“No, I do not,” Guid'Antonio said. Luigi: He would go softly when questioning the boy or risk losing him completely. Patience, patience. But look what patience and procrastination had cost him already. It sickened him.
“By the by,” Palla said. “She's doing well.”
“Who is?” Guid'Antonio said.
“The doctor of the house.”
Guid'Antonio felt hot color rise in his cheeks. “Ah,” he said.
“You haven't spoken with her about this case.” It was a statement, not a question.
“No need,” Guid'Antonio said.
Palla made a light, laughing sound down in his throat. “Need comes in many guises, my friend.”
“How well I know,” Guid'Antonio said.
Casually, Palla said, “She is that rarest of Florentine women. Beautiful, unmarried, and dependent on no man.”
Still not married, then. Guid'Antonio sought and failed to find the slightest comfort in that.
They stepped into the piazza, shading their eyes with their hands. “What are you going to do next?” Palla said.
“Keep thinking.” Turks. How in God's name had Margherita and Luigi come up with that outrageous tale? And Margherita had told the boy to keep quiet.
Why?
“Castruccio Senso, murdered? So much for that louse as our culprit regarding Camilla Rossi da Vinci,” Lorenzo said, storming up and down the sala in his house.
“Not necessarily. I believe Castruccio was involved in whatever happened on the road that day.” From Santa Maria del Carmine, Guid'Antonio had ridden Flora across Ponte Trinita to the north bank and straight to the Medici Palace.
“So? With Castruccio's death, we've lost the chance to question him about the reservations, about everything.” Lorenzo whipped around, glowering, his eyes black points of light. “Tell me now Mary isn't weeping for that miserable little wine merchant!”
“No. The streets are quiet.” The painting hadn't wept sinc
e Camilla's horse, Tesoro, had galloped into town, thank God in all His radiant glory. “No one has taken advantage of this latest turn. Yet,” Guid'Antonio said.
“Senso was robbed as well as having his head bashed in?”
“Maybe only as an extra dividend,” Guid'Antonio said. “Or to throw us off the killer's actual motive.”
“What actual motive? A vendetta?” Lorenzo said, twirling one finger in the air.
A family seeking revenge on Castruccio's house for some slight, whether real or imagined? Camilla's husband was a man well disliked, and the murder seemed a personal one. Still, it had been an ugly kill. “If a vendetta, we'd know by now. His killers would make sure of it.”
“Killers?”
“Two, at least.”
“Why can't we catch these morons who keep committing crimes beneath our noses? Missing girls, paintings weeping when they have a will,” Lorenzo said, scowling.
“Castruccio was only just murdered,” Guid'Antonio reminded him. “And Palla's fast on it.” He couldn't resist adding, “Morons, they may be but, so far, they're getting away with it.”
“What will you do now?”
Make a list of the people asking me that same question, Guid'Antonio thought darkly to himself. “I'll go home to the wife I haven't seen since Thursday. I'll study our accounts. I'll visit Verrocchio's workshop.” Another item on his list he had yet failed to do.
“Verrocchio's?” On Lorenzo's lips, the word was an explosion. “Is this truly the time to be thinking about commissioning a sculpture or painting?”
Did he have a life of his own? Apparently, not. “I aim to question his apprentice, Leonardo da Vinci.”
Lorenzo whirled around, facing him again. “Leonardo? Why, for God's sake?”
“One never knows where one might find a connection,” Guid'Antonio said and refused to elaborate.
“Leonardo's no longer with Verrocchio,” Lorenzo said, frowning. “He opened his own shop while you were gone off to France.” He resumed pacing, his dark eyes darting here and there. “You know people will accuse me of having a hand in this, if not of actually wielding the candlestick, of causing Castruccio Senso's death in some secret way. Never mind I had no reason to destroy the little man. Just the opposite. A murder in our town. It sickens me.”