Guardia: A Novel of Renaissance Italy

by Crews, Michael

  “So,” I said, after a few sips to quench my thirst and soothe my tired body, “how went your day?”

  “Bene,” said Francesco. “Benissimo, in fact. We found your killer.” He winked smugly, beaming with mock bravado.

  “Is that so?” I teased. Francesco was always a man known to stretch the truth. “Then where is he? Under the table? Hiding under that maid’s skirts?”

  “He’s not lying,” said Lauro, grinning. “Leave it to these peasant bischeri that can never keep their mouths shut.”

  I drained my glass and poured another. “Tell me the details, Francesco.”

  He settled down and began. “So we scoured all the markets we could and eventually came across some rumors of the body at the bridge. We didn’t have a name for the victim yet, but we did keep hearing another name: Il Coltello.”

  “Carlo?”

  Francesco nodded.

  “Who?” Pietro looked at each of us quizzically.

  Carlo Il Coltello, The Knife, was an up and coming gangster who was in the business of extending usurious loans to people desperate and stupid enough to accept his terms. In recent months we’d heard of several individuals with missing digits that were the result of dealings with him.

  “Do you think it was really him or just a rumor?”

  “Who knows? One thing is certain though, that man in the river was cut to pieces and Il Coltello is handy with his cutlery. I doubt it’s just a coincidence.”

  “Lauro?”

  “I’m not so sure. Carlo’s never killed anybody. It’s bad business, and it’s a good way to not get paid. If you’re in the business of lending money you’re better off merely terrorizing your clients than actually killing them.”

  “I agree,” I said. “But who knows. Maybe he’s decided to send a message to future customers by making an example of this one. Anybody have a figure of what Ugo owed him?”

  “No idea. The rumors were vague to begin with.”

  As true as that was, it gave us a direction to begin looking. I was pleased with the amount of information that we’d uncovered that day. I remembered then that Jacopo had given us all of tomorrow as well to uncover what we could about this case. At this rate, we wouldn’t need much of it.

  “What about you, capo? Did you find anything useful?”

  I recalled our meeting with the goldsmith and what had happened at the Chiesa di Ognissanti, carefully describing what Bartolomeo had said about his brother’s reputation. Ugo’s trouble with the usurer came as no surprise then, and it seemed clear once I was finished that Carlo was a man of extreme interest to our investigation.

  “What’s the plan for tomorrow?” Lauro said, yawning as the words tumbled out. We all looked weary. Pietro blinked hard a couple times and propped himself on the table.

  “First we’ll need to verify what we can. I want you two to grill whatever informants you have in your employ to see if they know any other information on this killing. Find out who knows Carlo and try to get a fix on him so that if he is the killer then we can capture him quickly.”

  “And you?”

  “Pietro and I will continue investigating Ugo. I need to speak with family, neighbors, coworkers. Anybody that’s had any relation to him. I want to know what he does and where he does it. And, most importantly, I want to find out the real reason, if there’s one at all, that our Carlo might have wanted Ugo dead.”

  4

  We finished our drinks and then called it a night. The air outside felt cool thanks to a breeze that had descended from the mountains and the streets were fully enveloped in shadow. A violet band of mottled sky split the inky rooftops that loomed above. I walked in silence, my mind focused on the Ugo Neri case, oblivious to most of my surroundings.

  My home was not far from the tavern, just a block or two from the Via di Calimala and about halfway between the Ponte Santa Trinità and the Ponte Vecchio. It was modest, a middle class house fit for an artisan and his family and far removed from the colossus that Bartolomeo resided in.

  I climbed the quiet steps with legs heavy from a long but satisfying day. As I entered the warm nest of home, relief coursed through my bones. For a short moment, the world was peaceful. That tranquility was short-lived as my family roared to attention.

  “Mercurio! You’re home late.” My teenage sister Cortesia scolded me, wagging her finger. Her impersonations of our mother were getting a little too uncanny. Her long black hair and high cheekbones were an almost exact duplicate, less a few years.

  “Very funny,” I said, kicking off my boots. I hung up my cloak and cap on a hook beside the door. “It’s been a very long day.”

  “Work?”

  “Yes. How did your studies go?”

  “Utterly boring,” she said in disgust. “I don’t understand why mother insists that I study so much philosophy.” She had long ago abandoned the copy of Plato’s The Republic that sat upon her lap, and her wooden sedia creaked as she fidgeted.

  “And what, darling sister, would you prefer to study in its stead?” I teased.

  “You already know, dear brother. I’d rather be studying mathematics. Numbers are so much more logical than all this arcane prattle of what order there may or may not be in the universe. It’s nothing but metaphysical nonsense.”

  Ever the practical girl, Cortesia had always been a lover of the sciences. Her mathematics tutor found her irresistible and encouraged her passion for the subject. Most of the others, with the exception of Latin, waged a quiet war with her stubbornness.

  I shook my head. “So much like mother. One day you’ll make an absolutely terrifying housewife.”

  “What did you say?” Her tone furious but silly, my mother appeared from upstairs. “Well, look who decided to show up!” she said. She wore a silk cioppa, a gown with long, slender sleeves, and her hair was tied up tight and conservative as usual. My mother, proud as always, carried herself like a member of nobility even though we had not so much as a drop from any of the old families. It amazed me that she never lost that indomitable sense of pride after all the years and hardships that our family had endured.

  “Ciao mamma!” I gave her a hug.

  She kissed my cheek. “Has my son been out saving the world again?” She teased me like the prodigal son that I was. She had gradually accepted my position amongst the sbirri despite her initial disapproval.

  Honor holds a special place in a family, and one’s occupation is but one reflection of it. My brother, for example, brought great honor through his work in the family business. Trade was among the noblest occupations, especially in Florence. My work with the Bargello, unfortunately, received less praise than Antonello’s despite the positive effects my work brought to the city. In the end, it was my individual successes, and the material rewards that they brought, that did the most to change my family’s mind and garner their approval.

  “Hardly,” I said. “Today has brought me an even bigger mystery than the one before it.”

  “Well, let’s talk of it while we sup. Your brother is supposed to be here any minute too. A tavolo, Cortesia!” She corralled us towards the dining table which was already neatly laid out. Our housekeeper Vera was still preparing the food back in the kitchen. The medley of aromas that wafted from back there were divine.

  Our house was of simple design. Downstairs was the entry vestibule and the main common room, which was linked to the kitchen and pantry on one side. On the other side was the entry to our tiny vegetable garden, and also the tiny quarters in which Vera resided. My bedroom was downstairs opposite the kitchen, the reason due to my often strange hours. Upstairs was the common bedroom area for my mother, brother and sister.

  Like most Florentine homes, ours was decorated sparsely. For furniture we had the typical bench chairs and sedie along the far wall, near the hearth. There was also a small writing desk made of cypress, and a case for dishes carved from cherry wood. There also was an assortment of chests and tables that were small but practical.

  Emerging f
rom the kitchen was Vera, a smallish woman only a few years older than my mother. Silver hair hung down in tight curls around a round, cherubic face. She had served our family for a decade and was beloved as much as any blood relative could be.

  “Ser Mercurio! Welcome.”

  “What on earth are you cooking back there, Vera? I think it’s the most exquisite thing I’ve ever smelled.”

  “Fettuccine di carciofi, I bought the artichokes just this afternoon at the market.” She set down a large bowl with several loaves of bread onto the table. “Mangia, it's almost ready.”

  I nibbled on a chunk of bread. “Mamma, what’s new with you?”

  “Just the same as usual, business is business. I’ve been upstairs all day writing letters and running inventory of payments due. Did you know that Niccolò’s shipment is late again?”

  My mother was an unquestionably unique woman. Most women marry and then tend to the household and children while their husbands manage the financial affairs. Not only did my mother run the household, she also was in charge of the family business. It had been this way since my father died, while I was just a boy.

  A waft of cool air brushed past, and the sound of the door closing announced the arrival of my brother, Antonello. He always arrived late, his day spent at the small family-owned warehouse by the river.

  “Greetings, everyone!” he said.

  “Nello, welcome home.”

  Gathered round the table, we enjoyed our nightly ritual of conversation and food, prandium, a time for relaxation and dining, for nourishing our family bond as well as our bodies. As we dined, the conversation wove between family affairs and matters of business.

  Antonello took a draught of wine and then asked, “Cortesia, are you studying hard?”

  “Of course, brother,” she said sweetly.

  “I certainly hope so,” said my mother. “Those lessons are not cheap, and I want you to be a proper and educated young lady. Whether you like it or not.” She added the last sentence with an upturned eyebrow, neither entirely serious nor mocking but in that distinctly Florentine mixture that fell somewhere in the middle.

  Hard financial times had prevented my mother from being able to invest in a proper dowry for Lisbetta, and so my elder sister took the vows of the Carmelite order rather than marry. Though she held no ill feelings, I could always tell that my mother treated this as a personal failure and insisted that things would be different for her younger daughter.

  “I spoke to cousin Pandolfo today, mamma,” Antonello said. “Cristina is very near delivering their first child!”

  “That is amazing, God be praised. Have they decided on a name yet?”

  “No, not yet. But the medico says that the sickness is because the child is male.”

  “This is wonderful news! Tell them that I’m very happy for them, and that I pray that the child will be strong.”

  “I will. We finally got our shipment from Genoa by the way. Niccolò said that the galley was held up after it arrived from Bruges.”

  “Typical.”

  “He said all the merchandise is intact, but I’ll inspect it myself tomorrow to be sure.”

  “Very good. Better late than never I suppose.” She dabbed at the corner of her mouth with a cloth.

  Antonello still looked troubled. “Niccolò mentioned another thing. Apparently the rebels in Forlí have requested the protection of Agnollo della Pergola. They’ve also ordered that young Tibaldo be placed in Visconti’s custody.”

  “They did what?” my mother’s eyes went wide.

  “Ridiculous,” I said. “They’re giving the city away to Visconti.”

  Pergola was one of Visconti’s primary condottieri. By requesting his intervention they were literally asking to be occupied by Filippo’s forces.

  “And I bet that shipment of wool from Genoa got held up because Visconti has tightened trade in the city,” my mother said. Genoa had given itself to Visconti two years earlier, when it was faced with the approaching threat from Aragon and political exiles siding with Milanese power. It was now effectively owned by the duke.

  I thought about the impact that this news would have on trade here. If the duke was intentionally interfering with shipments to Florence then he was playing a dangerous game. If trade suffered, this could be construed as an act of war. Tensions already ran deep, but this could bring the collective outrage to a tipping point.

  Antonello remained silent.

  “Unbelievable,” my mother said. “Well, we might as well enjoy some dessert. At least we have the power to affect that.”

  Vera brought in a dish of almond confetti that she had picked up from market, a mixture of spiced nuts coated in a thick and sweetened syrup and baked to a hard shell. It was a tasty finale to our supper and offered at least a small diversion from the ills of the world.

  “Mercurio, did you catch those robbers in Santa Croce yet?”

  “I have,” I said proudly. “The Alvari won’t be bothering anyone for a while I suspect. But, I’ve quite literally stumbled into another case, a real mystery this one.”

  “Oh?” She set down her napkin. “I love a good mystery.”

  “Don’t tease us now, brother,” said Antonello. “Go on then.”

  I explained the discovery of the body by the woolworker and our search for its identity. By the time I reached the part where Pietro and I had met the brother they were completely enthralled.

  My brother said, “This man, Bartolomeo. What did you say his surname was again?”

  “Neri.”

  “I see. I believe I have heard of him. Never met him before, but he does good business.”

  “Would you do me a favor, Nello?”

  “Certainly.”

  “Ask around for me. I’d like to know who he does business with. This man Ugo, his brother, worked with him and I’m wondering if there’s any connection. Maybe he crossed the wrong man, or perhaps there was a rival that had it out for him.”

  “I’ll find what I can, brother.”

  My sister spoke up. “Mercurio, tell me again how big this goldsmith’s house was!”

  “As big as a fortress,” I said, my arms stretching wide in exaggeration. “I imagine that you could get lost inside, like the labyrinth of Daedalus!”

  “Did you go in?”

  “No, it was very late. In fact, I didn’t see much because it was getting dark. But I’ll be stopping by tomorrow to speak with his wife. I’ll tell you what it’s like after, and if I spot any minotaurs.”

  She grinned. “You’d better.”

  “I’ve got a question for you.” My mother was sitting upright, her posture magisterial. “This man’s brother is murdered, ruthlessly, and he didn’t think to come to the sbirri first?”

  “Like I said, they weren’t very amicable and he claimed that he thought Ugo had overslept. He lost track of time, evidently.”

  “But he knew that there were bad men after him, and when he didn’t show up for work at the bottega don’t you think he might have been concerned?”

  “One would think. But like I said, there was some hostility between them since their last meeting. I’ll withhold judgment until I find out more from the family and neighbors.”

  “The world is a strange place,” Antonello said. He stared at his plate, his face contemplative.

  My mother said, “Mercurio, be careful out there. The guilds are not going to be happy about trade being disrupted. There are liable to be riots.”

  “I will be. At this point I’m only focusing on the Neri murder. Jacopo asked me to wrap this up by tomorrow, and he has asked for my men and I to provide extra watch over the city for exactly that reason.”

  “Do you think that’s enough time? You must already have a suspect.”

  “Yes, a usurer named Carlo Il Coltello.”

  She laughed loudly. I thought she would choke on a nut. “What a charming name, that one.”

  “Carlo,” my brother said, picking his teeth. “I’ve heard rumors of hi
m as well.”

  “Do you know where he I might find him?”

  “Me? No idea. But word gets around. If what they say is true, he is dangerous.” He gave me a look that was uncomfortably paternal. “Don’t you go getting tangled up with that lot without a good bit of backup.”

  “Thanks for the advice, brother. I’m sure my men have my back.”

  The hour was getting late, and everyone retired to their chambers for the night. For a while I lay curled up in bed, eyes closed but thoughts running through my mind.

  I thought about my family and how, just years earlier, we had been struggling to survive in a city that at that time barely accepted us. I thought about Lisbetta and her secluded life at the convent. There were times that I pitied her cloistered lifestyle. Other times, I envied it and the detachment she enjoyed from the turbulence of urban life. I realized that it had been weeks since I had seen her face and decided that I would visit her soon.

  I thought about my father, though my memories of him were hazy at best. I remembered his proud voice, and the fount of wisdom he had earned from a life of hard work. Sometimes I imagined what he would think of us all now. He would be proud, I was sure. Proud of my brother, and my mother especially, who had carried on his life’s work and been able to build a life for us all. My sister was quickly becoming every bit the cultured lady that my mother strove for, a woman to bring honor to our household and to any man that took her as his bride.

  But what about me? I was not the esteemed guildsman that my brother Antonello was. Cortesia would expand our family’s relations and standing with the community through marriage. Lisbetta lived a solemn life of spiritual piety. But my life held no special advantage for our family. I was a public servant, a man of no extraordinary means.

  I rolled over and peeked out my window. A damp mist clung to the air. Dogs barked in the distance, but otherwise the night was silent. I stopped thinking and let my mind drift. Sleep, when it finally came, was fitful and soothing.

  5

  The next morning I awoke earlier than usual. Vague, wispy impressions of dreams occupied my thoughts like phantoms. The sky outside my window was still dark, but with a hint of pale that presaged the sun’s dawning. I sat upright, rubbing the sleep from my eyes. Outside, a crow sat atop a ledge over the building across the street. As soon as it saw me it crooked its head and cawed straight at me.