Guardia: A Novel of Renaissance Italy

by Crews, Michael

  “Stupid bird,” I said, stepping out of bed. I slammed the window shutters and got dressed.

  Downstairs, I ran into Antonello. He always made the habit of leaving before anybody else, so it was a surprise to catch him. He looked up from the sweet, jam-covered bun he was preparing.

  “Morning, Mercurio. What are you doing up?”

  “I couldn’t stay asleep, the birds woke me. This investigation has been playing with my mind too.”

  “Relax, brother. Don’t get so caught up in work or else you’ll end up like me, old and bland before your time.” He laughed, the lines in his face becoming distinct for an instant. It was hard to believe he was only a few years older than me. Age favors no man, but some less so than others. Already his hair was thinner than it had been. I scratched my head subconsciously.

  “I was going to say the same to you, Nello. Speaking of which, aren’t we due for another trip to Venice?”

  He paused and a sly smile crept upon his face. “Now that’s an idea! Let me see what I can arrange, perhaps I can come up with some crisis that requires our presence.” My brother and I visited the Veneto every year or so under the pretense of business. Our contact there, a Greek named Nikolaus, was an importer with a proven reputation for hard selling and lavish living.

  “How many children do you think Niko has by now?”

  Antonello groaned. “Probably too many to count.” He looked outside, then stuffed the rest of his breakfast into his mouth. Still chewing, he said, “Good luck out there today. Be careful.”

  “I’ll do that. You let me know if you hear anything over on your end.”

  “Ciao, brother,” he said, and left.

  Shortly after, I too was on my way. The morning walk was dewy and cool. A nearly full moon still shone brightly at the edge of the horizon. At the Bargello, torches were still lit outside and the courtyard was mired in gloomy shadow.

  Pietro wouldn’t arrive for a while still, so I wasted time by catching up with one of the night watch who happened to be a good friend.

  “Greetings, Marcello,” I said. “Have things been quiet tonight?”

  “Si, Mercurio. Eerily so,” said the man. He was in his late thirties, his family originally from Provencal. His speech still carried hints of the Languedoc melody. “I hear you’re chasing a murderer.”

  “I am.”

  “It’s a dreadful thing what happened to that man. I heard all about it. Perhaps that’s why folks decided to stay indoors last night. It’s far safer.”

  “What about the gangs?”

  “The gangs have been quiet. Ordinarily this would be a relief. Now, with this war business and this murder, I’m not so sure. Something about it makes me uneasy.”

  “Well I wouldn’t worry too much about the murder, I already have a suspect and we’ll hopefully have him captured by today.”

  “Really? Who?”

  I leaned in closer to be discreet. “Carlo Il Coltello. You ever hear him?”

  His face grew cold. “Yes, as a matter fact. He’s a ruthless loan shark, does business mostly at the illegal gambling halls throughout the city, offering loans to fools who are down on their luck. Carlo is an absolute devil, feeding off of men’s weakness.”

  “You ever run into him before?”

  “No, but I’ve seen his work. Men scared out of their wits, bloody and mutilated. Sometimes they come to us at night seeking protection. Of course, as soon as they do find us they suddenly have nothing to say because they know they’d be as good as dead if they snitched.”

  "Has he actually killed anybody?"

  He paused for a moment. "No, not that I know of since you mentioned it. But he does a formidable job of tormenting his borrowers until he gets his money."

  “Do you know anything more specific?”

  “I know he’s got some muscle that works for him, a Corsican by the name of Tino. I’ve actually seen him before, out with his cronies doing the devil’s work. Ugly one too, big and mean. Looks a bit like a hound, right down to the mutilated ear. But the bastard Carlo never gets caught doing anything illegal though. Mostly he sticks to running his business, unless one of his clients falls behind and Tino’s intimidation doesn’t solve the problem. Then he settles matters personally.”

  “So Tino is the collector for Carlo's debts."

  “Yes,” he laughed nervously, “and he is as persistent as any bloodhound. If you owe Carlo money, Tino will find you no matter what. He’s loyal and very effective, which is why Carlo keeps him around.”

  “When was the last time you saw Tino?”

  “About three days ago. Haven’t seen or heard anything lately though. But, do you think Carlo really killed this him?”

  “According to my spies, he’s the one.”

  He shrugged. “Well, if that’s true then I hope you catch him. Just be warned, he’s slippery and he has more eyes than you might think.”

  “Thanks, Marcello.”

  I waited for Pietro in my office, thinking over what Marcello had said. From what I was hearing, I would have more luck finding this Tino than directly going after Carlo. The problem was that he had not been seen in days, and I didn’t know where to begin looking. All I could do was continue investigating Ugo and his contacts, and pray that something would come out of one of them.

  A knock nearby pulled me out of my circuitous thoughts, and I jumped in surprise. Pietro stood at my door.

  “Thank God you’re here!” I said, relieved. “I thought I was going to go mad.”

  “You’re welcome, capo," he said, laughing.

  I stood quickly. “I hope you’re well rested. We have a lot of work to do today.”

  The Bargello was as silent as a crypt when we left. I was thankful when we didn’t run into Jacopo. There was a constant fear that tugged at my mind that I would be ordered to cut the investigation short. If my brother’s reports about Milan and Genoa were true, the public would likely respond angrily.

  By cutting off the supply of goods to Florence, the duke was attacking the city’s economic stability. Workers from all industries would feel the effects. Workshops would be shut down and laborers would be laid off. There are few things that mobilize the people faster than unemployment. For now I was one of only a few who probably even knew about this situation, thanks to Antonello, but in a matter of hours word would spread across the city.

  Pietro and I hurried to the neighborhood of the Arte della Seta and Bartolomeo’s house. The streets were crowded with men and goods on their way to the various workshops nearby. Bartolomeo was probably already on his way to the Ponte Vecchio. This was preferable to me since I had wished to speak with his wife while he was away.

  We neared the neighborhood in which the house should have been but noticed it unusually hard to spot. It took several moments before I realized that we had passed it already and that in the daylight the house appeared far less grand than it had seemed from the inky shadows of the previous night.

  I knocked at the door loudly, and waited. There were no sounds inside.

  “You think anyone is home?”

  I shrugged, waited a little longer, and then knocked again.

  When we had all but given up we finally heard the shuffle of footsteps approaching. The door cracked open and a timid looking woman answered. I could only see a corner of her face when she asked, “Who is it?”

  “My name is Mercurio and this is Pietro, we are officers from the Bargello. May we have a word with you, signora?”

  She looked at me with anxious eyes. I smiled, and she reluctantly permitted us inside.

  “This way, please.” She beckoned us along through a corridor that led past a stairwell leading up to the main section of the house. The ground level was, as it turned out, mostly for storage and for servants’ quarters. Outside in the courtyard we sat, surrounded by Roman style columns and antique busts that were darkened with mildew as though they’d just been unearthed.

  Two young boys were playing in the garden. “Marco! Sand
ro! Go into the bedroom please.” The two boys looked up at their mother pleadingly, but she remained unmoved. They vanished inside, leaving us in privacy.

  “I’m investigating the death of your brother-in-law, signora. I was just wondering if you might be able to tell me a little bit about what you observed in the last few days or weeks.”

  Giulia was a woman much younger than her husband, I realized. Her face was spritely, every feature seemingly too small except for her eyes, which shined like large, round pools. Her jaw flowed into a narrow little triangle, her chin a boney protrusion ejecting from a narrow frame.

  Her manners had a stone-like quality as well. Her gaze was steady and when she breathed it was so subtle as to be barely perceptible. It occurred to me that the little overgrown cherub sitting in the garden seemed more lifelike than she.

  “I don’t know what I’m supposed to say, signore.” Her voice was a tight, nervous squeak.

  “I understand you’ve been through a lot and that you’re frightened,” I said. This was not going to be easy. “Please trust me when I say that we are doing our best to find the men responsible for what happened.”

  She raised her eyes to meet mine and I sensed her guard relax just slightly. “My husband and his brother were not on friendly terms. He disapproved of just about every aspect of his lifestyle, as did I.”

  “Did Ugo ever talk about being in trouble?”

  “He was always in trouble with someone.”

  “Anyone recently? Have you ever seen any strange men around? Any visitors?”

  She thought for a moment.

  “There was once a man. I didn’t really think much of it.”

  “Tell me about him.”

  “Oh, it was nothing. But he was standing across the street, just watching the house. It was early in the morning, and I was opening the window when I saw him. He looked at me and smiled, then walked off.”

  I leaned back in my folding chair. “That doesn’t sound very unusual.”

  “I can’t describe it, just the way that he looked at me was odd. Also, he was a large man. Very muscular. Dark hair, dark eyes. And his ear was disfigured, notched like from a knife wound. He scared me.”

  I noticed that her description was vaguely similar to Marcello’s description of Tino. Carlo was sounding more and more like our man, after all.

  “Have you ever heard of a man named Carlo?”

  She shook her head.

  “Did Ugo ever talk about men coming for him, or of any debts that he owed?”

  “No,” she said, then hesitated. “Actually, I heard my husband and he arguing about money about a week ago. Ugo said that he needed to borrow some money. He was very persistent, saying that he needed it soon. My husband wanted no part of it, and said so.”

  “And so he left?”

  “Yes. That was the last time I saw him.”

  “When we spoke to your husband, he said that Ugo stopped by two nights ago. You didn’t know this?”

  “No, I never heard anything.”

  Bartolomeo had said that Ugo hadn’t stayed the night, so I had no reason to doubt her. As we spoke I began to get the impression that she was unaware of a lot of things that went on between the brothers. Perhaps she assumed that the less she knew of Ugo’s problems the better, for her sake and for that of her children.

  “Pietro, do you have any questions for the lady?”

  He shifted in his chair. “When did you say you saw this strange man?”

  “A couple weeks ago or so. I don’t know exactly.”

  “Where were Ugo's quarters?” Pietro asked.

  “Downstairs,” she said. “I can show you.”

  We walked over to one of the lower rooms and she unlocked the door. Inside was a straw mattress and a nightstand. Some clothes were stuffed in a wooden chest in the corner, its lid wide open. An iron lamp was hung from a peg jutting out from the wall.

  “Do you mind?” I asked.

  “Not at all.”

  Pietro and I poked around, digging through the clothing and peeking under the mattress. When he flipped it over there was a large gash that extended from one end to the other lengthwise.

  “What do you make of that?”

  “I – I don’t know,” she said timidly.

  “You think he was hiding something in here?” Pietro said.

  “Only one way to find out. Open it up. If it’s all right with the lady.” I turned to Giulia. She nodded.

  Together we split apart the mattress. We dug through it thoroughly, but nothing was inside except old straw. The lady stood in the doorway, watching the bizarre spectacle with a bemused expression.

  “Any more questions, Pietro?” I said, picking the itchy debris from my clothing.

  “No, capo.”

  “Then I think we’re all finished here. Signora, you’ve been a tremendous help to us,” I said as she led us through the corridor to the front door. Pietro walked silently, his countenance grim.

  “Thank you for stopping by,” she said. “I hope you find the man you’re looking for.”

  As soon as we were outside and the door was shut tight behind us Pietro muttered, “Well that was a waste of time.”

  “Was it?” I said.

  “We didn’t learn a damn thing,” he said angrily.

  “Now that’s not true, and I’ll tell you why. First,” I said, but stopped instantly. “Let’s hold that thought for a moment.”

  Across the street there was an aged woman preparing to leave for market, a wicker basket dangling from her hand. “Never underestimate the nosiness of a neighbor,” I uttered under my breath.

  “Excuse me!” My voice was cheerful and smooth. She gave me a bold look, her eyes fixed with a fiery intensity. “Might I ask you a few questions?”

  “Go right ahead, and I might have a few answers if they have anything to do with those criminals that have been loitering out here.”

  “Criminals?”

  “Yes, and they’ve been hanging around because of those folks right across the way!” She pointed to the Neri house with a pudgy sausage of a finger. “And I don’t care if they can hear me or not!”

  “Easy,” I said. “When did you start noticing this?”

  “Years. But they started worsening these last few months. These hoods from the Albizzi gang have been coming around here. They have no respect for anybody at all. Bunch of renegades!”

  “Wait.” I was certain that I’d misheard. “Did you say Albizzi?”

  “I sure did. And that man that got killed the other day was tied up in their militia.” The old lady growled and spat on the street. “I seen them all show up at that house, where they hold their meetings or whatever they do. Planning trouble, most certainly.”

  “Did you ever happen to see a large Corsican man stalking the area recently?”

  She thought for a moment, her head crooked at an unusual angle. “Yeah, as a matter of fact I did. I saw him twice in the last week. He was poking around at that house too. Why, what did he do?”

  “We think he might have been involved in the murder of your neighbor.”

  “You don’t say,” she said drolly. “All kinds of thieves and murderers about. I’m almost afraid to leave the house these days.”

  We thanked the lady and let her go on her way. Our next stop was the Ponte Vecchio again, to interview some of the other workers in the area and to drop by Bartolomeo’s workshop. We were in a hurry so we hopped aboard a wagon that was carrying silk supplies to the market.

  The wagon creaked and wobbled as it carried us towards the bridge. It gave us a chance to relax and think about the evidence without fear of being trampled or run over. The driver was reserved and politely kept to himself while we organized our thoughts.

  “As I was about to say, we’ve learned many things. First, we've learned a great deal about what manner of woman the Signora Neri is, which speaks volumes about the character of Ser Bartolomeo.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “She w
as certainly upset about the fate of Ugo and her fear was justifiable. But she is also a very submissive woman, at least to her husband. This is a virtuous quality, but in her I sensed something more to it. What were her words, ‘I don’t know what I’m supposed to say’?”

  Pietro was skeptical. “But capo, that doesn’t mean anything. Perhaps she’s just not accustomed to strangers in her home.”

  “This is a possibility,” I conceded. “Unless we consider what the neighbor said about the Albizzi gang frequenting the house. This isn’t to say that she is a part of this group, but she has likely seen no shortage of strangers.”

  “What about Ugo’s quarters? That gash on the mattress was rather incriminating.” He instinctively plucked a remaining bit of straw off of his doublet.

  “It was unusual, but it wasn’t evidence of much. Either Ugo had kept something of value in the mattress, or someone had gone through it thinking that there was something of value inside. If the first case is true then it appears that he was in a hurry to retrieve whatever object he had stashed and so ripped it apart carelessly. If the second, then we have no way of knowing whether anything of value was in fact found.”

  “So, we have nothing then.”

  “Not exactly. What this confirms is that there was something of value in his possession at some point, we just don’t know what that could have been or who knew about it.”

  Pietro growled. “Fair enough, but what about the neighbor? If what she said was true and Ugo is involved with the Albizzi, what does that mean to us?”

  “It means that this case just got political, which is precisely what we don’t need right now in light of…” I paused, seeing what lay before us before completing my sentence. “Recent events.”

  The piazza was overrun with shouting men, some of them carrying banners and others carrying shovels, oars or anything else that was large and could be hoisted as a weapon. Their individual voices were drowned out, but from the angry din I could tell one thing: that the people were furious.