Guardia: A Novel of Renaissance Italy

by Crews, Michael

  "What is your business here, investigatore?" He was an older man with ragged mutton chops gracing his weathered cheeks.

  "This prisoner needs to be confined until we are ready to return to Florence. My superior has authorized me to make use of your dungeon."

  The jailer scoffed. "Do I look like a hotel? We don't want him, we're already full up. Your letter be damned." He glowered at me with his one dubiously good eye.

  "Look," I said, planting it in front of him, "This seal is proof that you are required to lend assistance while we conduct our investigation."

  "Investigation of what?" the man demanded insolently.

  I sighed. "We are searching for a man named Bartolomeo Neri who is wanted for murder, fraud and treason."

  The man's features softened. "Bartolomeo Neri? That's a name I haven't heard in a long, long time."

  I held up a hand in astonishment. "Are you saying you know of this man?"

  The jailer laughed. "Yes. Yes I do. One moment, if you will. Fredo! Take this prisoner downstairs at once, see that nothing happens to him."

  A much younger, and grimier, man appeared and led Antonio wordlessly down into the depths of the fortress. Relief washed over me the moment he was gone. My gaze returned to the jailer. "Continue please."

  "I knew Bartolomeo and his brother Ugo when they were mere boys. They were an endless cause of grief, always fighting or stealing or causing other mischief. Both boys were, shall we say, off. Ugo was the reckless one, and his troubles came about from his wild energy and his love of carnal pursuits. Bartolomeo, on the other hand, was very cold and calculating. He was extremely intelligent but lacked any sense of morality."

  "So the boys grew up here in Arezzo?"

  "They lived with an uncle here when they were youngsters but they grew up in the mountains to the north. I first heard of them about twenty years ago. Bartolomeo was a gifted sculptor and artist, despite his personal flaws, and he had taken on an apprenticeship with one of the masters here. His brother worked as a common laborer and squandered any wealth that passed between his fingers."

  Fascinating, I thought, how little things can change. "How long were they here?"

  "We had to put up with them for about five years, until Bartolomeo traveled to Venice, I believe, and later worked with another master in Lombardy. His brother left Arezzo shortly after he did, travelling north and westward. But I heard that Bartolomeo had to flee from Venice."

  "For what?"

  "I heard that there was a murder, some kind of rivalry that took place between Bartolomeo and another apprentice. They found the other boy with his head smashed in and Bartolomeo nowhere to be seen. Just up and quit Venice one night. At least, like I said, that's the story that made its way here."

  "You never saw him after that?"

  "No. I haven't seen either of those boys since they left their uncle's. I wonder how Ugo is doing now."

  "Ugo is dead," I said stoically.

  The jailer's face did not change at all. "I'm not surprised. Bartolomeo did it then, I expect."

  "That's right. At least, he was responsible for it. It gets very complicated."

  "That's all right," said the old man. "Well, I suppose you'd best be on your way. We will take good care of your man until you return, investigatore."

  I started to leave but stopped mid-step. "Oh, where did you say that the brothers came from? Before they arrived in Arezzo."

  "Ah! Yes, I meant to tell you that they used to live with their parents before they died. You see they lived in their family estate in the mountains, not far from Loro Ciuffenna. A fire took away the house and the parents too. There were no other siblings, and the house is probably still a ruin."

  A somber chill tickled at my spine. The silver shipment was headed for the same place that the Neri had grown up. Now I understood the significance of the town.

  I thanked the jailer and we left Palazzo Comunale, then soon after we said farewell to Arezzo.

  "Can you believe it, Mercurio? We're headed to the Neri home." Pietro shook his head anxiously.

  "You think it's haunted?" said Francesco. Lauro looked at him stupidly. "What? A place like that has stories, and other things."

  "First we have to find it," I said. "Hopefully someone there will remember where it is. Or we will just wait until the shipment catches up with us and we just follow them." That would be the more discreet approach but we would have to maintain constant surveillance of the town. If they slipped past then we would never even know it.

  The road to Loro Ciuffenna covered a lot of ground we had already traveled in the past week. The weather was far less hostile on the way towards San Giovanni Valdarno, with the early morning sun warming our backs and the buzzing of insects welcoming us on the road that would eventually lead us home.

  But we were not going home. I stared across at the tall mountain that rose above my right shoulder, whose green flanks stretched onwards until the trees melted together into an indistinguishable blanket. It was still well in the distance, and we would stop once more at San Giovanni Valdarno for the night. The trip seemed a bit lonelier with Leonardo at his home. The eccentric old scholar had grown on me.

  Before long we spotted the river once more and found it a little odd to be crossing it on the way to the mountains that were, for the time being, behind us. We ignored the incongruity though, and simply enjoyed the gentle breeze and the buzzing of insects that resided in the verdant fields and meadows that we passed.

  At some point I thought of my family again, as I tend to do while travelling. I had left in such a hurry and with so little time to explain what was happening. My mother, I was sure, must have been in a panic. It had been little more than a week now since the attack and I still felt the bruises. The sharp pain in my abdomen had thankfully stopped but I was far from my best form, which having to sit once more in the saddle was reminding me constantly.

  Soon we saw the first traces of the town appear, namely the abundance of traffic on the roads and workers in the many fields in the surrounding periphery. We passed several large wagons bearing goods for the city. I paid these travelling merchants no mind until we found ourselves beside one that was being escorted by several unpleasant looking men that looked all too familiar.

  "Capo." Pietro clicked his tongue.

  "Yes, I see them." The chestnut-haired man was riding in front of the wagon, his gaze menacing. I nodded and smiled as we passed. He grunted and fondled the end of his sword's handle. A crossbow was also slung at his side, bouncing with each step of the horse.

  "That was our shipment?" asked Lauro.

  "Yes. And those men were the ones that nearly ran into us with Antonio in Arezzo." It's a good thing that they did not notice us then, I realized. This trip might have ended quite a bit more abruptly if they had.

  I pressed on a bit more hastily to try to give us room from the shipment and its handlers. Before long we were trotting down the main avenue, our inn within sight. Once we had procured our rooms and settled in for wine and a meal, we finally gave in to relaxing our guard. With any luck there would be enough lodging that our new friends would find someplace else to rest their heads.

  Morning brought a whole new host of aches and anxieties but we pushed through them. Lauro's face was still looking pretty battered from the other night. He took it in stride though.

  We mounted and took the road leading straight toward the mountains. Last chance to back out, I thought. There was no way I could though, not after everything that had happened. We would find Bartolomeo and end this.

  "What is the plan when we find him?" Francesco asked.

  "We need to be patient," I said carefully. "Fortunately we still have the upper hand in that they will not be expecting us."

  "Will we attack them then?"

  "No. We need to know what we're up against. If these men behind us are the only ones guarding Bartolomeo then we should be fine. But don't forget, Vasquez is sure to be there too and we already know what he is capable of." />
  "So what do we do?"

  "We watch and we wait. We learn their patterns. The men will have to take a trip back into town sometime. When that happens then the four of us should be able to take Bartolomeo and anybody else guarding him. But above all we must be patient. Also, if we can manage it, we should try to destroy or seize whatever we can. Especially those missing die from the zecca." I added, "Remember, we are trained swordsmen, some of the finest in Florence. The men working for Bartolomeo are sellswords."

  The road became much windier as we began the ascent to the village, and the trees denser. My horse was breathing much heavier than when we were just following the river valley. The village came into view early on but the difficulty lay in reaching it. It was still some time and many narrow switchbacks before we made it to the ancient bridge that, surprisingly, carried all our weight over the creek that was the town's namesake and welcomed us to Loro Ciuffenna.

  "My god, and I thought Arezzo was built on a hill," groaned Pietro.

  "I was thinking the same thing." The town seemed, in many places, to be built atop itself. This was an illusion, but the closeness of the structures and the severity of the grade made it appear otherwise. "The entire town is vertical." At least it would be easy to see who came and went since all one would need to do was find a perch and stay put.

  We navigated up the narrow via that took us through the heart of town and up to where the old road to Fiesole intersected. Nearby we found an inn with an upper story so we planted ourselves there for the remainder of the afternoon to rest and keep a rotating watch.

  I had managed to get about an hour of sleep when I heard Lauro speak. "I think I see them." Quickly we bunched around the window and looked down into the meandering village. Beneath the rooftops and just down the narrow road that was interminably cast in shadow was a small caravan that crept slowly upwards toward us. It crossed one of the many tiny bridges that joined the fissured village and for one fleeting moment I could see the unmistakable chestnut hair of the leader in the receding sunlight.

  "Yes, that is them," I said. "Don't lose sight of them. We need to see which road they take."

  The cart rolled past and they continued onwards up the road that would take them straight into the mountains. We waited for them to have a solid head start before leaving the inn. Daylight was fading rapidly which would give us an advantage as we aimed to keep out of sight.

  Passing the city gates, we kept our horses at a measured pace. The road was steep and winding, and we did not want to accidentally round a curve and run into the caravan. The moon was out and it was nearly full so we would have some light at least, but we would need to pay attention to sound as well. We stayed silent as we crept up the mountain and every tedious bend that brought us closer to the top.

  Finally we reached a point where the road leveled out. On the other side was a large basin so I was able to study the lay of the area. Up across from us I could make out the wagon as it moved methodically. Indistinct echoes from the riders' voices could be heard from our location so I motioned to the men to keep quiet. When the creaking of the wagon became inaudible again we continued on our way.

  We circled the basin and emerged from the next bend atop a slowly descending road that stayed mostly straight as it strafed the side of the mountain. Further on the trees grew thicker, much more so than where we were which was covered in wild scrub and the occasional stunted cypress.

  Soon the wagon had penetrated the thicket and so we cautiously followed. It was now quite dark and smaller roads were breaking away from the main one so we were forced to stop several times. We managed to keep out though, and it wasn't long before we caught sight of the wagon as it veered off onto a side road that led uphill even further.

  The great villa glowed with an otherworldly pallor in the hazy light of the moon. It was multistory and surrounded by overgrowth on the front and sides. Its windows were empty and blackened around the edges like the recessed sockets of a weathered skull. The roof had caved in long ago but the ground floors seemed to have remained intact.

  "This is the place," I said, and I could scarcely believe that the trail of bodies and clues could have led us to this remote spot in the mountains.

  "Where did the wagon go?" asked Lauro. The delivery and the riders had all disappeared.

  "Probably around the back side." I pointed to a set of ruts that cut through the growth and veered behind the house. "There are probably more structures in the rear."

  "Shall we investigate?" Pietro looked at me with apprehension.

  "It's what we came here to do." I dismounted my horse and led it to a clearing that would be obscured from the road. The others did the same. Then the four of us approached the property, paying close attention to our visibility. Where we were able we stayed behind the tree line so that our outlines could be broken up. I saw no one yet but wanted to be sure that we kept the advantage of surprise.

  The nearer we got to the house the more I felt like I needed to look inside. When we were about parallel to it the clearing behind it became visible, and from where we were lurking there could be seen a couple of neglected fields and, further still, the glowing outline of a stable and several small huts where presumably there had been workers that had occupied them in years past. Beside the stable was parked the wagon, which was being unloaded by the riders.

  I turned my attention back to the house. "I'm going to take a look inside."

  "I'll go with you."

  "Lauro? Francesco?"

  "Nah," said Lauro. "We'll venture up the hill a ways and keep a look out." He gestured to the ridge that arose behind us and circled the rear of the property. It was well wooded and provided a sweeping view of the area.

  I shrugged. "That's a good idea. Don't wander too far. We shouldn't be long."

  "Damn thing is probably haunted anyway," Francesco said. The two trudged off, leaving Pietro and I in the shadow of the ruin.

  We approached the villa carefully, trying to avoid roots and other debris that was obscured in the surrounding property. As we got closer we found bits of rubble strewn about, broken roof tiles and crumbled plaster, from when the house was destroyed. The large front doors were agape so I slipped inside, careful not to touch anything.

  Inside was almost completely dark except for the few rays of the moon that shone in from the opening of the atrium. The rooms downstairs were surprisingly preserved but extremely musty, with growth from outside having invaded long ago. Ivy clung to the walls and coiled around railing and any other fixture it could find.

  Pietro and I tiptoed through what had apparently been a dining/cooking area. In the corner was a stone cooking hearth, and on the floor were scattered bits of kitchen utensils and equipment. Up above us some of the ceiling plaster had fallen in large clumps and stars shone through what once was the second story floor.

  "This way," I said. I stepped through an opening at the end of the room and heard a tiny creature scurry away. Across from us, along the far wall, there were windows facing toward the rear of the property and I could see the stable clearly and unobstructed. "Look."

  From the golden glowing interior of the stable I saw a figure emerge, tall and imposing. I recognized the build at once as the man we had seen at the ganea, Vasquez. He was speaking with the chestnut-haired man Antonio had pointed out. I could hear voices but was unable to make out what was said. I strained to see what I could inside the stable but could not distinguish anything beyond the entrance.

  "I count four men," said Pietro. "Five, assuming Bartolomeo is inside there."

  "He is," I said. "He must be."

  There was a commotion behind us and I turned quickly. Instinctively I had drawn my sword and bore down on the indistinct shadows across from me. I noticed Pietro had done the same.

  "Have you come for Bartolomeo?" the quaking, hushed voice said.

  I still could not see anything clearly in the corner. The voice, I realized, had been female.

  "Signora Neri?" I asked in surp
rise, but I knew that there could only be one answer.

  "Yes. And my children." She crept forward and I saw her wispy form for the first time in weeks. Her hair was disheveled and her clothes were gritty. Behind her, huddled, were the children, frightened and dirty. It dawned on me then that she was a prisoner, as were his own children.

  "We met many weeks ago. You might remember me," I said. It occurred to me that I was still holding my sword so I slipped it back into its sheath.

  "I do. You're Mercurio, right? The investigatore."

  "Yes. How long have you been here?"

  She closed her eyes. "Weeks it feels like. I lost count of the days. My husband said that we needed to go at once, that we were in trouble in the city. Then he brought us here to his old family home. I had never seen it before so I had no idea how bad it was, otherwise I would never have agreed. Not that it would have mattered." Signora Neri opened her eyes again. "My husband has done many bad things and he must be stopped."

  "Ugo?"

  She nodded. "And many others that you don't know about. I was afraid to say anything. You understand, he would have killed me."

  "I do."

  "And he has conspired with many others who are as bad as he." The Signora wiped a tear from her cheek.

  "For what purpose?"

  She sighed. "For riches. For fame. To reclaim a family honor that he destroyed himself. I've given up trying to understand what drives him to do the things he does." I saw her stare out the window at the stable, her eyes expressionless. She turned. "How many men have you brought?"

  "Just four of us. We did not know what was waiting here."

  Her eyes went wide. "You'll need more. Many more." She was shaking. "You need to get your men and go now. They'll kill all of you if they find you."

  I peeked again through the empty window frame. Vasquez had joined in helping the men unload. "They?"

  "No, no, no. There are more. Many more. From Milan. You don't understand, Bartolomeo has been working with Visconti! There are soldiers!"

  I blinked hard. The plot against Florence, just as Cosimo had said. Bartolomeo's counterfeit coins were a weapon to damage and discredit the commune. Who else but the duke, with his vast wealth and ambition, could have been behind this? Bartolomeo must surely have met the duke while he was working in the north. The shipments, which were smuggled from the south to prevent any sort of connection, would have been ordered directly by Duke Visconti himself. And now we had indisputable proof, Visconti's very own men overseeing the operation.