Guardia: A Novel of Renaissance Italy Read online

  At this time the most powerful family by far was the Albizzi. The Albizzi had gained prominence after a popular uprising, the Ciompi rebellion, in the 1370s. Since then Maso, and now his son, Rinaldo, dominated the political scene of Florence. Their alliance with Palla Strozzi, the wealthiest banker in the city, made their authority unquestionable. However, other prominent families, such as the Medici, were fighting for a larger share of power. The threat of war only agitated these animosities, resulting in an escalation in rhetoric and street violence.

  “Important things are happening around us, Mercurio. I can’t afford to have you chasing dragons while the city is devouring itself. That said, I think it would be best if you at least found out the identity of your man and notified the next of kin. By your description he sounds like an unsavory character, but I agree that he deserves that at least.”

  “How much time do we have?”

  He thought for a moment. “I don’t think we have long before things start getting really ugly. I’m giving you 'til the end of tomorrow to find out what you can, then report back to me. I know it’s not much time for a murder investigation but we need every man we can get out on the streets.”

  “I understand, sir. Who can I have for this case?”

  “I’ll give you Lauro and Francesco, but the rest of the men need to stay ready in case riots break out. Sorry, Mercurio.”

  “Capito,” I said, disappointment burning like a coal in my throat. I rose to leave.

  “Oh, one more thing.”

  “Yes?”

  “Try not to trip over any more bodies while you’re out there.”

  After our meeting with Jacopo, I immediately sent out a messenger for the two officers. By the time Pietro and I returned to the Bargello after grabbing some lunch from a nearby fruit stand they were waiting in the courtyard.

  We shook hands. “Gentlemen.”

  Lauro and Francesco were two of my finest men. They had also been involved in the Alvari case, and were there when we had apprehended the suspects. These two were not brothers, but they might as well have been. I was relieved that Jacopo had been generous enough to let them work with me on this case.

  “Sir,” said Francesco. “You needed us again so soon?”

  “Yes, there’s been a murder at the Ponte alla Carraia that I could use your help with. I have no leads, no clues, and no idea who the victim was. The only evidence I do have is lying on a slab at the church of the Ognissanti.”

  Lauro whistled. “Where do you want us to start?”

  “I need to know who this victim is. What I want you two to do is go around all the public spaces you can and ask questions. Is anybody missing? Have you heard anything? Time is of the essence.”

  Lauro nodded.

  “What about you?” Francesco asked.

  “Pietro and I will go to the Oltrarno and do the same. We’ll meet again at the House of Figs at vespers and discuss what we’ve found.”

  “That only leaves us a few hours.”

  “Then we must work quickly,” I said.

  Our two groups split apart then, Lauro and Francesco heading east and Pietro and I taking a due south route towards the Ponte Vecchio. Our course would take us over the old bridge and into the working districts, Santo Spirito and San Frediano, that made up the Oltrarno beyond the river.

  Along the way we stopped periodically to question random folks about any missing person. It was a tedious process and yielded nothing practical. My instincts told me that there was fear in the air, and word of the murder was already travelling fast.

  It was already well past midday by the time we reached the bridge. It was, as usual, a mess of shops and stalls and bodies crammed tight as they could fit. The Ponte Vecchio was quite the collection, filled with every sort of shop one could hope for. At one end were the grocers and meat markets, butchers and fishmongers peddling their aromatic goods in full view as shoppers passed. Other shops here were well known for their exquisite gold and silver works, from filigree to sculpture and jewelry. There were some that specialized in products ranging from crystal and glassware to imported antiques.

  As we passed a row of goldsmith workshops, Pietro asked, "Don’t you think it would be wise to ask around here as well?”

  I’d considered that briefly, but this area seemed less likely the kind of place our man would be familiar. All around us were members of the wealthy class, the popolo grasso, all eager to blow their florins on frivolities like cups encrusted with jewels, or salt cellars made of solid gold and silver. I doubted that our man could afford to keep company like this, and he certainly didn’t have the fashion sense for it, but decided it was worth it to be sure.

  “Fine then, let’s check with some of the shops and see if they’ve heard anything.”

  We questioned several of the proprietors, but none of them claimed to know anything of the man we described. Most of them seemed to have nothing to hide, but to my disappointment there were a couple that I found less than convincing. Whether they were lying or were just nervous, perhaps about some shady backdoor deal that they feared I was investigating, I could not tell and did not have the time nor the patience to probe further.

  After what had turned out to be a predictably unremarkable endeavor, we approached one large workshop near the far end of the bridge. The man behind the counter was thin and wiry, a pair of spectacles perched atop his nose. His skin was taut and his appearance still youthful, though the closer I scrutinized his features the more exhausted he seemed. Dark circles sullied the folds under his eyes. A few premature gray hairs flecked in his light brown mane and beard.

  “Excuse me, messere.”

  “Yes, can I help you with something?” His voice was hoarse, and he seemed dizzyingly preoccupied. He looked up at me then and it seemed to take an extra moment to register everything.

  “We’re looking for information on a man found in the river this morning. Would you know of anyone missing, or have you heard anything suspicious today?”

  His chest sunk in a muffled sigh. “No, no, I haven’t. I’ve been completely overwhelmed with work today. My men are short-staffed again, and I’ve been trying to keep up with my commissions. My lazy brother, Ugo, is late yet again!”

  “Can you tell us more about your brother?”

  “He was supposed to come in but I haven’t heard a word from him today. I thought he might have overslept, which unfortunately is not out of the ordinary. But I’ve been busy all morning occupying myself with his menial work just to keep this workshop running smoothly. What hour is it?”

  “It’s midday,” I said. My heart was racing. “When was the last time you saw your brother?”

  “I saw him two days ago here at my bottega. We often quarrel, and that night we had an especially bad argument. He left that night and said he’d be back today, but I didn’t think…”

  “What does he look like?” I interrupted, regretting my rudeness at once.

  “He’s tall, about your size in fact. Light complexion, sandy hair like myself. Pale blue eyes.”

  “Do you know what he might have been wearing?”

  He laughed. “My brother, alas, has the mad sense of a wild dog and the pride of a cock. I couldn’t answer your question any other way than to say this: whatever he was wearing, it would have no doubt pushed the very limits of class and taste.”

  “Messere,” I said without hesitation, my tone grave, “I think you’d better come with us.”

  3

  “My name is Bartolomeo Neri. As you already know, I am a goldsmith at the Ponte Vecchio. I’ve operated my workshop there for many years.”

  We travelled along the corso, following the river back to the church of the Ognissanti. Bartolomeo had closed up his shop and sent his workers home. Now we were en route to the church to verify if the body did indeed belong to his brother.

  My legs were weary so we took our time. There was no rush and I had many questions for Bartolomeo. Strained as he clearly was, the man answered our questions
willfully.

  “Tell me about your brother. What kind of man is he?”

  “My brother is – or rather, was, if what you say is true – a very troubled man. I am afraid that God didn’t give him the same reason or virtù that he gave me or the rest of our noble family.” He sounded ashamed, but he did not hide his feelings.

  “You said you saw him last at the workshop a couple days ago. Did he work with you?”

  “Yes, that’s correct, though he was hardly a reliable worker. Sometimes he would leave the city for long periods of time in order to perform God knows what kind of errands. Whenever he was in town I would let him work at my bottega as a laborer, mostly keeping the fires going and ensuring our supplies were stocked, for a few scudi each day.”

  “Do you have any idea why he would leave the city? Relatives abroad, or business opportunities perhaps?”

  He laughed, a sound that came out coarse and throaty. I wondered how healthy he could be considering that he probably spent the large portion of each day hovering over a furnace in a smoky, sulfurous workshop.

  “Business opportunities? No, sir. My brother Ugo had no such opportunities. Unless you mean finding opportunities to gamble away our family’s money.”

  Pietro and I exchanged a brief but victorious glance.

  “These trips that he would take, do you think the purpose was to get away from bad people that wanted to do him harm?” Pietro asked.

  Bartolomeo nodded. “I’ve long suspected something to that effect, but never directly asked him about it. I assumed that the less I knew of his dealings the better. I have a family, mind you.”

  “Tell me about your family.”

  “What do you want to know? I have a wife, Giulia, and two boys, Marco and Sandro. I love them dearly and I do everything that I can to keep that man and his damn vices away from them.” For the first time I noticed the stress in his voice when he referred to his brother. “Do you have a family, Mercurio?”

  “No sir.”

  He shrugged. “You’re still a young man, but you’ll understand one day. Family is everything. A man is nothing without family.”

  “Indeed,” I said. “Where are you from, Bartolomeo? Are you from Florence originally?”

  “No. My family is from the upper Arno valley. I left there when I was a young man though, to learn my trade.”

  “I see. Do you still have relations there?”

  “No, none at all. Ever since my parents died I have never gone back.” He hesitated. “We lost a lot of family from the plague.”

  “I understand.” Most families had been struck hard by the sickness. My own had suffered greatly, my father and a brother succumbing to its ravages. “Your brother, where does he stay when he’s in the city?”

  “Ugo stays with us. I’m not always happy with it, but he’s my brother. I figure that as long as he’s under my roof then I can at least have some influence over his deplorable behavior. Besides, I’d rather he stay at my home rather than under some bridge, sullying our family name in full view of everyone.” He sighed at the unexpected irony of his words. “And yet, that’s what he’s done anyway, isn’t it?”

  I studied his expression in the ensuing silence. I could see his mind coming to grips with what he was now certain to be true: that his brother’s debauched life had finally come to its inevitable end. That all his stubborn attempts to persuade his brother to change his ways had been meaningless. And that, in the end, his brother’s failures would carry over and reflect shamefully on him as well. At least, this is what I imagined because this is how I would react to this sort of news.

  Family was, in Florence as much as anywhere, the most important bond that a person could have. Though work and religious relations were very important, nothing carried the same weight as one’s family and its standing in society. A person’s actions directly impacted that person’s family reputation, and this reputation would impact the business and marriage opportunities that would present themselves to that person. For an artisan like Bartolomeo, his very livelihood would almost certainly be impacted by a scandal such as this.

  At last we arrived at the Chiesa di Ognissanti. This church was built and dedicated to all the saints by the order of the Umiliati, or “the humbled ones,” a group of former nobles from Lombardy that took a vow of poverty and adopted a strict monastic lifestyle. These men were among the first major wool producers in Florence, and their work would lay the foundation for the commercial empire that now exists two hundred years later.

  Bartolomeo, Pietro and I entered the tall, austere building and were immediately met with a bright and colorful interior. Vibrant frescos covered the walls of each aisle and above the entryway. Above the rood screen, which partitioned the length of the church across the transept, hung the crucifix of Giotto in splendid gold and violet.

  One of the monks greeted us. “How do you do, messeri?”

  “We are here to see the body that was found this morning.”

  “Follow me, please,” he said softly. He proceeded to show us the way, his steps light and inaudible like those of a spirit.

  We followed the monk into the depths of the church, passing down a flight of stone steps and narrow vaulted passages until we arrived in the crypt. Here, on a stone dais, lay the body of the victim we’d found only hours earlier. The man’s appearance was drastically different than when we’d first come across it. The monks had cleansed it, spiritually as well as physically, and anointed it with oils and perfumes. His clothing had been discarded for more modest raiment which though drab gave him a quiet dignity that he’d lacked before.

  Bartolomeo stood motionless over the body. None of us said a word, but the weight of the silence was enough to confirm what we had assumed already. I turned to Pietro, who nodded wordlessly. To the surviving brother I said, “We’ll give you a moment to yourself.”

  He sighed lamentably and put his hand on my forearm. “There’s no need. I don’t have much to say to him.” His expression was cold and hard, devoid of emotion except around the eyes. I could see at once that this was a man who rarely wore his feelings outwardly. His gaze was frank, however, and I noted a look of resignation.

  “Very well, then.” I turned to leave but he stopped me.

  “Wait!” He stammered for a moment. “Seeing him like this down here, I feel like I owe him my honesty at least. Forgive me, I did see him one last time early last night.”

  “Where?”

  “My house. He stopped by rather unexpectedly. He said that men had come and they were after him. He said that he’d taken something of value from someone dangerous. He didn’t say what it was though.”

  “What did you tell him?”

  Bartolomeo's features had grown tense once again, veins rising in his forehead, skin flushed.

  “I told him to leave and never come back. That he was no longer welcome at my house. And so, he left.”

  Something broke within the man, a dam of guilt that once held back the tears that were now tumbling down his face. I put a consoling hand upon his shoulder.

  “What could be so valuable to cause a man to do this to another man?”

  “I don’t know, Ser Bartolomeo. But whatever it is, we will catch the men that did this to your brother.”

  He looked at the dead man one final time.

  “At least he’s free now.”

  “Free?”

  “Free of himself, and his wicked ways.” Written on his face was a look of puzzled relief that seemed to say, and so am I.

  Soon after, Pietro and I escorted Bartolomeo home. The sun was sunk deep over the hills when we arrived at his neighborhood just off the Vicolla della Seta, a narrow canyon of a street that cut through the quarter of the silk makers’ guild, the Arte della Seta.

  Much of the city center was now empty and most shops were either closed or were in the process of shutting down. As we neared our destination we were greeted with the tinkle of bells announcing the hour of vespers throughout the city. The business day now
over, the city gates would soon be shut tight for the night and a few hours later the evening curfew would be in effect.

  We arrived at Bartolomeo’s house, a tall and narrow dwelling that occupied several stories. The lower walls were built of sturdy stone with narrow slots for windows. Above street level, the windows became much larger and more ornate. The neighborhood in general was well kept and likely housed many patricians and their families.

  “You have a beautiful home, Messer Neri.”

  “Grazie,” he said.

  "It’s getting late so we’ll let you enjoy what remains of your evening. We’ll plan on dropping by sometime tomorrow to check on you and perhaps have some questions for your family as well.”

  “That would be good,” he said, his voice much warmer now than when we’d spoken earlier. For the first time that day he seemed comfortable. I sensed that speaking to us had eased some of his grief.

  “Stay safe and please tell us if you can think of anything that might help us.”

  “I’ll do that, and thank you for all your help. Buona sera, Mercurio.”

  As soon as the door was shut and latched we hurried back to make our rendezvous with Lauro and Francesco. The House of Figs was already brimming with patrons, most of whom had just finished their workday and were relaxing. There were also others, officers from the night watch for example, who were just about to begin theirs and needed a little something to brighten their evening.

  “Mercurio!” Francesco waved at me from the far corner of the tavern. I had barely heard him over the sounds of men singing and toasting. He and Francesco were nestled in a quiet booth far removed from most of the human clutter.

  Pietro and I made ourselves comfortable and ordered a carafe of wine.