Guardia: A Novel of Renaissance Italy (18 page)

“I’m so sorry,” I said, breaking down. She held me warmly while I wept. Vera solemnly stroked my face with the now bloodstained cloth.

My mother just held me for a while. “Our family has been through a lot. We’ll make it through this too,” she said. She kissed me on the forehead.

Vera left and then returned with a small jar filled with an herbal salve. “This will help the healing, God willing, but you must not move for a few days.” The medicine was thick and oily like resin, and when she rubbed it over my battered chest it smelled strong and earthy. I wondered what was in it but did not ask. Vera had a vast knowledge of folk remedies and she always seemed to have a cure for every ache and pain, a product of her young life spent in the hinterlands to the north. A quiet prayer escaped her lips as she treated my injuries.

My mother and Vera then wrapped my chest in linen to keep it compressed. Once the cloth binding was secure, another layer of the ointment was added to that portion over my injured side. All the while that they were attending to me I tried to stay still with my eyes closed to help zone out the pain.

When they were finished wrapping my wounds I opened my eyes again. Vera had produced yet another jar that housed another viscous mixture. This she heated until it was steaming and then she dipped a sponge into it. “This will help with the pain, dear. It is a mixture of opium and many other juices. Inhale it.” I took a deep breath. The fumes struck at once and a wave of blissful relaxation sent me into an instant stupor.

“Sleep, darling,” my mother whispered, her voice echoing in my addled mind as she snuffed the candles beside me. I felt her warm hand stroke my forehead in the darkness, then nothing as I drifted into a deep sleep.

I came to the next day with sunlight cascading onto my face. I struggled to sit up but gave up when my body refused to obey. The poultice was snug but kept everything where it was supposed to be. I was able to breathe at least, though the bitter smell of the ointment was starting to make me lightheaded.

Lying there completely immobile and vulnerable, there was not much left to do but think. Awful memories from the night before sprung to mind, reminding me how close I had been to death and how fortunate I was that I had friends and loved ones to protect me. What should have been a night of celebration quickly turned into one of near disaster. How easy we forget what can happen in an instant when we let our guard down, I reminded myself.

The horrible event was proof that I was getting close to finding out the truth. Sending assassins after me was a desperate gamble – they knew who I was and who I worked for, so they would have to know that there would be severe consequences. In the end, the gamble had been a complete failure: I was still alive, and the leader of the would-be killers was caught.

A knock at my door roused me. I opened my eyes and my mother was standing, watching.

“Come in,” I croaked.

She entered and sat down beside me. She checked my forehead for a fever.

“You’re warm. How do you feel?”

“Fine, as long as I don’t move or breathe.”

She frowned. “You’re a strong boy, you’ll get better. Just be gentle with yourself. Vera said she would change your linens and give you some more of her concoction once you were awake.”

“My savior,” I said. “Thank you, both of you, for taking care of me. And also for not giving me too hard a time.”

She laughed menacingly. “Oh my dear boy, I have not begun to give you a hard time. I’ve only been gentle with you because I was afraid it would kill you otherwise.”

It was nice to see her usual dry wit again.

“I’m sorry, again. I’ll be careful. I won’t go wandering through any more dark streets alone, I promise.”

She looked at me skeptically. I knew there was no convincing her so I let it go. Fortunately Vera reappeared with some food and her magic elixir that put me right to sleep again before I had to make any more promises I would likely have to break.

I awoke once more later in the day, my stomach growling as I opened my eyes. I’d eaten some scraps of bread in the morning but had found myself not feeling very hungry since I’d taken Vera’s medicine. This made me wonder what other curious side effects were in store for me.

“Ah, you’re up.” My mother had poked her head in and, seeing me awake, proceeded to bring me some proper food. She set a pewter plate with bread, cheese and cured sausage beside me. Some mulled wine complemented the meal.

“Have you told the others about what happened?”

“Yes, I told them this morning. Antonello heard the commotion last night but Cortesia somehow slept through the entire thing. They checked on you but you were out cold.”

“How did they take it?”

“Your sister will give you a hard time, so be prepared. But you know how she is.” My mother smiled. Cortesia was a handful, but if nothing else she was protective. I imagined her shaking her head at me while I slept.

“Antonello?”

“Concerned about your condition but he’s also worried about what this means for the rest of us. Are we going to have to be afraid, Mercurio?” Genuine fear tightened her features, and her voice quavered.

“No,” I said calmly. I swore to myself that my family would be safe, and that I would put an end to this. Perhaps it was the hubris of youth, that feeling of pride that anything could be overcome with enough diligence and fortitude that made me so sure of myself. But I also knew that, deep down and imbedded within my unshakable determination, there was a feeling of uncertainty that slowly gnawed at me. “No,” I repeated. “We have our man, now it’s just a matter of taking him in. Jacopo will see to it that we all have protection until then.”

The consternation still had not left her eyes. “I don’t just mean physical harm. You’re old enough to remember before. We can’t afford to lose everything again, not after we’ve worked so hard to put it back together.” I could still remember the cold, hungry days when we had to struggle to keep food on the table. And as bad as that was, it could have been even worse.

“Be careful, not only for yourself but for us all as well. We are all that we have. Don’t forget that.” She kissed my forehead and took away the dish.

It was later that Antonello visited me. I was half asleep when I heard the door creak open.

“How are you doing? Still in one piece, I see.” His demeanor was confident and carefree as usual, and I might have been fooled if my mother had not betrayed his posturing.

“Fortuna was watching over me this time, I’m happy to be able to say.”

“Just don’t put yourself too much in her debt, dear brother. One never knows when she is bound to collect. By the way, did you find out more about the counterfeit coin?”

I told him about our investigation of the mint, and all the while I saw him beaming with pride. It was no lie when I told him that his unlikely discovery was what had led to us figuring out the motive of the murders.

“Ah, you give me too much credit!” His expression grew sober. “Brother, get better soon. We have more adventures in store once this is over.”

“I know we do,” I said before he left me to rest quietly.

The following day I was showing signs of improvement. I was able to walk without limping awkwardly. Even the bruises on my face were starting to fade. My side was still swollen but nowhere near as bad as it had been, though I still wore the poultice to keep everything where it should be.

“You still look like you tried to butt heads with the angry end of a bull,” Cortesia had lightly reminded me.

That morning Pietro visited me. It was good to see his face again.

“Jacopo has ordered Lauro and Francesco to keep a close watch on your home until you are ready to return. I’ve been accompanying them.”

“How is the prisoner?”

“He’s being kept in a cell in the lower dungeon of the Bargello. We’ve got his name: Antonio Tibbi.”

The name was well known to me. Tibbi was no stranger to the sbirri, a low-born criminal with a history of intimidation and vandalism. He was also a lieutenant in the Albizzi street militia, which made the events the other night suddenly much more interesting.

“I’ll have many questions for him, no doubt. And Jacopo?”

“Marcello gave a very detailed account of what happened so the comandatore is aware of everything. He sends his regrets at what happened and has told me to let you know that you are to return only when you are fully ready.”

“Tell him I will see him tomorrow morning and no later.”

“Are you sure, capo?” He gave me a concerned look. No wonder, I probably looked like hell.

“I’m committed to seeing this thing through, Pietro. The longer we wait the more likely we’ll never find Rodrigo or Bartolomeo.” Also, the sooner everyone would be out of danger.

“Very well, then I’ll see you tomorrow.” He turned to leave, then stopped. “Oh, I found this piece of paper stuck between some stones near your door. I haven’t unsealed it.”

Pietro handed me a small letter, tightly rolled and bound with cord. I opened it to see a short message written in hastily scribbled letters.

Mercurio – Am boarding boat to Marseilles, just heard rumor that a bounty has been put on you. Stay safe. See you soon, friend. L

“Liam,” I said. So he’d tried to warn me. There was no way to know if it could have gotten to me in time or else I had just missed it. One thing I was sure of was that he had proven his loyalty. I hoped he would stay safe as well.

I found my condition even better the following day. My muscles were tense so I loosened up with a series of slow stretches before dressing myself. The bones were still a bit achy but I decided that I could manage.

Pietro arrived as I was putting the finishing touches on myself. This time I didn’t notice the look of subdued shock when he saw me for the first time. That was an improvement.

Fresh air in my lungs again was a rejuvenating experience. It took me a little longer than usual to reach the Bargello but I felt more alive than I had in days. The day would not be strenuous and I was sure I would be doing mostly talking.

The men at the Bargello were very welcoming. I received more than my share of surprised looks, not least of which was Marcello who I ran into outside in the courtyard. He had just finished his nightly patrol.

“Well, look at you! Back so soon?”

“You should know that it would take much more than that to keep me away for long!”

His face soured. “So I take it you’re here to see the prisoner?”

I nodded. Marcello led the way for Pietro and I.

“He’s been kept in his cell for the last few days, since the attack. We did not want any more harm to come to him since he’s such an important witness. My men were also able to round up two of his accomplices, though they don’t appear to know very much. Antonio is clearly the man in charge out of the bunch.”

“How’s that arm?”

“We cleaned it as best we could. I’m afraid his sword arm will never be the same, however. Perhaps he can take up a new hobby, needlepoint perhaps?”

“I reckon he’s seen enough needles,” I muttered.

Marcello directed us through some of the dim passages that led beneath the fortress. These were formerly used to access the complex of storerooms and cellars back when the building had been a palace for the capitano del popolo many years ago, before it had been converted to the palace of the podestà, the chief magistrate. Now these passages led to the dark recesses where political prisoners were held, usually in their final days. I generally tried to avoid coming down here if possible.

We met the warden in his kiosk above the stairway leading down into the lower dungeon. He greeted us, then unlocked the iron door that led downwards into an unsettling abyss. When we reached the bottom he unlocked another door.

The air was thick and filled with stench and despair. The muffled breathing of the prisoners echoed from the impartial stones around us. Finally we reached the cell of Antonio, who was sleeping on the hard floor. His limbs were bound with heavy chains, and his injured arm was tucked closely to his chest.

“Tibbi. Up,” ordered the warden. The prisoner was roused and then led out of his cell. A few dozen steps away we entered a large room with a narrow stone table with writing utensils and supplies, several chairs, and not much else. A few moments later a scribe joined us and began preparing his writing tools in order to record the interrogation.

The warden ordered Antonio into the center of the room. There was no chair for him. I noticed a large hook above in the ceiling, likely to hoist the prisoner up in order to be flogged. Or, in extreme cases, much worse.

“He’s all yours, investigatore. Call for me if you need help loosening up the prisoner.”

“Thank you, warden.” I did not sit. I wanted to be eye level to the man that had tried to murder me. As I watched him he tried to avert his gaze from mine. His jaw was still swollen from where I had kicked him, a bulbous purple knot spoiling his smooth jawline.

“Antonio Tibbi?”

“Yes.” Tibbi’s features were resigned, his face like a mask of shame.

“Do you understand why you are here?” I asked perfunctorily.

“Yes.”

The scribe’s pen scratched in the wake of the prisoner’s muttered responses, punctuating them with finality.

“Do you admit that you and your men tried to kill me three nights ago in the Via dei Fichi?”

Silence.

“Messere Tibbi, do you confess to the crime of attempted murder? The attempted murder of the officer of the Bargello who stands before you?” Still he averted his eyes. I grew tense. My ribs ached, and seeing him before me, ignoring me, made my anger rise.

“Warden!” I called. The iron door creaked open loudly. The prisoner lifted his head before I could say another word.

“Please! Have mercy, signore.”

“Then answer the question, Tibbi!” I stepped closer. “Do you confess?”

He cleared his throat, yet when he spoke his voice was still hoarse. “I was paid a lot of money, messere.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know why.” he said. His eyes crept toward the warden, who stood ready with a coil of chains in his hands. “I don’t ask such questions.”

“Use your imagination, Tibbi.”

“The man, very official looking. I don’t know his name. He came looking for me. He said he had a job for me and my men. We don’t usually perform assassinations, certainly not of public officers.”

The militias were an essential tool for the ruling class whose families were perpetually at war. Sabotage and murder were common methods of these organized gangs, but their presence was generally enough to keep one another in check. When they did mobilize, it was against rival militias, not ordinary members of society and certainly not members of the constabulary.

“Did the Albizzi hire you to kill me?”

“I don’t know,” he said nervously. “The man that approached me, he did not identify himself. But he offered me 500 soldi for the job, and he gave me 200 up front.”

Who would pay this man to kill me, I wondered. Tibbi was a simple thug, a poor stupid man who lived in a realm of wolves who were much more sophisticated than he. He probably thought that with enough favors that one day he would be welcomed into that world, the world of the wealthy elite. I knew the truth: that he would never be included because he was common and guileless, no different than any pimp or thug. He was an instrument and nothing more.

What were Tibbi’s connections? His patrons were illustrious members of the city’s bureaucracy. They would never want to sully their family name by openly sending a squad of their militia to apprehend an officer of the Bargello. But an anonymous hit? That would be difficult to trace. If Antonio had been successful and I was dead there would be no way to trace the killer. And if he had failed, as was the case now, then no one would be able to trace who had hired him to perform the assassination.

“What do you know of Arezzo?”

He stuttered.

“I don't know what you're talking about, ser.”

I persisted. It was worth a shot.

“Lies! We have evidence, Antonio.” A curious notion struck me, and the words tumbled from my lips forcefully. “Bartolomeo Neri has betrayed you.” It sounded convincing enough. With Ugo’s connections it seemed feasible that the name would create a spark.

A choking sob erupted from Antonio. “Please! You must have mercy!"

At last! I glanced towards Pietro, who was watching the interrogation with rapt attention. The scribe had paused and was awaiting my next statement. I struggled to keep my composure, surprised that my bluff had been so effective.

“Tell me exactly what you know about Bartolomeo.”

Antonio looked at me gravely. “His brother, Ugo, was a member of my crew. I had never spoken to Bartolomeo directly but we used his home as our headquarters in that parish. He ran that household like a despot. Everyone feared of him.”

With this revelation, the odd countenance of his wife was starting to make much more sense. How wrong I had been about this man!

“What about Ugo’s death? What was your involvement?”