Guardia: A Novel of Renaissance Italy (4 page)

“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.”

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 from 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 him 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.