Guardia: A Novel of Renaissance Italy (6 page)

“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 was 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.

Nearby, one man was shouting, “Down with Visconti!” Further up, I saw two emissaries from Milan running for their lives, a cohort of men in pursuit.

Pietro sat still, his mouth agape. He leaned forward on his haunches as though he wanted to hop out and do something foolish. “Sit tight, Pietro. There’s nothing we can do right now, the two of us. The city guards will be mobilized soon enough.”

“This is insane!”

“It is,” I said. “But we need to remain focused on this case, at least for today. Tomorrow will be worse and we’ll be in the thick of it, Jacopo will see to that. First, we need to make sure that we keep a low profile lest we run into him and our entire investigation is prematurely ended. Which brings me to my second point,” I turned to the driver, “is there any way that you can get this wagon to go any faster?”

We managed to make it to the Ponte Vecchio without incident. The mob had been a spontaneous eruption, violent but small. By the time we reached the bridge it was already being contained. Somewhere in the melee I imagined that Jacopo was entrenched with his men, shouting orders and breaking up the crowd.

The throngs at the bridge were notably more subdued, but this was no guarantee that the same type of disturbance could not appear here. Pietro and I would have to stay on our guard if we were to achieve the conflicting goals of keeping the peace and maintaining the trust of the workers so that we could learn what we needed.

We thanked the cart driver and proceeded through the marketplace. The familiar black smoke from the row of chimneys guided us to the goldsmith block. Bartolomeo’s workshop was situated in the corner, a golden calf’s head mounted above the veranda beckoning us while demonstrating the proprietor’s skill.

A young man stood behind the counter of the narrow shop. “Good morning, sirs.”

“Morning,” I said. “We are just stopping by to pay Bartolomeo a visit. Is he around?”

The boy fetched his boss, and a moment later Bartolomeo appeared. He was in friendlier spirits, the tension gone from his face.

“Gentlemen, how good of you to come!”

“Signore Neri, we just thought we would see how you were managing since yesterday.”

He led us into the back, into a large room that served as his main studio. Two large furnaces burned intensely, embers glowing a pale red. The air was stifling, the heat making it heavy to the lungs and the head. There was little smoke in here, most of it escaping out a vent in the ceiling.

“I am much better now. My apologies if I seemed a little preoccupied yesterday.”

“None necessary. You’ve been through a difficult ordeal.”

His shoulders were more squared today, not slumping like the previous day. He was rejuvenated, full of life. “I am much more at peace now. In fact, I have been hard at work this morning and am nearly caught up with my commissions. Right now I’m working on a silver vase for Paolo Rucellai.”

He turned and checked the temperature of the furnace. Gently he squeezed a nearby bellows, forcing air into the chamber and causing the flames to roar. When the coals were adequately hot he smiled and closed the metal door of the furnace with an old rag.

Pietro stood across the room, examining many of the tools and supplies that covered the shelves and worktables. “Fascinating shop you have here.”

“Why thank you. The metal is nearly ready. If you’d like, I can give you a demonstration.”

I held up a protesting hand. “That’s really not necessary, we wouldn’t wish to trouble you Ser Bartolomeo.”

“No trouble at all. Please.”

I acquiesced with a curt nod.

“You see, the first step is to construct the piece in clay so that a mold can be built. Pietro, on that table to your left you’ll find a clay vase. Can you bring it here for a moment?” My partner browsed until he located the right one and then brought it over to the craftsman. “Careful, thank you.”

The vase was conical in shape, with decorative foliage and cherubic faces adorning its sides. Its base was fat and round, and in the center I could make out the Rucellai family crest, the silver lion.

“It’s very beautiful,” I said. “Where did you develop your talents for sculpture?”

“My travels have brought me to the studios of many masters. I worked in Rome for ten years. After that I lived in Bologna, and for a while in Parma.” He beamed with pride at the memories of his travels. For a moment he appeared to be reliving them, his gaze detached.

Bartolomeo sighed and then continued. “This is the prototype from whence the initial mold is made.” He walked to a faraway shelf and produced two large plates that were hollow and fit together perfectly. To illustrate, he fit them around the clay vase. It was an exact, inverted copy.

“So you use those to make the metal copy?” Pietro asked.

“No, but we’re close.” The smith handed Pietro one of the plates, me the other. I thought it interesting how rough the exterior of the plate was so rough and crude while the inside was smooth and burnished. The light hit the surface and I realized that there was an oily film on the interior.

“What is this substance?”

“A mixture of oil and a few other ingredients. Those plates are coated to prevent sticking when wax is poured inside. When the wax cools it is removed from the plates, then polished and detailed until it is exactly as the final copy should be.”

Pietro looked up. “Where is this wax copy?”

Bartolomeo laughed. “It is no more. For that copy is then encased in many layers of reinforced ceramic, which is then allowed to harden and is then heated. The wax then drains out, leaving a hollow shell where once there was a vase.”

“And the ceramic shell?”

“Right this way.” He led us back to the furnace, where next to it sat a large ceramic object that resembled a cocoon with a hole at the top. It was held firmly in place with wooden braces. “Here is the result, the final mold of our vase. Now I’ll show you what happens next.”

Bartolomeo called to his apprentice, who appeared obediently. The room was plunged in heat as they opened the door to the furnace and carefully removed a large ceramic cup with a pair of sturdy iron tongs. Inside the cup was thick, blazing liquid that bubbled and glowed.

“Is that silver?”

“Indeed, Mercurio.” The smith and his apprentice brought the cup over the mold. Delicately they tipped it so that the molten silver trickled into the hole. I stared as the fluid glowed inside the vessel, a reddish light illuminating the recess. When this was finished, Bartolomeo brought the cup back to the hearth and hung the tongs on a nearby rack.

“How long will that take to cool?” I asked.

“Not long at all. But there is still much to be done afterwards. Once cooled the mold is broken and the piece is detailed, and smaller pieces that are cast separately may be added. Engravings and other decorations will be added.” He pointed out a number of chisels, files, saws and drills that would be used for the finer details. The range of tools for this purpose was impressive.

“Then it will be treated and polished until it shines, and finally it will be ready for the buyer to pick it up.”

“Very fascinating, signore,” I said, marveling at the complexity of the process. “So your specialties include silver and gold as well. What other metals do you work with?”

“Ah, very good question. You see, just because I’m a goldsmith doesn’t mean I only work with precious metals. I work with bronze, pewter, iron and many other metals and alloys. It really depends on the piece.” The familiar note of pride carried in his voice once more.

“And what other types of objects do you make here?”

“Come, I’ll show you.” He brought us into the front of his store, where a number of different types of wares were on display. “I make all kinds of personal objects. You see that I have cups, bowls, salt cellars, utensils of many varieties. I also do small sculpture and medals, and even the occasional large piece. Sadly, many of these things I’m not allowed to sell within the commune due to our dastardly sumptuary laws. You wouldn’t happen to be looking for something in particular, would you? I have a very large selection of rings for a special lady.” His eye glinted, an eager smile flashing across his face.

I shook my head. “No, just curious is all. You have a fine workshop, Signore Neri. Thank you for the tour and for your time, I’ll leave you to your business.”

Bartolomeo removed his glove and shook my hand. “Thank you for coming by, Messer Capolupo. And thank you for your work regarding my brother. You’ve helped immeasurably during this difficult time for my family.”

I left with Pietro, and we started back down the Ponte Vecchio towards the Bargello. Our meeting with Neri had taken more than an hour.

We passed a few more workshops when suddenly we heard a whistle behind us. A man was waiting behind another of the smith shops. He motioned for us to come near.

“You are the sbirri that are investigating the death of Ugo, right?” he said in a hushed tone.

“We are,” I said.

“I did not tell you this but one of the grocers, Marco di Lucca, used to spend a lot of time with Ugo. Perhaps you should ask him some questions. The two were always up to no good.”

“Grazie mille, friend.”

Pietro and I hastened our way to the grocers’ booths at the other end of the bridge. Fresh vegetables, bright green and fresh from the fields within and surrounding the city, were stacked in neat piles. Patrons ordered them by the bunch, weighing the produce against small scales.

I approached one of the grocers. “Is there a Marco di Lucca nearby?”

“Si. Marco!”

I slightly built man appeared around a corner, then stopped in his tracks at the sight of Pietro and I.

“I am Marco. What do you need, messeri?”

“We need to ask you about Ugo Neri.”

Panic flashed in his eyes, and at once he ducked into a back door of the shop without a word. We followed, slipping back out the front and then around to try to head him off.

“Stop!”

The rows of tables and carts formed a long barrier that separated us from Marco. I pushed through the crowd to try to keep sight of him, stepping on a few shoes and wounding a few egos in the process. There were fewer people and objects to obstruct him which he took advantage of, allowing him to put more space between him and us.

I struggled to navigate the mulling shoppers and at one point I found myself completely cut off by a crew of laborers unloading enormous sacks of grain in one continuous column. Turning, I scanned for Pietro. He was nowhere to be seen.

“Capo!” There was an opening and Pietro beckoned me.

The two of us ran towards the spot we had last seen Marco, the opening to a narrow alley beside a cheese shop. We reached it just in time to see his distant figure flee out the other end in the direction of the towering, box-like Orsanmichele.

“He’s trying to lose us in the crowds,” I snarled.

“Doing a fine job of it,” Pietro said.

The Orsanmichele was a former grain market that had been converted to a church a few decades earlier. Its outside was decorated by statues commissioned by all the guilds in the city during its renovation after a fire had gutted it. A statue of the virgin located inside had supposedly been responsible for a number of miracles, which lead to its conversion to a holy site.

Marco had stopped momentarily to see if we were still pursuing him before slipping inside.

We caught up moments later, plunging ourselves into the cavernous space that was suspended by two giant columns and exquisite arches that loomed overhead. There were a number of people inside, praying silently and communing with God and the saints. I lowered my head solemnly, but continued to scan the wide room for any unusual movement that would belie our target.

Despite our best attempts to conceal our presence it seemed, at least to me, that we couldn’t be more conspicuous. There weren’t many places to hide, except for the tree trunk sized columns in the center. I motioned for Pietro to approach from the far side of the gallery while I examined the near.

It became eerily silent as we tiptoed through the church. A muffled cough or a creaking pew would occasionally break it, distracting me and giving me a false signal. I glanced at Pietro. He shook his head.

A clatter to my left as a candelabra slammed into the floor. I spun just in time to see Marco jump backwards, panic, and throw himself into the near doors and back outside.

Once more I took to the chase and I could see now he was winded. Several times he tripped and nearly fell to the ground.

“Marco! Stop now!”

He cried out in fear and continued. I had nearly reached him when he frantically tore at a loose scaffold, sending debris hurtling down at me. I narrowly pitched myself away in time to avoid getting slammed by falling wood and brick.

Finally we found ourselves in secluded alley between some tenement buildings, a wall at Marco’s back. The buildings were old and in disrepair, the paint faded and cracked. Brackish mold covered large swathes of the surface, creating interesting patterns in the decayed surface. The sour stench of rotting debris and waste were subtle but permeated the narrow duct.

“Don’t hurt me!” he pleaded as I approached him.

“Tell me why I shouldn’t,” I said. “You could have killed me.”

He cleared his throat nervously. “You – you were looking for information on Ugo. I knew him.”

Pietro’s footsteps resounded behind me and stopped as soon as he saw Marco. I held up my hand and he stood silently.

“How did you know Ugo?”

“I work at one of the butcher shops near the Neri workshop. I ran into Ugo on a daily basis.”

“So you were friends?”

“For a little while, yes I would say that.” Beads of sweat were forming on his brow. His eyes were wide, as if he was reliving some terror from his past. “He was trouble. Ugo lived a very dangerous and foolish lifestyle. He and many of the other workers on the bridge, including myself, would go drinking some nights. Other times we would gamble, but it was mostly harmless.”