Guardia: A Novel of Renaissance Italy (2 page)

The lavatori were but one of many occupations involved in the refining process. Combers, carders, and spinners also worked the raw textile, rendering it into cloth and sending it to the dyers. The finished good was shipped back out in caravans or by boats brokered by local merchants, people like my family who took orders from far away and managed all the complex matters of their delivery. Florence’s renown over the quality of its textiles always amazed me considering that it produced only meager amounts of its raw wool supply locally, instead importing most of it from abroad.

Lucca continued. “While collecting water from the river we came across the ghoulish spectacle you see before you.”

“Thank you for bringing this to our attention. Has anyone touched or moved the body?”

He shook his head. “No, not since I arrived. I made sure no one took anything from it.”

I stepped down to the edge of the water next to the victim’s shoulders. I motioned to Pietro. Together, we each took an arm and hauled up the waterlogged man to the flat walkway above. When we were done, the man lay with his arms to his sides, his back straight.

“My god,” said Pietro. Lucca stood silent. I stooped down for a closer look.

The man’s skin was waxy and pale. His eyes were fixed, cloudy blue like the color of ice. A deep, purple gash was etched across the man’s throat. I stepped back, making note of his soiled clothing that clung to his body in wet, ruined clumps. They weren’t the ordinary clothes of a simple laborer.

“He’s very finely dressed,” I remarked. “His tunic is silk, and of very good quality. His shoes appear to be lambskin.” Decadent though they may have been, they showed signs of wear that even a night in the river would not have caused. “Look at the patchwork here, and here. It appears that our man has fallen upon hard times.”

The victim’s stockings were torn badly around his knees, congruent with a hard knock to the ground and possible dragging. His sleeves were ripped, the stitches pulled with great force until the fabric had split.

“Lucca, your glasses please?”

He fumbled in his pockets, then handed them to me. I inspected the victim’s muck-stained hands, every groove and particle of dirt magnified exquisitely through the thick quartz lens. I could clearly see the bits of gravel stuck into the skin of his palms and the tiny scratches on his knuckles. He also had sizable gashes on his hands and upper arms, defensive wounds. The condition of his body revealed that he had tried fighting off his assailants but was simply overpowered.

Pietro spoke up. “Do you think this was the result of a robbery gone awry?”

There was no coin or anything of much value on the body so this was a probable explanation. The brutality of the crime struck me as odd, however. His face bore the marks of repeated blows. The awkward angle of the nose indicated that it was broken, and dark bruises covered the cheeks and eyes in violet patches.

“The trauma on his body is severe. He wasn’t simply murdered but also beaten ferociously. In fact, this has all the appearances of torture.” Who would bother beating a man to a bloody pulp if this was merely a robbery? Could he have been involved in something else that could explain such mutilation? I had so many questions, none of which could be answered on this jetty.

I rose, taking a moment to study my surroundings in greater detail. An attack like this would have left a large disturbance. The neighboring workshops and their exterior yards all seemed well kept. The murder may not have happened at this spot, but the languorous flow of the river suggested that it could have taken place nearby.

“Martin?”

The young man’s mind was far away, and he jumped when he heard his name.

“Would you do me a favor and fetch a priest?”

“Of course.”

“Good. Pietro, stay here for a moment.”

While I walked along the river’s bank I tried to reconstruct the last few moments of the victim’s life. Above all else I needed to know where these had taken place. The river was inordinately low, its current sluggish and lazy due to the drought we’d recently been through. My path brought me upstream until I happened upon the crowded and noisy Ponte alla Carraia. The bridge owed its name to the steady flow of carriages that crossed its span each and every day since it its construction.

For a moment I recalled the morbid history of the ponte. In the old days it had been built of wood rather than the sturdy stone of today’s bridge. One night, during an illfated celebration of Dante’s Inferno, it collapsed under the weight of hundreds of spectators that perched atop its beams. Many drowned and more were wounded. The current bridge was far more robust despite being built almost a century ago by the master engineer Giotto, but lingering murmurs of a curse still remained.

Indulging my curiosity, I set forth onto the bridge. Though bustling with activity now, only hours ago this entire area would have been still and empty while the city was locked down for the night. The grit and debris churned up by feet of men and animals and wheels of machines covered the stony arches. I recognized the sediment as identical in texture to what I’d found covering the victim’s ruined hands and clothing.

I squeezed through the heavy traffic and proceeded up the slight incline of the bridge. I neared the apex at the center, visualizing myself as the desperate victim fleeing in the dead of night. The rumble of the roiling traffic beside me congealed into the pounding footfalls of my imaginary pursuers. Subconsciously my legs began to ache as in my mind I strained to flee, but to no avail. My heart raced, and my breaths became shallow. At last I felt the dull pain of the ground rushing up to me, a great weight pressing on my back and pinching my spine.

I blinked and in an instant the grim vision faded. Before me was a sweeping pool of rust, the dirt richly stained and reeking metallic. Splattered across the parapet were large round drops and flaky rivulets of dried blood. It was here that the stranger had experienced his final moments, his life violently ripped from him before being unceremoniously dropped into the murky waters that swirled below.

It has been said that the devil claims the soul of the first person who crosses a newly finished bridge. I remembered as a boy hearing that when the Ponte alla Carraia had been built, the city had attempted to cheat the devil by sending a goat across instead of a man and that this had been the source of a great curse. Looking upon the grisly scene before me a phrase came into my mind, a fragment of that story that seemed to carry a far greater significance now.
The devil can be met at the Ponte alla Carraia.

“Pietro!”

I waved to my partner from atop the bridge. He raised his head and scanned for the source of my voice. “Yes, capo?”

I beckoned him to come and he did, laboring for breath when he reached me. His expression soured as the realization of what I had found struck him. For a moment I thought that he would be sick, but he managed to recover his composure in little time.

“My God. That's a lot of much blood.”

We paused in morbid reverence to fully reflect on what lay before us. It was disheartening that such a display could stand all but ignored by those passing by with hardly a second glance. Whoever the poor man was, he surely did not deserve to have his lifeblood slung across a public surface for all the world to see.

I swept the area with an encompassing glance, noting the mulling masses that had been disturbing the scene of the slaying for hours now. Any evidence left behind would have been destroyed or picked up long ago. We checked regardless, but could find no artifacts that might have shed any further light on who the victim was or what had befallen him.

Pietro turned to me, his eyes fixed in a confused expression. I just shook my head and sighed. “There’s nothing for us here. Let's return to the body and wait for the boy.”

When we reached Lucca’s workshop we were greeted by Martin again, this time with a priest in tow. Accompanying them were several other clergy hauling a wooden stretcher between them.

“Salve, I am Raffaele Bendonati, prior of the church of the Ognissanti,” said the friar, a thin man with prudishly short hair and a hawk-like nose. His clothing was as splendidly austere as his mannerisms. A golden crucifix dangled from a chain round his neck that disappeared beneath the collar of his hood.

“Welcome, father,” I said. “I am Mercurio Capolupo and this is my associate, Pietro.”

The old man wasted little time with pleasantries. “Martin has told me about the deceased. Would you bring me to him?””

“Claro.” We proceeded to the body, which still lay flat at the edge of the landing.

“Does he have a name?”

“No, we only just found him.”

“I see. We had best begin then.” He turned to his men and nodded. The others, four of them dressed identically in typical Benedictine tunics of pale grey with white scapulars that hung to their knees, approached and surrounded the body. The soft murmur of prayers could be heard as Raffaele commenced the funerary rite.

One of the clerics held a wooden crucifix, which he handed to the priest. Another produced a vial of holy water and relinquished it to Raffaele, who sprinkled a generous amount over the body. When this was finished, the men stood in silence.

The clerics spoke. “
Si iniquitates
.”

Raffaele began, his voice resonant and without inflection. “
De profundis clamavi ad te, Domine; Domine, exaudi vocem meam. Fiant aures tuæ intendentes in vocem deprecationis meæ
.”

My head bowed, I gazed solemnly upon the dead man and listened to the words that Raffaele spoke. His prayer, the De Profundis, was a lament to God for mercy and peace and, through forgiveness, redemption. Seeing the pitiful heap before me that once was man reminded me, all at once, of my own mortality and that of all of creation.

“
Quia apud Dominum misericordia, et copiosa apud eum redemptio. Et ipse redimet Israël ex omnibus iniquitatibus ejus
.” The prayer concluded, the others repeated one final time, ““
Si iniquitates
.” A moment of silence passed and then the clerics brought the carrier forward and began loading the body onto it.

“We shall perform the sacraments and prepare him for burial at the church now,” Raffaele said.

“Thank you for your time, padre,” I said. “I will let you know as soon as we identify this man so that he can have a proper funeral.”

“Very well, Mercurio. May the Lord guide you.”

The small procession gathered and withdrew to the church. When they were gone, I spoke to Martin. “I have one last important thing I need you to do for me.”

Pietro and I left the workshop. It was time to return to the Bargello. We needed to tell Jacopo about the murder at once in case any witnesses or relatives turned up. We would also need to write a summary of what we had discovered while the memories were still fresh.

We made way and, just as the river was about to disappear from sight, I halted and stared upon the Ponte alla Carraia one last time. Martin was already on the bridge, scrubbing the blood from the parapet with a brush and soapy water. I’d offered him a couple scudi for his trouble. He accepted the offer with little hesitation.

“Pietro, how are you holding up? What you just saw isn’t easy for many to adjust to.”

“I’m fine.” He looked worn out and distracted. He was silent for a moment. “Have you ever seen anything like that?”

“In our profession, we come across bodies from time to time. I’ll admit, that was among the worst I’ve seen.” I stood still, contemplating the scene of the crime. “And yet I’m intrigued. Such violence is rarely seen. Murders are not uncommon, but this was an act of pure, distilled hatred. The thought that one could commit this inhuman act is incomprehensible.”

"What a ghastly crime," he said, shaking his head. He was visibly distressed by what he’d seen, as anybody in his situation would be.

Ask any ward and you will find that, in all of our careers, there was always a case that gave us need for reflection. I remembered mine clearly, a young girl strangled by a jealous suitor. Seeing such things makes you question humanity, not just that of your fellow man but of yourself. It changes you, not in a way that is immediately felt or apparent, but in ways that become clear to you weeks, months or sometimes years later.

“It’s unpleasant and often disturbing but a necessary part of our job, Pietro. What you feel is normal. It takes time to learn how to react to this sort of thing. I hope this doesn’t change your mind about joining our ranks. I see potential in you.” I spoke frankly.

“No, absolutely not. I will not quit.” He stared ahead firmly with his dark brown eyes and a determination that was inspiring.

“Good man,” I said.

Steam rose from the moist earth as we traversed the city center. We followed the Via Campidoglio, a road of ancient origin that belonged to the old Roman city. Just within earshot was the construction at the basilica of Santa Maria del Fiore. Work had begun several years ago under the direction of Brunelleschi. The work was gradual and tedious, and the edifice looked more like a mountain of wooden scaffolding than a house of God.

For a hundred years the cathedral had stood without a dome, its hollow apse exposed like the inside of a broken eggshell. Its original designer, Arnolfo di Cambio, was a man of great vision and resource. A void was left when he departed this world, and as the torch was passed from one engineer to the next none could devise a way to complete the project. Finally along came Filippo Brunelleschi, fresh from his studies in Rome, who harnessed his understanding of the Pantheon and other ancient marvels to design a dome the likes of which had never been attempted in history. Seeing the construction in person made one proud to be a Florentine.

Fixed defiantly in the shadow of the duomo was another monument to Florence’s spirit, the baptistery of San Giovanni. Despite its size the little octagonal building was mighty and survived the total destruction of the city by the hun Totila nine hundred years ago. It is widely believed to have originally been a temple to Mars in ancient times, and many argue that this is the reason that it was left standing. In modern times it is a religious and civic icon, the spot where infants are brought to be welcomed to Christ as well as to their status as Florentine citizen.

Our path took us south, straight to the Bargello. Its crenellated walls and clock tower, the Montanara, could be spotted far in the distance as we approached. Rising up three stone stories, it looked every bit as cold and official as the center of justice should. For a hundred and fifty years it had served the city as its main prison as well as palace to the podestà, the chief magistrate. Its very name was monolithic, derived from the Latin word,
bargillus,
for tower.

In addition to all this, the Bargello was the headquarters for the Otto di Guardia, the council for whom we served. Our organization was split into three: the guardians of the Bargello prison, the administrators and record-keepers, and the sbirri who investigated crimes in the city. The role of the Otto in the city’s affairs was broad. We investigated and documented cases of crime in the streets, homes and businesses of Florence. We escorted prisoners and pursued fugitives. We also gathered evidence for the merchant’s tribunal, the Mercanzia. There were smaller agencies that we worked closely with as well, including the guardians of the gates, the sbirraglie that escorted important visitors, and the night watch.

Pietro and I passed through the main gate of the fortress and into the central courtyard, then veered back and ascended what was commonly referred to as the Stairs of Justice. The inside was cold and spartan and lined with offices of the bureaucrats that maintained the judicial records. We followed a corridor back and around to where the administrators were located. Here would be Jacopo’s office, in addition to those of the other lieutenants, including myself, the commanders, and the capitano of the Bargello.

We passed an attendant, whom I stopped and asked, “Is the commandatore in?

“Sorry, Mercurio, but he’s due back at any moment.”

Turning to Pietro, I said, “I guess we wait then.”

We rested in my modest office, which housed little more than a wooden writing desk and several cabinets with assorted supplies and books filled with my notes. We were happy to be off our feet after having walked all morning. Since we had a moment I gave Pietro the task of writing a report of that morning’s events while I reclined and rested my eyes.

“So what do we have?”

“We have a man, mid to late twenties, murdered on the Ponte alla Carraia.” He scribbled furiously with his quill.

“And?”

He voice quavered. “Badly beaten, throat slashed. Possible multiple attackers.”

“Any idea why?”

“At first look, robbery seems likely due to nothing of value on the body. Nothing to identify the victim. The body was badly damaged, maybe someone wanted to…”

“Perhaps send a message?” I interjected.

“What sort of message?”

“Remember his clothes? He was dressed pretty richly for a common rascal. And yet his clothes were old, well worn. No fashionable member of the elite would be caught dead in that outfit.”

The pride that the city’s wealthy class had in their clothing was legendary. Members would literally spend small fortunes on their attire. Their tastes were wide and varied, the constant desire to distinguish oneself produced some wild and sometimes regrettable ensembles. Materials and styles constantly changed, and the wealthy only catered to designers that specialized in the most current trends.

“So you think he was trying to pass himself off as something he was not?”

I nodded.

Pietro thrust the quill into the inkwell excitedly and resumed writing.

“Victim may have been involved in organized crime. Possibly…” He looked up. I gave him an encouraging nod. “Gambling, illegal money lending, or other nefarious activities.”

“Very good.”

He stopped again. “Do you really think he was a criminal?”

“I have two hypotheses as to why he was killed. Firstly, his clothing indicates that he was probably in the habit of keeping poor company. Obviously he was trying to impress his peers, but what kind of person would be impressed by such a gaudy display? This is the reason that we have sumptuary laws in the first place. The types of people that dress in this provocative way are, generally speaking, the same sort of people that ignore law and honor and instead promote themselves through violence and decadence.” I cleared my throat. "At least, that's what the moralists would argue, at any rate. And if this is the case then it was his gaudy lifestyle that caught up with him."

“And the other?”

“Well, the other possibility is that whoever did this truly despised him. The cruelty inflicted on his face, throat, and arms was unthinkable. If there wasn’t a message to be received by this, then the only alternative is that whoever did it was gaining some kind of perverse satisfaction from it. A catharsis.”

“Like revenge.”

“Yes, like revenge.”

Loud voices and footsteps echoed down the corridor, announcing that Jacopo had returned. His unmistakable voice boomed in a gravelly tenor. I stepped out to meet with him and was at once surrounded by an entourage of fellow officers of the Bargello.

“Mercurio! I thought I gave you an order to enjoy a peaceful day at the mercato.” He walloped me on the arm with a paw that seemed more like that of a lion than man.

I laughed. “Sorry to disobey, but I have something I need to discuss with you.”

The humor dissipated from his eyes. “Important?”

“Yes.”

“Very well. Men, I take my leave.” The others departed. “Come, meet me in my office.”