Paul Doherty - A Brood of Vipers

The din and the clack of tongues was incredible as people of various professions plied their trade – whores resplendent in yellow robes, greengrocers with their moveable booths, butchers behind their open stalls. On each angle of the crowded piazzas or squares stood a church. Barbers shaved people in the open and the din was worse than in London. We went down the Mercato Nuovo where, under the awnings of their shops and booths, the dealers in silk and other textiles plied their trade. Beside them, grave-faced money-changers sat at their desks.

Florence has many open squares and spaces and it seems that the Florentines, certainly in summer, live life in the open. Maria explained that in the early afternoon they Have a siesta and everyone, except the poor, takes refuge on the first floor in a cool room with glass windows and curtains to hide them from the heat. The houses are very spacious, even those of the burgesses. I glimpsed terraces, courtyards, stables, passages, antechambers, fountains and wells which provide fresh water. One thing I did notice is how the Florentines love a good story. On the Piazza San Marco, a crowd of couriers, tanners, porters, donkeymen, dyers, second-hand clothes dealers, armourers and blacksmiths gathered round a little platform on which a fable-singer was recounting a story. So avid is the audience, Maria explained, that the chanteur never finishes his story in one day. He makes a collection in his cap and tells the people to return at the same hour the following day. I was astonished – in London the poor bugger would have been pelted with horse-dung and held hostage until he told the story from beginning to end.

We passed the great palace of the Medici. Great banners hung from the open windows, carrying the balle or 'balls' of the Medicia insignia. More prosperous citizens thronged here. 'Look at how they dress, Roger,' Benjamin murmured.

And I did, particularly the women, who wore dresses so low-cut some of them displayed their bodices to well below the armpits. Others sported helmet-shaped headgear decorated with necklaces, bells and trinkets; the sleeves of these dresses were so puffed out they looked more like sacks. The younger women wore skirts of red and blue satin, gold embroidery, silver buttons and blouses of precious tissue; their hair was arranged in a flat bun behind with ringlets down the side of their faces and a cluster of pearls hanging about their necks. The colours of their clothing were breath-taking: crimson, green, red and scarlet, embroidered and painted with all sorts of singular devices – parrots, birds, white and red roses, dragons and pagodas.

The peasants and artisans wore grey or brown robes, but the wealthier citizens and burgesses wore a long gown over a shirt and hose. The dandies, however, were the real butterflies. They wore waist-length capes of various hues edged with broad bands of velvet; satin jackets, velvet caps and shoes, gold chains round their necks whilst the hilts of their daggers were ornamented with gold or silver. Their movements and gestures were exquisite – a host of butterflies fluttering and shimmering under the sun.

At last we crossed the city and left the Gate of Suffering where criminals were executed. We continued through the countryside, turning off down a white, dusty track where the great Albrizzi villa stood behind its own wine groves and gardens. The villa was three storeys' high, built around an enclosed piazza with a fountain in the middle and a porticoed colonnade on either side. As we entered, Maria explained how the Albrizzis had a town house but, like other nobles, much preferred the fresh air and clean water of the countryside. Retainers came to take our horses and, for the first time since we arrived in Italy, Lord Roderigo deigned to talk to us.

'Well, signors.' He stood before us, slapping his gloves against his thigh. 'What do you think of Florence?'

'Bellissima,' Benjamin replied. 'I have heard of its greatness but never imagined it could be so beautiful.'

Roderigo's eyes became sad. He gazed around as the yard thronged with more servitors, who had hurried down to unload the sumpter ponies and greet their masters.

'Years ago,' he said, 'it was even more beautiful.' He sighed. 'But enough of that, you must be tired after your journey.'

He stood aside and a smiling servant took us up into the main building by outside stairs. We went down a gallery whose floor was of polished cedar, and into a spacious chamber. The ceiling was timbered, the walls alabaster white and so smooth that they seemed carved out of marble. Half-moon windows filled with glass were pushed slightly open and a soft breeze wafted in the fragrance from the flowers below. Our beds were beneath a large window, a table on either side. At the foot of each bed stood a large, steel-bound coffer. There were cupboards in the corners and a lavarium was fixed to the wall, a wooden stand bearing a large earthenware bowl, jugs of fresh water, clean napkins and the most fragrant tablets of soap. No rushes lay on the floor, these were polished wooden planks, covered with woollen carpets in the Persian fashion depicting marvellous coloured squares and strange devices. I sat on the edge of my bed and admired the small painting on the far wall depicting, in brilliant colours, the triumph of Judith in the Old Testament. Beneath the lavarium, in a wooden bucket of ice-cold water, was a large jug of white Frascati wine and two cups floating there to keep cool. Beside it, a carafe of Trebbia, the favourite Florentine white wine. On a polished table beside the wine-tub stood bowls of fresh fruit.

Benjamin gazed round and shook his head in wonderment. -'If Henry of England could see this,' he murmured, 'his heart would shrink with envy.'

'If Henry of England saw us in such luxury,' I snapped crossly, 'he'd summon us home tomorrow! Master, we have to be careful. Remember the attacks at Eltham and the murder of poor Matteo on board ship.' I lay back on the bed carefully, making sure nothing was hidden there. 'You'd almost think,' I continued sourly, 'someone has declared a secret blood feud with the Albrizzis. Who will be next, eh?' I felt tired and hot. I pulled myself up and stared at Benjamin, who was now stripping, ready to wash the dust of the journey from his hands and face. 'Master,' I hissed, 'how can we solve in Florence one murder that took place in London and another that happened on board ship?'

Benjamin finished drying his hands and face and came over. He sat on the edge of the bed and patted me on the shoulder.

'Roger, we have three tasks. To deliver uncle's message to Cardinal Giulio, bribe the painter to return with us to England and, if possible, discover the assassin of the Lord Francesco.' 'Easier said than done,' I murmured.

I got to my feet and walked over the window. I stared down at the garden that stretched out from the back of the villa. It was an Eden in itself, with its porticoed walls, pleasances and small, flower-covered arbours. I was about to turn back when a flash of colour caught my eyes. It came from one of the arbours, down near a vine-covered wall – a perfect place to hide, concealed from all eyes except mine, because of the angle of my view from the window. Again I saw the flash of colour. Then two people moved in the arbour and came into my vision. I gazed in astonishment. Giovanni the condottiero, his back to me, seemed to be moving jerkily. I glimpsed his hand on a soft, brown velvet breast, saw a flash of bright hair and realized what was happening. Giovanni was making violent, passionate love to the Lady Beatrice. I didn't know what to do! To call my master over would turn us into Peeping Toms. I also felt a thrill of fear as well as excitement. Giovanni was, as Iago almost said to Othello, 'tupping someone else's white ewe'. If anyone came into the garden and caught them, the love tryst would end in murder. I turned away, admiring the lovers' cunning. Everyone else would be too busy in their chambers, recovering from the rigours of the journey, to even think of going out into the garden.