S. PERRY - The Heretic’s Mark

‘Forgive my friend’s tetchiness,’ Bruno says apologetically to the captain. ‘He’s from Pisa. They’re not used to law officers there. And we’ve all had something of a shock.’

‘Matteo was a fine lad,’ Galileo says dispiritedly, staring at his wine as though he’s suddenly lost his thirst. He takes a sip. ‘As bone-idle as a cardinal in Conclave, of course, but a good fellow for all that. He might even have made a half-decent mathematician. What am I going to tell his father?’ He takes a second, deeper draught. ‘I suppose I’ll have to find a new pupil to help with the rent.’

‘I’m sorry, Signor Compass. This is a very bad thing all round,’ Bruno says contemplatively. ‘Very bad indeed. I liked Matteo, too. His loss will set the Arte back in its endeavours.’

‘Is that all you two can think about?’ Bianca demands. ‘A shortfall in rent, and a setback to your plans? Shame on you!’

Chastened, Masters Compass and Purse turn their attention to the tabletop.

‘That poor, poor boy,’ Bianca continues, shaking her head. ‘He seemed a kindly young fellow. To die so young, slain so brutally… Who would do that?’

The captain says, ‘I do not need a woman to ask my questions for me. Remain silent until I have completed my enquiries.’ He looks at Nicholas. ‘And who is this?’

Nicholas explains that he is a member of the English Nation, the group of English students at the university. It is, after all, a sort of truth.

‘English… Germans… Poles… Swiss – all drunks and troublemakers,’ the captain sneers. ‘You’re not a Lutheran or a Calvinist, are you?’

‘He’s a physician,’ Bianca says proudly, as though it’s the best religion of them all.

Bruno thinks it best to steer the captain’s attention away from Nicholas. ‘That scoundrel Santucci is behind this,’ he says. ‘I’m sure of it. He cannot bear the competition. Jealousy, that’s all this is: naked Florentine jealousy. I wouldn’t be surprised if the Medici put him up to it. Fancy sending an assassin to take the life of an innocent young lad, just because a Paduan steals a march on you. It’s monstrous.’

The captain points a finger at Bruno, staring down it as though he were aiming a crossbow. ‘You say, Signor Barrani, that you encountered the man you suspect was the assassin as you crossed the Porta Portello bridge. Is that so?’

‘He was coming from the direction of the storehouse. He was in such a hurry he almost barged me into the water.’

‘Would you recognize him again?’

‘Not by his face. But I can describe his dress. It wasn’t Paduan. A cheap grey cloth coat, black leather half-boots. And he had a black cloth cap on his head.’

Nicholas stares at the tabletop to stop the captain noticing his expression. He feels Bianca stiffen beside him.

‘What made you think he was the murderer, Signor Barrani?’ the captain asks. ‘Was he wielding the iron bar? Was he uttering blood-curdling oaths? Was his grey coat spattered with gore?’

‘No, he just pushed past me,’ Bruno says, looking a little foolish.

‘Then I’m sure that description will be of immeasurable help,’ the captain says caustically. ‘Let us hope the assassin omitted to bring a change of clothes with him from Florence.’

No one around the table laughs. ‘I’m sorry I cannot be of more assistance,’ Bruno says. ‘I recount only what I saw.’

Like bullies everywhere, the captain sniffs weakness. ‘Have you wondered why this professional killer sent from Florence failed to take the opportunity to kill you , when you crossed his path on the bridge?’ he asks. ‘Or was it that he felt intimidated by your size?’

Bruno says through gritted teeth, ‘Perhaps he thought it too public. Maybe he didn’t recognize me until it was too late. Maybe Santucci simply picked the wrong man for the job.’

‘Just like the Podestà has,’ Bianca mutters under her breath.

If the captain hears her, he doesn’t show it. Nicholas smiles and squeezes her hand.

‘Well, Signor Barrani,’ the captain says, ‘I see you have placed guards at your gate. If you come across this man again, let us hope you have picked the right men for the job.’

‘Is that it? Am I to be afforded no other protection?’ Bruno asks.

Satisfied that he has investigated the crime thoroughly – and downed enough of the witness’s wine – the captain rises from the table. ‘I do not profess to understand for a moment the precise nature of what you are engaged upon in that storehouse, Signor Barrani, but His Excellency the Podestà seems to think it is worth something to him. As for me, I will have enough on my plate keeping the public safe from felons and criminals on the Feast of the Holy Rosary. I can do without some foolish spat between you clever-dick men of learning. Therefore I would prefer it if there were no further outbreaks of jealousy in this city. Do I make myself clear?’

‘Completely,’ says Bruno.

The captain turns to Galileo. ‘And that includes you , Signor Mathematician.’

As the captain departs, Galileo makes an obscene gesture to his back. Then he pats Bianca’s thigh in a manner she assumes is meant apologetically, but can’t be sure.

Bruno orders Alonso to recharge everyone’s cups. When it is done, he lifts his own. ‘Drink up, Signor Compass, Cousin Bianca, Nicholas – to the memory of Matteo Fedele, may God welcome his soul into His everlasting peace.’

Amens are said around the table. Alonso is dispatched for another jug. But although the wine is good and the night warm, in the house in the Borgo dei Argentieri nothing can lift the sense of disbelief and sadness.

‘The fellow you chased into the church and the one Bruno encountered on the bridge – can they really be one and the same man?’ Bianca asks later in their chamber. Beyond the window the night is lit by flashes of lightning as a silent storm rages far off over the distant mountains.

‘If they are, one thing is certain: he didn’t come from Florence to murder Matteo Fedele.’

Bianca sits up in bed and props her chin on her bended knees. ‘He follows us all the way from Brabant without so much as an uncivil word, and then murders someone we barely know?’

‘Perhaps it wasn’t us he was following.’

A lightning flash paints Bianca’s face a deathly white. ‘Hella? You believe he was following Hella?’

Nicholas nods. ‘I think I’ve had it wrong all along. He’s no more an agent of the Privy Council than Luca or Alonso.’

‘But why kill Matteo, of all people?’

‘I don’t know,’ Nicholas confesses. ‘But the lad was close to her. Therefore Hella could well be in terrible danger.’

‘That might explain why he didn’t try to kill Bruno.’

‘Probably.’

Bianca eases herself over the end of the bed. She goes to the window. By the flickering lightning Nicholas can see the form of her body through the thin linen of her nightgown. He imagines a slight swelling of her belly, but knows it is only a fancy. It is too early. He wonders if he should tell her about his meeting with the maid, tell her he knows why she thinks herself cursed. But he suspects that if he does, there will be a storm right here in the chamber that will put the one over the mountains to shame.

‘You’re going to warn her, aren’t you?’ Bianca says presciently, looking out into the darkened street.

‘I have to. I can’t simply leave her to an assassin. My conscience–’

‘I know, Nicholas. I know .’

He puts the sudden squirm that infects his spine down to the sweat trickling along his back. ‘It doesn’t have to be face-to-face,’ he says. ‘I’ll send her a note.’