Guardia: A Novel of Renaissance Italy Read Online Free PDF Page B

with what he was now certain to be true: that his brother’s debauched life had finally come to its inevitable end. That all his stubborn attempts to persuade his brother to change his ways had been meaningless. And that, in the end, his brother’s failures would carry over and reflect shamefully on him as well. At least, this is what I imagined because this is how I would react to this sort of news.
    Family was, in Florence as much as anywhere, the most important bond that a person could have. Though work and religious relations were very important, nothing carried the same weight as one’s family and its standing in society. A person’s actions directly impacted that person’s family reputation, and this reputation would impact the business and marriage opportunities that would present themselves to that person. For an artisan like Bartolomeo, his very livelihood would almost certainly be impacted by a scandal such as this.
    At last we arrived at the Chiesa di Ognissanti. This church was built and dedicated to all the saints by the order of the Umiliati, or “the humbled ones,” a group of former nobles from Lombardy that took a vow of poverty and adopted a strict monastic lifestyle. These men were among the first major wool producers in Florence, and their work would lay the foundation for the commercial empire that now exists two hundred years later.
    Bartolomeo, Pietro and I entered the tall, austere building and were immediately met with a bright and colorful interior. Vibrant frescos covered the walls of each aisle and above the entryway. Above the rood screen, which partitioned the length of the church across the transept, hung the crucifix of Giotto in splendid gold and violet.
    One of the monks greeted us. “How do you do, messeri?”
    “We are here to see the body that was found this morning.”
    “Follow me, please,” he said softly. He proceeded to show us the way, his steps light and inaudible like those of a spirit.
    We followed the monk into the depths of the church, passing down a flight of stone steps and narrow vaulted passages until we arrived in the crypt. Here, on a stone dais, lay the body of the victim we’d found only hours earlier. The man’s appearance was drastically different than when we’d first come across it. The monks had cleansed it, spiritually as well as physically, and anointed it with oils and perfumes. His clothing had been discarded for more modest raiment which though drab gave him a quiet dignity that he’d lacked before.
    Bartolomeo stood motionless over the body. None of us said a word, but the weight of the silence was enough to confirm what we had assumed already. I turned to Pietro, who nodded wordlessly. To the surviving brother I said, “We’ll give you a moment to yourself.”
    He sighed lamentably and put his hand on my forearm. “There’s no need. I don’t have much to say to him.” His expression was cold and hard, devoid of emotion except around the eyes. I could see at once that this was a man who rarely wore his feelings outwardly. His gaze was frank, however, and I noted a look of resignation.
    “Very well, then.” I turned to leave but he stopped me.
    “Wait!” He stammered for a moment. “Seeing him like this down here, I feel like I owe him my honesty at least. Forgive me, I did see him one last time early last night.”
    “Where?”
    “My house. He stopped by rather unexpectedly. He said that men had come and they were after him. He said that he’d taken something of value from someone dangerous. He didn’t say what it was though.”
    “What did you tell him?”
    Bartolomeo's features had grown tense once again, veins rising in his forehead, skin flushed.
    “I told him to leave and never come back. That he was no longer welcome at my house. And so, he left.”
    Something broke within the man, a dam of guilt that once held back the tears that were now tumbling down his face. I put a consoling hand upon his shoulder.
    “What could be