There was darkness. Outside the carriage, where light had just begun bleeding into the black skies. Inside their hearts, worry, fear, grief. On their faces, drawn and taut like hammered steel, tense in their powerlessness.
If they were too late, there would be war. If Alessandro failed to find something, there would be war. If Giacinto couldn't sway the Lady in their favor, there would be war.
Amand may joke and flirt and twirl his mustache on a good day -- but Alessandro knew the man could summon hell and rain inferno upon his enemies. The old elite despised the Medici. The bishop would know exactly where to pull to make the fragile standstill crumble like a card house.
He had been a boy when he had entered the french court, head held high. They said he had smiled, where others had trembled, right in the middle of a nest of vipers. And he had emerged scarred, poisoned and darkened -- but his fangs dripping venom, saber washed in blood, lips gilded with lies. He had become the king cobra -- the snake that devoured snakes. All of France knew his name.
They revered him. They feared him. And rightfully so.
Silence stretched between them, only the hammering of hooves to be heard. Even Giacinto and Amand had stopped their jabs at Alessandro, sinking into quiet tension.
At first, back in the hall of Giacinto's villa, Alessandro had feared they would murder each other.
A shadow had swept through the room. The temperature had seemed to drop with every step echoing through the hall, from clam, looming fog, to an arctic storm hailing needle-sharp ice into skin. Giacinto's eyes had been trained on the man in violet like a bloodhound. His lips had curled in disgust when he had asked what that was doing in his home.
"Annoying Alessandro, mostly," Amand had smiled, tilting his head, as if curious whether Giacinto would rip his throat out or not. And just like that, Giacinto's snarl had morphed into a grin and he had welcomed the devil with open arms.
"I believe we have the common goal of making this man's life hell." had been enough to turn them into the best of friends -- Alessandro didn't doubt if Amand weren't sick with worry and Giacinto hadn't retreated into darkness, they would be slapping each other's shoulders, drinking wine and laughing entirely too loud.
There was nothing holy in the air when the carriage sped over the Ponte Santa Trinita, the river below a still sea of blood and shadows, glinting in the heavy sun just rising behind the hills. The air was unusually cold for this time of the year, creeping in through crevices with long fingers. Laelia huddled deeper into her hooded cloak. Her features twisted when Giacinto turned away from her pleading glance. He had been avoiding her this entire morning.
Alessandro sighed. There was more between them than one argument. But it would have to wait, as the carriage screeched to a sudden halt. Amand jumped out the second the large wheels stood still. Laelia eyed the window as if she considered squeezing out between the thin golden frames, just to get there faster.
Once the men had stepped out into the cold, Alessandro reached back inside the carriage, offering Laelia a hand. She was in such a hurry to get out she missed the step and fell right into Alessandro. "Stupid shoes," she grumbled. "Why can't I wear boots? I want boots."
Lorenzo chuckled at her pout, but it quickly froze in the long shadows stretching over the deserted piazza. In the hour between dark and dawn, the Medici palace loomed like a sleeping giant over them, massive and dark in the twilight. Only the very tip of the highest tower, pointing towards the heavens like a raised fist, was dipped in bloody red.
No one spoke, as if an invisible gag had formed around all their throats, slowly tightening with dark foreboding.
They had arrived too soon and not soon enough.
One one hand -- worry was eating Amand and Laelia alive. They might very well be too late. Laelia fiddled with her sleeves. The bishop was furiously dabbing at his bleeding lip with a handkerchief after biting it too hard.
On the other hand -- they could all feel it, the cold dread of what may wait inside gnawing at them. They knew nothing. Only Giacinto was as unreadable as ever, face blank except for his eerie eyes.
The palace towered over them, the light stone that would shimmer like gold during day a dreadful grey now, the large, arched windows that would glitter like jewels in the sun -- empty like the black eye sockets of a skull. Where the bold red banners would hang, golden crest bright and proud, there were just limp strips of cloth, black and plain and empty. Piero de'Medici was dead. Death didn't care for crests and gold.
The rest started towards the heavy gate, the iron plates fortifying it appearing like teeth in the shadow of the large arch. Alessandro hesitated, staying behind. They had agreed Lorenzo wouldn't come with them. They couldn't waltz in there with half an army and Lorenzo was 'of no use'. Lorenzo had flinched at Amand's words, quickly covering it up, but Alessandro already felt guilty.
Now that they were alone, Alessandro didn't know what to say. He glanced away. The white horses appeared almost ghostly, throwing their long manes and stomping their hooves.
"Don't look so gloomy, I'm fine," Lorenzo patted his shoulder. "Besides, I do actually have business to attend today. I'm just sorry I'm not around for you."
For you. As if that mattered.
"You look terrible. You haven't slept, you're on edge, --"
"Why, thank you."
"Take care of yourself. You need to breathe every now and then, you know." Lorenzo furrowed his eyebrows, frowning at him.
Alessandro sighed, dragging a hand over his face. Lorenzo wasn't wrong. He was tense. This was too far out of his comfort zone. He didn't have the resources he had back in Venice. As useful as they were, his abilities weren't everything. He had had a company of officers to command, he could enter any house, question anyone he wanted. He had nothing of that here.
And his faith in his abilities had begun wavering. He couldn't figure Giacinto out. He couldn't make sense of half he things he knew.
They weren't making any progress. Just counting losses, each day.
"Hey," Lorenzo murmured, stepping closer. "You'll solve this. You'll go in and you'll see everything. I know you will." He hesitated, eyes flitting over the empty plaza before taking another step closer. He brushed his hand against Alessandro's cheek.
Alessandro fought the urge to close his eyes and lean into the touch.
"And afterwards we'll get a drink, you'll relax, alright?" Lorenzo's voice was low, but steady. He seemed so sure, so certain Alessandro would not fail. Alessandro wanted to believe him. But Alessandro Steno never believed -- he either knew or he didn't.
"I don't drink." Alessandro shook his head, the cold creeping through him having nothing to do with the long shadows.
"Ah, shit!" Lorenzo cursed himself. "Right. I forgot. Sorry. Uh, I --" he chewed his lip, "There's a small inn, near the river. They've got the best steamed buns in all of Florence. We could go there. If... If you'd like. I mean. It's nothing fancy, but ... you eat, right?"
Alessandro chuckled, amusement sparking in his chest at the way Lorenzo tripped over his words. "I eat."
"Good. That's good... I'll pick you up? You'd get lost alone." Lorenzo's teasing smile was back, though hesitant, almost shy. "Now, go save everyone." It seemed he wanted to say something else, but cut himself off, quickly leaning up to press a kiss onto Alessandro's cheek.
He instantly missed his warmth when Lorenzo drew back, the cool morning air seeping back through his doublet.
Much closer to his lips than last time. Alessandro didn't know what kind of expression he wore, bewilderment or want, but Lorenzo's grin spoke volumes. "We're getting there." And then he was gone, winking over his shoulder before he strode away through the long shadows like a lost star, white cape flowing behind him like a comet's trail.
Alessandro watched him cross the empty piazza, the tall, slim white figure cast in the red morning glow until he appeared to be bleeding light. He was beautiful. Only when Lorenzo had disappeared in the dark of another street, Alessandro turned back to the palace.
Alessandro couldn't feel the cold biting his cheeks at all. He had to hide his smile when he reached the others.
"Watchword," one of the guards demanded, face hidden in the shadows of a helmet.
"Move aside or I will gut you like a fish." Giacinto smiled as if he was looking forward to it.
Alessandro wanted to strangle him. This tiny, infuriating -- the guard stepped aside. What in HaShem's name...
"That was the password?" Alessandro hissed, leaning down to Giacinto's height when they marched down endless corridors. He supposed it was a good one -- who would ever guess it?
"No," Giacinto laughed, but it sounded strained, "he just knows me."
Once again, Alessandro wondered who this strange man really was. If he would ever find out, know all of him, if a life time dedicated to unearth every of his secrets would be enough. He would try.
They were following a servant, dressed from head to toe in grave black, further and further into the belly of the beast.
Alessandro couldn't appreciate the beauty all around him -- though most was hidden in darkness, every window hung with black curtains, candles so sparse their flickering light turned the long hallways into a marble crypt. The doors were inlaid with gold, twisting swirls forming into mythical creatures and entire stories. They crossed a hall where the seams between black marble tiles were pure silver, as if they glided over a map of the night sky. There was a room full of statues, ancient and new, the high, vaulted ceiling turning into Medusa's cave.
Yet all Alessandro could think of was death. He would have to find the truth alone. They had agreed the other's would try and save Marius. Giacinto would sway the Lady in their favor. And Alessandro would find truth in death.
Suddenly, Giacinto made a sharp turn, breaking away from the group. Alessandro stopped, rooted to the spot. The rest continued as if they hadn't noticed him twisting away into a side corridor -- but then Laelia turned, waving at the Greek and shooting him a hopeful smile. What was going on? This wasn't the plan. This wasn't --
"Follow me," Giacinto stated, before simply stalking off. When Alessandro didn't follow, he turned back with an exasperated sigh. "While you were busy with Lorenzo, we changed plans. They get Marius. You and I," his expression darkened, "find out what happened to Piero. The Lady is informed already. Get moving." He turned again, black cloak billowing behind him like a storm cloud.
Alessandro did not like sudden changes in plans. He walked faster to catch up with the silent Greek. He had never mentioned it, but he must have been close to Piero. "Are you certain --"
"Yes." The Greek forced his teasing grin back onto his lips, though it wavered when they passed a large painting -- shrouded behind heavy black cloth, only the golden frame peaking out. "Face it, you'd be lost without me."
Alessandro raised an eyebrow. "May I remind you I have solved every case--"
"We were pretty good, back in Venice. You can admit it, my genius helped."
"You quite rudely just joint in."
"Couldn't stand you looking so clueless any longer."
"You're terrible."
Giacinto grinned. As if he was actually amused by anything Alessandro said. "Absolutely."
They hadn't met a single soul. Only two soldiers stoically guarded the large door at the end of the hallway. Even their uniforms had been changed to black. They could have been black marble, petrified by what they guarded. But even if they hadn't been there, they would have known they had reached their destination.
The smell of blood was so strong, heavy sweetness clashing with rusting metal. Giacinto's lips pressed into a tight line. "All jokes aside, I know Piero. It might be useful to you. Let's just get this over with, alright?"
Alessandro nodded. "If you are."
He wouldn't say it out loud, but he was worried about Giacinto. He had seen him lose all grip on reality twice. He saw the abusive overindulgence in alcohol. The scars. The more he found out, the darker the shadows swirling behind the Greek got. Deep down, Alessandro knew he didn't truly want to know what had happened to the young man.
The guards stepped aside, bowing their heads for Giacinto. The door wings swung open, like a curtain splitting before a circus performance, revealing wonders and magic. The room behind was dark, whatever was waiting for them hidden in the flickering shadows of a dozen candles.
They fell shut behind them like trapdoor. Alessandro released a slow breath he hadn't realized he had been holding and stepped forward. It must have been a beautiful private chamber once, with floor length windows -- now hidden by the same, heavy black curtains -- and a high ceiling, exotic vases high as a man, precious dark wood furniture lined with silver, a giant bed with a flowing canopy. Books were stacked on the floor before an overflowing shelf.
It looked like a home. But in the middle of the bed....
If Alessandro had though the artist's death scenes had been staged with malicious irony, so grotesquely beautiful, the works of a cruel master -- then this was his masterpiece.
Giacinto reeled back, something like horror etched across his face before he turned his head away, hiding from Alessandro.
Master Medici was spread out on the bed like Jesus on the cross, nailed to blood soaked sheets with giant swords. Alessandro counted nine, pierced through limbs and chest like metal crosses hailing a dark and bloody entity.
His abdomen had bee cleaved open, pried apart to plant a mountain of white tulips between the glistening flesh. They were pristine, not a single drop of blood marring their petals.
The stench of blood was overwhelming. If Alessandro wouldn't be so used to it, he would have thrown up. Yet Giacinto didn't.
A small sound escaped Giacinto, lips trembling -- but he couldn't look away, eyes wide and locked onto the old banker. Alessandro didn't know what to say. He didn't know what to do. What comfort to offer when Giacinto, always grinning, snarky, infuriating Giacinto, stubborn like a mule and stronger than a soldier, looked like he wanted to run.
Alessandro stepped close and settled a hand on his shoulder, pushing his own horror aside. "Giacinto--"
The Greek shook his head, turning into Alessandro, letting his head fall against the offered shoulder. Alessandro froze. He had expected Giacinto to turn away. Or to brush it off. At most, to silently allow Alessandro's support. He hadn't expected the man he had considered an enemy just a weeks ago to close his eyes in their awkward half hug, breath shuddering out of him, as for a second Alessandro carried all of his weight.
Alessandro could feel Giacinto's breath hot against his chest. The other didn't bring his hands up, didn't step closer, just rested his head against Alessandro for one long, silent moment, hiding his face in his shoulder. He really was small.
Then he stepped away, cleared his throat, quickly shook his head. Alessandro said nothing -- not because he didn't feel like getting strangled, again, but because he felt oddly moved by the gesture. Giacinto had bared himself, allowed a second of vulnerability, for the momentary steadiness of Alessandro's arms. He had trusted Alessandro.
Giacinto sat on the edge of the bed, hesitating before reaching out -- and plucked something from between Piero's eyes. "Here." He held it out to Alessandro. His hair was in disarray from whatever they had shared a moment ago.
Alessandro took a step forward, letting Giacinto drop the small object into his palm. It shone golden in the candle light. A coin?
He narrowed his eyes at the figurehead stamped into the metal. It was a profile. The sharp nose, the unruly curls, the curved lips, it seemed familiar, tugging at the back of his mind. A crown sat on his head. Greek letters lined the edge of the coin.
Ἐν τούτῳ νίκα.
En toutō nika -- in this, conquer! A motto, but which family... Alessandro's eyes widened, jaw dropping. Giacinto beat him to it.
His voice was terrifyingly empty. "It's me."
Oh gosh, this got long! And I better not check how often I wrote 'blood'. Finally, another murder scene for the boys to investigate! What's your theories?
Did anyone notice I love metaphors too much? And I couldn't resist putting Zo in white when Giacinto was always black. But, Alessandro got moments with both! Which did you like better?
And what about Amand, our devilish bishop?
I decided to put the Daniele/ Antonio/ mystery order after the scene in the Medici palace is done. It'd feel like an interruption otherwise.
Thank you so much for being the best, for reading and supporting my little story! I hope you have a great day!
Avis.