There were three men waiting for them by the side gate of the Pitti Palace, though only two were made of flesh and blood. The third sat squat and glistening in the light evening rain. Luca Cassini laughed at him.
‘I remember that fat little clown from when I was little,’ he cried.
Fratelli never felt entirely comfortable with the statue of Morgante the bearded dwarf, jester to the court of Cosimo I. Obese and ageing, with a grizzled beard and a hand outstretched to mimic the pose of the great statue of Marcus Aurelius on the Campidoglio in Rome, the clown sat naked on a tortoise spouting water from its beak. The pose was a parody of the Campidoglio masterpiece, a beautiful piece of sculpture with an ugly intent, to mock the physical grotesqueness of the Medici’s personal entertainer. There was something obscenely callous about the thing; especially the way the dwarf’s genitalia were exposed — not hidden as was the case in an obscure and troubling portrait of Morgante in the Uffizi, naked again, younger though no less deformed, his manhood concealed behind a passing butterfly.
Perhaps it was his Roman blood, but Fratelli loved the original, the statue of the great emperor on his horse, hand outstretched to the empire, noble and, in reality, an interesting and intelligent ruler. The Medici, a lesser breed, would have identified with Marcus Aurelius in their stature as grand dukes of Tuscany, patrons of the arts that made the city the gem of the Renaissance. And here was their sad little slave, potbellied and hideous, riding not a horse but a squat tortoise, frozen forever in stone by a wall under a cover of shrubbery beneath the Vasari Corridor. What a wonderful joke it must have appeared, for the beholders anyway. Humour was often attached to cruelty, it seemed, and cruelty troubled Pino Fratelli. It always had.
‘You’ve never been here since you were a schoolboy?’ he asked, shaking himself out of this sudden and unwanted reverie.
‘It’s a garden,’ Cassini responded, drawing himself up to his considerable height. ‘I don’t mind looking at paintings from time to time. But gardens. I mean, honestly…’
He scratched his crewcut. Sometimes he looked more like a strapping, ingenuous sportsman, not a carabiniere at all. ‘No offence but… gardens are for old people, aren’t they?’
The two men who’d met them by the gate glared at him in silence.
‘Sorry, sir,’ Cassini added, looking at the taller of them. ‘I didn’t mean any offence. I’m sure gardening’s all well and good once you’re up for it. If you’re a gardener, that is…’
‘I’m the captain of your Carabinieri stazione,’ Marrone boomed. ‘A place that appears to have lost its sense of discipline.’
‘Too loud, too loud,’ hushed the man next to him. He wore a long blue overcoat and a hat with the badge of the Pitti Palace. Ludovico Ducca was a shadow of the virile young cop who’d helped Pino Fratelli on that grim day twenty years before. Illness had taken its toll on his frame and finally ended a modest career with the Carabinieri. But the city looked after some of their own. Ducca became a guard for the Pitti Palace, not an onerous task. The moment Fratelli had realized that had to be the destination for Julia’s meeting with the Brigata Spendereccia, he’d called his old colleague and arranged for the two of them to meet. Marrone’s presence had not been planned.
‘Discipline?’ Fratelli added, coming to stand in front of his former boss. ‘That’s a bit rich, isn’t it? Luca wasn’t in the station when you issued the orders to steer clear of this place. He can’t disobey an instruction he never heard.’
‘No, I can’t,’ Cassini added firmly. ‘If anyone had bothered to tell me…’
‘Shut up,’ Fratelli ordered, then dragged Marrone by the arm and took him a few steps beyond the obese stone dwarf and the spouting tortoise.
‘Well?’ he asked when they were out of earshot of the others.
‘Well what?’ Marrone retorted. ‘Am I answerable to you now?’
‘I know why I’m here. It’s because you don’t want to be.’ He turned and waved at the vast spreading gardens stretching up the hill behind them. ‘My friend Julia is up there somewhere. At Soderini’s blasted party. Which is called, I gather—’
‘The Brigata Spendereccia,’ Marrone interrupted.
There was a moment of silence, and embarrassment on the part of both men. Marrone for disclosing his secret knowledge; Fratelli for innocently forcing it from his friend.
‘Is it an interesting spectacle?’ Fratelli asked.
‘Do you think for one moment…?’ Marrone exploded. ‘Good God, Pino. If you’d listened to my advice a little over the years you’d be in the position I’m in now. Party to some of the nonsense that goes on in this city, powerless to do a thing to stop it.’
‘That’s why I ignored you—’
‘No it’s not,’ Marrone cut in savagely. ‘You ignored me because you’re you.’
‘Do you expect me to leave that Englishwoman on her own? At an event you’re too timid to police? Is Chavah Efron here too? And a man called Aldo Pontecorvo…’
‘Am I meant to be psychic? You’re the most arrogant and impudent human being…’ Marrone cried. ‘I’m here, aren’t I?’
‘Yes. Alone. Spare me the insults. Where does this bacchanal of theirs take place? I don’t intend to march in there without good reason, but I’ll be damned if I’m going to be far away.’
‘I don’t know! How could I?’
‘If one hair on that woman’s head comes to harm…’ Fratelli began, stabbing a gloved finger in the captain’s face.
‘You sent her there, didn’t you?’ Marrone’s florid face came close to him in the moonlight. ‘This was your doing. Not mine. And why?’
Silence.
‘Why?’ Marrone demanded again.
‘I have my reasons,’ Fratelli muttered, glancing at the hill. ‘Besides, she wanted to go, and I suspect there’s no stopping her. Not when she wants something.’
There were lights in curious places. Somewhere to look. To stand and wait.
‘I also have my reasons,’ Marrone said. ‘To do with a friend. A man I’ve known all my life, loved like a brother, tried to help as much as I can. And still he won’t confide in me. Still he runs away, hands on ears, tongue-tied when he should be speaking. When I could help if only…’
Fratelli took one step towards the rising incline ahead of them. The lights were becoming clearer. They had a kind of order. Some were close and appeared to be coming from what appeared to be an ornate cave, one of the follies rich men and cardinals built for themselves as amusements, a place he dimly remembered from visits here.
‘Do not turn your back on me!’ Marrone barked, then, with a strong hand, took Fratelli by the coat collar and dragged him round so that they stood there in the gentle rain, two men in early middle age, staring at each other as if they were squaring up for a street brawl.
‘What is this?’ Fratelli said, shaking his long white hair. ‘Why are you so mad at me?’
He felt weak for a moment again, and recalled how close he’d come to passing out in the Grassi dragon’s café. He was stronger now, but not recovered by any means. So he held on to Marrone’s outstretched arm, grateful for the support. Then the brief giddiness was gone. Pretty much, anyway. The monster inside him was like an infant. It slept as readily as it woke.
‘How did I offend you so badly, Walter?’ he asked quietly. ‘Truly…’
He removed Marrone’s hand from his collar and stepped back. ‘Sometimes… I don’t know what I’m saying. Or doing.’ He paused then whispered, as if to himself, ‘We’re in the Boboli Gardens. Somewhere nearby Julia is attending the Brigata Spendereccia with Soderini and his fellows. Perhaps Aldo Pontecorvo, the cook, is present, who certainly committed that strange damage in the Brancacci, and perhaps murdered Tornabuoni too. I care about none of that. Only Julia. She’ll leave if she’s offended. I’ve told her so, though she’s a good and wise woman and would have worked this out for herself.’