Nearby, Bruno notes a collection of iron rods propped against the wall. They are identical to the murder weapon. He pictures the sequence: Matteo and the killer walking in conversation around the cradle of the sphere, Galileo’s pupil no doubt boasting of his accomplishments. He can hear Matteo’s voice, imagine his words: It will eclipse the Medici sphere of Florence, and I – Matteo Fedele – was, in good part, the architect… Close to the wall Matteo turns his back, still singing his own praises. Behind him, the killer lifts one heavy rod from the stack…
Returning to the body, Bruno sees something he missed when he’d walked in: a pattern of bloodstains leading to the side-door. Not footprints exactly – too indistinct for that. But evidence of the killer’s flight.
And then he remembers the figure in the grey coat who pushed so carelessly past him on the bridge. But again he does not connect it with Nicholas. Instead, he imagines only Matteo’s boasting: It will eclipse the Medici sphere of Florence…
Bruno freezes. He feels a hot rage course through his little body.
Santucci!
That jealous bastard, the master of the Medici spheres, has sent an assassin to Padua, he thinks. He would see us all dead, and my great plan laid in ruins.
Leaving Matteo Fedele to the gathering dusk and the returning flies, Bruno Barrani hurries out of the storehouse to raise the alarm. But not before checking that the stiletto he likes to wear on the belt of his black satin Venetian hose, and which – until now – he has considered mostly for show, can easily be drawn, should he have sudden need of it.
At the house in the Borgo dei Argentieri the three cousins of the Corio brothers – hired in case of an attempt by agents of the English Privy Council to snatch Nicholas – have been warned to be on their guard against another threat. After the murder of Matteo Fedele, an attempt on Bruno’s life by the same Florentine assassin that he encountered on the bridge must be expected. They sit in the lane by the street door, playing dice, their rapiers oiled and sharpened. Inside, around the courtyard, torches are burning in their mountings. Plump brown moths play frenzied hazard with the flames. Luca the servant stands a little apart from the figures around the table, batting away the more reckless insects with his hand. He has not seen his master so perturbed for a long time.
At the head of the table sits the captain of the Podestà’s police, a beak-nosed man in a brocaded tunic with a face as cold and thin as shattered ice. His style of questioning, thinks Bruno, has been downright disrespectful, given his subject’s position as head of the Arte dei Astronomi and the doge’s Master of the Spheres in-waiting. But he doesn’t appear to mind supping on someone else’s wine. Alonso is refilling the wine jug for the second time.
A call from one of the Corio cousins announces the arrival of Signor Galileo, summoned by Luca. The mathematician has come hot-foot from his local bathhouse. His face gleams with sweat in the torchlight.
‘Luca told me. I can’t believe it,’ he says, easing himself onto the bench beside Nicholas. ‘Poor Matteo wouldn’t hurt a fly.’ He catches Alonso’s eye and drains an imaginary wine glass into his throat.
‘And you are–’ asks the captain.
‘Galileo Galilei.’
‘Oh, him.’
‘Yes, him,’ says the mathematician.
‘I’ve heard of you. You’re that smart-arsed fellow from the university – the one who drops metal balls off the top of the clock tower. What’s all that about then?’
Galileo accepts the cup Alonso is offering and drinks without looking at his interrogator. Smacking his lips, he says to no one in particular, ‘To see if I can hit a passing captain of the Podestà’s police squarely on his empty noddle.’
‘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?’