Free Guardia: A Novel of Renaissance Italy by Michael Crews

coming by, Messer Capolupo. And thank you for your work regarding my brother. You’ve helped immeasurably during this difficult time for my family.”
    I left with Pietro, and we started back down the Ponte Vecchio towards the Bargello. Our meeting with Neri had taken more than an hour.
    We passed a few more workshops when suddenly we heard a whistle behind us. A man was waiting behind another of the smith shops. He motioned for us to come near.
    “You are the sbirri that are investigating the death of Ugo, right?” he said in a hushed tone.
    “We are,” I said.
    “I did not tell you this but one of the grocers, Marco di Lucca, used to spend a lot of time with Ugo. Perhaps you should ask him some questions. The two were always up to no good.”
    “Grazie mille, friend.”
    Pietro and I hastened our way to the grocers’ booths at the other end of the bridge. Fresh vegetables, bright green and fresh from the fields within and surrounding the city, were stacked in neat piles. Patrons ordered them by the bunch, weighing the produce against small scales.
    I approached one of the grocers. “Is there a Marco di Lucca nearby?”
    “Si. Marco!”
    I slightly built man appeared around a corner, then stopped in his tracks at the sight of Pietro and I.
    “I am Marco. What do you need, messeri?”
    “We need to ask you about Ugo Neri.”
    Panic flashed in his eyes, and at once he ducked into a back door of the shop without a word. We followed, slipping back out the front and then around to try to head him off.
    “Stop!”
    The rows of tables and carts formed a long barrier that separated us from Marco. I pushed through the crowd to try to keep sight of him, stepping on a few shoes and wounding a few egos in the process. There were fewer people and objects to obstruct him which he took advantage of, allowing him to put more space between him and us.
    I struggled to navigate the mulling shoppers and at one point I found myself completely cut off by a crew of laborers unloading enormous sacks of grain in one continuous column. Turning, I scanned for Pietro. He was nowhere to be seen.
    “Capo!” There was an opening and Pietro beckoned me.
    The two of us ran towards the spot we had last seen Marco, the opening to a narrow alley beside a cheese shop. We reached it just in time to see his distant figure flee out the other end in the direction of the towering, box-like Orsanmichele.
    “He’s trying to lose us in the crowds,” I snarled.
    “Doing a fine job of it,” Pietro said.
    The Orsanmichele was a former grain market that had been converted to a church a few decades earlier. Its outside was decorated by statues commissioned by all the guilds in the city during its renovation after a fire had gutted it. A statue of the virgin located inside had supposedly been responsible for a number of miracles, which lead to its conversion to a holy site.
    Marco had stopped momentarily to see if we were still pursuing him before slipping inside.
    We caught up moments later, plunging ourselves into the cavernous space that was suspended by two giant columns and exquisite arches that loomed overhead. There were a number of people inside, praying silently and communing with God and the saints. I lowered my head solemnly, but continued to scan the wide room for any unusual movement that would belie our target.
    Despite our best attempts to conceal our presence it seemed, at least to me, that we couldn’t be more conspicuous. There weren’t many places to hide, except for the tree trunk sized columns in the center. I motioned for Pietro to approach from the far side of the gallery while I examined the near.
    It became eerily silent as we tiptoed through the church. A muffled cough or a creaking pew would occasionally break it, distracting me and giving me a false signal. I glanced at Pietro. He shook his head.
    A clatter to my left as a candelabra slammed into the floor. I spun just in time to see Marco jump backwards, panic, and throw