The Botticelli Killings

Chapter 1

1Florence, April 1486

A cold trickle of sweat ran from his forehead to his chin and Giambattista wiped it away hastily with his sleeve. Thank God he had come out without his cloak, the breeze was exceptionally warm for a spring night with damp heat rising from the cobblestones and emanating from the walls of the palazzi lining the streets. However, it might just be the fear that made him sweat so much.

He was waiting for Betta, standing in front of her building but well-concealed behind a porch column, hidden from the light cast by the burning torches hanging on the walls. Growing even more agitated, he tightened his grip around the rose stem in his hand until its thorns bit into his palm. He was suddenly afraid that his girlfriend might not come, immediately allowing his anxiety to mutate into encouraging hope. He was no longer really convinced about what he was going to do and things would be easier if she did not come.

She will come, she loves me too much not to. Betta had always loved him, from when they were children and their families had organized their engagement. In time, he too had grown fond of her for, while her body did not hold any attractiveness for him, her soul was gentle and kind. Discreet and respectful, she held all the right qualities for becoming a good wife and he was sincerely sorry to have to hurt her. Once again he hoped she would not come but in his heart he knew that she would gladly take the risk of being caught by her family to sneak out under the cover of darkness to meet him. He raised the rose to his nostrils and inhaled the delicate scent of the flower, with its cruel destiny to become his accomplice in the imminent crime. He jumped, startled by the clanging of a latch being dropped and, still well-hidden behind the column, watched as the front door of the building opened.

He caught a glimpse of his promised bride on the threshold, a combined wave of affection and pity rushing through him. She loves me too much to not want to see me happy. Yes, she would have been a perfect wife, loving and devoted. The pity was that there was another woman he desired as his wife! From when he had first set eyes on Esmeralda, Betta’s cousin, there had been no other room in his mind for anything except the compelling desire to have her. That young lady from Pisa, who had moved to Florence with her family the year before, had ingrained herself into his head and very blood to the point that each instant of separation made everything seem useless and unbearable. He was confident that, once Betta had disappeared with her very rich dowry, his family would accept a less advantageous marriage to the beautiful cousin. Just the thought of Esmeralda’s hands entwined in his, while his warm breath caressed the soft hollow at the base of her neck, was enough to give life to a sweet and poisonous euphoria that urged him on to act without any further hesitation.

The moment his future bride stepped out hesitatingly into the street, Giambattista hurried up to execute Messer Manisante’s instructions: he pulled a small phial from a little leather pouch and opened it, pouring its contents onto the rose, making sure that it soaked well into the petals. Then, he stepped out from his hiding place, rapidly making his way to her side. Betta’s smile lit up the air around her, shining brighter than the light from the torches. Shaking, the young man offered her the rose and she took it into her hands.

«How beautiful!» she exclaimed. The flower appeared very dark, almost black, in the night but it was not difficult for Betta to imagine its intense red colour and velvet texture. She excitedly raised both hands, lifting the rose to her nose. He did not hesitate, grabbing her wrists and pushing the corolla of the flower forcefully to her nostrils. He kept a tight grip until the girl had passed out, supporting her body with his arms as she sank gently to the ground. Stupid girl, you should have stayed at home. He studied her lifeless body, she looked dead. Manisante had guaranteed that the tincture, made of papaver somniferum and other soporific herbs, contained the correct amount of Morpheus powder. It would have made anyone inhaling it fall asleep instantly never mind a creature as slight as Betta. At least you will not feel anything...

«What are you still doing here?» He was startled by the vexed voice of a man behind him.

The man spat on the ground and continued:

«I was around the corner waiting for you to leave. You should be far away by now. Go, go! Go away. Your role here is over. Now, it is up to me».

Giambattista obeyed sheepishly, leaving Betta to the man and trampling the rose into the cobblestones in his haste to get away.

* * *

Paolo, the accomplice, lifted the girl who felt light and small. He heard sounds of laughter drawing closer and hid with his prey in a handy backstreet, standing silently until the people making their way down the street had moved on. From the racket they were making and the content of their chatter, it was clear to him that it was a band of young students looking for distractions for the night.

He walked swiftly, leaving the neighbourhood as fast as possible. When he felt it was safe, he put the girl down on the ground in a small, dark, side street, kneeling beside her and running his hands softly all over her body wrapped in smooth silk, feeling the puffed petticoat underneath. She was wearing a proper day dress, she had evidently thought it improper to go out in her nightdress. Paolo laughed and spat on the ground. She was rather ugly, he had glimpsed her on the well-lit street. And touching her even now, he could feel her pointy bones through her clothes, not at all alluring.

The last two girls he had killed were small but beautiful. And how they had resisted him, and how they had screamed! Not this one, she was asleep. Messer Manisante had prepared the same Morpheus tincture they had used for a lady many years earlier. Oh yes, she had been a real woman with her generous, overflowing shape and lips as full as a ripe plum. Oh, how he had enjoyed himself before killing her! He had never become as excited over any woman as much as he had over her. The thought of it alone was enough to arouse him now, so much so that even the unalluring body of Betta was becoming more appetizing. But the man had been very clear: he was to leave her the way she was, with all of her clothes on.

However, he had also been ordered to do two bizarre things: the first was to leave the victim with her left breast n***d. So, he reached under her neckline grabbing her breast and pulling it out from the dress. It was so small that it all fit into his palm; small but smooth and firm. He slid his lips around it and inhaled its sweet perfume of fruity oil. The girl’s breathing was growing more regular, she might wake at any moment. He needed to hurry and kill her otherwise he would not be able to obey the order to leave her untouched.

He made an angry grunt: even a cat is allowed to enjoy torturing its prey before killing it. Nevertheless, he could not afford to upset Manisante. He sighed and used one hand to cover her mouth and the other to cover her nostrils. He pressed hard and long until he was sure that the body beneath him was completely lifeless. He held the girl tightly to him, grabbing the edge of the dress on her left shoulder and pulling the fabric hard sideways and down until half of her back was uncovered, then he put the body down, belly on the cobblestones with her head turned to one side showing her profile.

He then carried out the second bizarre order: he opened his shoulder bag, taking out a fresh red rose and a small sheet of parchment, which he rolled around the stem, finally resting the flower and the message against the n***d shoulder of the victim.