The Botticelli Killings

Chapter 2

2There were two reasons why Franceschetto preferred to buy his colours in Piazza del Mercato.

The first was that he hated the apothecary shop in Borgo Santa Croce where his Master, the great Filippino Lippi, preferred to buy his supplies. Well, to tell the truth, he really hated Andrea, Doctor Bartolomeo’s son: a black-haired, wiry boy of fourteen with frog-like eyes and a know-it-all attitude. He would look you up and down with contempt, as if he were Lorenzo the Magnificent’s personal doctor! Andrea’s father had inherited the shop from his father-in-law, one of the richest apothecaries in Florence with whom he had set up business in his youth. Too easy, thought Franceschetto, to be born the son of a doctor and grandson of an apothecary. No need to lift a finger to get any comfort, wealth and delicious food and all inside a luxurious palazzo. Nothing was asked of you for the right to practice your profession. And, even worse, your father did not even have to think you deserved it or that you were intelligent enough to learn his craft, it was just simply the way it always was. But Andrea was definitely a know-it-all and arrogant to his customers as well.

The second reason Franceschetto was happy that morning was that the Master had sent him to buy materials at the market, and that meant good food. Next to the soils, pigments, candles, paper, ink, dried herbs, unguents and countless remedies against maladies that were available in the Santa Croce shop, the only really tasty temptations were the little spicy cakes the family cooked themselves. While going to the square, the Doctors’ and Apothecaries’ Lodge was next to and surrounded by lots of shops and stalls selling every possible thing. For a few coins you could buy the most savoury delicacies ever made on the face of the Earth. Franceschetto wandered among the butchers’ benches where butchers and fishmongers were competing to tantalise the taste buds of the people out shopping offering the most exquisite delicacies. Such as the specially prepared pig’s liver with its potent scent of bay leaves, or the tench and carp freshly caught at dawn in the Arno River and now slowly roasting over hot coals, wafting their garlic and herb flavoured marinade. It was not easy to choose, but when he saw the scoured out pumpkins, all doubt vanished and he asked the woman behind the counter: «May I have a cone of lattarini, please?» He watched her expectantly while she plucked a handful of little silver fish from the pumpkin filled with fresh water where they were kept, and dipped them in white flour before dropping them into the deep frying pan of hot oil. His mouth watered as he savoured the smell of fresh fish frying and he felt very lucky. Unlike Andrea, he could say for certain that his father loved and appreciated him, a humble fabric dyer! The poor man valued his son’s intelligence so much that to help him escape an infernal fate of misery, mud and boiling vapour in a tiny shack on the banks of the Arno River, he had sent him to a painter’s workshop when he turned thirteen as an apprentice.

He sauntered into the Apothecaries’ Lodge, happily munching on the last of his little fried fish, and made his way to Messer Antonio Marini’s area.

«Good morning Franceschetto, nice to see you. How is Master Filippino?»

While he might not have been considered as famous a doctor as Andrea’s father, Antonio the apothecary was for sure much kinder and joyful. Furthermore, his shop was smaller but just as good as the Apothecary. All of the materials, powders and herbs were rigorously catalogued and preserved in an orderly fashion in either glass jars or terracotta bowls.

Franceschetto asked the apothecary for some packets of «Bianco Sangiovanni».

«So, your master has finished his stock for his ‘skin painting’. Here you are, fine and purified. With this he will be able to paint the most glowing of complexions, fit for a Madonna».

Franceschetto smiled at him thankfully. It was common for any apothecary to know that calcium carbonate, also called «Bianco Sangiovanni», when mixed with a touch of sinopia red, would produce the perfect shade for painting faces and n***d skin on wooden panels and walls. Andrea was such an unpleasant person he would never think of showing any interest in colours. On the contrary, he sold earths and pigments, with the highest indifference for their final use, often with a veil of superiority stamped on his face in contempt of the painters he considered beneath him. «Master Filippino, as an artist with his own workshop, is registered with the same association as your father», Franceschetto had pointed out to him but the insolent reply had been: «Well, my father is a doctor and therefore a scientist and an intellectual while your Master is nothing more than a manual labourer. And you, so proud to work for him, you are only the skivvy of an unskilled worker».

While the boy took the money out of his wallet to pay, his nostrils were being tantalised by whiffs of all sorts of smells: grain, smoke, herbs, cheese and frying lard.

«Messer Antonio, can you please keep my things for a moment? I am going to buy some food quickly and will come straight back».

In the bakers’ area, Franceschetto gave in to the heavenly scent of freshly baked bread and, with a happy smile on his face, no matter what Andrea thought, he felt very lucky indeed! Filippino Lippi, short of some white calcium carbonate following the large supply carried out two days earlier at Santa Croce, and knowing how much his boy liked to hang around the stalls, had sent him to the market. Not only, he had also given him a few coins to buy himself something nice. His Master was no manual labourer but a very skilled and respected artist, also a handsome man with fine intelligence and a gentle soul. In the two years he had been apprenticed to his workshop, he had never been mistreated! Andrea might be the son of a doctor but his father was a very hard and severe teacher and would allow for no mistakes from his son. He had no misgivings about mistreating his son, not even in front of clients and Franceschetto was once witness to some rough behaviour. What despicable people doctor Bartolomeo and his son were! He could not understand why Master Filippino continued to buy his supplies from their shop. His friend Sandro Botticelli has not set foot in their apothecary shop for the last ten years. There was talk that the great painter held Santa Croce’s doctor responsible for the death of a woman who had been very dear to him, a lady called Ginevra. Franceschetto did not find that hard to believe.

A sudden skirmish, followed by shouting from the square pulled him abruptly back from his daydreaming.

* * *

«Another one! He has killed another one!»

«It was the monster! Florence is no longer a safe place».

«This is the third innocent person slaughtered by the monster in the last three months!»

The throng were going mad, crowding around a cart that had been dragged into the square. A poor man had found the corpse in a little alley close by and, judging by her finery and elegant clothes, he knew she was neither a p********e nor a homeless person, whose death would not have interested anyone. So, he had put the body onto his cart and brought it to the square to see if someone could recognize her.

«It is Betta, Gonfalonier Guidi’s oldest daughter», someone gasped.

«Are you sure?»

«No doubt about it. I know her and her family. Poor things, they must think she is still in her bed at this hour».

«Another girl from a good family, honest and respectable. How can we protect our daughters? This monster must be caught! What is the Signoria doing?»

«Her body was found in a small alley. It must have happened last night».

«What was an honest girl doing out at night alone?»

Everybody wanted their say, shouting to cover the loud voices of other people, some women sobbing desperately and cursing the «monster» and his foul actions. That is how the people had defined this killer, given the horrifying condition of the first two corpses. The first tortured body had been found on the Ponte Vecchio and some had even thought she had been attacked by a wild animal, such was the condition of the body.

* * *

Franceschetto’s good mood disappeared like colour in white spirit. Who would tell Master Filippino? He did not want to see Master distraught and devastated by grief as with the other two.

He stood on tiptoes, trying to see between the people and glimpse who was inside the cart but it was impossible, there were too many people pushing and shoving.

«Did they find this girl undressed like the others?» asked someone beside him.

«No, this time she was dressed, the monster only managed to uncover her left breast and half of her back. He might not have had time to r**e her like he did the others. Perhaps he was scared by something and so killed her quickly».

«Are you sure?»

«Certainly, I saw her when they brought the cart, before the crowd surrounded it».

«So, she was dressed and wearing all of her jewellery?» He remembered that the detail of the necklaces with golden pendants around the necks of the other two females had left his Master quite troubled. The families had not recognized the jewels and it had been deduced that the killer had been the one to place the jewellery around the neck of the young girls.

«No, I did not see any jewellery. But there was a red rose, the man who found her dead said that she had a red rose on her bare shoulder. Oh yes, there was also a little piece of parchment with a message».

«What message? What did it say?»

«Now you are asking me too much, lad! How would I know?»

Franceschetto mused that the absence of the jewel was good news. But he did not have the time to feel reassured:

«Bad business, hey!» The voice in his ear and hot breath on his neck of someone that grabbed him from behind made him jump. He turned in fright.

«Oh, it is you Messer Antonio! You startled me».

«Sorry my boy. In this chaos, someone pushed me while I was approaching and I almost fell on you», the apothecary explained, having come out to see what all the fuss was about.

«Who did you think I was? The killer?» The man’s mocking laughter shamed the boy. «Do not tell me that you are worried. You are no delicate young girl, hey?»

«I am not worried about myself but for Master Filippino. Because of that painting he loves so much, you know it, do you not?» He immediately regretted not having held his tongue: it was a delicate matter, his Master had said.

«I know my boy. Filippino confided in me. You mean that wonderful painting he did with Botticelli that represents spring».

«Yes, that one!» He was relieved that he had not given anything away to the apothecary.

«Yes, a terrible story. Such a wonderful painting and those two poor artists tormenting themselves because they fear that those terrifying murders allude to the characters portrayed in it. We now have eight dead».

«But is this not the third murder?»

«Yes, yes, in these recent months. But there have been others in the past!» Franceschetto curious to know more, looked anxiously at the old apothecary, but the man was biting his lip as if he regretted saying too much.

«Let it go. If your Master has not told you anything, you should not pay any attention to an old man’s talk».

The two made their way back to the Apothecary together, where Franceschetto collected his packets of Bianco.

In saying goodbye the apothecary smiled gently and winked at the boy, lifting his index finger to his lips.