Maria pointed further down the street. 'Across the Mercato Vecchio. Come on, stop whispering to each other and I'll take you there.'
'Have you been before?' I asked.
She shook her little head and tripped down the street leading to the old market place.
'No,' she called over her shoulder. 'Lord Francesco commissioned the painter, it was his idea alone. Oh, and by the way, you are being watched.'
I whirled around. My blood froze. Standing in the doorway of a shop was one of the Eight, dressed in a dark-brown robe, arms hidden beneath his sleeves. He just watched us, the smooth-shaven face impassive, though the eyes were hostile.
He reminded me of a hunting dog unsure whether to attack or not.
'Ignore him!' Benjamin hissed. 'We are doing no wrong, Roger.'
I hawked, spat in the spy's direction and followed Maria into the bustling square. Now the Mercato Vecchio is a singular place. On each of its four corners stands a church. Around the square craftsmen and dealers of every type have stalls stocked high with all kinds of goods, from sovereign remedies to silk from the lands east of the Indus. Apothecaries and grocers shouted for trade. Traders in pots and pitchers fashioned their wares and sold them. Tramps and beggars lurked in every corner. Butchers, their stalls festooned with hares, chunks of wild boar, partridge, pheasant, huge capons, shouted prices. Across the market the hawkers and falconers tried to restrain their hunting birds, restless as they smelt the blood pouring out from under the fleshing knives.
The din was ear-shattering, reminiscent of Cheapside, and as we crossed the market apprentices and women tried to catch us by the sleeves offering dried chestnuts, eggs, cheese, vegetables, herbs, flans, pies, and favourite Florentine dishes like ravioli. Girls from the country made their way elegantly through the throng, baskets stacked high on their heads. It was a miracle they could even walk, never mind hold burdens so easily. At last we were through the market and Maria led us down one street and into a narrow alleyway mis-named the Via Fortunata. It reeked of urine, the hordes of cats that plagued the area and boiled vegetables. Maria asked directions from a hawker, who pointed out a yellow, crumbling tenement.
'We'll find Borelli there,' she said. 'On the second floor, or so this fellow says.'
We entered the shabby building and climbed the rickety wooden stairs.
‘I don't think we'll have much trouble persuading him to come to England,' I whispered.
Benjamin shrugged, then paused.
'Why this painter?' he murmured.
'Because the king liked Lord Francesco's present.'
Benjamin shook his head. 'An English court hires the best. Have you ever heard of Torrigiani?'
'Never.'
'He was a great Florentine artist, famous for his sculpture as well as for breaking the nose of the divine Michelangelo.' 'A thug?' I queried.
'A thug but a great artist. He was taken by the Inquisition and died in prison only last year. The point is, though, that he worked for the king's father.'
'So, why is Henry so interested in a minor Florentine artist like Borelli when he could have hired the best?'
'And that raises another question.' Benjamin turned to Maria. 'Why did your master hire such a minor painter to execute something for the king of England?'
Maria spread her little hands. 'Lord Francesco could be generous,' she replied, 'but perhaps he thought the work of an unknown would be more impressive.'
Benjamin sighed. 'We will do as the king wishes,' he declared sourly. 'Let's meet Master Borelli.'
We knocked on the faded, cracked door on the second floor. It was flung open by a thin, narrow-faced man with tousled black hair, close-set eyes and bloodless lips above a receding chin. He was dressed in an old smock covered in blotches of paint.
'Signors?' he queried.
Maria rattled out the introductions. The man stared at us.
'I speak some English,' he said. 'I was in your country seven years ago after I had visited Bruges.'
'Can we come in?' Benjamin asked.
The man waved us into a dark room reeking of paint, oil and stale cooking. Every available space was filled-with pots of paint, brushes, knives, easels carrying canvases. The fellow kept us standing as he wiped his paint-daubed hands with a rag. He muttered something to Maria and stared over his shoulder at a half-finished canvas.
'Master Borelli is busy,' Maria explained. 'He has a commission to complete.'
I studied the fellow closely. Busy, yes, but he was also very nervous. He kept swallowing hard and made no attempt to put us at our ease. Indeed, if we had walked back a step we would have been up against the door. Benjamin, too, was uneasy.
'Master Borelli,' he said, 'we bear the compliments of the king of England; he praises the painting you gave him, the one you did for Lord Francesco Albrizzi.'