A Brood of Vipers

couldn't get rid of us quickly enough. If I had been on my own I would have kicked the door down, dragged the fellow outside, beat his head against the wall and repeated our offer until he accepted.
    'Roger,' Benjamin called, as if reading my thoughts, 'we can do nothing now.'
    We left the dirty, smelly tenement. Maria took us by a different route around the old market. The day was growing hot, already people were beginning to disperse to their houses for the siesta. Sensible Florentines would lounge in their upper rooms and wait for the sun to dip and the shadows to grow longer. Maria said she was thirsty. I licked dry lips and remembered the cool white wine we had drunk at the Medici palace. I stared over my shoulder, searching the crowd, but I couldn't see anyone following us. We passed a taverna, a brightly painted, shady establishment; fragrant cooking smells wafted through the door. Outside, leaning against the wall, two tinkers, their noses dug into their tankards, smacked their lips as they slaked their thirst. 'Master,' I insisted. 'We must drink something.' Benjamin agreed. We went inside.
    It was a beautifully cool room with a high ceiling and great open windows on every side. Onions and vegetables hung from the rafters. The floor, surprisingly enough, was tiled with an exquisite mosaic depicting a hand clutching a succulent bunch of grapes. We took our seats at a table near a window overlooking the fragrant-smelling garden behind the taverna. A young boy dressed in a white apron, chattering like a monkey, came to take our order. Maria advised us to drink not wine but the juice of crushed oranges with slivers of ice in it. 'The wine will only make you thirstier,' she explained.
    She was right. The boy brought back pewter flagons and both Benjamin and I exclaimed our appreciation at the cool and tangy fruitfulness which washed the dust from our mouths and slaked our thirst. Maria, still chattering about the different types of food and drink, ordered some bread with cheese and apple slices mixed together in an open earthenware bowl. We were so engrossed that I hardly noticed the wiry, grey-haired man sitting in a corner by himself, a wine cup cradled in his hand. After some minutes he got up and came over. 'Inglese?' he asked.
    Maria jabbered some reply. The man nodded and drained his cup. He whispered something to Maria, then left the taverna. 'What did he say?' I asked curiously. 'He told us to be careful.'
    As we started to eat one of the Eight came in through the door. He saw where we sat and abruptly left. Maria's face was pale, her eyes anxious.
    'In Florence,' she murmured, 'the Master of the Eight is feared. The old man did us a great favour.'
    I stared around the taverna. I could see no one watching us and I wondered what the man really had said to Maria. I looked at my master. He, too, was staring suspiciously at the little woman.
    'That's what he said!' Maria exclaimed heatedly. 'Here in Florence the Eight are not liked. It is a courtesy to warn people when they are being watched.'
    Benjamin shrugged and looked out across the garden. A group of children, probably the tavern-keeper's, were busy decorating the statue of a saint and letting off fire-crackers around it. Maria, standing on a stool, also peered out.
    'They are preparing for the carnival,' she explained. 'In Florence every saint's day is celebrated, with flowers, fireworks, processions. It is a beautiful city,' she added wistfully. 'At least on the surface.' I saw her little body shiver. 'Give me London any time,' I said. 'Oh, for a day in Cheapside, eh, Master?' 'Eh, Inglese?'
    I whirled round. Four men had suddenly entered the taverna and were now grouped around the table, staring at us. At the far side of the room the tavern-keeper was watching anxiously. The newcomers, with their plumed hats, tawdry finery, high-heeled boots and sword belts carrying dirk and hangar, were clearly bully-boys – an unholy bunch with their narrow faces and sneering mouths! I went back to my drink.
    'Is the Inglese stupid as well as insulting?' one of them asked. He came towards me, coming so close his codpiece almost thrust into my cheek. He tugged my ear lobe. 'Inglese, look at me!' I stared up. He bowed down, pushing his face closer. 'Inglese, you insult me! Kiss my boot! Or I'll kill you!'

Chapter 10
    Well, you know how it goes – it's always the same in any deliberate tavern brawl. These braggadocios had been sent to stir us up. Their leader spoke