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Baroncelli leaned down to whisper in his diminutive employer’s ear. ‘Where is Giuliano?’
He watched the weasel-faced Francesco struggle to suppress his stricken expression. Baroncelli shared his distress. Mass would commence soon now that Lorenzo and his guest, the Cardinal, were in place; unless Giuliano arrived shortly, the entire plot would evaporate into disaster. It was unthinkable, there was too much danger, too much was at stake; too many souls were involved in the plot, leaving too many tongues free to wag. Even now, Messer Iacopo waited alongside a small army of fifty Perugian mercenaries for the signal from the church bell. When it tolled, he would seize control of the government palace and rally the people against Lorenzo.
The penitent pushed forwards until he stood alongside Baroncelli; he then raised his face to stare upwards at the dizzyingly high cupola overhead, rising directly above the great altar. The man’s burlap hood slipped back slightly, revealing his profile. For an instant, his lips parted, and brow and mouth contorted in a look of such hatred, such revulsion, that Baroncelli recoiled from him.
Slowly, the bitterness in the penitent’s eyes eased and the muscles in his face relaxed to the point that his expression resolved into one of beatific ecstasy, as if he could see God Himself and not the great ceiling’s smoothly curved marble. Francesco noticed, and he watched the penitent as though he were an oracle about to give utterance.
And give utterance he did. ‘He is still abed.’ And, coming back to his senses, the man carefully drew the hood forwards to conceal his face once more.
Francesco clutched Baroncelli’s elbow and hissed. ‘We must go to the Medici Palace at once!’ Baroncelli was not given to superstition, but could not disobey his employer.
Smiling, Francesco steered Baroncelli to the left, away from the distracted Lorenzo de’ Medici, and past a handful of Florentine notables that comprised the first row of worshippers. They did not use the nearby northern door that led out to the Via de’ Servi as their exit would more likely have drawn Lorenzo’s attention.
Instead, the pair moved down the outermost aisle that ran the intimidating length of the sanctuary – past brown stone columns the width of four men, which were connected by high, white arches framing long windows of stained glass. Francesco’s expression was at first benign, as he passed acquaintance after acquaintance in the first few rows, nodding greetings as he went. Baroncelli, dazed, did his best to murmur salutations to those he knew, but Francesco pushed him along so swiftly, he scarce could catch his breath.
Hundreds of faces, hundreds of bodies. Empty, the cathedral would have seemed infinitely vast; filled to capacity on the fifth Sunday after Easter, it seemed cramped, crowded and airless. Each face that turned to meet Baroncelli seemed filled with suspicion.
The first group of worshippers they passed consisted of Florence’s wealthy: glittering women and men weighed down by ostentatious displays of gold and jewels, by fur-trimmed heavy brocades and velvets. The smell of the men’s rosemary and lavender water mingled with the more volatile, feminine scent of attar of roses, all wafting above the base notes of smoke and frankincense from the altar.
Francesco’s velvet slippers whispered rapidly against the inlaid marble; his expression grew sterner once he moved past the aristocracy. The aroma of lavender increased as the two men walked past the rows of the richest merchants – the men and women dressed in silks and fine wool, embellished with a glint of gold here and silver there, even the spark of an occasional diamond. Unsmiling, Francesco nodded once or twice, to lower-ranking business associates as Baroncelli struggled to breathe; the onrush of faces – witnesses, all of them – triggered a profound panic within him.
But Francesco did not slow. As they passed the middle class tradesmen – the smiths and bakers, the artists and their apprentices – the smell of fragrant herbs gave way to perspiration and the fine fabrics to the coarser weaves of wool and silk.
The poor stood in the final rows at the back: wool carders, unable to muffle their coughing, fabric dyers, with darkly stained hands. The garments here consisted of tattered wool and rumpled linen, perfumed with sweat and filth. Both Francesco and Baroncelli involuntarily covered their mouths and noses.
At last, they made their way out of the huge open doors. Baroncelli took a great sobbing gasp of air.
‘No time for cowardice!’ Francesco snapped, and dragged him down into the street, past the clawing arms of beggars planted cross-legged on the church steps, past the slender, towering campanile to their left.
They made their way through the great open piazza, past the octagonal Baptistery of St. John, dwarfed by the Duomo. The temptation to run was great, but too dangerous, although they still made their way at a pace which left Baroncelli breathless despite the fact that his legs were twice the length of his employer’s. After the dimness of the Duomo, sunlight seemed harsh. It was a gloriously beautiful, cloudless spring day, yet to Baroncelli, it seemed ominous all the same.
They veered north onto the Via Larga, sometimes referred to as ‘the street of the Medici’. It was impossible to set foot upon its worn flagstones and not feel Lorenzo’s iron grip upon the city. The wide street was lined with the palazzi of his supporters: of Michelozzo, the family architect, of Angelo Poliziano, poet and protégé. Further down, out of sight, stood the church and convent of San Marco. Lorenzo’s father, Cosimo, had rebuilt the crumbling cathedral and founded the convent’s famous library; in return, the Dominican monks revered him, and provided him with his own cell for those times he was given to contemplation – which was not often.
Cosimo had even purchased the gardens near the monastery and Lorenzo had transformed them into a sculpture garden: a luxurious training-ground for young architects and artists.
Baroncelli and his co-conspirator approached the intersection with the Via de’ Gori, where the cupola of Florence’s oldest cathedral, San Lorenzo, dominated the western skyline. It had fallen into ruin, and Cosimo, with the help of Michelozzo and Brunelleschi, had restored its former grandeur. His bones rested there now, in the marble tomb set before the high altar.
At last, the two men reached their destination: the rectangular grey bulk of the Medici’s palazzo, sombre and stern as a fortress – the architect, Michelozzo was given strict instruction that the building was not to be ornate, lest it roused suspicion that the Medici considered themselves above plain citizens. Yet the modest design still emanated sufficient magnificence to be suitable for entertaining kings and princes; Charles VII of France had dined in the great hall.
It struck Baroncelli that the building resembled its current owner: the ground floor was made of rough-hewn, rustic stone; the second floor, of even brick and the third was crafted of perfectly smooth stone, and capped by an overhanging cornice. The face Lorenzo presented to the world was just as polished; yet his foundation, his heart, was rough and cold enough to do anything to maintain control over the city.
It had taken barely four minutes to reach Palazzo de Medici, which dominated the corner of the Vias Larga and Gori. Those four minutes passed as though they were hours; those four minutes passed so swiftly Baroncelli could not even recall walking down the street.
At the southern corner of the building, closest to the Duomo, stood the loggia. It was covered from the elements, but broad archways offered its shelter to the street. Here, citizens of Florence were free to meet and converse, oft-times with Lorenzo or Giuliano; a good deal of business was conducted beneath its stone ceiling.
On this Sunday morning, most folk were at Mass; only two men lingered in the loggia, talking softly. One of them – wearing a wool tabard that marked him as a merchant and possibly one of the Medici’s own bankers – turned to scowl at Baroncelli, who ducked his head, nervous at the prospect of being seen and remembered.
A few steps more, and the two conspirators stopped at the thick brass doors of the palazzo’s main entrance on the Via Larga. Francesco pounded adamantly on the metal; his efforts were finally rewarded by the appearance of a servant, who led them into the magnificent courtyard.
Thus began the agony of waiting while Giuliano was summoned. Had Baroncelli not been in the grip of fear at that particular moment, he might have been able to enjoy his surroundings. At each corner of the courtyard stood a great stone column, connected by graceful arches. On top of those was a frieze, adorned with medallions depicting pagan scenes in-between the Medici crest. They had been sculpted by one of Donatello’s students.
The famous seven palle – or balls – of the Medici crest were arranged in what looked suspiciously like a crown. To hear Lorenzo tell it, the palle represented the dents in the shield of one of Charlemagne’s knights, the brave Averardo, who had fought a fearsome giant and won. So impressed was Charlemagne that he allowed Averardo to design his coat of arms from the battered shield. The Medici claimed descent from the brave knight, and the family had borne the crest for centuries.
The cry ‘Palle! Palle! Palle!’ was used to rally the people on the Medici’s behalf. Of Cosimo the Elder, it had been said that he had branded even the monks’ privates with his balls.
Baroncelli let his gaze follow the path from one medallion to the next. One scene showed Athena, defending the city of Athens; another remembered the winged Icarus soaring for the heavens.
At last he dropped his gaze to the courtyard’s centrepiece: Donatello’s bronze David. The sculpture had always struck Baroncelli as effeminate; long curls spilled out from beneath David’s straw shepherd’s hat; his naked, curving form bore no masculine muscularity, and his genitalia were markedly small. (The fact had led to much speculation about the size of the Medici’s privates.) Indeed, one elbow was crooked with the hand resting on the hip in a girlish posture.
However, on this day, Baroncelli drew a totally different impression from the statue. He could see the coldness in David’s eyes as the boy stared down at the head of the slain Goliath; he saw how he gripped the great sword in his right hand.
Which role shall I play today? Baroncelli wondered. David, or Goliath?
Light and shadow conspired to distort both beautiful and mundane images, and impregnate them with hidden meaning. Above him, Athena struggled with Poseidon over Athenian souls, and Icarus, winged and filled with optimism, would soon plunge to his death.
Beside him, Francesco de’ Pazzi was pacing the floor with hands clasped behind his back, and small eyes glaring downwards at polished marble. Giuliano had best come soon, Baroncelli reflected, or Francesco would begin muttering to himself.
But Giuliano did not appear. The servant, a comely, well-trained youth, as well-oiled as every part of the Medici machinery, returned with a look of practised sympathy. ‘ Signori, forgive me. I am so sorry to tell you that my master is currently indisposed and cannot receive company.’
Francesco leapt forwards, and barely managed to replace his fright with jovialness in time. ‘Ah! Please explain to Ser Giuliano that the matter is most urgent.’ He lowered his tone as if confiding a secret. ‘Today’s luncheon is in the young Cardinal Riario’s honour, and he is sorely disappointed that Ser Giuliano will not be attending. The Cardinal is at the Duomo now with Ser Lorenzo, asking after your master. Mass has been delayed on this account, and I fear that, should Ser Giuliano fail to come with us now, the Cardinal will take offence. We would not want him to report this to his uncle, the Pope, when he returns to Rome …’
The servant nodded graciously while wearing a small frown of concern. Baroncelli sensed he was not quite convinced that he should further disturb his master. Francesco clearly sensed the same, for he pressed harder. ‘We have come at the behest of Ser Lorenzo, who bids his brother come, and swiftly, as we are all waiting …’
The youth gave a quick lift of his chin, signalling his understanding of the urgency. ‘Of course, I will relay all that you have said to my master.’
As the lad turned, Baroncelli gazed on his employer, and marvelled at his talent for duplicity.
In less time than either he or Francesco expected, footsteps sounded on the marble stairs leading down to the courtyard. Soon Giuliano de’ Medici stood before them, in a tunic of pale green velvet embroidered at the neck and sleeves with gold thread. Though his brother’s features were imperfect, Giuliano’s were without flaw. His nose, though prominent, was straight and nicely rounded at the tip; his jaw was strong and square; and his eyes were large and golden brown, framed with lashes that were the envy of every Florentine woman. Delicate, well-formed lips rested atop even teeth, and his hair was full and curling, parted down the middle and brushed back to better show his handsome visage.
Giuliano was always smiling and laughing. At twenty-four, life was good to him; he was young, lively and fair of face. Yet his good nature and sensitive character were such that he never made another feel inadequate. Indeed, his jocular demeanour and generous nature made him generally loved by Florence’s citizens. While he might not have shared his brother’s painful brilliance at politics, he was astute enough to use his other attributes to gain public support. Were Lorenzo to die, Giuliano would have no difficulty in taking up the reins of power.
Over the past few weeks, Baroncelli had tried hard to despise him, and failed.
The faint morning light that had begun to paint the bottoms of the columns revealed that today Giuliano’s glory was sorely dimmed. His hair had not been combed, his clothes had obviously been hastily donned – and his eyes were noticeably bloodshot, as though he had not slept. For the first time in Baroncelli’s memory, Giuliano did not smile. His manner was sombre, and he moved slowly, like a man weighed down by heavy armour. Icarus, Baroncelli thought. He has soared too high and has now been scorched.
When Giuliano spoke, his normally melodic voice was hoarse, almost as rasping as his brother’s. ‘Good day, gentlemen. I understand Cardinal Riario has taken offence at my absence from Mass?’
Baroncelli felt a strange sensation in his chest, as if his heart was flipping over. Giuliano looked like a beast resigned to the slaughter. He knows. He cannot possibly know. And yet … he knows …
‘We are so sorry to disturb you,’ Francesco de’ Pazzi said, his hands clasped in an apologetic gesture. ‘We have come at the behest of Ser Lorenzo …’ Despite the business rivalry between the Medici and the Pazzi, they were related by the marriage of Giuliano’s elder sister to Francesco’s brother Guglielmo. This called for a public show of cordiality, even affection – a fact Francesco was relying on now.
Giuliano released a short sigh. ‘I understand. God knows, we must take care to please Lorenzo.’ A glimmer of his old self returned, and he added with apparently genuine concern, ‘I only hope it is not too late to reassure the Cardinal that I hold him in the highest regard.’
‘Yes,’ Baroncelli said slowly. ‘Let us hope it is not too late. Mass has already started.’
‘Let us go, then,’ Giuliano said. He gestured for them to move back towards the entryway, and as he lifted his arm, Baroncelli noticed that Giuliano had dressed so hurriedly that he wore no sword at his hip.
Out they went, the three of them, into the bright morning.
The scowling man who had been waiting out in the loggia glanced up as Giuliano passed. ‘Ser Giuliano,’ he called. ‘A word with you; it is most important.’
Giuliano looked over and clearly recognized him. A disgruntled banker, Baroncelli thought. Perhaps Lorenzo had recently let the man go. Or could it be someone with knowledge of the plot? Someone who was deliberately trying to stall them?
‘The Cardinal,’ Francesco urged frantically, then addressed the man himself. ‘Good man, Ser Giuliano is late for an urgent appointment and begs your understanding.’ And with that he took Giuliano by the arm and dragged him away down the Via Larga.
Baroncelli followed. The fright had made his mind finally take leave of his body. He marvelled that, although he was terrified, his hands no longer shook and his heart and breath no longer failed him. Indeed, he and Francesco joked and laughed and played the role of good friends trying to cheer another. Giuliano smiled faintly at their efforts but lagged behind, so the two conspirators made a game of alternately pulling and pushing him along. ‘We must not keep the Cardinal waiting,’ Baroncelli repeated at least thrice.
‘Pray tell, good Giuliano,’ Francesco said, catching his young brother-in-law by his sleeve. ‘What has happened to make you sigh so? Surely your heart has not been stolen by some worthless wench?’
Giuliano lowered his gaze and shook his head – not in reply, but to indicate that he did not wish to broach such matters. Francesco dropped the subject at once. Yet he never eased their rapid pace, and within minutes, they arrived at the front entry of the Duomo.
Baroncelli paused. He was already half-mad, already doomed to Hell, so saw no point in suppressing any further urge towards deceit … and the sight of Giuliano moving so slowly, as though he were heavy laden, pricked at him. Feigning impulsiveness, he seized the young Medici and hugged him tightly. ‘Dear friend,’ he said. ‘It troubles me to see you so unhappy. What must we do to cheer you?’
Giuliano gave another forced little smile and a slight shake of his head. ‘Nothing, good Bernardo. Nothing.’
And he followed Francesco’s lead into the cathedral.
Baroncelli, meanwhile, had laid one more concern to rest: Giuliano wore no breastplate beneath his tunic.
IV (#u0eb3daf6-12f5-5027-8037-80ba45b51d56)
On that late April morning, Giuliano faced a terrible decision: he must choose to break the heart of one of the two people he loved most in the world. One heart belonged to his brother, Lorenzo; the other, to a woman.
Though a young man, Giuliano had known many lovers. His former mistress, Simonetta Cattaneo, wife of Marco Vespucci, had been hailed as the most beautiful woman in Florence until her death two years ago. He had chosen Simonetta for her looks: she was fine-boned and fair, with masses of curling golden hair that fell far below her waist. So lovely was she that they had carried her to her grave with her face exposed. Out of deference for the husband and family, Giuliano had watched from a distance, but he had wept with them.
Even so, he had never been faithful. He had dallied with other women during their affair and, occasionally he had revelled in the talents of whores.
Now, for the first time in his life, Giuliano desired only one woman: Anna. She was handsome, to be sure, but it was her intelligence that had entrapped him, her delight in life and the greatness of her heart. He had come to know her slowly, through conversation at banquets, and at parties. She had never flirted, never attempted to win him; indeed, she had done everything possible to discourage him. But none of the dozens of Florentine noblewomen who vied and simpered for his affections matched her. Simonetta had been vapid; Anna had the soul of a poet, a saint.
Her goodness made Giuliano view his former life as repugnant. He abandoned all other women and sought only the company of Anna, yearned to please only her. He wished to marry her, to father her children and none other’s. Just the sight of her made him want to beg forgiveness for his past carnal indulgences. He longed for her grace more than God’s.
And it seemed like a miracle when she had at last confided her feelings: that God had created them for each other, and that it was His cruellest joke that she was already given to another man.
As passionate as Anna’s love was for him, her love of purity and decency, was even greater. She belonged to another, whom she refused to betray. She had admitted her feelings for Giuliano, but when he pursued her – when he cornered her alone during Carnival at his brother’s house and begged for her – she rejected him. Duty, she had said. Responsibility. She had sounded like Lorenzo, who had always insisted his brother make an advantageous match, and marry a woman who would add even more prestige to the family, and not disgrace.
Giuliano, accustomed to having whatever he wanted, tried to bargain his way around it. He pleaded with her to come to him in private – simply to hear him out. She wavered, but then agreed. They had met once, in the ground floor appartamento at the Medici palazzo. She had indulged his embraces, his kiss, but would go no farther. He had begged her to leave Florence, to go away with him, but she had refused.
‘He knows.’ Her voice had been anguished. ‘Do you understand? He knows, and I cannot bear to hurt him any longer.’
Giuliano was a determined man. Neither God nor societal convention gave him pause once he had made up his mind. For Anna, he was willing to give up the prospect of a respectable marriage; for Anna, he was willing to endure the censure of the Church, even excommunication and the prospect of damnation. It seemed a small price in order to be with her.
And so he had made a forceful argument: She should go with him to Rome, to stay in a family villa. The Medici had Papal connections; he would procure for her an annulment. He would marry her. He would give her children.
She had been torn, had put her hands to her lips. He looked in her eyes and saw the misery there, but he also saw a flicker of hope.
‘I don’t know, I don’t know,’ she had said, and he had let her return to her husband to make her decision.
The next day, he had gone to Lorenzo. Giuliano had wakened in the middle of the night and was unable to return to sleep. It was still dark – two hours before sunrise – but he was not surprised to see the light emanating from his brother’s antechamber. Lorenzo sat at his desk, with his cheek propped against his fist, scowling down at a letter he held close to the glowing lamp.
Nearby, another lamp cast light on the wall in front of him, where three large wooden panels had been propped – another artistic acquisition. Lorenzo had acquired them only a few weeks ago, from a family that owed him money; he was most excited about them because the artist, Uccello, was using the ‘new perspective’ to make the scenes appear more realistic.
Giuliano was not impressed. The panels depicted opposing armies at the very instant of their engagement. Banners fluttered in the sky; lances and swords were wielded; beautifully caparisoned horses reared and bared their teeth. They glorified Death. Giuliano could not understand how something as changeable and meaningless as politics should justify the killing of men and breaking of women’s hearts. The panels honoured a battle that had taken place a hundred years before, between Florentine and Sienese forces; many soldiers had died, but few today could remember their names, and no one cared why they had sacrificed themselves.
Giuliano returned his gaze to his brother. Normally Lorenzo would have glanced up, would have forced away the frown to smile, to utter a greeting; that day, however, he seemed in uncommonly ill sorts. No greeting came; Lorenzo gave him a cursory glance, then looked back at the letter. Its contents were apparently the cause of his bad humour.
Lorenzo could be maddeningly stubborn at times, overly concerned with appearances, coldly calculating when it came to politics, and at times dictatorial concerning how Giuliano should comport himself, and with whom he should allow himself to be seen. But he could also be enormously indulgent, generous, and sensitive to his younger brother’s wishes. Although Giuliano had never desired power, Lorenzo always shared information with him, they always discussed the political ramifications of every civic event. It was clear that Lorenzo loved his brother deeply, and would gladly have shared control of the city with him, had Giuliano ever shown an interest.
It had been hard for Lorenzo, to lose his father, and to be forced to assume power when so young. True, he had the talent for it; but Giuliano could see it wore on him. After nine years, the strain showed. Permanent creases had established themselves on his brow and shadows had settled beneath his eyes.
A part of Lorenzo revelled in the power, and delighted in extending the family’s influence. The Medici Bank had branches in Rome, in Bruges, in most of the greater cities of Europe. Yet Lorenzo was often exhausted by the demands of playing the gran maestro. At times, he complained, ‘Not a soul in the city will marry without my blessing.’ Quite true. And that very week, he had received a letter from a congregation in rural Tuscany, begging for his advice: The church fathers had approved the creation of a saint’s statue; two sculptors were vying for the commission. Would the great Lorenzo be so kind as to give his opinion? Such missives piled up in great stacks each day; Lorenzo rose before dawn and answered them in his own hand.
He fretted over Florence as a father would a wayward child. Lorenzo spent every waking moment dedicated to furthering her prosperity and the Medici interests.
But he was keenly aware that no one loved him, save for the favours he could bestow. Only Giuliano adored his brother truly, for himself. Only Giuliano tried to make Lorenzo forget his responsibilities; only Giuliano could make him laugh. For that, Lorenzo loved him fiercely.
And it was the repercussions of that love Giuliano feared.
Giuliano straightened and cleared his throat. ‘I am going,’ he said, rather loudly, ‘to Rome.’
Lorenzo lifted his brows and his gaze, but the rest of him did not stir. ‘On pleasure, or on some business I should acquaint myself with?’
‘I am going with a woman.’
Lorenzo sighed; his frown eased. ‘Enjoy yourself, then, and think of me suffering here.’
‘I am going with Madonna Anna,’ Giuliano said.
Lorenzo jerked his head sharply at the name. ‘You’re joking.’ He said it lightly, but as he stared at Giuliano, his expression grew incredulous. ‘You must be joking.’ His voice fell to a whisper. ‘This is foolishness … Giuliano, she is from a good family. And she is married.’
Giuliano did not quail. ‘I love her. I won’t be without her. I’ve asked her to go with me to Rome, to live.’
Lorenzo’s eyes widened; the letter slipped from his hand and fluttered to the floor, but he did not retrieve it. ‘Giuliano … Our hearts mislead us all, from time to time. You’re enthralled by an emotion; believe me, I understand. But it will ease. Give yourself a fortnight to rethink this idea.’
Lorenzo’s paternal, dismissive tone only strengthened Giuliano’s resolve. ‘I’ve already arranged the carriage and driver, and sent a message to the servants at the Roman villa to prepare for us. We must seek an annulment,’ he said. ‘I don’t say this lightly, brother. I want to marry Anna. I want her to bear my children.’
Lorenzo leaned back in his chair and stared intently at his younger brother, as if trying to judge whether he were an impostor. When he was satisfied that the words had been meant, Lorenzo let go a short, bitter laugh. ‘An annulment? Courtesy of our good friend Pope Sixtus, I suppose? He would prefer to see us banished from Italy.’ He pushed himself away from his desk, rose, and reached for his brother; his tone softened. ‘This is a fantasy, Giuliano. I understand that she is a marvellous woman, but … She has been married for some years. Even if I could arrange for an annulment, it would create a scandal. Florence would never accept it.’
Lorenzo’s hand was almost on his shoulder; Giuliano shifted it back, away from the conciliatory touch. ‘I don’t care what Florence will or won’t accept. We’ll remain in Rome, if we have to.’
Lorenzo emitted a sharp sigh of frustration. ‘You’ll get no annulment from Sixtus. So give up your romantic ideas: If you can’t live without her, have her – but for God’s sake, do so discreetly.’
Giuliano flared. ‘How can you speak of her like that? You know Anna, you know she would never consent to deception. And if I can’t have her I won’t have any other woman. You can stop all your match-making efforts right now. If I can’t marry her—’
Even as he spoke, he felt his argument fail. Lorenzo’s eyes were filled with a peculiar light – furious and fierce, verging on madness – a light that made Giuliano believe his brother capable of true malevolence. He had only seen such a look in Lorenzo’s eyes rarely – never before had it been directed at him – and it chilled him. ‘You’ll do what? Refuse to marry anyone at all?’ Lorenzo shook his head vehemently; his voice grew louder. ‘You have a duty, an obligation to your family. You think you can forget it, go to Rome on a whim, pass our blood on to a litter of bastards? You would stain us with excommunication? Because that’s what would happen, you know – to both of you! Sixtus is in no mood to be generous with us.’
Giuliano said nothing; the flesh on his cheeks and neck burned. He had expected no less, though he had hoped for more.
Lorenzo continued; the hand that had reached for his brother now became a jabbing, accusatory finger. ‘Do you have any idea of what will happen to Anna? What people will call her? She’s a decent woman, a good woman. Do you really want to ruin her? You’ll take her to Rome and grow tired of her. You’ll want to come home to Florence. And what will she have left?’
