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Angry words scalded Giuliano’s tongue. He wanted to say that though Lorenzo had married a harridan, he, Giuliano, would rather die than live in such loveless misery, that he would never stoop to fathering children upon a woman he despised. But he remained silent; he was unhappy enough. There was no point in making Lorenzo suffer the truth, too.
Lorenzo emitted a growl of disgust. ‘You’ll never do it. You’ll come to your senses.’
Giuliano looked at him a long moment. ‘I love you, Lorenzo,’ he said quietly. ‘But I am going.’ He turned and moved to the door.
‘Leave with her,’ his brother threatened, ‘and you can forget that I am your brother. Don’t imagine I am joking, Giuliano. I’ll have nothing more to do with you. Leave with her, and you’ll never see me again.’
Giuliano looked back over his shoulder at Lorenzo, and was suddenly afraid. He and his older brother did not joke with each other when they discussed important matters – and neither could be swayed once he had made up his mind. ‘Please don’t make me choose.’
Lorenzo’s jaw was set, his gaze cold. ‘You’ll have to.’
The following evening, Giuliano had waited in Lorenzo’s ground floor apartment until it was time to meet Anna. He had spent the entire day thinking about Lorenzo’s comment about how she would be ruined if she went to Rome. For the first time, he considered what Anna’s life would be like if the Pope refused to grant an annulment.
She would know disgrace, and censure; she would be forced to give up her family, her friends, her native city. Her children would be called bastards, and be denied their inheritance as Medici heirs.
He had been selfish. He had been thinking only of himself when he made the offer to Anna. He had spoken too easily of the annulment, in hopes that it would sway her to go with him. And he had not, until that moment, considered that she might reject his offer; the possibility had seemed too painful to contemplate.
Now he realized that it would save him from making an agonizing choice.
But when he went to meet her at the door and saw her face in the dying light, he saw that his choice had been made long ago, at the moment when he gave his heart to Anna. Her eyes, her skin, her face and limbs exuded joy; even in the shadowy dusk, she shone. Her movements, which had once been slow, weighed down by unhappy consequence, were now agile and light. The exuberant tilt of her head as she looked up at him, the faint smile that bloomed on her lips, the swift grace with which she lifted her skirts and rushed to him relayed her answer more clearly than words.
Her presence breathed such hope into him that he moved quickly to her and held her, and let it infuse him. In that instant, Giuliano realized that he could refuse her nothing, that neither of them could escape the turning of the wheel now set in motion. And the tears that threatened him did not spring from joy; they were tears of grief, for Lorenzo.
He and Anna remained together less than an hour; they spoke little, only enough for Giuliano to convey a time, and a place. No other exchange was needed.
And when she was gone again – taking the light and Giuliano’s confidence with her – he went back to his own chamber, and called for wine. He drank it sitting on his bed, and thinking of Lorenzo.
He finally understood the depth of his elder brother’s love and caring for him. When he had first become fascinated with Anna, he had gone to Lorenzo and asked, ‘Have you ever been in love?’ He had always felt pity for his brother, on account of his unhappy marriage.
Lorenzo had been busy at his desk, but at the sound of his brother’s voice, he had looked up and forced his stern expression to lighten. ‘Of course.’
‘No, Lorenzo, I mean desperately, hopelessly in love. So much in love that you would rather die than lose your beloved.’
Lorenzo sighed with mild impatience. ‘Of course. But the story ends sadly, so what would be the point in its telling?’
‘You never want to speak to me of sad things.’ Giuliano said. ‘Just like Father, always trying to protect me, as if I weren’t able to fend for myself.’
Hidden hurt glimmered in Lorenzo’s eyes as his gaze flickered down and to the side … and into the past. Giuliano realized he was thinking of their father, Piero, and of the day he died. In his last moments, Piero had asked to speak to his eldest son alone; Giuliano had always assumed it had been merely to relate political secrets. But at that instant, seeing the haunted look in Lorenzo’s eyes, Giuliano realized their conversation had dealt with something more important.
‘I’m sorry, Lorenzo. I didn’t mean to complain …’
Lorenzo gave a small, unhappy smile. ‘You’re entitled. But … you’ve already seen enough grief in your short life already, don’t you think?’
Recalling the conversation, Giuliano swallowed wine without tasting it. Now it seemed like a mockery that God had given him the wonderful gift of Anna’s love, only to have it cause everyone such pain.
He sat for hours, watching the darkness of night deepen, then slowly fade to grey with the coming of dawn and the day he was to leave for Rome. He sat until the arrival of his insistent visitors, Francesco de’ Pazzi and Bernardo Baroncelli. He could not imagine why the visiting Cardinal should care so passionately about Giuliano’s presence at Mass; but if Lorenzo had asked him to come, then that was good enough reason to do so.
He hoped, with sudden optimism, that Lorenzo might have changed his mind; that his anger had faded, and left him more receptive to discussion.
Thus Giuliano rallied himself and, like a good brother, came as he was bidden.
V (#u0eb3daf6-12f5-5027-8037-80ba45b51d56)
Baroncelli hesitated at the door of the cathedral, as his objectivity briefly returned to him. Here was a chance to flee fate; a chance, before an alarm could be sounded, to run home to his estate, to mount his horse and head for any kingdom where neither the conspirators nor their victims had influence. The Pazzi were powerful and persistent, capable of mounting efforts to hunt him down – but they were neither as well-connected nor as dogged as the Medici.
Still in the lead, Francesco turned and goaded Baroncelli on with a murderous glance. Giuliano, still distracted by his private sorrow, was heedless and, flanked by the uncertain Baroncelli, followed Francesco inside. Baroncelli felt he had just crossed the threshold from reason into madness.
Inside, the air was filmed with smoke, redolent with frankincense and heavy with sweat. The sanctuary’s massive interior was dim, save for the area surrounding the altar, which was dazzling from the late morning light streaming in from the long arched windows of the cupola.
Again taking the least-noticeable path along the north side, Francesco headed towards the altar, followed closely by Giuliano, then Baroncelli. Baroncelli could have closed his eyes and found his way by smell, measuring the stench of the poor and working class, the lavender scent of the merchants and the rose of the wealthy.
Even before he caught sight of the priest, Baroncelli could hear him delivering his homily. The realization quickened Baroncelli’s pulse; they had arrived barely in time, for the Eucharist was soon to follow.
After the interminable walk down the aisle, Baroncelli and his companions arrived at the front row of men. They murmured apologies as they sidled back to their original places. An instant of confusion came as Baroncelli tried to move past Giuliano, so that he could stand on his right, the position dictated by the plan. Giuliano, not understanding Baroncelli’s intent, pressed closer to Francesco – who then whispered something in the young man’s ear. Giuliano nodded, stepped backwards, and made an opening for Baroncelli; in so doing, he grazed the shoulder of the penitent, who stood waiting behind him.
Both Francesco de’ Pazzi and Baroncelli watched, breathless, to see whether Giuliano would turn and make apology – and perhaps recognize the man. But Giuliano remained lost in his own misery.
Baroncelli craned his neck to look farther down the row, to see if Lorenzo had noticed; fortunately, the elder Medici brother was busy bending an ear to a whispered comment from the manager of the family bank, Francesco Nori.
Miraculously, all the elements were now in place. Baroncelli had nothing to do save wait – and pretend to listen to the sermon while keeping his hand from wandering to the hilt at his hip.
The priest’s words seemed nonsensical; Baroncelli frowned, straining to understand them. Forgiveness, the prelate intoned. Charity. Love thine enemies; pray for those who persecute you.
Baroncelli’s mind seized upon these phrases. Lorenzo de’ Medici had picked this Sunday’s priest himself. Did Lorenzo know of the plot? Were these seemingly innocuous words a warning not to proceed?
Barconelli glanced over at Francesco de’ Pazzi. If Francesco had detected a secret message, he gave no sign of it; he stared straight ahead at the altar, his gaze unfocused, but his eyes bright with fear and hatred. A muscle in his narrow jaw twitched madly.
The sermon ended.
The elements of the Mass proceeded with almost comical swiftness: the Creed was sung. The priest chanted the Dominus vobiscum and Oremus. The Host was consecrated with the prayer Suscipe sancte Pater.
Baroncelli drew in a breath and thought he would never be able to release it. The ceremony abruptly slowed; in his ears, he could feel the desperate thrum of his heart.
The priest’s assistant approached the altar to fill the golden chalice with wine; a second assistant added a small amount of water from a crystal decanter
At last, the priest took the chalice. Carefully, he lifted it heavenwards, proffering it to the large wooden carving of a dolorous, crucified Christ suspended above the altar.
Baroncelli’s gaze followed the cup. A shaft of sunlight caught the gold and reflected blindingly off the metal.
Again, the priest chanted, in a wavering tenor that sounded vaguely accusatory.
Offerimus tibi Domine …
Baroncelli turned to look at the younger Medici next to him. Giuliano’s expression was grave, his eyes closed. His right hand was clenched in a fist; his left hand clasped it, and both were pressed tightly to his lips. His head was bowed so he might have been praying. He looked like a man preparing to greet Death.
This is foolish, Baroncelli thought. He had no personal enmity toward this man; indeed, he liked Giuliano, who had never asked to be born a Medici. His quarrel with him was purely political, and certainly not great enough to warrant what he was about to do.
Francesco de’ Pazzi jabbed Baroncelli fiercely in the ribs, relating the unspoken message perfectly: The signal has been given! The signal has been given!
Baroncelli released a reluctant, inaudible sigh and drew his great knife from its hilt. Hefting it overhead, he remembered all the dozens of phrases he had rehearsed for this instant; none of them came to his lips, and what he finally shouted sounded ridiculous to his own ears.
‘Here, traitor!’
The church bells had just begun clanging when Giuliano looked up. At the sight of the knife, his eyes widened with mild surprise.
Baroncelli did not hesitate. He brought the blade down.
VI (#u0eb3daf6-12f5-5027-8037-80ba45b51d56)
A moment earlier, Lorenzo de’ Medici had been engaged in courteous but muted conversation with Cardinal Raffaele Riario. Although the priest was finishing up his sermon, the wealthy power-brokers of Florence thought nothing of discussing matters of pleasure or business – sotto voce – during Mass. The social opportunity was simply too great to ignore, and the priests had long ago become inured to it.
A scrawny lad, Riario looked younger than his seventeen years, and though he was currently a student of law at the University of Pisa, his enrolment there was clearly due more to his kinship with Pope Sixtus than any native intelligence.
Nephew, Sixtus called him. It was the euphemism by which popes and cardinals sometimes referred to their bastard children. The Pope was an extremely intelligent man, but obviously had got this homely, witless boy on a woman with charms other than beauty or brains.
Even so, Lorenzo was obliged to show the young cardinal a fine time while he was visiting Florence. Riario had specifically asked to meet with the Medici brothers and to be given a tour of their property and collection of art; Lorenzo could not refuse. This was the Pope’s so-called nephew – and though Lorenzo had endured public humiliation at Sixtus’ hands – even been forced to hold his tongue while the Medici were replaced by the Pazzi as the papal bankers – perhaps this was an overture. Perhaps Sixtus was trying to make amends, and this gangly young creature in scarlet robes was his emissary.
Lorenzo was eager to return to the family palace to ascertain whether this was indeed the case; the cardinal’s visit would irritate him greatly if Sixtus was simply taking brazen advantage of Lorenzo’s generosity. It would be yet another insult.
But in case it was not, Lorenzo had called for a magnificent feast to be served after Mass in honour of the young Cardinal. And if it happened that young Raffaele had come only out of a desire to enjoy the Medici art, he could at least report to his uncle that Lorenzo had treated him lavishly and well. It could serve as a diplomatic opening, one that Lorenzo would use to full advantage, for he was determined to reclaim the papal coffers from the clutches of the Pazzi bank.
And so Lorenzo practised his most gracious behaviour, even though Francesco Salviati, Archbishop of Pisa, stood smiling disingenuously on Riario’s other flank. Lorenzo had no personal quarrel with Salviati, though he had fought long and bitterly against his appointment as archbishop. So close to Florence, Pisa deserved an archbishop of Medici blood – and Salviati was related to the Pazzi, who already were gaining too much favour with the Pope. While the Medici and Pazzi publicly embraced each other as friends, in the arena of business and politics, there were no fiercer adversaries. Lorenzo had written an impassioned letter to Sixtus, explaining why the appointment of a Pazzi would be disastrous to papal, and Medici interests.
Sixtus not only failed to respond, he ultimately dismissed the Medici as his bankers.
Most would consider the appearance of Riario and Salviati as honoured guests a stinging blow to Medici dignity. But Lorenzo, ever the diplomat, welcomed them. And he insisted that his dear friend and the senior manager of the Medici Bank, Francesco Nori, show not the slightest sign of offence. Nori, who stood beside him now in silent support, was desperately protective of Lorenzo. When the news came from Rome that the Pazzi had been appointed the papal bankers, and the Medici were ousted, Nori had raged incessantly. Lorenzo had been obliged to calm his employee, though he had held his own anger in check, and spoke little of the affair. He could not afford the energy; he was already too busy scheming how he might win Sixtus back.
He had exchanged pleasantries with the young Cardinal throughout the service, and from a distance, smiled a greeting to the Pazzi, who were in full attendance. Most of them had gathered at the other side of the cathedral, except for Guglielmo de’ Pazzi, who stuck to the Archbishop’s side like a burr. Lorenzo honestly liked Guglielmo; he had known him since he, Lorenzo, was a boy of sixteen, when Guglielmo had escorted him to Naples to meet Crown Prince Federigo. The older man had treated him like a son then, and Lorenzo had never forgotten. In time, Guglielmo married Lorenzo’s older sister, Bianca, strengthening his position as a friend to the Medici.
At the start of the sermon, the boy Cardinal gave a strange, sickly smile and whispered, ‘Your brother … where is your brother? I thought surely he would come to Mass. I had so hoped to meet him.’
The question took Lorenzo by surprise. Although Giuliano had made polite noises about coming to the Mass in order to meet Cardinal Riario, Lorenzo felt certain no one, least of all Giuliano, had taken the promise seriously. The most famous womanizer in Florence, Giuliano was notorious for his failure to appear at formal or diplomatic functions – unless Lorenzo insisted vehemently upon it. (Certainly he had not done so here.) Giuliano had already proclaimed himself unable to attend the luncheon.
He had been thoroughly taken aback the previous day when Giuliano had announced his intention to run off to Rome with a married woman. Up to that point, Giuliano had never taken his lovers very seriously; he had never spouted such foolishness before and certainly had never spoken of marriage. It had always been understood that, when the time came, Lorenzo would choose his bride and his brother would submit.
But Giuliano had been adamant about getting the woman an annulment – an achievement which, if Cardinal Riario had not come as a Papal overture, was well beyond Lorenzo’s grasp.
Lorenzo was frightened for his younger brother. Giuliano was too trusting, too willing to see the good in others, too good natured to realize he had many enemies – enemies who hated him solely for the fact he had been born a Medici. He could not see, as Lorenzo did, that they would use this affair with Anna to tear him down.
Giuliano, the sweet soul, thought only of love. Though it had been necessary, Lorenzo had not relished being cruel to him. But he could not blame Giuliano for his weakness when it came to women.
Lorenzo himself was a passionate worshipper of the fairer sex, if a more circumspect one; he arranged trysts only occasionally, and then under cover of night. And though he had loved many women, he had kept them secret from his wife Clarice Orsini, a rigid, annoyingly pious woman.
Most wives were tolerant, even forgiving, of their husband’s desire to keep a mistress. But Clarice tolerated nothing, forgave nothing. Piero had insisted his elder son marry into the powerful, princely Orsini clan – and Lorenzo had regretted his decision ever since.
Lorenzo and his father Piero had both tried to impress upon Clarice the need for the Medici to behave as common citizens, and remain modest in their aspect and dress – but such restrictions vexed her. Though her home was exquisitely adorned, Clarice could not bear having to keep her huge diamond and ruby necklaces, her jewel-studded gowns and glittering hairnets locked away – even on those days when her husband entertained pontiffs and kings. Lorenzo had bought her more appropriate jewellery, and gowns considered breath-taking by Florentine standards – but it was never enough. Clarice wished to dress like royalty.
To placate her, Lorenzo had arranged for her to sit for the great artist Sandro Botticelli. ‘Make her look as best you can,’ he’d told Sandro. And being a good husband, he had set the painting in a great gilded frame and hung it in his appartamento.
But Clarice – despite Botticelli’s best efforts, and despite her noble blood – looked far from comely or regal. In profile, she was slumped and small-busted, with a nose so prominent it overwhelmed her thin, pursed lips. Her tiny eyes showed little sign of interest or intelligence, but a great deal of haughtiness and disgust at her fate. As a reproach to her husband, Clarice had posed entirely without jewellery, in a plain brown dress that would have been better suited to a struggling merchant’s wife. Her dull red hair was pulled unceremoniously back into a plain white silk cap.
Lorenzo treated her kindly, though the favour was not returned. He reminded himself that Clarice had presented him with three of his greatest joys in life: his sons, four year old Piero, Giovanni, a toddler, and little Giuliano, who was still an infant. Already he had spoken to the most learned scholar in Florence, his friend Angelo Poliziano – who stood near him now, at Mass – and asked him to be the boys’ official tutor when they were old enough.
At times, Lorenzo yearned for the freedom his brother Giuliano enjoyed. This morning, he particularly envied him. Would that he could linger in the arms of a beautiful woman, and let Giuliano deal with the Pope’s nephew– who was still gazing politely at Lorenzo, waiting to hear the whereabouts of his wayward brother.
It would be impolite to tell the Cardinal the truth – that Giuliano had never intended to come to Mass, or meet Riario – and so instead Lorenzo indulged in a polite lie. ‘My brother must have been detained. Surely he will be here soon; I know he is eager to meet Your Holiness.’
Riario blinked; his girlish lips thinned.
Ah, Lorenzo thought. Perhaps young Raffaele’s interest was more than superficially diplomatic. Giuliano’s handsomeness was legendary, and he had stirred the passions of at least as many men as women.
Guglielmo de’ Pazzi leaned across the Archbishop and gave the Cardinal an encouraging pat on the shoulder. ‘Have no fear, Holiness. He will come. The Medici always treat their guests well.’
Lorenzo smiled warmly at him; Guglielmo dropped his gaze without meeting Lorenzo’s and gave a quick nod of acknowledgment, but did not return the smile. The gesture seemed odd, but Lorenzo was at once distracted by Francesco Nori’s whisper.
‘Maestro … your brother has just arrived.’
‘Alone?’
Nori glanced briefly to his left, at the north side of the sacristy. ‘He has come with Francesco de’ Pazzi and Bernardo Baroncelli. I do not like the look of it.’
Lorenzo frowned; he did not care for it, either. He had already greeted Francesco and Baroncelli when he had first entered the cathedral. His diplomatic instincts took hold of him, however; he inclined his head toward Raffaele Riario and said softly, ‘You see, Holiness? My brother has indeed come.’
Beside him, Cardinal Riario leaned forwards, looked to his left and caught sight of Giuliano. He gave Lorenzo an odd, tremulous grin, then with a snap of his head, forced his gaze back to the altar, where the priest was blessing the sacred Host.
The lad’s movement was so peculiar, so nervous, that Lorenzo felt a faint stirring of anxiety. Florence was always full of whispers, most of which he ignored; but Nori had recently reported a rumour that Lorenzo was in danger, that an attack was being planned against him. But as usual, Nori could offer no specifics.
Ridiculous, Lorenzo had scoffed. There will always be whispers, but we are the Medici. The Pope himself might insult us, but even he dare not lift his hand against us.
Now, he felt a pang of doubt. Beneath the cover of his mantle, he fingered the hilt of his short sword, then gripped it tightly.
Only seconds later, a shout came from the direction Riario had glanced – a man’s voice, the words unintelligible, impassioned. Immediately after, the bells of Giotto’s campanile began to toll.
At that moment Lorenzo knew that Nori’s so-called rumours were fact.
The front two rows of men broke rank and the scene became a clumsy dance of moving bodies. In the near distance, a woman screamed. Salviati disappeared; the young Cardinal flung himself at the altar and knelt, sobbing uncontrollably. Guglielmo de’ Pazzi, clearly terrified, began wringing his hands and wailing: ‘I am no traitor! I knew nothing of this! Nothing! Before God, Lorenzo, I am completely innocent!’
Lorenzo did not see the hand that reached from behind him to settle lightly on his left shoulder – but he felt it as though it were a lightning bolt. With a grace and strength that came from years of swordsmanship, he pushed forwards out of the unseen enemy’s grasp, drew his sword, and whirled about.
During the sudden movement, a keen blade grazed him just below the right ear; involuntarily, he gasped at the sensation of his tender skin parting, of warm liquid flowing down his neck onto his shoulder. But he stayed on his feet and held up his sword, ready to block further attacks.
Lorenzo faced two priests: one trembling behind a small shield, half-heartedly clutching a sword as he glanced at the crowd scrambling for the cathedral doors. But he was obliged to turn his attention to Lorenzo’s personal attendant, Marco, a muscular man who, though no expert with a sword, made up for it with brute strength and enthusiasm.
The second priest – wild-eyed and intent on Lorenzo – raised his weapon for a second attempt.
Lorenzo parried once, twice. Haggard, pale-skinned, unshaven, this priest had the fiery eyes, the open, contorted mouth of a madman. He also had the strength of one, and Lorenzo came close to buckling beneath his blows. Steel clashed against steel, ringing off the high ceilings of the now mostly-deserted cathedral.
The two fighters locked blades, pressing hilt against hilt with a ferocity that caused Lorenzo’s hand to tremble. He stared into the eyes of his determined enemy, and drew in a breath at the emotion he saw there.
