Baroncelli glanced over his shoulder at the shadowed face of his hooded accomplice and said nothing. He did not like the penitent; the man had injected an undertone of self-righteous religious fervor into the proceeding, one so infectious that even the worldly Francesco had begun to believe that they were doing God’s work today.
Baroncelli knew God had nothing to do with this; this was an act born of jealousy and ambition.
On his other side, Francesco de’ Pazzi hissed. “What is it? What did he say?”
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 plan would evaporate into disaster. Too much was at risk, too much 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 forward until he stood almost alongside Baroncelli; he then lifted his face to stare upward at the dizzyingly high and massive 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; his expression gradually resolved into one of beatific ecstasy, as if he could see God Himself and not the rounded ceiling’s smooth 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 forward to conceal his face once more.
Francesco clutched Baroncelli’s elbow and hissed again. “We must go to the Medici Palace at once!”
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 worshipers. 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 this 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 worshipers they passed consisted of Florence’s wealthy: glittering women and men weighed down by gold and jewels, by fur-trimmed 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 rows of men and women dressed in silks and fine wool, embellished with the 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. 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 that of perspiration, and the fine fabrics to the coarser weaves of wool and silk.
The poor stood in the final rows at the back: the wool carders, unable to muffle their coughing, and the fabric dyers, with their darkly stained hands. Their garments 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 San Giovanni, 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. Farther down, out of sight, stood the church and convent of San Marco. Lorenzo’s grandfather, 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.
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 grandeur. His bones rested there now, with his marble tombstone set before the high altar.
At last, the two men reached their destination: the rectangular gray bulk of the Medici palazzo, somber and stern as a fortress—the architect, Michelozzo, had been given strict instruction that the building was not to be ornate, lest it rouse 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 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 the Palazzo of the 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 with others and converse, ofttimes 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 to the others by graceful arches. Atop those was a frieze, adorned with pagan-themed medallions alternating with the Medici crest.
The seven famous
palle
, or balls, were arranged in what looked suspiciously like a crown. To hear Lorenzo tell it, the
palle
represented 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 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 centerpiece, 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. Indeed, one elbow was crooked with the hand resting on the hip in a girlish posture.
On this day, Baroncelli drew a totally different impression from the statue. He saw the coldness in David’s eyes as the boy stared down
at the head of the slain Goliath; he could see the keenness of the great sword in David’s right hand.
Which role shall I play today?
Baroncelli wondered.
David, or Goliath?
Beside him, Francesco de’ Pazzi was pacing the floor with his hands clasped behind his back and his small eyes glaring downward 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 youth, as well oiled as every part of the Medici machinery, returned with a look of practiced sympathy. “Signori, forgive me. I am so sorry to tell you that my master is currently indisposed and cannot receive company.”
Francesco barely managed to replace his fright with joviality 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 honor, you see, 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 offense. 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. Yet Baroncelli sensed he was not quite convinced he should further disturb his master. Francesco clearly sensed the same, for he pressed harder. “We are here at the behest of Ser Lorenzo, who bids his brother come, and swiftly, as we are all waiting. . . .”
The youth signaled his understanding of the urgency with a quick lift of his chin. “Of course. I will relay all that you have said to my master.”
As the lad turned, Baroncelli gazed on his employer, and marveled at his talent for duplicity.
Soon footsteps sounded on the marble stairs leading down to the courtyard, and then Giuliano de’ Medici stood before them. Though his brother’s features were imperfect, Giuliano’s were without flaw.
His nose, though prominent, was straight and nicely rounded at the tip, and his jaw was strong and square; his eyes, large and golden brown, were framed by long 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.
At twenty-four, life was good to Giuliano; he was young, lively, fair of face and voice. Yet his good nature and sensitive character ensured that he never made another feel inadequate. Indeed, his cheerful, 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.
This morning the faint light that had begun to paint the bottoms of the columns revealed that Giuliano’s glory was sorely dimmed. His hair had not been combed, his clothes had been hastily donned—and his eyes were noticeably bloodshot. For the first time in Baroncelli’s memory, Giuliano did not smile. He moved slowly, like a man weighed down by heavy armor.
Icarus
, Baroncelli thought.
He soared too high and has now fallen, scorched, to Earth
.
Giuliano spoke, his normally melodic voice hoarse. “Good day, gentlemen. I understand Cardinal Riario has taken offense at my absence from Mass.”
Baroncelli felt a strange sensation in his chest, like that of his heart flipping over. Giuliano looked like a beast resigned to the slaughter.
He knows. He cannot possibly know. And yet . . . he knows. . . .