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 enrollment 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 clever man, but obviously had got this 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 although 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; otherwise, the Cardinal’s visit would irritate him greatly, if Sixtus was simply taking brazen advantage of Lorenzo’s generosity. It would be another insult.
But in case it was not, Lorenzo had called for a magnificent feast to be served after Mass in honor of the 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 practiced his most gracious behavior, 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. As she was controlled by Florence, Pisa deserved an archbishop of Medici blood—and Salviati was related to the Pazzi, who already were gaining too much favor with the Pope. While the Medici and the Pazzi publicly embraced one another as friends, in the arena of business and politics, there were no fiercer adversaries. Lorenzo had written an impassioned letter to Sixtus, explaining why appointment of a Pazzi relative as Archbishop 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 papal request that Riario and Salviati be treated as honored guests a stinging blow to Medici dignity. But Lorenzo, ever the diplomat, welcomed them. And he insisted that his dear friend and senior manager of the Medici Bank, Francesco Nori,
show not the slightest sign of offense. 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.
So 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.
Lorenzo had been thoroughly taken aback the previous day when Giuliano had announced his desire to run off to Rome with a married woman. Up to that point, Giuliano had taken none of 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 Giuliano 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, 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. And he could not blame Giuliano for his noble view of the tender sex. At times, he yearned for the freedom his younger brother enjoyed. This morning Lorenzo 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 learn the whereabouts of his wayward brother.
It would be impolitic to tell the Cardinal the truth—that Giuliano had never really 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 forward, 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 rumors, most of which he ignored; but Nori had recently reported that Lorenzo was in danger, that an attack was being planned against him. 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.
Lorenzo knew at once that Nori’s so-called rumors 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 and lightly settled on his left shoulder—but he felt it as though it were a lightning bolt. With grace and strength that came from years of swordsmanship, he pushed forward 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, halfheartedly clutching a sword as he glanced at the crowd scrambling about him—most of them headed 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.
As the two stood with blades crossed, neither willing to give way, Lorenzo half shouted, “Why should you hate me so?”
He meant the question sincerely. He had always wished the best for Florence and her citizens. He did not understand the resentment others felt at the utterance of the name Medici.
“For God,” the priest said. His face was a mere hand’s breadth from his intended victim’s. Sweat ran down his pale forehead; his breath was
hot upon Lorenzo’s cheek. His nose was long, narrow, aristocratic; he probably came from an old, respected family. “For the love of God!”
And he drew back his weapon so forcefully that Lorenzo staggered forward, perilously close to the blade.
E
arlier, as he drew his long knife and hefted it overhead, Baroncelli 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.
Yielding at last to madness, Baroncelli did not hesitate. He brought the blade down.
Lorenzo stumbled, off balance, toward his opponent—and let go a roar of self-disgust at the realization that he would never be able to lift his sword in time to fend off the coming blow.
But before the wild-eyed priest could shed any more of Lorenzo’s blood, Francesco Nori stepped in front of his employer with his sword drawn. Other friends and supporters began to close in around the would-be assassins. Lorenzo became vaguely aware of the presence of Angelo Poliziano, of the aged and portly architect Michelozzo, of the family sculptor Verrocchio, of a business associate, Antonio Ridolfo,
of the socialite Sigismondo della Stuffa. This crowd sealed him off from his attacker and began to press him toward the altar.
Lorenzo resisted. “Giuliano!” he cried. “Brother, where are you?”
“We will find and protect him. Now, go!” Nori ordered, gesturing with his chin toward the altar, where the priests, in their alarm, had dropped the full chalice, staining the altarcloth with wine.
Lorenzo hesitated.
“Go!”
Nori shouted again. “They are headed here! Go past them, to the north sacristy!”
Lorenzo had no idea who
they
were, but he acted. Still clutching his sword, he hurdled over the low railing and leapt into the octagonal carved wooden structure that housed the choir. Cherubic boys shrieked as they scattered, their white robes flapping like the wings of startled birds.
Followed by his protectors, Lorenzo pushed his way through the flailing choir and staggered toward the great altar. The astringent smoke of frankincense mixed with the fragrance of spilled wine; two tall, heavy candelabra were ablaze. The priest and his assistants now encircled the blubbering Riario protectively. Lorenzo blinked at them. The afterimage from the lit tapers left him near blinded, and in an instant of dizziness, he put his free hand to his neck; it came away bloodied.
Yet he willed himself, for Giuliano’s sake, not to faint. He could not permit himself a moment’s weakness—not until his brother was safe.
At the same moment that Lorenzo ran north across the altar, Francesco de’ Pazzi and Bernardo Baroncelli, down in the sanctuary, were pushing their way south, clearly unaware that they were passing their intended target.
Lorenzo stopped in mid-stride to gape at them, causing collisions within his trailing entourage.