Translated from the Italian
by Richard McKenna
Cover
Welcome Page
Copyright
Dedication
February 1429
Chapter 1: Santa Maria Del Fiore
Chapter 2: The Death of Giovanni de’ Medici
Chapter 3: In Cauda Venenum
Chapter 4: Last Wishes
Chapter 5: Rinaldo degli Albizzi
Chapter 6: The Perfumer
Chapter 7: Faith and Iron
August 1430
Chapter 8: An Important Interview
Chapter 9: The Battlefield
Chapter 10: The Honour of Blood
Chapter 11: Triumph
Chapter 12: The Camp
Chapter 13: Cosimo and Francesco
Chapter 14: The Agreement
September 1430
Chapter 15: The Plague
Chapter 16: Carts Stacked High with Death
Chapter 17: A Nocturnal Discussion
April 1431
Chapter 18: Nobles and Peasants
Chapter 19: The Nightmare
Chapter 20: The Death of Niccolò da Uzzano
April 1433
Chapter 21: The Last Words
Chapter 22: Filippo Brunelleschi
September 1433
Chapter 23: The Accusation
Chapter 24: Contessina
Chapter 25: Cruel Beauty
Chapter 26: The Beginnings of a Plan
Chapter 27: Nocturne with Fire and Blood
Chapter 28: To Change the Course of the Stars
October 1433
Chapter 29: The Plot
Chapter 30: Reinhardt Schwartz
Chapter 31: Farganaccio
Chapter 32: The Sentence
January 1434
Chapter 33: Venice
Chapter 34: The Incident
Chapter 35: Death in Venice
Chapter 36: The Red-Headed Lady
September 1434
Chapter 37: Piazza di San Pulinari
Chapter 38: Reversal of Fortune
September 1436
Chapter 39: Filippo Maria Visconti
Chapter 40: The Dome Completed
Chapter 41: Towards a New War
Chapter 42: Poisons and the Major Arcana
February 1439
Chapter 43: A Difficult Choice
Chapter 44: The Archbishop of Nicaea
Chapter 45: Council of War
July 1439
Chapter 46: The Meeting of the Churches
Chapter 47: The Confession
June 1440
Chapter 48: Towards the Battlefield
Chapter 49: The Bridge at Forche
Chapter 50: The Duel
Chapter 51: Shame
July 1440
Chapter 52: The Hanging
Chapter 53: Pity and Vendetta
September 1440
Chapter 54: The Death of Lorenzo
September 1453
Chapter 55: Sweet Hopes
Author’s Note
Acknowledgements
About the author
An Invitation from the Publisher
First published in Italian as I Medici. Una dinastia al potere in 2016 by Newton Compton
First published in the UK in 2019 by Head of Zeus Ltd
Copyright © Matteo Strukul, 2016
Translation copyright © Richard McKenna, 2019
The moral right of Matteo Strukul to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. All characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN (HB): 9781786692092
ISBN (XTPB): 9781786692108
ISBN (E): 9781786692085
Cover design: Patrick Knowles
Images: © Shutterstock
Cover image: The Journey of the Magi to Bethlehem, c. 1460. Fresco by Benozzo Gozzoli © Bridgeman Images
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To Silvia
Cosimo raised his eyes to a sky that was as blue as lapis lazuli dust. It made his head spin, so he quickly brought his gaze back down to his surroundings. Around him were the masons, some mixing lime with the pale sand of the Arno River to prepare the mortar while others perched on the partition walls, eating a quick breakfast. They worked exhausting shifts, often spending whole weeks up here and sleeping among the wooden scaffolding, bricks, slabs of marble and rubble.
Almost two hundred feet above the ground.
Seen from up here, the city both entranced and unnerved him. Placing his feet carefully, Cosimo slipped between the beams of the scaffolding, its edges like the sharp black teeth of some mythological creature, and made his way slowly to the base of the dome, which was under construction. The architects and master builders called it ‘the drum’. He glanced down at the piazza below, where, with wide-eyed wonder, the people of Florence were finally witnessing the completion of Santa Maria del Fiore cathedral. Wool carders, tradesmen, butchers, farmers, prostitutes, publicans and wayfarers, all seeming to mouth a silent prayer of thanks that Filippo Brunelleschi’s design was nearing completion. The dome for which they’d waited so long was taking shape, and it looked as though it would be that eccentric, balding goldsmith with the bad teeth and the surly demeanour who would accomplish it.
Cosimo could see Brunelleschi now, drifting like a lost soul between the piles of building materials and stacks of bricks, his expression seemingly absent but surely in fact engrossed in who knew what calculations. His eyes were so pale and clear that they resembled chips of sparkling alabaster set on his pallid skin, which was stained with all manner of paints and building materials.
The clanging of hammers roused Cosimo from his daydreaming: the metalsmiths were at work, and shouted orders and instructions echoed through the air. Cosimo took a deep breath and then looked downwards towards the base of the octagonal structure. The gigantic hoist Brunelleschi had designed turned endlessly as, guided by a young lad, the two chained oxen trudged calmly in silent circles, working the cogs and gears of the winch drum which was capable of hauling heavy stones up to impossible heights.
Brunelleschi had devised some truly amazing machines. He had designed them himself; then he’d called in the very best craftsmen and driven his workers mercilessly, and the arsenal of mechanical wonders he had rapidly assembled allowed him to lift and set slabs of marble, sections of wooden scaffolding and dozens of sacks of sand and mortar precisely in place.
Cosimo was overjoyed to see how well the work was proceeding. Before Brunelleschi, no one had managed to design a dome capable of spanning the vast 118-foot-wide octagonal drum, but not only had Brunelleschi managed it, he had somehow contrived to do it without visible supports. His design had none of the external buttresses or wooden centring that Neri di Fioravanti had proposed, and it had left the commissioning Opera del Duomo committee open-mouthed with amazement.
Brunelleschi was either a madman or a genius, perhaps even both. And the Medici – and Cosimo, above all – had wedded themselves to the man’s crazed brilliance. He smiled at the audacity of it and reflected upon what the cathedral might eventually come to mean, not only for his city but also for himself. To judge from what was happening up there, he had every right to feel ecstatic as he looked at that ever-growing construction site. It was like some crazed Tower of Babel of scaffolding and planks, which played host to a multitude of workmen: wheelwrights, rope makers, bricklayers, plasterers, carpenters and ironmongers, food vendors, wine sellers, and even a cook equipped with an oven for baking bread to serve to the men. Labourers were climbing up the wooden scaffolding while others worked on wicker platforms perched on the surrounding rooftops like birds’ nests as though they had enlisted a flock of storks to help them complete the titanic project.
‘So what do you think, Messer Cosimo?’ asked a quiet, firm voice.
Cosimo spun round and found himself face to face with Filippo. A gaunt man with frenzied eyes, Filippo was clad in a red tunic and nothing else. Full of a mixture of pride and hostility, his evasive gaze spoke of his rebellious, sometimes violent nature, but it softened when he met men he considered noble.
Cosimo did not know if he was numbered among these, but he was undoubtedly the firstborn son of Giovanni de’ Medici, the family patriarch who had generously financed the construction and had provided crucial support for Brunelleschi’s involvement in the project.
‘Magnificent, Filippo, magnificent,’ he said, his eyes glowing with wonder. ‘I did not expect to see such progress.’
‘We are still far from finishing; I want to be clear about that. The most important thing, messer, is that you allow me to work.’
‘As long as the Medici are among the principal patrons, you have nothing to fear. On that you have my word, Filippo. We started this together, and together we will finish it.’
Brunelleschi nodded.
‘I shall attempt to complete the cupola in accordance with classical canon, as planned.’
‘I don’t doubt it, my friend.’
While he was talking to Cosimo, Filippo’s eyes darted everywhere: first to the builders preparing mortar and laying the bricks one by one, next towards the source of the blacksmiths’ constant hammering and finally to the carts carrying bags of mortar down in the square. In his left hand he grasped a parchment containing one of many preparatory designs and in his right he held a chisel. Cosimo wondered what plans he had for that.
But that was Brunelleschi for you.
And as abruptly as he had appeared, Brunelleschi gave him a nod of farewell and disappeared between the beams and scaffolding of the dome, swallowed up by that colossal, restless enterprise buzzing with activity. Cosimo was left staring at the imposing wooden arches while shouts announced the hoisting of yet another load.
Suddenly, he heard a voice from behind him call his name.
‘Cosimo!’
Holding on to the scaffolding, he turned and saw his brother Lorenzo approaching. Before he even had the chance to greet him, Lorenzo cut him short.
‘It’s our father, Cosimo. Our father is dying.’
As soon as Cosimo entered the room, his wife Contessina came up to him, her beautiful dark eyes red from weeping. She was clad in a simple black robe and a fine gossamer veil.
‘Cosimo...’ she murmured. She could say nothing more – all her energies were focused on holding back her tears. She wanted to stay strong for her beloved husband. He put his arms around her and embraced her, but after a moment she freed herself.
‘Go to him now,’ she said. ‘He’s waiting to see you.’
Cosimo turned to Lorenzo and, for the first time that day, actually saw his face. His brother had made sure to walk ahead of him as they descended the scaffolding and rushed to the Palazzo Medici.
Lorenzo’s white teeth were biting into his lower lip, and Cosimo suddenly realized how distressed he was. Lorenzo’s handsome countenance, which usually seemed impervious to tiredness, was sallow, and there were dark rings under his green eyes. He needed to rest, thought Cosimo. Over the past few days since their father had fallen ill, Lorenzo had been working tirelessly on the bank’s financial affairs. An active, practical man – less gifted than Cosimo in arts and letters, but possessed of a quick and lively intellect – his brother had always been the one who stepped in to bear the brunt of whatever hard work needed doing and to shoulder the responsibilities of the family. Cosimo, on the other hand, had dedicated himself to following, together with several members of the Opera del Duomo committee, the progress of the dome. He was the member of the family entrusted with strategy and politicking, much of which was conducted through lavish displays of arts patronage. Though formally it was the committee which was responsible for the dome’s construction, all Florence knew how much Cosimo had pushed for the candidacy and eventual selection of Filippo Brunelleschi. He had dipped into the family’s resources to finance the wondrous edifice that was now approaching completion.
Cosimo embraced his brother and then entered his father’s chamber.
The room was lined with thick brocades that allowed no more than a dim, almost unearthly light to permeate the darkness. Here and there were golden candelabras. The reek of wax made the air stifling.
When he saw his father, his eyes now dim and watery with approaching death, Cosimo knew there was nothing to be done. Giovanni de’ Medici, the man who had raised the family to the city’s highest rank, was dying. His face, once so confident and determined, was grey with illness and upon it was a shadow of resignation that rendered him a pale imitation of his previous self. Cosimo was deeply shocked. He could barely believe that Giovanni, once so strong and purposeful, could have been brought so low in a matter of days by a fever. Cosimo’s mother was at the bedside, holding one of his father’s hands in hers. Piccarda’s face was still beautiful, even if her usual composure was now absent: her long black lashes were silver with tears and her pursed lips as red as the bloodied blade of a dagger.
She murmured his name and then fell silent – all other words seemed meaningless.
Cosimo looked back at his father and thought again how suddenly his illness had struck, and without any apparent cause. Their eyes finally met and Giovanni felt a surge of energy when he recognized his son. He might be weakened, but he had no intention of giving in. In that moment, his usual character was roused, urging him to fight on even if it were for the last time. Heaving himself up with a wheeze, he sat up in the middle of the bed among the down pillows that Piccarda had positioned for his comfort. He pushed them aside with a gesture of irritation and beckoned to Cosimo to come over.
Though he had promised himself he would be strong, Cosimo could no longer hold back his tears. Ashamed of his weakness, he quickly wiped his eyes with the back of his hand and went over to his father.
Giovanni had last words to impart before he left this world.
His dark eyes glittering like buttons of polished onyx in the flickering candlelight of the room, he strained forward towards his son, and Cosimo grasped him by the shoulders.
‘My son,’ he croaked, ‘swear to me that you will be sober in your politicking. That you will live with moderation. Like a simple Florentine. But that you will not hesitate to act with force when necessary.’
The words came out quickly but were enunciated carefully, with the last reserves of his father’s energy.
Cosimo looked at him, lost in the dark, shining pupils of his father’s eyes.
‘Promise me,’ insisted Giovanni, with a last burst of strength. His penetrating eyes stared into Cosimo’s and his expression was both determined and severe.
‘I promise,’ replied Cosimo, his voice breaking with emotion.
‘Then I can die happy.’
Giovanni closed his eyes and the muscles of his face relaxed. He had battled against death just to be able to exchange those final words with his beloved son. They expressed all that he was and had been: his dedication to his city and its people, his restraint and humility, his moderation and discretion, never flaunting wealth or abundance, and – of course – his ruthless, hard-headed talent for making decisions.
His hand grew cold and Piccarda began to sob softly.
Giovanni de’ Medici was dead.
Cosimo embraced his mother. ‘Be strong,’ he whispered. She felt frail and helpless in his arms and her cheeks were wet with tears. He broke away and lowered his father’s eyelids, closing forever those eyes that had once burned with such vitality.
Lorenzo sent for the priest to administer the last rites.
As Cosimo went to leave the room, Lorenzo stepped into his path. He hesitated a moment before speaking, fearing that he might be disturbing his brother, but Cosimo nodded for him to proceed.
‘Speak,’ he murmured. ‘What is it that cannot wait?’
‘It regards our father,’ said Lorenzo.
Cosimo raised an eyebrow.
‘I suspect that he was poisoned,’ said Lorenzo through clenched teeth. His words hit Cosimo like a blow from a hammer.
‘What? How can you say such a thing?’ As he spoke, he reached out to grab Lorenzo by the collar, but his brother, anticipating his reaction, caught hold of his arms.
‘Not here,’ he said in a choked voice.
Cosimo understood – he was behaving like a fool. He let his hands fall to his sides.
‘Let us go outside,’ he said.
The air in the garden was still cold.
It was 20 February and although spring was on its way, the sky seemed unwilling to relinquish its leaden colour. A bitter wind blew over the Palazzo Medici, and sheets of ice were forming where freezing water splashed into the basin of the fountain at the centre of the hortus conclusus.
‘Do you realize what you’re saying?’
Cosimo was distraught – and furious. He had just lost his father; now he also had to deal with a conspiracy. What did he expect, though? His father had been a powerful man, and over the years had made many enemies. And Florence was what it was: on the one hand the essence of magnificence and power, and on the other a den of vipers, whose most powerful families had always frowned upon Giovanni’s rise. Cosimo’s father had built up a financial empire over the last twenty years, daring to open banks not only in Florence but also in Rome and Venice. Worse still, his father had always refused to disown his humble origins and instead of allying his house with the noble families, he had chosen to remain among the ordinary people, carefully avoiding any political office. You could count the number of times he had entered the Palazzo della Signoria on the fingers of one hand.
Cosimo shook his head. In his heart he knew that Lorenzo spoke in good faith, but if what he said were true, who could have committed such a crime? And, most importantly, how had the poison reached his father’s table in the first place? Cosimo’s deep, dark eyes, full of questions, sought those of his brother and urged him to speak.
‘I wondered whether it was right to tell you,’ resumed Lorenzo, ‘since I have only one piece of evidence for my claim. But our father’s decline was so sudden that it made me wonder.’
‘You’re right – it was suspicious. But how could he have been poisoned?’ asked Cosimo in exasperation. ‘If what you say is true, the poison must have been administered by someone inside the house! Our father hadn’t been out at all over the last few days, and even if he had, he certainly didn’t eat or drink anything.’
‘I realize that, and that is why it’s only a suspicion. But Father had no shortage of enemies. And just when I was starting to think that it must be my own mad imaginings, I found these.’
Lorenzo held out a bunch of dark berries, as enticing as black pearls.
Cosimo stared at his brother uncomprehendingly.
‘Belladonna,’ said Lorenzo. ‘It produces dark flowers and poisonous fruit. You find it in fields, often near ancient ruins. And I found this little bunch here in our house.’
The revelation filled Cosimo with dismay. ‘Do you know what you’re saying? If it’s true, it means that someone in this house is plotting against our family.’
‘Another reason not to let anyone know of our suspicions.’
‘True,’ nodded Cosimo. ‘But that mustn’t stop us getting to the bottom of this matter. And should your suspicions prove true, that will make this death even more tragic. I hope that these are just fancies, Lorenzo – because if they aren’t, I swear, I’ll kill the person responsible with my own hands.’
He sighed. He could hear how empty, how stupid his threats sounded, and was overcome with a feeling of impotence and frustration. How would he be able to bear this?
‘It can’t be difficult to get hold of poison like that in a place like Florence, can it?’ he asked. It was unnerving to think how easy it was to end a person’s life in this city. With what he stood to inherit, he would have to be doubly careful from now on.
‘Any good apothecary can get his hands on such substances and prepare a concoction with them.’
Cosimo let his gaze linger upon the garden. It was bare and grey, just like that winter morning, and the climbing plants formed dark, restless webs on the walls.
‘Very well,’ he said, ‘this is what we will do. You will investigate. We won’t say anything to the rest of them at home. Follow your suspicions. If somebody really did murder our father then I want to confront him.’
‘I will. I’ll have no peace until I’ve uncovered the name of that serpent.’
‘So be it. But for now, let’s get back inside.’
Lorenzo nodded.
And so saying, they returned indoors, the grim revelation tearing at their hearts.
A funeral vigil had been organized in the days following the death.
Representatives of all of the city’s most important families, even those who had considered him a bitter enemy while he was alive, had come to pay tribute to Giovanni. Among them were the Albizzi, who had always lorded it over the city; even Rinaldo degli Albizzi, his eyes full of disdain and arrogance, had not been able to avoid coming. For two full days, a parade of notables had trooped through the Palazzo Medici.
Now that it was all over and the funeral had been celebrated – a refined, splendid affair – Cosimo, Lorenzo and their wives were in one of the palazzo’s great halls waiting to hear Giovanni’s will.
Ilarione de’ Bardi, their father’s trusted right-hand man, had just torn off the seals and was about to read out Giovanni’s last wishes. Lorenzo’s brow was furrowed and he seemed lost in gloomy reflection. His investigations must be proceeding, thought Cosimo. Soon they would discuss what progress he had made.
Ilarione began to read.
‘“My children and sole heirs: I did not think it necessary to write a will because many years ago I appointed you to direct our bank, keeping you by my side in all matters of administration and business. I know that I have lived out the time that God in his goodness saw fit to grant me on the day of my birth, and I think I can safely say that I die happy, because I know I leave you wealthy, healthy and able to live in Florence with the honour and dignity befitting you, and comforted by the friendship of many. Death does not trouble me because I know that I have never given offence to anyone and indeed have, as far as I was able, done good to those who needed it. For this reason, I urge you to do likewise. If you wish to live safely and with respect, I urge you to observe the law and not to take anything that belongs to another, so you may remain far from envy and danger. Your freedom ends where that of others begins, and what makes men hate is not how much you give to a man but how much you take away from him. Look to your own affairs, then, since in this way you will have much more than all those who covet the assets of others. They only end up losing their own and at the last find themselves living a life of squalor and grief. That is why, in pursuing these few rules, I am certain – despite the enemies, defeats and disappointments which from time to time afflict the lives of each of us – that I have maintained my reputation in this city, and perhaps even enhanced it. I have no doubt that if you follow my advice you will maintain and enhance yours too. But if you wish to behave otherwise, I can predict with equal certainty that a single destiny awaits you – the destiny of all those who have ruined themselves, inflicting upon their families the most unspeakable woes. My children, I bless you.”’
Ilarione’s voice stopped. Piccarda had begun weeping silently and her cheeks were streaked with tears. She raised a linen handkerchief to her face and wiped her eyes, but she said nothing: she more than any of them wanted the words to hang in the air and mark out a code of conduct for her children.
‘And now that I have read what I was told to,’ said Ilarione, moving on to the most obvious but also the most urgent question, ‘I must ask you: what do we do about the bank?’
It was Cosimo who answered.
‘We will summon to Florence the men of all our branches around Italy so they can report on the situation of each. I would ask you to handle this matter, Ilarione.’
The trusted servant nodded gravely and took his leave.
Piccarda looked at Cosimo firmly, as she always did when she had something important to tell him; then she went to await him in the palazzo’s library, settling herself in an elegant chair upholstered in velvet. The embers in the hearth sizzled and the occasional spark rose like a firefly towards the coffered ceiling.
Piccarda kept her long chestnut-brown hair gathered under a cap dotted with pearls and a hood embroidered in gold thread and decorated with precious stones. The contrast with the intense indigo blue of her fur-lined robe highlighted her soft, dark eyes; the robe was held tight above her waist by a magnificent silver belt, and the folds discreetly hinted at the substantial amount of precious fabric which had been used in its making. Its wide sleeves ended with more silver embroidery and were split in order to display the brocaded grey velvet of her equally beautiful gamurra.
Despite the difficulties of the past few days, Piccarda looked splendid, and was determined to speak to her son to make sure he understood what he must do now. Cosimo was no fool, but to her mind, his love for art did not sit well with the inheritance he was about to receive. And Piccarda could allow for no errors or misunderstandings. She had to be certain that Cosimo knew what was expected of him.
‘My son,’ she said, ‘your father could not have been clearer or more affectionate in his words. And yet I know for a fact that on his deathbed he had other advice for you. Florence is like a wild stallion: magnificent, but in need of taming. Every day. In its streets you will encounter people willing to help and support your work but also villains and idlers ready to slit your throat, as well as subtler foes who will try to take advantage of your good heart and your honesty.’
‘I’m not completely ingenuous, Mother,’ protested Cosimo.
‘Let me finish. I know that you are not, and you have played an important role in the success of this family. But life has grown more complicated, my son. I am sure that you will find your own path, which will develop according to your own beliefs – but I trust you will remain respectful of the wishes of your father? What I want to advise is this: follow the path traced out for you and thus model your behaviour on that of the Stoics. That is: let it be guided by the search for the common good, moderation in all its forms and a rejection of personal ostentation. I also want you to know that from now on I intend to be with you always, and that my first concern will be to ensure that the whole family follows you, whatever your decisions. But remember that even though our financial situation is strong and our prestige clear, our opponents are many and insidious. In particular I’m talking about Rinaldo degli Albizzi. Be wary of him and his political manoeuvring. He is a ruthless man and there is no limit to his ambition. I’m certain he would do anything in his power to harm you.’
‘I will be careful, Mother, and I’ll prove my worth.’
‘You can rely upon your brother, of course. Your personalities and thought processes complement one another well. He is more impetuous; you are more reflective and analytical: where he acts, you consider and then react, taking into account your broader vision of the world and of what is beautiful and useful in life. You should always remain close to one another and respectful of each other’s ways. But to return to what awaits you: look after your own business and remember to anticipate your opponent’s moves. Giovanni was always reluctant to take part in the political life of the city, and I was never fully in agreement with him on this. I think – while remaining close to the people, who have always been our allies – one should cultivate a political career and take on public roles and duties, making sure to address both the demands of the commoners and the concerns of the aristocracy. That way you can work to ensure support from both sides.’
Cosimo knew how true and wise Piccarda’s advice was, and he nodded. But his mother had not finished.
‘I do not need to tell you that Giovanni di Contugi has been provoking Giusto Landini in Volterra, and the reason lies in the land registry law which your father endorsed. I say this because we have no option but to take a stand, and that means we have to make a choice. I do not wish to criticize you for the attention you are paying to the work on the dome of the cathedral, but not being sufficiently involved in the world of politics could cost us dearly. Bear this in mind, therefore. I am not asking that you attract more attention to yourself than necessary – seeing you take a sudden interest in public affairs might make Rinaldo degli Albizzi suspicious, but we cannot leave the initiative to him and his family. Florence will be going to war with Volterra and our position must be clear.’
‘But on the other hand, we cannot betray the people and the peasants,’ said Cosimo. ‘Father advocated the law on the land registry, which has helped the people of Florence see the aristocracy taxed higher.’
‘And Rinaldo degli Albizzi never forgave him for it. What I am trying to tell you is that at this particular moment we cannot take them on.’
‘No. Rinaldo has mobilized his army along with that of Palla Strozzi against Giusto Landini for that precise reason.’
‘Naturally. Your father would have sided with the nobles but would have managed it without taking a clear position. And he would have been right – then. What matters now is to show where we stand. You can no longer refuse to take a clear political position or continue to be ambiguous about your intentions. And therefore, without disavowing your father’s work, you must support Florence. Giovanni’s intention was to allocate resources and sacrifices proportionally. There was nothing wrong with that idea, and there is no contradiction in supporting it to oppose a city that turns against Florence.’
‘I know,’ sighed Cosimo. ‘I think I will join the other families so as not to give the impression that I wish to remain aloof, while maintaining our position as protectors of the people. If we lose their support, all that my father worked for will be lost.’
Piccarda nodded with satisfaction. Cosimo had chosen well and judiciously and despite her sorrows, a smile lit her face. But she had no time to speak further because at that moment, Contessina burst into the library as if the Devil were at her heels.
‘Giusto Landini!’ she cried. ‘Giusto Landini is dead! Murdered by Arcolano and his henchmen!’
‘Well, the old man is finally dead,’ gloated Rinaldo degli Albizzi. ‘That will be a blow for the Medici.’ Clad in a green brocade doublet and pantaloons, he was perched on a bench in the inn.
Palla Strozzi gave him a look.
‘What do you mean? That this would be a good time to strike at those damned usurers?’
Rinaldo threw his leather gloves on to the wooden table, smoothed down his brown curls, and said nothing as he waited for the serving wench to come over to them. He loved making Palla Strozzi wait – it emphasized the differences between them. The Strozzi family was powerful, but not as powerful as his, and Palla was a humanist: a slim, elegant scribbler who never accomplished anything of value. To change things, one needed steady nerves and a taste for blood, and Rinaldo had both.
‘Bring us a quarter of mutton,’ he ordered the innkeeper when she arrived, ‘and bread and red wine. And hurry, because we have fought much today and we are hungry.’
While the woman returned to the kitchen with a great rustling of skirts, Rinaldo shot her a sideways glance. She was certainly pretty, with an honest face, long dark curls and brown eyes flecked with gold, and her figure warmed his blood.
‘So you’re boasting of our soldiering skills when we haven’t so much as lifted a finger... I suppose that’s just your way of trying to impress the common girls,’ said Palla Strozzi, not without a hint of resentment. He hated it when Albizzi didn’t answer him, which he frequently didn’t.
Rinaldo smiled and turned to look at Palla sitting across from him.
‘My good Palla,’ he began, ‘Let’s look at the question another way. Is it not true that the Council of the Ten of Balia instructed us to lead our men against Volterra to punish the city for rising up against us, and that the situation then settled itself without our intervention? You saw it for yourself, no? Giusto Landini’s head set on a pike? And you do remember why Giusto wanted to rise up against Florence, don’t you?’
‘Of course!’ replied Strozzi. ‘Because of the new taxes imposed by the law on the land registry.’
‘Which was advocated by...?’ prompted Rinaldo degli Albizzi.
‘Giovanni de’ Medici.’
‘Precisely.’
‘But Giusto’s arrogance was punished by his own people. Arcolano gathered his men, and they chopped off his head.’
‘And as you yourself observed, by so doing, they saved us the dirty work and we come out of it as clean as a May sky and victorious at having brought Volterra back under Florence’s jurisdiction.’
‘All without lifting a finger,’ concluded Palla Strozzi.
‘Exactly. Now,’ continued Rinaldo ‘it’s no mystery why Niccolò Fortebraccio is wasting away in Fucecchio. Giovanni de’ Medici was the leading advocate of peace in Florence and also the man who had him dismissed by the Florentines. Can you deny that?’
‘I wouldn’t dream of it,’ said Strozzi impatiently, ‘but stop playing games with me, Albizzi.’
‘I’m playing no game, as you will soon see. It is a fact that the city of Volterra, which seemed about to rebel, has been returned, obtorto collo, by Arcolano thanks to his dextrous handling of the affair.’
‘If you define lopping off someone’s head with a sword as “handling”, yes.’
Rinaldo waved away Palla’s words with annoyance. The way the man continually dwelt on silly details was intolerable.
‘Nonsense,’ he said. ‘Unless we’re willing to spill blood, we can forget making Florence ours.’
‘I have no problem spilling blood, Albizzi, I just like things to be called by their proper names.’
Palla knew what he said would irritate his companion. He had no wish to make things easy for him. He was not, after all, Rinaldo’s inferior.
‘Come, my friend, let’s not get bogged down in the nuances. Leave that for others. Niccolò Fortebraccio ardently desires to get back to burning cities and raping women—’
‘How can you blame him?’ interrupted Palla. As he spoke, his eyes fell on the beautiful innkeeper as she placed a loaf of fragrant bread and a jug of wine on the table along with two wooden cups. The low neckline of her dress revealed full white breasts that made Palla lick his lips as though anticipating some irresistible delicacy.
She didn’t seem to notice, and he kept his eyes upon her while she returned to the kitchen.
‘Listen to me and leave her alone, you old satyr,’ reprimanded Albizzi. ‘I realize you share Fortebraccio’s appetites but that’s not the point at issue here.’
‘So what is the point, then?’ enquired Strozzi, filling the cups with wine, raising one to his lips and downing it in a few gulps.
‘What I want you to understand is that we have to provoke a battle. Only by starting another war can we throw the city into confusion and take the opportunity to seize it.’
‘Really?’ responded Palla incredulously. ‘You really think that would be the best strategy? Let’s see if I’ve got this right: you want to use Fortebraccio’s resentment against the Florentines by secretly bribing him and getting him to wage war against Florence. And while he does so you’ll take advantage of the blood and terror to appropriate the city?’
‘That’s the idea. It would be a sham war. We let them kill a few peasants, and maybe Cosimo and his family will end up getting dragged into it too, and then we step in to stop the massacre and we take power. Easy and clean, don’t you think?’
Palla shook his head.
‘Not at all,’ he said. ‘Shouldn’t we wait for a better moment? You know that Niccolò da Uzzano is a friend of the Medici, and with him at their side it will be no easy thing to get at Cosimo, or to take possession of the city.’
‘So what do you suggest?’ snapped Albizzi impatiently. ‘Giovanni de’ Medici is dead and the family and its assets will now be controlled by his children. Lorenzo is a fool, but Cosimo could be dangerous. He has shown more than once that he knows how to handle himself. He is behind the dome of the cathedral and we all know what his relations with the papacy are. He might make a great show of being a benefactor and pretend to keep to the sidelines, but he is as cunning and ruthless as his father – perhaps even more so. The truth is that he’s a briber and a moneylender, and if we let him be, it will be the ruin not only of our families, but of the whole Republic.’
Palla snorted.
‘The dome of Santa Maria del Fiore isn’t exclusively a Medici initiative. It was the Opera del Duomo committee who sanctioned its implementation. And from what I hear, Filippo Brunelleschi’s work is coming along quickly—’
‘Too quickly,’ interrupted Rinaldo.
‘Yes, too quickly,’ agreed Palla, ‘and what’s worse, to the detriment of Lorenzo Ghiberti, who was in charge of supervising the work with Filippo!’
‘Yes, yes, I know that is your greatest worry, but you must put it to one side – we’re not going to solve our problems through culture!’ snapped Rinaldo. His friend’s constant digressions on to topics like art were completely baffling to him – and infuriating.
‘In any case,’ continued Strozzi, ‘I don’t see what objective advantage we would gain from destroying our own city for the sole purpose of killing the Medici. At that point, you might as well just hire some assassins. Wouldn’t it make more sense to set Fortebraccio not against Florence but against a different target? Perhaps one legitimized by the Council of the Ten of Balia?’
While Palla Strozzi’s words floated seductively through the air, the innkeeper appeared again with a wooden tray bearing a huge leg of lamb. Two smaller bowls gave off an intense aroma of stewed lentils.
‘Magnificent,’ said Rinaldo when the food was laid out before him. ‘You were saying?’
‘I was saying that we might have better luck convincing Fortebraccio to devote his murderous attentions towards Lucca.’
‘To what end?’
‘To expand our territories, thus legitimizing a new war but without risking an assault on our own city. That would be complete madness. I repeat: the idea of filling Fortebraccio’s pockets to convince him to attack is a good one, only I would make him attack Lucca. He’s sick of rotting away in Fucecchio. As you said, he’s dangerous – out of control even – and that means we’d be justified in engaging him against Paolo Guinigi’s city. At this moment I am one of the Ten, and I have my own allies, as do you: it wouldn’t be difficult to convince the Chief Justice to vote in favour of an attack on Lucca to impose our hegemony once and for all, just as we did with Volterra. Fortebraccio will attack and besiege Lucca, and once he has taken the city, we, the emissaries of the city of Florence, can come in to calm tempers and make peace. That way we gain the support of the common people and of the people of Florence in general. And as saviours of the Republic we will have strengthened our positions in the city against the Medici.’
Rinaldo thought about it. The idea was not a bad one, but Palla’s scheming was somewhat elaborate. Saying nothing, he bit into the meat, tearing it from the white bone.
They had just won the battle against Volterra but the war must continue, on that he and Palla agreed. Further strengthening their prestige and political power through military superiority and the enlargement of the Florentine hegemony was an intelligent way of increasingly marginalizing the role of Cosimo de’ Medici. And in war, a sword through the back or a fatal blow could happen at any moment. There was death everywhere, and he had every intention of being the one who decided how and when it would happen. He had no intention of standing watching from the sidelines.
‘We will fight then,’ he said, and raised his cup. Palla Strozzi did the same, sealing the toast.
‘And we will silence that descendant of the damned Medici family once and for all.’
Rinaldo drained his cup and grinned, the wine on his lips looking like blood in the candlelight.
‘Cosimo’s days are numbered,’ he whispered hoarsely.
Lorenzo wasn’t new to poisons. He was no expert, but among the many interests he had inherited from his mother was an interest in herbs and powders, even if only enough to know which of Florence’s apothecaries could obtain poisonous powders or herbs with relative ease.
It wasn’t much, but it was a start, and if he was certain now of one thing it was that his father could not have died a natural death. Something told him that the sudden, incurable illness had been induced.
But by whom and to what end, he still did not know.
The possible answers to the questions crowding his mind multiplied dizzyingly, so he had decided to take a rational approach and address the problem by adopting the simplest, most reliable method: start with the end result of the plot and trace it back to its beginning. Therefore, in the days following Giovanni’s death he had questioned a few of the local apothecaries. He had pressed them hard, and in a couple of cases might even have gone too far, but everyone knew who he was so even those he had intimidated or physically hurt had said nothing for fear of upsetting the Medici. Unfortunately, though, he had achieved nothing.
Meanwhile, he and Cosimo had been observing all the servants who worked at the Palazzo Medici. It was a complex business, but his suspicions had focused on a beautiful raven-haired maid they had taken on a while ago, who came in a couple of days a week to do some minor tasks around the house. After some investigation, Lorenzo had discovered that the woman had for some time owned a perfume workshop in Florence and that her name was Laura Ricci. If anybody knew something about concoctions and potions it would be her.
Naturally, he had made sure not to display his suspicions. Lorenzo decided to follow her to find out where she lived and to ask her some questions. He had to move with caution, though – after all, there was no evidence that she was guilty, even though she was certainly the most likely suspect.
For this reason, Lorenzo was at that moment following the perfume girl. He had been on her heels for a while now, trailing her through the city’s alleys: dark, muddy, encrusted with blood and offal.
The butchers were a vexata quaestio in the city. The comings and goings of their carts and wagons left trails of blood and scraps of meat along the streets of the town, which filled the air with a stomach-turning stench. The Council of the Two Hundred had been debating the issue for some time, but none of the competent institutions had yet decided what to do. Some had suggested transferring all the Florentine butcher’s shops on to the Ponte Vecchio, but nothing had come of it.
After passing the Mercato della Paglia, Lorenzo had then followed the woman to the Ponte Vecchio, reaching the Oltrarno where, after passing the Ospizio per Viandanti, the perfumer had continued on towards the bridge of Santa Trinità before turning into an alley on the left and finally stopping in front of what must be her workshop.
She pulled out a key and slipped it into the lock.
Unable to hide a shadow of concern, she peered around herself and then went inside. She seemed to sense that she was being followed.
*
The room was dimly lit by four candles in an iron chandelier hanging from the ceiling. In an attempt to make the place look less gloomy, she opened a drawer and pulled out a few more, putting them in a three-armed silver candelabrum which she placed on the counter amidst a profusion of glass pots containing herbs and coloured powders.
Taking care to keep the shutters well closed, she had just finished illuminating the room when a voice made her jump.
Sitting in a velvet armchair in a corner was a striking-looking man. He had long reddish-blond hair and deep-blue eyes and was dressed all in black, including the cloak which hung from one shoulder. His doublet, reinforced with iron plates, showed him to be a man-at-arms, and for further proof he held in his hands a short dagger with which he had sliced and cut into quarters the apple he was now eating with great relish.
‘So you’ve arrived, mein Kätzchen.’
His voice was cruel and unpleasant, somehow contriving to waver in pitch from high to low as though he were unable to modulate it.
‘My God, Schwartz,’ said Laura, ‘you frightened me.’
The Swiss mercenary looked at her for a long time without speaking, watching her tremble under his icy stare.
‘You are afraid of me?’ he asked.
‘Yes.’
‘Good. Do they suspect anything?’
‘Yes.’
‘I imagined that they would. In any case, you did what you had to do. By the time they have realized, it will be too late.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Come here.’
She remained where she was.
He would never have admitted it, but this pleased him even more. He loved women with character, and Laura had it in abundance.
He stared at her a moment – she was a true beauty. Even in the flickering light of the candles he was dazzled by that olive skin and he gladly allowed himself to become lost for a moment in those eyes, as green as a summer forest. A cascade of black curls framed her perfect oval face, but perhaps it was her scent which captured his soul; intriguing and seductive, that splendid aroma of mint and nettle now seemed to fill the entire room.
‘Why did you close the shop?’ he asked, changing the subject.
‘Business wasn’t going well. And anyway, it’s none of your business.’
‘Very well, very well,’ he replied, raising his hands. The blade of the dagger shone in the candlelight.
‘Will you tell me why you’ve come?’
‘To save you.’
‘Ah, really?’
‘The Medici will have worked out what happened by now, as the fact that Lorenzo has followed you shows. And that’s not all – he’s out there waiting for you. I saw him.’
‘My God!’ Laura flinched. ‘I hadn’t realized! Are you afraid of him?’
‘Not at all.’
‘You should be.’
‘And why?’
‘Have you any idea who the Medici are? Obviously not.’
‘Come here,’ he told her again.
‘And what if I don’t want to?’
‘Don’t make me repeat myself. I’m not in the mood to be refused a small favour by a woman who needs my help.’
For a moment Laura seemed to consider Schwartz’s request.
‘A beautiful woman,’ she said with a smirk. ‘Too beautiful for someone like you, Schwartz.’
‘Ah, of course,’ he jested. ‘But don’t give yourself airs and graces, or by God Almighty I’ll make a few adjustments to your face with this dagger of mine and you’ll lose all your charm in a flash.’