by C. De Melo
A hush fell over the room. The person who spoke was an older man who appeared to be sympathetic to Bianca’s situation. Lorenzo slammed his fist on the table, causing everyone to jump in their seats.
Flustered, the man inquired, “How shall I reply to her letter?”
Lorenzo replied in an eerily calm voice that unsettled everyone, “Tell my sister this: as long as her Pazzi husband lives, neither of them are welcome in Florence. She is fortunate that I didn’t hang him with the others. Remind her that her husband’s family killed our brother before attempting to kill me.”
After a brief silence, the man said, “I will tell Bianca exactly what you have told me. Forgive me, if I spoke out of turn.”
Lorenzo waved away the apology with his bejeweled hand and gulped down the rest of his wine. Sabina could see that he was in pain, and she wanted to ease his suffering, but she couldn’t slay the demons that tortured his soul. No one but God could accomplish that feat.
As though reading her mind, Massimo leaned over and whispered, “I wish there was some way to comfort him.”
“As do I.”
“My cousin is sick over Giuliano’s death. She truly mourns his loss. I regret that I must leave her side when she needs me the most.”
“Must you go?” she asked, barely masking her disappointment.
Pleased by her displeasure, he replied, “I’ve been summoned to Rome in order to deal with an unpleasant legal matter.”
“I’m sure your presence will be missed in Florence.”
“I promised Clarice I’d return the moment the matter is resolved. Hopefully, it won’t take too long.”
“Hopefully.”
To Sabina’s chagrin, Lorenzo was eyeing her steadily.
Chapter 10
In the wake of the Pazzi Conspiracy, Pope Sixtus IV excommunicated Lorenzo de’ Medici for his bloody vendetta against the Pazzi family, their supporters, and Archbishop Salviati. The Signoria was ordered by papal decree to surrender Lorenzo. Of course, they refused. The Tuscan Church supported the Signoria’s decision, which eventually led to its excommunication.
Such open rebellion against the Vatican created more enemies for Florence, and Lorenzo was soon faced with political threats from Milan, Urbino, and Siena. The most serious threat came from Ferdinand, King of Naples. In order to solidify Florence’s position and keep peace in Italy, Lorenzo set off on several campaigns to secure political alliances.
With Tommaso gone and Lorenzo away from Florence for long periods at a time, Sabina no longer visited the Palazzo Medici. In fact, despite being a widow of wealth and prestige, she rarely left her home.
The blood-drenched spring of 1478 eventually gave birth to the glorious verdure of summer. The days were long and hot; the evenings, sultry. The constant sunshine lifted the spirits and inspired hope for good things to come.
Massimo and Lorenzo were back in Florence by early September, and the Palazzo Medici came alive once again. Sabina was happy when the invitations began arriving at her door. Mindful of her recent state of widowhood, Massimo was respectful when speaking with Sabina, and always discreet in his attempts at flirtation. In time, she grew to appreciate his quick wit and his propensity for making her laugh.
On a mild November evening, after enjoying a concerto of stringed instruments, Massimo informed Sabina of his imminent departure.
“You’re always running off to Rome,” she said wistfully.
“I am Roman,” he reminded her, snatching two goblets of diluted red wine from a servant’s tray.
She accepted one of the goblets from his hand. “Yes, I know.”
“Will you miss me?”
She shrugged. “Perhaps.”
“Are you teasing me, Signora Sabina?”
Smiling mischievously, she took a sip of wine. “Perhaps.”
“Rest assured that I’ll miss you,” he confessed, his tone and expression sincere. “In fact, I’ll be counting the days until I see your lovely face again.”
Sabina stared into the ruby contents of her goblet and said nothing.
He said tentatively, “If I spoke out of turn, I beg your—”
“Stop,” she interjected. Meeting his eyes, she said quietly, “You will be missed, Massimo.”
***
Lorenzo went off on another campaign and his absence, combined with lack of sunshine, made for a bleak winter. There would be no Christmas banquet at the Palazzo Medici to foster good cheer. People went about their business with sullen expressions, wincing against the gusts of cold wind.
Sabina decided to spend a quiet Christmas in Lucca with her family rather than be alone in Florence. Despite the painful loss of Paolo, they managed to enjoy and comfort each other during the holiday season. In mid-February she received a letter from Cecilia stating that their father was on his deathbed. She departed for Lucca at once.
“Thank God you’re here,” Cecilia said upon her sister’s arrival.
“Where is he?”
Cecilia led her into their father’s room where he lay sleeping.
To Sabina’s horror, his face was ashen. “What happened?”
“He woke up a few days ago complaining of terrible pain, more than the usual. The fever started yesterday.”
“He wasn’t like this last month. I left sufficient funds—did you summon the physician?”
“Of course I did,” Cecilia replied defensively.
“Why is he not here now?”
“He’s on his way.”
Sabina sighed. “Forgive me. I’m only thinking of Papa’s health.”
Cecilia placed an arm around her sister. “I’m worried, too. He sleeps several hours a day due to the pain medication the physician prescribed.”
“The thought of losing him so soon after losing Paolo and Tommaso is too much to bear,” Sabina said, looking down at her sleeping father.
“I know,” Cecilia agreed sadly.
The physician arrived a while later. He was a tall, thin man with a bland face and thinning hair. Sabina took note of his long fingers as he removed powders and leaves from a leather satchel.
“Is he any better today?” he asked.
“The same as yesterday,” Cecilia replied.
“I’ll make another batch of medicine, which you will mix with his food,” he instructed before blending together various herbs.
The physician left with the promise to return the same time tomorrow. Don Antonio woke up while Cecilia was preparing some porridge.
“What a nice surprise,” Don Antonio said weakly when he spotted Sabina sitting by the bed. It was a great effort for him to speak.
She took his hand and smiled. “Hello Papa.”
“Look at me. Absolutely useless—an old bag of bones.”
“Do not say such things,” she reprimanded gently. “The best physician in Lucca is taking care of you.”
He placed his frail, veined hand over hers. “Sabina, my dear. My only regret is dying so soon after Tommaso and Paolo. You girls have suffered so much already…forgive me.”
Cecilia entered the room with a bowl of porridge in her hands. She sat in the vacant chair beside the bed and began spoon-feeding their father. After one mouthful, Don Antonio made a face.
“What’s that bitter taste?”
“The medicine the physician instructed me to mix with your food.”
Like a child, he pushed the bowl aside. “Good God, woman. You’ll kill me before my time. I would prefer some bread.”
“I baked some this morning,” Cecilia said, rising to her feet.
“And some of that good cheese we purchased at the market. Oh, and do we have any of that fine wine from Sabina’s last visit?”
“Papa, I don’t think you should be eating such rich foods or drinking undiluted wine,” Cecilia pointed out. “The porridge is better for you.”
Sabina went into the kitchen and began preparing a tray with the foods her father had requested.
Seeing this, Cecilia asked, “What are you doing?�
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She continued scavenging for the best food in the house. “What does it look like I’m doing? Do you have any sausage?”
“He should not be eating these things.”
“Papa is dying, Cecilia. Let him enjoy a bit of pleasure while he still can. What good will come from eating that foul porridge, anyway? Buy him a few more hours? A day or two? Let him go to his grave satisfied.”
Cecilia looked down at the bowl of lumpy, unappealing porridge and placed it on the table. “You’re right. Let him eat what he wants to eat. I purchased some sausage with fennel the other day. He loves that. Oh, we still have olives, too.”
Sabina smiled. “Thank you.”
Don Antonio eyed the tray his daughters had prepared for him and grinned like a little boy. He savored the simple meal so much that he momentarily forgot his pain. Cecilia administered the potent medicine, which he consumed without complaint. Later in the evening, as their father slept, the two sisters ate their supper.
Cecilia announced, “I plan to join the convent. It’s something I’ve always wanted to do, and now there’s nothing to hold me back.”
“I think it would be good for you.”
“You should join with me,” Cecilia suggested with a straight face.
Sabina almost choked on her wine and her sister laughed. It was the first time she had cracked a smile since the death of her son.
Cecilia grew serious. “I think of Paolo every moment of every day.”
“I miss him, too.”
“If I dedicate my life to God, it will bring me closer to my son. I know he’s in Heaven right now. I’ll most likely sell the villa, too.”
“I love this house. It’s been in the family for years. We’ve already lost the palazzo in the city, thanks to grandfather’s gambling. Let’s not lose the country villa as well.”
“Who will tend to it? What about the olive groves?”
“I will hire servants. We can sell the produce if you wish. I have more than enough money for us to live quite comfortably—more than I know what to do with! Perhaps we should donate the crops to the poor.”
“Or to the convent I plan to join,” Cecilia suggested.
“That’s a very good idea.”
Suddenly, Don Antonio screamed. Sabina and Cecilia ran to their father’s side to see him clutching his abdomen and groaning in pain.
“I felt something burst!” he managed to say between moans.
“I’ll fetch the physician,” Cecilia said, darting out of the room.
Sabina procured a damp cloth and placed it on her father’s forehead.
“The pain medicine,” he muttered between clenched teeth.
She found the small pot containing the ground-up herbs and sprinkled some into a cup of watered wine.
“Drink, Papa,” she urged, holding the vessel to his lips.
Some of the liquid dribbled down his chin, but he managed to drink most of it. The pain subsided enough for him to breathe easier.
“Tonight, I die,” he whispered.
Taking hold of his hand, Sabina said, “Be strong, Papa. Cecilia went to fetch the physician.”
He struggled to keep his eyes open, the potent herbs making him drowsy.
“Papa? Papa!” Sabina gently shook him. “Wake up!”
Cecilia arrived a half hour later with the physician, who removed implements and herbs from his satchel.
“He said he felt something burst from within,” Sabina informed him. “I gave him some of the pain medicine.”
He nodded and gently pushed her aside in order to tend to his patient. “It’s best if you and your sister remain in the kitchen.”
Alarmed, Cecilia asked, “Why?”
“I need to cut him open,” he replied. “Fetch me some water, clean cloths, and a bucket.”
“Cut him open?” Sabina demanded as Cecilia procured the requested items. “He’s already in immense pain—”
“I’ll administer another potent dose.”
Sabina reluctantly left the room and closed the door. The two women paced back and forth in the small kitchen for what seemed like eternity. When the physician emerged, his face was grim.
“How is he?” Sabina asked.
“I have done all I could.”
Impatient, Sabina pushed past him and froze. The bed was soaked with blood and a bloody bandage was wrapped around Don Antonio’s lower abdomen. Her poor father was unconscious. Several engorged leeches squirmed around in a jar. The water in the bowl that held the physician’s instruments was dark pink.
“Papa, can you hear me?” Cecilia asked.
Sabina glared at the physician. “What have you done?”
“Your father is in God’s hands now,” he replied.
“God be damned, you butcher!”
Cecilia gasped. “Sabina! My sister is upset. She didn’t mean that.”
Sabina clenched her teeth. “I most certainly meant it. Get out!”
The physician shook his head and left.
“What’s wrong with you?” Cecilia demanded. “He did his best.”
Sabina ignored her. “Papa? Can you hear me?”
Don Antonio did not respond. Long after the physician went home, the two sisters remained by their father’s side. He opened his eyes once and smiled faintly at each one of them. By early dawn, he was dead. He was buried beside his beloved wife. Sabina returned to Florence one week following the funeral and Cecilia joined the Convento di Santa Lucia.
***
In the spring of 1479, one of Tommaso’s solicitors came to Sabina with a proposal. The head of a noble Florentine family wanted to purchase the Palazzo Caravelli as a wedding gift for his son.
Sabina’s brow creased. “Sell Tommaso’s home?”
“It’s your home now, Signora Sabina, to do with as you please.” The solicitor spread his arms wide. “Besides, this palazzo is too big for only one woman—unless, of course, you plan to remarry soon.”
“I have neither suitors nor intention at present.”
“He’s offered a high price. If you choose to sell, you could purchase a home more suitable for a young widow. A bit smaller and closer to the city center, perhaps. You would have a considerable amount of money left over, and I would be happy to advise you on investments.”
“I will think on it.”
Sabina thought it over for a few days and decided to take the solicitor’s advice. He was right, she didn’t need all that space. She sought the help of her friend, Camelia, to find a suitable new home.
One morning, as she and Camelia walked along the Arno River, the older woman said, “The intense heat of summer will be upon us soon. We are only in May and it’s already too warm. You would do well to buy a villa in the hills, where it’s cooler. What about Fiesole?”
“I spent most of my life living on the outskirts of Lucca. While the countryside is pleasant, I find it dull at times.”
“Ah, you’re young and need excitement. What about living by the river? There’s always a breeze near water.”
Sabina’s eyes traveled to the oldest bridge in the city, the Ponte Vecchio. Several butcher shops spanned the length of the bridge, and animal entrails were unceremoniously dumped into the river on a daily basis. In the stifling heat of summer, the stench of rotting offal would be unbearable.
“I would prefer to live closer to the Piazza del Duomo. Isn’t that where you live, too?”
“Yes, Adolfo and I enjoy the area.” Her eyes lit up and she exclaimed, “I know someone who is selling a wonderful home only a stone’s throw from the cathedral. Why didn’t I think of it sooner?”
“Is it a good house?”
“Oh, it would be perfect for you, Sabina. It has a charming little courtyard with a fountain and a spacious main floor for entertaining. It’s not too big—a splendid palazzina. Would you care to see it?”
“Very much so.”
“Come. No sense in wasting time, is there?”
“Perhaps I should send a servant to make an app
ointment.”
“Nonsense. I know Signora Berta well. There’s no need for formalities.”
“But she will not be expecting us.”
“Signora Berta is recently widowed and rarely receives visitors. She’ll be thrilled to have someone to talk with.” Camelia nodded in greeting to a passing lady before adding, “Poor old dear has taken ill, so she’s going to live with her daughter.”
They walked along the river then turned down a narrow alley leading to the Piazza della Signoria. As they crossed the large square, Sabina shuddered at the memory of the hanging corpses swaying in the breeze last spring. The eyes of the two armed guards accompanying them darted left and right. They reached the Piazza del Duomo and skirted the cathedral until Camelia stopped in front of a small palazzo.
“Here it is,” she announced.
Sabina took in the arched oak door with black iron hinges. The pediment over the door sported three playful gargoyles.
Camelia took hold of the iron knocker in the form of a lion’s head with a ring in its mouth and banged it against the door with considerable force. “Signora Berta!” She paused. “She’s a bit hard of hearing.”
Nothing.
Camelia knocked and called out again. Finally, a young girl opened the small viewing door located above the knocker. “Yes?”
“Tell Signora Berta that Signora Camelia is here with a friend.”
The oak door swung open. The young girl’s hands were red and wet.
“I’ve brought a prospective buyer to see the house,” Camelia explained.
The girl curtsied respectfully and invited them inside. They walked into a spacious courtyard featuring a whimsical fountain at its center; a nymph coyly turning her face away from an amorous satyr. Two stone benches had been placed under the shade of carefully pruned fruit trees. A shriveled old woman sat on one of the benches eating an orange.
Camelia said loudly, “Buongiorno, Signora Berta!”
The old woman peered upward while putting an orange wedge in her mouth, and some of the fruit’s juice ran down her wrinkled chin. She did not seem to recognize Camelia.
“Do you remember me? I made you that lovely torta with apples and pine nuts,” Camelia said, trying to jostle the old woman’s memory.
A flicker of recognition registered in Signora Berta’s eyes and she smiled. “You tried to fatten me up with that rich cake!”
