Primavera
Page 11
I watched as his eyes darted up and down the street. I’d seen him vicious, I’d seen him addled with love, but I had never seen him this agitated.
“Where,” I asked softly, “are Riorio’s men?” I felt an unfamiliar dread creep over me.
Captain Umberto nodded. “You have hit upon it. They’ve been missing since before dawn. Emilio here felt something amiss and had the presence of mind to follow them.”
“Riorio himself has gone with the rest of your family to Santa Croce for mass,” Emilio said. “But his guard did not accompany them. They shadowed the Medici brothers and are even now going in to high mass at the duomo.”
The events of the party the night before came crashing down around me: my conversation with Giuliano; Botticelli’s masterwork; Signora de Medici’s snub of Domenica.
“We fear your father may have acted foolishly,” Captain Umberto said.
“You believe he’d do something at high mass?”
“We must think the worst if we are to prevent it.”
“Allora. What can I do?”
“Emilio followed Riorio’s men to the duomo but lost them inside. He was unable to get close to the Medici because . . .”
“I am only a contadino,” Emilio interjected. There was no shame in his words; he merely stated fact. At Santa Maria del Fiore, as in other churches, only noblemen were allowed up front. And with the size of Santa Maria del Fiore, Emilio would have to station himself half a league away.
I nodded. “Only a noble can get close to Il Magnifico.”
“Emilio will escort you to the duomo. Stand as close to the Medici as you can and be ready.” So saying, he handed me his squarcato — a real blade this time, not a wooden one. Short and square, its heft in my right hand was still substantial.
I put the weapon in my girdle under my dress. Two mounts were brought. I willed myself to breathe as I climbed into the saddle. After all, wasn’t this what I had always hoped for? To be of use? To do something more than clear dishes?
One of the men, Piero, handed me up a kerchief to use as a veil. “Per piacere, signorina. Be careful,” he said. Worry was plastered on his face.
I couldn’t remember a time any of these men called me signorina. I couldn’t remember ever having been anything but Flora. But the title and kerchief were kindly meant, so I thanked him and pinned it to my head. When I was done, Captain Umberto reached up and kissed my hand. “Remember, Flora: you are as good as any of my men. Godspeed.”
Around me, the complement of soldiers, Umberto included, bowed low as though I were a princess. “Godspeed, Signorina Flora,” they said, crossing themselves. Some even kissed the hem of my dress.
The courtesy impressed and frightened me. I felt as though they were sending me to my death.
Emilio and I galloped the two blocks to the Piazza del Duomo.
The passage between the duomo and the baptistery was packed with the liveries of all the best noble clans of Florence. There was the coat of arms for the Strozzi family, the Turnabuoni, the Pitti, and the Riccardi. The servants attending the horses were powdered into ghosthood. The air itself was decorated with brightly colored streamers. And why not? Hallelujah. Christ had risen. It was time for us to emerge from a long winter of fasting and renew ourselves in His triumph over death.
God forgive me, but at that moment I prayed Emilio and I would be as successful as He.
Emilio dismounted first and handed me down. I knew we were in a rush, but there were ushers out front and they were watching. I had to behave nobly. So I lifted my skirt delicately and held myself erect. Emilio and I walked as calmly as we could to the entrance.
“Signorina Flora,” an usher said. “Benvenuto. We were told your family would be at Santa Croce today.”
“I prefer the hell of Father Alberto to the dull heaven of Santa Croce,” I said with a conspiratorial smile.
The usher smiled back. “I cannot fault your taste,” he said, guiding me inside.
Emilio followed but met with an arm blocking his way. “You,” the usher said, holding a kerchief to his nose. “In the gallery.”
“I stay with my mistress,” said Emilio.
The usher motioned to the gallery. Begone. Emilio shot me a concerned look but I nodded. Tranquillo, all will be well.
The first half of Santa Maria del Fiore is like that of a normal church: two rows of pews pointed at the high altar, smaller chapels and confessionals on either side. But several paces toward the high altar, and the heavens themselves opened up underneath the vaulted ceiling of our magnificent dome.
The usher escorted me to the second pew from the front, the one always held in reserve for the Pazzi family, the second richest in all of Florence. I took my place directly in back of Il Magnifico and his brother, the hapless Giuliano. They stood; they breathed. All was well. Giuliano even craned his head around and greeted me with a wink.
I looked around but saw no sign of Riorio’s men. All I saw was velvet and more velvet.
I muttered a prayer and looked up to the very top of the ceiling. “Per piacere, Dio. Give me strength.”
Father Alberto stood in front of the congregation, in finely woven white robes with an elaborate gold cross embroidered down the middle. I never would have thought him the same threadbare priest who refused payment for sanctifying a bit of ground.
He had just ended his sermon. His arms were open to all of us, calling the congregation to communion.
Lorenzo and Giuliano went first as befit their station. For four steps all was as it should have been.
Then from the corner of my eye, I caught a flash of black. Five men in dark cloaks drew daggers and descended on the Medici brothers. I heard someone scream. It was me.
Lorenzo and Giuliano had enough time to turn around before they saw their attackers. Giuliano placed himself in front of his brother. “Usurers!” the assassins cried as they descended on the Medici. “Adulterers!”
Around me, women screamed and everyone backed away. The brothers and the assassins were on the altar now — the assassins leaning over the Medici, surrounding them in a sea of black. Their knives came down again and again. The screaming was horrible; the sight of the red knives even worse.
A bejeweled hand stuck out from between the legs of the assassins. The fingers curled and then relaxed. When I saw that hand, it was as though the poison keeping me immobile wore off and I dashed forward. Giuliano, I thought. I have to save Giuliano. I grabbed the outstretched palm, gave one hard yank, and pulled the body free. Then I dragged a man across the floor, leaving a trail of blood, followed by men in hooded black robes wielding knives. Where was someone to help me?
I saw men beckoning to the left, men with tunics emblazoned with the three palle of the Medici coat of arms.
“This way, signorina!” they shrieked, beckoning to the bronze doors of the sacristy. “Subito!”
But Giuliano was heavy, dead weight — and I was slow. Three black cloaks were upon me before I could close the distance. Hands pulled me away from his body and wrestled me to the floor. I looked up.
Crouched over me was Riorio’s oaf who had threatened Nonna and sliced my arm. He held a knife dripping gore. There was a look in his eye, and I realized he had been waiting for an excuse to run me through. I grabbed for Umberto’s squarcato where it was hidden in my girdle, but I was too slow. I would not be in time to ward off the first thrust.
The blow, when it came, barely scratched my shoulder. I didn’t feel a thing, although suddenly I was drowning in a geyser of red, flooding my eyes and giving a salty taste to my mouth. Then the oaf fell forward on me, his throat slashed from ear to ear. Strong arms pushed his weight off me, and then there was Emilio offering me one hand, the other holding his squarcato drawn and red.
I looked around for Giuliano and found him — a man cloaked in blood and velvet — crawling toward the sacristy doors. The Medici guard had managed to rush to the altar and had engaged the assassins. Giuliano’s progress was too slow. He would never m
ake it.
Emilio and I ran over to him. We each grabbed an arm and finished dragging him to the sacristy doors, where his men took him from us and barricaded the bronze doors in our faces.
Emilio and I were left out in the open. We turned around, ready to defend ourselves, but there was no one left to defend ourselves against. Where a moment ago there was confusion and we could hear nothing for the screaming, now everything was eerily silent. The assassins who hadn’t been killed drew back into the crowd. Around us, everyone seemed to be waiting. But for what?
Then we saw the altar. Father Alberto had a man’s head in his lap, a man who was lying in a spreading pool of blood. Oh no, I thought. Lorenzo isn’t going to make it.
But it wasn’t Lorenzo.
All had been confusion not seconds earlier. I had grabbed the hand that seemed in most need, and I had grabbed the wrong one. I had not grabbed my friend, I had grabbed my enemy. And now my friend was bleeding heavily from the stomach — giant red bubbles coming from his mouth. There was at least one bad wound on his neck, more under his robes. He breathed in a sickening rasp, his whole body drawing up with the effort.
I ran to him and pulled away his tunic, counting at least nine wounds. There was one particularly bad one down low, from which something else emerged with blood, something slick. I pushed the slick thing back into his stomach and tried to stanch the blood with my kerchief.
“Help!” I cried. The congregation stood back.
“Help!” I repeated. “We need a doctor!”
Giuliano grabbed my sleeve and struggled to speak.
“Tranquillo,” I shushed him, summoning Nonna’s most competent expression. “We’re getting help. Now you must rest.”
He used one finger and beckoned me down toward his mouth. He wanted to tell me something.
I gripped his hand tightly, afraid to let go. I couldn’t understand what he was saying but I knew what he was thinking. “Don’t worry,” I whispered. “I’ll take care of your son.”
His grip on my hand grew weak; he coughed up a bucket of blood and then fell back. There was no more rasping, no noise from him at all. I had failed.
Above me, Father Alberto made the sign of the cross over Giuliano’s body.
No one else moved.
“Cretini!” I spat at the congregation. “Why did no one help me? What are you all waiting for?”
I looked around the crowd. They were still as statues — even Lucrezia de Medici. Then, from the back of the crowd, someone pointed upward. “Look! In the choir!”
I followed where the man was pointing. There in the loft above the sacristy stood Il Magnifico, bleeding from the neck, but very much alive. Emilio and I had saved him.
At that moment I was sickened by this city and every man and woman in it. I realized why no one had helped me.
They were waiting to see who won.
If Riorio’s men had killed both Giuliano and Lorenzo, the crowd would have reviled Lucrezia de Medici and sent for my father at Santa Croce to crown him the new leader of Florence.
But Lorenzo lived, and by living outmaneuvered my father once and for all.
“Sacrilege!” someone in the crowd called. “Murder!”
Giuliano’s mother, the formidable Lucrezia, finally grew animated. “Bambino mio!” she shouted, pushing forward to her dead son.
A dozen or so came to her aid. “Please, signora, let me hold you up.”
I was shoved aside.
Father Alberto, unmindful of the mess, took my hand. “Time for you to leave, signorina,” he whispered. “This is no place for a maiden.”
He did not say Flora. He did not say Pazzi.
Emilio was there as well, pulling at me. “Come,” he said. “We have to leave now.” Then he whispered in my ear: “It’s already done. We have to warn the others.”
I nodded and we hurried down the aisle to our horses. I came in a lady; I left a fugitive.
As Emilio pulled me along, I glanced back up to the choir. Lorenzo de Medici was still there, observing the commotion below. He was full of righteous fury. He looked as though he could wield thunderbolts and floods. And I knew now that whatever price the Medici paid for their sins, it was enough. The Medici now had God on their side and their wrath would be terrible.
For a moment, Il Magnifico turned his gaze on me, and I was so afraid I quaked as though I hadn’t eaten in three days. I awaited a subtle nod like he’d given from the government palace that day in the piazza. There. I will have her blood and the blood of the rest of her kin.
But he didn’t point. With his terrible, wrathful face, he bowed low in my direction, and I understood in that instant that he knew everything. He knew whose daughter I was; he also knew what I’d done for him today. For my part in this morning’s events, he was granting me a head start.
Chapter Sixteen
Captain Umberto was waiting for us in front of the palazzo. Concern made his face so mixed-up he resembled a stew. “Madonna! Flora, what has become of you?”
“She’s all right,” Emilio said, leaping down. “You were right. We were able to save Lorenzo but we were too late for Giuliano.”
Captain Umberto clapped Emilio on the shoulder, but he didn’t look proud. He still seemed worried. “You’ve done well, although I fear this is almost worse than had you stayed home.”
A noise grew behind us. A mob was forming and they were coming our way, yelling “traitors!” and “assassins.” We pressed ourselves against the wall. As they walked our way we caught sight of a man in the middle, a man wearing black and bleeding from the head.
A couple of citizens glared in our direction. “I wonder who’s behind this?” one of them spat.
Another man put a hand on his arm and pointed to me. “Didn’t you see what that maid did earlier? ’Tis only by her quick wits that Il Magnifico lives.”
The first one kept glaring. “For your case, signorina, I pray your father had no hand in this. Either way, Signor Valentini shall get to the truth of the matter in the Bargello.”
As he walked away, still glaring, all I could do was curtsy in his direction. I was covered in blood, under suspicion of murder, but I was still a noblewoman.
When the mob was out of sight, I kept holding myself erect. Too fast. This was all happening too fast. I whispered to Captain Umberto: “Is all my family at Santa Croce?”
“Everyone but you and your nonna,” Captain Umberto said.
“Bene,” I said. “You must get them out of the city with all haste. Don’t even venture to come back here.”
“Your father,” Captain Umberto whispered, “he is expecting a victory. He will not be easily persuaded to flee.”
“That is why you must approach my brother Andrea first. Andrea will listen to reason; my father will listen to Andrea.”
Captain Umberto nodded. “But what about you, Flora? You’ll come with me, surely?”
“Emilio and I have to stay here and take care of Nonna. Per piacere, Captain Umberto. Go now. There is no time.”
With that I left him. I had to get Nonna out and quick. I knew it would not be long before Riorio’s man gave us up.
“Nonna!” I ran to the kitchen, shouting at the top of my lungs. Nonna wasn’t there; the kitchen was cold; no fires had been lit. Everything was still and silent.
Something was not right.
“Nonna!” I called into the pantry. Still nothing. I ran up the back stairs to her bedroom. It was still dark within; the shutters pulled tight against the sun. And there was a peculiar smell: the scent of almonds, so strong and close it made me want to gag. Even as I smelled it, a part of me knew what she had done. I threw open the shutters to let in the outside air.
She was lying fully clothed on top of the bed covers.
“Grazie a Dio you’re still here,” I said. “Come, we have to leave now.”
I put a hand on her arm and attempted to nudge her awake. But she didn’t move; her arms were cold to the touch and strangely rigid.
I
still denied what my senses told me. Not Nonna. God would be cruel indeed to take Nonna away from me now. I’d already seen someone die that morning. I had done my share; surely God would not test me more than that.
But I had seen God this morning, looking down from above, and He looked exactly like Lorenzo de Medici.
I looked into Nonna’s face. Her lips were black, her eyes open. Gently, I pulled the lids down and began to cry. I knew that there was no point in running. I had lost everything.
I stroked Nonna’s cold hands and noticed she gripped something tightly. I pried her fingers apart and found a letter with my name on it, along with a familiar black-dog ring.
I opened the letter. “Carissima Flora,” it began. But I didn’t get a chance to read more.
“Flora! Flora!” Emilio called my name and ran up the stairs. He saw Nonna and crossed himself. “Poor soul. I hope that now she can rest.”
He stood at her side for one silent moment before grasping at me. “All right, now, let’s go.”
“Sure,” I said. “Help me with her arms.”
But Emilio was not working with me. In fact, he seemed to be working against me, pulling my hands away, urging me toward the door. “Come, Flora, it’s too late for her, just as it’s too late for Giuliano. She would not want you to linger.”
I wrenched myself away. “I won’t leave her.”
“She’s already gone, Flora,” he said, growing impatient. “Now come on.”
“No,” I said, and pushed him away.
He stumbled two steps backward. “Very well,” he said. And went back down the stairs. I didn’t hear him come back up; I especially didn’t hear him raise a heavy pan and bring it down on the back of my head. All I saw was Nonna’s face and then I was slipping. I reached to grab and hold onto her but already I was falling away.
When I came to I was lying on my side in a meadow. I jerked my face out of tall grass, and a cool breeze caressed my cheek. I felt the back of my head. There was a lump there the size of a turnip.
Around me, two horses grazed. Where was I? Then I saw Emilio a short distance away, standing on a summit, pacing back and forth, back and forth. He looked in the opposite direction, down toward the city. He chewed his fingernails as he paced.