The Medici Seal

by Theresa Breslin

  Paolo sighed in his chest. ‘And then he was taken away from me in the most cruel way possible.’

  Paolo was not crying, but there was a deep melancholy on him. It was not the best mood to be in when about to fight. A soldier’s spirit should be high: it may mean the difference between life and death. And as, in the past, Paolo had guarded me, now I must look out for him.

  ‘Consider the stars,’ I said, directing his attention to the night sky.

  I named the constellations as I had been told by my master’s friend, the astronomer Tomaso Reslini. And then one of my grandmother’s stories came to my mind.

  ‘Look,’ I said to Paolo, ‘there are Castor and Pollux, twin sons of the great god Jupiter. They were the brothers born to Leda, wife of the King of Sparta, after Jupiter came to her in the guise of swan. Castor and Pollux were so attached to each other that, when they died, Jupiter placed them together among the stars. Thus across the firmament they shed their light, and will be together until the end of time.’

  ‘You think that is how it will be for us in the end, when we leave this earth?’ Paolo asked me.

  I did not know. Did anyone know for sure? The old thinking, the new thinking. The beliefs of the Church, the beliefs of the Ancients. Who was right?

  ‘Each man makes his own way,’ I replied.

  ‘I recall you telling stories at Perela,’ said Paolo. ‘I thought of them as a way to pass the time. But I see now they are for both comfort and enlightenment.’

  Dawn was coming. We could hear the sound of the town stirring, the shouts of the watchmen, soldiers tramping on cobblestones. Machiavelli’s militia had arrived.

  Suddenly an alarm sounded.

  The enemy were in sight.

  The battle for Prato had begun.

  Chapter Eighty-Five

  CARDINAL GIOVANNI DE’ Medici and the papal commanders sent a messenger to parley.

  The city magistrates treated him with disdain. They had confidence in the militiamen now assembling in the main square, lining up in neat ranks with shining helmets and gleaming breastplates. From the top of the basilica bell tower Paolo and I watched the emissary ride away, back to the enemy forces gathering outside the walls.

  ‘What do you think?’ Paolo asked me, indicating the mass of infantry and horsemen ranged against us.

  ‘There are rather less of them than I thought there would be,’ I said.

  Paolo pointed to the far road that wound its way along the river. ‘There is a baggage train approaching, moving very slowly.’

  My eyesight was not yet completely restored, and at first I could not make out the bulk of movement he spoke of. But then after some minutes I saw it. I drew in my breath.

  ‘Cannon?’ I asked him.

  He nodded. ‘Spanish cannon. One of the sentries I spoke to said he’d heard that they might bring it up from the south.’

  We had found out that the Spaniards, who would readily take the field for the Pope, were reluctant to fight for the Medici. But Cardinal Giovanni de’ Medici had melted down his gold and sold his jewels and bribed them to continue. He now led them himself and encouraged them with stories of the wealth awaiting them once they entered Florence. He had paid for their best arms and men. If the arrival of this good cannon was the result, then it would go hard for Prato.

  Paolo turned to me. ‘I think we should put the women in the church.’

  In this matter Elisabetta did not argue with us. Paolo and I lifted the mattress with the old lady upon it. Elisabetta followed with the medicines and as much food and water as she could carry. A few women and children had already made their way there and the monks were ushering them inside. We found Elisabetta a good place at a side door near the steps leading down to the undercroft. If she had to flee, she was close to the door. If she needed more secure shelter, there was the crypt. We told her that one of us would come to the door every night to ensure she had enough food. Then we left her. It was all we could do.

  They did not parley again.

  Instead they brought the cannon to a spot that was outwith the range of our guns. I stood with a group of militiamen who had been detailed a section of the wall to defend. We made a trial shot at them from the guns at our post. Our ball fell short and one of the militiamen laughed and said, ‘If we cannot reach them, then they cannot reach us.’

  They took their time in setting their cannon. For an hour or so their bombardiers moved the pieces about, forward and back, jacking them up and down, until they settled on the best aim. Then they brought the metal balls and put them in a pile beside each piece. They had about nine for each cannon. Six cannon. Nine balls each. Fifty-four balls. And how many other pieces of artillery did they hold in the rear?

  I walked along behind the wall we were defending. We had some breastworks built up but they were not deep. I thought of the defences of Mirandola and of Ravenna and how they had been breached. On my way I met Paolo. He was of the same mind. We went to speak to the commander. He would not listen.

  ‘From where they are now they cannot strike us,’ he declared. ‘All their effort is for nothing. They will have to reassemble their cannon and move forward. Then our shot will destroy them.’

  It was not this man’s fault. He had never been in war, never experienced a campaign. His last taste of action was when the French had come to Florence and left behind the artillery he now used: short-range falconets and old-fashioned demi-culverins. He did not know that the Spanish were now the most professional soldiers in Europe.

  They waited until the next day. Through the night we watched their campfires. We could hear them laughing and singing. Paolo and I went to see Elisabetta. In addition to food, Paolo gave her a dagger and I brought her a sword that I had found lying beside a slumbering militiaman. That one of them could sleep with his sword unbuckled while under siege gave an indication of their understanding of war.

  Elisabetta slipped the dagger under the pillow of the old lady, Donna Cosma.

  ‘You will know what to do with that?’ Paolo asked her.

  Elisabetta nodded.

  We embraced and hugged each other and she cried a little.

  ‘I will pray,’ said Elisabetta. ‘I will pray all night for you both. Know that, and take comfort from it.’

  One of the priests came to bless us. The last time a priest had blessed me it had been Father Albieri laying his hand upon my head as a boy. I had been close to death then but did not know it. But now I was very aware of how much danger we were all in. I told Elisabetta to drag a bench against the door when we left. And at dawn we bade her farewell.

  I went back to my position on the wall. My scornful militia soldier of yesterday was on duty there. He was trembling with excitement.

  ‘They are preparing to fire!’ he said. ‘We have been spying on them from first light, and they are preparing to fire now.’

  I edged my head over the wall just in time to see the gunner for their first gun in line go forward with his taper to light the fuse.

  ‘Take cover!’ I shouted.

  There was a muffled roar and a few seconds later a great splat. The ball was on the sward in front of us. It had fallen short.

  ‘I told you! I told you!’ The militia soldier was almost dancing in delight. ‘They cannot reach us! It is as I said. They cannot reach us!’

  But I knew the cannon beside it would have been set for a much longer range.

  ‘Get down,’ I shouted at him. ‘Get down, you fool.’

  The roar of the next gun sounded and the ball came flying over our heads. It socked into the wall behind us, tearing off a huge chunk of masonry.

  Seconds later the third piece fired. It crashed directly into our parapet, blasting a huge hole in our defences and completely obliterating my dancing militiaman.

  They had found the mark.

  Chapter Eighty-Six

  WE HAD ABOUT twenty minutes’ grace as they adjusted the other cannon to match their third shot.

  Paolo and I bawled orders and t
he Florentine militiamen, slack-jawed with shock, responded as best they could. They ran scurrying as we commanded them to collect furniture from houses and shops and build it up against the walls.

  ‘It is not enough,’ said Paolo in agitation. ‘It is not nearly enough.’

  But it was all we had time for. By mid morning their cannonade had begun in earnest. Heavy smoke hung in the air as each explosion rocked the parapet. They were concentrating fire on one part of the wall. They meant to make the breach and enter there. As we rushed to defend the place I saw a flood of citizens – the old, and women carrying children – hurrying to the church.

  Then their guns stopped. I had been counting each blast. They had not used all their ammunition. What had happened? I risked a look. Their infantry were advancing to the breach. Crossbowmen with large palliasses made an impenetrable shield. Behind them a schiltron of pikemen protected their musketeers. They wheeled into strict formations of diamond shapes and waited. But none of the Florentine militiamen from Prato rushed out to challenge them.

  ‘Fire our cannon!’ Paolo roared. ‘It is time to fire our cannon!’

  No one answered him.

  He sent a messenger to the battery. The man came back and said the commander there was dead. There were only three gunners left and they were doing what they could. They managed to shoot off a ball, which brought down a swathe of infantry but did not halt the advance. The enemy moved forward more briskly. Now they were under the arc of our cannonshot. It was too late for us to return fire.

  They took aim with their crossbows. Their target was our bombardiers. Through the deadly rustle of the arrows we heard the dying shrieks of the men defending the abutments on our walls. Then the arquebuses came forward from the ranks.

  They loosed a volley of shot. Then another, and another.

  Beside me Paolo staggered back. I looked to him. There was a great smear of blood across his chest. How could that be? He had on his breastplate and his collar.

  He was still upright, a stupefied expression on his face.

  Then I saw the reason for the blood. There was a hole in the centre of the metal.

  ‘You are wounded.’ My voice trembled as I spoke. ‘Paolo, you are wounded in the chest.’

  He looked down.

  ‘Ah,’ he said. ‘That is why I cannot stand.’

  And upon saying that, he fell at my feet.

  My heart gave a great leap of fear, and I bent and unbuckled his armour, both front and back.

  ‘Inferior metal,’ he gabbled as I was doing this. ‘I should have purchased a breastplate from the Milanese. They have the reputation for the best quality armour.’

  I thought, he is delirious.

  I had to stop the bleeding. I took my dagger and tore off my shirt sleeve, wadding the material against his wound to staunch the flow.

  Behind us there was uproar. Then hordes of militiamen charged past us, pushing and shoving and flinging down their weapons as they went.

  ‘They are running away,’ Paolo gasped. ‘Save yourself, Matteo. Save yourself.’

  His blood was seeping through the rough bandage I had made. Paolo needed help and medication and I thought of Elisabetta. I lifted him up.

  Behind me I heard the sound of the invaders pouring through the breach.

  I half carried, half dragged Paolo to the church. I thumped on the side door.

  From inside they screamed out, ‘Sanctuary! Sanctuary! You must honour the sanctuary of a holy place!’

  ‘I have a wounded man here!’ I shouted. ‘One of your own defenders. Let us in!’

  ‘Go away!’ they shouted back. ‘Go away!’

  I raised my fist and I battered on the door.

  ‘Dell’Orte!’ I yelled. ‘Dell’Orte!’

  Elisabetta pulled the door open. People within tore at her, clawed at her hair and skirts, trying to stop her. But she pushed the door wide enough ajar for me to carry Paolo through the gap before it was slammed shut again.

  The women inside threw the bench back against the door. From the nave came the sound of breaking glass. A flaming brand was thrust through the broken window and a dozen children began howling at the same time.

  We stretched Paolo out on the floor. I examined the place in his chest where the gunshot had gone in. It was close to his heart. He was dying.

  Elisabetta looked at me. I shook my head.

  She poured water on a cloth and dripped it onto his lips.

  He opened his eyes and looked at me and said quite clearly, ‘My brother. You are my brother.’

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘But do not speak, save your strength.’

  ‘I had another brother once. But he died.’

  ‘I know this,’ I said.

  ‘I killed him.’

  ‘You did not.’

  ‘Yes, I did. My cowardice killed them all.’

  ‘No, no, Paolo. That is not true.’

  ‘Yes it is.’

  He gripped the front of my tunic and pulled me to him. ‘I have never told you this, Matteo, but I heard them.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I heard them,’ he repeated.

  ‘Who? Who are you speaking of?

  ‘My sisters. My sisters screaming.’ He put his hands over his face. ‘I hear them still.’

  ‘What happened was not your fault.’

  ‘Don’t you hear what I say?’ He spoke with sudden strength. ‘I heard my sisters begging for mercy. My mother, as she leaped from the window, clutching Dario, cried out as they were dashed on the rocks below. I heard all of this and I did nothing.’

  I took his hands in mine. ‘It was not your fault,’ I repeated.

  ‘But I was a coward. I should have come out of the hiding place and fought.’

  ‘If you had come out from your hiding place you and your sisters would have been murdered,’ I said. ‘You would have fought, but you would have fought and died.’

  ‘I am dying now, am I not, Matteo?’

  I could not answer him, nor could I take my eyes from his face. Therefore he read the truth in mine.

  ‘Better I had died then,’ he said, ‘than do what I did, and live the life of a coward.’

  ‘Then you would have disobeyed your father’s ordinance,’ I said.

  His eyes searched my face.

  ‘A son cannot disobey the law his father sets down.’

  ‘My father did not know that his family would be so cruelly treated.’

  ‘Your father was a soldier,’ I insisted. ‘A soldier in the employ of the Borgia. He must have seen what soldiers do, what some men take as their right when conquering.’

  Paolo seemed to consider this.

  ‘Who would have rescued Elisabetta and Rossana?’ I pressed on. ‘They would not have managed their escape without you. They would have been slaughtered on the mountainside. And it was you, and you alone, who gave Elisabetta reason to go on. You took her to live with your uncle and she made another life for herself. Therefore your father knew that you must be saved. And if you had disobeyed his rule, how could you raise your face to his in Heaven?’

  Paolo nodded. His eyes were filmed. He was slipping from us.

  I placed my lips to his ear.

  ‘You will meet him, your father, in Heaven, and you will be able to say, “My father, I did as you commanded me. It has troubled my mind ever since and cost me grievously, but I did the thing you asked.” And he will say to you, “Welcome, my son,” and he will call you by your name, “Paolo”. And you will see them all. Rossana, and your mother. They will kiss you. And little Dario will run to meet you, and you will swing him on your shoulders as you used to.’

  My voice faltered. I glanced at Paolo’s face. His eyes were staring, sightless. I put my fingers to the side of his neck. No pulse beat there.

  Had he heard me? I sat back on my heels.

  ‘Matteo!’

  I turned.

  Tears were running from Elisabetta’s face.

  ‘Matteo!’ she sobbed. ‘What wondrous thi
ngs to say to him.’

  I put out my hand and shut down his eyes. There would be no time for a proper funeral, no opportunity to hire a good orator to make a speech for the passing of this young man. No one would fashion a death mask for Paolo dell’Orte. But I would not forget his face. Paolo was a true brother to me. He saved my life at Mirandola and again when he killed the brigand Sandino on my behalf. In his life he had little to be ashamed of. It was I, Janek the gypsy, also known as Matteo, who carried true guilt.

  I am the traitor, the knave, the coward. I am the one to be despised. No mother or father will run to meet me in the land of the saints. The dell’Orte family will not greet me kindly or let me walk with them among the clouds.

  I rubbed my face with my hands as sobs racked me.

  Elisabetta had knelt down beside me to say a prayer beside the body of her brother. She put her arm around my shoulder.

  I leaned against her. ‘There is something I must tell you,’ I said.

  Chapter Eighty-Seven

  SO I TOLD Elisabetta the true story of the boy she knew as Matteo.

  I told her first of all that my name was not Matteo, but Janek.

  Janek, the gypsy.

  I had no fine father who had died leaving me in the care of a wicked uncle. I had only a grandmother. She had loved me, it is true, but she was a gypsy. A Romany woman with great skill in healing. She had died and I had been left destitute and had resorted to thieving, an occupation in which, I found, I had great skill, especially in picking locks. Then I had fallen in with Sandino and his gang of brigands, who promised me good food and my own pirate ship if I did this one task for them. Sandino instructed me to steal a most precious thing, the Great Seal of the Medici family, which he told me had been looted from the Medici Palace on the Via Larga in Florence when the Medici were forced to leave the city many years ago.

  We had to wait until after Lucrezia’s Borgia’s wedding to Duke Alfonso in Ferrara, and then I found a certain priest, a Father Albieri, who took me to a room in a house with a locked cupboard where the seal was kept. When I had stolen this seal, the priest and I returned with it to our rendezvous point with Sandino. There the priest told Sandino that he had brought him the true treasure. And when the priest had said this Sandino had spoken to one of his men saying, ‘The Borgia will pay us well for the Medici Seal.’