A tall, impressive-looking man stood before him. Judging from the dagger at his belt, he could only be a soldier. He was dressed completely in black, and a cloak of the same colour hung limply from his shoulder. He had a self-confident, cocky air, as though he were eager to get about his business.
Lorenzo steeled his nerve.
‘Who are you?’ he asked angrily, his hand going to the dagger he kept hidden in the lining of his robe.
‘Du, Schwein!’ the other snapped. ‘If you imagine you can get that dagger out before I alter your features, you are as much of a fool as I imagined you would be.’ The man smiled, his teeth shining white in the dim torchlight that was the only illumination in the gloomy alley.
Lorenzo ignored him and drew his knife, throwing himself at the man and swinging for his abdomen. But the soldier feinted, easily avoiding the blow and tripping Lorenzo, sending him sprawling once again to the ground.
‘You have understood nothing, then.’
‘No,’ said Lorenzo, wiping away the blood that trickled from the side of his mouth.
The man allowed himself a laugh, a harsh bark that chilled the blood.
‘You Medici,’ he said. ‘What fools you are! Do you believe this woman poisoned your father?’
As response, Lorenzo spat at him, shocked at how many moves ahead of him his opponents were. It was a particularly bitter pill to swallow.
‘Ah, you’ll have to do better than that if you want to frighten me,’ resumed the soldier. ‘And in any case, you are far from the truth... You miserable pigs!’ He filled the word with all the hatred he could muster. ‘Didn’t you wonder why you managed to work out so easily that it was her?’
‘Kill him,’ said the girl, pointing to Lorenzo. Her eyes blazed with cold fire, as though a possible murder was now the safest way for her to get rid of a troublesome witness.
‘Why, no,’ said the man. He turned back to Lorenzo. ‘You managed it because we allowed you to. There was no poisoning, my lord. We only left the belladonna berries in the bedroom to make you believe there was! Your father died from his illness, and the sole purpose of this charade was to give you a warning: we can get to the Medici whenever we want to, do you understand me? Be very careful, or next time we might really decide to kill you.’
At these words, Lorenzo leapt to his feet, feinted a lunge and then brought his dagger down in one last attempt to wound the man, but the soldier parried the blow with his own knife. The blades ground together, iron against iron; then the soldier freed himself and pointed his dagger, which was much longer than Lorenzo’s, at the young Medici’s throat.
‘This is a duel you have no chance of winning,’ said Schwartz. ‘We will be on our way now, but fear not, Lorenzo de’ Medici, we will meet again. Just pray it isn’t too soon, because the next time I will have to kill you. And believe me, I will.’
And so saying, his dagger still pointed at Lorenzo, the man backed away, clutching Laura’s hand tightly. She did not seem to mind the closeness, though, and as they walked down the alley, Lorenzo was certain he saw her smile.
August 1430
8
An Important Interview
The horses sped along the dirt road. To the right, fields of pale wheat filled the vista as far as the eye could see, while to the left the green foliage of cypresses strained upwards like dark flames.
Cosimo felt the sweat drenching his collar, plastering it to his soaking skin. He spurred on his horse. Lorenzo, on his chestnut mare, could barely keep up with him.
There was no time to lose. He knew that Niccolò da Uzzano had spoken out against the war on Lucca and now that Francesco Sforza was descending the Val di Nievole and crushing Fortebraccio’s men he could no longer put off the decision. But he didn’t want to upset his most committed ally. Niccolò was old and unwell, and tired of these pointless battles. Ignored and dispirited, and with the Albizzis and their followers against him, he had decided to spend the torrid summer days at his villa in the countryside outside Montespertoli, as though to follow in the footsteps of Cincinnatus.
Cosimo used his spurs even more violently and smiled at the splendour of the Florentine countryside while the wind blew gently on his face. His long black hair streamed out behind him like a cloud of ink.
The fields were dotted with the occasional farm, and after taking a narrow lane he found himself before a dark gate facing two guards in leather armour and boots. Each held a long spear and they looked as though they were melting in the searing heat.
Cosimo brought his horse to sudden stop and the animal reared up, raising a cloud of dust when its front hooves fell back to earth.
‘Who goes there?’ asked the guard, half-heartedly holding out his pike.
As the horse snorted, foaming at the mouth from the long ride, Cosimo glared at the soldier.
‘Who?’ he said angrily. ‘Do you not recognize the colours of the Medici?’ And so saying he pointed to the trappings of his steed, which bore the family coat of arms: the six red spheres on a golden background.
The other guard shook his head as though to apologize, and ran a gloved hand over his thick brown moustaches.
‘Forgive him, messer. Our lord Niccolò da Uzzano was hoping to see you. Your visit will be most welcome. Go through the gates and follow the paved road.’
Without further ado, Cosimo set off at a gallop, Lorenzo at his heels. The hooves of their mounts rang on the flagstones while they galloped between myrtle and laurel hedges and bushes full of blackberries.
When they reached the villa, Cosimo leapt down from the saddle and handed his horse’s reins to a groom.
‘Give our horses oats and water. They have earned them.’
A servant welcomed them, and led them inside.
*
‘Please try to understand, Cosimo. The war with Lucca will bring no benefit to our beloved Florence. Rinaldo degli Albizzi is throwing himself into it because he can see no other way than to put weapons in the hands of Niccolò Fortebraccio, who is greedy for booty. He and Palla Strozzi have long been plotting to take Lucca, but this is not the way to achieve prosperity and peace, believe me. We learned how hateful it can be to suffer the impositions of others when we fought against Milan – a war that cost countless florins and led to nothing except the death of our most courageous young people. What, then, would be the benefit of a war against Lucca? Not to mention that Francesco Sforza is currently moving against Fortebraccio – and you know how ruthless and formidable he is.’
Niccolò da Uzzano let his arms drop to his sides. The silver tufts of hair poking out from under his chaperon spoke volumes of his wisdom and fatigue. His purple cloak swung from his shoulders as he restlessly paced the hall with great strides. Cosimo knew perfectly well how much Uzzano wished to keep peace in Florence and how Albizzi, instead, was doing everything in his power to destroy it. First Volterra, then Lucca – Rinaldo seemed to live for war. Fought at the cost of others’ lives, of course.
Cosimo exchanged a glance with Lorenzo.
They had met Uzzano in secret because it was unwise to be seen in the company of one side rather than another, and all Florence knew that Albizzi wanted war and Uzzano wanted peace. On the other hand, Cosimo could only pass on the decision expressed by the Ten of Balia. A decision that he himself had taken care to ensure that they took.
‘We did everything we could, Niccolò. And in any case, the Ten of Balia have decided. On the advice of my people, of course. And you will see that the solution we have reached, and for which I can vouch, is not to be despised. These are grim times and Paolo Guinigi has been overreaching himself lately. You’re right when you say that it would be a mistake to attack Lucca, especially now that Sforza is defending it, but should we just let it go and give up hopes of extending our hegemony? You know how much I detest Rinaldo degli Albizzi but it is also true that if we accept the Milanese intrusion we will soon find ourselves reduced to begging just to stay alive in our own city.’
Niccolò’s eyes f
lickered. He hadn’t missed the implications of Cosimo’s words: the young man might look like his father, but he seemed also to possess a certain duplicity – on the one hand he didn’t want to get involved while on the other he was suggesting going to war.
‘Careful, Cosimo. I know that what you say isn’t far from the truth, but remember that you cannot side with me and with Rinaldo degli Albizzi at the same time, so choose your allies wisely.’
Cosimo sensed the irritation beneath Uzzano’s words. He knew he had to flatter him and allow him to intuit for himself how he intended to proceed and why, but he couldn’t keep him in the dark about his strategy either.
‘Niccolò, I understand you, and believe me: the Medici are your allies and defenders of the peace. And we all know how dangerous Francesco Sforza can be. Milan has already harmed us in the past, and it would be a mistake to let them have Lucca as well. There is no doubt that Sforza will free the city from Fortebraccio’s siege. He has more men and is better armed, and it’s quite likely he’s marching triumphantly towards Lucca right at this moment.’
‘I don’t doubt it – they’re unevenly matched, and if I heard right, Fortebraccio is going to be dismissed from the command.’
This was news to Cosimo, but it was also irrelevant.
‘What I think, Niccolò – and the Ten agree on this – is that we can get rid of Francesco Sforza without a single sword being swung.’
‘It would be an enormous advantage, don’t you agree?’ chimed in Lorenzo, unable to help himself from pointing out the brilliance of the solution they were about to propose.
Uzzano raised an incredulous eyebrow, but Cosimo continued.
‘I don’t think there is any doubt about what the war dogs who lead the mercenaries are after. The problem is that none of us have had any military training, and we have let fighting become a trade. One which is often well paid. Well, that is what I intend to do.’
‘Pay him?’ asked Niccolò.
‘How I get rid of Sforza is my concern. What I want you to understand is that I desire peace and wish to avoid any unnecessary bloodshed. Even more so if those who fight are ultimately doing it for money. And there is no doubt that it is money which drives them.’
The old man sighed.
‘So be it, then. You have my blessing.’
Lorenzo smiled.
‘But remember,’ Niccolò da Uzzano continued, ‘I don’t want to see a single sword swung.’
‘You have my word, do you not? In the name of the friendship that has always united our families.’
Niccolò nodded.
‘Very well then,’ he said, sounding satisfied. ‘You should stay for dinner and rest before returning to Florence. I’ve already had the rooms prepared and I have one of the best partridge pies you’ve ever eaten to offer you.’
Lorenzo didn’t need to be asked twice.
‘I would be delighted,’ he said. ‘The ride here gave me an appetite.’
‘But before you go, my friends, remember. Bargaining with Francesco Sforza will take time. The man is possessed of powerful appetites and ambition. He won’t grant you any favours – you must know this.’
‘I don’t intent to underestimate him, if that is what you’re afraid of, my friend,’ replied Cosimo.
‘You do well to bear that in mind. Otherwise, God have mercy on us all.’
Gloomy and ominous, Niccolò da Uzzano’s words hung in the air.
9
The Battlefield
The blue smoke from the hand cannons rose to the sky, and Neri watched as Francesco Sforza’s cavalry charged headlong towards him. Despite the pounding of the mortars, they were approaching rapidly, and when they arrived it would be the end. He braced himself for the impact. Suddenly, the frothing mouth of a horse appeared in front of him and the blade of a sword was swinging down over his head. Neri raised his Zweihänder sword, and blue sparks flew from the clanging metal. Somehow, he managed to remain standing, but he saw many of his comrades falling around him.
The horseman who had attacked him rode on, but then pulled his glistening cinnamon-coloured mount to a halt. The animal was restive, pawing the air with its front legs before turning back to gallop at him.
Neri didn’t know what to do. He was scared to death and he could feel urine gushing down his legs, soaking his breeches. When the man was a few feet away from him, he suddenly stopped his horse and, in a single agile movement, swung himself down from the saddle, leaving the animal to run on.
The man’s feet hit the ground, raising a cloud of brown dust, and he swung his blade in a single, fluid motion that for a moment left Neri completely paralysed. Eyes transfixed, the boy raised his two-handed sword and put himself on guard, somehow parrying the thrust, but the violence of the assault and the weight of his own weapon were such that he fell sprawling to the ground.
His mouth was full of dust, but there was no time to waste. In an instant he was back on his feet just in time to fend off a hail of blows. Neri had the distinct feeling that this accursed horseman was playing with him – amusing himself by waiting for him to make his first mistake so that he could skewer him like a thrush.
The battlefield had become a chaotic mayhem of shields, iron and leather, and he struggled to imagine how he would be able to get himself out of this situation. Someone banged into his shoulder, and then suddenly his opponent was back again. Neri parried, but when he tried to attack in his turn, the man dodged, avoiding his lunge and swinging at him again.
There was a sharp, poisonous pain and, suddenly, Neri could no longer feel his left leg. He felt something flooding his thigh and barely had time to look down to see his grey breeches growing dark. The liquid soaking the pearl-coloured cloth of his garment was the colour of wine.
He collapsed to his knees. The slash in his thigh was so deep that he couldn’t understand how his leg had not yet detached itself from the rest of his body. Blood continued to pump from the wound, and he cried out in pain. And as he knelt there, helpless and drenched in gore and sweat in the middle of that battleground, he saw the horseman’s sword coming down upon him like the Day of Judgement.
Francesco Sforza swung his sword down diagonally and the blade bit into flesh, sending the soldier’s severed head flying from his neck and rolling away. A geyser of blood sprayed from the decapitated body and what was left of the Florentine warrior struck the ground of Lunigiana with a thud.
Francesco Sforza raised the visor of his helmet. Around him, the soldiers of Niccolò Fortebraccio were taking to their heels, the horses and foot soldiers retreating as they tried to avoid the devastating impact of his men.
He spat on the ground. It was a dirty war, as he knew better than anyone else. There was no honour to be gained from it, just money, and the small change he had been offered by the Duke of Milan and Guinigi of Lucca certainly wasn’t worth the endless struggle to take the city in which he and his men were engaged.
But orders were orders, and Francesco had to carry out the contract he had agreed to, otherwise he might as well look for a new occupation.
He threw his helmet to the ground, freeing his brown hair, which was wet with perspiration.
Florence must be weary if she sends young boys against us, he thought bitterly. The one he had just killed couldn’t have been older than sixteen, and it was obvious that he’d had no training in the profession of arms. His fate had been sealed from the moment he had tried to fight back under the blazing sun, clumsily swinging away with a sword that was larger than he was.
This damn armour was suffocating him. The heat showed no sign of abating and sweat was streaming down his tension-lined face.
There was no honour here, he thought. And he was damnably tired. He hadn’t washed for days and he needed a bath. He tried to force himself to look on the bright side: now, at least, he would enter Lucca as a hero and Guinigi would treat him with respect. He would eat until he was fit to burst and then mount a couple of shapely peasant girls.
He smiled at that
thought and looked up to see his man Bartolomeo D’Alviano trudging towards him between the dead bodies whose blood drenched the battlefield.
‘Captain,’ muttered Bartolomeo, breathless from the exertion of the battle, ‘they’re retreating.’
‘I can see that for myself, my good D’Alviano,’ replied Sforza, unable to hide his satisfied grin. ‘We have done a marvellous job today. I doubt that dog Niccolò Fortebraccio will show his face around here anytime soon.’
‘I’m sure he will not, my captain.’
D’Alviano also smiled, exposing a mouthful of black, rotten teeth, consumed by wine and neglect.
‘Are you all in one piece, at least?’
‘A couple of scratches, but nothing to worry about. I certainly wouldn’t accuse Fortebraccio of having fielded an impregnable defence.’
‘Not really, old man. Had I known, I wouldn’t have bothered wearing my mail,’ joked Sforza.
‘Yes,’ sighed D’Alviano, ‘it’s so hot.’
‘Anyhow, we’ve done it. Any idea of the losses?’
‘Too early to say, my lord, but I think I can say that this little skirmish has turned out to be a total success.’
‘I think so too. That being the case, let’s bury our dead and loot theirs – what’s left of them. In the meantime, I’ll lead the vanguard to the outskirts of Lucca and await your arrival there, and then we’ll enter the city.’
Bartolomeo D’Alviano nodded and saluted him, then returned to his men to carry out his orders.
Francesco Sforza called for his horse and climbed back into the saddle.
Life wasn’t so bad after all, he thought. With a little luck, in two days’ time he might even be sleeping in a bed with clean sheets.
10
The Honour of Blood
‘But don’t you understand, I want to fight!’
‘Don’t you care about me at all? Sforza has gone to war against Fortebraccio and soon he will liberate Lucca. They say that whoever stands in his way is swept away like an autumn leaf.’
Medici ~ Ascendancy Page 4
