Medici ~ Ascendancy

by Matteo Strukul

  ‘Well, you will be glad to hear that, despite finding your brother guilty, the supreme magistracy has issued the penalty of exile.’

  When he heard those words, Lorenzo felt the ice in his heart begin to melt. It might not be a complete victory but, all things considered, it was still a victory. He thanked God for the decision.

  And at the same instant, he realized that those words condemned him too.

  ‘But you should know,’ continued Neri, ‘that the punishment also extends to you.’

  ‘Just as I expected,’ said Lorenzo.

  ‘I can well imagine.’

  ‘The sentence is also imposed on you, Puccio Pucci,’ added Captain Manfredi.

  ‘Very good,’ said Puccio without batting an eyelid.

  ‘What I would ask of you now is to communicate to your men the decision of the Eight of Guard and of the Gonfaloniere of Justice,’ said Neri de’ Bardi, ‘then to dismiss the troops and surrender yourself to the captain of the guard who will escort you to the border of the Republic. Your brother, Cosimo, awaits you there. From that moment what happens to you is no longer our business. You have been condemned to exile in the city of Padua.’

  Lorenzo closed his eyes. They had condemned him to abandon his city. Forever. But it was a price that he was happy to pay if it allowed him to save his life and that of his brother.

  ‘So be it,’ he answered. ‘I will do as you say.’

  And without another word he gave a nod and set off towards his men, Puccio close behind. They couldn’t claim to be happy but at least they had ensured that Cosimo’s life was saved and that they had not wasted the lives of their companions in fratricidal battle.

  Florence, though, was now in the hands of their bitterest enemies.

  What, wondered Lorenzo, would become of their beloved city?

  January 1434

  33

  Venice

  My dearest, infinite love,

  Today the snow has fallen and covers the fields and the bare trees. The cold here in Cafaggiolo is truly bitter and winter seems to have frozen life itself. I miss you as always, just as one misses a piece of one’s heart, but today even more than usual. All is silent, all is still, and the countryside seems buried beneath this white blanket. A deathly silence hangs over everything, and not simply because of winter but because the gloomy bark and the twisted branches of the trees seem somehow to reflect the nightmare that has descended upon Florence.

  Since you and Lorenzo left, Albizzi and Strozzi have become even more high-handed. The common people suffer the cruellest miseries and the blackest humiliations and the people die of hardship in the streets. The nobles do nothing but tax them to finance their bloody war against Lucca and to maintain a lifestyle that is shamefully lavish and contemptuous of the poverty and pain of those of lower standing. It seems almost that they are pleased with the deep, bloody furrow they are ploughing for themselves, but they do so foolishly, since they seem not to notice the effects it has, day after day, upon their support.

  Giovanni de’ Benci was here a little while ago to ensure that everything was proceeding for the best. He is a dear man, and seeing him has helped me to bear the pain of this separation a little better. He says that the business of the bank has not suffered in the slightest because of your exile and that, thanks to the trust built up with them over time, your customers hope you will soon be able to return for the good of Florence.

  I know that I must be strong, and I do try, as far as I am able, to be an example for everyone, even though – if truth be told – I fear I am not very good at it. Ginevra is much stronger than I and I think that it will be entirely thanks to her if we do not die while we wait for you.

  In any case, Giovanni says that the policies of Rinaldo degli Albizzi and Palla Strozzi are perfect for hastening your return. He predicts it may occur within a few months.

  I hope that he is right, though the mere thought of not seeing you for the next few months torments me. I know that for my own sake and for the sake of Ginevra we must stay here and wait, but the delay feels more and more like some awful torture.

  I hope that everything proceeds for the best in Venice. I know from your last letter that you were working with Michelozzo on the design of a new library for the monastery of San Giorgio. We are all very proud of you and had no doubts about the fact that you would do wonderful things in Venice too.

  Sometimes I am amazed at the generosity of your soul and at your willingness to help. I believe these are the virtues which make me fall in love with you afresh with each new day that comes. Yes, you read right, my love: despite the endless days and the cold winter, every morning my love for you continues to blossom.

  Stay always as you are and, please, tell Piero not to get himself into trouble.

  Giovanni sends greetings and embraces you. He grows better and better at arithmetic and excels at hunting.

  I must go now, but I hope to write to you again next week.

  I love you.

  Infinitely and hopelessly yours,

  Contessina

  With the back of his hand, Cosimo wiped away a tear. He wasn’t easily moved, but Contessina seemed to know exactly which words to use to touch his heart. And who would know them better than she? Her passionate style of writing brought her so close that, even though January seemed to have turned the lagoon of Venice into a single slab of ice, his heart blazed and its ardour burned throughout his body.

  He looked at the fireplace: the long orange flames quivered uneasily. Shuddering, he pulled his fur-trimmed cloak tighter around his shoulders, then stood up and looked out of the wide window.

  Outside he saw the Grand Canal and the black gondolas that furrowed the cold waters mottled by sheets of ice; the red lights of the boats’ lanterns dotted the liquid mirror of the canal, which was now taking on the shades of evening.

  The patrician buildings, their awe-inspiring facades towering over the water, left him almost speechless with awe. In the distance, he saw the red roofs of the smaller houses and the narrow streets that opened on to the canal, forming an endless maze all linked together by the humped backs of the bridges and the small squares with their wells.

  Cosimo had learned to love that city almost as much as Florence. The doge, Francesco Foscari, had welcomed him with affection and generosity, confirming that the Most Serene Republic was a precious ally for his family and ready to support the Medici in their eventual return to Florence – and was, indeed, hoping for it, so as to confirm an alliance which after their exile had been feared broken. Perhaps forever.

  Cosimo turned as Lorenzo came in.

  He had let his hair and beard grow and he wore an indigo doublet and a cloak of the same colour edged with fur. His face was red from the cold.

  ‘Good grief,’ he said, ‘it’s nice to be warm again. The lagoon is freezing over. If it carries on like this it will be a serious problem.’

  ‘A letter and a crate of wine arrived for you.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Lucky you,’ said Cosimo with a smile. ‘Ginevra offers you a few bottles of good Chianti as support, not just words.’

  ‘Contessina is more inclined to poetry and news,’ said Lorenzo with a smirk.

  ‘You can say that again. There was another letter today. I’m glad to receive them, of course, but I wouldn’t mind receiving a few bottles of wine or hams from my beloved homeland once in a while.’

  ‘You’re not envious, are you?’

  ‘Not at all, because what is yours is also mine,’ answered Cosimo. And so saying, he took a bottle from the crate and set about uncorking it.

  ‘You swine,’ laughed Lorenzo. ‘What about the party?’

  ‘Which party?’

  ‘Loredana Grimani’s party! Don’t tell me that you’ve forgotten she invited us?’

  ‘Of course I haven’t, I simply don’t want to go. I’d much rather enjoy this good wine...’

  ‘Are you joking, Cosimo? All the Venetian patricians will be there. And so,
apparently, will Francesco Squarcione!’

  ‘The Paduan collector and painter?’

  ‘In person.’ Lorenzo had mentioned Squarcione deliberately, since he knew that his brother loved spending time with the acquaintances he had made in Padua.

  ‘Very well, then. But first, let us at least sample the wine,’ insisted Cosimo, who was about to pour the Chianti into two glasses.

  ‘There’s no time; we’re already late. Come on – put your cloak on and let’s get going. It’ll take a while to get there. I haven’t yet learned to navigate this city.’

  ‘Very well,’ said Cosimo, raising his hands in surrender, ‘you win.’

  ‘Apparently there will also be beautiful women.’

  ‘You know I don’t care about that.’

  ‘I know, I know – you’re a faithful husband. Given that it is traditional at parties not to reveal one’s identity, though, I shall take the masks.’

  ‘It’s as though carnival lasts the whole year around in Venice...’

  ‘You’re right, it is,’ said Lorenzo, taking two large white masks from a bag. ‘Here you are.’

  ‘What are they?’

  ‘They’re called bautte.’

  ‘They look like the masks the plague doctors wear.’

  ‘For the love of God, Cosimo, you are in a grim mood.’

  ‘Never mind. It’s just that those things give me a bad feeling.’

  ‘Oh come on, let’s get going.’

  ‘Very well.’

  Cosimo fastened his heavy cloak around him and followed his brother, who handed him one of the strange and disquieting masks.

  ‘Try it on,’ he insisted.

  ‘All right, all right.’

  Before leaving the house, Cosimo put on the mask to see how it looked. He didn’t like the face that gazed back at him from the mirror at all. There was something distorted and unpleasant about it. He couldn’t have said what, but he almost had the impression that the white bautta would bring him misfortune.

  But, not wishing to spoil Lorenzo’s evening, he kept his thoughts to himself.

  34

  The Incident

  Laura was satisfied: the wig with its long mahogany-red curls was perfect and so was the mole she had applied next to her mouth, which highlighted the curve of her smile.

  The magnificent aquamarine dress she wore contrasted perfectly with the wig, and she had ensured that its neckline was low and wide enough to leave nothing to the imagination. The tight bodice had an inner lining containing a short dagger which was perfect for what she had in mind.

  To hide her face, she wore a moretta, one of the small black masks worn by Venetian ladies.

  She let her eyes wander across the splendid halls of the building and its beguiling architecture, the tapestry-covered walls that rivalled those of the most beautiful Florentine residences and the exquisite coffered ceilings in carved wood, decorated in gold.

  The room was crowded with the cream of Venetian aristocracy, and echoed with the chattering and vivacious laughter of the ladies and the jokes of the gentlemen, who included some of the city’s most illustrious personalities. Francesco Barbaro, Leonardo Bruni and Guarino Veronese had all been invited by Loredana Grimani, a noblewoman who loved to surround herself with the most learned humanists and philosophers. Her salon of intellectuals was well known and, as was already the case with the other arts, had become a remarkable meeting place for Venetian and Florentine thinkers. At that moment, the two cities enjoyed a formidable alliance, and this was another reason why Laura’s trip to Venice had to seem not only carefree but also above suspicion.

  She must in any case be wary of danger, since that magnificent patina of splendour and opulence concealed myriad political intrigues as individuals sought to increase their own power. The Republic in Florence was being fought over by the Medici and the Albizzi, but Venice was more complex, with a greater number of patrician families engaged in a fight to the death to obtain the doge’s favours and take possession of the most prestigious political and judicial positions. Laura would have to be wary of the many spies who certainly crowded those rooms and who were ready to intervene and report to the Ten, the supreme magistrates of the Serenissima – the Most Serene Republic – who were legendary for their cruelty and ruthlessness.

  Somewhere, Reinhardt Schwartz was watching over her and would ensure her escape. Or so, at least, she hoped.

  *

  ‘I’ve forgotten something,’ said Cosimo.

  They had already gone a couple of streets. Banks of fog floated in the air, adding to the sense of mystery and foreboding in the night, and Lorenzo only half heard what his brother was saying.

  ‘If you go back, have you any idea how to get to the Palazzo Grimani?’

  ‘I’ll have Toni bring me in the gondola.’

  Lorenzo shook his head.

  ‘What the hell have you forgotten, exactly?’

  ‘A gift for Francesco Squarcione.’

  ‘It’s my own stupid fault for mentioning his name,’ said Lorenzo. ‘Very well then, do what you want. I’ll be waiting for you at the party.’

  ‘I’ll be there soon, I promise.’

  ‘You’d better be.’

  And so saying, Lorenzo continued on to Loredana Grimani’s palazzo. He hated arriving late, and the party had already begun.

  He couldn’t understand why, but it seemed almost as if Cosimo were doing everything possible to ruin the evening. But Lorenzo wanted to enjoy himself, and he was not going to let himself be put off by his brother’s gloomy mood. To hell with him. They had worked hard since they had arrived there, and the Venice branch of the Medici bank had taken up all his time. Along with Francesco Sassetti, its steward, Lorenzo had reviewed the plan of investments, had carefully updated and partly changed the cipher and had recovered credit for over four thousand ducats of silver.

  That evening he just wanted to spend his time surrounded by wit, good wine and – why not – perhaps a little risqué conversation with some charming lady. Innocent entertainments, nothing too serious or demanding. He had absolutely no intention of getting himself into trouble.

  *

  Rebecca had noticed the glasses full of red wine. The two brothers had been so busy teasing one another that they had forgotten to drink it.

  She had worked all day and was tired and thirsty. It would be nice to drink something strong. She had been staring at that ruby-coloured liquid in the marvellous crystal glasses for quite a while.

  She knew she shouldn’t, but if she took a sip from one of the glasses, no one would ever find out – and even if they did, it was a risk she was willing to take.

  She approached the table, picked up one of the glasses, raised it to her lips and took one long swallow, then another, and another. It really was exquisite, she thought, licking her lips. She was alone in the house, though, so who would notice? She savoured its heady flavour, but after a few seconds began to detect a strange note in that harmony of aromas which she hadn’t noticed immediately – something sharp and crooked and out of place.

  A few moments later, the air around her seemed to tremble and she felt dizzy. She gasped and grabbed the table, clutching at the tablecloth of Flanders linen and dragging it along with her as she fell to the floor.

  The goblets and the bottle fell to the floor with her and shattered, the sound of breaking glass making sinister echoes and the wine flooding the tiles of Venetian terrazzo. Rebecca stretched out her arms but could not get up – she had completely lost control of her hands, and her fingers found themselves among the sharp shards of glass. Her blood began to flow, mingling with the wine.

  She felt her vision dulling just as someone shouted her name and she raised her hands as though to protect herself, because she knew she had been discovered. Something seemed to be biting at her bowels. She felt a stabbing pain and in her mouth there was the bitter taste of blood. It felt as though something dense, something solid, was suffocating her. She coughed and spat and tried onc
e more to get to her feet, but realized that she would never manage it.

  Someone took her by the shoulders and embraced her tightly.

  Rebecca turned to see who it was but could not distinguish the man’s features. Her vision was blurred and even the smallest movement caused her unspeakable pain.

  She should never have touched that wine, she thought. It was a just punishment for having failed in her duties.

  Tears began to stream down her face. She cried, because for the first time in her life she had been dishonest, and dying with a feeling of inadequacy and guilt made the moment even more bitter.

  But now it was too late.

  35

  Death in Venice

  ‘Rebecca!’ Cosimo was shouting.

  All around her were fragments of shattered glass and as he watched, Rebecca’s eyes glazed over and she clasped her hands to her stomach as though something were devouring her. Bloody from the large splinters which had pierced her flesh, her fingers clawed at the fabric of her dress like those of a blind man.

  The wine! The wine from Ginevra! The wine they had never drunk!

  The bottle had smashed into a thousand pieces, as had the blown-glass goblets from Murano, and the mess of shattered glass and ruby-coloured Chianti covering the floor pointed Cosimo to the only possible explanation.

  ‘Poison!’

  He could barely believe it.

  ‘Rebecca!’ he shouted again.

  He repeated her name one, two, three times, but the woman was no longer capable of answering. Her lips were covered with blood-specked foam and her dull eyes said more than any words.

  Cosimo picked her up and placed her gently on the sofa. And in that moment, he understood. He raced out of the door, slamming it behind him.

  Lorenzo! They wanted to kill him and Lorenzo!

  Albizzi hadn’t forgiven him and his brother for being spared and his assassins had followed them here, all the way to Venice. Since he hadn’t managed to have them sentenced to death he had decided to snatch their lives away in another manner.