Medici ~ Ascendancy

by Matteo Strukul

  Ferracin dropped to his knees and collapsed face forward.

  The man behind him was wrapped in a dark hooded cloak and dressed in the uniform with blue-striped sleeves of gold of the guards of the Palazzo Ducale. He wore long boots up to his knees and a steel breastplate bearing the Lion of San Marco – the symbol of the Most Serene Republic. But when he lowered his hood, Laura recognized him immediately: those icy blue eyes, the thick blond moustaches and the reddish-blond hair left no doubt.

  ‘You’re here...’ she murmured. ‘You’re alive... Have you come for me?’ Her voice trembled, because she could scarcely believe this miracle was possible.

  ‘I would die for you, mein Schatz.’

  Laura burst into tears and, for the first time, Reinhardt embraced her.

  ‘S-say it...’ she murmured. ‘S-say it again...’

  ‘Later,’ he replied, ‘there isn’t time now. Put this on, quickly. If we are discovered, it’s all over.’

  From under his cloak he pulled out a bundle that he unfolded on the wooden bench of the cell, revealing a pair of boots, a guard uniform and a hooded cloak.

  ‘With a little luck,’ he said, ‘it might even work.’

  She dressed quickly, tying back her hair and lowering the hood over her eyes.

  ‘Damn it all,’ muttered Reinhardt.

  ‘What is it?’ she asked.

  ‘You look beautiful even like this...’

  Laura smiled. She wiped away her tears and said nothing.

  ‘Now,’ continued Reinhardt, taking a large set of keys from Marco Ferracin’s belt, ‘follow me and make sure you stay by my side. Let me do the talking and keep your face down. And let’s hope we don’t meet anyone.’

  ‘What if we do?’

  ‘I’ll take care of it, mein Schatz.’

  So saying, Reinhardt opened the door and they left the cell. They found themselves in a long corridor on to which the other doors of the many cells in that wing of the building opened, the torch flames providing a path of flickering light. They were in the dungeons on the ground floor of the Palazzo Ducale, very close to the waters of the lagoon. They climbed a short narrow staircase at the end of the corridor and emerged into the main courtyard where guards were stationed in pairs.

  Laura at his side, Schwartz moved quickly. They strode forward boldly, as though perfectly at ease, towards the two soldiers guarding the main door. As they approached, the guards began walking to meet them.

  Schwartz positioned himself in front.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ one of the guards asked.

  ‘We’ve been told a cargo’s arrived. We need to check it.’

  ‘Ah, really?’

  ‘Lieutenant Ludovico Mocenigo of the Venetian army asked me to see to it personally.’

  ‘Are you sure of that? Do you have written orders?’

  ‘No I do not. But I have no intention of being taken to task for doing my duty so I ask you: would you kindly come with us? The boat is waiting for us at the pier, just out there.’

  And as he finished speaking, Schwartz continued to walk towards the door, trying to reduce as much as possible the distance that separated them from freedom.

  He knew that his fate and that of Laura depended on how brazenly he was able to lie. Of course, he could engage in a duel, but within a few moments a whole garrison would be upon them, not to mention that it wouldn’t take them long to figure out who the person beside him actually was once her hood was taken off.

  He therefore decided to carry on pretending, at least until they were on the deck of the boat waiting out there to rescue them.

  He proceeded through the Porta del Frumento, Laura by his side and the two guards behind them. They walked out on to the jetty that gave access to the pier and from there Schwartz quickly boarded the boat.

  Laura and the guards followed him. The more talkative of the two soldiers was about to reopen his trap, so Schwartz decided to silence him.

  ‘Isaac,’ he said, clapping his hands, ‘please show us the goods that Lieutenant Ludovico Mocenigo of the Venetian army has asked us to inspect.’

  A black-eyed man with an aquiline nose – a Jewish merchant – came out to meet them, holding a canvas sack in his hands.

  ‘Let’s see,’ said Schwartz as he pretended to inspect the sack; then, turning to the two guards, he added, ‘See how wonderful it is, my friends.’

  More out of curiosity than anything else, the two bent forward to see what it contained, and Schwartz pulled out two daggers hidden under his cloak and, with a double upward slash, slit both their throats.

  Silent and sudden, the blades flashed and both guards gave strangled gurgles. Schwartz grabbed them as they collapsed and lowered them to the deck of the boat, ensuring that it looked as though they were all sitting together, leaning against the gunwale. Meanwhile, Isaac had untied the mooring line and was using the oar to push the boat away from the mooring dolphin and the small pier.

  On the pier, someone raised a lamp. ‘Who’s there?’ shouted a voice.

  Schwartz stood up. ‘The guards of the Most Serene Republic,’ he shouted back. ‘We are accompanying this merchant to the arsenal. He has weapons for the Venetian army aboard.’

  ‘Very good,’ came back the voice of the other.

  After that the voices were silent and the only noise to be heard was the slow lapping of the lagoon waters against the side of the boat.

  As soon as they were far enough from the Doge’s Palace, Reinhardt pushed the dead guards overboard.

  The boat’s lamp lit Laura’s face, and Schwartz saw that it was glowing.

  ‘I love you,’ she said, ‘but I don’t know where the feeling will lead me.’

  He stared into her beautiful eyes and could see she had decided to trust him. He knew that wherever they were going would be no land of milk and honey, but it was also the only possible way for them to start a new life. He cared too much for her to keep the truth from her.

  ‘I’m sorry, but a future full of uncertainty awaits us. Can you ever forgive me for this?’

  ‘As long as I am with you, Reinhardt, I can face anything.’

  ‘I promise you that I’ll stay by your side. But I can’t promise to protect you from suffering.’

  ‘My life has always been a mixture of pain and pleasure – I don’t understand why and I can’t escape it. Yet I doubt I would be able to enjoy it if it were not.’

  He smiled bitterly, thinking how he too had accepted that cup, and every day drunk from it a dose of bitter poison that over time had drained his soul. Yet again, he had lent his services to a lord who was even worse than the previous one because, in his heart of hearts, he feared he had no other choice.

  ‘I’m a coward,’ he said as the swaying boat crossed the black waters of the lagoon.

  ‘You’re no coward,’ she said with an assurance that sounded almost like a pardon for his past behaviour. ‘Who else would have come to free me?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ replied Reinhardt, ‘but your freedom is already curtailed by a new slavery, my dear: we are now both the property of the Duke of Milan.’

  There, he thought – he had said it, and the confession made him feel better. For the moment at least.

  She did not seem particularly upset.

  ‘Is that all?’ she asked. ‘Did you really think that would frighten me?’

  ‘No, not really,’ he said, ‘though the man is a lunatic.’

  ‘I have no doubt that he is. But people like us find the source of our lives in lunacy. Pleasure and pain are the very essence of our life – we cannot give them up, because the absence of one or the other would deprive us of the energy to feed our sick need for self-destruction.’

  Reinhardt said nothing as he contemplated the truth of her words.

  Without another word, he took Laura in his arms and kissed her, savouring her soft and fragrant lips and the accursed innocence that lodged within them. In spite of everything, there was a candour in her that bewitched him,
and made him a slave to her beauty and to the long, dark shadow in which she had chosen to live.

  Just like him.

  He kissed her again, hungrily; then he gazed at the irresistible sweep of her neck, her high cheekbones and the wonderful cleavage of her bosom. He bared her shoulders and covered them with kisses, abandoning himself in the hope it would erase for a moment the guilt that devoured him.

  Could they have both fled at that moment? But where? The duke’s men were hidden below deck – men who were to escort them on this escape from Venice but who would hunt them down and kill them if they reneged on their word.

  He smiled ruefully.

  Being Rinaldo degli Albizzi’s man had deprived him of his freedom to decide his own future, which was all the more peculiar given that he was a mercenary.

  Soon, Laura too would discover how difficult it was to serve Filippo Maria Visconti, to whom Rinaldo had entrusted his life and with it that of his precious possessions: Reinhardt Schwartz and Laura Ricci.

  Rinaldo had sold them to save his life, and in the hope of constructing an uncertain future for himself – one which also contained Laura and Reinhardt’s hopes.

  Reinhardt shook his head mournfully; then he put aside his dark thoughts and surrendered, once again, to Laura’s caresses.

  Sooner or later he would have to tell her everything, but for the moment he found he couldn’t summon up the courage.

  September 1436

  39

  Filippo Maria Visconti

  Lying comfortably in the huge stone basin, his flabby white flesh rendered translucent by the veil of clear water, Filippo Maria Visconti looked at him in that hateful, infuriating way of his.

  Rinaldo degli Albizzi felt as though he might vomit at any moment, but made a supreme effort to suppress his nausea. How could the Duke of Milan have been reduced to this? With that jutting forehead and that neck wrapped in rolls of rosy fat, he looked like a pig that had been washed for slaughter. What a disgrace the man was!

  And while he had been abandoned by all, that giant ball of lard dominated the Duchy of Milan and had the power to grant him the men and weapons which could change the course of history – if he only chose to.

  Filippo Maria looked at him with his porcine eyes and laughed.

  Rinaldo knew that his position was a desperate one. Two years ago he had escaped to Milan in an attempt to win the support of the duke, as everybody – even those fanatical Florentines, who had vowed to see him dead at all costs – knew.

  He had also known that if he was hoping for the duke’s help he would have to give him something in exchange, because the man was as greedy and shrewd as he was awful to look at. Rinaldo had in mind a pair of assets which were of extraordinary importance to him: what money that he had left and two people who, given the man’s depraved nature, might be worth their weight in gold to him.

  The duke’s perversions were as well known as his sexual appetites, which encompassed both women and men. The orgies held in his apartments were as legendary as the fits of rage which were surely the result of the hereditary illnesses that had marked his life since childhood.

  For that reason, he had needed Reinhardt Schwartz and Laura Ricci.

  Rinaldo had known that if he handed them over to the mercy of Visconti he would have nothing left, but if he waited – or, worse still, refused to let the duke take his best people – what exactly would he have achieved?

  Nothing at all.

  And so he had decided he might as well risk it.

  When he had fallen into disgrace, his Swiss mercenary had been forced to make the same choice. Schwartz had wound up injured and covered in mud in the waters of the Venetian canals, and had only survived thanks to Rinaldo’s men. He could have offered his services to another gentleman, but once you had accepted the Albizzis’ coin, it was no small task to find another employer, even less so when you had been seriously injured.

  When Rinaldo had been expelled from Florence and had settled in Milan, Schwartz had willingly agreed to put himself in the pay of Filippo Maria Visconti to aid his lord. The choice was certainly not the worst available, and had allowed Rinaldo to leave with a handful of gold and a few soldiers. Schwartz had immediately made an impression upon Filippo Maria, who appreciated above all else a man who knew how to handle a sword – even more so in a period like those last two years, when he had found himself fighting for the succession of the Kingdom of Naples and at the same time the Republics of Florence and Venice.

  Schwartz’s worth on the battlefield had soon been proved when he had gone to fight under the colours of the Visconti viper – the biscione – and he had found a way to finance his sortie to Veneto to free Laura. The mission had not been without costs, though, and the noble Visconti had thus adopted the role which suited him best: that of the usurer.

  As pledge for funding her release, Filippo had imposed the conditio sine qua non that Laura become one of his favourites.

  Rinaldo had made sure to describe her in detail, praising her skill as a whore, a perfumer and a poisoner, and this mixture of talents had ignited Filippo Maria Visconti’s passion. Laura, though, had used her diabolical feline intelligence to carve out a different position for herself. She had remained a courtesan but to the role of court poisoner she had added that of fortune teller, and the duke never failed to consult her and her cards about any important questions concerning his future.

  Rinaldo had sold his two most precious assets because they had been all he’d had to trade with, but both Laura and Schwartz had come out of the transaction remarkably well. Although they had each in their way become Visconti’s property, they were much better off than Rinaldo. So there he was, like a prisoner in the duke’s palace, imploring his help in the war against the Medici.

  And there was the duke before him: a man immersed in his own blubber and swimming through the water with lazy strokes while he waited with distaste to hear him beg.

  Rinaldo shook his head.

  ‘Your excellency,’ he said, the word feeling like blasphemy in his mouth, ‘I was wondering when we might consider attacking the Medici and Florence so as to bring my city back under the aegis of Milan.’

  Filippo Maria pursed his lips and spat out a jet of gurgling water. He said nothing for a long time. He was resting after the labours of the day; why should he hasten to answer that inept exile who had managed to lose himself a city? Visconti did not hold Albizzi in high esteem – as soon as the fool had arrived with his handful of rags, he had started asking for favours. Yes, he had brought a little gold with him, and was so consumed with rage and envy that, with a few horsemen and a hundred infantrymen, he might perhaps actually succeed in doing something useful – something, for example, like taking back control of Florence. If, of course, the mercenaries were led by Niccolò Piccinino and that bloodthirsty man of Albizzi’s... What was his name?

  He considered the question while the warm water caressed his soft white skin. How wonderful it was. He would have liked to float there all day watching the columns of blue steam rising from the surface of the water... What the hell was the man called? He had a strange name, something Swiss...

  Schwartz! That was it. With those two at the head of a handful of men, even that fool Albizzi would be able to bring Florence – full of perverts and swine – back under the Milanese yoke. And that would certainly be helpful.

  He took another couple of strokes before finally deciding to be charitable and answer Albizzi’s question.

  ‘My dear Albizzi,’ he said distractedly, ‘I will see what I can do. For the moment my main concern is the Genoese question. The Republic has not looked favourably upon my unsuccessful alliance with Alfonso of Aragon and therefore, as you well know, if I don’t ravage Liguria I shall end up finding the Genoese on my doorstep. Fortunately for me, Niccolò Piccinino knows what he is about.’

  ‘Very well, excellency, but you did promise...’

  Heavens above, the man was intolerable! What on earth did he want? He didn’t h
ave a penny to his name, he was devoid of men and means, he came asking for his help and then wanted to dictate the times and the ways in which he, the Duke of Milan, was to give them to him? Had the world gone mad? He had no intention of allowing that spineless nobody to vex him. What a cheek, insisting like that, he thought, puffing in annoyance. To hell with him. But then suddenly he smiled – why let his day be ruined by that pathetic man?

  ‘Patience, my friend, everything in good time! Perhaps you do not like my hospitality?’

  If Albizzi were critical of his conduct, let him say so. He would make him regret having been born.

  ‘Your excellency, that is in no way the reason for my question.’

  I should hope not, Filippo Maria thought.

  ‘But I am sure you can understand how eager I am to return to Florence.’

  What a bore, thought the duke. That was all he seemed able to say. If that was the case, perhaps he would have done better to avoid being thrown out of his city in the first place.

  He shook his head again.

  ‘My dear Albizzi, I understand perfectly, though it was certainly not my idea for you to lose control of a city which you held in your fist. My God, you had even managed to rid yourselves of those accursed Medici! And now, instead, we find ourselves here.’ Filippo Maria approached the edge of the large stone basin and attempted to lift himself above the rim. To his frustration, he failed.

  ‘By God, what hellish tub is this? What are you doing standing there?’ he shouted to Albizzi, a flash of rage lighting up his face. ‘Call that idiot Ghislieri and give me a hand, otherwise I will be stuck here soaking until morning. What are you waiting for? By God, my skin is all wrinkled!’

  Filippo Maria looked at his hands in terror. How would he manage with his fingers in that condition? They were horrible to look at. Damn it, he had stayed in the water for too long again.

  Albizzi would have liked to drown him in that tub, but he concealed his embarrassment with a cough and called for Ghislieri. Tall and lanky in his dark-blue tunic, the duke’s secretary appeared on the instant.