Medici ~ Ascendancy

by Matteo Strukul

  ‘Hurry!’ thundered Rinaldo. ‘Call two guards and help his excellency out of the water.’

  Ghislieri wasted no time and, a moment later, two guards were grabbing Filippo Maria Visconti by his arms and hips and hoisting him with superhuman effort over the stone edge of the tub.

  Ghislieri in the meantime had taken care to welcome him into the soft embrace of a bath towel. The duke slipped his dripping feet into comfortable velvet slippers and then spat, making sure he displayed all his disgust.

  ‘You could have helped, Albizzi. Acting so superior despite being little more than an exile does not become you, my friend. And then you demand that I help you. I advise you to show a little more solicitude in the future if you truly want my support. For the moment, I will say only that the road which leads to Florence is long and your behaviour is doing nothing to shorten it. You’re a fool – and a haughty one at that. True, you once brought me two excellent servants, but what they have accomplished these past two years is due more to their merit than yours. Indeed, it remains a mystery to me how you managed to choose them so well in the first place.’

  ‘Your excellency, I called for help immediately—’

  ‘Of course, of course,’ interrupted the duke. That unpleasant grin appeared once again on his fat face. ‘And thus, instead of holding out a hand to help you, I will do as you did: I will speak to your servants – who, moreover, now belong to me. I am sure they will be able to further your interests, which may, incidentally, also be mine. But they will do so as and when I tell them. Until then, my advice is to start getting your own hands dirty or I swear you will remain in Milan until the end of your days.’

  And without another word, the duke shuffled off, dripping and pale, leaving Rinaldo standing alone by the large stone basin.

  Albizzi stared at the furious face which glared back at him from the water and watched its eyes fill with rage. His hands clenched into fists until the knuckles went white.

  It was so frustrating. How much was he supposed to humble himself to get the man’s support? He, whose name alone had once been enough to terrify all Florence. He, who belonged to one of history’s most noble families. He, who had put Volterra, Lucca and many other cities to the sword. He, who had driven the Medici from the Palazzo della Signoria.

  And now here he was staring into the water, filthy with the sweat of that degenerate who ordered him about.

  How he would have liked to slit Filippo Maria’s throat. But then where would he find the soldiers he needed to return to Florence? No, damn it, he couldn’t allow himself to do that, and the sooner he got that through his head, the better.

  He had to put his pride aside and concentrate instead on appearing contrite and obsequious to the duke in the name of a greater project: the reconquest of his city. With Piccinino, Schwartz and a thousand men, he could do anything, and although Filippo Maria openly mocked and despised him, he too had an interest in modifying the status quo. Venice and Florence held Milan in deadlock: installing Rinaldo in the Palazzo della Signoria would guarantee the alliance necessary to expand and consolidate Milan’s hegemony and escape the threat of the Most Serene Republic. Not to mention that Cosimo de’ Medici was plotting with Francesco Sforza to take the Duchy from the Visconti.

  He had to be cunning and appease the duke to ensure he got what he wanted. But it was so difficult. Losing power was far worse than never having had it, and he found it practically impossible to accept.

  He clenched his fist again, so hard that the nails cut into the flesh of the palm, and by the light of the flickering torches he swore to himself that he would do whatever was necessary to recover what had been taken from him.

  And if that meant kneeling before Filippo Maria Visconti, he would not hesitate.

  Sooner or later, he would have his revenge.

  40

  The Dome Completed

  The work was done.

  Cosimo still could hardly believe it, and yet here they were in the cathedral to finally bless the completed structure.

  The roof lantern was still missing, of course, but Santa Maria del Fiore was now almost done. Filippo Brunelleschi had made the impossible possible.

  When he looked upward, Cosimo was overcome with something that felt like dizziness and his mind swarmed with questions that distracted him from the words of Eugene IV, who was conducting the consecration ceremony.

  It was said that Filippo had used a rope which was stretched from the centre of the dome to its circumference in order to guide the laying of the bricks, and that this cord could be rotated three hundred and sixty degrees around the dome which was being constructed by the skilled hands of the master builders. Progressively raised and shortened as new layers of bricks were laid, the rope had become the principal tool for determining their inclination and radial position, meaning that it must have been at least ninety yards long.

  This extraordinary construction had been created from the materials of mystery and miracle themselves, thought Cosimo. How could Filippo have made such a long rope without it sagging in the middle and distorting the measurements? Was it covered with wax? Had Filippo used one of his incredible contraptions? And above all, how had Brunelleschi managed to attach it to the centre of the structure? They would have needed a wooden pole at least a hundred and twenty yards high to reach the summit. Not to mention that the bricks used were of the most unusual and disparate shapes: rectangular, triangular, dovetailed, edged, shaped to fit in the corners of the octagon. It was even rumoured that at one point Filippo had run out of parchment upon which to draw the plans and had been forced to note them down on torn pieces of old manuscripts.

  None of Cosimo’s queries were destined to receive an answer though. And much less from the architect himself. Cosimo glanced over at him and saw that even in that moment he was there in body but wore upon his face the absent expression that betrayed how deeply his mind was absorbed in other projects. After God, he was the day’s chief protagonist, and yet he behaved like a mere spectator who had been passing by. He hadn’t even bothered to dress suitably: he wore a threadbare jacket of rough leather, his hose were mottled with wine and his manic eyes made him look like some crazed bird. His smooth bald head gleamed, and when he smiled he displayed awful black teeth.

  Cosimo would never understand why Filippo was the way he was. It almost seemed that the care he took of his person was inversely proportional to the energy he dedicated to the planning and realization of his works, leaving nothing for his appearance. It was as though his art absorbed all his energies, including those needed to choose a garment or wash his face.

  Cosimo looked up at the dome again.

  He remembered what the workmen and carpenters had told him: apparently, the builders had discovered pigeons and blackbirds by their hundreds nesting in the interstices and narrow spaces. They had been thrown into the pot and cooked for dinner on the scaffolding arranged between the inner and outer dome until an order had been given forbidding their capture for fear that hungry workers might end up falling to their deaths.

  As he let his gaze drift upward, Cosimo breathed in deeply, savouring the aromas of the various materials from which the incredible building had been constructed. The astonishing architecture of the place had the same effect on him every time.

  As though guessing that his mind was wandering, however delightedly, Contessina took his hand.

  The sun blazed in magnificently through the eight windows set around the tholobate, over which thin sheets of linen had been stretched to prevent the cool wind from damaging the interior of the cathedral.

  The Pope, who for some years now had used Florence as his residence, smiled from the high altar at the centre of the great drum. Giannozzo Manetti had just finished celebrating the grandeur of the dome through the recital of the prayer ‘Oratio de secularibus et pontificalibus pompis,’ written specifically for the occasion.

  The cardinals lit the candles set before the twelve wooden apostles composing the choir, which were also t
he work of Filippo Brunelleschi. As soon as the twelve tongues of fire began to dance in the air, fragrant with the perfumes and aromas of flowers and incense, the Pope nodded to the choir to sing the motet composed by Guillaume Dufay to celebrate the consecration: ‘Nuper rosarum flores’ – ‘Here Are Rose Blossoms’. Their voices clear and magnificent, the choir sang the melodies of that daring composition while Eugene IV arranged upon the altar the relics, which included the finger of St John the Baptist and the remains of St Zenobius, the patron saint of Santa Maria del Fiore.

  The motet continued, the voices seeming almost to chase one another through those beautifully designed spaces beneath Arnolfo di Cambio’s vaults.

  Harmony was finally descending upon his beloved city, thought Cosimo. Beneath the vaults and dome of the cathedral, Florence found itself united for the first time in over 140 years. Cosimo saw a unifying of intentions that he had experienced before.

  For a moment his gaze halted on the whiteness of the lilies, garlands of which decorated the aisles and the altar. They seemed to have bloomed early, as though even nature was participating in the triumph and joy of that day.

  Lord of the city and friend and favourite of the Pope, with whom he had managed to form a solid and sincere friendship over the last two years, Cosimo could finally say that he was confident about the future.

  In her ivory-coloured gown, Contessina looked wonderful, as did Ginevra and the boys. Lorenzo watched over the family with him.

  The melody carried on. Something about it captured his soul and his reason, and he closed his eyes, transported by the notes.

  How he would have liked to know how to compose music of such beauty – he would have given up the entire wealth of the bank to write a motet of such elegance. He felt his heart soar above the aisles, up to the tholobate and then even higher, towards the top of the dome. His thoughts floated through space and all fears and worries seemed to melt away as though by magic.

  He looked at Giovanni and smiled. He had great plans for the boy. He loved Piero dearly too, but the younger of the two brothers studied and worked hard, and instead of wasting his time imagining foolish feats of derring-do, he put his lessons to good use and was already revealing himself to be a careful treasurer. Cosimo sensed that Piero’s desire for action was a reaction to the delicate health and frail physique which continued to torment him – he was certain that the boy’s emaciated, sickly frame troubled him, and felt a secret pity for the lad. Yet, despite his melancholic character, Piero had travelled widely and proved himself to be an excellent student of languages. However, Cosimo had to be realistic, and he would be lying to himself if he denied investing most of his hopes in Giovanni. He planned to put him in charge of the Ferrara branch soon. Then, with time, he would have a political career. Giovanni was handsome, strong, tall and slender. He was a confident young man, and witty to boot, his only weakness consisting, perhaps, of a certain taste for excess. But people liked him very much, and the girls all made eyes at him. That day he wore a light-blue doublet, his hair was short and well combed, his eyes large and sincere, his demeanour bold and shrewd: in him, all was brilliance and vivacity, and many were the looks his person attracted.

  Cosimo finally felt safe, protected, loved, and with excellent prospects ahead of him: what more could he desire?

  And it was exactly at that moment that he opened his eyes and realized that he couldn’t have been further from the truth. He had let himself be carried away by the music, but when his gaze returned to the crowd and he looked for a moment behind him, he seemed to glimpse something both luminous and unwholesome.

  At first, he couldn’t say what it was, but then he saw at the rear of the nave something splendid but sinister – something that glowed with malign light.

  When he managed to bring it into focus, he felt all his certainties collapsing within him – falling one after the other like the playing cards of a castle built by some king’s fool.

  Because right next to the great portal of the cathedral, he saw, with absolute certainty, the wonderful and terrible face of Laura Ricci.

  For a moment he was unable to move, an irresistible force seeming to bind him to the earth. How could it be her? He recalled that long ago Ludovico Mocenigo had written him a letter telling him that the accursed woman had escaped from the prisons of the Palazzo Ducale, but he had never expected to see her suddenly appear there, during the consecration of the cathedral. It must be some kind of hallucination – there was no other possible explanation.

  Feeling feverish, he turned to his brother.

  ‘I’ll be back in a moment,’ he said and, trying not to draw too much attention to himself, walked silently down the aisle towards the great portal where he had seen – or thought he had seen – Rinaldo degli Albizzi’s accursed woman.

  But he found no trace of her.

  He certainly couldn’t have imagined that she would wait for him. And besides, had he really seen her or had it been some unsettling fabrication of his mind? Perhaps a projection of his most deeply hidden and unconfessed fears?

  He halted, and peered around the interior of the cathedral. He saw the poor people crowded in front of him in the empty pews at the back: the front rows were reserved for the nobles, those in the centre for the rich, then came the lower classes and, after them, the commoners. Barefoot children and men dressed in rags, mothers with hollowed faces who clutched their children to them like puppies. There was, in that vision of poverty and destitution, such dignity that even the most cynical and indifferent of men must see it. Cosimo knew some of them – he tried to help them whenever he could.

  He looked out through the open doors of the cathedral, which were crowded with other poor families, hoping to bring into their lives some spark of the blessing the Pope was dispensing in the consecration of that magnificent house of God. Hard as he looked, though, Cosimo could not see her. Was it possible that he had only imagined her?

  He peered into the square. It was crowded with people all the way back to the bronze panels that made the door on the eastern side of the baptistery shine with golden light.

  And in that sea of ecstatic faces, their mouths wide open in amazement, Cosimo suddenly saw the green flash of those feline eyes.

  It felt as though he had been struck across the face.

  41

  Towards a New War

  Four men stood at the centre of the monumental hall. The high wooden ceilings inlaid with gold friezes, the braziers and the solid silver candlesticks filled the space with light, and brightly coloured tapestries covered the walls, including a particularly large one bearing the Medici coat of arms: six red balls against a golden background. Finely crafted furniture, marble busts and racks bearing halberds and spontoons crowded every corner of that refined place, and there were four tables loaded with all manner of foods: roast lambs and pheasants, game pie, sweets and cheeses, fruit, grapes, walnuts and pastries. Cosimo had dismissed the servants, since he did not want indiscreet ears overhearing what he and his guests had to say to one another.

  ‘I tell you that we are heading for a new war, there is no doubt of it. Lucca was not enough, Volterra was not enough: Rinaldo degli Albizzi wants this battle; he wants it more than he wants anything else. It is all he has ever sought. And now Cosimo sees that woman! Venice and Florence have established ties and Milan wants to break what it thinks can only be an alliance!’

  Lorenzo’s angry words poured out like molten lava. He was sick and tired of all the subterfuge, banishments and machinations that never actually solved anything, and all the exasperation of the last few years was audible in his voice. Things had certainly changed since their return, but now the suspicion that they were being spied upon by Laura Ricci had rekindled their fears. They knew all too well what that woman was capable of. She and that devil Reinhardt Schwartz, because where one of them went, the other was almost certainly lurking.

  ‘There’s no point hesitating,’ he continued. ‘For ten years now Florence has been dragged into
this war against Lucca without concluding anything. Niccolò Piccinino has proved superior to all his opponents: Niccolò Fortebraccio, Guidantonio da Montefeltro – even Filippo Brunelleschi failed against him and ended up flooding our own camps. I believe that only you, Francesco, can lead us to victory.’

  Sforza looked Lorenzo in the eye. He was struck by the courage and passion with which the younger Medici brother had spoken. He was totally unlike Cosimo, who was observing him to study his reactions.

  In a corner of the room, the lieutenant of the Venetian army gave a cough.

  ‘If I may,’ he said, ‘I believe that the idea of a league against the Duke of Milan is the only possible way to contain Milanese power. After all, rebus sic stantibus, Filippo Maria would be encircled: by Venice and Florence, without even counting Genoa, who are keeping him busy at the moment. And it is no secret how close the pontiff is to you,’ continued Ludovico Mocenigo, looking over at Cosimo. ‘Am I mistaken or did he not consecrate the cathedral of Santa Maria del Fiore just a few days ago?’

  ‘You are not mistaken,’ said Cosimo. ‘And that’s when I saw our mortal enemy.’

  ‘Are you alluding to Laura Ricci? The woman who escaped the dungeons of the Ducal Palace and made me look a fool?’

  ‘I’m sorry to remind you of that regrettable fact, but it was she, in person,’ replied Cosimo. ‘There is no doubt that at this moment she is in the service of Rinaldo degli Albizzi. And according to what our spies tell us, she is also the favourite of Filippo Maria Visconti.’

  ‘That man is a fool.’ Francesco Sforza spoke impulsively and there was a fatalistic note in his voice as though he were surrendering to incontrovertible evidence.

  ‘Perhaps, but there is method to his madness,’ insisted Lorenzo. ‘And at the moment he holds us in deadlock on several fronts, not counting his recent support for Alfonso of Aragon in the war of succession for the Kingdom of Naples.’