Medici ~ Ascendancy

by Matteo Strukul

  *

  Reinhardt was no longer afraid. He never had been, really, except of revealing the truth to Laura. Despite the shouts of abuse and the rotten fruit hurled at him by the people who filled the square like a heaving ocean, and despite the executioner spitting in his face while he forced Schwartz’s head into the noose with his huge hands, Schwartz had not taken his eyes off Cosimo de’ Medici. Cosimo was perched on a bench on the raised platform along with the rest of the Eight of Guard and he stared back at Schwartz, but seemed to find it so hard to hold his gaze that in the end he’d had to look away.

  It was a ridiculous little victory, but it put a sneer on Schwartz’s face that could have been mistaken for a smile.

  He knew that Cosimo de’ Medici was now lord of Florence and that, with the victory at Anghiari, his dominion over those lands would become absolute. And deep in his heart, Reinhardt Schwartz hoped that power would strangle him.

  Gaining power was one thing – keeping hold of it was another thing altogether.

  In a sense, bowing out this way was actually a relief for him. He had fought well, he had honoured his ancestors, he had killed many enemies and he had loved a beautiful woman. Few men could dream of a life containing half the wonders his had.

  Now that he was leaving it all behind, he realized that fact for the first time.

  He had no regrets except for one that pitched on the tempestuous waves of his soul, and he decided to free himself from it.

  ‘I love you, Laura!’ he cried out, with all the breath he had in in his lungs.

  He felt his throat burning with the beauty of her name. He had finally found the courage to utter the four words that he had denied himself his entire life.

  Then he closed his eyes and waited for everything to vanish.

  He heard the trapdoor open beneath his feet and his legs suddenly trod empty air while the rope jerked like a whip cracking.

  The roar of the crowd filled the square.

  He did not die immediately. It took some time. Seemingly endless moments, during which the rope choked his breathing and the air became heavy. Finally a storm of invisible needles filled his lungs.

  He suffered, but in a last, desperate breath, while his body fought against death, his mind and his heart reached towards Laura.

  He hoped that wherever she was, she was thinking about him.

  And after that last moment of consciousness, he ceased to breathe.

  53

  Pity and Vendetta

  Cosimo had shown no pity for Reinhardt in life, so he had therefore wanted to concede it to him in death. He had given the captain of the city guard instructions to hand the corpse over to the woman named Laura Ricci who would arrive to claim it that night.

  He wasn’t certain that she would come, but if she did, he wanted her to have the man’s mortal remains. Friend or lover, he had certainly been important to her. At that point, Cosimo wanted one thing and one thing only: peace. And showing mercy to their enemies was a good way to begin pursuing that end.

  The captain of the city guard hadn’t understood his intentions but had promised upon his honour that he would enforce the unusual order, and Cosimo had thanked him before setting off for home.

  Over the past few days, there had been one execution after another. It had been a bloodbath, and he was certain that with every hanging, with every beheading, the people in the square had lost some of their remaining humanity.

  He repeated to himself that this would be the last execution, that the city must now leave behind it that season of horrors and think only of enjoying peace.

  It would be upon that principle that he would found the government of the Republic.

  His brother had had enough of it all and had taken refuge in the villa in Careggi. After all the madness Lorenzo had vowed to himself that he would gradually abandon the running of the bank as well as political life. Cosimo had asked him to reconsider, but he knew that it was hopeless.

  It wasn’t fair, he thought with a sigh as he approached his home.

  He prayed that his wife and children would be merciful to him.

  *

  Laura wasn’t satisfied.

  The Medici had allowed her to have Reinhardt’s corpse, but that night the hatred she already felt for them took on the colour of truth.

  They held the city in the palm of their hand, and to get their way, they had destroyed lives on the battlefield and in the streets, hiding all the while behind the screen of justice.

  After grabbing the sword and setting off at a run towards the battlefield of Anghiari, Laura had watched as men were thrown into the air by the explosions from the artillery, while others lay slumped on the ground in agony, bristling with crossbow bolts or lying wounded and mutilated.

  Horrified, she had looked desperately around her for Reinhardt, hoping to catch sight of him somewhere, but had soon been overrun by the chaotic retreat of what was left of Piccinino’s forces. She had received a blow to the head and fallen to the ground, covered in blood and dust.

  When she had eventually come round, she had wandered the battlefield like a ghost. Schwartz did not seem to be among the dead. The smell was unbearable and the heat intensified the odours until they overwhelmed her senses. She had found a horse grazing on the dry yellow grass, far from the site of the battle along the road to Sansepolcro, had climbed into its saddle and had ridden away. And a week later, she was there, at the foot of the gallows. She had come with a small escort – guards that Filippo Maria Visconti had put at her disposal for when she travelled. They were Venetian traitors, so they would be mistaken for allies of Florence. They had hired a local gravedigger who, for a few ducats, had provided a wagon to transport the body.

  When they had arrived, the captain of the city guard queried if she was Laura Ricci, as he had received orders from Cosimo de’ Medici himself that she could take the body.

  For a moment, Laura had thought it must be a trap, but then she had decided to trust the man. After all, what more did she have to lose?

  Assisted by the Venetians, the gravedigger laid Schwartz’s body on the cart.

  The captain of the city guard had escorted Laura and the Venetians to the Porta di San Giorgio. After that, they had continued on their own, stopping in the middle of the night at a country villa whose owner had been well paid.

  Laura had ordered Reinhardt’s body carried into her room and laid upon a dark wooden table.

  And there it was.

  She looked at it, and now that she was finally alone, allowed herself to cry. Tears of forgiveness, for Reinhardt and for herself, and tears of guilt at having abandoned him.

  When she could weep no more, she washed her face and hands and set about her work.

  She went over to Reinhardt’s body and began cleaning his mouth, nose, eyes and other orifices with a mixture of vinegar, lemon and marigold that she had prepared. It was difficult but she did a scrupulous job.

  After applying a layer of olive oil soap she shaved him, so as to make his skin as smooth as possible to the touch; then, with soft sponges and wet linen cloths, she washed Reinhardt’s powerful limbs.

  He was as cold as marble and his skin, already pale in life, was almost blue, but she didn’t care. He was still beautiful. For the washing she used iced water scented with rose petals. Next she massaged the body until her own muscles ached. It was exhausting, but it gave her infinite pleasure: she wanted to erase all signs of death.

  After closing his magnificent blue eyes forever, she anointed his body with perfumed ointments and oils, so as to hide the odour that lingered in the air despite the size of the room, then sewed his lips shut with fine thread.

  She wanted to do for him everything she had not been able to over that last year. She wanted to take care of his mortal remains as no other could. It was to be her ultimate declaration of love.

  She would expiate her guilt and betrayal and nurture her obsession and, one day, her revenge.

  When she had finished, she wrapped his bo
dy in bandages and linen cloths perfumed with mint and nettle.

  By the time she was done, the sun was already high in the sky. She closed the curtains, letting only a faint ray of light filter through and returning the room to darkness, then sat down in a damask velvet armchair and tried to sleep.

  But she could not.

  Her mind was consumed by an overwhelming desire for vengeance. After the concentration and physical fatigue of the night, her imagination now wandered wildly in the darkest recesses of her soul.

  She would dedicate herself to a single project.

  All of the progeny of the Medici would be slaughtered. She would become for them as the eighth plague of Egypt. She would give birth to children and raise them in hatred for the Medici, and those children would one day be murderers and traitors, men capable of executing the descendants of Cosimo and Lorenzo.

  She was still beautiful, she was fertile and she was shrewd, and her ruthlessness would know no limits. Her revenge was postponed, but it would come down upon the Medici and leave their still-beating hearts skewered upon the tips of the pikes, dripping red blood.

  She swore it to Reinhardt.

  She vowed it to herself.

  And only then did she finally fall asleep.

  September 1440

  54

  The Death of Lorenzo

  It had all happened so quickly that Cosimo could scarcely believe it. Not even a month ago he had been fighting alongside his brother in Anghiari and now Lorenzo was sitting in the chair opposite him, fighting death.

  He had little time left to live.

  Cosimo had just arrived at Careggi. When he had gone home after Reinhardt Schwartz’s hanging, he had found a servant waiting for him outside the door. The woman looked beside herself, and told him that the family had left for Careggi because Lorenzo had been taken ill that morning.

  Cosimo had immediately raced on horseback to the villa to which Lorenzo had retired. After the blood and pain of Anghiari, he had devoted himself to his favourite pastime: hunting.

  And now he was there.

  ‘It’s not fair, it’s not fair...’ murmured Ginevra as she looked at her husband.

  Lorenzo was sitting in his favourite old armchair in the portico opposite the courtyard, despite the intense heat.

  He loved the garden so much: if his life had to end, it might as well end in the open air, he had said.

  Tearfully, Ginevra embraced Cosimo before letting him approach his brother.

  Lorenzo struggled to speak. He looked as though he had aged ten years in a single night. His beautiful green eyes were dull and faded and his hair, once a glossy brown, was now streaked with white.

  ‘My brother,’ he said, ‘the moment has arrived. In faith, I didn’t expect it so soon, but I accept what God has planned for me.’

  Cosimo squeezed Lorenzo’s hands in his.

  ‘Don’t say that even in jest, Lorenzo.’

  ‘Cosimo, I have only a few hours left. I feel a great pain in my chest and the doctors say I shan’t see the sun rise tomorrow, so let us waste no time...’ Lorenzo wanted nothing to be left unsaid, so he measured out his remaining energies as he spoke. ‘My first thought is for my family. Look after Ginevra and my two boys Francesco and Pierfrancesco. No one is better able to do that than you.’

  ‘You know how much I love them,’ he replied in a whisper. ‘I will continue to love them just as I love Giovanni and Piero.’

  ‘I thank you. It has been an honour to be your brother... I still think about the time we rode together to warn Niccolò da Uzzano... And then... And then to Francesco Sforza’s camp... do you remember?’

  ‘Of course I remember, Lorenzo – how could I forget?’

  His brother nodded and made to continue, as though wanting, in those last moments, to relive all that they had done together. Cosimo understood perfectly and, so as not to let him tire himself, he continued in his place.

  Around them it seemed that time had stopped. Wives, children and grandchildren held their breath, silent witnesses of the end of an era.

  ‘And then the sentence, and the Alberghetto cell. You gathering that army and going to the gates of Florence when you learned that they’d decided to exile us...’ continued Cosimo. ‘And then Venice, that damn woman, the attack...’

  But at that point the emotion became too great and his voice broke. He felt he was losing a piece of his own heart and he began to weep.

  ‘Y-yes...’ Lorenzo interrupted, grabbing his arm. ‘... and then the return to Florence... the league, the council... Ferrara, Florence and then Anghiari...’

  And as he murmured those words, his grip grew weaker and his hand fell from Cosimo’s arm. His voice faded into a whisper and then disappeared. His eyes, always so lively and vivacious, were now as dull as stones that had suddenly lost their natural brightness.

  Cosimo embraced him and held him to his chest. He wept.

  Lorenzo was gone.

  He would miss his courage, his profound sense of justice, his nobility of spirit and the generosity of his heart. He would no longer hear his kind, steady voice, his laughter, his reassuring advice.

  And as hard as he tried, Cosimo could not find the words to tell the others: Ginevra, who was staring at him, and Lorenzo, eyes red from weeping, Francesco and Pierfrancesco, Contessina, Giovanni, Piero. He had run out of words. He thought about how unjust it was of death to call Lorenzo to him first. Lorenzo was the youngest, the best, the most just. The one who had never conspired or plotted to obtain advantages through government and official positions; the one who had never tried to undermine others and who had only ever defended himself.

  Cosimo was overcome with intense pain. Life meant nothing if it was to be spent without his brother. How would he manage? Lorenzo, who had been the soul of that family, always there when he, Cosimo, was too busy dealing with politics and handing out official positions. Lorenzo who, more than any other, had, together with Giovanni de’ Benci, developed and extended the bank, making sure that its stewards were loyal administrators of the various branches and always trying to ensure that they ran well. Lorenzo who, instead of wasting time in chit-chat, dealt in facts.

  Cosimo laid his brother against the back of the beautiful velvet armchair and then went over to Ginevra and the others. He embraced them all, because they were his family. From now on, it would be he and he alone who would have to look after them. Of course, he had guaranteed them a future and had fought for the peace and security of the city, but now it was time for affection and calm – for teaching and listening.

  No more infighting and corruption, no more secret alliances and councils, no more appointments and machinations.

  He would live inside his family. He would retreat gradually from political life and let his children ensure that the Medici enjoyed a prosperous life. The task had occupied him for so long that little by little it had erased his existence as a man. He must stop before it was too late. He must do it for his brother. To honour his unjust death.

  He would do everything in his power for his family, of course, not only to preserve its assets and property and ensure its financial security, but also because he knew that affection, education, apprenticeships and teachings were as indispensable for his children and grandchildren as they had been for him. Now more than ever, Ginevra needed him, and so did his wife Contessina.

  The time had come for reflection and for love – for listening and for protection.

  That was what Lorenzo had taught him. And that was what he would do.

  He broke from the embrace and hurried off to call the servants to help him carry his brother’s body to his apartments. They would set up a chapel of rest so that all could come to pay homage to him, then he would have a sumptuous funeral celebrated in his honour in the church of San Lorenzo.

  He looked up at the blue sky. The disc of the sun was blazing fiercely down, spreading its rays over the pale blanket of hay that covered the earth.

  September 1453

 
55

  Sweet Hopes

  My dear Cosimo,

  I hope this letter of mine finds you well and healthy, and with your insight and wit enriched by the passing days with experience and patience, virtues which are all the more precious as they are shaped in the gleaming forge of time.

  Unfortunately, due to the high esteem in which I hold you and the dark tone of what I am about to tell you, this letter is not one it gives me pleasure to write.

  The capture of Constantinople has thrown me into such despair that I struggle to understand the implications of so great a tragedy. In the loss of my beloved city I have lost myself forever, and in a sense I am afraid that I have, because nothing will ever be the same for me again.

  When I think of the slavery of so many men and, even worse, of the fortune and happiness from which they have fallen into that gloomy abyss of misery, I can give myself no peace. That I escaped and found shelter some years ago in the Western Roman Church only sharpens a pain which, inevitably, calls me a coward and a traitor for having turned my back forever upon that which I most loved, thinking only of my personal self-interest: a salvation which now feels like a perpetual exile. I know that you will understand me perfectly, having experienced it yourself long before I did, when men who had made an art of betrayal and deception removed you from your beloved Florence and placed you in confinement.

  Whenever my thoughts go, even for an moment, to the unspeakable beauty of the churches and palazzos of Byzantium, the magnificent formulas contained in its codes and memorials, the wonder of our language, now lost forever, my heart and my mind inevitably return to those words we exchanged fourteen years ago in Florence. Do you still remember?

  We were filled with hope then, and nurtured the dream of a grand reconciliation between the Churches and of a grand union, ready to stand firm against the Muslims, who seemed so invincible. But then events took their course and nothing can ever erase the memories of this wreck of a man who all now accuse of being at least partly responsible.