by Taylor Buck
The Medici Letters
A novel
By Taylor Buck
The following events are fictional, except for those parts that aren’t.
Copyright © 2015 by Taylor Buck
Email the author at [email protected], follow him on twitter @taylorbuck or visit his website at taylorbuck.com
All rights reserved. With the exception of excerpts for review purposes, no part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system.
Rebirth
THE ITALIAN RENAISSANCE IS viewed by many historians as one of the single-most defining moments in our world’s history. The knowledge that surfaced during the 14th and 15th centuries revealed answers to many of the mysteries surrounding the inhabited world. A breakthrough in technology occurred, the result of which created not only a more functional and conscious western civilization by means of advanced tools and global discovery, but also a more beautiful world to experience through the introduction of new art forms and modern architecture. This period of history is known as the Renaissance, which in French means rebirth.
Rebirth... A suitable title since it aptly identifies the existence of a former age in which another civilization thrived—Classical antiquity, (the initial birth of knowledge) or conception of human ingenuity spanning the turn of the 1st century. The Classical period was philosophically fundamental in inspiring questions about existence, aptitude and seeking our purpose and identity as human beings. Plato, Aristotle, Alexander the Great and Justinian I were just a few of the prominent figures during this age. If history were a canvas, this era would be the vital underpainting from whence the strokes take shape.
Classical antiquity gave way to the Middle Ages, also known as the Dark Ages, wherein modernization and advancements in technology halted almost entirely. Progress was mysteriously stunted and dark for a time, even reversed in many areas. A void of discovery grew. Development suffered and, sadly, many of the questions posed through ancient history remained unresolved and more or less forgotten for hundreds of years...
It wasn’t until the 14th century that many of these questions resurfaced. A rebirth occurred. Like an esoteric force, a revival spurred in the ancient ways and an unquenchable thirst for knowledge commenced again. A catalyst was revealed, like a beacon of light glimmering in an otherwise dark and stagnant world. The abilities of human beings were tested and refined in order to challenge our physical, mental and spiritual potential. A revolution of the human capacity known as Humanism emerged whereby knowledge of ancient customs was reexamined and reintroduced to the academic elite. This profound turning point produced some of the most brilliant and influential minds: Leon Battista Alberti, Brunelleschi, Marsilio Ficino, Leonardo da Vinci, Michelangelo, Machiavelli…the list is long and bountiful. Many of these names are commonplace today, known and revered for their contributions to civilization and technology, but there are other contributors, lesser known but equally important. They survive more in ambiguity than infamy, shrouded in mystery and laden with rumor.
One such name is Medici.
Throughout the Renaissance, the patronage of this infamous family seemed to be the guiding hand in commissioning masterpieces from the greatest minds in Florence. They used their wealth to employ inventors, sculptors, painters, architects, poets and philosophers. Over time, the Medici positioned Florence into such a social and political powerhouse that their name alone became an esteemed marquee of dominance throughout Europe. However, this sudden rise to fame did not transpire without drawing a reasonable sum of curiosity.
After all, where did this power originate?
The mystery surrounding the Medici has been a point of intrigue and controversy among historians, curators, art buffs and professors over the past 500 years. Some recognize them as tyrants, some as manufacturers of modern civilization… others as gatekeepers wielding a key to the past. Whatever the perception, the Medici were admiringly loved by the masses, yet also deeply loathed by their enemies.
Loved or hated, one fact is irrefutable—their mark on history is ubiquitous. Even today, their legacy survives. It is seen throughout streets and museums all over Europe. The Medici family crest adorns walls, street corners, paintings and monuments—a lasting reminder of their influence in history but more importantly, a clue to a secret they kept hidden for hundreds of years.
A secret that has only recently been discovered.
In September of 2013, an underground vault of correspondence letters belonging to various members of the Medici family was discovered in Florence, Italy. Using modern subsurface analysis techniques called Ground Penetrating Radar (GPR), hundreds of letters were located, recovered and restored. The letters were thoroughly examined; however, the contents were never made known to the public. UNESCO (United Nations Educational, Scientific and Cultural Organization) immediately took ownership of the documents and filed them away before the information was revealed.
The following events are based on those findings.
PROLOGUE
GRAUBÜNDEN (SWITZERLAND)
THE EASTERN ALPS
1477
THE NIGHT WAS COLD and hollow. Crystalline icicles formed and clung to Lenihanio’s face as he trudged through the icy vastness. The cold air seemed to petrify the surrounding forest and leave behind an inert silence that haunted his dark walk home. He trekked along the steep mountainside with only a small oil lamp to light the snowy path before him. The lamp’s dim glow provided scant illumination in the darkness as the cold seemed to suffocate its radiance. Furthermore, the usual light from the moon and stars was absent this evening. It seemed that even the heavens were hiding from the frozen void called the Alps.
The walk home from the wirtshaus was two furlongs, and Lenihanio sobered with every step. As he trudged through the snow, he revisited the evening’s events in his mind. The accounts that had transpired brought a feeling of deep trepidation.
Lenihanio, you fool!
As much as it pained him to recall his careless ramblings, he had to be sure he hadn’t divulged any secrets. He was fairly certain that the woman with the scarlet sash with whom he had been philandering most of the evening was no cause for concern. It was the man in the back of the room who troubled him—the one lurking in the shadows. Who was he? Had he been listening all night to Leni’s drunken rants? How much had he heard?
Leni had become a habitual partaker of the local Bavarian ale. The delicious liquid was an endless draw to him, like a siren pulling him to the depths of the sea. The drink consumed him, and this particular evening he had indulged rather extravagantly. Too much. He had let his tongue dance wickedly close to revealing a family secret…a secret so powerful, men would kill to know.
Although Lenihanio did not know the exact value of the secret, he knew he was protecting something of tremendous worth. Something that would “change the course of humanity if revealed.” At least those were the words he had heard his father say.
Lenihanio had left his homeland and fled north to the towering mountains for safe haven. He needed amnesty—a pardon for his sins. It was shelter he sought after so desperately—not from his enemies…but from his own family. An outcast, his entire life he had endured the hardship of being the bastard child of an illegitimate relationship—a shameful stain upon his family’s prestigious name. But that was long ago. He had left that life behind…and taken with him what he considered his due. It was his only chance to make a name for himself. At least that is what the clairvoyant had told him—the one who
read the stars. Lenihanio felt forced to take fate into his own hands.
After all, he was destined for much more than this…
Again, the man at the wirtshaus entered Leni’s thoughts and remained there. Festering like a thorn. He had been concealed in shadows but Leni noticed his eyes… black. As black as the night. Something about the man’s cautious movements made Lenihanio uneasy. In fact, he had stayed much later then usual in hopes the man would retire due to the late hour and leave him behind… which he did. The mysterious man had left two silver pieces on the table and vanished. But his absence didn’t conceal the likely truth that he heard Lenihanio’s boisterous claims.
“I have treasure,” Leni boasted to the woman with the scarlet sash. “…a key to my family’s riches. The reason they have the degree of wealth and influence in Florence that they do.”
The woman did nothing to mask her curiosity over Lenihanio’s claims. “How is it that you’ve come across this… treasure?” she asked, her eyes growing inquisitively. “Pray tell, what is your family name?”
Lenihanio stared back at the woman wildly, weighing his response. Then with a whisper, quiet and cryptic but loud enough to speak over the rambunctious inhabitants in the alehouse, the answer rolled off his tongue. It was spoken with such inviolability and implication that it could’ve easily been assumed that the name alone was the treasure...
“Medici.”
The wind picked up as Lenihanio approached his cabin. Weak tails of light emanating from the oil lamp crept over the wattle and daub and evenly placed logs holding the cabin in place. Long joists pierced deep into the side of the mountain—anchoring the hut to the steep precipice. He climbed the steps to the front door and kicked his tall boots against the doorpost, knocking loose the heavy snow before he entered. The inside of the cabin was warm and welcoming. Leni hung his small lantern on a clasp and lit the large lamp in the middle of the room. Soon the small flame burned bright. He wandered over to the hearth where slow-burning embers smoldered and crackled in the fire pit, offering steady warmth to thaw his bones.
The cabin was quaint and had served as his dwelling for ten long winters. After Leni fled Florence, he found sanctuary here in the Alps. The cliffs served as a natural fortress and men rarely passed through the town he resided in, especially during the winter months. He got up and placed two planks across the carved wooden door. It wasn’t his custom to add a second catch, but tonight it seemed fitting to do so. As Leni turned, his eyes drifted across the floorboards in the corner of the room. His gaze idled momentarily on the tapestry spread across the floor. At first, he suppressed the temptation to check what lay beneath, but soon curiosity grew like a sickness and he found himself crossing the room and pulling back the floor tapestry. He reached beneath the boards and drew forth a chest which he unlatched slowly and carefully. He opened the lid and peered anxiously into the heavy casing. The light from the lamp caressed the round curves of the object inside, causing it to emit an ochre glow.
The secret is still safe.
He closed the lid and fastened the latches tightly. Then he placed the chest beneath the boards and buried it into the shadows below.
Rap, rap, rap.
A knock on the door jostled Lenihanio and sent ice shooting through his veins. He froze like a statue and listened—eyes wide with fear. Who could be calling at this hour?
Silence governed the air for a short while until the sound of the flame flickering within the lamp grew to a staggering roar. Leni had nearly convinced himself the visitor had moved on when the rapping returned, this time stronger and louder.
RAP, RAP, RAP.
He opened his mouth to beseech the visitor to leave, but the words failed to depart his mouth—vocal chords held captive by a visceral fear of the unknown. His mind formed mental images of who might be standing there… The woman with the scarlet sash? A harmless, wandering nomad lost in the snow, seeking sanctuary? But they were all feigned illusions—optimistic projections to the reality of who Lenihanio knew was actually lurking outside his cabin door.
The man in the shadows… He’s come for the treasure.
The rapping at the door ceased. Lenihanio drew the small dagger fixed to his waist belt and held it in a shaking right hand. He wasn’t fooling himself in thinking he could defend himself or the treasure. He was a coward. His only chance of survival was to stay inside and wait it out. Yes. That’s what I’ll do. Hopefully the visitor would withdraw back into the night and leave Lenihanio to his affairs.
Just then a thumping sound startled him and caused him to trip backward over his chair. Lenihanio picked himself up slowly, his eyes fixed on the doorway. The sounds continued up the side of the cabin until they were heard suddenly overhead.
He’s on the roof!
Lenihanio got to his feet, legs shaking uncontrollably, barely supporting him. He stared up at the ceiling and cowered back into the far corner of the room. Slowly, the smoke emanating from the fireplace ceased escaping through the louvre in the ceiling and instead began curling in place. It started to roll and coil back inside the cabin until a thick cloak of gray clouds hung overhead.
A chill ran up Lenihanio’s spine as he realized what was happening…
They are trapping me inside the cabin.
The smoke would soon fill the small space, enter his lungs killing him.
Trapped!
Yet, he wasn’t trapped. He could bust out of the front door and confront the unknown. He could face the devil outside and defend himself—and more importantly… the family secret.
Lenihanio grabbed a cloak from the stand and covered his face. The air was suffocating. He heaved over and coughed uncontrollably. As he did so his shoulder brushed against the lamp hanging above, causing it to slip free from the clasp and dash into pieces on the ground. Oil and flames scattered around the room, clinging to the dry walls.
My god! I’m going to burn alive! Lenihanio thought as he curled up with arms around his knees. The heat inside steadily grew. He eyed the door. Run! Get out!
You’re a coward, Lenihanio…
He didn’t run. He stayed balled up in the corner with his eyes dead fixed on the floor tapestry covering the chest below. The flames inched closer and closer to the tapestry. They crawled up the walls, boiling and curling in the black cauldron above.
Run.
He didn’t know where the courage came from and it didn’t matter. Lenihanio stood up and dashed toward the tapestry. He ripped the cloth back and grabbed the chest from its earthen tomb. Eyeing the door again, he poised his body to run past the fiery doorpost. Just before he took a step, the front of the cabin collapsed sending flames and rubble scattering outward. He stumbled back away from the fiery exit as beams crashed down overhead billowing thick smoke into the black night.
The heat was fierce. The smoke took a moment to dissipate. When it did, Lenihanio caught his first glimpse of the man standing outside. He was concealed by the vast darkness of night around him… all except for eyes which reflected the blazing fire in which Lenihanio was being consumed. He had come for the treasure. Lenihanio had failed to protect it. This was punishment for turning his back on his family. He deserved to die and there was no escape now. The heat was intolerable. His skin began to blister as the flames towered all around him. He screamed loudly to the heavens as he surrendered himself to the flames.
This is my fate. I accept it.
He fell backward holding the chest tightly and landed inside the hollowed out vault as the blaze deluged the small cabin. An icy, searing sensation overtook his body as the flames licked his skin—devouring him like a ravenous beast. His screams grew shorter and ragged as the heat intensified. Then suddenly, as if by providence, the cliffs answered Lenihanio’s cries. The crackling sound of the wooden joists reported through the mountains as the earth released and came down upon the burning cabin, engulfing the hillside with the force of an avalanche and entombing both men deep inside the belly of the crag. The screams echoed through the cl
iffs until the surrounding mountains abruptly swallowed them up.
The treasure was safe.
It’s location—sound.
The secret of the Medici family remained buried for over 500 years.
CHAPTER 1
WELLESLY, MASSACHUSETTS
SEPTEMBER, PRESENT DAY
JACK CULLEN WAITED PATIENTLY as the school traffic volunteer crossed in front of his car and held up a red stop sign. At a hand signal from the volunteer, the children ambled across the street in single file. A heavyset boy bringing up the tail of the group dropped his books and watched them scatter along the road. He took his time gathering the books one by one, then cradled them in the same clumsy way as before. The volunteer in the green safety vest stoically held her sign out as the boy jogged to catch up with his friends.
Jack watched on, still waiting. He checked his watch one more time.
Four months prior, a hindrance such as this would’ve probably bothered him. In fact, he was sure of it. However, time removed from his profession had changed his perception on what was and wasn’t worth getting worked up about. This realization had only come as a result of having time away to reflect. Some people might call it unplugging or taking a sabbatical, but to him it was foreign. He had only recently discovered the therapeutic benefits of sabbaticals having been forced into one. Ironic, he supposed. In the past he had always written off colleagues who had taken sabbaticals as histrionic or narcissistic—a pretentious way of saying I know I’m important… I just need some “me” time. Jack soon acknowledged his own ignorance. Time away really was important. In fact, he had read recently that many of the greatest influential leaders throughout history scheduled not only routine retreats, but also daily solitary time in order to assimilate their thoughts. It allowed them to parse data in their minds and organize their responsibilities into a filing system—like a computer defragmenting a hard drive. Not only was it healthy, it was a natural mechanism that the body required and also expected. The results in positive performance were undeniable—let alone the creative benefits. Whatever the case, having the last 6 months free of tenure certainly helped clear Jack’s mind. But now he was ready to return to action. He was itching to get back to the front lines—longing to return to the intellectual battles of the classroom. If things went right, that day might not be far off.
