The Medici Letters: The Secret Origins of the Renaissance

by Taylor Buck

  “Okay,” replied Jack. “I’ll be right back.”

  Forbes nodded.

  Jack ducked inside the hole and descended the steps. A short descent landed him on concrete pathway that stretched into the darkness. The tunnel was narrow enough that he could touch both sides if he stretched out his arms. Every 6 feet a wooden brace arched above and stretched across both sides of the tunnel. The timber was badly decayed, and in some spots the bracing was missing altogether. Jack knew he was walking through a death trap, likely to cave in at the slightest bump, cough or sneeze.

  You have no problems with small spaces, Jack told himself. No problems at all.

  It was a noble effort to trick himself into coming to grips with his situation—a psychological tease intended to influence his subconscious into believing his own words. It was true. He wasn’t afraid of enclosed spaces… but he was deathly afraid of being buried alive, otherwise known as taphobia.

  He continued walking through the narrow path, the darkness enveloping everywhere the lantern couldn’t reach. Passing beneath a structural brace, Jack noticed an old candle enclosed in a tin box. Surprisingly, the box was in good condition. Even more astonishing was the condition of the candle. It hadn’t decayed one bit.

  Beeswax doesn’t decompose, Jack remembered, recalling his studies in ancient Egyptian preservation. He lifted his lamp up to the wick of the candle and transferred the fire over. The flame grew and filled the metal box, illuminating the path around him like the beam of a flashlight. Jack continued on through the tunnel. Based on his orientations, he was heading directly toward the villa. He counted paces in his mind subconsciously …76, 77, 78… He knew he would be reaching the villa’s foundation at any moment. Then he saw it. Right in front of him—a dead end. A stone wall closed off the end of the tunnel. He scoured the walls around him and found no visible exit. Thick stone blocks spread along the face of the wall and continued along the footing. He nearly gave up when he noticed something… as he lifted the lantern overhead, the shadows shifted positions and revealed a dark opening next to him. He took a few steps back and quickly realized the tunnel actually split off in both directions. Pathways continued to both the left and right. Jack went left and slid through the narrow opening. Within only a few paces, an old staircase appeared in front of him. He carefully shuffled down the steps which immediately broke apart and crumbled as he walked over them. Once at the bottom, he rounded the corner and once again hit a stone wall. He felt as if he was in some kind of cruel rat maze.

  There was no sign of a door anywhere. He thought perhaps he had chosen the wrong tunnel. Jack made his way back up the stairs and found himself at the fork in the main tunnel. This time he took the path to the right. It was only a few paces before he found himself facing another dead end. He searched the walls and corners for some sign of a doorway or trick opening… trap door—nothing. Irritated, he walked back to the other side. This time, as he was traversing the crumbling steps, his right foot broke through the surface and became lodged in the rubble. His leg, from the base of his knee down dangled freely beneath the steps—searching but not finding a foothold or anything to grip below.

  It seemed that underneath the steps was… hollow?

  He managed to free his leg and walk to the base of the steps. He crouched low to the ground and inspected the space where the steps met the stone foundation. Between the dark cracks and rubble was an opening. What had at one time been a narrow passageway or crawlspace was now obstructed by debris. Jack shone his lamp into the small cracks and saw that it was clear on the other side. In fact, there looked to be a large chamber just a few yards over. He muscled a few of the heavy stones away and got to where he could crawl through. After shimmying between the narrow opening, he rolled out onto the other side. Dragging the cobwebs from his face, Jack got to his feet and held up his lamp to illuminate the space.

  He froze… and stared in awe.

  Jack found himself gazing at something magnificent—almost indescribable. It glowed and reflected the light of his lamp all around him. Before him, a massive panel ran from the floor of the tunnel to the ceiling. It was 4 feet wide and covered in a layer of earthy grime. He reached out and felt the cold surface of the slab, rubbing away the outer layer to reveal the contents beneath, he gasped and stepped back.

  In front of him was a thick, bronze gate that appeared to have been oxidizing for years. The ornate forgings were now covered with a protective film of greyish-turquoise coating. Underneath this protective layer was a bronze door—probably as magnificent as the day it was hung. Timeless. That was the beauty of bronze, it didn’t age… it protected itself by developing a film—an armor coating to the elements. Knowledge, more lasting than bronze, Jack thought. Just like the inscription on Donatello’s bust of Plato. The quote was an obvious reference to the chamber before him.

  He couldn’t believe it. He had found it. He had actually located the chamber.

  Jack marveled at the reality of it. This thing exists. But what really lies behind this bronze gate? What knowledge within can outlast such a tempered and durable metal?

  The door was weathered, but a design was still apparent deep beneath the layer of sediment. Jack continued to rub away at the protective film. As he did, letters began to appear and take shape.

  c…i…e…n

  Scienta.

  It was Latin. More letters became visible. Realizing it was a fragment from a longer message, Jack rubbed in a horizontal line until 3 words were uncovered. He read the phrase in its entirety.

  Artes. Scienta. Veritas.

  Jack translated the familiar phrase to English, recognizing its root meaning and finding it somehow apropos. It was both an old creed and a rather newly applied motto. As a university professor and a student of ancient linguistics, Jack knew the mottos of nearly every institution and university in North America. This particular one; Artes. Scienta. Veritas—was more commonly known by fraternity members and newly-admitted students to the Harvard of the Midwest— the University of Michigan. But Jack also knew that the school motto was originally a pledge spoken by the Anthrópos and later passed down to the Humanists. It was a summary of what the original humanities represented—a trinity of essential aptitudes.

  The Arts. Knowledge. Truth.

  The arts—sculpture, painting, poetry, music, dance… everything relating to and controlled by the right brain.

  Knowledge—which originally translated to science. This was the logical, analytical, left brain motivated activity.

  The two were not to be without the other. The saying held a sort of yin and yang relationship that could only be centered—or perfected—by the pursuit of one uniting element… Truth—or in its intended meaning… God. These were the celebrated components, or cornerstones which the Renaissance was built upon.

  Underneath the phrase was another design crafted meticulously into the bronze slab. Embroidered upon the door was the same symbol on Cosimo’s tomb. The geometric shapes matched perfectly to the tombslab Jack had visited not more then 2 hours ago. The large circle… the Solomon’s knot… the 4 palles… it also matched identically to something else—

  The key.

  Jack fumbled through his pocket and pulled it out. He looked at it under the light of the lamp, confirming it was truly the matching piece—the missing link to the enigma behind the door.

  It was.

  Chester was right. The key had been inside Lorenzo’s dagger all along. It had been right under Lorenzo’s nose his entire life and he hadn’t known it. The key which Lorenzo so desperately sought after had been given to him by his grandfather at an early age. The irony was vexing. The key to the family secret was not only in his possession… it was carried on him throughout his whole life. Attached to his hip.

  Jack held the lamp above his head. A flood of excitement rushed over him as he explored the door for the keyhole. Once located, he lined up the key to the small opening, fighting an anxious shake in his hand that almost caused him to drop it. T
he key entered. The pin crossed the threshold and the bit fit securely in place. A gentle nudge sent the key stem past the throating, then the collar, until it reached the bow between his thumb and knuckle. It fit almost effortlessly. A firm twist to the left caused the mechanisms inside to turn and whir as the lock retracted within.

  The door was freed.

  Jack placed his palm upon the door. He took a deep breath and began to push… but something stopped him. Screams… echoing through the tunnel behind him—faint and shallow. Then he heard it again, this time louder… closer. He heard it a third time, and could clearly make out the words reverberating through the tunnel.

  Jaaaack! Jaaaaack!

  Morgan Forbes was screaming Jack’s name. By the sound of it, he was rushing down the tunnel, directly toward him.

  CHAPTER 46

  FLORENCE, THE LEMONAIA

  SEPTEMBER 10

  A STRONG WIND SHOOK the trees and rustled the shudders on the nearby villa. Dark clouds blocked out the moon above while a faint light shone from the windows of the lemonaia. Standing outside the window of the shed, a cloaked figure watched the events taking place within the room.

  Now is my time, he thought to himself. They’ve led me right to it.

  There was no need for the two men now. The plan worked. Jack Cullen and Morgan Forbes had not only discovered the grounds where the treasure was located, they had actually located the entrance to the tunnels.

  However… they were proving somewhat difficult to eradicate.

  He hadn’t planned for this—he didn’t factor that two of his trained assassins would fall this evening. He certainly hadn’t planned for her to be killed…

  He looked back across the courtyard where Gabriela lay motionless.

  No attachments, he reminded himself. Emotion equates affliction.

  “Nothing matters,” he whispered and turned away.

  Cullen and Forbes were a liability and they needed to be stopped. No more games. They had beckoned the dragon from his lair and now he had come forth to end it all. The treasure was far too precious to let go. Tonight would turn out differently than planned, but events were still in motion… it would be the culmination of his painstaking efforts.

  He gripped the wooden handle in his hands and made his move.

  With one swift strike of the axe, the chain holding the latches snapped and the door swung wide open. He entered the shed and scanned the interior for Forbes.

  But Forbes was nowhere to be seen.

  Calm and composed, he stepped inside the shed on full alert. Once inside, he crouched and readied for an attack. At the far corner of the room, he spotted an opening in the floorboards and made his way over to it. The leather straps on his boots squeaked gently as he strode across the room. The large hood over his head blocked the moonlight to his face, keeping it concealed beneath dark shadows. His thick cloak acted as lightweight armor while the assortment of weaponry beneath—daggers and throwing knives—lined his body and provided ample choices for tools of execution.

  He felt invincible in his regalia—bulletproof even. Untouchable. Almost as if—

  CRACK!

  A gun blast rang out. He felt an impact—a sharp pain along his spine jerked him forward violently.

  From the back of the shed stepped Morgan Forbes, gun held loosely in his left hand, his right arm pinned to his side. Once the shot had been fired, Forbes tossed the gun and snatched a crowbar from the bench. He held it as steadily as he could and readied himself for attack.

  The man in the shadows reached between his shoulders, touching the area where the bullet had entered. He slowly turned and sneered sinisterly at Forbes, mocking his effort to disable him. The man withdrew his hand from the wound on his back showing no signs of blood. It became apparent to Forbes that the assassin was unhurt… almost as if the bullet hadn’t even entered his body.

  Forbes readied himself. The cloaked man slowly raised the axe in his hands and prepared to charge. Forbes acted quickly. He reached up with the crowbar and dashed the overhead light bulb to pieces. The room quickly grew as black as the night outside. Forbes had used the assassin’s own trick against him. Now they both had a disadvantage. Neither one could see.

  It grew quiet as options were pondered. Forbes tried to control his breathing and save his energy. As he thought through his next move, a voice emerged from the darkness.

  “Forbes…”

  As soon as his name was uttered he knew right away to whom the voice belonged to—the man who had sent him here. Il Drago.

  “Listen closely,” the man spoke. “You’ve done well. You’ve accomplished your task, but this is no longer your mission.”

  Il Drago… Forbes thought to himself. It’s him. The voice alone was enough to reveal the identity. “The hell I have!” Forbes shouted back. “My mission was to get the treasure and that is what I intend to do.”

  “Your mission… was to locate it,” Il Drago growled from the dark shadows. “It is my decision what is to be done with it. I’m warning you… do not defy my directive.”

  Forbes knew the severity of his situation. His next move was vital in determining not only which man left with the treasure… but which man left alive.

  “I can assure you the spoils will be allocated,” the voice snarled. “Now leave! Or I will kill you.”

  For a moment, neither man moved. The shed was filled with a layer of silence so thick you could cut it. Just then, the sound of leather creaking gave away the assassin’s position. Forbes tried to determine based on sound where the man was standing inside the shed.

  The clouds transitioned across the moon in intervals. Every time the sky cleared, visibility inside the shed heightened—only for a moment, before darkness crept back over their narrow world. Forbes tried to use the small windows of visibility to locate any movement. His eyes were wide, lenses opened to full aperture, and using his peripheral vision to spot any movement. Forbes tried to focus his thoughts and clear his mind, but he kept looking over to the open doorway just ten feet away. He could run now and make it out safely.

  The dilemma was a moral one. Did he leave Jack and the treasure behind? A day ago, he wouldn’t have thought twice. He would have left Jack and thought nothing of it. However, it didn’t seem right to turn his back now. He felt he owed Jack more than that. Maybe it was a guilty conscience… or maybe he was just getting soft with age. He knew deep down Jack was a good man… honorable and decent. And Kat…? He owed it to her more than anything.

  And there is still that treasure…

  Slowly, he inched forward, clutching the crowbar tightly. He made his way past a few wheelbarrows on his left. He ducked down behind one, then he waited.

  The cloaked assassin knelt low to the ground. He could hear Forbes breathing somewhere on the far side of the shed. He was surprised. Forbes hadn’t left, which he had expected. He figured a man with Morgan Forbes’ wealth and prominence would have fled to protect himself—retreated to his comfortable existence. But it was not so. Even wounded and at a severe disadvantage, Forbes was appearing to show no signs of defeat.

  He would wait him out. Sooner or later, Forbes would do one of two things: begin to second-guess his desire to stay and fight—or adrenaline would take over and spur an attack. But which would it be?

  He reached back and felt along his spine—the Kevlar plating had proven useful. The bullet had bruised flesh but not entered past the thick sheets.

  A sound from across the room alerted his senses. Heavy footsteps and a faint rusty, squeaking sound approached very fast. He squinted to see but couldn’t make out a figure in the dark. The squeaking grew louder and closer. The hooded assassin steadied his axe and got ready to swing.

  3…

  2…

  1…

  SNAP!

  A severe pain shot through the assassin’s left leg as a blunt, heavy object collided with his kneecap. He shouted out in pain and dropped the axe into some kind of hollow, metallic basin. His hands went to his knees i
nstinctively to stabilize the point of impact, just as a heavy object whooshed toward his face. The assassin ducked just in time to have a crowbar miss his face by only inches. Grabbing blindly in front of him, he gripped the cold metal, realizing it had been a wheelbarrow that had struck his knee.

  Forbes delivered another firm blow to the assassin’s chest, striking him in the collarbone. He heard the crowbar rattle to the wooden floorboards below. Forbes dropped to the ground realizing he had lost his weapon. The cloaked figure reached for his axe and gripped a handful of Forbes’ shirt in the process. Forbes immediately fought back, pushing him across the room toward the opening in the boards. The assassin stumbled clumsily backward, favoring the uninjured knee. The awkward hobbling caused him to trip and fall.

  Forbes hung on. Both men hit the floor with a rattling THUD!

  The assassin landed only a few feet from the hole—he could smell the dank air escaping the opening beside him. He rolled onto his side and tried to get to his feet, but the pain in his left knee was excruciating. It took a moment for him to stabilize, and then he tried to focus in the dark. He looked around, simultaneously unsheathing a dagger from along his thigh. As soon as he drew the dagger he was again knocked to the ground by a forceful blow. Forbes burst out of the shadows wielding a set of rusty garden shears. The hooded figure reacted quickly—using the armor plating along his forearms to deflect the shears out of Forbes’ hands.

  Outside, the clouds moved aside allowing moonlight to peer into the shed. Both men were instantly illuminated and the assassin’s face was finally revealed to Forbes. He displayed a quick look of shock, then without hesitating, reacted in a desperate last-ditch effort. With an agonizing roar, Forbes ripped the knife out of his shoulder and thrust it down toward the assassin’s face. The blade fell swiftly, stopping just inches above the soft flesh along his throat. The assassin reacted just in time, parrying the blow with his powerful arms. Forbes bellowed loudly and pressed his weight heavily onto the knife. Using the last of his strength, he managed to push the assassin along the ground until he fell backward sliding into the hole. But Forbes didn’t let him go. He pressed his bodyweight down on the assassin’s legs, pinning him awkwardly half inside the shed and halfway underground. He reached for the garden shears… they were at his fingertips, but before he could grab them the assassin kicked free and fell down the hole.