But for the young priest Antonio Maffei, Lorenzo de’ Medici was a villain of the highest order. If he could play a part in the death of such a man, he would be a hero for Volterra. He agreed to wield the dagger for no compensation other than pardon from the pope once the deed had been accomplished.
Maffei would be joined by another priest, a man who was deeply in debt to the Pazzi family bank and looking for a way to clear his ledger. Stefano da Bagnone agreed to assist Maffei in the event that it took more than one man to take down Lorenzo. As Easter Mass was a formal state occasion, it was to be expected that Lorenzo would be dressed for it. Full formal attire in Florence included a sword. And Lorenzo, the accomplished athlete and sportsman, did not wear a sword simply as an ornament. He knew how to use it. Therefore the plan was for the two priests to take him from behind, before he was able to unsheathe his weapon.
Together with the archbishop, the two priests came upon a brilliant plan to ensure their success. The signal to attack the Medici brothers would come during Mass, when the host was raised up on the altar in preparation for Holy Communion. Not only was it a signal that could not be missed, marked as it was by the ringing of bells, but devout Florentines would all be looking down in their prayers at that moment. It would give the assassins time to strike from behind without being immediately witnessed. Two daggers in Lorenzo’s throat in that instant would guarantee the success of their venture.
That there were now two priests and an archbishop in the service of the pope planning the bloody murder of two brothers on Easter Sunday—to be accomplished as the holy host was raised on the altar of a basilica—never bothered the conscience of any of the conspirators.
Nor did it strike anyone involved as the least bit ironic that the only man to make the determination that such a plot was utterly diabolical, the only man to walk away from what he determined was absolute evil, was the professional killer.
Palazzo Medici, Florence
April 25, 1478
LORENZO’S SMILE was broad as Giuliano limped into his studiolo.
“It lives! It walks!” Lorenzo got up from his desk and bounded over to his brother, embracing him in a bear hug. “How do you feel?”
“Much better. Sore. Getting downstairs was hard. It will require more healing before I feel like myself again, but I am on the mend overall.”
Giuliano stopped talking for a moment and Lorenzo saw that his eyes, still red with the inflammation, were also unnaturally bright. Concerned now, he put his hand against his brother’s forehead. “Do you have a fever? Do your eyes hurt from this inflammation?”
Giuliano laughed, brushing his brother’s hand away as he moved to sit on the red upholstered settee that had once rested beneath Botticelli’s masterpiece, The Time Returns. “No, no. I’m fine. That is what I am here to tell you, brother. I have just come from the chapel, where I prayed before the Libro Rosso for the last hour as you advised me to do. I listened to the angels, and they have spoken to me. They tell me to marry Fioretta, to choose only love. To acknowledge and raise my child as my own.”
Lorenzo could feel the lump building in his throat as he listened. It took him a moment to speak. “I am so happy to hear you say this. And I believe that you have heard the angels correctly. What else would angels say, other than that love conquers all?”
“But you have not heard the best of it yet! You will not believe it, but it is a miracle. Mother . . . she does not object! She was waiting for me when I was finished in the chapel, and she told me that she had been searching her heart and wanted only my happiness. Can you believe it? I shall marry Fioretta!”
Lorenzo embraced his little brother and hugged him tightly. For a moment, they were children again. Innocent, happy, playing out their roles of protective older brother and sweet, indulged baby. There were tears in Lorenzo’s eyes as he pulled away from Giuliano.
“I am . . . so happy for you both. I can only imagine how Fioretta will feel when you tell her.”
“I have decided to propose to her tomorrow, if my eyes are better. It will be her Easter surprise. I shall ride up to Fiesole first thing in the morning and surprise her. And my son.”
“You aren’t going to the High Mass tomorrow? The young cardinal is coming, and he is the pope’s nephew. He has asked to see you there specifically, as you will not be at the banquet tomorrow night.”
Giuliano considered for a moment. “Perhaps I will, and then go to Fiesole afterward. It depends on how I feel. I’m not sure how my leg will feel after walking to the cathedral and back; it may be too sore for me to ride. But now I must go and apply the compresses to my eyes that the doctor has given me so that I may celebrate the most blessed Easter of my life!”
Florence
Easter Sunday 1478
THE CATHEDRAL BEGAN to fill hours early, as Florentines arrived to get a seat for the High Mass on Easter Sunday. Seats were always saved in the front pews for the ruling elite, of which the Medici were the highest in rank. Lorenzo’s space was reserved at the front right, facing the altar. He would attend today with his closest friends and his brother, rather than his family, as the Mass here in the center of Florence was something of a state occasion. His mother, wife, and children would attend a separate service at their “home” basilica of San Lorenzo.
Francesco de Pazzi watched Lorenzo enter the cathedral with Angelo Poliziano. He looked around for Giuliano and began to panic when he didn’t see the tall, unmistakable form of the younger Medici brother. De Pazzi approached Lorenzo, who advised him that Giuliano was feeling very sore today and had decided that the walk to the cathedral wasn’t in the best interest of his ailing leg.
Sprinting the long blocks from the cathedral and down the Via Larga to the Medici palace, Francesco de Pazzi was admitted by Madonna Lucrezia, who was preparing to leave for her own local service with her grandchildren. De Pazzi told her breathlessly that the young Cardinal Riario was asking for Giuliano and that there was still time for him to attend the Mass so as not to offend the family of the pope. Lucrezia allowed the man in to speak with Giuliano about it directly. Her son was a grown man and perfectly capable of making his own decisions.
Francesco de Pazzi knew the character of Giuliano de’ Medici well. Everyone in Florence did. He was known for the sweetness of his nature and his unfailing manners. De Pazzi preyed upon this quality, pushing Giuliano hard.
“The cardinal is the youngest of powerful brothers, at seventeen. He is certain that you would give him invaluable advice about filling such grand shoes and living up to an exalted family name. And I have no doubt that the pope would feel far more kindly disposed toward Lorenzo in the future if you would grant his favorite nephew this small audience. Just a few minutes following the Mass, and we will have you back in bed in no time.”
Giuliano sighed. In truth, his leg was feeling much better today and he was capable of walking to the cathedral, albeit with a limp. But he had hoped to get up to Fiesole early, as he was so excited to be with Fioretta and the baby. But if what Francesco was asserting here was true, if the pope’s nephew really wanted to spend some time with him, then he should go to the Mass. It would benefit Lorenzo, above all, to have an ally within the pope’s family. And it wouldn’t delay him so very much, really. And after all, he did have much to be grateful for, and therefore an hour on his knees in honor of the Lord’s resurrection was the least he could do. He had actually been feeling rather guilty about skipping the service. Perhaps God sent Francesco de Pazzi to ensure that Giuliano went to church today!
Further, Giuliano remembered as he dressed that today was April twenty-sixth. It was two years ago to the day that their lovely Simonetta passed away. What was it that Lorenzo had said? “April twenty-sixth will always be a day of sadness for us”? He would go to Mass today to pray for the soul of Simonetta as well, and for the Cattaneo and
Vespucci families, who still mourned her.
He dressed quickly and was a little surprised when Francesco hugged him tight around his wa
ist as he emerged from his chambers, exclaiming his joy that the younger Medici was feeling well enough to accompany him on this fine day. What the unsuspecting Giuliano could not have known was that Francesco was checking for weapons and for armor. But because he had dressed so quickly and did not want any extra weight on his recovering body, Giuliano had decided to forgo the formal attire and leave the military dress items at home. Lorenzo would be wearing them, no doubt magnificently, and he would represent the family, as he always did.
Giuliano limped down the Via Larga toward the magnificent basilica, the pink and green marble facade gleaming in the sunlight. The masterpiece of the red brick Duomo was an inviting sight, welcoming all Florentines in to worship on this holy day.
They entered through the cathedral, but it was getting late and the spaces around Lorenzo had already filled. Giuliano would need to sit elsewhere, further back in the cathedral. His brother spotted him and raised an eyebrow to question his presence at the Mass, to which Giuliano just shrugged and pointed to de Pazzi. Lorenzo smiled at him and waved as if to say “explain it later” and turned back to prepare to take his seat. He adjusted his sword and scabbard so that they would lie across his lap during the Mass and not knock against the pews. As he did so, Lorenzo noticed that there were two priests sitting behind him. He didn’t recognize them, but he smiled politely and wished them a blessed Easter before turning back in readiness for the service. He commented to Angelo that the pope’s nephew, the most recent Cardinal Riario, looked very young and very nervous from his place on the altar. No doubt he had never experienced High Mass in such an enormous place as their beautiful cathedral of Santa Maria del Fiori.
Giuliano followed Francesco de Pazzi back toward the northern side of the cathedral, near the choir, and sat beside him. He was trying hard to focus on the service, but in truth all he could think about was seeing Fioretta. When the sacristy bell rang to signal the arrival of the host, he bent his head in reverence, as did the majority of the congregation.
Giuliano de’ Medici, about to begin a prayer in honor of the Lord he loved so much, never saw the dagger coming. Francesco de Pazzi struck hard with the power of adrenaline, plunging the first blow into the younger Medici’s neck with such force that it split him open.
Bloodlust seized Francesco de Pazzi, and he continued to stab Giuliano de’ Medici as hard and as fast as he could, grunting with the effort of it. He was so frenzied in his attack that he sliced open his own thigh, mistaking it for Giuliano during one blow.
There was chaos in the cathedral now, screaming as the blood splattered the congregation on the north side, and people began to scatter. Simultaneously, the two priests in place behind Lorenzo had attacked, but the priest-turned-assassin Antonio Maffei had made a tactical error. As he pulled his dagger from the sleeve of his robe with one hand, he steadied himself for the first blow by grabbing Lorenzo with his other.
Lorenzo de’ Medici had lightning-fast reflexes, well honed from years of hunting and athletics. He jumped the moment he was touched from behind, causing Maffei’s blow to land with less force. While the dagger sliced into Lorenzo’s neck, it was not a fatal wound. The intended victim was able to unsheathe his sword and defend himself before the other assailant could get a blow in.
For Angelo Poliziano, this was the moment of his life when everything he had ever been or ever would be was crystallized. His father, the most significant source of love and wisdom in his life, had been stabbed to death before his eyes when he was a little boy. Now Lorenzo de’ Medici, the most significant source of love and wisdom in his life twenty years later, was similarly threatened by knife-wielding assassins. But this time Angelo would intervene.
He wasn’t a big man, and his years as a poet had not given him an athletic build or any physical strength to speak of, but Angelo Poliziano had something else—determination. He hit one of the assassins with the heel of his right hand, hard enough to knock him off balance, and then seized Lorenzo by his free arm to pull him back and out of harm’s way. The two priests, stunned and terrified by the quick reactions of both Angelo and Lorenzo, turned and ran out of the cathedral before anyone could stop them.
“Come on!” Angelo yelled over the chaos at Lorenzo, who was now bleeding profusely from his neck wound and was in no condition to do anything but obey. Lorenzo’s party pulled him immediately through the huge bronze sacristy doors, slamming them shut against any further attacks. Lorenzo was momentarily stunned, but then the true terror hit him and he began to scream for his brother.
“Did you see Giuliano?” he asked Angelo desperately. But Lorenzo’s friends had no answer for him. His little brother had been sitting behind them and to the left, too far to see what was happening in the madness of the attacks and the haste to protect il Magnifico. Until that moment, it hadn’t even occurred to the others that Giuliano would be a target. Who, really, would want to assassinate the nonpolitical, sweet-natured Giuliano? It made no sense. Lorenzo’s loyal entourage was focused only on their leader at that moment. His young friend Antonio Ridolfi sucked the wound on his neck. If the assailants had been truly skilled, their daggers would have been poisoned. Ridolfi would gladly take the poison if it meant saving the Magnificent One. One day, perhaps, Florence would be grateful for his sacrifice.
“Giuliano!” Lorenzo was weak now from blood loss and Angelo was trying to keep him still while wrapping his throat with his own cape. “Is he safe?” Lorenzo was frantic. He had to know about his brother.
Another longtime Medici companion, Sigismondo Stufa, jumped up on a ladder and climbed into the choir loft to get a better look at the chaos that had transformed Easter Sunday into a bloodbath. Someone screamed that the dome was caving in, and people were now being trampled in the effort to escape the basilica. It took Sigismondo a long minute of searching to set his eyes upon the terrible sight that he would remember in his nightmares for the rest of his life.
Giuliano de’ Medici, nearly unrecognizable in a mass of his own blood, lay lifeless in the northern corridor. He had been torn to pieces, stabbed with the most vicious blows nineteen times.
There was no time to mourn. No one knew who or how many the attackers were. They must get Lorenzo to safety. And if Lorenzo knew that Giuliano had been massacred on the cathedral floor, they would never get him out of there. Sigismondo said that he had not seen Giuliano from the choir loft, giving Lorenzo false hope that his brother had escaped. The lie broke Sigismondo’s heart, but it was the only way he could ensure that Lorenzo would leave the basilica and get back to the safety of the Palazzo Medici as quickly as they could carry him.
Later Sigismondo would claim that he hadn’t lied when he said
he didn’t see Giuliano in the cathedral. In the terror of the moment, he could hardly fathom that the terrible mass of flesh and blood on the floor was his childhood best friend and jousting partner. That mess was not Giuliano de’ Medici. How could it possibly be?
The second element of the Pazzi conspiracy launched as Archbishop Salviati and Bracciolini marched toward the Signoria in preparation for their coup. They were joined by a team of ruthless mercenaries from Perugia. The approach of this ragtag bunch of soldiers raised the hackles of the Signoria, despite the fact that they were led by an archbishop. The current gonfaloniere, the commander in chief of the republic, was a hard and fearless man named Cesare Petrucci. Petrucci was having lunch when the archbishop and his brigade arrived and demanded audience. The savvy Petrucci allowed them in but separated Archbishop Salviati and Bracciolini from the band of villainous Perugians, requesting that this “honor guard” wait in an adjoining room. What the archbishop didn’t realize was that the room where the mercenaries were asked to wait was a cleverly disguised holding cell. There was no way to exit that room once inside unless a member of the Signoria released them.
Archbishop Salviati advised Petrucci that he had a message from the pope. He began to deliver a somewhat nonsensical speech about liberating Florence, but his nerves got the better of hi
m and he stumbled over the words. But Petrucci had heard enough. Words like “overthrow” and “tyrant” were all he needed to hear to know that there was trouble brewing. Besides, there was commotion in the square and he could already hear chaos in the streets outside. He shouted for the Signoria guards and, as he did so, was attacked suddenly by an erratic Bracciolini, who was awkward and late pulling his
sword.
Petrucci, a burly man and a skilled warrior, didn’t bother with a weapon. He grabbed Bracciolini by the hair and wrestled him to the ground in a matter of seconds. Guards from the Signoria piled in the room and further subdued him, at the same time getting a few good kicks in at the archbishop of Pisa, who was also taken into custody.
“Toll the vacca!” Petrucci shouted.
The vacca was the enormous bell in the Signoria tower, given that name, the “cow,” because of the odd and deep mooing sound the bell made when rung. It was a sound of grave importance to Florentines. The vacca was only tolled when there was a crisis in the city. It was a call to order, and it brought the citizens of the republic rushing into the Piazza Signoria to discover its purpose.
The Poet Prince Page 35
