As the vacca tolled its lowing sound, riders wearing the livery of the Pazzi family charged into the square, shouting, “Liberty! Death to the Medici tyrants! For the people of Florence! For the people!”
If the Pazzi conspirators were hoping that the citizens of Florence would chime in with them, they were to be sorely—and dangerously—disappointed. The word of Giuliano de’ Medici’s terrible murder at the hands of Francesco de Pazzi was spreading wildly, causing outrage throughout the city. As more Pazzi shills rode into the square, shouting for liberty, the populace of Florence poured into the square, shouting in return, “Palle! Palle, Palle! For the love of the Medici!” The Pazzi horsemen were pelted with rocks as the crowd became progressively more unruly. Details of Giuliano’s murder continued to spread and were exaggerated.
“He was cut into a hundred pieces! He was scattered all across the altar! His eyes were torn out and his nose cut off by the Pazzi scum!”
The terrible butchering of sweet Giuliano de’ Medici would not go unpunished in Florence this day. The palace guards had already killed the Perugian mercenaries and were hacking off their heads to place on spikes as a warning to all who would threaten the peace in this civilized republic. The first official conspirator to see retribution was the stunned Bracciolini. This was not how he had anticipated his involvement in the coup d’état to end Lorenzo’s life and the Medici reign. He began to talk fast, to promise complete intelligence on all the conspirators if they would spare him. Petrucci listened for less than a minute before he was interrupted with the news of Giuliano de’ Medici’s murder on the altar at High Mass. He spit on Bracciolini and nodded to the palace guards.
“Make an example of him. And make it count.”
Within seconds, the guards had found a sturdy rope and tied one end of it around the transom beam across the window. The other end went quickly around Bracciolini’s neck. They hurled him out the window, not even bothering to watch as he smashed against the side of the Palazzo Vecchio, breaking his neck and his teeth all in one motion. He was left to dangle out the window as the first example. But he was only the first.
They grabbed the archbishop of Pisa next. He was screaming and kicking and invoking papal protection until one of the guards broke
his jaw to shut him up. The guards sent him to join Bracciolini, in precisely the same way. He did not die as quickly, and the gruesome details of his slow and agonizing death would be recorded later by Angelo Poliziano. As the archbishop swung violently from the rope and smashed into the cold body of Jacopo Braccioloini, his last living act was to sink his teeth into the dead man’s flesh. Why he did it was a mystery, and a macabre one that was speculated upon by Florentines for years. Most speculated that the archbishop somehow believed he could save himself with this final, gruesome act. If that was his plan, it failed as had his others.
The mob was now screaming for Pazzi blood, and there was a surge toward their palazzo. Francesco de Pazzi was in hiding there, but not very effectively. The wound in his thigh was bleeding profusely, and it was easy enough to follow the blood and find him where he was hiding under a bed. The mob stripped him naked and dragged him through the streets, turning him over to the Signoria so that he would join his companions in their instant execution. Like those who preceded him, Francesco de Pazzi was left to dangle out the window of the Signoria from an impromptu but effective noose.
As the mob ruled and rumors spread, the people of Florence demanded to know if their magnificent Lorenzo was still alive. Hundreds of people now marched in the streets, on their way to the Palazzo Medici, chanting, “Magnifico! Magnifico!” The crowds swelled, with more shouting, more demands for proof that Lorenzo was alive.
Inside the Medici home, immediate plans were being made to get Clarice and the children out of Florence to one of the villas as quickly and quietly as possible. Lorenzo did not want his family in the city for the chaos that would clearly continue until the truth was known about this terrible day and its origins. He was praying that his mother would consent to leave with them, and yet he knew she would not. Lucrezia was in shock, unable to speak since hearing the news that her baby, Giuliano, had been brutally slain.
Lorenzo’s personal physician, having been rushed in through a back door of the palazzo, examined the neck wound carefully.
“You are truly beloved of God, Lorenzo,” the doctor said, shaking his head. “There is no way you should have survived a direct stab wound to the neck. But look at this.”
The doctor held out the piece of silver chain he had cut away from the wound. Still attached to it, albeit covered in blood, was the necklace with the relic of the True Cross that Lorenzo had been given as a child. It had been held for him until he was old enough to appreciate it, a priceless gift from King René d’Anjou, which had once belonged to Joan of Arc.
“It looks as if the knife cut the chain, but that as a result, the blow was deflected and hit further up your neck, above the artery. This pendant quite possibly saved your life.”
Florence was in chaos. There was rioting and mayhem as the citizens reacted to the conflicting rumors swirling through the charged Tuscan air. Hundreds were surrounding the palazzo at Via Larga, demanding to know if Lorenzo was dead or alive.
Angelo became liaison between the street and the palazzo, reporting to the people of Florence that Lorenzo was in the care of the doctor and asking that they continue to pray fervently for Lorenzo’s survival. But as the afternoon progressed and the crowds swelled, there was no appeasing them. They wanted Lorenzo. They demanded Lorenzo.
As the doctor wrapped Lorenzo’s neck, Colombina and Fra Francesco were admitted into the room. Colombina fell to her knees at Lorenzo’s feet when she saw him, grabbing his hand and weeping.
“Oh, Lorenzo, thank God. Thank God you are alive.”
He stroked her hair and wept as he asked, “Do you know about Giuliano?”
She nodded but could say nothing, too overwhelmed by her grief over Giuliano’s death and relief over Lorenzo’s salvation.
Lorenzo’s next question was for his Master. “How do I reconcile all of this, Master, through the teachings of the Order? Where was God today, when my brother went to worship, to celebrate the resurrection of Jesus and to give thanks for his life? Why was my beautiful, innocent brother taken?”
Fra Francesco, who had seen more tragedy and violence than any single soul should ever have to witness, placed his hand gently on Lorenzo’s shoulder. “My son, I can only say this: it is easy to have faith on a day when all is well. It is very hard to have faith on a day when we are surrounded by tragedy. I cannot tell you why God did not save Giuliano, but it is clear that there was divine intervention to save you. And so rather than cursing God for what he did not do, I prefer to give thanks for what he did do. I am grateful that Madonna Lucrezia is not mourning both her sons on this day. And so is most of Florence, by the sound of it.”
Lorenzo nodded. He whispered, “I am grateful for my life, Master. But . . . it will take some time for me to apply the teachings of love toward the men who did this.”
“But that is exactly what you must do, Lorenzo, and you must do it now. It has taken over fourteen hundred years for men with a purpose to unravel the true teachings of Jesus and to destroy the Way of
Love. You will not be able to restore them all on your own in your lifetime. But what you can do now is set an example for your people and the future by giving them a message of peace.”
Colombina clenched his hand and looked up at him. “The people of this city are terrified that something has happened to you, and it is mob rule out there now. Innocent Florentines are getting hurt, and in the current climate, there may even be more slaughter. But they love you, Lorenzo, and they will follow your lead. Talk to them and they will listen.”
Lorenzo nodded. His first attempt to stand up was unsuccessful. He was dizzy from blood loss and shock. The three in the room—Colombina, the Master, and the doctor—helped him to try again and held him up while he
gained his balance. Angelo came in panting, announcing that the mob was more restless and uncontrollable than ever. He had told them that Lorenzo would deliver a statement through
him, and he had come to craft one.
“I will deliver it myself, Angelo. But you may have to repeat it for me if I cannot be heard over the din.”
“Look, Lorenzo lives!”
The swelling mob outside the palazzo had been waiting for more information from Angelo when the window on the second story, just left of the main door, opened and Lorenzo appeared. His neck was dramatically bandaged and his clothes were caked in blood; his face was white with shock. Even from a distance it was clear that il Magnifico had been gravely injured in the attack. There was a collective intake of breath as the crowd watched Lorenzo struggle to remain on his feet and deliver his message. Angelo was visible beside him. What the mob below could not see was that Colombina and the doctor were propping him up from behind so he would not fall.
“My brother and sister citizens.” Lorenzo summoned all of his strength to be heard, as the people of Florence hushed each other in an effort to listen. “A terrible crime has been committed this day. An affront to God, a scar upon our republic, and a crime against my family. As some of you may know, my brother Giuliano . . . is dead. He was . . . murdered in the cathedral during Mass on this, of all holy days.”
The crowd erupted with the official announcement of Giuliano de’ Medici’s murder. Lorenzo, who was failing fast, continued with only the slightest pause, forcing the crowd to silence itself in order to
hear him.
“But we are a civilized people. As such, we must not add to the crimes that have been committed on this terrible day. We, the Republic of Florence, are viewed by citizens all across Europe as leaders of a progressive and independent state, one known for its culture, learning, and most of all, its law. And as such we must continue to set an example by allowing a just system of law and order to take effect and ensure that the perpetrators are brought to justice.”
There was more screaming at the word “justice,” before Lorenzo continued. “Let me stress that we cannot take this justice into the streets, no matter how much we may feel the need to right these wrongs. It is not the way in which a civilized republic operates. Our freedom comes from our commitment to justice. So let us remain free by also remaining just.
“While my family appreciates your outpouring of love and loyalty more than I have words to express, we must also beg that you do not commit acts of renegade retribution in an attempt to prove that loyalty. Those of you who knew my brother know that he was a kind and gentle man. He detested violence and would never want to see bloodshed carried out in his name.
“Most of all, I ask that in this time of terrible trial, you stay together as a community. Take care of each other. Cherish each precious moment that you have with your family . . .”
Lorenzo was choking up now, the reality of losing Giuliano setting in as he spoke. He had to cut it short. “That really is the only message that matters now. Love one another. And thank you. Thank you all for your loyalty and support.”
The crowd gasped as Lorenzo collapsed against Angelo. He was carried to his bed as the citizens of Florence cheered him, chanting “Il Magnifico” and “Palle, palle, palle” through the streets. The sympathy toward Lorenzo and his family had never been greater. Pope Sixtus and his closest family and followers were reviled as the criminals they were. The citizens of the Florentine Republic would stand with Lorenzo on virtually every decision he would make. Traditional councils were abolished or simply became obsolete as a council of ten Medici supporters was convened as an emergency measure during the tumultuous period immediately following the cathedral massacre. That council, never meant to be anything but temporary, became the ruling force in a city that took its mandate from the Medici.
For the next ten years, Florence belonged exclusively to Lorenzo as he became the most powerful man in Europe to never hold an official title.
In one of the many strange twists of fate in the history of the Medici family, Fioretta Gorini died of fever and blood loss in her bed on the same morning that Giuliano was murdered in the cathedral. Blessedly, she never knew about the massacre. Fioretta’s last communication from Giuliano was an excited message of love and hope, telling her that his family had consented to their union. She fell asleep shortly after receiving the correspondence, dreaming of the beautiful future she would have as Giuliano’s wife and the mother of Medici children. She never woke up from that dream.
Had Giuliano gone to Fiesole that morning, he would have arrived just in time to hold the hand of his beloved as she slipped away from him and returned to God.
Now they were together in heaven, taken on the same day.
Lorenzo de Medici adopted the baby, Giulio, with the permission and blessing of Fioretta’s family. For the rest of their days, the Gorini were treated as members of the Medici family and wanted for nothing. Baby Giulio was raised with Lorenzo’s favorite son, Giovanni, and the two boys became as close as twins. They played together, learned together, challenged each other. They finished each other’s sentences and spoke their own shorthand language. And like many sets of natural twins, they were opposite personality types: Giovanni was sunny
and sweet where Giulio was serious and sullen. Although Lorenzo always treated Giulio with the same affection that he showered on his own children, the boy seemed to have an innate resentment for the world that had deprived him of his natural parents. It was often necessary for his half brother, whom he called Gio, to cheer him out of his moods.
The destinies of these two boys were as intertwined as if they had shared a womb.
The Church is a hybrid monster.
For centuries, it has been the tradition in art to depict the Church in such a way, most often as a minotaur, the creature who lived in the center of the labyrinth in Crete and devoured the innocent. For that describes the Church, does it not? A mysterious type of hybrid monster, half horrible and half redeemable; half based on truth and half based on lies. A hybrid of love and hate, good and greed. This monster lives at the center of an impenetrable fortress and feeds on the blood of the innocent.
I have painted my hybrid monster as a centaur. He is a wretched one, and stupid, as he represents Sixtus and the brood of hideous inbred creatures who would carry out a plot to butcher the innocent on Easter Sunday. He clings hopelessly to his weapon, as he knows it has already failed him. He is caught. The truth is known.
The centaur is being controlled easily by the hand of the great Pallas Athene, who represents the goddess of eternal wisdom. It is in this way that I assert she will triumph, for she represents the truth. I have clothed her in a gown that is made up entirely of Medici devices, Lorenzo’s interlocking wedding rings, while also draping her in laurel leaves. It is clear to any who have eyes to see that this wise and mighty goddess favors our Lorenzo. May it always be so. I create this painting as a talisman of protection for him and the entire Medici family.
I remain,
Alessandro di Filipepi, known as “Botticelli”
FROM THE SECRET MEMOIRS OF SANDRO BOTTICELLI
Florence
present day
“POPE SIXTUS IV excommunicated Lorenzo shortly after murdering Giuliano in the cathedral.”
Destino was giving the lesson to all who were assembled in Petra’s living room that evening: Maureen and Peter, Roland and Tammy, and Petra.
“Excommunicated him for what reason?” Peter wanted to know.
“For surviving. Laugh, please, because it is ridiculous. But this is the truth. Sixtus was so outraged that Lorenzo had dared to survive his attempt to murder him that he excommunicated Lorenzo for the act of survival. And when the citizens of Florence would not acknowledge the act of anathema against il Magnifico, Sixtus excommunicated the entire Republic of Florence.”
“What?” This was said in a unison of disbelief.
Peter, the former priest who had once worked
inside the Vatican, added, “You cannot excommunicate an entire city! And certainly not because of one citizen in that city!”
“Yes, I know it is absurd, but everything that pope did was rather unbelievable. And he always got away with it. Papal authority being what it was, and the pope being infallible, he could do whatever he wished, and so he did. You can understand why Lorenzo became
more and more fixated on the elimination of absolute papal authority while at the same time he was always seeking ways to destabilize the structure of the Catholic Church.”
“What happened?” Roland asked. “Did the citizens of Florence accept their excommunication?”
“Of course not. For Florentines, Sixtus was a criminal and therefore nothing he said or did held much weight with the average citizen. The council in the Signoria sent a letter back to the pope, telling him that they would much rather follow Lorenzo than him, thank you very much. It was the ultimate affront! I wish I could have seen the face of Sixtus when he was faced with that letter.”
“The story of Giuliano and Fioretta is so sad,” Tammy said. “And yet, there is something poetic about their dying on the same day.”
“They were twinned souls, of course,” Petra said. “They left this world together, and I have no doubt that they were instantly reunited in heaven, to become as one again.”
Peter had been analyzing the material from the Libro Rosso on this idea of each soul having a twin. It fascinated him, confused him, and most of all, it disconcerted him.
“So are you saying that all people have soul mates? In reading the legends of Solomon and Sheba in the Libro Rosso, I see reference repeatedly to one’s ‘own soul’s twin.’ Are all souls twin souls?”
Petra looked at him for a long and careful moment, a slight smile on her lips. When she answered, it was with a softness that they had not yet seen from her. “Yes, Peter. All souls are twinned and perfectly mated. All of them. However, we do not incarnate together in every lifetime, depending on what the mission requires. Let us take Sandro Botticelli as a perfect example. Sandro was a singular character. He did not exist to find his soul mate, as he was singularly devoted to the mission. Sandro’s true love and authentic passion was creation, which is why he was so prolific. This was true for many of the greatest angelics: Donatello, Sandro, Michelangelo.
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