The Florentine Emerald: The Secret of the Convert's Ring

by Agustín Bernaldo Palatchi

  April 26, 1478

  On the fifth Sunday after Easter, Mauricio entered Florence early. Behind him, the enormous watchtowers and impenetrable walls protecting the city seemed to be telling him there was no going back. The past lay buried in Barcelona. Far more turbulent waters than those he had just crossed on his sea journey from the ciudad condal, the city of counts, were awaiting him in his new destination. A ring and a small amount of money, just enough to enable him to survive for a few days, were all he possessed to help him forge his future.

  Hesitantly, he entered the church of Santo Spirito and, resting on one of its well-worn benches, closed his eyes and nostalgically recalled memories of his childhood when his father would recount stories from the Bible just before he went to sleep: the creation of the universe in seven days, the expulsion from the Garden of Eden, Noah’s Ark, the Tower of Babel, the epic story of the child Joseph and his gift for interpreting dreams. Indeed the holy book provided the best opportunity for delving beyond the visible world. What was there before God created light, the firmament, and the stars? Were they infinite these stars that illuminated nights on earth? The young Mauricio would ponder on these and other similar questions in the darkness of his bedroom long after his father had extinguished the wick of his oil lamp. It was then that he would find consolation in the mother he had never known, who would smile down on him from heaven and encourage him to reach out and find the answers to all these hidden mysteries. His father, who was perhaps linked by some invisible bridge to the heavens, had always protected him and allowed him to escape from the workshop and immerse himself in the mass of reading matter piled up in the house of his old friend Juan, an esteemed Barcelona bookshop owner. It was there, in the tranquility of a solitary garret that he had learned to live other lives and to travel to distant lands. That world, replete in equal parts of mystery and security was now irretrievably lost.

  Like an empty shell tossed around by the wind, like a grain of sand lost in the desert, like a tremulous dew drop threatened by the sun … there was no metaphor that could describe the utter confusion and loss provoked in him by the unjust death of his father. His past was full of secrets and untruths and the future promised to be as unpredictable as a storm at sea. The emerald was his only hope to avoid sinking into a pit of misery and even that thought provoked bitter remorse in him.

  Had it not been for the resplendent ring, his father would not have been tortured in an ordeal reserved for the worst criminals. Had it not outshone the stars, his father would not have spent the last days of his existence wracked by unbearable agony. Had it not resembled a sacred jewel, fashioned in the forge of the gods, his father would have bid farewell to life with a short sigh, just enough time for the executioner to gain a pair of boots and a few blood-spattered coins. However, the emerald was made of the same substance as heavenly bodies, his father had fought to the limits of his endurance in order to reveal its existence to his son, and he in turn, fulfilling his role in the drama, had come to Florence to sell this mysterious stone.

  What was the provenance of this sublime jewel? Why had his father never spoken of it? He had deliberately concealed an important part of his family history, inexorably related to his unexpected Hebraic connections. Mauricio could understand his father’s reluctance to speak about a past that Mauricio himself was ashamed of. It was very hard for his Christian pride to accept that he was descended from Jewish converts to Christianity, and in some way he felt as if a part of him was contaminated by a lie. And yet there were so many facts about his origins he was still unaware of … What if his father’s omissions were caused by some other hidden reason? Perhaps there was mortal danger in uncovering something that he had taken such trouble to hide.

  Although he was invaded by incomprehension, anguish, and sadness in these dark hours, one unquenchable desire emerged through the gloom of his soul like a litany repeated a thousand times: to accomplish the mission that his father had entrusted him with in his last breath, grasping a message called hope from the jaws of death. He would not allow his sacrifice to go in vain. For the first time in his life, he told himself, he had to rise to the hopes placed in him.

  “Whatever sins we may have committed in the past will be forgotten. You will start a new life in Florence and good fortune will accompany you.” Those words rang in his ears and filled him with confidence. He pleaded to Jesus Christ that his father’s posthumous blessing would guide his steps and then left the church.

  As Mauricio crossed over the bridge of Santa Trinita, memories of the textile trade in Barcelona came back to him. On both banks of the River Arno, crowds of men were washing wool with a mixture of liquid disinfectant and horse urine, which impregnated the air with its penetrating odor, while others rinsed out the trimmed sheep wool in the river waters. Beaters struck the soaking wool stretched out on wicker frames while others finished the process on the edge of the river, combing and separating the fibers.

  They were all carrying out tough, badly remunerated jobs. The carders and spinners were not well paid either. If a thief were to steal his ring, he too would be condemned to live in poverty. Afraid to lose the jewel in a stroke of ill fortune, Mauricio decided to head toward the Medici Palace without further delay.

  He had dressed for the occasion in a suit of clothes his father had presented him with the year before in honor of his twentieth birthday. It was his best attire: a white linen shirt, a blue silk doublet, and elegant red hose. A velvet sash concealed the knot that connected the top of the hose to the doublet. Without a doubt, he looked like a wealthy merchant. But he was no Florentine. The gentlemen of that city were scrupulously clean shaven and wore either scarlet hats or strips of cloth resembling turbans on their heads. In contrast, his long hair flowing in the wind and bushy beard made him stand out as a foreigner. If he looked in the slightest way disoriented or hesitant, he would soon attract the attention of the ruffians that lurk in all cities in search of unsuspecting victims. Danger lay in wait for him everywhere, including at the inn where he had left his belongings. The owner, a greedy-eyed man, had filled him with deep mistrust when he described the best way to reach the Medici Palace.

  With this in mind, though wandering lost in a labyrinth of narrow streets, he affected confidence and kept up a steady pace, preferring not to stop and look around at the small drapers’ shops built into the old Roman walls or wander around the many shops and workshops where traders and artisans offered a wealth of captivating wares. Not even the fragrant smells of the colorful market could stop his progress, in spite of not having eaten lunch. Tender capons, juicy venison, fresh fruit, sweet honey, and cheeses swarming with flies would all have to wait until he had sold the ring.

  When some hens bustled noisily out into the street coming from a large arched doorway, a smile fleetingly crossed Mauricio’s face for the first time. Perhaps, he told himself, the disoriented fowl were fleeing from the noisy hammering resonating from within, beyond the vaulted entrance. He was probably in front of one of the renowned workshops producing Florentine art and whose importance could be measured by the quantity of hens they possessed; as in Barcelona, fresh egg yolk was used to seal the colors in tempera paintings. Mauricio had never seen so many artists’ studios or such exquisite shops. There was no question he was in the city of arts and fashion, although this distinction, just like in Barcelona, was not enough to prevent the cobbled streets from being spattered with the excrement of horses, donkeys, mules, and other beasts of burden. It was inevitable, he mused, the richer the city the more it will reek of dung. And Florence was extremely rich.

  When he caught sight of the immense dome of the cathedral dominating the reddish rooftops of the city, his face could barely hide an expression of amazed wonder. Never could he have imagined that such an immense dome could ever have been built. Mauricio wondered if it would be big enough to house under its great shadow the forty thousand inhabitants of this great metropolis, one of the most populated in Christendom. Forcing himself not to delay howeve
r, he kept walking. Continuing down the Via Larga, a few steps away, stood the Medici Palace. Now there was no getting lost.

  Sure enough, at the next crossroad he not only found the Medici Palace, but it would seem the very man himself, Lorenzo Il Magnifico. He was almost certain he was not mistaken. With a serene expression, he was quietly conversing in front of the door of the palace with someone who seemed to be an extremely young cardinal. His scarlet cassock, the galero crowning his head, and the purple silk sash all proclaimed his position. In the case of Lorenzo, it was impossible to identify him from his attire. The velvet doublet he wore, reaching down to his ankles, only revealed the fact that he enjoyed an excellent social position, unlike lesser fortunate mortals whose doublets made of inferior material reached no lower than their knees. However, the irregular features of his face coincided exactly with the description that Mauricio had received.

  Tall and sturdy, he had an enormous nose with a caved-in bridge that twisted toward the right, making it difficult for the rest of his features to find their place; each one seemed to belong to a different person. His large sunken eyes were too widely set apart from his long nose; his strong chin and prominent jaw were disproportionate in comparison with the rest of his face, and his broad clear brow was abruptly slashed across by thick, angular eyebrows. His thin lips made a marked contrast to the exuberance of the rest of his features. Probably these asymmetrical traits embodied the secret of Lorenzo, for Il Magnifico was a man of many parts.

  Prince of Florence in all things other than title, the city being officially a republic, his virtues were incalculable. An astute politician, discoverer, and protector of artists, as skilful jousting on horseback as wielding a pen, he was considered one of the finest poets in Italy. Owner of the Medici Bank, the most renowned in Europe, he was moreover the very soul of the Accademia Platonica, a meeting place for philosophers and the most illustrious minds in Christendom. An athlete and skilled swordsman, orator, and scholar, he also loved social gatherings, where he shone as a musician and dancer. Mauricio’s whole future depended on how this man of genius would receive him.

  He weighed up whether to address the prince without a crown in Latin but dismissed the thought. Although he had studied Latin, he only used it to read, pray, and listen to mass. His delivery would surely seem coarse to someone educated by the very best teachers and who used Latin every day in conversation and letters. Fortunately, he could speak the language of Tuscany. Many years ago his father had brought in the master dyer Sandro Tubaroni as a partner in the family textile business. This roguish Florentine had stolen certain commercial secrets about the oricello lichen from the house of Rucellai, thanks to which the business back in the ciudad condal had seen a marked increase in its sales. However, Sandro Tubaroni was no vulgar robber of other people’s secrets, but rather a genial, dramatic Italian, as much a lover of the good things in life as he was of art. Fascinated by the magnificent illustrated copy of La Divina Commedia that Sandro had brought with him from Italy, Mauricio industriously copied in longhand Dante Alighieri’s masterpiece. In this way, imitating the superb style of writing and, thanks to the Florentine master’s willingness to teach him, he ended up learning the language that charmed him as much by its musicality as by the spectacular images conjured up by the brilliance of the poet. Paradoxically enough, Mauricio reflected, seemingly useless activities carried out for sheer pleasure could turn out to be more productive in the end than those one has been forced to do.

  But there was no more time for reflection. It was time for action. Mauricio’s feet, ignoring the doubts in his mind, carried him right up to Lorenzo. There was no turning back now.

  “Most distinguished Lorenzo,” Mauricio exclaimed, overcoming his fears, “your fame transcends frontiers, reaching every corner of the world. For this reason I have journeyed from Barcelona to offer you a jewel fit for an emperor.”

  The young cardinal made a dismissive gesture with his hand suggesting that they were not interested in hearing him out. In spite of this, Lorenzo smiled and addressed him.

  “I am much obliged by your offer, but I am no more than a simple citizen. I am no emperor. I am not even a nobleman.”

  Lorenzo’s modesty was feigned, because everyone knew he held the reins of power in Florence. His answer therefore was an invitation to continue talking. The cardinal, on the other hand, seemed to be in a great hurry.

  “Lorenzo, I beg of you,” enjoined the prelate. “Let us not delay or we shall arrive late.”

  Mauricio understood that if he wanted to keep the great man of Florence’s attention he had to succeed with the words that followed. He had to keep trying even though he might be ignored.

  “My lord, the jewel I carry is a unique talisman. But it is also extremely proud. If you turn your back on it, perhaps it will take offence and be unwilling to give you the benefit of its light.”

  Mauricio had been daring and maybe his boldness would capture Lorenzo’s attention. His inordinate fondness for jewels and amulets, for which he was prepared to pay small fortunes, was widely known.

  Il Magnifico smiled again and gestured to the cardinal to restrain his impatience.

  “It is never good to offend if it can be avoided. Show me, then, what you have brought from afar.”

  Mauricio reached down to his belt and untied the cord of a small leather pouch hanging from it. On taking out the ring he was once again enraptured, as if he had seen it for the first time. On a square base of old gold rested an emerald of such beauty that it seemed fashioned by the gods rather than belonging to this world. Deep green and luminous, the gem seemed to pulsate with a life of its own. Cut by a masterly hand, the stone resembled a kind of cosmic cube mounted upon two clasps of white gold that were encrusted with tiny diamonds. On the underside of the base written in Castilian Spanish was the inscription, “Luz, luz, más luz”: Light, light, more light.

  Lorenzo avidly devoured the ring with his eyes and took it in his hands. His wide-open eyes denoted extraordinary interest.

  “I have never seen anything like this before. It is absolutely exceptional. How much do you want for it, sir?” asked Lorenzo, after fitting the jewel on his ring finger as if he was already its new owner.

  “Mauricio Coloma, native of Barcelona, your humble servant in Florence, and of justice in all places,” he replied solemnly, mentally calculating how much Lorenzo would be willing to pay. He was facing a man of some thirty years of age, powerful, self-confident, and the owner of an incalculable fortune. The fact was he already had the ring in his possession. If he decided not to pay him even a florin, what could Mauricio do against the most important man in Florence?

  “Cardinal Raffaele, forgive our boldness,” interrupted two recent arrivals. “The archbishop of Pisa begs you not to tarry more in coming to the cathedral. The entire city awaits you.”

  Mauricio looked at these men. Both were clad in tight-fitting, dark green jackets with long sleeves and of sober cut. Over this livery they wore a sleeveless tunic free of any adornment. From their appearance and attitude they must have been servants of the cardinal acting as heralds.

  Young Raffaele looked pleadingly at Lorenzo, who reacted promptly.

  “It is not proper for a good host to make his most distinguished guests wait. And even less so an entire city. Let us leave then without delay. Please grant me the favor of accompanying us, Mauricio. When holy mass is over, we shall have time to value this fabulous jewel you have had the sensibility to bring to my door.”

  Mauricio had been warned that “Florentines are as elegant with their words as they are treacherous in their actions.” And here he was walking toward the Duomo, cathedral of Florence, together with a cardinal and a poet prince. Nevertheless, he no longer had the ring: Lorenzo did. Would he offer a fair price? Or would he decide to keep it without paying him even a florin? Mauricio had very few reasons to trust the nobility.

  A very thin line divided poverty from great luxury. Only a short walk separated the grandiose M
edici Palace from the peasants and workers he had seen that morning on the other side of the River Arno. They usually lived crammed into small houses built of adobe and sandstone with barely any windows or light, one bed for the whole family and a coarse linen shirt as their only garment. Who was free to choose their destiny? His own rested entirely on the jewel that Lorenzo was so casually sporting on his finger.

  3

  Florence

  April 26, 1478

  “My face seems like a stranger’s, someone I never knew,” thought Lorena Ginori as she gazed at her reflection in the large oval mirror in her bedroom. Was it really possible that such a bitter destiny awaited one so young?

  Her faithful Cateruccia was putting the finishing touches to her mistress’s hair with the curling tongs that brought out the natural wave in her chestnut-colored locks. That was the physical trait Lorena was most proud of: she hardly needed to brush her hair for those corkscrew ringlets, which all women longed for, to appear. Her younger sister, on the other hand, could spend hours wielding curling tongs, only to end up with a far less effective result than Lorena could achieve after a mere few minutes.

  Today though, she did not care about her hairstyle, nor her beautiful dress, a brilliant shade of blue that her father’s looms alone had managed to create after many attempts. Kept in secret, this morning they were to display it for the first time in front of the cream of Florentine society during the Sunday High Mass that was to be attended by Lorenzo de Medici, the archbishop of Pisa, and Cardinal Raffaele Riario, nephew to the pope.

  Only two days before, she would have found it difficult to get to sleep with the excitement of such an important event. But the fact she had barely slept the night before was not because of the mass that was to take place in the splendid cathedral of Florence, but rather the weeping provoked by the sad future her father was about to impose upon her. She also thought that the unwished-for future was the cause of a macabre nightmare that had terrified her that night: a vision of the high altar of the Duomo stained red with innocent blood. She could hardly have imagined that her nightmares would become true that very morning as a result of a conspiracy to assassinate Lorenzo de Medici in Florence Cathedral during the solemn moment of the Eucharist.