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

by Agustín Bernaldo Palatchi

  Throughout her childhood, Lorena had experienced recurring premonitions that would appear to her suddenly in a blinding flash and that would predict certain events. Her father had never believed in them. On the contrary, he had punished her severely for what he considered to be dangerous, compulsive lies. Her mother, frightened that such abnormal happenings could reach the ears of the religious authorities who would favor exorcising the girl, advised her not to breathe a word. Although tormented, Lorena had learned to keep silent; as time passed, the troublesome visions had become less frequent until they finally disappeared altogether from her life and her memory. At least, that is what Lorena thought.

  And so, unaware of the events that would leave their mark on the course she and Florence were to take, she descended the stairs that led from the main bedrooms to the ground floor, where her parents and brother and sister were waiting for her. On seeing her parents, all she could feel was coldness in her heart. No emotion, neither warm nor loving, nestled within her.

  “Your eyes are all red,” said her mother with concern.

  “And you are paler than a three-day old corpse,” added her father with his characteristic sensitivity.

  Lorena could feel her eyes welling again, but before she burst into tears an unprecedented, intense feeling swept through her body, making her shake so violently that it seemed as if she was possessed by something with a life of its own.

  “I already told you yesterday that I did not want to marry Galeotto Pazzi!” she heard herself scream, surprising herself with her own reaction.

  “Let us not start that again!” retorted her father, “You’re over sixteen and you’re a woman now. It is not about what you want to do, but what you ought to do. Within three months the marriage will take place, according to the agreement I made with the Pazzi family.”

  “You’ll grow to like Galeotto, my child,” intervened her mother gently. “Many young women would give anything to marry such a gentleman. The Pazzi are aristocrats. Their wealth equals that of the powerful Medici family and their lineage is without a doubt superior. It would not be preposterous to think that maybe one day in the not-too-distant future the government of Florence could fall into their hands.”

  Lorena was still filled with the powerful force that seemed to surge from her very depths and take over her personality. Although she knew it was not fitting, she needed to protest and scream that what they wanted to do with her life was unjust.

  “Well let these young women marry Galeotto! Do I have to endure his foul smelling breath every time he pleases? Lie with a man who revolts me and serve him? Never!”

  “How can you be so selfish?” demanded her father.

  Lorena could see in his eyes the fierce determination that burned in him when he was convinced of being right, which, in other words, was always.

  “You know full well,” he continued, “how difficult it has been for me to attain the prominent position I now occupy in the guild of the Calimala. We have even been able to buy this small palace. Were your grandparents still alive their eyes would shine with pride. And now we are being offered an unsurpassable opportunity! To marry an affluent member of the nobility! Do you not see the doors opening in front of our very eyes? Perhaps your children, my grandchildren, will one day become part of the government of Florence. How can you think only of yourself when the whole future of our family is in the balance? It is inconceivable!”

  Lorena understood only too well those reasons and felt ashamed that her attitude might obstruct the social ascent of the family. Nevertheless, her whole being was screaming and enjoining her to resist to her very last breath. Amazed at her own daring, once again she answered back.

  “Galeotto Pazzi is pot-bellied and his breath always reeks of wine. He is not only vulgar, but also conceited. I wouldn’t hesitate if I only had to marry a name. But what you want is for me to marry an older man who will revolt me with his intimacy. In God’s name are there no other options?”

  “None as suitable as this one,” explained her mother. “Your father has already arranged this alliance with the Pazzi family, so there is no more to discuss as far as this is concerned. Galeotto’s company will not be as disagreeable as you think. His pastimes and his business will keep him occupied most of the time. Once you have children you will be able to run the household and educate them in the manner you think most appropriate. Now you are young and impetuous. As you mature and see your children grow with all the opportunities within their reach, you will understand the destiny your father chose for you was not as bad as you thought.”

  Lorena wondered if her mother was talking from her own experience. Her voice had a ring of truth. Did she have some way of escape or was it better to resign herself? Her father’s countenance was unyielding. She knew perfectly well that his greatest dream was to overcome the barrier that separated the prosperous merchant from the influential oligarchy that ruled Florence. This union could make it possible. Her father would never give in. Her mother’s feelings would not change the future they had in store for her. Nor would the opinion of her younger sister, who was observing the whole scene wide-eyed, paralyzed, and dumb with astonishment. Maria, only twelve and a half years old, was a big child who never complained or protested. How could her sister understand this desperate reaction if Lorena was the first one to be surprised? As for her elder brother Alessandro, his indignant and disapproving expression did not have to be put into words. As the only male child, he was obliged to aggrandize the name of Ginori, and he seemed almost as angry as his father.

  “This marriage is a matter of honor for the whole family,” her father admonished in a harsh tone. “You should be proud instead of arguing. Or is it those books of yours that have softened your brain? I have told your mother a thousand times that it is not appropriate for a refined young lady to spend so much time reading. The real world doesn’t consist of those outlandish troubadours that you so delight in. You live in Florence, not in an idyllic poem. It will be done as I say. And now let us depart for the cathedral or we shall arrive late for mass.”

  Lorena crumbled. What could she do? Only just sixteen, she was practically a child and had no means with which to oppose her father’s will. She felt small and insignificant … Unable to contain herself, she sat down and burst into tears, burying her face in the folds of her skirt.

  “It’s pointless, Francesco,” she heard her mother saying. “It would be better if Lorena does not come with us to the cathedral. Her eyes are far too swollen and red.”

  “But the dress … ”

  “It is not suitable, Francesco. Can’t you see the state the girl is in? Her whole face is disfigured. What will people say? It is preferable that she stays at home and gets over it. It will do her good. Cateruccia will stay here and look after her.”

  Once her parents had left, Lorena knelt in front of the crucifix in her room and implored the Redeemer to perform a miracle.

  “Oh Lord, you who are all powerful, you know I worship you, please prevent this marriage and give me another husband.”

  Would God listen to her prayers or consider them too selfish to heed?

  4

  When the sacred chalice was raised in full view of the congregation, Mauricio only had eyes for the ring on Lorenzo’s hand. He felt unworthy for not paying due attention to the miraculous conversion of bread and wine into the flesh and blood of Christ. But had he not been so preoccupied by the jewel, he would not have seen a priest pull a knife from under his tunic and seize Lorenzo by his shoulder while another cleric rushed forward to stab him.

  Without a moment’s hesitation, Mauricio sprang up and violently pushed the attacker, who crashed to the ground. “Beware sire,” he shouted as he fought with the other priest. It was perhaps thanks to this that Lorenzo had time to react and break loose from the priest who was holding him down. His neck was cut just below his right ear and was bleeding. Ignoring the wound, Il Magnifico wrapped his left arm with his cape, using it as an improvised shield to repel
another attack from the priest who was trying to kill him.

  What was happening? There was no time to speculate. If Lorenzo died, all would be lost, including Mauricio’s last hope. A large group of men armed with daggers and swords appeared, running at full speed and shouting “Death to the tyrant!” Some of them seemed to be prominent citizens and others mere servants, although all shared the same murderous intent. One of the attackers, arrayed in splendid robes, was visibly limping. His face was contorted and his thigh was bleeding. Lorenzo and he exchanged a look of hate.

  “Francesco Pazzi,” murmured Il Magnifico. “So the Pazzi are the instigators of this treachery.”

  Screams, weeping, and echoing footsteps reverberated under the enormous dome of the cathedral. Ambassadors, merchants, magistrates, ladies, children, and servants fled in disarray, all prey to panic. Pushing their way through the pandemonium, four men appeared brandishing daggers and stiletto blades.

  “Stand firm, Lorenzo,” they shouted.

  The resolute allies arrived fast enough to form a human shield around Lorenzo. The clash was muffled and fierce. One of the defenders, of noble appearance, was stabbed in the stomach by a long-bladed dagger. Surprise and pain crossed his features before he fell to the ground. Another of the rescuers, a young servant, managed to dodge the attack of a priest armed with a sword.

  “Flee, Lorenzo, you must save yourself,” shouted one of the men who had rushed to his rescue and who had suffered a deep cut in his right arm.

  Il Magnifico nimbly jumped over a wooden barrier, reached the octagonal choir, and ran past the high altar, where the young Cardinal Raffaele was praying behind his retinue of clerics, who surrounded him protectively. Mauricio joined Lorenzo in his sprint. Not everyone ran from the cathedral. Many men, split into small groups, ran toward the place where the aggressors were being held in check.

  “You will be safe in here, sire!” exclaimed a man in a scarlet velvet doublet. He pointed to the interior of a high-ceilinged vestry with solid bronze doors.

  Mauricio accompanied Lorenzo together with five other men who, once inside, hastily barred the heavy doors. Mauricio wondered anxiously whether this was not a new and mortal ambush. Il Magnifico seemed to trust these men, although he was extremely nervous and clearly beside himself.

  “A ritual murder!” he shouted. “They want my blood spilled on holy ground! They already killed the Duke of Milan during the mass of Saint Stephen and now they want to have done with us.”

  “A ritual murder in church?” wondered Mauricio. He had never heard of anything like it. It seemed like an act of the devil. What fatal coincidence had brought him in contact with Lorenzo in his worst hour? If he had arrived at the Medici Palace a little later on that fateful morning, he would not be in mortal danger. If only he had simply wandered around the narrow streets of Florence without reaching the market near the Duomo so soon, or if he had lingered awhile, contemplating some of those tantalizing shops. Mauricio banished those thoughts. Lamenting would not change the reality.

  “What about my brother? Is my brother safe?” asked Lorenzo for the third time.

  No one answered, either in ignorance or not wishing to fill Lorenzo with despair at such a critical moment. One of those present, a handsome man with curly hair, shot an inspired look at Il Magnifico. Acting as if a thought had suddenly crossed his mind, he quickly leapt on him and, before anyone could react, clapped his mouth onto the wound on Lorenzo’s neck. Mauricio did not know if he was biting him or embracing him, but the scene was so unsettling that he rushed to separate them.

  Two men immediately pulled him back.

  “Steady friend, steady,” they warned him.

  The man with curly hair spat Il Magnifico’s blood onto the ground.

  “Don’t you understand?” said one of the men holding him back. “He’s sucking out the blood from the wound in case the blade from that treacherous dagger had been poisoned. Though the cut is superficial, the poison could prove to be deadly.”

  After being released, Mauricio wondered what kind of person Lorenzo could be: someone capable of creating such strong relationships that his friends did not hesitate to risk their lives for him. Or someone whose favors and money they depended upon to survive. Or maybe all of these, for wasn’t Il Magnifico supposed to be many men embodied in one?

  Only the sound of Lorenzo’s faithful companion spitting blood onto the ground broke the tense silence in the vestry. The others were concentrated in an attempt to listen to what was happening on the other side of the heavy bronze doors. Had the conspirators been overcome? Or, on the contrary, had they been victorious and should they prepare to resist a siege?

  When the first voices could be distinguished, Mauricio had completely lost all notion of time. He did not know if an eternity had passed or just a few minutes.

  “Lorenzo, come out! It’s safe,” they shouted, violently thumping on the door.

  Was this the truth or merely a deadly trap? How was one to know? Another elegant ally of Lorenzo offered to solve the mystery. He answered to the name of Segismundo della Stufa, which amused Mauricio. His amusement quickly turned into admiration when he saw the man nimbly climb the spiral staircase of the vestry in order to reach the organ nave. From there he could easily make out the scene below and determine who was pounding on the door. With his heart in his mouth, Mauricio wondered what Segismundo was seeing.

  5

  Lorena put on those impossible shoes, lined in soft Cordovan leather, with cork soles higher than the palm of her hand. Although they were not easy to walk in, they were indispensable after the rainy weather the previous day. It was thanks to these clogs and the help of her faithful Cateruccia that she could hope to keep her skirts and dainty feet free of mud.

  “How could you even think of going out for a walk,” asked Cateruccia, “when you actually refused to go to mass? Be reasonable. Such a serious misdeed will not go unpunished.”

  Lorena felt rebellious. She wanted to be free, but her parents were forcing her to marry a man who filled her with loathing. According to Plato, freedom without knowledge was a mere illusion. What Lorena did not know, among other things, was that the archbishop of Pisa, flanked by thirty armed men, was at that very moment marching up the Via Calzaiouli toward the unsuspecting Government Palace with the intention of taking control over it, while conspirators in the pay of the Pazzi were preparing to end the life of Lorenzo de Medici. Had she known, she would have praised the Greek philosopher’s wisdom instead of saying, “They have already condemned me to the most abominable punishment. I can think of nothing worse than being obliged to live forever with that disgusting creature Galeotto Pazzi. There is no danger, therefore, in exploring the streets without permission.”

  “So what will happen to me? I am only a poor servant girl. I will receive all the blame.”

  The family had bought Cateruccia as a slave sixteen years earlier, on the occasion of Lorena’s birth, but she was far more than a simple servant. To begin with she had been Lorena’s much loved nursemaid, after which she had looked after Lorena’s sister, Maria. She showed them with as much affection as if they were her very own children. Genovese merchants had brought Cateruccia over from the Black Sea, and Lorena’s father had acquired her as a luxury item that he could show off with pride. Slavery was not uncommon among rich Florentines, after the Black Death of the previous century had so reduced the population that it was difficult to find house servants. These days there were few reputable families who could allow themselves such luxuries. Although they could not claim to be among the city’s most illustrious families, the textile business had been sufficiently successful to allow Lorena’s family to purchase a luxurious mansion and a slave of great worth. Caucasian slaves were favored over Turks and Tartars for their ability to adapt better to Florentine customs. Cateruccia, moreover, was beautiful. It was customary in other families for the pater familia to get a pretty young servant girl pregnant. Her father had not followed this practice. Lorena did not kno
w whether to attribute this to the faithfulness he showed toward his wife or the respect for the tenderness Cateruccia showed in her task as a nursemaid. Perhaps it was a mixture of the two. In any case, Cateruccia had now become a lesser member of the family to such an extent that she even ate at their table. She therefore was not going to prevent Lorena’s small act of rebellion with the false excuse that she was a poor helpless servant who would receive the most dreadful punishment.

  “Nothing will happen to you, Cateruccia. I am the one who has decided to go out. The only choice you have is to accompany me and protect me until I come home safe and sound. I shall swear on the Bible that you tried by every means to stop me and that you spent the whole time reminding me that I should return home. You know full well that my parents would only get angry with you if you were to let me wander on my own through such dangerous streets as those of Florence.”

  Lorena smiled. She had won the argument. Cateruccia was longing to go out and had been offered the perfect excuse for her wishes to come true. Sundays in Florence were filled with excitement, when the streets became a carousel of endless thrills, overflowing with life, colors, and people. She had never explored the city on a festive day without some family member keeping an eye on her. Who knew what they may see and discover! It was a shame that whatever was to happen could never be enough to lift the heavy sentence that weighed down upon her: the marriage with Galeotto Pazzi.

  6

  Under the pretext of safeguarding the rotund ambassador of Ferrara, Luca Albizzi pushed his way through the multitude and attempted to reach the side door of the cathedral, which gave on to the Via dei Servi. Absolute confusion reigned. Screams of panic mingled with the dull thuds of footsteps struggling to advance through the motley crowd, which like a flock of sheep without a shepherd, fled forward in disorder, threatening to crush whoever got in its way. A few men unsheathed their weapons and, instead of heading toward the exits, moved toward the high altar where Lorenzo had first repelled the attack of the two priests. Among them was Francesco Pazzi, noticeably limping due to a wound in his right leg. Did he intend to help Lorenzo or did he perhaps wish to execute him? In this disturbing commotion of people dashing around, screams, murderous priests, and the ring of clashing swords, it was impossible to know.