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

by Agustín Bernaldo Palatchi

  As Sofia’s husband was serving behind the counter and the house was crowded with people, including a few mercenaries, they both concluded that to talk more intimately it would be better to stay where they were. The room was windowless, the only light coming from a large candle, and the mixture of aromas was intoxicating. Sofia explained that the glass jars contained distilled essences from plants that had been macerated in alcohol and then converted into lotions and oils that could be used to perfume, embellish, or cure illnesses according to whatever need. Lorena tried to distance herself from the intense mixture of subtle fragrances and strange smells engulfing the storeroom, as she tried to explain to her friend what was troubling her.

  “It is not the downfall of the Medici regime, nor the arrival of the French troops in Florence, nor even the economic crisis that has unleashed this sadness of the soul in your husband, but rather your pregnancy,” announced Sofia.

  “Impossible!” protested Lorena incredulously.

  “Yet you said yourself that Mauricio’s erratic behavior began shortly after you told him the good news,” Sofia replied.

  “Yes, but it was just around then that our country house was burgled and everyone could foresee the dangers that were lying in wait for our city,” argued Lorena.

  “Perhaps you are right, but if I remember correctly, both times your husband suffered from a similar crisis coincided with the death of your first child during the birth and your miscarriage three and a half years ago.”

  “But that is completely different! In both cases you mentioned I nearly died: that was what affected my husband so badly. Now, on the contrary, I feel perfectly well. Moreover, this time his reaction is far more worrying: he is so paralyzed that he is neglecting his duties in the textile business he shares with his partner, who has already admitted to me that they are going through severe financial problems. There are some days when he opts out completely from any social obligations and falls helplessly into the arms of Bacchus until Morpheus wafts him off into the land of dreams. Only yesterday I had to help him to bed because he fell asleep in the drawing room on the very night the Swiss mercenaries were spending their first night in the house!”

  “Your husband’s behavior is certainly rash, given the circumstances we are living through, and it might well be that he is suffering from a sickness of the soul.”

  “But this is what I was telling you, Mauricio has never reached such extremes before and I find it hard to believe that the reason is my pregnancy. Please Sofia, I desperately need help and I think you are the only one who can do something about it. What can I do? What is the solution?”

  Sofia rose from her chair and walked around the storeroom gazing at the jars and vials piled all around them before she resumed the conversation.

  “You can forget about essences, ointments and oils, salts, herbs, plants, and potions. None of what we have here will ever cure your husband. It is not his body that is sick, but his soul. The first time you gave birth your baby was stillborn and last time, the fetus perished inside you. On both occasions you were on the brink of death. Life and death are two sides of the same coin. For that reason, I suspect that your pregnancy might have provoked this unpredictable reaction in Mauricio, although of course it could be something else. You might very possibly find the answer hidden by the hazes of Bacchus, but your husband is the only one who can find it. Ask him. I promise you I will pray tonight for Morpheus to reveal his secrets.”

  Lorena looked at this powerful woman. She had grown older and had put on weight over the years, but her large blue eyes had not changed and the strength she transmitted had remained intact. A halo seemed to envelop her, conveying great faith and confidence. Lorena embraced her and bade her farewell, just as Sofia’s husband called her loudly from the counter.

  85

  Mauricio began his day with the news that Lorena had already gone out on various errands after having had breakfast with the children. Cateruccia was also in town, buying food for when the Swiss mercenaries returned that evening for supper. The soldiers were polite but possessed the appetite of an entire regiment. After making sure that his children were busy with the dancing master and grammar teacher, he decided to go out and look for Elias. Surprisingly enough, daily life in town seemed to be progressing normally despite the swarms of foreign soldiers. A few shops remained closed but most of them were doing business. Although there were few women to be seen walking alone, the number of Florentines wandering around seemed to be pretty much the same as any other day.

  Mauricio went by all the places Elias usually frequented, trying to find him, but without success. Feeling weary, he finally tracked him down to the place he rarely missed at lunchtime: his own house. Elias’s family had been obliged to lodge two gigantic Scottish soldiers with such markedly brutal features that Mauricio was happy that he had been lucky enough to get the Swiss mercenaries. His friend’s opinion was that the rebellion against Piero had saved Florence from being looted by making it clear to King Charles that his army would suffer severe losses if there were to be armed clashes in the city. Thanks to this probably, he would settle, without fighting, for the enormous sum of money Florence had promised him: two hundred thousand florins.

  Once the meal was over, Mauricio took Elias aside and told him about the deep moral crisis he had fallen into. The words of the wise rabbi had been going through his head all night, as he shivered convulsively, in spite of the two blankets Lorena had spread on their bed. “If you bring forth what is within you, what you bring forth will save you. If you do not bring forth what is within you, what you do not bring forth will destroy you,” Elias reminded him, quoting from the gospel attributed to Thomas the Apostle. Afterward he talked to him about what he called the dark night of the soul, precursor of the new that was fighting to come forth. Finally, he referred to the mystical experience Mauricio had undergone many years before. According to Elias, it had indeed been a marvelous occurrence, but it had been somewhat incomplete, as if the circle had not been fully rounded off, and also because after that feeling of ecstasy, Mauricio had been left with an enormous feeling of self-hatred. The sickness of the soul from which he was suffering, Elias believed, was a desperate cry from his conscience exhorting him to discover where this hate was coming from. “Always remember the words of Thomas the Apostle,” was his parting advice.

  When he returned home, perhaps because of his conversation with Elias or due to some other reason, he started shivering and feeling ill. He tried to warm himself with one of his favorite red wines, but without success. Lorena, realizing how ill he felt, insisted he go to bed. She took him hot soup and soothed his brow with a moistened cloth until Morpheus finally opened his arms to Mauricio and blessed him with sleep.

  Mauricio plunged into an endless black pit and out of that darkness emerged the image of a young woman in her death throes. He was drenched in sweat and his labored breath came in short, anguished gasps. He had seen this young woman hundreds of times before, although he could not remember who she was. He was actually killing her, even though his own eyes were streaming with tears! He was her murderer! As he looked at her face he realized the terrifying truth: this woman was his mother, drawing her last breath as he was ripping his way out of her body. Blood was gushing out of her, the sheets were scarlet and his head was soaked in gore. The whole room was awash with blood and … he was the butcher who was slaughtering her!

  “Mauricio, Mauricio, wake up. What is happening to you?” asked Lorena shaking him in alarm.

  His eyes opened, wide with horror. As it all came back to him, he started describing the terrifying nightmare to his wife and also the conversation with Elias. Lorena listened to him with undivided attention and waited a long while before talking.

  “My love,” she said, “your mother died in childbirth on the day you were born. You did not kill her.”

  “If I had never been born, my mother would not have died in such an atrocious way,” said Mauricio, his eyes lost in thought. “And my father
,” he added, “would have been happy instead of spending his whole life regretting her absence.”

  “Yes, and had I not been pregnant by you, I would not have been on the point of dying twice, but nor would Agostino or Simonetta or Alexandra have ever been born. God decides the hour of our death, not you, Mauricio. That hate you feel toward yourself that you once told me about seemed to me a mere passing whim induced by the wine, but now I have an inkling of how deep it went … There is a part of you that hates itself, convinced that you murdered your own mother, and that also blames you for your father’s unhappiness.”

  “Yes,” Mauricio agreed, feeling a veil was slowly being lifted from his eyes. “In some way, a terrible voice inside me keeps whispering that I should have been the one to die instead of my mother and this paralyzes me without remission. It is the same cry of anguish that I was unable to deal with when you were on the point of dying in childbirth the first time and when you had a miscarriage three and a half years ago. Now, with this new pregnancy, I cannot help fearing the worst … ”

  “Now listen to me, Mauricio. I have no intention whatsoever of dying. I am carrying your child, our fourth. They need you and I love you. Do not throw it all away for a crime you never committed.”

  “But in my dreams, that crime is real.”

  “Yes, but now you have woken up. Put a stop to this madness and cast aside the burden of guilt that is not yours. Should you have this dream again, take your mother into your arms and beg her to watch over you from above. You are her only child and I am convinced she is already doing so. If she gave her life for you, let it not be in vain. Although she is not physically by your side, her lineage runs through you and our children.”

  “I love you,” said Mauricio, his eyes filling with tears as he embraced Lorena. “And I will never let any of you down.”

  As they held each other, Lorena thought that perhaps Mauricio was not hiding grave financial problems or unknown enemies from her after all. Yet the image of the churned up earth surrounding the country house still haunted her and filled her with anxiety. She seemed to be unable to ignore the premonition that one day soon, they would have to face a great danger related to that strange break-in on their estate.

  86

  It had been eleven days now since the French had occupied the city. At long last, their departure was being officially celebrated in the Piazza della Signoria. High up on the balcony of the Government Palace, a public official, flanked by the French and Florentine flags, was reading out loud the conditions of the treaty to the assembled crowd below. Lorena calculated that nearly two thirds of the citizens of Florence must have been in the square that day. On either side of the town crier were the members of the Signoria, together with King Charles, comfortably seated on a canopied throne that Lorena remembered having seen in the Medici Palace.

  Things seemed to be getting better. Her husband, after having remembered his extraordinary dream, seemed to have overcome the crisis that had plunged him into a state of paralysis. He still showed signs of tension and anxiety, but despite this was now able once again to face up to the challenges involved in managing his textile business. The situation was not easy; under the leadership of Savonarola, very few people wanted to buy luxurious clothes in Florence and exports were also flagging. The French occupation had been calamitous for commerce, as the majority of shops had chosen to bar their doors in response to the many rumors circulating concerning possible violent incidents. Lorena was hopeful, however, because Mauricio seemed to be on the road to becoming his old self again.

  Lorena’s attention was suddenly drawn again to the palace balcony. King Charles, his face distorted with disbelief, had sprung up from his throne and was angrily facing the public crier who had just announced the amount of money that Florence was going to pay the French crown: one hundred and twenty thousand florins. The monarch, with an irate gesture, showed quite plainly that he was not in agreement with this clause.

  Lorena knew that although the sum of money that Piero de Medici had offered the French monarch was two hundred thousand florins, the Signoria had negotiated to lower it to one hundred and fifty thousand. Possibly the king’s anger was due to this difference of thirty thousand florins with what they had last agreed. It was at that moment that the gonfaloniere started arguing violently with the king. Lorena was relieved that she had taken the precaution of leaving the children at home with Cateruccia. Far too often it had only needed a spark to start a great fire. After a brief and heated interchange of words, the French monarch became tense and silent, but after a pause he affectionately took the gonfaloniere by the shoulder, joking with him in a friendly manner. The danger had passed. The town crier continued reading out the rest of the pacts in the treaty without further incident.

  “How did our gonfaloniere manage to calm down the French king?” wondered Mauricio.

  “I think I managed to lip-read him saying to King Charles: ‘if you sound your trumpets, we shall ring our bells.’”

  “Yes, it is quite possible. The king knows that the tolling of the bells means a call to arms and he prefers his army not to suffer any casualties. He will settle for the hundred and twenty thousand florins, which, by the way, is a small fortune. And as far as the joking remark made by King Charles, although I cannot read lips like you, I would bet anything that I can guess what he said.”

  “Oh, yes?” Lorena was intrigued. “How is that?”

  “Listen, Piero di Gino Capponi, our gonfaloniere, was ambassador to France in the days of Lorenzo Il Magnifico. In those days, King Charles was no more than a child and Piero used to play with him as an uncle would with his nephew. More than once, Lorenzo laughingly told me that the Dauphin, heir to the French throne, would jokingly exclaim to our ambassador: ‘Oh Capponi, Capponi, you truly are a good capon!’ I would bet you anything that the king, remembering his childhood, repeated that jibe so that they could both remember the past friendship.”

  Lorena laughed heartily. To think one small remark could have amicably solved such a serious matter …

  “That is the way history is written,” Lorena said, smiling.

  “Indeed,” agreed Mauricio, “and when the Signoria elected Piero di Gino Capponi as a gonfaloniere they did so with the intention of creating an emotional bond with King Charles. What they could never have imagined was that it would be a capon that would save Florence from disaster.”

  87

  Rather pleased with himself, Pietro Manfredi observed the chessboard on which the ivory pieces were distributed. After the withdrawal of the French army there would soon be an official ceremony for the handing over of powers in Florence. A great deal of patience and delicacy had gone into first robbing Lorenzo of his prestige and later his life, making the most of his spymaster’s death and the detailed information given by Luca of Il Magnifico’s culinary tastes. His plan had been slow but successful. The ideas upheld by Lorenzo de Medici were slowly disappearing and even his humanist friends, artists, and philosophers of the Platonic Academy such as Sandro Botticelli and Pico della Mirandola had publicly rejected their old ideals.

  Unfortunately they were still unable to find the ring. Pietro Manfredi was convinced that the emerald was in the possession of Cardinal Giovanni de Medici. He was the more intelligent of Lorenzo’s sons and was destined to be chosen pope in the future if he were able to use his wealth cleverly, the prestige implicit in the name of Medici and the mental sharpness that had been a characteristic of his father. Following Lorenzo’s death, spies had been infiltrated into Cardinal Giovanni’s entourage and into his brother Piero’s palace, but without producing any results. They had also scoured the pawn shops, contacted people connected with jewel-trafficking, and even interrogated Il Magnifico’s servants. But all in vain. The emerald had disappeared and anyone could have it in their possession: a lucky thief, one of Lorenzo’s sisters, or even Mauricio Coloma. This last possibility was remote, but desperate by the lack of results, Pietro had organized a simulated robbery to take place
in Mauricio’s country villa combined with a very discreet search in his Florentine mansion. As was to be expected, there was no trace of the emerald there either. If they wanted to retrieve it, they would need more imagination than they had shown until now or an unexpected piece of luck.

  In any case, Pietro bore a grudge against Mauricio Coloma. Had it not been for the intervention of that bumpkin, Lorenzo de Medici would have died of his knife wounds in the cathedral all those years ago. Mauricio was not a priority target, not even a pawn worth lifting a finger for, but he felt personally pleased to know that his destiny would be to die after being subjected to both physical and moral torture. He, of course, would not intervene himself, nor soil his hands with blood. Luca Albizzi would take care of that very soon.