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

by Agustín Bernaldo Palatchi

  “That is very possible,” conceded Antonio. “However, the constitutional reforms introduced by Savonarola allow you to appeal to the Grand Council for sentences passed by the Signoria relating to political questions, avoiding in this way possible personal vendettas between the priors. If the evidence is flimsy, the Grand Council, the majority of which is made up of hundreds of men belonging to the various guilds of this city, will look on your husband’s case with sympathetic eyes, knowing full well that the same fate might befall them next.”

  Lorena was unaware of this legal procedure, because it had never been used before and for the first time ever she blessed the name of Savonarola. She was grateful to him for introducing such a wise initiative into the new Florentine constitution. Despite this, a well-founded fear still gripped her soul.

  “But who can resist in the face of torture?” asked Lorena. “If violence breaks down Mauricio’s spirit, his own confession will convert into irrefutable proof, even before the Grand Council. I do believe that anyone would prefer eternal peace to incessant suffering.”

  “Probably. However, your husband may be made of sterner stuff than we are because he never gave in, after they subjected him to the strappado.”

  Lorena went white. Mauricio would have been dismembered by the weight of his own body as he remained strapped up. This image was too horrible for her to imagine. What state would he be in? Could she have avoided her husband’s torments if she had given in to Luca? Lorena felt a great sense of guilt. Perhaps she should have given in even at the risk of him getting the double satisfaction of not only humiliating and insulting her first, but also breaking his word by torturing her husband.

  “The good news,” continued Antonio, “is that I shall arrange for your husband not to be subjected to the strappado again.”

  “How?” asked Lorena encouraged and amazed.

  “You would be surprised what one can achieve with a well-conceived plan and a well-played bluff. In fact, this very afternoon I have a meeting with the Signoria.”

  117

  Lorena arrived at her mother’s house in a state of great excitement after her visit to Antonio Rinuccini, the lawyer. Saving her husband was now more than a fond dream, but the tenuous thread from which Mauricio’s life hung could snap at any moment. Her mother seemed even more flustered than she did. Her hands were shaking and she had assured herself twice that no servant was hovering around the bedroom before she began to speak.

  “I have been meditating on this for a long time,” said Flavia in a serious voice, “and I think you have the right to know that your father is perhaps not dead.”

  “What are you saying?” exclaimed Lorena incredulously, afraid that her mother had lost her mind.

  “Your real father is not the one buried in the cemetery of Florence.”

  The impact of that statement left Lorena speechless.

  “A long, long time ago,” her mother continued in a voice which had regained its tranquil tone and which reminded Lorena of the old days when she still used to tell her stories, “Cosimo de Medici founded the Platonic Academy. This must have been in 1462. To celebrate such a unique event, unforgettable evenings were organized in his villa at Careggi, where scholars, musicians, poets, and even noblemen who had come from France, shared feasts and games. Francesco and I had the good fortune to be invited, owing to our well-known attachment to the house of Medici. As you know, old Cosimo knew how to gain the affection of the merchants, entertaining them with feasts more suited to enlightened monarchs than prosperous burghers. However, a serious problem with his partners kept Francesco in Florence, and I went in the name of us both to avoid our absence being interpreted as a lack of courtesy.”

  Her mother fell silent, although Lorena no longer needed her to continue talking to imagine what must have happened.

  “There in the Villa Careggi, I encountered another world and met a man who was more than anything I would have ever dared dream of: Michel Blanch. The first time I ever looked into his blue eyes, I was under the impression that I had always known him. ‘Our souls remember what our memories have forgotten,’ he told me, reading my thoughts. Michel Blanch was a troubadour, forming part of the French count’s court, although his grace and handsomeness outshone all the noblemen gathered in Cosimo’s villa. When he broke into song or when his hands started plucking the most wonderful sounds from his lute, even silence danced to the rhythm of his music. Only an expression of his or a smile was needed for any situation to acquire a magic quality. I would be unable to explain it to you, but when Michel was there, doors opened on to different worlds. What was his secret? I never found out but I could not help falling hopelessly in love.”

  Lorena stared fixedly at her mother, utterly disconcerted, finding it impossible to imagine her with any man other than her husband, Francesco.

  “You, my dearest daughter, can understand me better than anyone.”

  Lorena remembered that first kiss Mauricio ever gave her that day in the pond. The attraction that had surged through their bodies was like a sudden storm breaking, the fury of which could be contemplated, but not curbed.

  “Michel Blanch seemed to have come down from some distant star. And so, like a firefly is attracted by the light, I could see myself being bewitched by this young French troubadour. Francesco was safe and solid ground. Michel was the heavens. Nothing of what he said was tangible, yet I sensed more truth in his words than in everything I had ever been taught in childhood. I wanted to fly and explore new skies. I never regretted it. Without the madness of that love, you would not be here talking to me today.”

  “Are you sure?” asked Lorena.

  “There are things that a woman knows. I knew as well that my history would be repeated when I observed you listening, entranced, to Mauricio’s love songs in Il Magnifico’s villa. I preferred not to interfere. ‘The only mortal sin is to betray the heart,’ Michel Blanch once said to me.”

  Lorena’s heart was well attuned to the bold affirmations of the French poet, however she felt slightly giddy at the thought of not being Francesco’s daughter.

  “That leap into the unknown to follow one’s dreams without worrying about the consequences was very characteristic of your true father. Lorena, that vital force that has always given you the strength to face the darkest situations and still maintain your integrity, stems from a tree called Michel Blanch. For that reason, and at the cost of whatever judgment you might make concerning my conduct, it is more honest that I should reveal your true origins to you.”

  Part of Lorena wanted to know more, but another disapproved of her interest in that disturbing adultery, as if it were a betrayal of the only father she had ever known.

  “So what if my real father is this Michel Blanch person? Francesco took care of me since I was small and despite the many differences that separated us he always did the best he could. With his faults and his qualities, my father was the one who was always with me from childhood. The other one, at most, was a fleeting affair, a youthful sin that would be best forgotten.”

  “I do understand that you feel upset about what I told you,” said Flavia, keeping her composure but showing signs of sadness. “Perhaps you doubt that I even loved Francesco? You must understand that there are many kinds of love. What would have happened if you had found yourself obliged to marry Galeotto Pazzi and then met Mauricio? It would have been much simpler for me to keep silent about all this, but in this way I am giving you the opportunity to know yourself better. Before he left, Michel Blanch gave me a beautiful copy of The Divine Comedy as a parting gift. Out of the thousands of verses, he underlined this fragment only: ‘Do you not know that we are worms and born to form the angelic butterfly that soars without defenses, to confront His judgment?’ Maybe Francesco has been a father to you, but your roots are fashioned from the gold of shooting stars. Your destiny is to fly until you reach them: use your wings, my daughter.”

  Although Lorena was still shaken, a voice inside her was whispering that her mothe
r was right. The fact that Michel Blanch was her real father made a difference. Perhaps it was for that reason that she had never felt really loved by Francesco, unlike her sister. Could the seed of the profound lack of understanding with the person she thought was her father lie there? In some way Lorena had always felt different. Who was she really? Did Michel Blanch hold the key which would unlock the secrets of her soul?

  118

  Luca stalked out of the audience chamber in a rage after a meeting with the rest of the priors. As ridiculous as it might seem, Antonio Rinuccini, the much-acclaimed lawyer, had managed to persuade his fellow priors that Mauricio should not undergo any more torture. Far from letting himself be intimidated by the magnificence of the chamber, Antonio Rinuccini had acted with such composure that he appeared to be more like the president of the Signoria than a mere lawyer.

  Using a carefully contrived blend of tact and firmness, Antonio Rinuccini reminded them that in accordance with the new constitution, if the Signoria condemned someone and then refused the appeal before the Grand Council, the priors would be liable to incur the same penalty they would have imposed upon the prisoner. Up till that point, there was nothing that they did not know. Luca had never thought of refusing the appeal. He was simply hoping for Mauricio to confess, under torture, such a categorical admission of guilt that the Grand Council would have no other option than to confirm the sentence.

  Yet with great skill, the insolent legal shark had given a new twist to the interpretation of the constitution by assuring them that if Mauricio were to die a victim of torture and then posthumously the Grand Council were to declare him innocent, the priors would have to face the same fate: in other words, death.

  A murmur of indignation had run around the chamber. For lesser words, many men had been sent to the stocks. However, the legendary charisma that always surrounded Antonio Rinuccini had tempered their mood and they had limited themselves to agree that the audience had come to an end, without putting the garrulous lawyer in his place.

  Already, behind closed doors, the priors had expressed their doubts and fears. The doctor who had examined Mauricio maintained that his heart would not stand up to another bout of torture. Why take the risk, in that case, of allowing Antonio Rinuccini to accuse them of assassinating an innocent person? In a short while there would be a change in the Signoria and new members would take over. Florence was a city too volatile in its affections. Who was to know if the goddess of fortune might not come up with priors who were friends of Mauricio and yet enemies of theirs? The most prudent choice was to avoid unnecessary risks, especially taking into consideration how Antonio Rinuccini would use them.

  Luca clenched his fists tightly as he wandered irritably through the corridors of the Signoria. He would not allow Lorena and Mauricio to get away with it that easily.

  119

  The cell door opened. The same doctor who had attended him in the torture chamber when he had fainted came in and introduced himself.

  “My name is Sandro and I have come to help you. How are you feeling?”

  “My joints are causing me great pain. I feel as if my forearms are going to detach themselves from my shoulders and I am unable to move my wrists. My ankles are bothering me, but much less though.”

  Sandro gently felt the affected areas.

  “Your shoulder blades are dislocated, but don’t worry I’m going to lock them back into place for you.”

  Mauricio felt an instant relief in spite of the pain still persisting. Afterward, Sandro fitted a strip of material under his right arm, passing it over the opposite shoulder. He knotted the two ends behind his neck, forming a sling for the elbow and immobilized the arm against his chest with a leather strap that passed over his chest and back. Without losing a moment, the physician repeated the operation on the left arm. Finally he bound his wrists tightly with a couple of rags.

  “You ought to have ice and snow on your shoulders to reduce the swelling, but we have already scored a small victory by them allowing me to come in with rags, used strips of material, and a couple of old belts. Your ankles are damaged, but not broken. But the joints in your shoulders and wrists are shattered. Your efforts should be centered exclusively on not moving either your shoulders or your wrists. Your own body will take care of the rest and with God’s help will mend the injuries you have sustained. Nature is wise even though man is foolish. This is why your wrists and shoulders are sending you signals of pain, to tell you they need complete rest in order to recover. The bandages and sling will help you to keep them motionless.”

  “Thank you,” said Mauricio. “I suppose nobody would take so much trouble over me if the Signoria intended to subject me again to the strappado.”

  “Your supposition is correct. They do not want to take the risk of you dying under torture and have the Grand Council accused later of having killed an innocent man.”

  Despite the pains in his joints, Mauricio could feel the flame of life being rekindled inside him. This good piece of news meant that soon the executioner might be out of a job and that the Grand Council might finally decide on his absolution, even though the Signoria were to condemn him. The miracle was possible!

  “I hope to be able to repay you in the near future for everything you have done for me. Had you not acted as you did when I fainted, I would be dead by now.”

  “Well, not exactly,” said the doctor smiling wryly. “I pretended you were about to die when in fact you had only fainted with the pain. I hate lying and I hope God does not take this into account, but without that ruse they would have continued subjecting you to torture.”

  “Why did you take that risk for me?”

  “Considering I was the only doctor present,” said Sandro raising one eyebrow, “the danger was minimal. And as for the reason, shall we say that I had reached an agreement with a certain lawyer who is taking care of your defense.”

  “Who is he?” Mauricio wanted to know.

  “Do not worry, he is the best: you just concentrate on surviving in this cell without moving too much. Antonio Rinuccino will take care of the rest.”

  120

  Lorena had to sit down when Bruno, her husband’s partner, announced the Grand Council’s decision.

  “Mauricio has been declared innocent and cleared of all charges. He will be set free today.”

  A huge feeling of relief, as immense as life itself, flooded her whole being. Her legs were shaking and she was unable to control her body, which was finally releasing all the tension she had been under since Mauricio’s arrest.

  “Thank God, thank God,” she kept repeating like a litany, with tears in her eyes. The one sensation filling her soul was gratitude, which, like a gigantic wave, had swept away all other emotions and feelings to flow into an ocean of limitless blessings.

  “It was magnificent,” said Bruno, exultant with happiness. “They used the chamber of the Grand Council for the first time. The floor was still unpaved, the entrance was just a hole in the wall and there were not enough benches for us all, but there we were, hundreds of us, to call into question the Signoria’s sentence.”

  Lorena had heard talk of this chamber, a personal project of Savonarola. Designed by Simone del Pollaiolo, a friend of the friar, it was situated in the north wing of the Signoria Palace, taking up the space that had been occupied by the customs warehouses.

  “The clamor raised by the Arte della Lana guild was decisive in making the new Signoria authorize an exceptional meeting of the Grand Council. Rodolfo Patrignami, in the name of all the priors, read out the report of Mauricio’s accusation, arguing the reasons why, in his opinion, an exemplary sentence would be a deterrent to any future treason of the republic. Antonio Rinuccini then proceeded to cover him in ridicule by calling on the most reputed handwriting experts in Florence as witnesses. They unanimously testified that the letter, supposedly written by Mauricio to Piero de Medici, was a forgery. Without documents, without a witness for the prosecution or a confession from the prisoner despite the to
rture, all of us there present voted by general consent in favor of the complete acquittal of Mauricio. You should have seen the face of those priors, humiliated and flushed with shame. Whenever the opportunity arises, the people, usually so submissive, love giving the mighty a well-deserved kick.”

  “I am so proud of you and all those good people who, led by your enthusiasm, followed the directions of the guild by voting in favor of my husband. I am so grateful to you … ”

  “We do not deserve any thanks. What emerged clearly was that the accusation was a clumsy fabrication. That is what really puzzles me: Who could possibly hate Mauricio so much that he could be capable of contriving such a sinister plot and then persuade the Signoria to vote in his favor? Whoever it might be is extremely dangerous. Have you managed to find out anything about this?”

  “Nothing,” said Lorena, lying.

  In fact she knew perfectly well that it was Luca Albizzi who had planned the legal assassination of her husband. However, Antonio Rinuccini, their lawyer, had advised her not to reveal to anybody the secrets that lay hidden behind Luca’s pious exterior, or mention the indecent blackmail to which she had been subjected. In his opinion, were these odious circumstances ever to become the talk of Florence, Luca could accuse her of defamation. Taking into account the fact that Lorena had no proof and that the powers that be were extremely favorable toward Luca, the wise lawyer had warned her that he would not take on the defense of a case he could see would be lost in advance. Consequently, the most elemental prudence suggested that silence should be observed. In Florence, it only took one person, even an utterly trustworthy one, to swear that they would keep a secret to then find it had immediately become the talk of the whole town.

  Lorena’s zeal was such that after careful meditation, she had chosen not to mention anything, even to her own family. Why should she? Why increase her loved ones suffering unnecessarily? Maria would not believe her and the ill will between them would become even worse. As for her mother, was there any point in increasing her pain? She would not even tell Mauricio what had happened, watching over him for his own safety. The court case had been won, but only thanks to the strategy and ability of Antonio Rinuccini, who had achieved the impossible masterfully. Had it been otherwise, Mauricio would have been tortured until he had confessed or ended up reduced to an unrecognizable ruin. In Florence, the mighty are not used to losing. Were Mauricio to find out about Luca’s indecent behavior, a feverish anxiety for revenge would take over his heart. However, the support that Luca could count upon was more powerful and the vendetta could easily turn against him. The wisest option, therefore, was to keep a prudent silence.