by Robyn Young
The marriage into the House of Medici offered an opportunity for Franceschetto to take on a more valuable role that Innocent anticipated would benefit him as much as his son – bonded with one of Christendom’s most powerful and affluent families – but clearly he would need a firmer hand to guide him. Not only was his son half a day late in answering his summons, he was clearly still suffering the effects of yet another debauched night, his eyes bloodshot and unfocused, breath poisoned with drink.
‘I sent for you hours ago, nephew,’ he said, pronouncing that title, as he always did, loudly, deliberately – and let any man dare say otherwise. Removing his hand from Franceschetto’s clammy grip, Innocent eased his corpulent body upright in the chair. Rinaldo and his assistant were busy packing away their tools. ‘Where have you been?’ The young man had risen and was standing uncertainly before him, clutching his hat. Innocent could see his drink-addled mind working behind those clouded eyes. ‘The card tables in Trastevere again? How much did you lose this time?’ When Franceschetto avoided his gaze, he exhaled sharply. ‘Never mind.’
Innocent rose and crossed to the marble table. Setting down his goblet, he picked up the book. The leather was creased along the spine where he had read and re-read it last night. ‘I had a visitor yesterday, who brought me this.’ As he held it out, Franceschetto came forward to take it. The young man opened it.
‘As you can see, it was penned by Giovanni Pico della Mirandola.’
‘The philosopher?’
‘And close friend and confidant of your new father-in-law.’ Innocent watched his son turn the pages. ‘It is highly unorthodox, bound in the tenets of humanism, but so far beyond the doctrine of Christ’s teachings as to be – though I want my cardinals to read it before I make such a proclamation publicly – heretical.’
‘You plan to have him arrested?’ Franceschetto placed the book quickly back on the marble table as if it contained some contagion.
Of all the traits he had failed to instil in the young man, true faith at least wasn’t one. ‘Yes. But—’
‘Shall I seize him when I travel to Florence next month? Bring him back for interrogation?’
His son looked at once awake, eager even. Perhaps the approach of his new role and responsibilities were starting to shape him? Lord, that it were so.
‘If I can arrange it thus, you will not be going to Florence. Not yet at least.’ When Franceschetto shook his head, confused, Innocent continued. ‘In my questioning of the man who brought it to me, I discovered something else – something my agents in the city have suspected, but have not yet been able to prove. I am now certain Lorenzo de’ Medici has the Turk and is keeping him in his palace.’
The last vestiges of stupor had fallen from Franceschetto’s eyes. ‘If that is so, then send me to Florence for the betrothal as planned. I can get closer, far closer, to the signore, than Battista di Salvi and that beast. Let me bring the heretic and the Turk back with me.’
Innocent smiled to see his enthusiasm, felt a rare surge of fatherly pride. He was about to answer when there was a crash of glass. He turned to see Rinaldo’s assistant had dropped two of the scent bottles he had been packing away, filling the chamber with a sickly breath of rose water. With bows and apologies to Innocent, Rinaldo hastened to the young man, whom he berated in whispers as the two of them bent to clean up the scattered splinters of glass. Several attendants moved in to help them.
‘No. I have another plan,’ said Innocent, turning his attention back to his son. He stabbed a finger at the book. ‘And this is going to help us.’
Franceschetto nodded slowly. ‘The man who brought it to you, who was he? What were his motives?’
‘He represents men who seek to overthrow the signore. They hoped, by bringing this to me, that I would aid them in this – that proof of heresy among his inner circle would ruin my alliance with the House of Medici and spur me to take action against its head. They offered, of course, to step into the breach of power that would be left by Signor Lorenzo’s downfall.’
‘Overthrow him?’
‘Do not fear, nephew. No matter this sacrilege and no matter Signor Lorenzo’s treachery in taking what was mine, I have no intention of undermining him – not when you are about to enter his household. No. Far better to feed the lion than enrage it. His Holiness, Sixtus, felt the power of the signore’s bite when he tried and failed to destroy him. We will come with meat, a friendly countenance and a soothing hand. He will not even know it when we have him caged.’ Innocent smiled. ‘Your future will be secured in one of Christendom’s most powerful dynasties.’ His eyes went to the book. ‘And I will have my crusade.’
Dark was descending, the wind picking up, as the young man ran alongside the fortified walkway of the Passetto di Borgo towards the Tiber. Above him, torch flames gusted, catching the curved blades of the guards’ halberds. Behind him, St Peter’s Basilica towered like a pale god against the sky, its sweeping archways spread like wings beneath a domed head. Ahead, loomed the Castel Sant’Angelo.
Passing beneath the circular walls of Hadrian’s tomb, he hurried on to the Ponte Sant’ Angelo, following the route pilgrims took to the Eternal City. Its wide girth was busy with people heading home from work or evening prayers, cloaks and mantles flapping in the wind whipping up the surface of the river. There were a few fishing boats out on the inky waters, lanterns bobbing like fireflies. In his haste to cross, the young man knocked into two gentlemen, one of whom shouted at his back that he smelled like a whore. He didn’t look back, but a sniff of his hands told him he was still covered in rose water from the broken scent bottles. Rinaldo, the miserly bastard, was docking his pay for the next month for that. Still, it was worth it to have kept himself in the chamber long enough to hear everything he needed to. And, if he was paid what he’d been promised for this information, he wouldn’t miss those wages.
Once over the Tiber, he entered the gateway beneath the lion banners of Borgo. The wind was less fierce here, away from the river. Passing neat market gardens in the shadows of ancient, pillared ruins, grand mansions, the cladding of which was still clean and new, a large stone pyramid and several bathhouses, he entered a poorer area, where the houses sat close and cramped and the street was strewn with mouldering rubbish where pigs rooted.
At a peeling blue door beside a carpenter’s workshop, he paused to catch his breath, then knocked. After a few moments, the door opened a crack. The young man caught a glimpse of a dark, wiry beard and a black eye, rimmed yellow.
‘Yes?’ came a murmured voice, thick with accent.
‘Tell Orhan I have it. Tell him, I know where the man he’s been hunting for is.’
Lorenzo strode down the passageway. Rage simmered in him, a fever burning through his body. That morning he had woken with the hot tenderness in his foot that usually heralded an excruciating attack of the gout that had crippled his grandfather and killed his father – the Medici curse. Now, though, he couldn’t feel a thing. Anger had blasted the pain right out of his body.
He hadn’t felt this furious in years, not since the day he buried his brother and unleashed his wrath upon his killers. Servants and secretaries, busy about their errands in the hallways of the palazzo, parted before him in haste. Behind him marched Black Martin and Crooked Andrea, swords swinging from their hips, his bodyguards’ countenance as black as his mood.
Reaching the door, he hammered on it with his fist. Not waiting for a response, he pushed it open. Angelo Poliziano stood like a statue in the centre of the chamber, transfixed by his violent entrance. ‘Signore . . .?’
‘Where is he?’ Lorenzo’s baleful gaze swept the chamber, moving over the clothes strewn haphazardly over the back of a chair, the crumpled bedcovers. For a moment he wondered if Rigo had been mistaken – that Pico wasn’t here after all – then he saw the two goblets, one empty, one half-full, on the table by the bed.
He had suspected some time ago that the two men had grown closer than friends. But even though he’d gues
sed this had been going on under his nose for months, perhaps longer, it was still a shock to see the casual intimacy in those goblets; to imagine the murmured conversations over the lips of them, heads bowed in the dark, laughter and secrets shared.
Was Poliziano in on this? Did he know what his lover had done? He wanted to shout the question at Poliziano, standing there like a damn mute, but just then Pico emerged through the narrow door that led to the water closet, looking as dishevelled as the bedcovers. At least Poliziano had the grace to hang his head in shame. Pico, on the other hand, bare-chested, tousle-haired, cocky as a calcio champion, kept his head up, meeting his gaze.
For Lorenzo, this struck a match to the powder of his rage. ‘You betrayed me, you son of a bitch!’ He thrust out his hand, in which was gripped the message that had come, the vellum crumpled by his fist, the heavy seal dangling from it. ‘You set down our secrets in ink! Displayed them to the world when I forbade it!’
Pico was shaking his head. ‘Signore, I—’
‘The thesis, damn it! You wrote it! Printed it for Christ’s sake!’
Pico’s grey eyes were flicking from the parchment to Lorenzo, trying to piece the puzzle together. ‘It is true, signore,’ he said, glancing at Poliziano, who made a shocked noise at this. ‘But I haven’t distributed it. Not widely. Indeed, hardly at all!’
‘When? When did you do this?’
‘You must understand, signore, I was angry – humiliated – when you took my papers, berated me in front of our brethren at Fiesole. I returned to my room in a fury, rewrote it all. I took it to the printing press at San Jacopo di Ripoli, the morning after your feast. I was planning to talk to you about it when it was printed. I wanted you to read it. Understand my view.’
‘I understand your view very well,’ retorted Lorenzo, brandishing the message. ‘And, now, so does His Holiness.’ He derived some small satisfaction from Pico’s shock. ‘Your text found its way to Rome. Into St Peter’s itself!’
‘That isn’t possible.’ But the truth was there, in Lorenzo’s hand, and Pico’s poise was dropping, slipping from him like a whore’s silks. ‘I only gave it to a few men!’
‘Why would you do this, Pico?’
Hearing the stunned disbelief in Poliziano’s tone, Lorenzo felt a surge of hope. Had the man been kept in the same dark as he had? He had imagined a conspiracy. The two of them laughing behind his back. More traitors in his household.
The question seemed to galvanise Pico. He stood straighter. ‘I had to do something. As I said at our last gathering, the Academy is losing its way, in danger of falling into obscurity. All our grand plans? Lost. Forgotten. Until we are just a herd of fattened old men, chewing cud like cows out to pasture. No meaning to our lives, our words. No fire to our ambitions!’
‘You have no idea of my plans.’
‘Because you refuse to tell us! You will not share your secrets. You do not trust us!’
As Pico’s voice strengthened, Lorenzo felt Black Martin shift at his back. ‘And with good reason!’ He tossed the crumpled parchment at Pico’s feet, the papal seal striking the tiles. ‘Heresy, the pope has declared your writings. He wants you brought to him for questioning.’
Pico took a step back at this, but some of the vigour returned to his tone. ‘We need to challenge the faith, the corrupt power of the Church. Innocent has sired two bastards. Sixtus sanctioned your murder! We have all heard how the cardinals frolic around the Eternal City with their mistresses and whores, others taking boys – mere babes – to their beds. They hold us to a standard all of them fall far short of. The Corpus Hermeticum has taught us another way to reach for God. To stretch out our hands towards the stars. To rebuild the world and usher in a new age. A new dawn. One of peace, prosperity. A brotherhood of men, stretching across the globe, just as the angels surround the heavens, free of strife and sin. As above, so below.’
Lorenzo felt some of the rage seeping from him at this. However furious he was with the betrayal – both kinds, he thought, looking between Pico and Poliziano – the young man’s words held only the clear ring of truth. His passion reminded him of his grandfather, some of the old man’s wisdom echoing back to him, as though a bell struck. Still, he shook his head, forcing this away. However right his intentions, Pico’s actions had wronged him – badly. ‘His Holiness is demanding that the betrothal feast for Maddalena and Franceschetto is now held in Rome. He does not feel that with this accusation of heresy hanging over my household that he can countenance such an occasion taking place here in Florence.’
‘Signore,’ murmured Poliziano, his tone reflecting the gravity of this revelation. ‘Can you attempt to change the pontiff’s mind?’
‘If I do not accept, he tells me he will have no choice but to withdraw his offer of Giovanni’s entry into the college.’
Even Pico saw it now, Lorenzo was satisfied to see; the depth of his mistake. ‘All the time and money I have spent planning this celebration is nothing compared to the loss of face I shall suffer in the republic. I wanted to show my citizens that I was right – the implacable stance I took after my brother’s murder, my time in Naples – that it was worth the sacrifices. The betrothal, here in Florence, was supposed to be the cementing of our accord with Rome. The end of our long and bitter struggle. Now, I must take my daughter, my whole household, to Rome, under a cloud of suspicion. Make myself weak in the face of the Church and my republic. All because you could not trust me.’
Now, the shame coloured Pico’s cheeks. ‘Signore, let me go to Rome. Let me beg forgiveness from His Holiness. I will distance myself. Tell him you have no part in my dealings.’
‘No. You know too much.’
Poliziano and Pico shared a look – a flicker of fear in both their eyes at the threat; the prospect of interrogation, the spectre of a heretic’s pyre.
‘What should I do, signore? Tell me. Let me make amends.’
‘You will leave Florence, Giovanni,’ Lorenzo told him, using the young man’s formal name for the first time in years. They had been friends for a long time, the three of them. Wine on sun-warmed terraces, he and Poliziano sitting close, laughing at some ribald poem Pico had plucked from the air; winter darkness and hearth fires, passing around the chalice his grandfather had passed down to him, eyes bright as they shared their vision for a new world. In the chamber he felt it – a sense of something tearing, never to be mended. ‘Leave the republic. Never return.’ He didn’t use the word, but they all knew what he meant.
Banishment.
The flames in Pico’s cheeks had died, leaving him pale. Poliziano had turned away, but not before Lorenzo saw the anguish in his eyes. While Lorenzo knew Pico had room in his heart for many loves, Poliziano – it was now clear – had given the young man his, wholly and completely. Pico had burned like a fire between them, leaving nothing but ash.
Turning, Lorenzo left the chamber, leaving Black Martin and Crooked Andrea to wait while the young man gathered his clothes and belongings, ready to escort him from the palazzo.
Lorenzo was approaching the Sala Grande, feeling utterly spent, when Bertoldo emerged to greet him.
‘Signore, there is a man here to see you.’
‘Not now, Bertoldo. I need to be alone.’
‘I beg your pardon, signore, but I brought him to the salon. He said it was a matter of urgency. Regarding Sir James Wynter?’
Beyond his steward, through the open doors of the grand hall, Lorenzo caught sight of a middle-aged man, staring up at the paintings of Hercules, his grey hair pulled back in a tail, his face marked with wounds, faded green and yellow. He recognised him as one of Jack’s men. His name came to him after a moment.
Adam.
29
After Loja, Íllora fell to the Christians, its walls pounded into dust by Spanish guns, the inhabitants fled or captured, its ramparts rebuilt for the defence of the new Castilian garrison. Moclín, known for its strength and strategic position as the Shield of Granada, followed, then Colomera and, last,
Montfrío.
Queen Isabella, with her train of royal guards, hidalgos and bishops, followed in the wake of her husband’s forces, seated on a magnificently caparisoned palfrey, the banner of Castile unfurled above her. Under her command, Christian prisoners were released from the bowels of Moorish dungeons, mosques were consecrated to Christ and the dead, found bloated and putrefied among the ruins, were buried.
King Ferdinand moved on with the bulk of his army, laying waste to the Vega of Granada, sacking settlements and scorching the earth until most of the western half of the emirate lay in ashes or was subsumed under the Spanish crown. There was little succour for the ordinary men and women of these towns, villages and fortresses, trapped in the fast-closing jaws of the enemy, their leaders too busy warring among themselves, the factions of Boabdil and Muhammad al-Zagal still in conflict for the dominion of the beleaguered kingdom; a conflict the Spanish monarchs were only too happy to encourage, offering the errant Boabdil their support if he defeated his implacable uncle.
Harry, bearing the king’s sword gifted to him at Loja, had been chosen, after the city’s fall, to accompany the queen in her host. He had been elated. At last, he was inside the royal circle, honoured and welcomed – could turn his mind to his true purpose here. But, before he’d even left the camp at Loja, where winter rains had swelled the river and turned the earth to stinking bog, he caught a fever that swept him, on a burning, delirious tide, as close as he’d ever come to the doors of death.
