Renaissance

by Oliver Bowden

  ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

  ‘Don’t play games with me, Ezio. I know about your fight with Vieri.’

  ‘He has been spreading foul stories about our family. I could not let that go unpunished.’

  ‘Vieri’s under pressure, the more so since his father was arrested.’ She paused thoughtfully. ‘Francesco de’ Pazzi may be many things, but I never would have imagined him capable of joining a plot to murder a duke.’

  ‘What will happen to him?’

  ‘There’ll be a trial. I imagine your father may be a key witness, when our own Duke Lorenzo returns.’

  Ezio looked restless.

  ‘Don’t worry, you’ve nothing to fear. And I’m not going to ask you to do anything you wouldn’t like – in fact, I want you to accompany me on an errand I have to run. It won’t take long, and I think you may even find it enjoyable.’

  ‘I’ll be happy to help you, Mamma.’

  ‘Come, then. It’s not far.’

  They left the palazzo on foot together, arm in arm, and walked in the direction of the cathedral, to the small quarter near it where many of the artists of Florence had their workshops and studios. Some, like those of Verrocchio and the rising star Alessandro di Moriano Filipepi, who’d already acquired the nickname Botticelli, were large, busy places, where assistants and apprentices were busy grinding colours and mixing pigments, others, humbler. It was at the door of one of these that Maria halted and knocked. It was opened immediately by a handsome, well-dressed young man, almost dandified but athletic-looking, with a shock of dark brown hair and a luxuriant beard. He might have been six or seven years older than Ezio.

  ‘Madonna Auditore! Welcome! I’ve been expecting you.’

  ‘Leonardo, buon’ giorno.’ The two exchanged formal kisses. This artist must be well in with my mother, thought Ezio, but already he liked the look of the man. ‘This is my son, Ezio,’ continued Maria.

  The artist bowed. ‘Leonardo da Vinci,’ he said. ‘Molto onorato, signore.’

  ‘Maestro.’

  ‘Not quite that – yet,’ smiled Leonardo. ‘But what am I thinking of? Come in, come in! Wait here, I’ll see if my assistant can find some wine for you while I go and get your paintings.’

  The studio was not large, but the clutter in it made it look even smaller than it was. Tables were heaped with the skeletons of birds and small mammals, while jars filled with colourless fluid contained organic objects of one kind or another, though Ezio was hard put to it to recognize any of them. A broad workbench at the back held some curious structures painstakingly crafted in wood, and two easels bore unfinished paintings whose tones were darker than usual, and whose outlines were less clearly defined. Ezio and Maria made themselves comfortable, and, emerging from an inner room, a handsome youth appeared with a tray bearing wine and small cakes. He served them, smiled shyly, and withdrew.

  ‘Leonardo’s very talented.’

  ‘If you say so, Madre. I know little of art.’ Ezio thought that his life would consist of following in his father’s footsteps, even though, deep within him, there was a rebellious and adventurous streak which he knew would sit ill in the character of a Florentine banker. In any case, like his older brother, he saw himself as a man of action, not as an artist or a connoisseur.

  ‘You know, self-expression is a vital part of understanding life, and enjoying it to the full.’ She looked at him. ‘You should find an outlet yourself, my dear.’

  Ezio was piqued. ‘I have plenty of outlets.’

  ‘I meant apart from tarts,’ retorted his mother matter-of-factly.

  ‘Mother!’ But Maria’s only answer to that was a shrug and a pursing of her lips. ‘It would be good if you could cultivate a man like Leonardo as a friend. I think he has a promising future ahead of him.’

  ‘From the look of this place, I’m inclined to disagree with you.’

  ‘Don’t be cheeky!’

  They were interrupted by Leonardo’s return from his inner room, carrying two boxes. He set one down on the ground. ‘Do you mind carrying that one?’ he asked Ezio. ‘I’d ask Agniolo, but he has to stay and guard the shop. Also, I don’t think he’s strong enough for this kind of work, poor dear.’

  Ezio stooped to pick up the box, and was surprised at how heavy it was. He almost dropped it.

  ‘Careful!’ warned Leonardo. ‘The paintings in there are delicate, and your mother’s just paid me good money for them!’

  ‘Shall we go?’ said Maria. ‘I can’t wait to hang them. I’ve selected places which I hope you’ll approve of,’ she added to Leonardo. Ezio baulked at this a little: was a fledgling artist really worth such deference?

  As they walked, Leonardo chatted amiably, and Ezio found that despite himself he was won over by the other man’s charm. And yet there was something about him that he instinctively found disquieting, something he couldn’t quite put his finger on. A coolness? A sense of detachment from his fellow beings? Perhaps it was just that he had his head in the clouds, like so many other artists, or so Ezio was told. But Ezio felt an instant, instinctive respect for the man.

  ‘So, Ezio, what do you do?’ Leonardo asked him.

  ‘He works for his father,’ Maria replied.

  ‘Ah. A financier! Well, you were born in the right city for that!’

  ‘It’s a good city for artists too,’ said Ezio. ‘All those rich patrons.’

  ‘There are so many of us, though,’ grumbled Leonardo. ‘It’s hard to attract attention. That’s why I am so indebted to your mother. Mind you, she has a very discerning eye!’

  ‘Do you concentrate on painting?’ asked Ezio, thinking of the diversity he’d seen in the studio.

  Leonardo looked thoughtful. ‘That’s a hard question. To tell the truth, I’m finding it difficult to settle down to anything, now I’m on my own. I adore painting, and I know I can do it, but… somehow I can see the end before I get there, and that makes it hard to finish things sometimes. I have to be pushed! But that’s not all. I often feel that my work lacks… I don’t know… purpose. Does that make any sense?’

  ‘You should have more faith in yourself, Leonardo,’ said Maria.

  ‘Thank you, but there are moments when I think I’d rather do more practical work, work that has a direct bearing on life. I want to understand life – how it works, how everything works.’

  ‘Then you’d have to be one hundred men in one,’ said Ezio.

  ‘If only I could be! I know what I want to explore: architecture, anatomy, engineering even. I don’t want to capture the world with my brush, I want to change it!’

  He was so impassioned that Ezio was more impressed than irritated – the man clearly wasn’t boasting; if anything, he seemed almost tormented by the ideas that simmered within him. Next thing, thought Ezio, is that he’ll tell us he’s involved with music and poetry as well!

  ‘Do you want to put that down and rest for a moment, Ezio?’ Leonardo asked. ‘It might be a bit too heavy for you.’

  Ezio gritted his teeth. ‘No, grazie. Anyway, we’re almost there.’

  When they arrived at the Palazzo Auditore, he carried his box into the entrance hall and set it down as slowly and as carefully as his aching muscles would let him, and he was more relieved than he’d ever admit, even to himself.

  ‘Thank you, Ezio,’ said his mother. ‘I think we can manage very well without you now, though of course if you wish to come and help with the hanging of the pictures –’

  ‘Thank you, Mother – I think that’s a job best left to the two of you.’

  Leonardo held out his hand. ‘It was very good to meet you, Ezio. I hope our paths cross again soon.’

  ‘Anch’io.’

  ‘You might just call one of the servants to give Leonardo a hand,’ Maria told him.

  ‘No,’ said Leonardo. ‘I prefer to take care of this myself. Imagine if someone dropped one of the boxes!’ And bending his knees, he hoisted the box Ezio had put down into the crook of his arm. ‘Shall we
?’ he said to Maria.

  ‘This way,’ said Maria. “Goodbye, Ezio, I’ll see you at dinner this evening. Come, Leonardo.’

  Ezio watched as they left the hall. This Leonardo was obviously one to respect.

  After lunch, late in the afternoon, Giulio came hurrying (as he always did) to tell him that his father required his presence in the office. Ezio hastened to follow the secretary down the long oak-lined corridor that led to the back of the mansion.

  ‘Ah, Ezio! Come in, my boy.’ Giovanni’s tone was serious and businesslike. He stood up behind his desk, on which two bulky letters lay, wrapped in vellum and sealed.

  ‘They say Duke Lorenzo will return tomorrow or the day after at the latest,’ said Ezio.

  ‘I know. But there is no time to waste. I want you to deliver these to certain associates of mine, here in the city.’ He pushed the letters across the desk.

  ‘Yes, Father.’

  ‘I also need you to retrieve a message which a carrier pigeon should have brought to the coop in the piazza at the end of the street. Try to make sure no one sees you fetch it.’

  ‘I’ll see to it.’

  ‘Good. Come back here immediately you’ve finished. I have some important things I need to discuss with you.’

  ‘Sir.’

  ‘So, this time, behave. No scrapping this time.’

  Ezio decided to tackle the pigeon coop first. Dusk was approaching, and he knew there’d be few people out at that time – a little later the square would be thronged with Florentines making their passeggiata. When he reached his goal he noticed some graffiti on the wall behind and above the coop. He was puzzled: was it recent or had he just never been aware of it before? Carefully inscribed was a line he recognized from the Book of Ecclesiastes: HE THAT INCREASETH KNOWLEDGE INCREASETH SORROW. A little below this, someone had added in a ruder script: WHERE IS THE PROPHET?

  But his mind soon returned to his task. He recognized the pigeon he was after instantly – it was the only one with a note attached to its leg. He detached it quickly and gently placed the bird back on its ledge, then he hesitated. Should he read the note? It wasn’t sealed. Quickly he unrolled the little scroll and found it contained nothing but a name – that of Francesco de’ Pazzi. Ezio shrugged. He supposed that would mean something more to his father than it did to him. Why the name of Vieri’s father and one of the possible conspirators in a plot to topple the Duke of Milan – facts already known to Giovanni – should be of further significance was beyond him. Unless it signified some kind of confirmation.

  But he had to hurry on with his work. Stashing the note in his belt-pouch, he made his way to the address on the first envelope. Its location surprised him, for it was in the red-light district. He’d been there often with Federico – before he had met Cristina, that is – but he had never felt comfortable there. He placed a hand on his dagger-hilt to reassure himself as he approached the dingy alley his father had indicated. The address turned out to be a low tavern, ill-lit and serving cheap Chianti in clay beakers.

  At a loss about what to do next, for there seemed to be no one about, he was surprised by a voice at his side.

  ‘You Giovanni’s boy?’

  He turned to confront a rough-looking man whose breath smelled of onions. He was accompanied by a woman who might once have been pretty, but it looked as if ten years on her back had rubbed most of any loveliness away. If it was left anywhere, it was in her clear, intelligent eyes.

  ‘No, you idiot,’ she said to the man. ‘He just happens to look exactly like his dad.’

  ‘You got something for us,’ said the man, ignoring her. ‘Give it here.’

  Ezio hesitated. He checked the address. It was the right one.

  ‘Hand it over, friend,’ said the man, leaning closer. Ezio got a full blast of his breath. Did the man live on onions and garlic?

  He placed the letter in the man’s open hand, which closed round it immediately and transferred it to a leather pouch at his side.

  ‘Good boy,’ he said, and then smiled. Ezio was surprised to see that the smile gave his face a certain – surprising – nobility. But not his words. ‘And don’t worry,’ he added. ‘We ain’t contagious.’ He paused to glance at the woman. ‘At least, I ain’t!’

  The woman laughed and punched his arm. Then they were gone.

  Ezio made his way out of the alley with relief. The address on the second letter directed him to a street just west of the Baptistry. A much better district, but a quiet one at this time of day. He hastened across town.

  Waiting for him under an arch which spanned the street was a burly man who looked like a soldier. He was dressed in what looked like leather country clothes, but he smelled clean and fresh, and he was cleanshaven.

  ‘Over here,’ he beckoned.

  ‘I have something for you,’ said Ezio. ‘From –’

  ‘– Giovanni Auditore?’ The man spoke little above a whisper.

  ‘Sì.’

  The man glanced around, up and down the street. Only a lamplighter was visible, some distance away. ‘Were you followed?’

  ‘No – why should I have been?’

  ‘Never mind. Give me the letter. Quickly.’

  Ezio handed it over.

  ‘Things are hotting up,’ said the man. ‘Tell your father they’re making a move tonight. He should make plans to get to safety.’

  Ezio was taken aback. ‘What? What are you talking about?’

  ‘I’ve already said too much. Hurry home.’ And the man melted into the shadows.

  ‘Wait!’ Ezio called after him. ‘What do you mean? Come back!’

  But the man had gone.

  Ezio walked quickly up the street to the lamplighter. ‘What time is it?’ he asked. The man screwed up his eyes and looked at the sky. ‘Must be an hour since I came on duty,’ he said. ‘Makes it about the twentieth hour.’

  Ezio made a quick calculation. He must have left his palazzo two hours earlier, and it would take him perhaps twenty minutes to reach home again. He took off at a run. Some awful premonition caught at his soul.

  As soon as he came within sight of the Auditore mansion, he knew something was wrong. There were no lights anywhere, and the great front doors stood open. He quickened his pace, calling as he ran: ‘Father! Federico!’

  The great hall of the palazzo stood dark and empty, but there was enough light for Ezio to see tables overturned, chairs smashed, broken crockery and glassware. Someone had torn Leonardo’s paintings from the walls and slashed them with a knife. From the darkness beyond, he could hear the sound of sobbing – a woman sobbing: his mother!

  He started to make his way towards the sound when a shadow moved behind him, something raised above its head. Ezio twisted round and seized a heavy silver candlestick which someone was bringing down on his head. He gave a savage wrench and his attacker let go of the candlestick with a cry of alarm. He tossed the candlestick away, out of reach, grabbed the arm of his assailant, and pulled the person towards what light there was. There was murder in his heart, and already his dagger was out.

  ‘Oh! Ser Ezio! It’s you! Thank God!’

  Ezio recognized the voice, and now the face, of the family housekeeper, Annetta, a feisty countrywoman who’d been with the family for years.

  ‘What has happened?’ he asked Annetta, taking both her wrists in his hands and almost shaking her in his anguish and panic.

  ‘They came – the city guards. They’ve arrested your father and Federico – they even took little Petruccio, they tore him from your mother’s arms!’

  ‘Where is my mother? Where is Claudia?’

  ‘Here we are,’ came a shaky voice from the shadows. Claudia emerged, her mother leaning on her arm. Ezio righted a chair for his mother to sit on. In the dim light, he could see that Claudia was bleeding, her clothes dirty and torn. Maria did not acknowledge him. She sat on the chair, keening and rocking. In her hands she clutched the little pearwood box of feathers Petruccio had given her not two days – a life
time – before.

  ‘My God, Claudia! Are you all right?’ He looked at her and anger flooded through him. ‘Did they – ?’

  ‘No – I’m all right. They roughed me up a little because they thought I could tell them where you were. But Mother… Oh, Ezio, they’ve taken Father and Federico and Petruccio to the Palazzo Vecchio!’

  ‘Your mother’s in shock,’ said Annetta. ‘When she resisted them, they –’ She broke off. ‘Bastardi!’

  Ezio thought quickly. ‘It’s not safe here. Is there somewhere you can take them, Annetta?’

  ‘Yes, yes… to my sister’s. They’ll be safe there.’ Annetta barely managed to get the words out, the fear and anguish choking her voice.

  ‘We must move fast. The guards will almost certainly come back for me. Claudia, Mother – there’s no time to waste. Don’t take anything, just go with Annetta. Now! Claudia, let Mamma lean on you.’

  He escorted them out of their stricken home, still in shock himself, and helped them on their way before leaving them in the capable hands of the loyal Annetta, who had begun to regain her composure. Ezio’s mind raced with all the implications, his world rocked by the terrible turn of events. Desperately, he tried to assess all that had happened, and just what he must do now, what he must do to save his father and brothers… Straight away, he knew that he had to find some way of seeing his father, finding out what had brought on this attack, this outrage to his family. But the Palazzo Vecchio! They’d have put his kinsmen in the two small cells in the tower, of that he was sure. Maybe there’d be a chance… But the place was fortified like a castle keep; and there’d be a redoubtable guard placed on it, tonight of all nights.

  Forcing himself to be calm and to think clearly, he slipped through the streets to the Piazza della Signoria, hugging its walls, and looking up. Torches burned from the battlements and from the top of the tower, illuminating the giant red fleur-de-lys that was the city’s emblem, and the great clock at the tower’s base. Higher up, squinting to see more clearly, Ezio thought he could discern the dim light of a taper in the small barred window near the top. There were guards posted outside the palazzo’s great double doors, and more on the battlements. But there were none that Ezio could see at the top of the tower, whose battlements anyway were above the window he needed to reach.