The Medici secret

by Michael White

  He wandered slowly around the stalls picking the best cut of fish he could find, trout fillets which he knew Rose would love. He then selected courgettes, aubergines, mushrooms and firm new potatoes. Fifteen minutes after entering the market, he was done, two plastic carrier bags were filled with everything he needed to cook that night.

  Leaving the market, the day had blossomed. Now there were plenty of people around and the light had changed from its former moody ambience to the bleach of true morning. It was time for a coffee and maybe even an aperitif.

  Dropping the plastic bags beside a table, Jeff called over the waiter and placed his order. Then he noticed the TV in the far corner, high up on a wooden shelf. The news was on with the sound low. An image of a tank exploding and the faces of newly dead soldiers. Then the newsreader in the studio mouthed almost silent words before the picture changed. The waiter arrived with the coffee, a pair of small biscuits on the saucer. Jeff returned his gaze to the screen, a coloured bar now stretched across the bottom of the picture and he could read the words: MEDICI CHAPEL, FIRENZE. Above this, the image of a dimly lit room. He soon realised it was the crypt of the chapel. Then the picture dissolved, replaced with a head shot of Professor Carlin Mackenzie.

  Jeff felt a sudden spasm in the pit of his stomach. He was about to call over the waiter to get the volume turned up but already the image on the screen had vanished, replaced by a shot of Downing Street. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone. Punching the keys, his mind acting on autopilot, he found the BBC Internet News Service. Clicking again he pulled up 'Breaking News' and scanned the brief report. It was only as he finished reading the last line he realised his hands were shaking.

  Chapter 4

  Florence, 4 May 1410 Cosimo de' Medici considered his reflection in the small mirror in his bedchamber. He was an ugly young man and he knew it. Not for him the full blond curls of his best friend Ambrogio Tommasini; nor could he make claim to anything like Ambrogio's shapely nose, his large brown, sometimes fathomless eyes with their long lashes. Cosimo's face was an odd confection of mismatched features, a jutting chin, narrow lips and a wholly unappealing nose. Admittedly, his eyes were large and nicely shaped, but they were slightly different sizes and arranged either side of his nose without precision. Even though he had only just entered his twenty-second year, his hair was thin and wispy, his skin sallow. But then he smiled faintly and his face changed in an instant. He was still ugly, but a new light was revealed in his eyes, the sudden wrinkles around their sockets added a decade but they also offered warmth. He felt comfortable with the face that stared back at him, and at that moment he would not have exchanged his singular visage for Ambrogio's redoubtable beauty. Plucking from the bed his lucco, the rich crimson ankle-length coat he wore every day, he slipped his arms through the sleeves, letting the great folds of fabric drape luxuriantly around his wrists. A moment later, he was heading for the door.

  Along the echoing corridor and down the broad, curving stone stairway, the house was silent, but as Cosimo stood in the hall he could hear the sound of people walking by on the road outside, and beyond this, the clatter of hooves on cobbles.

  Cosimo found his mother, Piccarda, sitting in her sewing room situated close to the front of the house. The curtains had been drawn wide and sunlight spilled in through the shutters casting broad bands of lemon across the room. His six-year-old brother Lorenzo was playing with one of the cats. Olomo, the black slave boy, recently arrived from Lisbon, was cleaning ashes from the fireplace, sweeping them into a broad wooden pail tipped forward on to its rim. Waving a brash in a broad arc between sweeps of the dirt, he was trying to shoo away a brown and white kitten that was intent on demolishing and dispersing the pile of grey powder so carefully gathered from the grate. 'I'm to meet father at the eighth hour,' Cosimo said to his mother. 'But breakfast, Cosi.'

  'I'll stop for some bread on the way. I'm late.' He kissed his mother on the cheek.

  Lorenzo saw his brother and ran over to him. Cosimo ruffled the boy's hair. Then, lifting him high into the air, he whirled him around.

  'Don't forget our ball game later, Cosi. Remember you promised,' Lorenzo exclaimed between squeals.

  'How could I forget such an important engagement?' He placed his brother back on the rug, kissed the top of the boy's head, waved to his mother and was gone.

  The Medicis lived in a large but rather plain house on the Piazza del Duomo, and the front windows on the upper floor offered a spectacular view across the city towards the Ponte Vecchio. The foreground was dominated by the unfinished colossus of the Duomo, in the distance the Cathedral of Santa Maria del Fiore could be seen encased in wooden scaffolding.

  It was already busy on the streets close to the Duomo. Stepping out on to the piazza, Cosimo quickly dodged a man pulling a cart laden high with vegetables and turned south along Via dei Calzaiuoli towards the river and the banking district centred on Via Porta Rossa, where his father, Giovanni di Bicci had founded the Medici bank thirteen years earlier. The air was thick with a confusion of odours: an acidic tinge from the tanneries and the ammonia stench of fish guts clashed with the wonderful aroma of baking bread. But Cosimo was almost totally oblivious to the smells. He had been born just a few yards from here on a day when the same scents wafted all around. They were as natural to him as the spotless blue sky above the towers, the tiled roofs and the cobblestones of the street beneath his feet.

  Looking up, he saw a matronly figure flapping a sheet as she pinned it to a length of thin rope above the balcony. From inside the house came the squeals of children, a crash and then an adult shouting. Cosimo smiled to himself and stepped up his pace; he was late after all.

  A few yards on, and he could see the river glistening in the morning sun and directly ahead was the Ponte Vecchio with its huddled shops and houses, the tanners, purse-makers and a clutch of butchers. The bridge was already crowded with people bartering and haggling over the price of a fine leather pouch or a side of venison. On the river itself a small barge was approaching the quay, a young boy dressed in a black felt cap and badly ripped hose leaned forward at the prow and swung a rope, expertly lassoing the mooring post on his first attempt. The boy shouted something unintelligible to a man at the helm then ran aft to secure that end of the boat.

  Cosimo turned right into Via Porta Rossa and saw immediately the grand facade of the banking house. A small crowd milled around outside just as it did on most days. At small wooden tables topped with green baize sat men in formal black jackets buttoned up tight to the neck. Around each table, a small crowd jostled, making it difficult for the men at the front to hold a proper discourse with the seated officials. On the tables could be seen quills and ink bottles, clusters of promissory notes and small piles of coins. Beside each table stood an armed guard, each clutching a pike, watching the eager faces and itching for some action.

  Cosimo strode past the tables and the customers gathered there, climbed six stone steps at the front of the bank, nodded to the guards at the doors and was ushered into the grand entrance hall that lay beyond.

  It was cool inside. His feet echoed on the smooth stone floor. To each side stood more tables,, these were larger and the smartly dressed figures presiding over them looked more important than the men doing a similar job outside. Cosimo passed between the tables without looking at the customers and walked up another small flight of stairs to a mezzanine floor. At the top, he turned right and followed a corridor to a pair of heavy wooden doors. He knocked but after receiving no response he knocked again. 'Who is it?' 'Your son, Father.' 'Come.'

  Cosimo pushed the door and entered a large, low-ceilinged room empty except for a heavy wooden desk and two chairs, a large one behind the desk and a smaller one facing it. Cosimo's father, Giovanni di Bicci was walking towards him, his arms extended. He wore the formal red gown and cap of his guild.

  'Come my boy,' he said, his voice warm and gentle. 'Have you eaten? Can I get you anything?'

  Cosimo looked in
to his father's face. He had recently turned fifty but seemed older, more weathered. His was a crooked face. As with his eldest son, nothing matched properly; each feature was slightly misplaced, creating an unappealing asymmetry. But Giovanni's intense black eyes, a concerned frown, the line of his jaw, each expressed different aspects of his character with unusual clarity.

  'No thank you, Father,' Cosimo replied and as Giovanni retreated behind the desk, the younger man took the other chair. Placing his hands in his lap he looked intently at his father and waited for him to speak.

  Giovanni had a half-finished bowl of fruit on the desk in front of him. He had placed the bowl on a pile of papers and juice had slurped across what looked to Cosimo like official documents of some kind. Before speaking again, the older man stabbed at a piece of orange with a silver fork and brought the oozing fruit to his mouth, wiping his moist chin with the back of his hand.

  'I expect you're wondering why I've asked you here today, Cosimo,' he intoned slowly, fixing his son with his black eyes. Leaning forward, he found a piece of crisp pale green pear with his fork.

  'Well, I finished my studies two weeks ago, Father. I imagine you would like me to pull my weight here at the bank.'

  Giovanni smiled warmly. 'You make me sound like a dragon. Two weeks and then you are enslaved!'

  Cosimo returned the smile, but he felt disturbed. His father might make a joke of it, but he knew that his time of freedom was about to end and that he was to lose for ever the life of study and contemplation he had enjoyed.

  'Actually I have some news I thought might excite you.' 'Oh?' 'I have arranged for you to begin a tour of branches of our bank.' 'A tour?'

  'Yes, obviously not encompassing all thirty-nine banks, but a trip that will allow you to visit the branches in Italy. It will take you to Genoa, Venice and Rome. It will be a marvellous way for you to learn more about the Medici business.'

  Cosimo made a show of appreciating the gesture, but he could feel his mood sinking. 'You seem displeased, Cosi.'

  Cosimo was staring into space, seeing his new life, his pre-planned career flashing before his eyes. 'Cosimo?' 'Sorry, Father. Yes, a tour.' 'I said you seem displeased.'

  Cosimo paused for a second too long before answering. In that time it was clear that whatever he was to say would have little effect, other than to complicate things. 'I'm not displeased, Father, I just feel a little, well, a little… rushed?'

  Giovanni laid his fork in the bowl and sat back in his chair. Again, he fixed his son with his keen black eyes. Cosimo knew his father to be a caring and warm-hearted man. He knew that all those who did business with him respected and admired this man who had risen from humble beginnings to become one of the most successful bankers in Italy. But Cosimo also knew his father had a will of iron, and what he wanted, he made happen. He believed he knew what was best for his family and for the future of the dynasty he had founded. Cosimo had enjoyed freedom and the exuberance of youth, now it was time for him to assume the heavy mantle of manhood and responsibility. For his part, Giovanni did not entirely approve of the group of friends Cosimo had gathered around him during the past year or two. To him, such figures as Ambrogio Tommasini and that other fellow with whom his son seemed particularly tight, Niccolo Niccoli, exuded a distinct whiff of subversion. Giovanni did not hold with many of the new humanist ideas of the younger generation.

  'I believe it is time, Cosimo. It is time for you to adopt the role that has been prepared for you. You are a Medici, you are my eldest son. You have proven your worth as a scholar, now you must begin to show the world your many other qualities.' 'But Father, I had hoped

  'You wished to spend the summer in the pleasure gardens or with your friends idling the time away?'

  'Not idling, father, discussing and debating. Surely…' 'My boy,' Giovanni replied, keeping his patience but only just. 'I understand these impulses. I once craved the world of the intellect as you do now, but responsibilities came upon me fast, and I have to say, thirty years on, I do not regret the path I followed. Do you not wish for a wife, a family? Do you not wish for independence and to play your part in the growth of the family business… this great bank? I thought you would.'

  Cosimo knew his father was manipulating him and he had no illusions about who would win this argument. Give him the literary importance of Dante to discuss over wine and he would have stood a chance, but on this subject and against his father's iron will he withered like a flower in the frost. 'Naturally, Father. I just thought…'

  'Very well then, I will make the appropriate arrangements,' Giovanni jumped in and made a show of rifling through the papers on his desk. 'I think you will find this a most enriching experience, my boy.'

  Chapter 5

  London, June 2003 Sean Clifton, Sotheby's Early Italian Renaissance specialist, descended in the security lift to the subterranean vaults beneath the auction house's Mayfair offices. Following the guard in silence along the over-lit and echoing concrete-floored corridor, he reached the door of the air-conditioned document room and waited as his security number was punched into the electronic locking system. Next, the guard told him to put his computer and briefcase through the security check before he swung open the heavy steel door to let Clifton start his work.

  Once inside and alone, Clifton relaxed and prepared himself for the task ahead. His job frequently required him to authenticate and value a wide range of old manuscripts. Before him on the table was a unique find, a recently discovered collection of rare scrolls belonging to the great Renaissance humanist, Niccolo Niccoli.

  Before starting, Clifton pulled on a pair of white linen gloves, coughed quietly and settled himself into his seat. Then he examined the collection. It stood in two separate piles. On the left, a stack of unbound loose papers, on the right, a set of scrolls rolled up and tied with narrow, red ribbon. He leaned forward and moved aside the stack of unbound sheaves and began to tease open the first of the pile of neatly tied scrolls.

  He sat in total silence. The only sound in the room came from him as he inhaled and exhaled, moved papers and rearranged himself in the chair or occasionally tapped at his laptop, writing his report on the Niccoli archive, assessing its value at auction.

  He had to read slowly, the handwriting was idiosyncratic, and in places it was barely legible. He had gone through six pages of closely packed text and had begun to slip into the world of six hundred years past and the thoughts of one of the most adventurous travellers of the fifteenth century when the revelation came. Later, he recalled it like a slow motion action replay of a great sporting moment. The core of the collection consisted of three volumes of journals and diaries, hand-written and dated 1410, in which Niccolo Niccoli gave a detailed account of a journey from Florence east to Macedonia. It was a romping adventure full of colour and excitement, but the journey seemed to have little purpose. Then, turning a page, Clifton's heart gave a leap. Confused, he paused for a moment, then began to read as quickly as he could.

  It was as if the author had become bored with his own story and changed gear suddenly. Or perhaps he had slipped into a delirium and had begun describing a fantasy. This was something quite extraordinary. Niccoli was famed for his rationality and his devotion to learning and the Arts. So what was this all about? Had the scholar temporarily lost his mind? What he had suddenly started to describe bore no relationship to fifteenth-century reality.

  The surprise lasted only a few moments before it was swamped by a far stronger emotion, one Clifton would never have imagined. During his fifteen years handling priceless documents and previously unseen antiquities, he had never once been tempted to stray. But now, looking at these extraordinary pages, he felt completely overwhelmed.

  He reached for the scanner attached to his laptop and quickly swept it over each of the pages in front of him, storing the information on disk. Without considering for a moment what he was doing, he returned the documents to their former positions, switched off his computer and left the room. Outside the door to the v
ault, Clifton passed through the X-ray security check, followed the guard to the surface and left the building, numb with excitement and anticipation.

  Chapter 6

  Venice, present day The afternoon train to Florence was packed and Jeff was lucky to get a seat, even in first-class. Squeezed against the window by a huge woman in the aisle seat, he contemplated the countryside speeding past. Maria had been happy to look after Rose and Jeff had promised he would make it up to his daughter when he returned; he expected to be back in Venice the next day.

  Even though he had met Mackenzie only two or three times, he was still finding it hard to believe the man was dead. He hadn't seen Edie for nearly three months. She had promised to visit him in Venice while she was working so close by in Florence, but she was always too busy and he had not felt inclined to intrude on her. But this news, combined with what he had learned from the mysterious Mario Sporani, had propelled him to do something. He had phoned her straight away and now here he was on the first train to Florence.

  Mackenzie, he knew, was an abrasive character with plenty of enemies and few real friends. He was respected for his knowledge and his huge experience, but many of his colleagues considered him an overbearing egomaniac who believed his own publicity a little too much. He was certainly not popular with other academics, but Jeff found it hard to believe he could have been murdered for his character failings.

  He opened the Corriere della Sera he had bought at the station, and on page three he found a full report on the murder. Mackenzie had been garrotted. One of the team had found his body at around 8 am. yesterday. The Florentine police were being predictably tight-lipped about the details. Jeff noticed next to the main feature a report on the fanatical group, Workers For God, who had been protesting outside the Medici Chapel since the arrival of Mackenzie's team. He read it with growing interest. Florence, 17 February With yesterday's shock news of the murder of one of the world's most renowned science popularisers, Professor Carlin Mackenzie, Florentine police have cracked down hard on the Workers For God organisation. For three months now this group, led by the charismatic but elusive Dominican priest Father Giuseppe Baggio, has held daily vigils outside the Medici Chapel, but yesterday morning the protestors were asked to disband immediately. According to official reports, Father Baggio instructed his followers to ignore a police request to leave the vicinity, which prompted Immediate intervention by the authorities. Fortunately, the group then made no further efforts to resist and the protestors were escorted away while Father Baggio was held for questioning. The priest left police headquarters before lunch-time yesterday but refused to talk to reporters who had gathered outside, claiming he would only speak to a local Catholic magazine, THE VOICE.