by Alana White
“Listen,” Lorenzo said, “before I left for Naples, there was grumbling in the streets because of the war. While I was there, our detractors whispered I might meet my death at King Ferrante's hands. Yet here I am. I compromised myself by going to Ferrante and suing for peace, since it meant identifying my house so closely with the city's continuing problems. I know that, and don't regret it a whit, since I did it in the name of peace. I certainly didn't expect to have my efforts come back and bite me in the ass.”
Amerigo laughed, then fell quiet as Guid'Antonio said, “You believe the rumblings within our ranks pose a genuine threat to the regime?”
Lorenzo bent toward him, his cheeks unusually thin, almost sunken, in the candlelight. “As dangerous as when ruthless men tried to replace my father and grandfather as the leaders of our city. And more recently, me.”
“They failed miserably,” Guid'Antonio said. The Albizzi, the Pitti, the Pazzi families.
“Not without tremendous cost. I live with the death of my brother every day.”
So do I, Guid'Antonio thought. And you know it very well.
Lorenzo pressed the medal to his lips before returning it to its case with Giuliano's image face up. “This is no time to drag our feet.”
“Do you have a plan?”
“Not quite yet”—Lorenzo looked away—“only a few ideas involving change.”
Guid'Antonio's thoughts were worn, wooly threads seeking some design or pattern. “Find Camilla, expose the painting—”
“I'm speaking of our government and our party,” Lorenzo snapped. “About our lives and the lives of our families. About our impending ruin. When the time comes to make a move, I'll need you with me.” A smile slipped across his full lips. “You're my voice of reason.”
By “change,” what, exactly, did Lorenzo mean?
Resistance crept up Guid'Antonio's legs and settled in his chest beneath the ties of his sweat-soaked tunic. Magnificent to behold, suddenly the windowless little study felt hot as the flames of hell. He sat thinking while moments marched past, his gaze on the wall in the shadows at Lorenzo's back. There on a shelf sat small sculptures and vases and a blue and white onyx cameo in a frame: Noah and His Family Emerging from the Ark. His eyes traveled to the painted chest on the floor. On the wooden chest lay a velvet cloak. The cloak was familiar. Inky black with bands of crimson satin sewn along the sleeves. The same scarlet made the hood an inner lining. Folded back, in the dark light of Lorenzo's studiolo, its contents were transformed into a flowing river of blood.
Guid'Antonio felt off balance. How often had he seen Giuliano with that same cloak slung over his shoulders as he strolled the streets of Florence with his young bloods or rode with the hunt, his arrow whistling into the stout heart of a wild boar or a magnificent stag? The last time, as Giuliano lay dead on the Duomo floor. Guid'Antonio swallowed hard. He did not need to see the familiar cape to be reminded of Giuliano's limp body, his skull split in two halves. The image of Giuliano's corpse was seared into Guid'Antonio's blood, guts, and bones.
“I want to show you something.”
Guid'Antonio flinched, startled by the sound of Lorenzo's harsh voice breaking into his thoughts.
Lorenzo blew out all the candles save one and beckoned to his guests.
EIGHTEEN
Lorenzo opened a door panel hidden in the studiolo's back wall and led them along a narrow passage before beckoning them down a twisting stone stairway. When they reached an oaken door with cast-iron fittings, he extinguished the candle and added it to others within an iron container attached to the wall. “The outside exit is here.” The iron inner bolt screeched like a wounded bird when Lorenzo pulled it back. Heat and a slab of daylight poured in the door.
On the street, while Lorenzo locked the door behind him with a key, Guid'Antonio glanced around to get his bearings. Red-gowned men on foot hurried past, and a horseman clattered by, almost trampling a miller whose donkey was laden with a precious half sack of flour. Shops with barred doors and shuttered windows outnumbered those doing business.
They were on Via Larga, Florence's broad main street. Guid'Antonio looked toward his right. Midway down the block, a messenger carrying a leather satchel hurried through the main gate into the Medici palazzo. Keeping to the wall, Lorenzo walked in the opposite direction, north toward San Marco.
“Sometimes avoiding the main gate affords a bit of privacy,” Lorenzo said, smiling round with an air of easy grace. Men in rich scarlet robes smiled back at him. Peasants from the contado, laborers and chicken farmers, looked slowly away.
“Are you armed?” Guid'Antonio said.
“Now? No.”
“I am,” Amerigo said.
Lorenzo had said avoiding the main gate afforded him some privacy, but there was none on Via Larga today. Tall and athletic, publicly bright and energetic, Lorenzo de' Medici's singular figure never went unnoticed in these streets. Except, perhaps, when he slipped from his studiolo and out into Florence under the veil of night. To meet whom? Guid'Antonio wondered. Lucrezia Donati, who was married to Ambassador Niccolò Ardinghelli, as Nastagio Vespucci had pointed out on Monday evening? God! Just two nights ago. Unbelievable.
Regarding Lorenzo thoughtfully, Guid'Antonio opened his mouth to suggest they return to the safety of the palace, but Amerigo was in the midst of accepting Lorenzo's offer to borrow a few manuscript pages of Francesco Berlinghieri's work in progress, The Seven Days of Geography. When published, the book, an Italian verse translation of Ptolemy's Geografia, would come with an introduction by Marsilio Ficino, as well as with updated maps of France, Italy, Spain, and the Holy Land, apparently.
In the light of his companions' unbridled enthusiasm, Guid'Antonio felt the curmudgeon, the one always wary of this, that, and the other thing; so, he bit off a warning that they should turn back while they had the chance and kept his fears to himself.
Halfway down the block, Lorenzo unbolted a gate and strolled into a grassy forecourt scented with rosemary and basil and pots of prickly yellow roses. Amerigo fell back a pace, glancing at Guid'Antonio. Lorenzo had brought them to the town apartment, in the Medici holdings, of his ward, Lorenzino de' Medici. Lorenzino and his younger brother, Giovanni, lived here when they left their villa at Castello and rode into the city. And, yes: Lorenzino and Giovanni were those same two young Medici cousins whose inheritance Lorenzo de' Medici had looted to help fund the war. In response to Amerigo's silent question, Guid'Antonio could only shrug; he had no idea why Lorenzo would bring them here today.
From the courtyard, they went into the junior Medici's sala. High vaulted ceiling, wool and silk tapestries decorated with flowers and foliage, leather chairs, and a credenza laden with enameled glass and gilt goblets, silverware, trays, candlesticks, and plates. Yes, yes, yes. Very impressive. Even for a Medici.
Lorenzo opened an ornately carved door and, unannounced, they invaded Lorenzino de' Medici's bedchamber. Seventeen and weak of chin, Lorenzino was alone, his nose buried in the leaves of a book as he absentmindedly stroked the plump gray cat dozing on his lap. Lorenzino jumped up at once. “Cousin!” Fur spiking, the cat hissed and skittered across the marble floor.
“Stop it, Your Grace,” Lorenzo said, shaking his finger playfully at the disgruntled feline. “You're not as fierce as you would have us believe.”
The cat sped under the trestle table and rested on her spreading haunches, glaring from beneath the table's white linen cloth. Lorenzo clasped his young cousin to his breast and kissed him on both cheeks. “We're not inconveniencing you, I hope.”
“Of course not,” Lorenzino lied, coloring to the roots of his hair. “Amerigo! I'm happy you're back. I missed you. Florence has been quiet with you gone.”
“Thank you, I think,” Amerigo said, smiling.
Graciously, though a bit shakily, Lorenzino offered wine all around. Sipping the Chianti, more than a little embarrassed by this incursion into Lorenzino de' Medici's private space, Guid'Antonio marked the raw emotions flickeri
ng across the younger man's pocked cheeks. Surprise, awe, resentment. Plainly, this pale, young Medici knew about the 54,000 florins his older cousin had borrowed from his and Giovanni's trust fund, and he did not much like it, either.
While Lorenzo talked with his ward, Guid'Antonio cast an eye around the chamber, a spacious room that was close kin with countless others in his world: a bed with summer hangings and a counterpane, a pinewood armario with a backboard and cornice set against one wall. On the cornice, which served as a shelf, Lorenzino had assembled a collection of astrolabes and spherical models of the universe. Guid'Antonio reckoned the massive armario was at least thirty-three feet long. A great tondo of the Virgin and Child in a gilt frame caught his attention: he had heard these round paintings were gaining popularity in prosperous homes.
“Amerigo,” Lorenzino was saying, “I sent a note to you this morning to let you know I was here in the city.”
“Did you? I'm in Florence but rarely home.”
“We've been busy,” Guid'Antonio said.
Understanding and a trace of malice flickered in Lorenzino's heavy-lidded brown eyes. The youth looked down at his hands. Soft and plump, like a child's. And like a child, was he hot for revenge against his sticky-fingered kinsman? Lorenzino de' Medici had good reason for wanting to take his magnificent cousin down a peg or two.
Smiling, Lorenzo said, “We won't keep you, Cousin. I didn't believe you would mind the intrusion, as you and Amerigo are favorite friends. And I wanted to show them your latest commission.” He gestured toward the younger man's pine daybed and the large rectangular painting fixed above it on the wall. “It's Sandro's. A depiction of spring. Guid'Antonio?”
In the white frame above Lorenzino de' Medici's daybed was the painting Sandro had mentioned in his shop yesterday. Instantly, Guid'Antonio knew this was one of the most complex paintings he had ever seen. Astonishingly beautiful, the horizontal panel resembled a tapestry. Venus—or was it the Virgin Mary?—graced the center of a grassy meadow blooming with wild strawberries, coltsfoot, and red roses in such vivid array, Guid'Antonio would swear he smelled the earth and the deep scent of the flowers scattered across it. Looking left across the painting, he saw the Three Graces in filmy gowns holding hands and dancing, bodies radiant against the dark glade. Sandro had captured the center maiden glancing over her shoulder. She was tall and golden-haired, with a wistful smile on her pale pink lips: a young woman's face too beautiful to be completely of this world.
As, indeed, it wasn't.
The girl was Simonetta Vespucci, Marco Vespucci's wife and Giuliano de' Medici's lover, dead these last four years. Guid'Antonio's breathing slowed as he followed Simonetta's gaze to the figure of Mercury on the far left side of the painting. Youthful and beautiful, Mercury was naked but for the brief red cloak hiked up over his cocked hip, his feet shod in winged leather boots as he reached up with his caduceus to banish a gathering of gray clouds from the sky: Giuliano de' Medici, perfectly rendered by Sandro Botticelli.
“Jesus, meek and mild,” Amerigo said, “Sandro has put Giuliano and Simonetta in the world again.”
Amerigo spoke as if this were a wonderful thing, and Guid'Antonio supposed it was if you were not consumed with sorrow and guilt at each passing image of Giuliano de' Medici. This painting of Giuliano was real, and it made Guid'Antonio shiver with despair.
Lorenzo ran his hand over his face in a gesture of deep emotion. “Sandro painted it for Lorenzino while the rest of us were off in other directions. I saw it the first time when I came home from Naples. My brother was always otherworldly in his beauty.” Tears sprang into Lorenzo's eyes; he neither blinked nor turned away.
Nor did Lorenzino, who chatted casually about how, over a river of wine, Botticelli and Brother Giorgio Antonio Vespucci—along with Marsilio Ficino, Angelo Poliziano, and Lorenzino himself—had discussed the painting to be placed above Lorenzino's new bed. “Their combined feeling was, since I am engaged to marry, why not an allegory of marriage and the kindling of love?”
Lorenzino blushed crimson. “Or of physical desire, as Angelo Poliziano would have it.” As if on cue, everyone glanced at the three maidens' transparent gowns and their breasts so engagingly revealed. Beneath the gauzy fabric their breasts were white, their nipples peaked.
Lorenzino cut his brown gaze to his cousin. “This was when our Angelo was still welcome among us and not isolated up north in Mantua.”
Lorenzo's gaze on his young ward burned with dark emotion. “No one forced Angelo Poliziano to run off to Mantua. Angelo did so of his own accord, rather than die of his own cowardice for refusing to accompany me to King Ferrante's fearsome court. Unfortunately, Lorenzino, for the rest of us life is not all spring meadows.”
Chastened, Lorenzino said, “Of course not, Cousin. Forgive my insensitivity.”
Guid'Antonio cast Lorenzo a measuring look. Why had Lorenzo brought him to see this haunting painting? The Primavera was glorious, yet for Guid'Antonio it vibrated with sorrow and memories of the dead. Of Giuliano and Simonetta and, by association, of Simonetta's cuckolded husband, Marco Vespucci, and Marco's incarcerated father, Guid'Antonio's kinsman, Piero Vespucci.
Lorenzo de' Medici did not do anything by chance.
They took their leave with all outward signs of cordiality. Lorenzino and his cat, the latter's bushy gray tail unfurled like a banner over her furry back, accompanied them into the courtyard, the youth chatting with Amerigo about his betrothal to Semiramide d'Appiani and their wedding, set for two years hence.
“ 'Zino, where's your brother?” Lorenzo asked, one hand on the gate latch.
“At Castello with our grandmother. He chose to stay there rather than ride to town this week.” Lorenzino gathered up the cat and nuzzled her head with his cheek. “I wanted to return some books to Brother Giorgio and give him my Greek exercises for corrections. Amerigo, ride back with me tomorrow? We can amuse ourselves with my errors and escape the heat.”
Amerigo's face lit with pleasure. “I'll tell you about France.”
“No, you won't,” Guid'Antonio said.
Lorenzino looked owlish and surprised. Amerigo turned pink.
“Next week, perhaps,” Guid'Antonio said. “At present, life holds us here.”
“Of course it does,” Lorenzino said, glancing pointedly at his guardian.
“But only if that suits you and your grandmother Genevra,” Guid'Antonio said.
Lorenzino nodded and addressed the sullen-faced Amerigo: “Ride out when you're free to do as you please.” Patting the cat's head, smirking, he turned away.
Lorenzo chewed his lip. “I'm glad you two are friends, Amerigo, no error. He thinks of you as an older brother. Otherwise, he has only Giovanni, who's just thirteen.”
“ ‘Just’?” Amerigo said. “When last I saw Giovanni, he was barely eleven.” He cast a brooding look at Guid'Antonio. “Two years ago.”
“A lot changes in that much time,” Lorenzo said, smiling as they left the garden and stepped back out into the street. “Boys become men.”
“But often are not given credit,” Amerigo said.
“Credit comes when credit is due,” Guid'Antonio said. “You earned a lot of it in France.”
In silence the trio walked south along Via Larga to Lorenzo's main gate. “Well, friend,” Lorenzo said, “what's next on your list?”
“It's on my mind to seek Camilla's nurse,” Guid'Antonio said, his hawk's eyes keen on the steady stream of people traversing the thoroughfare. Some turned to the right at the corner of Via Larga and Via Gori, heading toward San Lorenzo Church and market; others kept straight in the direction of Florence Cathedral. He flicked his eyes away from Brunelleschi's red brick dome, toward the cheese and egg sellers hawking meager wares in the marketplace.
“Palla questioned the old woman. I told you yesterday.”
“I'll speak with her, nonetheless.”
“Only if you ride to the Rossi farm in Vinci, since that's where she is.”
A s
pasm of irritation shook Guid'Antonio. Why had he assumed Camilla's nurse was here in Florence and easily available? Because she was a member of Castruccio Senso's household. Or so he had thought. “And the slave boy?” he said.
“He's there, too. And now?”
Guid'Antonio had only one answer he cared to divulge. “Along with the nurse and boy, I mean to take a closer look at Ognissanti, or at least at the good brothers of the Humiliati residing there. They can't all be so cold and tight-lipped as they would have us believe. Or so innocent.”
Lorenzo laughed his throaty, low laugh. “Inquire too closely there, and you may uncover all manner of mischief having nothing to do with the Virgin Mary of Santa Maria Impruneta.” He inclined his head. “Please God, end this soon, Guid'Antonio mio. On my soul, I am tired of it and ready to move on to other things.”
So am I, Guid'Antonio thought, eyeing Lorenzo as he called a merry greeting to the man mopping the arcaded loggia before hurrying up the broad curving stairs to his private quarters. The question pressing on Guid'Antonio's mind now was what Lorenzo de' Medici meant to move on to—and when.
“Sandro's painting for Lorenzino is a mighty piece of work,” Amerigo said as he and Guid'Antonio walked through the market past San Lorenzo Church. Our Botticelli's to be congratulated.”
“He's probably happy just to have been paid.”
“Did you notice the Pallas and centaur above the door to 'Zino's antechamber?”
“How could I not? Sandro, again.”
“The figure of Pallas was—”
“Yes, Semiramide d'Appiano, Lorenzino's intended,” Guid'Antonio said.
“Do you think—” Amerigo looked perplexed. “I wonder if Lorenzino minds marrying her. Since she's our deceased Simonetta Vespucci's niece. De-ceased: what an interesting word! And Giuliano was supposed to marry Semiramide. Before he died, I mean, since Simonetta was already married to our Marco. Mayhap Lorenzino feels he's getting cold soup? Particularly since Lorenzo arranged this marriage, and there's no love lost betwixt them. Lorenzo and Lorenzino, I mean. God! Why does everyone we know have the same name? And then there are the letters Marco and Piero Vespucci have sent Lorenzo's mother.” Wide-eyed, Amerigo shook his head in wonder. “This is akin to incest.”
