by Alana White
More bells rang, cocks crowed loudly. He glanced toward Maria, sleeping in their rumpled bed. Her face appeared peaceful and unguarded. He watched himself walk over and kiss her on the mouth, her perfect lover and trustworthy friend. In addition to Lucrezia Tornabuoni de' Medici, he meant to speak with Luca Landucci today, to see if the druggist was making any progress on how the Virgin's tears might have been manufactured, not once, but twice now, although they had since gone dry, praise God and all the saints. While at the Sign of the Stars, he would buy Maria a bouquet tied with ribbons and scented with dried herbs. Amaranth for unfailing love, lavender for devotion, and oregano—You add spice to my life. No lie there.
His brow puckered into a frown. Spice; was that the essential ingredient his nature lacked? Was he too solemn, too intense? Too—dare he think it?—removed? Any man, whether cloth dyer, tailor, or lawyer and diplomat, could be hardworking, but cheerful and lively, as well: light and dark in equal measure. Couldn't he? Spice. What might he accomplish then? What, if he insisted, demanded, claimed, took, as other men did?
He started to the bed and heard a quiet knock at the door. Barefoot, he walked over and eased up the iron bolt.
Cesare regarded him from the depths of the hall, his face livid in the yellow glare of a solitary torch. Guid'Antonio stepped into the passage, the soles of his feet cool on the stone floor. “Maria's mother?”
“Yes. During the night.”
Guid'Antonio crossed himself. “How did you come to know?”
“Olimpia Pasquale came to me disguised as a boy.”
“Olimpia? You?” Guid'Antonio said.
“Ummm. She makes a good courier.” Cesare pursed his lips roundly. “Never fear. The dead lady's nurse is there with Giovanni.”
Behind Guid'Antonio, Maria stirred restlessly in the bed. “I'll be down in a moment,” he said.
Cesare faded along the corridor. In the shadows at the top of the stairs, he checked. “The Pope has spies watching constantly to see how Florence treats his interdict. In the coming days, all eyes will be on you.”
Not a child christened, not a couple married within the walls of any holy sanctuary, not one corpse buried in blessed ground. In the end, it was Guid'Antonio Vespucci who was in the Pope's glaring light. He had known he would be, all along.
Beneath his fingers, Maria's flesh tingled with warmth, with life. Slowly, she came up from sleep. Within the instant, she knew. Her arm fell hard back upon the bed, as if he had bent over and placed a heavy stone in her hand.
At the washbasin, he dampened a cloth to cool her fiery cheeks. He would have wagered his soul that on this day she would cry fiercely, rant, and throw pottery and silver on the floor in a protest of rage and grief. She did not. Instead, she curled on her side in the bed, as if by making herself small, she might disappear into the sheets.
The mattress sank beneath his weight. “I'm sorry,” he said. “I was fond of your mother.” They remained like this for what felt to him a very long time, Guid'Antonio aware that elsewhere the wheels of Florence were turning forward with the news of Alessandra del Vigna's passing. Town criers would add her name to their lists of the newly deceased. Speculation concerning Guid'Antonio Vespucci's plans for her funeral would grow by leaps and bounds.
A second soft knock sounded at the door. It was Cesare's mother, Domenica, with bread, pesto butter, wine, and cheese. Silently, with a nod to Guid'Antonio, Domenica came and went from the bedchamber. Shadows receded into far corners and sunshine streamed through the open windows, washing the bedchamber in a blaze of bright white light. Below in Piazza Ognissanti, a horseman clattered past, and a milkman shouted out his wares.
“Guid'Antonio?”
He started. “Yes?” On impulse he bent down and kissed Maria's shoulder.
“Now I am completely alone,” she said and fell, exhausted, back to sleep.
Guid'Antonio stared at his wife. Surely, she meant that with her mother's passing, she was bereft of her natural family, her father, brothers, sisters and now, her beloved mother. All, all gone from her forever, while here in the natural world, she had him and Giovanni.
Why, then, did he feel as if he had plunged into an icy lake?
Completely alone. Yes. He knew how she felt.
TWENTY-SIX
Weeping painting or no, it seemed to Guid'Antonio everything had been leading up to this: Alessandra del Vigna's illness, her death, and his public response to it in the eyes of Sixtus IV and the city. There had been religious rites in Florence these last two years, quietly and humbly held. Tiptoeing disobedience. In the opinion of the town, it was men like Guid'Antonio Vespucci and his cronies who trod the perilous line between heaven and hell, more so than everyone else. Men who deserved to be struck down for mocking not only Rome, but God Himself. God the Almighty, capable of floods and fire, of plagues, and of casting people into the hands of their enemies.
He could arrange a private Mass and burial for Alessandra del Vigna in Santissima Annunziata, Alessandra's family church. This would defy Sixtus IV's dictates, but meekly, without commotion, a semi-nod to the Pope's authority. Or he could honor the lady's death with all the public display his wife's mother deserved: a solemn procession of powerful men through the city with caparisoned horses and Vespucci family banners displayed.
Guid'Antonio Vespucci: Disobedient. Rebellious. Proud. Was he unafraid? No. God aside, there was the possibility of assassination. Why play with a weeping painting and hangings writ in blood, when all it would take to change Florence forever was an arrow through the heart of the man, or men, who walked together through the city's slow, twisting streets from Santa Croce to Santissima Annunziata? Guid'Antonio and his kinsmen, along with Lorenzo de' Medici, Chairman Tommaso Soderini, Chancellor Bartolomeo Scala, the Capponis, and the Pandolfinis: the glorious, longtime leaders of the Florentine Republic.
He glanced at Maria in their bed. In a moment, he would leave her sleeping and tread downstairs into the garden, where he would find Amerigo and Cesare waiting to do his bidding. First he would instruct Cesare to fetch Annunziata's infirmarian to confirm the lady's death and to prepare her body for her entombment in Annunziata's church crypt. Then he would ask Amerigo to tell Lorenzo and the Lord Priors he planned to observe all the public ceremonial funeral display befitting his kinswoman.
In two days' time, before all the people of Florence, he would put heaven to the test. Risking himself, his family and his friends, he would challenge God head-on.
TWENTY-SEVEN
Guid'Antonio squinted up at his nephews' black-clad figures moving against the sky, shading his eyes against the glare as they struggled to take the litter bearing Alessandra del Vigna's corpse from the hands of the neighborhood religious fraternity and settle it onto the funeral wagon's scarlet-draped platform. A light breeze stirred the lady's gossamer veil and the sleeves of her crimson velvet gown, distributing the perfume of white roses and the lady's stink across Piazza Santa Croce.
The four horses hitched to the wagon stirred restlessly, glossy black coats and decorative metal trappings glinting, expensive and beautiful, for the world to see and envy. Resplendent in rich brown tunic and hose, Cesare waited alone in front of the caparisoned animals, poised to lead the funeral procession on its lengthy journey to the Holy Church of the Annunciation, Santissima Annunziata, when Guid'Antonio gave the signal.
Shoemakers and laborers who worked for the dyers and finishers on Corso dei Tintori lurked in the doorways of shops and houses, men, women, and children taking stock of the lithe shield bearer, the proud horses, the scarlet-draped catafalque and the white robes worn by the men of the confraternity, all in direct contrast to Guid'Antonio and his nephews' smothering black cloaks. These were voluminous, hooded affairs, each sewn from fourteen arm-lengths of cloth, or more, and worth enough money to put soup in the workers' bellies for a year.
Amerigo's hands slipped. “Holy Mary. Antonio, there she goes!”
Antonio made a grab for the litter and caught it, s
wearing beneath his breath. He had returned from San Felice yesterday, having left his wife and children there with Brother Giorgio Vespucci, “For their safety,” Antonio had said.
Fresh sweat streamed beneath Guid'Antonio's arms. “Steady, there.”
“Would you could say as much to our audience,” Amerigo said. “They're taking our measure, clog makers and whores alike, or I'm not Amerigo Vespucci. Where are our famous friends now? Has everyone but the confraternity abandoned us today?”
“Yes,” his brother said.
No gifts of wine and food.
No Lord Priors. No Chancellor Scala. No Lorenzo standing beside Guid'Antonio Vespucci. In the air, he smelled the whiff of betrayal and fear. A mangy white cat shot past his feet, toward the horses. Cesare jumped away from the wagon, a dancer in brown leather slippers, and Antonio swore again as the horses pranced and snorted. “Thank God yon skittish feline wasn't black.”
“Careful!” Guid'Antonio called to Cesare, his voice sharper than he intended it to be. He didn't like the frisson of fear he felt when he thought of Cesare walking alone in front of the procession to Santissima Annunziata in the Miniver district of the San Giovanni quarter of the city. A walk of one half hour at least. He wished this were done with and they were back in Santa Croce. Well, if wishes were horses, all men would ride, wouldn't they?
He scanned the stone balconies surrounding the piazza. The balconies and tile rooftops appeared all clear. “Amerigo, Antonio, come down now.”
Antonio jumped to the ground, and Amerigo landed lightly on his feet beside him, his cape swirling like a black cloud. “We do have one friend.” He thumbed toward the fawn-colored canine parked on his haunches near the Del Vigna gate.
The mastiff's mellow brown eyes flicked back and forth between Amerigo and Guid'Antonio and settled on the taller of the two, his gaze one of pure adoration. Bathed and brushed, the dog's short thick coat had a glossy sheen. And good God was he getting big. One day the mastiff would reach the size of two lesser dogs combined. Or three!
“Amerigo, don't think for a minute that animal's going with us.”
But Amerigo, staring at a point past Guid'Antonio's shoulder, whispered, “Look here.”
Guid'Antonio twisted around. Antonio Capponi ambled across the piazza toward them, his scarlet cloak clasped with a sparkling, jeweled gold pin. “Surprised?” he said, clapping Guid'Antonio on the arm.
“Relieved,” Guid'Antonio said.
Capponi grinned. “I would have been here sooner, but I found a barber and had a shave.” He blew a stray lock of pale blond hair off his cheek. “If God's sending me to hell today, I may as well be presentable when I greet Satan at the mouth of his cave.”
Capponi's cocky smile faded. “I know what you're thinking. ‘Capponi, least of all, you.’ But I'd rather be struck dead at the hand of God or murdered by the mob than act the spineless coward.” He half turned and gestured back across the square. “Sometimes, people will surprise you in varied and wondrous ways.”
In a wave of crimson cloth, Pierfilippo Pandolfini, Bartolomeo Scala, and Piero di Nasi advanced toward them, robes whipping about their heels. Tommaso Soderini was not with them. Fine. Another absence rent Guid'Antonio's soul like the tip of a stiletto.
Capponi raised his brow: “No Lorenzo?”
“No.” Aware of the restless, shifting eyes watching them all around, Guid'Antonio walked into the piazza to greet his supporters.
A short time later, he raised Maria's damp palm to his lips, while the other men whispered and stirred in crimson cloaks whose necklines were drenched with sweat. Standing in the garden loggia with her, he felt light-headed, his heart pounding a deep, slow rhythm. In a few moments, he would embark upon an action that in the end could see him and his nephews slaughtered and their heads displayed on pikes around the city. Here was a truth new to Guid'Antonio Vespucci: he did not relish this role as the leader of other men.
He lifted Maria's filmy black veil, memorizing the firm curve of her chin. Violet rings shadowed the tender skin beneath her eyes. Had he said everything he wanted her to hear?
“Should anything happen to me today, hurry with Giovanni to San Felice. Brother Giorgio will keep you safe there. All our accounts have been temporarily transferred to Urbino. Duke Montefeltro's a trustworthy man; through his banker, he'll see you and Giovanni have everything you need.”
“I heard the duke fights for our Holy Father in Rome,” Maria said, staring up at him with eyes blurry and red-rimmed.
“For Rome one day, for Florence the next,” he said. “But I know Montefeltro, and I believe he's a man of his word, no matter who hires his services as condottiero from one war to the next.”
From his cloak, he withdrew an iron key. “This fits the lock-box beneath our bed. The Vespucci family papers and my journal are there.”
“And so?”
“The papers are for Brother Giorgio to pass down as he sees fit. Save the journal for Giovanni. Someday, these events may prove of interest to him. Or even, mayhap, to others.” A light smile: “Who knows what some people might find interesting reading?”
A troubled look creased her brow. “Don't make light, Guid'Antonio. I'm afraid.”
He wanted to say, “So am I, Maria.” Instead: “We must be brave.”
“Easy for you to tell me.”
No, it isn't. Give me some credit, Maria. “I do love you,” he said.
She took his hands in hers and kissed them. “You had better go.”
He summoned a smile, nodding. “Yes. Given the friars of Annunziata's reticence in this affair, I mustn't keep them waiting.”
“You mustn't keep Lorenzo waiting, either.”
He whirled around. A lone man had appeared in the piazza, his figure bathed in slanting bands of light. Graceful, sturdy, tall and dressed in the brown shade of mourning reserved for the closest family friends, striding toward them in his swirling cape, Lorenzo de' Medici resembled some dark angel come to rescue them from all the wickedness of hell.
Whispers sighed around the square like a light wind. “Lorenzo the Magnificent.”
“God keep you, my love.” Lowering her veil, Maria slipped into the house in a crackle of expensive black silk.
Lorenzo embraced Guid'Antonio, his lips a disarming smile. “I see you warrant a soft touch. My wife is among those who believe I've put us on the road to perdition and may as well pack my bags and go there straightaway myself. But then, she's Roman, born and bred, so I don't pay her opinions much heed. Good morning,” he said all around before adding in a soft aside to Guid'Antonio, “so few supporters today?”
“So it seems.”
“I'm only sorry I'm late.”
Was he?
Lorenzo moistened his lips. “Let's get this over with. No offence to the deceased.” He crossed himself.
“Cesare,” Guid'Antonio called. “Andiamo, per favore.” A pair of eyes bored into him. “Oh, come on,” he said.
The mastiff scrambled up. Gliding over, jowls dripping, the huge brown dog posted himself beside Guid'Antonio's right hip and grinned.
The funeral wagon lurched and the huge wheels creaked and rolled.
Cesare marched into the piazza. The feeling reverberating among the men now was one of extreme caution. Surely, the townspeople were in the mood to expect terrible things from the Creator.
Behind Guid'Antonio, Lorenzo's stride sounded sure and smooth, his boots an easy pace in front of Bartolomeo Scala and the three Lord Priors who were spread out behind the de facto ruler of Florence like a scarlet fan.
“Bull's-eye,” Amerigo whispered when they reached Piazza Santa Croce's midpoint. “Here we are dead center. Remind me again why we're doing this?” He gestured toward the shadowed artery they would enter after passing behind the Stinche on their left.
“Because fear doesn't change anything, it only robs us of what we have,” Guid'Antonio said.
Behind them, Lorenzo said, “Well put, friend. We have the right to walk freely
in our town.”
“Along with the right to die in it,” Amerigo said.
“That, too,” Lorenzo said.
They followed the rattling wagon into the alley, where children peeped at them from stone doorways. The sound of a muttered prayer wafted from a workshop. Just when Guid'Antonio became convinced they had made a wrong turn and were trapped in a dead end, Cesare led them out into full light again. Draped over a balcony, a coarse canvas sheet snapped in a gust of wind. A window shutter slammed. Amerigo jumped. Alarm widened Antonio Vespucci's eyes. The mastiff growled.
Guid'Antonio touched the dog's head. “Easy everyone. We're not alone.”
Amerigo muttered, “God holds us in His hands.”
“I mean Palla's here,” Guid'Antonio said. A short while earlier, he had glimpsed Palla Palmieri light-footing it from corner to corner, maintaining a brief lead ahead of them. From the rooftops Palla's men peered down, bows cocked, arrows at the ready.
“Protection,” Lorenzo said.
“Let us hope,” Guid'Antonio said.
They entered an alley so narrow the wagon skinned the walls. Guid'Antonio's breath came fast. He was not sure of Palla. He was not wholly sure of anyone. He kept walking, one heavy boot step after the other.
An eternity passed. With a profound sense of relief, he emerged with the others into the fresher air of a sunny space where a young woman slouched in a doorway with sleeves pushed up, revealing red, work-roughened forearms. Her eyes raked the mourners and stopped at Lorenzo. She bent, whispering, to the naked toddler clutching her leg. The boy drew back, his brown eyes focused on Lorenzo in awe and fear.
