Portrait of a Conspiracy

by Donna Russo Morin

  Portrait of a Conspiracy

  Da Vinci’s Disciples - Book One

  Donna Russo Morin

  Copyright

  Diversion Books

  A Division of Diversion Publishing Corp.

  443 Park Avenue South, Suite 1008

  New York, NY 10016

  www.DiversionBooks.com

  Copyright © 2016 by Donna Ruson Morin

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  For more information, email info@diversionbooks.com

  First Diversion Books edition May 2016

  ISBN: 978-1-68230-059-6

  To Jennifer Way,

  My JWay:

  Forever beautiful,

  Forever young,

  Forever in my heart.

  Personaggi

  *denotes historical character

  Viviana del Marrone – a founding member of a secret group of women artists; the daughter of a long line of wealthy vintners; born 1444

  Orfeo del Marrone – Viviana’s husband; a merchant; born 1434

  Contessa Fiammetta Ruspoli Maffei – a member of the secret group of women artists; daughter to one of the great noble houses of Florence; born 1442

  *Lorenzo de’ Medici – entitled Il Magnifico by the people of Florence; renowned Italian statesman and unofficial ruler of the Florentine government; merchant banker; a great patron of the arts; Platonist; poet; born 1449

  *Giuliano de’ Medici – younger brother of Lorenzo de’ Medici; co-ruler of Florence though less politically active; patron of the arts; athlete; born 1453

  Lapaccia Cavalcanti – member of the secret group of women artists; widow of Messer Andrea Cavalcanti; born 1438

  *Messer Jacopo de’ Pazzi – ruling patriarch of the Pazzi family; merchant banker; born 1421

  *Francesco de’ Pazzi – oldest nephew of Jacopo de’ Pazzi; merchant banker; born 1444

  *Guglielmo de’ Pazzi – nephew of Jacopo de’ Pazzi; younger brother to Francesco de’ Pazzi; husband to Bianca de’ Medici; one time Prior of Florence and member of the Eight; born 1437

  Conte Patrizio Maffei – Fiammetta’s husband; a high-ranking nobleman; born 1437

  *Cardinal of San Giorgio, Raffaele Riario – nephew of Pope Sixtus IV; first adolescent elevated to College of Cardinals; patron of the arts; born 1461

  *Bernardo Bandini Baroncelli – banker with the Pazzi organization; born 1421

  *Archbishop of Pisa, Francesco Salviati – appointed Archbishop by Pope Sixtus IV; born 1443

  Sansone Caivano – professional soldier from northern Venice, born 1450

  *Cesare Petrucci – Gonfaloniere (governor) of Florence; veteran militiaman

  Natasia Soderini – the youngest member of the secret group of women artists; a member of one of the most powerful and noble houses of Florence; born 1462

  *Alessandro di Mariano di Vanni Filipepi, better known as Sandro Botticelli – Italian Renaissance painter of Florentine School; belonged to court of Lorenzo de’ Medici; born 1445

  Mattea Zamperini – last member to join the secret group of women artists; daughter of a deceased merchant; born 1461

  Andreano Cavalcanti – son of Lapaccia; member of the Consiglio dei Cento, Council of One Hundred; born 1456

  Isabetta Fioravanti – a member of the secret group of women artists; a mainland Venetian brought to Florence by her husband, a once successful butcher; born 1454

  Father Raffaello, Tomaso Soderini – Natasia Soderini’s brother; parish priest of Santo Spirito; born 1457

  *Leonardo da Vinci – polymath; born 1452

  Renaissance Florence

  A - Home of Viviana del Marrone N - Enclave of Pazzi Family Palazzos

  B - Home of Fiammetta Maffei O - Bargello

  C - Home of Lapaccia Cavalcanti P - Ponte alla Carraia

  D - Home of Natasia Soderini Q - Ponte Santa Trinita

  E - Home of Mattea Zamperini R - Ponte Vecchio

  F - Home of Isabetta Fioravanti S - Ponte alle Grazie

  G - Palazzo de’ Medici T - Porta San Piero Gattolino

  H - Cathedral of Santa Maria del Fiore (Duomo) U - Porta alla Croce/Gallows

  I - Baptistery V - Porta a San Gallo

  J - Palazzo della Signoria W - Santa Giuliano Convent

  K - Church of Santo Spirito X - Santa Apollonia

  L - Church of Santo Croce Y - Santa Caterina de Siena

  M - Church of San Lorenzo Z - Santa Caterina della Abbandonate

  God was watching.

  And He shuddered in horror at what He saw.

  Chapter One

  “Gathering Clouds.”

  Time rules all; it does not discriminate nor exalt. They could not run from it, though they did try to hide.

  The six women hung their voluminous smocks upon the wall pegs by the locked door. In a dance choreographed by frequency and none other, they formed a circle, each facing the back of the one before them. At once and together they turned, now perusing the woman on the other side with the same intense and critical eye. They turned again, facing each other in pairs now, partners in the dance, and examined more. With eyes trained and strained for the very purpose, they scoured each other’s clothing—every inch of gown and overgown, in every slashed sleeve and every partlet covered bodice—searching for the smallest of damning evidence…a strand of a feather brush, a smudge of charcoal, a splotch of paint.

  For these women, for this secret group, to be caught with even the slightest bit of incrimination upon their person…it could be the very worst thing in the world to happen.

  It could be.

  • • •

  Viviana longed to tell him to go to hell, but she dared not; the words were there, hanging on the curves of her lips and the hate in her heart, but she had only ever imagined herself saying them.

  “Is there nothing I can do to have you change your mind and accompany me?” she asked instead.

  She saw the lump of him—shriveled under the coverlet of their bed—in the reflection of the mottled looking glass in front of her; even in half sleep, the face peeking out of the linens was a scrunched and folded mask of discontent.

  “It is a great honor to attend Mass at the Duomo, as the guest of such a well-positioned family, and on such a momentous occasion. We should be very grateful to Conte Maffei for the invitation,” she cajoled still, hopeful yet, hating the thin tone of pleading in her voice as she tucked a stray chestnut curl back into the russet caul posed on the back of her head. “It was so kind of the contessa to ask, given our casual acquaintance."

  Though not as casual as Orfeo knew, in their studio, as well as in society, the two women existed no more than on the outskirts of each other’s lives, for Fiammetta’s position was far above her own. Today was merely charity from a woman who liked to appear charitable. Viviana knew it but brushed the truth of it away, expecting no more than to be grateful for the opportunity.

  A quick glance at her attire and a stab of insecurity jabbed her, at the minuteness of the diamond chips trimming the straight neckline of her evergreen gown, the slightly worn look of the thin lace partlet above it, the smallness of the brooch hanging from the plain headband encircling her plucked brow. Sumptuary laws or no, one’s appearance was a reflection of one’s stature and she feared hers was the truth of it, a portrait of a low ranking noblewoman who’s family’s wealth had been squandered by a lazy spouse. She was mollified, somewhat, as she donned the newl
y made gamurra, that the sleeveless overgown of gold and the same emerald green as her gown gave her at least the aura of fashionable flair.

  With one blue eye upon her husband, Viviana del Marrone scurried one finger in her jewelry box, looking for the necklace. She found it quickly, for there was far less in the carved mahogany chest than there used to be. Viviana lifted her chin an inch higher as she dropped the long, Y-shaped necklace upon her bosom, a gift from her sons, young men who spoiled their mother with keen relish. It sat well upon her, beside the chain and its key pendant, that which never came off her neck.

  Viviana turned and faced her husband though his head remained upon the pillow, his heavy-lidded eyes still closed. Her stabbing stare of envy was keen.

  How dare you squander such freedom? Her mind chewed upon the familiar thought. Were I blessed with the freedom of a man, the paint brush I dare to hold would never leave my hand.

  She shrugged slim shoulders, brushing away her frequent companion of dissatisfaction.

  “Fiammetta assured me that not only will the Medicis be there, but many other fine dignitaries as well. It was quite the impressive crowd arriving with the Cardinal of San Giorgio and the Archbishop of Pisa, was it not? And we will stand at the very front alongside them, far more forward than we would ever…” she choked on her words with a cough, hearing them as his easily perturbed ego would. With a light step of trepidation, Viviana moved toward the bed. “Many will envy our very privileged position. It would be a most opportune occasion to pay our respects.”

  Orfeo spun round, slapped the feather ticking below him with both hands, and thrashed up.

  Viviana stumbled back, her words having finally wrought a reaction, but not one she desired.

  “What use have I of dignitaries, of the Medici…” Orfeo snarled, a repugnant sight, dark-skinned face a contortion of splenetic temper, the few strands left upon his head a tangled, stuck out mess, the revealed bare torso—saggy flesh and protruding belly—quavering with his anger. “Upon their whims they have cast me from their favor. No amount of supplication will change that. You know it!”

  He stabbed the air with a stubby finger as if he stabbed her with his misplaced blame.

  “How dare you toss it in my face?”

  “I only thought you might try—”

  “You thought,” Orfeo snarled. “You think nothing, and do not try, for you might hurt yourself.”

  Orfeo flung himself back down on the bed and snapped the linens once more about the small bunch of his curled body.

  “I am done. They will not let me back in the fold.” It was a mewling of a pathetic animal, if not tainted by the venomous rage.

  Viviana turned to her dressing table once more, ignoring the shake of her hand as she retrieved the small, embellished drawstring purse.

  If you are done, she thought as she tied the delicate emerald silk pouch to the pale pink satin band high upon her waist, it is only because you have given up, yet again.

  Without another word or glance back, Viviana left her stewing husband to wallow in his silent discontent.

  Chapter Two

  “Clouds gather only where a storm brews.”

  “Are you excited, Mona Viviana?” Fiammetta’s husband Patrizio greeted her at his palazzo door with an almost girlish twitter, plump cheeks dimpling as he held his free arm out to her. His grandly bedecked wife already took her position on his other.

  “I am thrilled, dear Patrizio,” Viviana replied, taking the offered limb. “And I am grateful to be with you both, as always.”

  Around the short man, the women shared bemused smiles, indulgence tinged with shared secrets.

  “Have you ever seen the city so beautiful?” Viviana asked, the splendor of the moment enveloping her—erasing her husband’s virulence from her mind—as they made their way through streets teeming with smiling neighbors.

  “It has been some time,” Patrizio agreed as he strutted along.

  Viviana sighed, gaze full of Florence embraced by spring, cleaned to perfection, adorned in its finest costume. Festoons of flowers hung on every doorjamb and balcony, their sweet aroma filling the air; family banners fluttered, snapping softly in the gentle breeze.

  “Magnifico asked us to put on our best for his guests,” Fiammetta said without a smile. “And what Lorenzo de’ Medici bids, we fiorentinos do.”

  “Whatever the reason,” Viviana held her head high as they walked the crowded, cobbled streets, “I am glad for it.”

  With a single gong, the church bells of the city began their clamoring, a splendid concerto, every bell in use to call this, the High Mass of Ascension Sunday, to order. Those so privileged or given special dispensation, rushed to the doors of the Duomo, while the rest of the city made their way to their own parishes in hopes of equal salvation or to the piazza to watch the privileged pass. Friends were in that crowd, special friends of all sorts; Viviana’s critical gaze swept the faces for those dear to her, but to no avail.

  “You have made us late again, Patrizio!” Fiammetta shouted at her husband. Though he walked right beside her, the tolling grew louder, the urgency of sound quickened her step, speed and breeze forced her free hand to hold fast to the jeweled veil atop her straw-like hair.

  “I am moving as fast as I can.” The very bald, very round man hurried to keep up with his scurrying wife, pulling Viviana with him, his knees popping outward, his belly jiggling.

  With the turn of a corner, the grand and golden Duomo rose up before them, a blazing testament to the glory of Florence; Viviana felt the familiar hitch in her breath at the magnificent sight. As they hurried over the irregular cobbled rectangle of the Piazza del Duomo, her gaze scurried over its sights: from Giotto’s campanile, the Column of Saint Zenobius, the Baptistry, to the dome itself—the round, golden vault—Filippo Brunelleschi’s wonder.

  “But what is this?” Patrizio slowed his pace, holding them back with a tick of his chin.

  There, on the left side of the Duomo, they spied a small group of men hastening away from the side entrance, led by none other than the powerful Medici brothers.

  “But…but…” Viviana stammered, a hand lifted to her cheek. “Mass could only have just begun, if at all.”

  “It is your fault,” Fiammetta grumbled at her husband. “It is because we are so late.”

  Patrizio slanted a petulant look upon his wife. He rushed the women forward, bringing them ever closer to the towering front door of the cathedral, the scrolled pediment above, and the sculptures standing guard on each side.

  “Slower,” Fiammetta hissed as they drew nearer, and Viviana bit back a smile. She knew there was nothing in Heaven or the cathedral to impel her inquisitive friend to enter its confines until she saw for herself what had impelled the dignitaries out.

  But they need wait no longer. From the narrow Via Larga degli Spada—the straight street of the sword forgers leading directly from the Medici palace to the Cathedral de Santa Maria del Fiore—they spied the return of the Medicis, their group enlarged to an imposing brigata, bright with cardinal red, archbishop purple, fine velvets, and shiny leather. As the trio of friends converged on the front entrance, the Medici contingent did so from the west side.

  “Oooh,” Fiammetta luxuriated on the picture. “And now they return with their guests.”

  Viviana gaped at the group of men, their power, their eminence apparent as each step brought them closer. Yet the more she stared at them, the more she knew them, not for who they were…everyone would recognize Cardinal Riario and Archbishop Salviati, even the small and smarmy Francesco de’ Pazzi…but she knew them, as a group, but she could not recall from where. Something about them together struck a chord in her mind, a discordant note. She tilted her head, study and stare ever more intense, still she could not name it. Her pale eyes narrowed against a bright flash of light, a reflection…

  …But no, it could not be. Her sight played tricks upon her mind. What an absurdity; what she saw was nothing but a glint from a strand of fi
ne rosary beads. She believed it, only with a shiver of unease.

  Fiammetta salivated on such a juicy tidbit of gossip. “A mistake has been made it would seem. It looks as if the Medici were to meet the guests at their palazzo, not the cathedral, but—”

  “But I will truly be angry with you, my wife, if we do not enter before they do,” Patrizio hissed between clenched teeth.

  “What in the name of…” Viviana hissed in turn.

  Within the Medici contingent, a man had suddenly stopped and embraced the man beside him, none other than Lorenzo’s younger brother, Giuliano. Awkward surprise contorted the handsome young man’s face until the other released him.

  “Bernardo Bandini, what are you about?” Patrizio whispered aloud. Without thought, Viviana squeezed his arm; he had seen it too. Together they watched as Bandini released Giuliano, as he turned to whisper in the Archbishop’s ear, who whispered in another’s. The argument ended as the Archbishop left the man for the more accommodating company of two priests.

  “What? What is that you say?” Fiammetta slowed her pace once more.

  “Come. No more now,” Patrizio replied, yanking her forward without answer.

  He hurried them into the cathedral, his wife leaning backward to get a last glimpse of the strange contingent, Viviana leaning forward.

  • • •

  For the third time that morning, Lapaccia Cavalcanti climbed the stairs to the third floor of her spacious home, one she had searched for the better part of an hour; her aging knees screeched, inflicted lungs struggled for breath. She could find no sign of her son.

  Andreano had promised to escort her to Mass and he had never gone back on his promises, not in all the years of her widowhood. The deceased Andrea Cavalcanti, one of the greatest knights in all of Italy, a title earned by blood, both inherited and shed, would be disappointed in his son were he to renege on his promise to his mother, any promise.