Portrait of a Conspiracy

by Donna Russo Morin

  As Lapaccia looked in her son’s room one more time, her shoulders drooped in surrender. His ornamental sword was gone from its resting place on the bedpost; his boots lay nowhere on the floor—Andreano’s notion of “put away.” There was nothing for it; he had left and early, for she was a dawn riser. She would return to her own rooms and have her maids remove her splendid gown, for she had never, and would not, venture out alone socially, regardless that Viviana and Fiammetta awaited her.

  Lapaccia trudged to her chambers, forgetting why as soon as she entered. Crossing thick tapestry set atop gray stone floor, she stopped before the wall of windows and the balcony beyond. The vista took in the better part of the western quadrant, the old section of Florence long since taken over by brothels and their clientele. It was a world of lascivious dirt within a city of elegant beauty.

  Lapaccia watched, enthralled.

  Droves of men flowed from ramshackle inns sandwiched between brightly painted bordellos—stern-faced, adorned in dark leather and boots, yet their path could bring them nowhere other than the Duomo. Lapaccia had seen many things from these windows, but never had she seen such a contingent making for Mass.

  She turned from the dichotomous sight, one thought alone nagging at her.

  Where are you, Andreano?

  • • •

  Viviana stood near the front of the congregation beside the Conte and Contessa, for once as enthralled with Fiammetta’s rank as Fiammetta always had been. She forgot any and all earlier concerns; her slippered feet—her best pair, though worn—tapped upon patterned marble, her thumbs twirled around in the clasp of her hands. It was the best attempt at quiet reverence she could manage within the multitude of distractions.

  The Gothic vaults of the central nave towered above, guarded by the columns and round arches of ancient Rome, so high only birds could reach its apex, set aglow by the sweet light streaming in through the mammoth clerestory windows. It was a cave of wonders built by the hand of man, a hand guided by God.

  Viviana aimed her eyes forward, on the priest standing in wait, small and encapsulated within the chancel and the cupola over it.

  “Where is our Lapaccia?” Fiammetta leaned close to whisper, and Viviana could merely shrug in ignorance. They had planned to be together on this special occasion but the woman and her son were nowhere in sight.

  Mass was often no more than an excuse to see and be seen, but never before had Viviana witnessed so many watching so many others. Yes, it was Ascension Day and with a cardinal coming to celebrate it at that. Still, the congregation appeared incongruently heavy with men…well-dressed, well-outfitted, standing side by side, and yet apart.

  A metal hinge creaked; Viviana blinked as sunlight and the Medici brothers burst through the door. The chorus struck a rousing chord as if to sing their praises and not those of God. Both brothers accompanied the cardinal to his seat beneath the cupola. Viviana lowered her head as the priests began their parade of blessing, thuribles clacking, releasing the spicy scent of the incense that did little to mask the odor of so many bodies packed side by side.

  The brothers separated, each taking the head of one side of the congregation, as far apart and as far forward as they could, Lorenzo to the left, Giuliano to just a few rows before Viviana. She wondered if perhaps they separated to discourage contrast of one so powerful and one so beautiful. With them and their group, the church filled—dignitaries, nobles, clergy, and dashing soldiers; Viviana tried not to stare at the luminaries but failed. A few she recognized as those she had seen approach with the Medici contingent, malcontent slick upon their faces, shrouded in a disquiet out of sorts with such a hallowed place.

  Many congregants marveled at the sight of the Medici brothers and their guests. Viviana felt it too, their magnetism. But at the glimpse of one of the men among them, at the tall, thin man most simply called da Vinci, her breath became a shallow, elusive thing. Her emulation of the artist bordered on obsession, regardless of the salacious rumors that swirled around him like a storm.

  Movement snatched her attention. Archbishop Salviati, the hem of his rich purple cappa magna slapping at his ankles, scampered down the far aisle on his short legs. Viviana turned rudely from the altar—eyes wide, brows high—following the clergyman hurrying past the ranks. Oh, over there now—an equally disruptive sight. Messer Jacopo de’ Pazzi, the presiding patriarch of the powerful family, yanked her gaze to the right as he too rushed from the cathedral, and out the opposite door.

  Viviana looked round, forehead creased, wide blue eyes beseeching; had none of the other congregants seen what she had, did they not find it baffling? True, she was not so familiar with Mass among esteemed patrons, but none considered such displays of disrespect normal. Did they?

  “Bene dictam, adscrí ptam, ra tam, rationábilem, acceptabilém fácere dignéris.”

  Viviana pinned her gaze forward, shaking her head softly to set aside and away all confusing thoughts, for the priest was making the sign of the cross, three times, over the great chalice. The Consecration had begun, the blessing of the body and blood of Christ.

  In this moment, she often found the greatest connection to Jesus.

  Today it was not to be.

  The bell rang, the host was elevated, and…

  “HERE, TRAITOR!”

  The scream tore through the church, a shrieking, evil explosion. Viviana’s breath faltered, her heart hammered. Directly in front of her, directly beside Giuliano de’ Medici, a mad man came to life. He was not alone.

  “Look out!” Viviana screeched and pointed at the daggers raised high. Just as the priest upon the altar raised the host, the shiny steel flashed in her gaze, the flaying weapon intent upon spreading pure madness. Downward they plunged.

  Viviana’s world turned blood-red.

  Chapter Three

  “What I have seen, I can no longer not have seen it.”

  The bells of Giotto’s campanile clanged as the world crashed in anger.

  Time changed. Seconds took hours. All color drained to shades of gray save the irreverent red of blood splattering the floor, the walls, the people closest to the carnage. Viviana did not know which way to look, so she looked everywhere.

  The congregants in the row in front of her, the people between her and Giuliano, pushed and barged into her. The screams of scattering women mingled with the grunts of fighting men, but Viviana could not move—and could not turn away.

  A flash of light glinted off the raised blade. She followed the blade downward, found the burning eyes of a lunatic set in the grotesquely twisted face of Bernardo Bandini. Viviana knew his cry had started the maelstrom.

  Giuliano de’ Medici turned slowly, too slowly…and the jagged-edged dagger plunged into his side unabated by any armor. In that moment, Viviana understood Bandini’s bizarre embrace outside the church.

  The blood erupted, the reddest blood Viviana had ever seen. It gushed upon a bleached existence, a mortal rip in the fabric of a world gone mad. The beautiful face, so desired, changed, etched grotesquely by chisels of shock and horror.

  Instinctively, her hands reached out as she watched the body convulse under the assault. Her hands, her heart, flung out to Giuliano as they would to one of her sons; how much he reminded her of her own Marcello. Viviana had only one thought.

  What madness is this?

  The men sandwiched their victim; Bernardo Bandini stood in front of Giuliano, the bloody dagger, once plunged into his victim’s chest, hung limply in his hands.

  But the bedlamite came at him from behind.

  “Francesco de’ Pazzi,” Viviana croaked the name of the second assassin, unbelieving, even as he joined Bandini.

  Face snarled, mouth hanging open, spewing incomprehensible grunts and curses from between gnarled lips, Francesco struck again and again at the body of Giuliano de’ Medici with a hatred not of this world, possessed by a madness Viviana had never been witness to, had never—could never—imagine existed in a human heart. The air filled with the
coppery, acidic scent of blood; bile heaved into Viviana’s mouth.

  Giuliano held his arms up in front of his face, but she could see the defense was useless; the weak appendages offered little protection, slashed away with each blow. Giuliano staggered forward and to the right, toward the door leading to the Via de’ Servi, dark waves of silky hair falling in his face, sticky with blood.

  Viviana lunged in the same direction, her feet following the tottering Giuliano, her body colliding painfully as she bounced off the rushing, retreating horde moving in the opposite direction.

  “Stop, oh please, dear God, make it stop,” Viviana pleaded to the deity surrounding her, but her words were gobbled up by the uproar in the cavernous space. Would the great cupola of the Duomo finally come crashing down as so many had feared since its creation?

  Giuliano fell and Francesco de’ Pazzi slashed at him, shredding the body. So frenzied was he that de’ Pazzi plunged the blade into his own thigh, but yanked it out and kept on, oblivious to any pain.

  Closer to Giuliano now, Viviana heard the bleeding man whisper, “Where is Lorenzo?”

  She followed his gaze. Her whole body began to shake.

  • • •

  Lorenzo did not hear his brother from where he stood on the southern side near the old sacristy, where madness found another niche.

  Another cry, this one from his brother-in-law, Guglielmo de’ Pazzi, filled Lorenzo’s ears. “I know not of this!” he screamed. “I am innocent. I vow, Lorenzo, I vow. Forgive me!”

  The young man scrambled about, unsure which direction to run, only trying hard to do so.

  Lorenzo reached out, wrenching him back by the shoulder, “Of what folly do you speak?” but received no answer as more lunacy erupted.

  The almost childlike cardinal, Raffaele Riario, shrieked. Lunging forward, he dropped to his knees on the altar, hands up in prayer, mumbling incoherently, rocking back and forth.

  “What madness is this?” Lorenzo asked the world.

  But he should have been watching the priests. He had seen them, just seconds earlier, two priests in simple soutanes, inching toward him.

  From behind, a steely fist gripped Lorenzo’s shoulder, spun him round. A dagger flashed, aimed for his heart.

  With the swiftness of the soldier he had once been, with one graceful move, Lorenzo raised his mantle up, winding it about his left arm—a padded shield. With his right, he drew his short sword.

  Lorenzo plied no more than a parry or two until he was surrounded, a human shield formed about his person by those who called him friend and master, Francesco Nori—employee, dear friend—leading the charge of defenders, moving them toward the altar. Leonardo da Vinci, unarmed, wrapped his arms about his friend, his sponsor, forming a human shield.

  Within this circle, Lorenzo could think of but one.

  “Giuliano!” He bellowed the name, of the spirit and bane of his youth, of the one he swore to protect with his life. “Giuliano! Giuliano!”

  Lorenzo screamed as he searched about, jumping up to see over the heads of the chaotic crowd bolting from the church in primal panic. But he saw nothing…nothing but the bobbing body of Francesco de’ Pazzi as he swung his blade up and down on the far side of the church.

  • • •

  They heard it too; Viviana saw it in their split second hesitance, at the turn of their heads. Francesco de’ Pazzi and Bernardo Bandini twitched at the strain of Lorenzo—still alive—calling for his brother. With one glance at the plundered body at their feet, they made their decision.

  “Il Magnifico! Beware!” Viviana screamed as the murderers headed his way, stepping closer to Giuliano in their wake.

  It was a full-scale war beneath the statues standing guard in the cathedral, but they could not come to life and bring peace to such insanity.

  With guttural shouts, Pazzi and Bandini engaged Nori and the others, reaching out in rage for Lorenzo; arms thrashed, swords flashed, cries of hate and pain erupted.

  Nori’s black gaze turned for one instant from his attacker to the door just beyond the railing, to the north of the altar. Viviana saw it then too, the door to the new sacristy.

  The crazed Pazzi lunged. Nori jumped between Lorenzo and de’ Pazzi, taking the strike to the upper arm.

  Wounded now, Nori raised his sword once more, beating the wounded Pazzi back with his swinging blade. At the same time, he pushed Lorenzo, forcing him to jump the low wooden rail into the octagonal altar.

  The throng of assassins followed; the railing crashed beneath their weight. So determined, the Medici defenders held them back. From the left side, the other priest came at Lorenzo, a sword and small buckler in hands that once held the chalice and wafer, but was denied by a liveried servant in red and gold Medici colors.

  “Lorenzo…”

  Viviana barely understood the gurgled cough. Looking down she saw Giuliano lived still, barely. She knelt by his side and took his hand, but he gave her no acknowledgment. She followed his gaze, moaning much as he did; no impediments obstructed the view from the cold stone floor. Beside the brutalized man, she watched as Lorenzo’s assailants made one last push.

  A young Cavalcanti man, another Lorenzo by name, took a blade to the arm, crying out as his now useless limb dropped his sword.

  Il Magnifico, Nori shielding him, reached the sacristy door, but he would not enter.

  “Giuliano!” He cried once more, even as Nori, da Vinci, and the others pushed him.

  Bandini lunged forward as the wounded Cavalcanti staggered back, and with a guttural grunt and a hate-filled thrust, plunged his sword into the stomach of Francesco Nori.

  “Dio mio, no!” Viviana cried out, free hand reaching out helplessly as if to reach him through the churning crowd.

  Nori looked down in silent disbelief as the bloodied sword retracted from his abdomen. Pure hatred curled his lip, powered his arm to lash out at Bandini, hurtling the man back as the tip of his sword slashed Bandini’s cheek.

  The other Medici protectors encircled Nori now, dragging him into the sacristy as they pushed Lorenzo in. In that instant, brother found brother.

  “Giuliano!”

  At the sound of his name, the sound of his brother’s voice, the hand in Viviana’s twitched and she saw the moment his eyes locked with Lorenzo’s. She saw it all, all that ever lived between them—every moment, every word, all their love, the same love and indelible bond of brothers her own sons shared—spoken for the last time.

  Giuliano’s bloodless lips spread as if in a smile, watching his brother disappear from his sight, alive and safe, beyond the heavy bronze doors, and into the sacristy.

  Viviana felt it then, Giuliano’s last breath; the presence of life slipped from his body as his hand slipped from hers.

  Still kneeling beside the now lifeless body, Viviana saw it—saw the battle end as any unharmed perpetrators carried out their wounded conspirators, rats jumping off a sinking ship.

  In the wake, madness lived still, for it had taken residence in her soul.

  She curled over, hands on the floor, face in her hands, and sobbed.

  Chapter Four

  “Disease is contagious, as is Madness.”

  “Viviana. Viviana! You must come away, now!”

  Whether prodded by the urgency in his voice or the tugging of his insistent hand on her arm, Viviana came into awareness, away from the sight of Giuliano de’ Medici’s journey to death.

  Looking upward, gaze ablur with tears, her mouth open yet silent, she found the stricken face of Patrizio inches away. He bobbled and staggered as he tugged on her arm

  Fiammetta wailed, desperate and despairing. She slapped at her husband’s grip, longing to be free of it, longing to flee. But Patrizio would not let go of either of them.

  Viviana pushed to her feet, uncurling slowly as if the pain of her heart infested her body. For an instant, she put her hands to her ears to dull the cacophony—Fiammetta’s yowling, the screams of so many still fleeing the cathedral, the shou
ts of men trying to gain control. Above all, Lorenzo’s pleas escaping out the cracks of the closed sacristy door, crying his brother’s name, begging for an answer in each anguished call. She could not bear another moment of it.

  Squatting beside the body of Giuliano, blood running from him in a widening pool of glistening red, Viviana reached out a quivering hand and closed the dead man’s eyes, feeling the warmth belying the end of his life. She draped a piece of tattered linen ripped from the edge of her chemise over his torso and head and rose up with a wavering breath, having done the best—the only—thing she could.

  “Now, Viviana.” Patrizio pulled again.

  “Yes, now.” She nodded and turned away, never to turn back again.

  • • •

  Blinded at first, the sun too bright after the bleached and dim interior, colors and light assaulted her. Viviana blinked, but to no avail; what she saw was the truth—the contained chaos inside the cathedral had spread to the piazza, spread and expanded, a beastly thing.

  People streamed out of the Duomo, but they were not the same who had entered less than an hour ago; now they were pale ghosts of their former selves. Loosened animals ran amok at their feet, their squeaks and squawks adding to the din, tripping people in a pandemic rush.

  Viviana searched the crowd for her sons—soldiers garrisoned for months—for Isabetta, for Mattea, for Lapaccia.

  “Viviana!”

  Patrizio had released his hold on her but would not release her from his security. He called her out of paralysis as his still wailing wife yanked him down the few narrow marble steps. Viviana staggered toward them.

  Amongst the churning humanity, the three turned south, toward their home quarter.