Читать книгу Painting Mona Lisa - Jeanne Kalogridis - Страница 12

A moment earlier, Lorenzo de’ Medici had been engaged in courteous but muted conversation with Cardinal Raffaele Riario. Although the priest was finishing up his sermon, the wealthy power-brokers of Florence thought nothing of discussing matters of pleasure or business – sotto voce – during Mass. The social opportunity was simply too great to ignore, and the priests had long ago become inured to it.

A scrawny lad, Riario looked younger than his seventeen years, and though he was currently a student of law at the University of Pisa, his enrolment there was clearly due more to his kinship with Pope Sixtus than any native intelligence.

Nephew, Sixtus called him. It was the euphemism by which popes and cardinals sometimes referred to their bastard children. The Pope was an extremely intelligent man, but obviously had got this homely, witless boy on a woman with charms other than beauty or brains.

Even so, Lorenzo was obliged to show the young cardinal a fine time while he was visiting Florence. Riario had specifically asked to meet with the Medici brothers and to be given a tour of their property and collection of art; Lorenzo could not refuse. This was the Pope’s so-called nephew – and though Lorenzo had endured public humiliation at Sixtus’ hands – even been forced to hold his tongue while the Medici were replaced by the Pazzi as the papal bankers – perhaps this was an overture. Perhaps Sixtus was trying to make amends, and this gangly young creature in scarlet robes was his emissary.

Lorenzo was eager to return to the family palace to ascertain whether this was indeed the case; the cardinal’s visit would irritate him greatly if Sixtus was simply taking brazen advantage of Lorenzo’s generosity. It would be yet another insult.

But in case it was not, Lorenzo had called for a magnificent feast to be served after Mass in honour of the young Cardinal. And if it happened that young Raffaele had come only out of a desire to enjoy the Medici art, he could at least report to his uncle that Lorenzo had treated him lavishly and well. It could serve as a diplomatic opening, one that Lorenzo would use to full advantage, for he was determined to reclaim the papal coffers from the clutches of the Pazzi bank.

And so Lorenzo practised his most gracious behaviour, even though Francesco Salviati, Archbishop of Pisa, stood smiling disingenuously on Riario’s other flank. Lorenzo had no personal quarrel with Salviati, though he had fought long and bitterly against his appointment as archbishop. So close to Florence, Pisa deserved an archbishop of Medici blood – and Salviati was related to the Pazzi, who already were gaining too much favour with the Pope. While the Medici and Pazzi publicly embraced each other as friends, in the arena of business and politics, there were no fiercer adversaries. Lorenzo had written an impassioned letter to Sixtus, explaining why the appointment of a Pazzi would be disastrous to papal, and Medici interests.

Sixtus not only failed to respond, he ultimately dismissed the Medici as his bankers.

Most would consider the appearance of Riario and Salviati as honoured guests a stinging blow to Medici dignity. But Lorenzo, ever the diplomat, welcomed them. And he insisted that his dear friend and the senior manager of the Medici Bank, Francesco Nori, show not the slightest sign of offence. Nori, who stood beside him now in silent support, was desperately protective of Lorenzo. When the news came from Rome that the Pazzi had been appointed the papal bankers, and the Medici were ousted, Nori had raged incessantly. Lorenzo had been obliged to calm his employee, though he had held his own anger in check, and spoke little of the affair. He could not afford the energy; he was already too busy scheming how he might win Sixtus back.

He had exchanged pleasantries with the young Cardinal throughout the service, and from a distance, smiled a greeting to the Pazzi, who were in full attendance. Most of them had gathered at the other side of the cathedral, except for Guglielmo de’ Pazzi, who stuck to the Archbishop’s side like a burr. Lorenzo honestly liked Guglielmo; he had known him since he, Lorenzo, was a boy of sixteen, when Guglielmo had escorted him to Naples to meet Crown Prince Federigo. The older man had treated him like a son then, and Lorenzo had never forgotten. In time, Guglielmo married Lorenzo’s older sister, Bianca, strengthening his position as a friend to the Medici.

At the start of the sermon, the boy Cardinal gave a strange, sickly smile and whispered, ‘Your brother … where is your brother? I thought surely he would come to Mass. I had so hoped to meet him.’

The question took Lorenzo by surprise. Although Giuliano had made polite noises about coming to the Mass in order to meet Cardinal Riario, Lorenzo felt certain no one, least of all Giuliano, had taken the promise seriously. The most famous womanizer in Florence, Giuliano was notorious for his failure to appear at formal or diplomatic functions – unless Lorenzo insisted vehemently upon it. (Certainly he had not done so here.) Giuliano had already proclaimed himself unable to attend the luncheon.

He had been thoroughly taken aback the previous day when Giuliano had announced his intention to run off to Rome with a married woman. Up to that point, Giuliano had never taken his lovers very seriously; he had never spouted such foolishness before and certainly had never spoken of marriage. It had always been understood that, when the time came, Lorenzo would choose his bride and his brother would submit.

But Giuliano had been adamant about getting the woman an annulment – an achievement which, if Cardinal Riario had not come as a Papal overture, was well beyond Lorenzo’s grasp.

Lorenzo was frightened for his younger brother. Giuliano was too trusting, too willing to see the good in others, too good natured to realize he had many enemies – enemies who hated him solely for the fact he had been born a Medici. He could not see, as Lorenzo did, that they would use this affair with Anna to tear him down.

Giuliano, the sweet soul, thought only of love. Though it had been necessary, Lorenzo had not relished being cruel to him. But he could not blame Giuliano for his weakness when it came to women.

Lorenzo himself was a passionate worshipper of the fairer sex, if a more circumspect one; he arranged trysts only occasionally, and then under cover of night. And though he had loved many women, he had kept them secret from his wife Clarice Orsini, a rigid, annoyingly pious woman.

Most wives were tolerant, even forgiving, of their husband’s desire to keep a mistress. But Clarice tolerated nothing, forgave nothing. Piero had insisted his elder son marry into the powerful, princely Orsini clan – and Lorenzo had regretted his decision ever since.

Lorenzo and his father Piero had both tried to impress upon Clarice the need for the Medici to behave as common citizens, and remain modest in their aspect and dress – but such restrictions vexed her. Though her home was exquisitely adorned, Clarice could not bear having to keep her huge diamond and ruby necklaces, her jewel-studded gowns and glittering hairnets locked away – even on those days when her husband entertained pontiffs and kings. Lorenzo had bought her more appropriate jewellery, and gowns considered breath-taking by Florentine standards – but it was never enough. Clarice wished to dress like royalty.

To placate her, Lorenzo had arranged for her to sit for the great artist Sandro Botticelli. ‘Make her look as best you can,’ he’d told Sandro. And being a good husband, he had set the painting in a great gilded frame and hung it in his appartamento.

But Clarice – despite Botticelli’s best efforts, and despite her noble blood – looked far from comely or regal. In profile, she was slumped and small-busted, with a nose so prominent it overwhelmed her thin, pursed lips. Her tiny eyes showed little sign of interest or intelligence, but a great deal of haughtiness and disgust at her fate. As a reproach to her husband, Clarice had posed entirely without jewellery, in a plain brown dress that would have been better suited to a struggling merchant’s wife. Her dull red hair was pulled unceremoniously back into a plain white silk cap.

Lorenzo treated her kindly, though the favour was not returned. He reminded himself that Clarice had presented him with three of his greatest joys in life: his sons, four year old Piero, Giovanni, a toddler, and little Giuliano, who was still an infant. Already he had spoken to the most learned scholar in Florence, his friend Angelo Poliziano – who stood near him now, at Mass – and asked him to be the boys’ official tutor when they were old enough.

At times, Lorenzo yearned for the freedom his brother Giuliano enjoyed. This morning, he particularly envied him. Would that he could linger in the arms of a beautiful woman, and let Giuliano deal with the Pope’s nephew– who was still gazing politely at Lorenzo, waiting to hear the whereabouts of his wayward brother.

It would be impolite to tell the Cardinal the truth – that Giuliano had never intended to come to Mass, or meet Riario – and so instead Lorenzo indulged in a polite lie. ‘My brother must have been detained. Surely he will be here soon; I know he is eager to meet Your Holiness.’

Riario blinked; his girlish lips thinned.

Ah, Lorenzo thought. Perhaps young Raffaele’s interest was more than superficially diplomatic. Giuliano’s handsomeness was legendary, and he had stirred the passions of at least as many men as women.

Guglielmo de’ Pazzi leaned across the Archbishop and gave the Cardinal an encouraging pat on the shoulder. ‘Have no fear, Holiness. He will come. The Medici always treat their guests well.’

Lorenzo smiled warmly at him; Guglielmo dropped his gaze without meeting Lorenzo’s and gave a quick nod of acknowledgment, but did not return the smile. The gesture seemed odd, but Lorenzo was at once distracted by Francesco Nori’s whisper.

‘Maestro … your brother has just arrived.’

‘Alone?’

Nori glanced briefly to his left, at the north side of the sacristy. ‘He has come with Francesco de’ Pazzi and Bernardo Baroncelli. I do not like the look of it.’

Lorenzo frowned; he did not care for it, either. He had already greeted Francesco and Baroncelli when he had first entered the cathedral. His diplomatic instincts took hold of him, however; he inclined his head toward Raffaele Riario and said softly, ‘You see, Holiness? My brother has indeed come.’

Beside him, Cardinal Riario leaned forwards, looked to his left and caught sight of Giuliano. He gave Lorenzo an odd, tremulous grin, then with a snap of his head, forced his gaze back to the altar, where the priest was blessing the sacred Host.

The lad’s movement was so peculiar, so nervous, that Lorenzo felt a faint stirring of anxiety. Florence was always full of whispers, most of which he ignored; but Nori had recently reported a rumour that Lorenzo was in danger, that an attack was being planned against him. But as usual, Nori could offer no specifics.

Ridiculous, Lorenzo had scoffed. There will always be whispers, but we are the Medici. The Pope himself might insult us, but even he dare not lift his hand against us.

Now, he felt a pang of doubt. Beneath the cover of his mantle, he fingered the hilt of his short sword, then gripped it tightly.

Only seconds later, a shout came from the direction Riario had glanced – a man’s voice, the words unintelligible, impassioned. Immediately after, the bells of Giotto’s campanile began to toll.

At that moment Lorenzo knew that Nori’s so-called rumours were fact.

The front two rows of men broke rank and the scene became a clumsy dance of moving bodies. In the near distance, a woman screamed. Salviati disappeared; the young Cardinal flung himself at the altar and knelt, sobbing uncontrollably. Guglielmo de’ Pazzi, clearly terrified, began wringing his hands and wailing: ‘I am no traitor! I knew nothing of this! Nothing! Before God, Lorenzo, I am completely innocent!’

Lorenzo did not see the hand that reached from behind him to settle lightly on his left shoulder – but he felt it as though it were a lightning bolt. With a grace and strength that came from years of swordsmanship, he pushed forwards out of the unseen enemy’s grasp, drew his sword, and whirled about.

During the sudden movement, a keen blade grazed him just below the right ear; involuntarily, he gasped at the sensation of his tender skin parting, of warm liquid flowing down his neck onto his shoulder. But he stayed on his feet and held up his sword, ready to block further attacks.

Lorenzo faced two priests: one trembling behind a small shield, half-heartedly clutching a sword as he glanced at the crowd scrambling for the cathedral doors. But he was obliged to turn his attention to Lorenzo’s personal attendant, Marco, a muscular man who, though no expert with a sword, made up for it with brute strength and enthusiasm.

The second priest – wild-eyed and intent on Lorenzo – raised his weapon for a second attempt.

Lorenzo parried once, twice. Haggard, pale-skinned, unshaven, this priest had the fiery eyes, the open, contorted mouth of a madman. He also had the strength of one, and Lorenzo came close to buckling beneath his blows. Steel clashed against steel, ringing off the high ceilings of the now mostly-deserted cathedral.

The two fighters locked blades, pressing hilt against hilt with a ferocity that caused Lorenzo’s hand to tremble. He stared into the eyes of his determined enemy, and drew in a breath at the emotion he saw there.

As the two stood with blades crossed, neither willing to give way, Lorenzo half shouted: ‘Why should you hate me so?’

He meant the question sincerely. He had always wished the best for Florence and her citizens. He did not understand the resentment others felt at the utterance of the name Medici.

‘For God,’ the priest said. His face was a mere hand’s breadth from his intended victim’s. Sweat ran down his pale forehead; his breath was hot upon Lorenzo’s cheek. His nose was long, narrow, aristocratic; he probably came from an old, respected family. ‘For the love of God!’ And he drew back his weapon so forcefully that Lorenzo staggered forwards, perilously close to the blade.

Before the opponent could shed more blood, Francesco Nori stepped in front of Lorenzo with his sword drawn. Other friends and supporters began to close in around the would-be assassins. Lorenzo became vaguely aware of the presence of Poliziano, of the aged and portly architect Michelozzo, of the family sculptor Verrochio, of his business associate Antonio Ridolfo, of the socialite Sigismondo della Stuffa. This crowd sealed him off from his attacker and began to press him towards the altar.

Lorenzo resisted. ‘Giuliano!’ he cried. ‘Brother, where are you?’

‘We will find and protect him. Now, go!’ Nori ordered, gesturing with his chin towards the altar, where the priests, in their alarm, had dropped the full chalice, staining the altar-cloth with wine.

Lorenzo hesitated.

‘Go!’ Nori shouted again. ‘They are headed here! Go past them, to the north sacristy!’

Lorenzo had no idea who they were, but he acted. Still clutching his sword, he hurdled over the low railing and leapt into the octagonal carved wooden structure that housed the choir. Cherubic boys shrieked as they scattered, their white robes flapping like the wings of startled birds.

Followed by his protectors, Lorenzo pushed his way through the flailing choir and staggered towards the great altar. The astringent smoke of frankincense mixed with the fragrance of spilt wine; two tall, heavy candelabra were ablaze. The priest and his two deacons now encircled the blubbering Riario protectively. Lorenzo blinked at them. The afterimage from the lit tapers left him near blinded, and in an instant of dizziness, he put his free hand to his neck; it came away bloodied.

Yet he willed himself, for Giuliano’s sake, not to faint. He could not permit himself a moment’s weakness – not until his brother was safe.

At the moment that Lorenzo ran north across the altar, Francesco de’ Pazzi and Bernardo Baroncelli were down in the sanctuary, pushing their way south, clearly unaware that they were missing their intended target.

Lorenzo stopped mid-stride to gape at them, causing collisions within his trailing entourage.

Baroncelli led the way, brandishing a long knife and shouting unintelligibly. Francesco was limping badly; his thigh was bloodied, his tunic spattered with crimson.

Lorenzo strained to see past those surrounding him, to look beyond the moving bodies below to the place where his brother had been standing, but his view was obstructed.

‘Giuliano!’ he screamed, with all the strength he possessed, praying he would be heard above the pandemonium. ‘Giuliano …! Where are you? Brother, speak to me!’

The crowd closed around him. ‘It’s all right,’ someone said, in a tone so dubious it failed to provoke the comfort it intended.

It was not all right that Giuliano should be missing. From the day of his father’s death, Lorenzo had cared for his brother with a love both fraternal and paternal.

‘Giuliano!’ Lorenzo screamed again. ‘Giuliano …!’

‘He is not there,’ a muffled voice replied. Thinking this meant that his brother had moved south to find him, Lorenzo turned back in that direction, where his friends still fought the assassins. The smaller priest with the shield had fled altogether, but the madman remained, though he was losing the battle with Marco. Giuliano was nowhere to be seen.

Discouraged, Lorenzo began to turn away, but the glint of swift-moving steel caught his eye and compelled him to look back.

The blade belonged to Bernardo Baroncelli. With a viciousness Lorenzo would never have dreamt him capable of, Baroncelli ran his long knife deep into the pit of Francesco Nori’s stomach. Nori’s eyes bulged as he stared down at the intrusion, and his lips formed a small, perfect o as he fell backwards, sliding off Baroncelli’s sword.

Lorenzo let go a sob. Poliziano and della Stuffa took his shoulders and pushed him away, across the altar and towards the infinitely tall doors of the sacristy. ‘Get Francesco!’ he begged them. ‘Someone bring Francesco. He is still alive, I know it!’

He tried again to turn, to call out for his brother, but this time his people would not let him slow their relentless march to the sacristy. Lorenzo felt a physical pain in his chest, a pressure so brutal he thought his heart would burst.

He had wounded Giuliano. He had hurt him in his most vulnerable moment, and when Giuliano had said, I love you, Lorenzo … Please don’t make me choose, Lorenzo had been cruel. Had turned him away, without help – the one thing he owed Giuliano most of all.

How could he explain to the others that he could never leave his younger brother behind? How could he explain the responsibility he felt for Giuliano, who had lost his father so young and had always looked to Lorenzo for guidance? How could he explain the promise he had made to his father on the latter’s deathbed? They were all too concerned with the safety of Lorenzo il Magnifico, whom they considered to be the greatest man in Florence, but they were wrong, all of them.

Lorenzo was pushed behind the thick, heavy doors of the sacristy. They slammed shut after someone ventured out to fetch the wounded Nori.

Inside, the airless, windowless chamber smelled of sacrificial wine and the dust that had settled on the priests’ vestments. Lorenzo grabbed each man who had pushed him to safety; he studied each face, and was each time disappointed. The greatest man in Florence was not here.

He thought of Baroncelli’s great curving knife and of the bright blood on Francesco de’ Pazzi’s and tunic. The images propelled him to move for the doors, with the intention of flinging them open and going back to rescue his brother. But della Stuffa sensed his intention, and immediately pressed his body against the exit. Old Michelozzo joined him, then Antonio Ridolfo; the weight of the three men held the doors fast shut. Lorenzo was pushed to the outer edge of the engraved brass. There was a grimness in their expressions, an unspoken, unspeakable knowledge that Lorenzo could not and would not accept.

Hysterically, he pounded on the cold brass until his fists ached – and then he continued to pound until they bled. The scholar Angelo Poliziano struggled to wrap a piece of wool, torn from his own mantle, around the bleeding cut on Lorenzo’s neck. Lorenzo tried to push the distraction away, but Poliziano persisted until the wound was bound tight.

All the while, Lorenzo did not cease his frantic efforts. ‘My brother!’ he cried shrilly, and would not be moved by those who came to comfort him, would not be stilled or quieted. ‘I must go and find him! My brother! Where is my brother …?’