Читать книгу Painting Mona Lisa - Jeanne Kalogridis - Страница 9

In the stark, massive Cathedral of Santa Maria del Fiore, Bernardo Bandini Baroncelli stood before the altar and fought to steady his shaking hands. He could not, of course – no more than he could hide the blackness in his heart from God. He pressed palms and fingers together in a gesture of prayer, and held them to his lips. Voice unsteady, he whispered, pleading for the success of the dark venture in which he found himself entangled, pleading for forgiveness should it succeed.

I am a good man. Baroncelli directed the thought to the Almighty. I have always meant others well. How did I come to find myself here?

No answer came. Baroncelli fixed his gaze on the altar, fashioned of dark wood and gold. Through the stained glass windows in the cupola, the morning light streamed down in golden rays, glittering with dust as they glinted off the golden fixtures. The sight evoked unsullied Eden. Surely God was here; but Baroncelli sensed no divine presence, only his own wickedness.

‘God forgive me, a most miserable sinner,’ he murmured. His quiet prayer mingled with the hundreds of hushed voices inside the cavernous Church of Saint Mary of the Flower – in this case a lily. The sanctuary was one of the largest in the world, and was built in the shape of a Latin cross. Atop the juncture of the arms rested the architect Brunelleschi’s greatest achievement: il Duomo. Dazzling in its sheer expanse, the huge dome had no visible means of support. Visible from any part of the city, the orange brick cupola majestically dominated the skyline, and had, like the lily, become a symbol of Florence. It stretched so high that, when he first set eyes upon it, Baroncelli thought it must surely touch the Gates of Heaven.

Baroncelli dwelt in a far lower realm this particular morning. Though the plan had seemed simple enough to be foolproof, now the painfully bright day had dawned, Baroncelli was overwhelmed with foreboding and regret. The latter emotion had always marked his life: born into one of the city’s wealthiest and most eminent families, he had squandered his fortune and fallen into debt at an advanced age. He had spent his life as a banker, and knew nothing else. His only choices were to move wife and children down to Naples and beg for sponsorship from one of his rich cousins – an option his outspoken spouse, Giovanna, would never have tolerated – or to offer his services to one of the two largest and most prestigious banking families in Florence: the Medici, or the Pazzi.

He had gone first to the most powerful: the Medici. They had rejected him, a fact he still resented. But their rivals, the Pazzi, welcomed him into their fold; and it was for that reason, that today he stood in the front row of the throng of faithful beside his employer, Francesco de’ Pazzi. With his uncle, the knight Messer Iacopo, Francesco ran his family’s international business concerns. He was a small man, with a sharp nose and chin, and eyes that narrowed beneath dark, disproportionately large brows; beside the tall, dignified Baroncelli, he resembled an ugly dwarf. Baroncelli had eventually come to resent Francesco more than the Medici, for the man was given to fits of temper and had often loosed a nasty tongue on his employee, reminding Baroncelli of his bankruptcy with stinging words.

In order to provide for his family, Baroncelli was forced to grin while the Pazzi – Messer Iacopo as well as young Francesco – insulted him, and treated him as an inferior when in fact he came from a family with equal, if not more, prestige. So when the matter of the plot presented itself, Baroncelli was presented with a choice: risk his neck by confessing everything to the Medici, or let the Pazzi force him to be their accomplice, and win for himself a position in the new government.

Now, as he stood asking God for forgiveness, he felt the warm breath of a fellow conspirator upon his right shoulder. The man praying just behind him wore the burlap robes of a penitent.

Standing to Baroncelli’s left, Francesco fidgeted and glanced right, past his employee. Baroncelli followed his gaze: it rested on Lorenzo de’ Medici, who at twenty-nine years old was the de facto ruler of Florence. Technically, Florence was governed by the Signoria, a council of eight priors and the head of state, the gonfaloniere of justice; these men were chosen from among all the notable Florentine families. Supposedly the process was fair, but curiously, the majority of those chosen were always loyal to Lorenzo, and even the gonfaloniere was his to control.

Francesco de’ Pazzi was ugly, but Lorenzo was uglier still. Taller than most, and muscular in build, his fine body was marred by one of Florence’s homeliest faces. His nose – long and pointed, ending in a pronounced upward slope that tilted to one side – had a flattened bridge, leaving Lorenzo with a peculiarly nasal voice. His lower jaw jutted out so severely that whenever he entered a room, his chin preceded him by a thumb’s breadth. His disturbing profile was framed by a jaw-length hank of dark brown hair.

Lorenzo stood awaiting the start of the Mass, flanked on one side by his loyal friend and employee, Francesco Nori, and on the other by the Archbishop of Pisa, Francesco Salviati. Despite his physiognomic failings, he emanated profound dignity and poise. In his dark, slightly protruding eyes shone an uncommon shrewdness. Even surrounded by enemies, Lorenzo seemed at ease. Salviati was a Pazzi relative, and no friend, though he and Lorenzo greeted each other as such; the elder Medici brother had lobbied furiously against Salviati’s appointment as Archbishop of Pisa, asking instead that Pope Sixtus appoint a Medici sympathizer. The Pope had turned a deaf ear to Lorenzo’s request, and then – breaking with a tradition that had existed for generations – he fired the Medici as the Papal bankers to replace them with the Pazzi – a bitter insult to Lorenzo.

Yet today, Lorenzo had received the Pope’s own nephew, the seventeen-year-old Cardinal Riario of San Giorgio, as an honoured guest. After Mass in the great Duomo, Lorenzo would lead the young Cardinal to a feast at the Medici palace, followed by a tour of the famed Medici collection of art. In the meantime, he stood attentively beside the Riario and Salviati, nodding at their occasional whispered comments.

Smiling while they sharpen their swords, Baroncelli thought.

Dressed unostentatiously in a plain tunic of blue-grey silk, Lorenzo was quite unaware of the presence of a pair of black-frocked priests standing two rows behind him. The tutor to the Pazzi household was a youth Baroncelli knew only as Stefano; a somewhat older man, Antonio da Volterra, stood beside him. Baroncelli had caught da Volterra’s gaze as they entered the church and had glanced quickly away; the priest’s eyes were full of the same smouldering rage Baroncelli had seen in the penitent’s. Da Volterra, present at all the secret meetings, had also spoken vehemently against the Medici’s ‘love of all things pagan’, saying that the family had ‘ruined our city’ with its decadent art.

Like his fellow conspirators, Baroncelli knew that neither feast nor tour would ever take place. Events soon to occur would change the political face of Florence forever.

Behind him, the hooded penitent shifted his weight, then let go a sigh which held sounds only Baroncelli could interpret. His words were muffled by the cowl that had been drawn forward to obscure his features. Baroncelli had advised against permitting the man to assist in the assassination – why should he be trusted? The fewer involved, the better … but Francesco, as always, had overridden him.

Where is Giuliano? the penitent whispered.

Giuliano de’ Medici, the younger brother, was as fair of face as Lorenzo was ugly. The darling of Florence, he was called – so handsome, it was said, that men and women alike sighed in his wake. It would not do to have only one brother present in the great cathedral. Both were required, or the entire operation would have to be called off.

Baroncelli looked over his shoulder to glance at the shadowed face of his hooded accomplice and said nothing. He did not like the penitent; the man had injected an undertone of self-righteous religious fervour into the proceedings, one so infectious that even the worldly Francesco had begun to believe that they were doing God’s work today.

Baroncelli knew that God had nothing to do with this; this was an act born of jealousy and ambition.

On his other side, Francesco de’ Pazzi hissed. ‘What is it? What did he say?’

Baroncelli leaned down to whisper in his diminutive employer’s ear. ‘Where is Giuliano?’

He watched the weasel-faced Francesco struggle to suppress his stricken expression. Baroncelli shared his distress. Mass would commence soon now that Lorenzo and his guest, the Cardinal, were in place; unless Giuliano arrived shortly, the entire plot would evaporate into disaster. It was unthinkable, there was too much danger, too much was at stake; too many souls were involved in the plot, leaving too many tongues free to wag. Even now, Messer Iacopo waited alongside a small army of fifty Perugian mercenaries for the signal from the church bell. When it tolled, he would seize control of the government palace and rally the people against Lorenzo.

The penitent pushed forwards until he stood alongside Baroncelli; he then raised his face to stare upwards at the dizzyingly high cupola overhead, rising directly above the great altar. The man’s burlap hood slipped back slightly, revealing his profile. For an instant, his lips parted, and brow and mouth contorted in a look of such hatred, such revulsion, that Baroncelli recoiled from him.

Slowly, the bitterness in the penitent’s eyes eased and the muscles in his face relaxed to the point that his expression resolved into one of beatific ecstasy, as if he could see God Himself and not the great ceiling’s smoothly curved marble. Francesco noticed, and he watched the penitent as though he were an oracle about to give utterance.

And give utterance he did. ‘He is still abed.’ And, coming back to his senses, the man carefully drew the hood forwards to conceal his face once more.

Francesco clutched Baroncelli’s elbow and hissed. ‘We must go to the Medici Palace at once!’ Baroncelli was not given to superstition, but could not disobey his employer.

Smiling, Francesco steered Baroncelli to the left, away from the distracted Lorenzo de’ Medici, and past a handful of Florentine notables that comprised the first row of worshippers. They did not use the nearby northern door that led out to the Via de’ Servi as their exit would more likely have drawn Lorenzo’s attention.

Instead, the pair moved down the outermost aisle that ran the intimidating length of the sanctuary – past brown stone columns the width of four men, which were connected by high, white arches framing long windows of stained glass. Francesco’s expression was at first benign, as he passed acquaintance after acquaintance in the first few rows, nodding greetings as he went. Baroncelli, dazed, did his best to murmur salutations to those he knew, but Francesco pushed him along so swiftly, he scarce could catch his breath.

Hundreds of faces, hundreds of bodies. Empty, the cathedral would have seemed infinitely vast; filled to capacity on the fifth Sunday after Easter, it seemed cramped, crowded and airless. Each face that turned to meet Baroncelli seemed filled with suspicion.

The first group of worshippers they passed consisted of Florence’s wealthy: glittering women and men weighed down by ostentatious displays of gold and jewels, by fur-trimmed heavy brocades and velvets. The smell of the men’s rosemary and lavender water mingled with the more volatile, feminine scent of attar of roses, all wafting above the base notes of smoke and frankincense from the altar.

Francesco’s velvet slippers whispered rapidly against the inlaid marble; his expression grew sterner once he moved past the aristocracy. The aroma of lavender increased as the two men walked past the rows of the richest merchants – the men and women dressed in silks and fine wool, embellished with a glint of gold here and silver there, even the spark of an occasional diamond. Unsmiling, Francesco nodded once or twice, to lower-ranking business associates as Baroncelli struggled to breathe; the onrush of faces – witnesses, all of them – triggered a profound panic within him.

But Francesco did not slow. As they passed the middle class tradesmen – the smiths and bakers, the artists and their apprentices – the smell of fragrant herbs gave way to perspiration and the fine fabrics to the coarser weaves of wool and silk.

The poor stood in the final rows at the back: wool carders, unable to muffle their coughing, fabric dyers, with darkly stained hands. The garments here consisted of tattered wool and rumpled linen, perfumed with sweat and filth. Both Francesco and Baroncelli involuntarily covered their mouths and noses.

At last, they made their way out of the huge open doors. Baroncelli took a great sobbing gasp of air.

‘No time for cowardice!’ Francesco snapped, and dragged him down into the street, past the clawing arms of beggars planted cross-legged on the church steps, past the slender, towering campanile to their left.

They made their way through the great open piazza, past the octagonal Baptistery of St. John, dwarfed by the Duomo. The temptation to run was great, but too dangerous, although they still made their way at a pace which left Baroncelli breathless despite the fact that his legs were twice the length of his employer’s. After the dimness of the Duomo, sunlight seemed harsh. It was a gloriously beautiful, cloudless spring day, yet to Baroncelli, it seemed ominous all the same.

They veered north onto the Via Larga, sometimes referred to as ‘the street of the Medici’. It was impossible to set foot upon its worn flagstones and not feel Lorenzo’s iron grip upon the city. The wide street was lined with the palazzi of his supporters: of Michelozzo, the family architect, of Angelo Poliziano, poet and protégé. Further down, out of sight, stood the church and convent of San Marco. Lorenzo’s father, Cosimo, had rebuilt the crumbling cathedral and founded the convent’s famous library; in return, the Dominican monks revered him, and provided him with his own cell for those times he was given to contemplation – which was not often.

Cosimo had even purchased the gardens near the monastery and Lorenzo had transformed them into a sculpture garden: a luxurious training-ground for young architects and artists.

Baroncelli and his co-conspirator approached the intersection with the Via de’ Gori, where the cupola of Florence’s oldest cathedral, San Lorenzo, dominated the western skyline. It had fallen into ruin, and Cosimo, with the help of Michelozzo and Brunelleschi, had restored its former grandeur. His bones rested there now, in the marble tomb set before the high altar.

At last, the two men reached their destination: the rectangular grey bulk of the Medici’s palazzo, sombre and stern as a fortress – the architect, Michelozzo was given strict instruction that the building was not to be ornate, lest it roused suspicion that the Medici considered themselves above plain citizens. Yet the modest design still emanated sufficient magnificence to be suitable for entertaining kings and princes; Charles VII of France had dined in the great hall.

It struck Baroncelli that the building resembled its current owner: the ground floor was made of rough-hewn, rustic stone; the second floor, of even brick and the third was crafted of perfectly smooth stone, and capped by an overhanging cornice. The face Lorenzo presented to the world was just as polished; yet his foundation, his heart, was rough and cold enough to do anything to maintain control over the city.

It had taken barely four minutes to reach Palazzo de Medici, which dominated the corner of the Vias Larga and Gori. Those four minutes passed as though they were hours; those four minutes passed so swiftly Baroncelli could not even recall walking down the street.

At the southern corner of the building, closest to the Duomo, stood the loggia. It was covered from the elements, but broad archways offered its shelter to the street. Here, citizens of Florence were free to meet and converse, oft-times with Lorenzo or Giuliano; a good deal of business was conducted beneath its stone ceiling.

On this Sunday morning, most folk were at Mass; only two men lingered in the loggia, talking softly. One of them – wearing a wool tabard that marked him as a merchant and possibly one of the Medici’s own bankers – turned to scowl at Baroncelli, who ducked his head, nervous at the prospect of being seen and remembered.

A few steps more, and the two conspirators stopped at the thick brass doors of the palazzo’s main entrance on the Via Larga. Francesco pounded adamantly on the metal; his efforts were finally rewarded by the appearance of a servant, who led them into the magnificent courtyard.

Thus began the agony of waiting while Giuliano was summoned. Had Baroncelli not been in the grip of fear at that particular moment, he might have been able to enjoy his surroundings. At each corner of the courtyard stood a great stone column, connected by graceful arches. On top of those was a frieze, adorned with medallions depicting pagan scenes in-between the Medici crest. They had been sculpted by one of Donatello’s students.

The famous seven palle – or balls – of the Medici crest were arranged in what looked suspiciously like a crown. To hear Lorenzo tell it, the palle represented the dents in the shield of one of Charlemagne’s knights, the brave Averardo, who had fought a fearsome giant and won. So impressed was Charlemagne that he allowed Averardo to design his coat of arms from the battered shield. The Medici claimed descent from the brave knight, and the family had borne the crest for centuries.

The cry ‘Palle! Palle! Palle!’ was used to rally the people on the Medici’s behalf. Of Cosimo the Elder, it had been said that he had branded even the monks’ privates with his balls.

Baroncelli let his gaze follow the path from one medallion to the next. One scene showed Athena, defending the city of Athens; another remembered the winged Icarus soaring for the heavens.

At last he dropped his gaze to the courtyard’s centrepiece: Donatello’s bronze David. The sculpture had always struck Baroncelli as effeminate; long curls spilled out from beneath David’s straw shepherd’s hat; his naked, curving form bore no masculine muscularity, and his genitalia were markedly small. (The fact had led to much speculation about the size of the Medici’s privates.) Indeed, one elbow was crooked with the hand resting on the hip in a girlish posture.

However, on this day, Baroncelli drew a totally different impression from the statue. He could see the coldness in David’s eyes as the boy stared down at the head of the slain Goliath; he saw how he gripped the great sword in his right hand.

Which role shall I play today? Baroncelli wondered. David, or Goliath?

Light and shadow conspired to distort both beautiful and mundane images, and impregnate them with hidden meaning. Above him, Athena struggled with Poseidon over Athenian souls, and Icarus, winged and filled with optimism, would soon plunge to his death.

Beside him, Francesco de’ Pazzi was pacing the floor with hands clasped behind his back, and small eyes glaring downwards at polished marble. Giuliano had best come soon, Baroncelli reflected, or Francesco would begin muttering to himself.

But Giuliano did not appear. The servant, a comely, well-trained youth, as well-oiled as every part of the Medici machinery, returned with a look of practised sympathy. ‘ Signori, forgive me. I am so sorry to tell you that my master is currently indisposed and cannot receive company.’

Francesco leapt forwards, and barely managed to replace his fright with jovialness in time. ‘Ah! Please explain to Ser Giuliano that the matter is most urgent.’ He lowered his tone as if confiding a secret. ‘Today’s luncheon is in the young Cardinal Riario’s honour, and he is sorely disappointed that Ser Giuliano will not be attending. The Cardinal is at the Duomo now with Ser Lorenzo, asking after your master. Mass has been delayed on this account, and I fear that, should Ser Giuliano fail to come with us now, the Cardinal will take offence. We would not want him to report this to his uncle, the Pope, when he returns to Rome …’

The servant nodded graciously while wearing a small frown of concern. Baroncelli sensed he was not quite convinced that he should further disturb his master. Francesco clearly sensed the same, for he pressed harder. ‘We have come at the behest of Ser Lorenzo, who bids his brother come, and swiftly, as we are all waiting …’

The youth gave a quick lift of his chin, signalling his understanding of the urgency. ‘Of course, I will relay all that you have said to my master.’

As the lad turned, Baroncelli gazed on his employer, and marvelled at his talent for duplicity.

In less time than either he or Francesco expected, footsteps sounded on the marble stairs leading down to the courtyard. Soon Giuliano de’ Medici stood before them, in a tunic of pale green velvet embroidered at the neck and sleeves with gold thread. Though his brother’s features were imperfect, Giuliano’s were without flaw. His nose, though prominent, was straight and nicely rounded at the tip; his jaw was strong and square; and his eyes were large and golden brown, framed with lashes that were the envy of every Florentine woman. Delicate, well-formed lips rested atop even teeth, and his hair was full and curling, parted down the middle and brushed back to better show his handsome visage.

Giuliano was always smiling and laughing. At twenty-four, life was good to him; he was young, lively and fair of face. Yet his good nature and sensitive character were such that he never made another feel inadequate. Indeed, his jocular demeanour and generous nature made him generally loved by Florence’s citizens. While he might not have shared his brother’s painful brilliance at politics, he was astute enough to use his other attributes to gain public support. Were Lorenzo to die, Giuliano would have no difficulty in taking up the reins of power.

Over the past few weeks, Baroncelli had tried hard to despise him, and failed.

The faint morning light that had begun to paint the bottoms of the columns revealed that today Giuliano’s glory was sorely dimmed. His hair had not been combed, his clothes had obviously been hastily donned – and his eyes were noticeably bloodshot, as though he had not slept. For the first time in Baroncelli’s memory, Giuliano did not smile. His manner was sombre, and he moved slowly, like a man weighed down by heavy armour. Icarus, Baroncelli thought. He has soared too high and has now been scorched.

When Giuliano spoke, his normally melodic voice was hoarse, almost as rasping as his brother’s. ‘Good day, gentlemen. I understand Cardinal Riario has taken offence at my absence from Mass?’

Baroncelli felt a strange sensation in his chest, as if his heart was flipping over. Giuliano looked like a beast resigned to the slaughter. He knows. He cannot possibly know. And yet … he knows …

‘We are so sorry to disturb you,’ Francesco de’ Pazzi said, his hands clasped in an apologetic gesture. ‘We have come at the behest of Ser Lorenzo …’ Despite the business rivalry between the Medici and the Pazzi, they were related by the marriage of Giuliano’s elder sister to Francesco’s brother Guglielmo. This called for a public show of cordiality, even affection – a fact Francesco was relying on now.

Giuliano released a short sigh. ‘I understand. God knows, we must take care to please Lorenzo.’ A glimmer of his old self returned, and he added with apparently genuine concern, ‘I only hope it is not too late to reassure the Cardinal that I hold him in the highest regard.’

‘Yes,’ Baroncelli said slowly. ‘Let us hope it is not too late. Mass has already started.’

‘Let us go, then,’ Giuliano said. He gestured for them to move back towards the entryway, and as he lifted his arm, Baroncelli noticed that Giuliano had dressed so hurriedly that he wore no sword at his hip.

Out they went, the three of them, into the bright morning.

The scowling man who had been waiting out in the loggia glanced up as Giuliano passed. ‘Ser Giuliano,’ he called. ‘A word with you; it is most important.’

Giuliano looked over and clearly recognized him. A disgruntled banker, Baroncelli thought. Perhaps Lorenzo had recently let the man go. Or could it be someone with knowledge of the plot? Someone who was deliberately trying to stall them?

‘The Cardinal,’ Francesco urged frantically, then addressed the man himself. ‘Good man, Ser Giuliano is late for an urgent appointment and begs your understanding.’ And with that he took Giuliano by the arm and dragged him away down the Via Larga.

Baroncelli followed. The fright had made his mind finally take leave of his body. He marvelled that, although he was terrified, his hands no longer shook and his heart and breath no longer failed him. Indeed, he and Francesco joked and laughed and played the role of good friends trying to cheer another. Giuliano smiled faintly at their efforts but lagged behind, so the two conspirators made a game of alternately pulling and pushing him along. ‘We must not keep the Cardinal waiting,’ Baroncelli repeated at least thrice.

‘Pray tell, good Giuliano,’ Francesco said, catching his young brother-in-law by his sleeve. ‘What has happened to make you sigh so? Surely your heart has not been stolen by some worthless wench?’

Giuliano lowered his gaze and shook his head – not in reply, but to indicate that he did not wish to broach such matters. Francesco dropped the subject at once. Yet he never eased their rapid pace, and within minutes, they arrived at the front entry of the Duomo.

Baroncelli paused. He was already half-mad, already doomed to Hell, so saw no point in suppressing any further urge towards deceit … and the sight of Giuliano moving so slowly, as though he were heavy laden, pricked at him. Feigning impulsiveness, he seized the young Medici and hugged him tightly. ‘Dear friend,’ he said. ‘It troubles me to see you so unhappy. What must we do to cheer you?’

Giuliano gave another forced little smile and a slight shake of his head. ‘Nothing, good Bernardo. Nothing.’

And he followed Francesco’s lead into the cathedral.

Baroncelli, meanwhile, had laid one more concern to rest: Giuliano wore no breastplate beneath his tunic.