Painting Mona Lisa. Jeanne Kalogridis

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ before he caught sight of the priest, Baroncelli could hear him delivering his homily. The realization quickened Baroncelli’s pulse; they had arrived barely in time, for the Eucharist was soon to follow.

      After the interminable walk down the aisle, Baroncelli and his companions arrived at the front row of men. They murmured apologies as they sidled back to their original places. An instant of confusion came as Baroncelli tried to move past Giuliano, so that he could stand on his right, the position dictated by the plan. Giuliano, not understanding Baroncelli’s intent, pressed closer to Francesco – who then whispered something in the young man’s ear. Giuliano nodded, stepped backwards, and made an opening for Baroncelli; in so doing, he grazed the shoulder of the penitent, who stood waiting behind him.

      Both Francesco de’ Pazzi and Baroncelli watched, breathless, to see whether Giuliano would turn and make apology – and perhaps recognize the man. But Giuliano remained lost in his own misery.

      Baroncelli craned his neck to look farther down the row, to see if Lorenzo had noticed; fortunately, the elder Medici brother was busy bending an ear to a whispered comment from the manager of the family bank, Francesco Nori.

      Miraculously, all the elements were now in place. Baroncelli had nothing to do save wait – and pretend to listen to the sermon while keeping his hand from wandering to the hilt at his hip.

      The priest’s words seemed nonsensical; Baroncelli frowned, straining to understand them. Forgiveness, the prelate intoned. Charity. Love thine enemies; pray for those who persecute you.

      Baroncelli’s mind seized upon these phrases. Lorenzo de’ Medici had picked this Sunday’s priest himself. Did Lorenzo know of the plot? Were these seemingly innocuous words a warning not to proceed?

      Barconelli glanced over at Francesco de’ Pazzi. If Francesco had detected a secret message, he gave no sign of it; he stared straight ahead at the altar, his gaze unfocused, but his eyes bright with fear and hatred. A muscle in his narrow jaw twitched madly.

      The sermon ended.

      The elements of the Mass proceeded with almost comical swiftness: the Creed was sung. The priest chanted the Dominus vobiscum and Oremus. The Host was consecrated with the prayer Suscipe sancte Pater.

      Baroncelli drew in a breath and thought he would never be able to release it. The ceremony abruptly slowed; in his ears, he could feel the desperate thrum of his heart.

      The priest’s assistant approached the altar to fill the golden chalice with wine; a second assistant added a small amount of water from a crystal decanter

      At last, the priest took the chalice. Carefully, he lifted it heavenwards, proffering it to the large wooden carving of a dolorous, crucified Christ suspended above the altar.

      Baroncelli’s gaze followed the cup. A shaft of sunlight caught the gold and reflected blindingly off the metal.

      Again, the priest chanted, in a wavering tenor that sounded vaguely accusatory.

       Offerimus tibi Domine …

      Baroncelli turned to look at the younger Medici next to him. Giuliano’s expression was grave, his eyes closed. His right hand was clenched in a fist; his left hand clasped it, and both were pressed tightly to his lips. His head was bowed so he might have been praying. He looked like a man preparing to greet Death.

      This is foolish, Baroncelli thought. He had no personal enmity toward this man; indeed, he liked Giuliano, who had never asked to be born a Medici. His quarrel with him was purely political, and certainly not great enough to warrant what he was about to do.

      Francesco de’ Pazzi jabbed Baroncelli fiercely in the ribs, relating the unspoken message perfectly: The signal has been given! The signal has been given!

      Baroncelli released a reluctant, inaudible sigh and drew his great knife from its hilt. Hefting it overhead, he remembered all the dozens of phrases he had rehearsed for this instant; none of them came to his lips, and what he finally shouted sounded ridiculous to his own ears.

      ‘Here, traitor!’

      The church bells had just begun clanging when Giuliano looked up. At the sight of the knife, his eyes widened with mild surprise.

      Baroncelli did not hesitate. He brought the blade down.

       VI

      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 СКАЧАТЬ