Painting Mona Lisa. Jeanne Kalogridis

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СКАЧАТЬ 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 СКАЧАТЬ