Painting Mona Lisa. Jeanne Kalogridis

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СКАЧАТЬ 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 СКАЧАТЬ