Painting Mona Lisa. Jeanne Kalogridis

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СКАЧАТЬ style="font-size:15px;">      Lorenzo continued; the hand that had reached for his brother now became a jabbing, accusatory finger. ‘Do you have any idea of what will happen to Anna? What people will call her? She’s a decent woman, a good woman. Do you really want to ruin her? You’ll take her to Rome and grow tired of her. You’ll want to come home to Florence. And what will she have left?’

      Angry words scalded Giuliano’s tongue. He wanted to say that though Lorenzo had married a harridan, he, Giuliano, would rather die than live in such loveless misery, that he would never stoop to fathering children upon a woman he despised. But he remained silent; he was unhappy enough. There was no point in making Lorenzo suffer the truth, too.

      Lorenzo emitted a growl of disgust. ‘You’ll never do it. You’ll come to your senses.’

      Giuliano looked at him a long moment. ‘I love you, Lorenzo,’ he said quietly. ‘But I am going.’ He turned and moved to the door.

      ‘Leave with her,’ his brother threatened, ‘and you can forget that I am your brother. Don’t imagine I am joking, Giuliano. I’ll have nothing more to do with you. Leave with her, and you’ll never see me again.’

      Giuliano looked back over his shoulder at Lorenzo, and was suddenly afraid. He and his older brother did not joke with each other when they discussed important matters – and neither could be swayed once he had made up his mind. ‘Please don’t make me choose.’

      Lorenzo’s jaw was set, his gaze cold. ‘You’ll have to.’

      The following evening, Giuliano had waited in Lorenzo’s ground floor apartment until it was time to meet Anna. He had spent the entire day thinking about Lorenzo’s comment about how she would be ruined if she went to Rome. For the first time, he considered what Anna’s life would be like if the Pope refused to grant an annulment.

      She would know disgrace, and censure; she would be forced to give up her family, her friends, her native city. Her children would be called bastards, and be denied their inheritance as Medici heirs.

      He had been selfish. He had been thinking only of himself when he made the offer to Anna. He had spoken too easily of the annulment, in hopes that it would sway her to go with him. And he had not, until that moment, considered that she might reject his offer; the possibility had seemed too painful to contemplate.

      Now he realized that it would save him from making an agonizing choice.

      But when he went to meet her at the door and saw her face in the dying light, he saw that his choice had been made long ago, at the moment when he gave his heart to Anna. Her eyes, her skin, her face and limbs exuded joy; even in the shadowy dusk, she shone. Her movements, which had once been slow, weighed down by unhappy consequence, were now agile and light. The exuberant tilt of her head as she looked up at him, the faint smile that bloomed on her lips, the swift grace with which she lifted her skirts and rushed to him relayed her answer more clearly than words.

      Her presence breathed such hope into him that he moved quickly to her and held her, and let it infuse him. In that instant, Giuliano realized that he could refuse her nothing, that neither of them could escape the turning of the wheel now set in motion. And the tears that threatened him did not spring from joy; they were tears of grief, for Lorenzo.

      He and Anna remained together less than an hour; they spoke little, only enough for Giuliano to convey a time, and a place. No other exchange was needed.

      And when she was gone again – taking the light and Giuliano’s confidence with her – he went back to his own chamber, and called for wine. He drank it sitting on his bed, and thinking of Lorenzo.

      He finally understood the depth of his elder brother’s love and caring for him. When he had first become fascinated with Anna, he had gone to Lorenzo and asked, ‘Have you ever been in love?’ He had always felt pity for his brother, on account of his unhappy marriage.

      Lorenzo had been busy at his desk, but at the sound of his brother’s voice, he had looked up and forced his stern expression to lighten. ‘Of course.’

      ‘No, Lorenzo, I mean desperately, hopelessly in love. So much in love that you would rather die than lose your beloved.’

      Lorenzo sighed with mild impatience. ‘Of course. But the story ends sadly, so what would be the point in its telling?’

      ‘You never want to speak to me of sad things.’ Giuliano said. ‘Just like Father, always trying to protect me, as if I weren’t able to fend for myself.’

      Hidden hurt glimmered in Lorenzo’s eyes as his gaze flickered down and to the side … and into the past. Giuliano realized he was thinking of their father, Piero, and of the day he died. In his last moments, Piero had asked to speak to his eldest son alone; Giuliano had always assumed it had been merely to relate political secrets. But at that instant, seeing the haunted look in Lorenzo’s eyes, Giuliano realized their conversation had dealt with something more important.

      ‘I’m sorry, Lorenzo. I didn’t mean to complain …’

      Lorenzo gave a small, unhappy smile. ‘You’re entitled. But … you’ve already seen enough grief in your short life already, don’t you think?’

      Recalling the conversation, Giuliano swallowed wine without tasting it. Now it seemed like a mockery that God had given him the wonderful gift of Anna’s love, only to have it cause everyone such pain.

      He sat for hours, watching the darkness of night deepen, then slowly fade to grey with the coming of dawn and the day he was to leave for Rome. He sat until the arrival of his insistent visitors, Francesco de’ Pazzi and Bernardo Baroncelli. He could not imagine why the visiting Cardinal should care so passionately about Giuliano’s presence at Mass; but if Lorenzo had asked him to come, then that was good enough reason to do so.

      He hoped, with sudden optimism, that Lorenzo might have changed his mind; that his anger had faded, and left him more receptive to discussion.

      Thus Giuliano rallied himself and, like a good brother, came as he was bidden.

       V

      Baroncelli hesitated at the door of the cathedral, as his objectivity briefly returned to him. Here was a chance to flee fate; a chance, before an alarm could be sounded, to run home to his estate, to mount his horse and head for any kingdom where neither the conspirators nor their victims had influence. The Pazzi were powerful and persistent, capable of mounting efforts to hunt him down – but they were neither as well-connected nor as dogged as the Medici.

      Still in the lead, Francesco turned and goaded Baroncelli on with a murderous glance. Giuliano, still distracted by his private sorrow, was heedless and, flanked by the uncertain Baroncelli, followed Francesco inside. Baroncelli felt he had just crossed the threshold from reason into madness.

      Inside, the air was filmed with smoke, redolent with frankincense and heavy with sweat. The sanctuary’s massive interior was dim, save for the area surrounding the altar, which was dazzling from the late morning light streaming in from the long arched windows of the cupola.

      Again taking the least-noticeable path along the north side, Francesco headed towards the altar, followed closely by Giuliano, then Baroncelli. Baroncelli could have closed his eyes and found his way by smell, measuring the stench of the poor and working class, the lavender scent of the merchants and the rose СКАЧАТЬ