Da Vinci's Tiger (3 page)

T
HE JOUST CONTINUED, ROUND AFTER ROUND,
UNTIL THE
Piazza di Santa Croce began to darken with shadows as the sun slid low toward rest for the night. That was when Renato de' Pazzi rode into the lists on an enormous black horse.

Simonetta took in a sharp breath. “I have been dreading this. Giuliano practiced daily for a month to ready himself for today's tournament and sought out the very best horse to ride. He asked his godfather, the Duke of Urbino, to lend him this very mount that now enters under the Pazzi rider. This horse has won countless jousts throughout Tuscany. Any man who rides it into the tilting yard has a tremendous advantage over his opponent.”

“Why does Giuliano not ride it, then?”

Simonetta's fair face grew shadowed like the piazza. “His godfather wrote back saying the Pazzi family had requested the horse first. That was all. No apology. His own
godfather
!” Simonetta grew indignant. “It was a terrible insult to my Giuliano that his godfather lent this horse to someone else for his joust, but especially so since he showed the favor to a Pazzi son.”

I knew the Medici were constantly having to beat back challenges to their power—some attempts to dethrone them worse than others. When Lorenzo had been a mere teenager, several families organized an assassination ambush of his father. Lorenzo had managed to catch wind of it and directed his father to travel a different route. But I had never heard it said that the Pazzi were part of that plot. So I asked, “Why is a Pazzi wanting the horse so bad?”

“Oh, Ginevra, the Pazzi are bitterly competitive with the Medici. Even though they do banking business together, the Pazzi hate that their family is outdistanced by the Medici, a family without noble lineage. They constantly try to undermine Lorenzo's influence in Florence and to build up alliances against him. Borrowing this particular horse from Giuliano's very own godfather feels like the Pazzi are trying to recruit the duke to some underhanded business. At best, it's simply a way to embarrass Giuliano that his godfather would favor someone else. But to me it feels more like retribution for Florence's last major joust. The whole thing smells
of . . . of . . . well, it smells like horse dung!” She pursed her lips and crossed her arms on her chest.

“Retribution?” I asked.

“I forget how young you are, Ginevra. You would have been a child when this happened. When Lorenzo hosted a joust six years ago to celebrate his engagement to be married, he rode in it himself, as Giuliano does today. Francesco de' Pazzi hit him with such force during their tilt that Lorenzo was unhorsed. The Magnifico landed on the ground so hard that at first they almost stopped the tournament. But he managed to get up and continue riding. At the end of the tournament, Lorenzo still won the trophy. Everyone said he had competed beautifully and deserved it. But his win infuriated the Pazzi since one of them had unhorsed Lorenzo, which technically could have eliminated the Magnifico from competing further that day. Francesco has been grumbling ever since.”

Florence was rife with such intrigues and rivalries. I looked at Giuliano, who was smiling as his pages handed him his helmet. “He doesn't seem upset about the horse,” I said.

“No.” Simonetta shook her head. “He is possessed of a gentle, cheerful disposition. He does not recognize guile or notice slights, or if he does, he shakes them off quickly. That is part of his great charm. I just hope it will not prove his downfall.”

Her worries were interrupted by the call of the Pazzi herald. “Great Florence! The noble Renato de' Pazzi—whose
family fought in the last crusade to Jerusalem and brought God's grace to our cathedral by giving it a flint chipped off Christ's tomb . . .” He paused to ensure that his listeners remembered the Pazzi were the knights to bring back a sacred relic from the clutches of the infidels. The Medici had no such history or pedigree.

The herald continued in a chant-like voice. “Renato de' Pazzi, the glorious, wishes to challenge the Medici's youngest son, Giuliano . . .” He paused again, glancing back at the Pazzi combatant, seeking affirmation of something. The Pazzi rider nodded and gestured dismissively to his servant to continue. “The great Renato de' Pazzi wishes to challenge
à la guerre
!”

“À la guerre?” Simonetta gasped.

In war.
For this bout between the Pazzi and the Medici, there would be no pretense of polite competition. There would be no conceding the match. Points would not matter. Unhorsing a rider would be the aim and the only honorable way to win. And that could, indeed, kill one of them.

The obnoxious Pazzi man behind me stood, applauding loudly.

This time I put my hand over Simonetta's to quiet her. I knew enough about horses from my brother to recognize that the Pazzi's destrier
was a type of horse bred to be taller, heavier, and stronger than Giuliano's charger. But I tried to comfort her. “Peace, Simonetta,” I whispered. “Giuliano has speed and agility and valor. Those will win out against brawn and a villainous heart, I know it.”

“Ah,” she sighed. “So Lorenzo is right. You are a poet.” She glanced sideways at me and then back to the jousting field. “Sadly, Ginevra, I have learned that poetry does not always match reality. But you give me hope. And hope is what elevates mankind above God's other creatures here on earth, is it not?” Simonetta sat up a little taller. But she still bit at her lower lip in nervousness.

A page crouched at the tilting fence line, the starting flag he held now darkened to a bloodred in the late-afternoon shadows.

Orso pranced and tossed his mane, his head armor glinting even in the growing gloom.

The Pazzi horse pawed and snorted like the giant hellhound Cerberus.

I held my breath with Simonetta as the page snapped the flag up and ran for the safety of the sideline.

Both horses leaped to a gallop.
Da-da-dum, da-da-dum, da-da-dum
. No gentle, musical canter beginning to this rush toward collision. The Pazzi horse thundered up the track, kicking great clods of dirt. Orso raced, so speedy it was almost as if his pretty hooves did not touch the ground.

CRRRAAACCKKK!!

With an enormous rip, both riders' lances tore apart from the blow, up to the cone-shaped vamplate that protected the hand holding the lance. Orso staggered as he trotted away. Giuliano held his hand to his chest, as if he fought to breathe.

The Pazzi rider hurled what remained of his lance to the sand, then turned to see what Giuliano's condition was. His
black horse bucked and stomped its way back to the start line.

A solitary tear slipped out of Simonetta's eye and slid slowly down her otherwise composed face. She stayed frozen, creating a convincing picture of having complete confidence in her champion. She knew Florence's gossips were watching. I discreetly entwined my fingers with hers and squeezed her hand.

Again the flag snapped its signal to start.

Simonetta clutched my hand so hard I thought she might crush a bone.

CRRRAAACCKKK!!

Again the two riders smashed each other, sending splinters flying. Both were knocked sideways in their saddles, making it a mammoth struggle to pull themselves upright. Retreating to the recess area, they yanked off their helmets to splash their faces with water from bowls their pages held up toward them.

Giuliano's shield was badly dented, and one of his liveried servants frantically pounded at it from the inside to straighten it. Giuliano patted the young groom's head to stop him and gently took back his shield and helmet.

The Pazzi rider snatched his headgear from his servant.

As Giuliano turned to reenter the lists, one of his men-at-arms dashed to his side. The Prince of Youth reined in Orso and leaned down to listen to his friend.

“What do you think they say?” I whispered.

Simonetta merely shook her head, unable to speak. I could feel her trembling.

Once more the flag flew up.

Once more the horses stormed toward each other.

Once more the heavy lances drew nearer and nearer and nearer to the riders' armored but mortal bodies.

Had I blinked, I would have missed what happened next. Within a few feet of collision, Giuliano kicked his horse once with his inside heel and pressed hard with his leg against Orso's ribs. Only a highly trained and trusting horse would understand what that meant, and then actually do it while running at such a breakneck speed. Orso took a sashay step outward, away from the fence. Then, within a stride, Giuliano pressed and kicked with his other, outside leg, to push Orso back into the center barrier. It was like an elegant dance move.

And it made the Pazzi miss.

Giuliano's lance struck him full-force at an angle.

The Pazzi man went flying.

Simonetta sprung to her feet, and I followed. She laughed and wept at the same time as the crowd erupted in riotous cheers.

The applause went on and on. No one seemed to care that it took quite a while for the Pazzi rider to stagger to his feet or for several men to catch his destrier,
which raced round the piazza in confusion and fury.

Finally, Lorenzo de' Medici stepped out of the banner-bedecked dais and raised his hands to silence the crowd. Unlike his beautiful younger brother, Lorenzo was homely, with a jutting jaw and a long, crooked, flattened nose. But
his richly embroidered clothes dazzled, and his words were honey. “Dear friends, good citizens of Florence! Giuliano de' Medici, my beloved brother and”—he paused and pointed at the crowd, sweeping his arm along the piazza's length—“your Prince of Youth . . .” On cue, the crowd interrupted him with cheers. “Your Prince of Youth has won the day over a field of virtuous and gallant men. We thank them all for braving the lists and displaying such mighty athleticism and chivalry.” The crowd cheered again. “All these riders—every single one—are champions. Champions worthy of Olympus!”

I smiled. Oh, Lorenzo was good. He had the crowd enthralled.

“Please, my friends, please. Toast them all tonight. Recount the story of today again and again. Remember the heroism displayed in their battles! Their undeniable demonstration of valor and skill! Today is legend!”

He held up a parchment containing the final scores. “And now to share the complete results, but first . . .” Lorenzo gestured for a page to step forward holding the tournament's grand prize—a spectacular helmet, its crest adorned with Mars, the god of war. Lorenzo waited for the appreciative applause to die down before breaking the seal and unfurling the official tallies.

“Giuliano di Piero de' Medici won this joust by twenty-one points! He broke a total of fifty-nine lances! Fifty-nine!” Lorenzo shouted. “Behold our winner and your hero!”

The crowd roared.

Lorenzo embraced his brother. Awash in triumph and smiles, Giuliano walked the length of the stands, holding aloft the exquisitely decorated helmet so everyone could admire it. The piazza reverberated with cheers that echoed along the walls of the church and the surrounding houses. As I clapped, I cast my eye around the scene, memorizing the jubilant faces, the sumptuous clothing, the heart-lifting laughter, and the colorful, rich brocade banners festooning the usually modest, sandy-colored buildings of the piazza. It was as if a rainbow of happiness had fallen from the sky and laid itself out along the square. Tomorrow the piazza would be stripped and back to the grittier business of bartering and selling, cloth weaving and dyeing, while penitent pilgrims climbed the stairs of the grim, brown-bricked church of Santa Croce to prostrate themselves before dark, candlelit altars.

Tomorrow my life would be ordinary again as well.

I let out a resigned sigh as I watched officials and dignitaries cluster into typical end-of-celebration good-byes. Ragged Florentine boys dashed onto the field, searching the sand for the pearls lost from Giuliano's costume, knocked off by the joust's collisions. One child jumped up and down clutching a jewel in his hand, knowing his life had just changed for the better.

I turned to say my good-byes to Simonetta and to look for my escort home. “Oh my! Forgive me, Your Grace.” I had almost walked straight into Lorenzo the Magnificent himself.

Though technically not a nobleman, Lorenzo honored me with a bow fit for a king's court. I curtsied. As I rose, about to congratulate him on the wonders of the joust, I realized that the man Simonetta had pointed out to me stood behind Lorenzo. “Ginevra de' Benci Niccolini, may I introduce you to the honorable ambassador from Venice, Bernardo Bembo?”

“My lady.” The diplomat bowed low, sweeping his hand down and then out across his outstretched foot. Holding the pose, he glanced up at me with startling bright-blue eyes and a decidedly mischievous grin. He was even more handsome up close, despite the gray peppering his hair.

I felt myself blush and stammer like a new postulant at the convent. “G-good even, my lord.”

“Ambassador Bembo is much praised for his oratory and knowledge of Petrarch and Dante,” Lorenzo continued. “He longs to meet Florentines who share his love of poetry. I plan a dinner in his honor at our palazzo and am inviting guests who share his devotion to literature and the ancients. I, of course, thought of you. Before he died, your dear father and I often discussed the meaning of Plato's dialogues. I know you have inherited his interests. Abbess Scolastica has told me of your lovely verses. Perhaps you would share one of your poems with us that evening?”

I trembled at the honor of such a request. Lorenzo was lauded throughout Tuscany for his fostering of literature. He often invited artists, writers, and scholars to his country villas at Fiesole and Careggi to listen to music and poetry read
aloud. They discussed the nature of man's supreme good, his
summum bonum
, as explored within classical texts. He also sponsored a Platonic Academy within the city, led by the great philosopher Marsilio Ficino, who had been a friend to my father.