The Poet Prince (48 page)

And to punctuate Lorenzo’s pledge, the baby—who would be named Giulio—cried out for his mother, in need of his dinner.

Madonna Lucrezia de’ Medici was firmly in charge at Fiesole by the time Lorenzo returned. She was clucking over Giuliano, ever her baby. But Lorenzo saw the strain in his mother’s face. For all her strength, she was the most tender-hearted woman in the world where her family was concerned. She worried for her sons now more than ever.

“Yours are still babies, Lorenzo,” she said to her elder son. “You know the natural fears that a parent has when children are small. But do not think it gets better, my son. It is only harder as your children grow. The world gets harsher for them and there is more to fear. All I have ever really wanted was for all of you to be safe and happy. And yet, those two qualities are very difficult to provide, even for the most devoted parents.”

Lorenzo was pleased that his mother was thinking and speaking of the health and well-being of children. He wanted to approach a difficult subject with her, and she had given him an opening.

“Mother, I know you have given me everything in your power, and what you could not give me was out of your hands . . .” He did not need to finish the thought. His mother was well aware of the anguish Lorenzo had endured as a result of his separation from Colombina. He had developed a compatible relationship with Clarice overall, and she was a very competent wife and an excellent mother. But Lucrezia de’ Medici knew that she and her husband had sentenced their elder son to a loveless life when they arranged that marriage.

“What I am saying to you is that you have a chance to give that happiness to Giuliano. Let him marry Fioretta. Let us bring her into the family and raise little Giulio as a Medici, which he is.”

Lucrezia flinched. When she had been told about the shepherd girl and her newborn bastard grandchild, she wasn’t entirely surprised. It wasn’t uncommon that well-born boys would tumble the occasional peasant girl. The countryside was filled with nameless children as a result. And even Cosimo had produced a bastard son with a Circassian slave girl. That child, Carlo, had indeed been raised as a Medici and had even been accepted by Cosimo’s wife, Contessina. Lucrezia often referred to her mother-in-law as Saint Contessina as a result.

“Lorenzo, I am happy to raise the child in our family. He has Giuliano’s blood. But there is no need for him to marry the girl for that to happen. We will adopt him and educate him and see to it that he has all he needs.”

“You’re missing the point, Mother,” Lorenzo snapped, more harshly than he meant. His deep-seated anger from his own past was creeping into the conversation now. “He loves her. She isn’t just a girl he tumbled when he came upon her in the fields one day while hunting. And she isn’t a trollop. They are in love. And just once, wouldn’t it be glorious if someone in this family was actually allowed to marry for love? To completely participate in and fulfill the ideals and beliefs which we all hold so dear?

“I have done everything you want. I married whom you wanted and have secured heirs for both the family and the Order. Giuliano does not need to do any of those things.”

“But he is destined for the Church, Lorenzo!”

“Is he? Really? He is twenty-five years old, Mother, and he has not taken vows because he does not want to. And he will not be able to take a position in the Church as long as that criminal Sixtus is on the throne of Saint Peter. So perhaps it is time we were all honest here. Let Giuliano live his life in a way that makes him happy. Shouldn’t one of us at least get to do that?”

Madonna Lucrezia was speechless. Lorenzo rarely raised his voice to the mother he adored to the point of worship, so when he did, it had an impact. But he had spoken his piece and now needed to get out of the oppressive atmosphere of the villa. He left his mother to think about what he had said and went to take a walk under the stars of Fie-
sole.

Lorenzo remembered as he did so that he was supposed to host a dinner here the next night for the pope’s young nephew and some of the Pazzi family. He would have to send a messenger into Florence to cancel it. Giuliano would not be well enough for visitors for at least a few more days.

Gian Battista da Montesecco had a sore head, a heavy heart, and a bad temper.

He had spent the previous evening drinking in a tavern in the Ognissanti district. Hoping to drown all his reservations about what he had come to Florence to do, he had ducked into one of the seedier-looking dives to divert his attention in the way that soldiers did best—with too much wine and inexpensive women.

It was as if God were laughing at him. It seemed that everyone within the tavern, from the old man nursing his drink in the corner to the saucy bar wench who lifted her skirt for him in an upstairs room, had a story to tell about Lorenzo de’ Medici. Each was a grander tale of magnanimity than the one that preceded it: Lorenzo never called in my father’s loan, Lorenzo rebuilt our church when the ceiling collapsed, il Magnifico funded the confraternities which allowed the poor boys of our district access to a fine education, the Medici were the reason that Florence was the most beautiful city in Europe. It went on and on—for hours. The men worshipped him and the women swooned over him. It was nauseating. And depressing.

What cards had he been dealt, what terrible destiny was in play, that he had been chosen to kill someone like this? Why was it that his hand was the one selected to plunge a dagger into the heart of the man whom these people called their prince? A man who by all accounts—including Montesecco’s own observation—was in truth a rare, noble, and generous servant of the people?

And by whom had he been chosen? Who was it who wanted to murder this prince? A fat, nasty, arrogant, acquisitive son of a fisherman who manipulated his way to the throne of Saint Peter, and his fatter, nastier bastard of a son. A bitter, rabid weasel of a man who thought that possessing the title of archbishop somehow made him immune to the laws of God and men, and a twerpy, unscrupulous banker who had more ambition than sense. These characters were supposed to stand for something noble, perhaps even holy, in their leadership. Leadership
was something that a soldier looked for—the ability to inspire people and be uncompromising and fearless. He saw this quality in Lorenzo de’ Medici, certainly. But not in Pope Sixtus IV or any of his entourage. None of those men would ever inspire by leadership. They would only manipulate through fear.

As the night wore on and Montesecco fell deeper into his cups, he had entered into a conversation that was somewhat hazy to him now, in the harsh light of day and with a head that felt as if his horse had stepped on it. The old man in the corner had called him over. A strange old man, ancient in appearance, he had been sitting alone all night as if waiting for something. Montesecco stumbled to his table and sat as instructed, asking the old one, “Are you a soldier?”

The old man smiled slightly and nodded; the left side of his face puckered up when he smiled, as there was a huge scar that covered his cheek.

“That looks like a battle scar, old man.”

“Indeed it is, my friend. For I have done terrible battle with myself and my conscience, just as you are doing now.”

Montesecco was drunk, but he was still conscious enough to be taken aback

“How do you know what I am thinking, ancient one?”

“Because I
am
ancient. And because I know the look of a soldier in turmoil. You are wondering if you have chosen wisely, aren’t you? If
you are on the right side of your battle? Remember, warrior, that while you are a soldier and you follow orders, God gave you a mind and a heart and a conscience so that you could make such choices of life and death for yourself. In the end, the only real battle is between you and your soul. Choose wisely, friend. Choose wisely.”

“I am a mercenary. There is only one side, and that is the side where the money is.”

“Really? And what will that money bring you if you gain it all and lose your soul? Or even if you die in the attempt?”

“All war has risk. Dying in the attempt is a part of what I do.”

“Yes, but the odds are against you this time, friend. This is not a
battle you can win. You are on the wrong side. Your opponent is stronger than you can ever know.”

Montesecco, too deep into the wine to be discreet, was wrestling with his own demons. He banged his hand on the table for emphasis. “But I am employed by the pope himself! I fight on the side of the Church! Who could possibly be stronger than that?”

The old man shook his head at the war-torn soldier and sighed, the ragged and ancient sound of a man who had seen too much of this particular battle.

“God is your opponent. You cannot win this battle, soldier, because your opponent is a man who is under the protection of God.”

Montesecco had heard enough, and what he was hearing from this disconcerting old man was causing him to squirm. He laughed in the old man’s face as he rose to leave the table. “God, is it? And I suppose next you are going to tell me that Lorenzo de’ Medici is one of the archangels!”

And as the condottiere turned his back on the aged stranger with the scarred face, he thought he heard the old man say after him, “You have no idea just how right you are.”

And now here was Montesecco in the early afternoon, back in the house and company of Jacopo de Pazzi and his annoying nephew, looking at the ratty face of Archbishop Salviati as he raged.

“The Medici escape us again. Damn Giuliano and his ineptitude on horseback! I wanted them both dead tonight!”

Montesecco thought about the old man in the tavern. Maybe God had pushed Giuliano de’ Medici off his horse yesterday so that he would escape his assassination. He shook the thought from his head, groaning inwardly at how much that effort still hurt.

“We need another plan,” said Francesco de Pazzi. “I still think we use young Raffaelo Riario as bait. Lorenzo has a weakness for students—he likes to talk their ears off about all his Plato nonsense—and this one is
the pope’s nephew. We send Lorenzo another letter from Raffaelo, saying that he wants to see their art collection at the Palazzo Medici. Raffaelo is set to attend his first Mass here next Sunday, so we can suggest a banquet in his honor, to coincide with the High Mass next week.”

Montesecco realized at that moment that he wanted nothing more than to hit Francesco de Pazzi in the face. He said more calmly than he felt, “Next Sunday is Easter. You would murder the Medici brothers on the feast day of the resurrection of Our Lord?”

Archbishop Salviati snapped back, “We are doing God’s work, freeing Florence of a tyrant for the protection of the Holy Church. Choosing a holy day for our task will only bring us Godspeed in accomplishing our goals.”

Jacopo de Pazzi looked at Montesecco across the room, with a hard and knowing glance. The two men locked eyes long enough to know that each had deep reservations about this plan. It was not what they signed up for. And each day, it appeared to be getting worse.