Zo

by Leanne Owens

  ‘And you think that will make me stop?’ she smiled at him, her eyes mirroring his longing. ‘That only makes me increase my efforts.’

  She moved so that she could place both hands on his back.

  Zo twisted so that he could take her hands in his. Placing his lips to her finger tips, he murmured, ‘You don’t think I’d prefer to stay here with you? But it is Easter. We have the Easter service at the Duomo. Will you come to that?’

  Elli removed her hands from his, and sat up, the covers falling to reveal her bare torso. Leaner and more muscular than the ideal of the soft-fleshed woman of the time, Lorenzo thought she was perfection. Her active life as a young man kept her fit and strong. He imagined that Diana, goddess of the hunt, the moon, and the creatures of the wild, shared her athletic build.

  He gave her body a last admiring – and regretful – look before standing and moving away from the bed to find his clothes.

  ‘I’ve been distracted,’ he gave her a lopsided grin, momentarily dropping his eyes to her breasts. ‘Did you answer? About attending this morning’s service?’

  ‘No, I shall paint here, instead,’ she indicated the easels at the far end of the room. ‘Two studios are doing war scenes and have asked me to do the horses for them.’

  ‘Your talent never ceases to astound me,’ he smiled at her, ‘and if I could get out of it, I would, so I could sit and watch you paint. Last night, Giuliano was beginning to make excuses to avoid today’s activities. To be fair, the pain in his hip and leg is causing him great trouble, and he does have an eye infection. Perhaps he should spend the day in bed.’

  ‘As should we,’ she winked at him saucily, before growing serious. ‘And, yes, Giuliano could barely walk or see yesterday. It would do him good to relax for the day.’

  She was fond of Giuliano. He was handsome, funny, and kind, and she was particularly fond of his mistress, Fioretta, who had become one of her few female friends. Fioretta was expecting Giuliano’s first child, soon, and Elli often spent time with her, sewing clothes for the baby. It would be a good day for Giuliano to spend quiet time with Fioretta. Walking was difficult when the pain struck, so it made sense to avoid the service at the Duomo that morning, especially with an infected eye. Ten thousand or more worshipers would turn out, and they did not need to see their Giuliano lame and almost blind.

  After Zo left her, he sought out his younger brother and told him to spend Easter Sunday at rest. He would attend Mass without him that morning, even though it was one of the few places where they did go together. The strain was clear on Giuliano’s face, and he accepted the news with relief.

  After hearing Zo and his men leave for Mass, Elli dressed and began painting. She did not miss celebrating Easter in any way, and had long ago informed Zo that she had lost her belief in God when the Church focussed on giving more money and power to the men who claimed to speak for God than to those who deserved His help. No, she did not need to hide in the back rows of people to hear a corrupt priest who loathed the Medicis ramble on about the Son of God arising on this day.

  She was adding the highlights to the coat of a general’s horse when she heard loud voices in the hallways of the palace. The noise seemed out of place on this sacred morning, so she carefully placed her brushes down and went to the door to listen.

  Apparently, when Lorenzo turned up at Mass without his brother, Giuliano’s good friends, Bernardo Bandini dei Baroncelli and Francesco de’ Pazzi, insisted that they fetch him. Their rowdy voices berated Giuliano for sleeping in, and demanded that he come with them to the cathedral to see the crowds.

  ‘You can rest tomorrow, lazy bones!’ Bernardo slapped Giuliano on the back as he helped him dress. ‘You must not miss Easter Mass. The city of Florence is waiting to see you. Everyone wants to see you there!’

  Francesco seemed equally jovial and raucous, talking over Giuliano’s objections. After they left, taking Giuliano with them, Elli sat in a chair and stared at the floor. There was something wrong. Why did his friends behave so noisily on the morning of Easter Sunday? Why were they so adamant that Giuliano attend mass? Men their age were usually happy to find ways to avoid church in order to hunt, drink, and chase women. For months, Lorenzo had become fixated on not appearing in public with his brother because he believed Sixtus wanted them assassinated, and it would take place when they were together. But Easter Sunday? At the cathedral? No, that had to be safe. The Pope would not sanction murder in the cathedral.

  But why were Bernardo and Francesco insistent that Giuliano attend mass that morning?

  The sensation of the door to elsewhere briefly opening touched her, and she tried to catch the phrase that someone whispered through the door. The words eluded her, but, like the last dozen times she had felt that breeze pass over her, she had a vague impression of looming death. Her mind strained to piece together the various foggy pictures that teased the edges of her thoughts in those moments over the past months: stabbing, Giuliano, Lorenzo, the Pazzi family, the Duomo. Avoid the Duomo. Easter. Stabbing.

  There was no one to talk to. The palace was silent. She almost convinced herself that her thoughts were nonsense, but she remembered how Leo had taken them so seriously. Instead, she carefully cleaned and packed up her brushes and paints, feeling that something approached. With the sense of impending danger prickling her skin, she changed into the clothes she wore during fighting practice. Her desire to learn the skills of war had amused Lorenzo at first, but he soon learned to respect her growing expertise with a sword and her agility in any fight. They were comfortable clothes, suitable for riding, running, and fighting. Some inkling remained from ‘that other place’ that she must arm herself for battle.

  She waited in Lorenzo’s private rooms, looking like a young warrior ready to go to war. She waited, and a black snake of dread slowly coiled around her heart. Outside, there came yelling and screaming. Going to the outside door, she opened it and realised that there were ten thousand voices raised in horror and shock. The Duomo was only a few hundred metres south of the palace, and ten thousand people gathered there. She could hear their voices.

  Patting her clothes to check that her knives were in place and that her sword hung at her side, she stepped outside, ready to run to the cathedral. The sound of women screaming in the palace behind her caused her to stop. She wanted to run to the Duomo, but she did not know if Zo was there or if he had returned to the palace, so she stood, listening to the cries of Florence outside and the screams of women within the palace. The uproar everywhere shattered the Easter morning.

  When she was about to break etiquette and go into the palace to find out what was happening, Zo’s mother, Lucrezia, met her at the inner door, her face wild with grief and loss. Never before had she come to these rooms. In fact, Elli wasn’t sure she knew about the blonde boy who was a favourite of Lorenzo. Of course, she knew, Elli realised as the older woman stepped into the room, Lucrezia knew everything.

  Her dark eyes met Elli’s anxious gaze, and she reached for the younger women. Elli found herself falling into the embrace of Lucrezia de’ Medici, the shaking arms of the older woman clutching her tightly. Elly had never seen Lucrezia as anything but in full control of her emotions and dominating everyone around her, so this woman, holding her as though drawing on her youthful strength, scared her. What had happened to Zo?

  She prayed to the God in whom she had no belief that he was safe.

  ‘My boys,’ Lucrecia said, stepping back from Elli, her voice breaking. ‘My boys – they have been murdered. In the cathedral.’

  Her usually regal expression dissolved into anguish, like a mountain that turned to water and lost its shape and strength. She held her hands over her eyes and groaned in agony at the loss of her sons.

  Elli stood frozen. Her world destroyed by those words. Refusing to sink into the mire of grief, she raised her chin and put a hand to her sword. She would kill everyone involved, no matter how long it took. Without Zo, her life had nothing to anchor her to civilised
behaviour, and she would fight and destroy until she joined him.

  Taking control of her pain, Lucrezia took some gasping breaths and dug deep to find her famed strength that held the Medici family together. She wanted action now. Sorrow could come later. She looked Elli up and down, taking note of her outfit and sword, and she had felt several knives under the clothes when she hugged her – this young woman was ready to fight.

  She knew Elli was the daughter of her childhood friend – the daughter believed to be dead. She also knew that Elli had jumped off the Ponte Vecchio rather than go with the repulsive d’Este man, so she had kept the identity of her son’s page a secret. This was a better life for a young woman than being the possession of a brutal man.

  Now, seeing the young woman with her chin raised, ready to fight, Lucrezia recognised a kindred spirit. The older woman took her hand and held it to her lips, kissing her fingers, much as Zo had kissed them that morning when she woke.

  ‘You must find them,’ Lucrezia whispered savagely, ‘and guard their bodies. Do not let the men of Sixtus desecrate the flesh of my sons. I will keep Clarice and the children safe. We must protect the children. Can you do this?’

  Elli’s eyes burned fiercely, the tears of grief mixed with a rage that longed to plunge the sword of revenge into the hearts of their enemies. ‘I will do this. And they will pay. I promise, they will pay.’

  Sweeping her into another embrace, Lucrezia held her close and spoke softly, ‘He loved you more than anything in the world, child. He told me that. He wanted to keep you safe and protected from his world, but you are not a delicate angel of love requiring protection, you are the avenging angel of justice whom all will dread. Go, protect the bodies of my sons, of the man who loved you above all else, and I shall provide for you for the rest of your life. You are the daughter of my spirit. You are a Medici.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Elli murmured. There was more to say, she wanted to tell Lorenzo’s mother how much she loved him, but words could wait. It was time for action.

  Turning away, she left the apartment within the palace and broke into a sprint down the street, pushing through the crowds that ran towards and away from the Duomo. Everywhere, people cried out about the attack on Giuliano and Lorenzo. Women wailed and wept, men roared their outrage, and, all around, voices seemed to be howling the name Il Magnifico in tones of desperate grieving. This was their Giuliano, and their Lorenzo – the attack on the young Medici brothers was an attack on Florence itself and they were already demanding revenge.

  The chaos at the Duomo was confusing with thousands shouting and screaming. People ran in all directions, some with terror for their own lives, some with the bloodlust of loyal citizens who were hunting those who had harmed the Medici brothers.

  ‘Where are they?’ she grabbed the arm of a merchant she recognised, a man who made Zo’s favourite long coats.

  His face was white with shock, his eyes wide, and he stared unseeing at her for the first seconds as she shook him.

  ‘Lorenzo and Giuliano,’ she demanded. ‘Where are they?’

  He waved a hand towards the front of the cathedral, towards the alter where a cluster of men swirled and yelled.

  ‘Young Giuliano,’ he coughed, then burst into tears, slapping his hands against the sides of his face as he tried to cope with his sorrow. ‘So much blood. Lorenzo. Giuliano. They stabbed them.’ Once more, he waved his hand towards the alter, and stumbled away.

  Shoving her way through the tight concentration of men near the front of the cathedral, she saw a body on the floor and recognised Giuliano’s handsome face, now lifeless and pale with savage splashes of his own blood on his skin and spreading all around him. Thirty or forty men stood around him, facing outwards, ferocious expressions on their faces, many of them crying openly as they guarded the young Medici.

  ‘Where is Lorenzo?’ she grabbed the arm of, Adamo, a man who often hunted with Zo.

  Adamo’s face twisted with anguish as he looked down on the boy he knew to be a favourite of Zo’s. He patted her shoulder and then pounded on his chest, crying Giuliano’s name, and sobbing that Bernardo and Francesco had killed him.

  ‘They betrayed him,’ he sobbed. ‘They brought him here to assassinate him. They desecrate God’s holy place. The Archbishop and the Pope – they are behind this. They defile our city and our cathedral with murder.’

  Once more, he moaned Giuliano’s name and thumped his chest with a stabbing motion of his fist.

  ‘Adamo, where is Lorenzo?’ she repeated, digging her fingernails into his arm so that the pain would bring him to his senses.

  He shook his head, squeezed his eyes shut from the emotional pain, then looked at her, ‘If he lives, he is in the sacristy. I did not see, but Jacomo said two priests stood behind him and stabbed him when Bernardo and Francesco killed Giuliano. The elevation of the Host was the signal, and they struck. He was quick to fight back, but Jacomo said he was bleeding from the neck when his friends dragged him to the sacristy. I do not know if he lives, I am sorry, little one. But we will avenge them.’

  Elli nodded, refusing to give in to emotions or tears at this moment. She gave him a manly slap on the arm and looked to the sacristy where the priests prepared for the service. Men loyal to the Medicis guarded the bronze doors, signalling that Lorenzo was in that room. She dodged around those who were hunting for more of the conspirators, and she heard several demanding death for all the Pazzi family.

  At the doors to the sacristy, she met the shocked and angry gazes of the men who stood guard, all with their backs to the doors. Some had weapons drawn, most only had their bare hands, but she knew that men were capable of tearing others limb from limb without weapons. She had hunted beside many of them over the years and they were familiar with Lorenzo’s young companion.

  ‘Does he live?’ she asked Piero, a tall, angular man with intelligent eyes.

  Like Lorenzo, Piero owned racehorses that ran in the Palio di Siena, and she had ridden beside him many times as they trained horses for the race. Usually, good humour and joy shone from his expression as though every moment in life was the best moment ever. Standing outside the sacristy, though, his expression, was a mix of sorrow and fury.

  Lowering his head to speak to her over the noise of the shouting within the cathedral and beyond in the streets, he said, ‘I do not know. He was alive when we dragged him in there. He was bleeding.’

  ‘I need to see him,’ she told him, raising her chin in such a way as to make it clear that her demands would be met. ‘And if he is alive, someone must inform his mother immediately. The news reached the palace that they were both killed.’

  She stepped past Piero and stood at the doors, glancing up at the men on either side with the expectation that they would open the doors. They shrugged. Those inside the room had barred the doors.

  A silver candlestick lay on the floor near her feet. She picked it up and bashed it against the door, shouting, ‘It is I, Elli – let me in. Lorenzo! Lorenzo! Let me in!’

  She could not hear voices on the other side because of the furore that continued in the cathedral, but she did hear the scraping that indicated someone was moving the bolts that secured the door. The men around her drew closer as the bronze doors eased open slightly so that she could slip through, and once more they shut and the bolts slid home to secure them.

  In front of her lay Lorenzo, still and quiet, his eyes closed. His loyal friends kneeled beside him, holding him gently. His good friend Antonio had blood all over his clothes, which she later learned was from him trying to suck suspected poison from the wound at Lorenzo’s throat. Other men muttered curses and threats against the Pope, the Pazzis, the Salviatis, and others.

  ‘Is he…?’ she began, taking a step towards the man who was her life.

  ‘Elli,’ Zo whispered, opening his eyes. ‘I live.’

  At last, she gave in to the emotions she had been suppressing since she first heard the shouting in the streets, and a ragged sob burst from her thro
at. She stepped to him and fell to her knees at his head. The men either side of her knew she was the woman Zo loved and they gave her room so that she could place a hand on his cheek.

  ‘I thought you had been killed,’ she murmured, her eyes soft as they regarded him.

  ‘Giuliano,’ he began, then halted, overcome with what had happened to his brother.

  ‘I know,’ she said. ‘I know. And we will make them pay. The people of Florence, even now, are like hounds, baying for the blood of those who did this to you.’

  He smiled at her ferocious words, his eyes growing gentle as he realised she had dressed to fight. ‘You are my little warrior, aren’t you?’

  ‘Always.’

  He found her hand and squeezed it. ‘Clarice and the children?’

  ‘They are safe,’ she nodded. ‘Your mother will keep them safe. She sent me here. She thinks you both died. You must send someone to tell her you live.’

  ‘It will be done,’ he agreed, casting his eyes to one of his friends who inclined his head and moved to the door to take the news to the palace.

  ‘I am so glad you did not die,’ she whispered, lowering her face close to his so that she could speak into his ear without others hearing. ‘I could not live without you.’

  ‘But you must,’ he spoke softly. ‘No matter what happens to me, you must live. Death will never separate us. If I die, you must live. Always choose life.’

  ***

  When Ally took a break in her story, she looked up to see the rapt faces of her friends, listening to every word with deep concentration. With belief. It surprised her how much their acceptance of her other life meant to her. Since the duality began, she had been alone because of it. Even in childhood, when they had been like her own children to love and nurture, she had been alone, like a sole parent who could not share her intimate secrets with her children because they were too young to understand. And trying to share when they were in their twenties cemented her aloneness. But, now, they shared it and did not look at her as though she was mad. They looked at her as though she had lived it, and they understood.