Medici ~ Ascendancy

by Matteo Strukul

  ‘S-s-sir,’ croaked the man in a trembling voice, pointing to Schwartz’s sword, ‘p-please, k-kill me.’

  He pulled out from under his cape two hands reduced to stumps and covered with sores and brown clots of blood; waving them in front of Schwartz as though to make him understand that he had no way of putting an end to his tortures himself, he began to weep.

  Moved to compassion, Schwartz took his gleaming sword from its sheath and slashed his chest open from the right shoulder to the left hip.

  The man fell forward and died.

  Schwartz backed away from the body. His vision was blurred and there was bile in his throat. He fell to his knees and vomited up the water he’d drunk and the food from the night before, heaving so hard his chest ached. As soon as he had recovered, he got to his feet, ran to the barn where he had left his horse and tried to climb into the saddle, but his legs were trembling too hard: the sight of the dead man had filled him with fear. Eventually, though, he managed to pull himself up and set the animal racing at full gallop towards Florence.

  He put his hand to his forehead to wipe away the icy sweat. The man and the chills he felt had brought back memories of a time when he had been a different person, a time he wanted to forget forever, but which still occasionally surfaced to take possession of his thoughts. He had half believed that certain images had been erased from his mind, but the chills which shook his limbs took him back to when the disease had invaded his body, consuming him.

  His mind went back to the man he had killed, and the vision haunted him for the duration of the journey.

  The plague, thought Schwartz.

  The plague was among them.

  16

  Carts Stacked High with Death

  The plague had descended upon Florence like a pack of hellish hounds, mauling men, women and children, disfiguring bodies, mutilating limbs and spreading terror and depravity throughout the city. Almost all the noble families had taken refuge in their country residences in the hope of avoiding infection while the malady had spread with incredible speed, assisted by the deathly sultriness of the September heat.

  The city had sunk into delirium – the population was quickly decimated, and work on the cathedral had slowed to an almost complete halt. The streets had become open sewers and, in spite of the ceaseless efforts of the citizens, a solution to the crisis seemed far off.

  The square of San Pulinari felt as if it were smothered by a humid nocturnal blanket and despite the hell which had descended upon the earth, it was so crowded that Cosimo decided to remain at the edges. Large numbers were dying from the disease, but the townspeople still wandered the town like ghosts and the whores solicited with greater conviction than ever. Illuminated by the red glimmers of the flickering fires, gravediggers were loading the deceased on to carts, the corpses heaped up in stinking black mounds and the moist air increasing the stench of death. All about were heaps of stone and building materials for the construction of the dome, awaiting the resumption of work.

  The city guards patrolled the area, their black uniforms only adding to the gloom of the haunted warren that Florence had become. Crippled by plague and internal strife, the city was a shadow of its former self.

  Some days earlier, Cosimo had ordered his family to leave the city and take refuge in their villa in Trebbio. He and Lorenzo had stayed behind to attend to the most urgent business, but in these last few hours he had realized how foolish he had been, and was now resolved to get out of the city. First, though, he had wanted to speak to Filippo Brunelleschi in the hope of convincing him to leave too, but it had proved impossible. The lunatic intended to stay where he was – in the dome, to finish his job, even though the workers were dropping like flies.

  Cosimo had tried everything. If he died, he’d said, who would finish the damned dome? He had begged him, pleaded, even threatened him, but Filippo had just looked at him with those bloodshot eyes full of crazed determination and refused point blank to go.

  So Cosimo was still there.

  Together with the peasants and the common people, who had no other place to go except their homes or the accursed streets of that city which had come to resemble one of the circles of hell.

  He sensed that behind the unlit windows and bolted doors, entire families of the poor were sitting with their hands joined, uttering words of prayer. The guards had drawn crude white crosses on some doors to indicate they contained plague victims. Corpses lay along the street, stray dogs licking at the dark blood and plague fluids seeping from under their nightgowns.

  Cosimo looked across the square of San Pulinari and, by the light of the torch he carried, saw the great mass of the Santa Maria del Fiore cathedral looming over the space. When he reached it, he found more corpses, and more carts.

  Some villain was kicking an old man who must have been suspected of being a bearer of the disease, and Cosimo watched as the victim gasped under the blows which were surely cracking his ribs.

  The world had gone mad.

  The epidemic had brought with it anger and anarchy. With the imposition of new taxes, the war against Lucca had already broken the working people’s backs, and now the plague was robbing the city once again, this time of its workforce.

  There was no hope, that much was certain.

  In that primordial chaos, even leaving the house had become dangerous. Emboldened by the confusion into which the city had fallen, the worst kinds of brigands and mercenaries felt free to roam the streets, attacking the inhabitants and plundering what they could, aware that it was impossible for the city guards to maintain control.

  He had just passed the cathedral and was heading for the Via Larga when a couple of thugs appeared in front of him, blocking his way. It was as though they had read his thoughts.

  He had no idea who they were but from the way they were dressed he deduced they were not of the most refined stock.

  ‘Good sir,’ whispered one of them in a low, unctuous voice as he pulled a sharp dagger from his belt, ‘what fortune to encounter you on this beautiful evening.’ He wore an eyepatch and a tattered leather doublet, beneath which Cosimo glimpsed a ragged shirt that must once have been white.

  The other didn’t utter a word, but Cosimo saw a dagger shining in his hand too. He was bald and clad in a threadbare tunic.

  Being unarmed, Cosimo had no idea what to do. He backed away. He wasn’t far from home, so if he could surprise them, there was a chance he could lose them in the back alleys. The one who had spoken was coming towards him while the other remained where he was.

  As he was wondering what to do, something unexpected happened. A voice shouted his name and pounced upon the second man, sending him sprawling to the ground. The man’s face smashed into the pavement, blood gushing from a deep cut on his forehead.

  Caught by surprise, the first thug hesitated.

  That moment of indecision was fatal.

  Cosimo leapt forward and shoved the torch into his chest. The man raised the hand that held the dagger in an attempt to ward off the blow, but burned himself on the flame and howled with pain.

  ‘Quick,’ called his saviour, ‘let’s get out of here.’

  Cosimo recognized his brother’s voice and ran without looking back.

  They slipped into an alley and from there into another. He could hear the noise of his shoes pounding on the pavement and his breath was short with the effort of running. His brother was at his side. Soon they neared the palazzo and realized that the two attackers had given up the chase.

  Once they were finally home, Lorenzo looked him in the eyes.

  ‘Good thing I came looking for you,’ he said. ‘I hope you’ll come to the country now, at least until the epidemic is over. Staying in Florence with this heat and the plague is pure madness.’

  ‘We’ve already discussed it,’ said Cosimo.

  ‘Yes, and it doesn’t seem to have made any difference.’

  ‘What matters is that we did.’

  ‘Do you think those two were there b
y chance?’ added Lorenzo in exasperation.

  Cosimo looked at him incredulously. ‘What do you mean?’ he asked.

  ‘That your meeting with them this evening was no accident. Believe it or not, my dear brother, someone wants you dead – and tonight, they tried to take your life.’

  17

  A Nocturnal Discussion

  Rinaldo degli Albizzi could not believe what he was hearing.

  ‘What? You failed to kill him again?’

  The two killers stood in front of him, the one with the eyepatch sporting an enormous bandage around his hand and the other’s face swollen from the injury sustained when he had struck the paving stones.

  ‘My lord, it wasn’t our fault, believe me. We had him, but then somebody came to his aid and caught us unawares.’

  His companion nodded.

  Rinaldo smiled but there was no sign of amusement on his pursed lips.

  ‘And naturally, the mute is in agreement. Excellent, marvellous work! Obviously this is a job which can only be carried out by a woman,’ and he turned his gaze to the beautiful girl to his right who was gazing out of the large windows of the hall. She was dressed in a long emerald-coloured gown embellished with pearls and silver embroidery, its plunging neckline emphasizing the ample curves of her cleavage.

  She gave a silvery laugh.

  ‘Perhaps it is for the best,’ continued Rinaldo. ‘You two have proved to be a disappointment.’

  ‘But your excellency,’ protested the hireling, ‘we weren’t expecting there to be two of them.’

  ‘You should have thought of that, you fools. You know that he has a brother. Where there’s one, the other is never far away. You should have taken a friend along; perhaps then you would have managed to finish this task – God knows it was simple enough! Who knows when we’ll next have the good fortune to be visited by a plague!’

  By now, Rinaldo was shouting. It was true: the circumstances had never been so favourable. When would they have such an opportunity again? And those two imbeciles had failed.

  He was sick of incompetence. How could he expect to get the better of the Medici with men like these? He had given battle in Lucca and that damn Cosimo had managed to get around the councillors of the Ten of Balia and bribe Sforza in an attempt to restore peace. Luckily for him, the manoeuvre had simply allowed the Florentines to return and besiege Lucca after the death of Paolo Guinigi. The new Florentine captain, Guidantonio da Montefeltro, was, however, proving to be inept and his opponent from Lucca, Niccolò Piccinino, was once again beating him on every type of terrain. That, at least, was how Schwartz told it after having left the battlefield early in an attempt to save himself from the plague.

  And now that he, Rinaldo, was presented with this golden opportunity, these imbeciles had wasted it.

  Rinaldo was furious. While he brooded over everything that had failed to go to plan recently, there was a knock at the door.

  ‘Come in,’ he barked.

  Although the plague had Florence on its knees, Schwartz, who had been wandering in the midst of it, was in annoyingly good shape. It must be his Germanic ancestry, thought Albizzi.

  His black clothes, pallid face, long red hair and blue eyes made him look more like a pirate than a soldier of fortune – not that there was that much difference between the two. Whichever, he was a disturbing sight.

  Albizzi greeted him with a nod: they had many pressing matters to attend to, and it suddenly occurred to him that Schwartz’s arrival might be timely.

  He watched him approach a table, sit down, take an apple from a silver tray and begin to peel it with the dagger he kept on his belt.

  Rinaldo degli Albizzi took a deep breath. He needed to make it clear to his men that they could not err with impunity. If that idea spread then all the thugs on his payroll would feel entitled to make mistakes.

  The man with the black eyepatch seemed to sense his intentions.

  ‘We won’t disappoint you again, my lord, I swear it.’

  ‘It is I who swears that this is the last time you will.’

  ‘W-what do you m-m-mean, my lord?’

  But his voice suddenly stopped, and turned into a strangled gurgle.

  The sharp tip of Schwartz’s dagger emerged from the side of his neck and blood spattered on the floor. The mute started to make a run for it but Schwartz’s dagger struck him in the leg, causing him to stumble, and then was plunged into his side, sending him to the floor. At that point, the Swiss mercenary was upon him, pulling his head back and exposing his throat. The dagger flashed again, slicing his artery.

  Schwartz released him, leaving his head floating in a scarlet lake.

  Rinaldo degli Albizzi rose to his feet.

  ‘Well done,’ he said to Schwartz. ‘A dirty job, but it needed doing. Now, call the servants and have them clean this up. Later, we will think about how to eliminate these damned Medici. I’m tired of having to settle for their leftovers, and I can’t find men capable enough to carry out the tasks I assign them. But you, thank goodness,’ he concluded, pointing first at Schwartz, then at Laura, ‘have never let me down.’

  ‘As you know, I am always at your disposal, my lord, in every possible way,’ said Laura. ‘Your wish is my command.’

  ‘Tonight, I will await you in the bedchamber,’ said Albizzi. ‘And bring a friend with you.’

  April 1431

  18

  Nobles and Peasants

  Niccolò da Uzzano shook his head and raised his eyes to the ceiling. What he was hearing pained his ears.

  The Ten of Balia had gathered at the Palazzo della Signoria. Warm light poured in through the large windows, turning the dancing motes of dust into tiny specks of gold. The room was spartan, containing only a large, heavy table around which sat the members of the Supreme Magistrature of War: the men who held the destiny of the Republic in their hands. The heads of the carved cherubim who looked down from the coffered ceiling above them seemed to be awaiting their decisions with curiosity.

  In an attempt to ensure they understood how serious things were, Niccolò Barbadori spoke.

  ‘Friends,’ he began, ‘I wish to emphasize to you all how desperate the situation is for our Republic. It is plain for all to see that the soldiers of Lucca, far from having been routed and discouraged, have more life in them today than before – so much so that since Niccolò Piccinino took the field, he has overrun Nicola, Carrara, Moneta, Ortonovo and Fivizzano in the last month alone. A total of one hundred and eighteen castles, of which fifty-four belonged to the Florentines, the Fieschi and the local Guelphs, and the rest to the Malaspina. This war is being conducted in a wicked and foolish way, and the worst crime of all was Cosimo de’ Medici’s corruption of Francesco Sforza. That deed not only cost us the vast sum of fifty thousand florins but also got us absolutely nowhere. Since that day, our men have been waging war to no purpose. And if we take into consideration the plague, well... I doubt the picture could be much bleaker.’

  When he heard those words, Niccolò da Uzzano could no longer remain silent. He wanted to avert any imprudent reactions. Lorenzo de’ Medici sat at his side waiting silently to hear what he had to say.

  ‘I have listened to the words of my good friend Niccolò Barbadori,’ he said, ‘but I must disagree with him. It is obvious that the current state of affairs is not to be laid at the door of Cosimo de’ Medici, or at that of his brother Lorenzo, who sits here by my side. They did nothing except that which they were commanded to do by this supreme council. It is too easy to cast blame upon them now, as though the idea did not have the support of all of us – and, I must confess, me above all. Cosimo himself came in person with his brother to speak to me about it. Moreover, it was a decision made to help the lower classes, whom many of you treat with contempt yet who are an integral part of this city and, lacking any real form of defence or protection, are the first to suffer the violence of war. The same applies to the plague which has claimed so many victims from among the poor who don’t have the go
od fortune to be able to flee to the countryside and are trapped here in this stinking hellhole of a city.’

  Niccolò paused. All that talking had exhausted him. He was no longer a young man and nowadays debate wearied him, but his opinions were always lucid and even-handed and out of respect the rest all listened attentively to him.

  ‘To tell the truth, it seems to me that this anger against the Medici is dictated by the fact that they are better loved by the populace than the rest of us – and that’s because they listen to the people and consider their petitions. The reform of the land registry which Giovanni de’ Medici sponsored is much despised, yet we must remember that without the people there would be no Republic. Do not forget this, my friends, and use the knowledge wisely. As for the plague, it seems to me that it is now loosening its grip. I therefore believe that this would be a good time to show a little solidarity with the poor rather than to attack their champion for things for which he is blameless. This, I think, would be the first step in the right direction.’

  So saying, he fell silent, leaving all present to their thoughts. He had made it clear which side he was on, and it was obvious to Niccolò Barbadori and Bernardo Guadagni that the situation was far from resolved. With Niccolò da Uzzano still alive, the Medici had a powerful ally, and Lorenzo was careful to say nothing, merely to observe them all with a half-smile on his face.

  It fell to Palla Strozzi to speak. He knew he must be moderate, but also knew exactly where to strike.

  ‘What Niccolò da Uzzano says is true, and it would be unfair on our part to reproach Cosimo and Lorenzo de’ Medici for simply having carried out the decisions of this council. I believe that the real problem is rather Cosimo’s recent behaviour. It is well known that in recent days he has commissioned Filippo Brunelleschi to construct a new palazzo for his family which promises to be like no other previously seen in Florence. Of course, I don’t criticize a man for wishing to build himself a home, provided that it complies with accepted limits of decorum and size. But from what I have heard about its planned dimensions and decorations, I can’t help but feel that Cosimo de’ Medici is aiming to build something fit for a king, a palace whose pomp and magnificence will elevate him above the rest of the families in Florence.’