Medici ~ Ascendancy

by Matteo Strukul

  Lorenzo made to speak, but Niccolò da Uzzano grabbed him by the wrist, as Palla had not yet finished.

  ‘Cosimo’s behaviour as regards the dome of Santa Maria del Fiore is also a matter of concern. He behaves as though he is the sole funder of the project, which is now being carried out exclusively by Filippo Brunelleschi, even though it was originally commissioned by the Cathedral Works Commission and was to be shared between Brunelleschi and Lorenzo Ghiberti. Ghiberti has effectively been ousted, and it is clear that Cosimo was behind it. I will conclude by saying that apart from his good relationship with the common people, Cosimo de’ Medici – unlike his father Giovanni – is anything but a moderate and modest man. He is arrogant and thinks he is better than the rest of us. In my opinion, this is not good for the Republic, and risks turning it into a fiefdom – a Medici fiefdom.’

  A chorus of amazement and dismay arose. The other members of the Council were shocked to hear such criticism from Palla Strozzi, who was usually so moderate. His words, initially sober, had gradually grown more incendiary, and had made an impression on the hearts and souls of all present. Some agreed with him while others were openly against him, but that was what he’d intended – he’d subtly devised his speech not to unite but rather to divide. And it was all the more surprising because it came from the mouth of one who had never before displayed such partisanship – a fact which convinced the majority of the supreme council members that things must truly be grim, otherwise he would never have spoken thus. It had had the effect Strozzi wanted.

  Lorenzo was red in the face with rage and on the verge of completely losing control. He stood up, adjusted his garnet-red doublet, and replied to Strozzi in kind.

  ‘I am shocked to hear such slander,’ he snapped, ‘from somebody we considered a friend. Not to mention that it was you, along with Rinaldo degli Albizzi, who incited Fortebraccio to attack Lucca, thus placing Florence in this terrible situation in the first place. And now you dare accuse the Medici of arrogance and a lust for power... Do you not see the hypocrisy?’

  But it was too late. His words did nothing but increase the seething resentment which already filled the room. It was clear that from that moment on it would be impossible to pacify the two factions. That was certainly nothing new, but now, more than ever before, the hostility would become open conflict.

  Niccolò da Uzzano realized this, and looked at Lorenzo, who was no longer trying to conceal his anger. He placed a hand on his shoulder.

  ‘Today is a sad day for the Republic, my friend. I confess that I fear for its very survival.’

  19

  The Nightmare

  Contessina saw the great mass of Santa Maria del Fiore looming above her. For a moment, the cathedral seemed to be alive and trembling, almost as though it were some primordial creature and, thanks to some obscure magic, had become the beating heart of the city.

  Though the sight horrified her, she looked up. Red snowflakes swirled in vermilion arcs through the air.

  Her heart was beating so hard in her chest that she was afraid it was about to burst out, and her forehead was covered with sweat. She put a hand to it to dry it, and saw that it was smeared with blood.

  The horror was like a noose around her neck that made it hard to breathe, and she felt fear growing inside her like some monstrous child gnawing away at her belly with its sharp little teeth. She wept and wept, but it made no difference: the vision continued to torment her until she saw her beloved Cosimo. He was up on the unfinished dome, as jagged and black as some crown of teeth.

  Contessina didn’t want to believe her eyes. She shouted, hoping that he would hear her, but Cosimo seemed unaware of her and of what was happening.

  She ran desperately towards her husband, the love of her life, her long chestnut hair streaming out behind her like the unruly waves of a brown sea.

  Contessina felt her terror mounting until it almost overwhelmed her. She loved Cosimo so much. She kept running, despite the horror of the vision. But however hard she struggled to get to the octagonal base of the baptistery, she couldn’t reach it. Cosimo remained out of reach.

  She stretched out her fingers in the desperate hope of touching his face: his beautiful, good, intelligent face with its dark eyes, solemn yet dazzling and able to charm all who stood before him.

  But despite her efforts, Contessina could not reduce the distance between them. Her mad rush had left her completely out of breath, and the muscles of her arms and legs ached. How long had she been running? She had no idea; she only knew it wasn’t long enough. She was racked with guilt at her failure to protect her husband.

  Was she so inadequate? Was she undeserving of him? Was she afraid of Florence and that damned cathedral, which seemed to absorb the lives of the city’s men, eating up their souls before it devoured their flesh?

  Contessina’s mind was filled with so many questions that it felt as though it would burst. But whatever spell she was under, only one thing was certain: she was powerless.

  Cosimo gazed at her from a distance but once again seemed not to see her – seemed almost indifferent to the upheavals and reversals of fortune of the world. Or, rather, so completely absorbed by them that he was reduced to nothing more than a tiny creature crouching inside that imposing cathedral of destiny, having abandoned the weapons of will and hope.

  She saw him fall and screamed, but Cosimo continued to plummet down. Down, down to the ground. Contessina closed her eyes.

  When she opened them again, she was lying in a pool of sweat. Her nightgown clung to her body like a second skin, her long hair was soaking wet and the cushions and pillows were as damp as if they’d been at the bottom of a river. And she was shouting: her voice was hoarse and her throat throbbed with pain.

  Cosimo was beside her, attempting to calm her. He stroked her head and whispered sweet words, and she surrendered to his gentle hands, letting herself be cradled in his embrace. He had told the servants and maids to remain outside and was taking care of her himself, as always.

  Contessina thanked God for having spared her from seeing that nightmare come true.

  ‘I saw you fall,’ she said, ‘and you were so far away from me and I didn’t know how to bring you back to me.’

  ‘What are you talking about, little one? Can’t you see that you’re here in your room and that I’m by your side? What are you frightened of, my love? Have you forgotten that I would do anything for you, that you’re the only light of my life?’

  She held tightly on to him.

  ‘My love... What would I do if you weren’t there? I had a terrible nightmare: something was keeping us apart, and then you fell from the dome of Santa Maria del Fiore and I didn’t know how to save you.’

  ‘Heavens above,’ said an amused Cosimo. ‘Well, I’d certainly be done for if I fell a hundred yards. I’d better watch where I put my feet next time I go to see Messer Brunelleschi.’

  ‘You can laugh, but it was awful. I’m frightened, Cosimo. I’m frightened that someone wants to separate you from me, that someone wants to divide us.’

  ‘Nothing will divide us, my dearest Contessina. Now calm yourself, and your worries and fears will vanish.’

  And so saying, he held her in his strong arms like a little bird, cradling her and covering her with kisses. She could hear his heart beating in his large, strong chest, and while she listened she touched his nipple with her lips, then kissed it harder and harder until she began to bite it.

  He gave her an amused smile.

  ‘Go on,’ he said, ‘don’t stop.’

  At his words, her skin tingled like ocean foam and she ran her small hands across his broad pectorals. Cosimo was a handsome, strong man with an alluring, slightly astringent scent.

  She amused herself by drawing little circles on his skin with her fingers; then she broke from his embrace and kissed him passionately on the lips. One, two, three, ten times until her tongue flickered against his, intertwining with it sensuously.

  She began to kiss hi
m on the chest, and then on the belly, and then down, down...

  But he was already exploring the most hidden of her treasures. His strong fingers flickered inside her, almost making her swoon, and Contessina felt herself almost overwhelmed by a wave of pleasure. She surrendered herself to his wonderful touch, bending over forward as her voice grew hoarse with pleasure.

  When he penetrated her, she had already come twice.

  20

  The Death of Niccolò da Uzzano

  When he’d heard the news, Cosimo had felt death in his heart.

  After his father, Niccolò had been one of the few men of honour left in Florence. He had been pure and just and much loved, and his loss was a blow to the whole Republic.

  This was on his mind as he crossed the square in front of Santa Lucia de’ Magnoli. Niccolò had lived for a long time in the area known as Borgo Pitiglioso. With Cosimo were Contessina and their son Piero, Piccarda, and Lorenzo with his wife Ginevra. When they entered the church, they headed towards the main chapel, where Niccolò’s body was laid out for the final farewell. Inside, people were gathered in small groups and many of the rich and lordly had hurried to pay homage to the great man while they awaited the funeral, which would be held the following day.

  Niccolò’s body had been placed in a coffin of fragrant pine in the main chapel, which was decorated with frescoes by Lorenzo di Bicci. His arms were crossed and a crucifix lay upon his heart. They had dressed him in a silver-coloured tunic encrusted with pearls and precious stones.

  Even in death, his face maintained the authoritative composure of the wise.

  He reminded Lorenzo of his father.

  The chapel glowed with the flames of the burning candles, whose dim, flickering light made the frescoes seem to run with blood.

  While Piccarda, Contessina and Ginevra knelt to pray, Cosimo stood looking at the man who had been perhaps their last ally among the nobility.

  Only a few days ago he had defended them from the rebukes of Palla Strozzi and Niccolò Barbadori, who had thundered against the Medici and set almost all the Ten of Balia against them.

  Cosimo shook his head.

  His allies were falling one after the other and the ranks of his enemies were becoming increasingly crowded, eager to overwhelm him and his dear ones. Even the recent failure of Filippo Brunelleschi’s clumsy attempt to flood Lucca, which had ended up flooding the camp of the Florentines, felt like yet another nail in his coffin.

  Already he could see the resentful, hate-filled glares of Giovanni Guicciardini and Bernardo Guadagni, who looked as though they were ready to stab him at any moment.

  He kissed Niccolò on the forehead one last time and gestured to his mother, his wife and the others to leave with him.

  Piccarda made the sign of the cross and got to her feet. As always, she was dressed beautifully, her fur-trimmed coat and black robe decorated with pearls and golden embroidery and her dark-grey gamurra perfectly suited to the sad occasion.

  There was something regal about his mother. She was a tall woman with a proud bearing and beside her Contessina and Ginevra seemed to shine with a special light. It was as though, apart from the Medici’s proverbial opulence, Piccarda possessed a delicacy of style that went beyond lineages and families.

  The fact must also have been evident to the eyes of the others who were there. Cosimo realized that everyone was treating him with hostility: nobody came to greet him and once he was out of the church and descending the steps leading to the square, someone barged into him with what felt like intentional violence.

  He had been expecting something of the kind. He was still telling Lorenzo not to worry about it and to take the family to safety when he heard the unmistakable voice of Rinaldo degli Albizzi, with its undertone of resentment and envy, calling to him.

  ‘What are you here for?’ asked Albizzi, his eyes dark and veined with red. He was clad in a crimson doublet and a cloak of the same colour, and his short, black beard gave him a diabolical air.

  Disobeying his brother’s order, Lorenzo had turned back and his right hand was caressing the hilt of the dagger he had kept on his belt ever since his encounter with the Swiss mercenary.

  Cosimo looked at his brother. ‘What did I tell you?’ he hissed angrily. ‘Stay with our mother, Ginevra and Contessina!’ He turned back to face Rinaldo. ‘I came to pay homage to a great man. Why else?’

  Rinaldo spat on the ground.

  ‘You!’ – and as he spoke he pointed to him as if he were a leper – ‘You have brought ruin upon this city! And the plague! You think you’re better than the rest of us but you’re nobody – you’re just the foolish, arrogant son of a woolman from Mugello! Go back to where you came from!’

  Cosimo had no intention of allowing himself be treated this way, not this time. He was sick of the continual provocations of his rivals, and of the way they behaved as though they were the sole custodians of the truth. It was intolerable.

  ‘I’m not afraid of you, Albizzi! I know it torments you, but I’m not going to change the way I live my life. Altruism and decorum have always been my watchwords – and will continue to be.’

  It was at this juncture that Schwartz, the gigantic Swiss mercenary with long, lank red hair and thick moustaches, emerged from the church. That day too he wore a dark doublet and a brigadine lined with plates of iron. He went over to Rinaldo. ‘Is this man disturbing you, excellency?’

  Albizzi nodded.

  The man was about to unsheathe the sword that he wore on his belt when Piccarda interposed herself between the two of them. Her eyes blazed with fury and her beautiful, austere features were twisted into a scornful grimace, as though she held not only the life of others in total disregard but also her own.

  ‘You damned windbags with your threats and slanders! I’m sick of you,’ she thundered, her voice echoing across the square outside the church. ‘If you want to unsheathe your blades then do it now and hack me to pieces, for you’re nothing but cowardly curs!’

  ‘Mother!’ shouted Cosimo, but Piccarda didn’t seem to hear him.

  Albizzi was so surprised that he couldn’t hide an amused smirk.

  ‘Well, this is something I didn’t expect,’ he exclaimed with a laugh. ‘Here, gentlemen, is someone who truly has guts! And as for you two...’ he said, turning to Cosimo and Lorenzo, ‘your funeral has only been postponed. You should thank this lady, because she’s got more courage than the two of you put together.’

  ‘Mind how you talk, Albizzi.’ Lorenzo was quivering with rage.

  ‘Go,’ said Rinaldo. ‘Go! But remember – your end is only deferred.’

  And without another word, Albizzi returned inside the church.

  Cosimo and his family walked towards the carriage which awaited them at the centre of the square under the cold gaze of Schwartz, who stared at their backs like a hunting hound.

  As he stood there, his sword drawn halfway from its scabbard, Laura Ricci appeared at his side.

  She was as radiantly beautiful as ever, her charms enhanced by the obscene luxury of her attire: a white fox-fur stole wrapped around her shoulders and a long vermilion dress with a dizzying neckline which emphasized her full bust. Her green eyes shone like precious gems in the cold spring light.

  ‘You will kill those two brothers one day,’ she said in a hoarse, sensual voice.

  ‘You are looking at the backs of two dead men,’ said Schwarz in reply.

  April 1433

  21

  The Last Words

  Her long, chestnut-coloured hair was now streaked with white and over the last year the proud beauty of her face had faded somewhat. And yet Piccarda Bueri had perhaps never been so beautiful as she was at that moment when she was so close to death.

  She sat in her favourite chair in the library, the one near the fireplace. For many years she had enjoyed its warmth, often in the company of a good book and one of the herbal teas that her maids prepared for her. Piccarda was a sober woman of simple pleasures.

&
nbsp; She had lived a full life, and now that her time on earth was about to end, she felt neither sadness nor regret, because she had been given much more than she could ever have imagined: above all, a husband who had worshipped her and who had always maintained the love and esteem which, over the years, had taken the place of passion and given her just as much pleasure in the form of tenderness and intellectual companionship. Grateful and content, she was now ready to take the final step. She sensed that the time had come and had called her beloved sons, their wives and her grandchildren to her. In that atmosphere of serenity and peace she planned to close her eyes.

  She glanced around her at the room which she had loved so much and then looked each of them in the face as though to warn them that they were about to say goodbye.

  She spoke one last time while Cosimo, Lorenzo, Contessina, Ginevra, Piero, Giovanni, Francesco and Pierfrancesco listened to her, their hearts full of love and gratitude.

  ‘Well, children,’ she began, ‘because I consider you all my children, without distinction, because you are blood of my blood or else actually chose to become that blood, I feel that the time granted me by God is coming to an end. I have few words to say to you, but they will, I hope, settle in your hearts like grains of gold. What I ask of you – and this is to ensure my happiness even in heaven where I am about to join your father – is to always be united. You will find nothing in life more important than family: it is the cradle of the dearest affections and the source of satisfaction and joy. Believe me when I tell you that in my life I have had much of both, thanks to all of you.’

  At that point Giovanni could help himself no longer, and began sobbing. Tears streaked down his little face, and he grabbed a handkerchief from his pocket and tried to dry them off as well as he could.