Medici ~ Ascendancy

by Matteo Strukul

  The peasants were against them.

  The commoners were against them.

  Even Pope Eugene IV, who these days was at Santa Maria Novella and not in Rome, had done everything possible to avert the looming disaster.

  And in the meantime, Cosimo de’ Medici was happily enjoying a comfortable life in Venice, where rumour said that he resided in the apartments of Doge Francesco Foscari, studying art and philosophy while his brother Lorenzo expanded the financial network of the Venetian branch of their bank.

  In short, everything seemed to indicate that the government he, Rinaldo and their allies had formed had ended in complete failure. They had not been able to take power definitively. They had managed for a brief period, but their victory had proved so fleeting that it would have been better if they hadn’t – now they were falling from immeasurable heights to the depths of ruinous failure, and Palla had too much experience of politics not to know that this would be the beginning of the end of everything.

  So now he and Rinaldo were there, in the cold, preparing to go to war and get themselves killed. They had gone about it all wrong, thought Palla. Rinaldo’s obsessive acrimony had blinded them, preventing them from solving the most obvious of all equations: that without the Medici’s money, Florence would sink. And that was what had happened: the war with Lucca, the latest bout of the pestilence and Albizzi’s harsh policies were like the plagues of Egypt. So now here he was, trying to extricate himself from the situation. There was no point in Francesco Filelfo, the university’s Chair of Eloquence, thundering that Cosimo should have been condemned to death, because the more extreme the position one took, the stronger Cosimo appeared in the eyes of the world. Venice disapproved, the France of Charles VII disapproved, Henry VI of England disapproved. Even the Pope disapproved.

  They had succeeded in setting the entire civilized world against them. How foolish they’d been.

  When he reached the square, he saw Rinaldo waiting for him, his grim troops making that autumn morning seem even darker. Albizzi wore a dark-grey doublet and a long purple cloak edged with fur. He had on boots that went up to his knees and a sword and a dagger hung from his belt. A touch of velvet completed his martial outfit, which looked fit for a parade. Because a parade, and nothing more, was what this was – they were just dressing up as soldiers, and when one pretends to be something one is not, there can be only one possible outcome: defeat.

  Rinaldo was deluding himself. He still thought he could get the situation under control, but it was too late.

  When Palla saw him, Rinaldo nodded and came over to meet him. The horses stamped their hooves on the ground of San Pulinari Square. The cold wind whistled and the men-at-arms looked like devils waiting to hurl themselves at the enemy.

  ‘So you’ve arrived, finally,’ began Rinaldo. ‘Wanted to make us wait for you, eh? Rodolfo Peruzzi and Niccolò Barbadoro are already here,’ he continued, pointing to his friends. ‘Giovanni Guicciardini didn’t turn up, and I see that you too are in no mood for fighting today! So your promises count for so little?’ His words dripped with sarcasm and disdain for the few infantrymen ranged behind Palla. ‘What a disappointment, my friend! You have all of my contempt!’

  ‘I understand why you’re angry—’ said Palla, but he had no chance to finish.

  ‘Shut up! You’ve already said too much. I warned you that the Medici should be killed, but you and that other bastard Bernardo Guadagni – who filled his pockets with my and Cosimo’s money – you wanted to have them sent into exile. And I made the mistake of listening to you when I should have cut their throats! You have betrayed me three times: first, when you asked for exile for Cosimo, again when you didn’t listen to me when I insisted we kill him, and a third time by refusing to come and fight with me!’

  Palla Strozzi shook his head. ‘You don’t understand, Rinaldo—’

  ‘There is nothing to understand,’ said Albizzi, cutting him off. ‘You’re all talk, and I’ve been a fool to listen to you. Scuttle off now, and hide yourself away at home – we don’t need you here. And you’d better hope that I don’t win, because if I do, I’ll be coming to cut your head off and stick it on a pike.’

  Realizing that there was nothing to add, Palla Strozzi turned his horse around and, along with his infantrymen, went back whence he had come.

  He cut a miserable figure. It was clear to all that, regardless of the outcome of the battle, Palla Strozzi had already lost. And Rinaldo would not forget it. He was so sick of the man, and his broken promises, and his eternal indecision, that, from a certain point of view, it was almost a relief. Better to be free of those who say they are on your side and then behave as though they are not. You might as well just get the troops into formation and go and see what fortune holds in store for you.

  Rinaldo degli Albizzi shouted to his men, and they raised their pikes and halberds. They were a fine body of soldiers who wouldn’t hesitate to give their all to the attack on the Palazzo della Signoria.

  ‘Let your weapons speak!’ shouted Rinaldo. ‘They have been silent for too long!’

  Upon hearing those words, the men began to advance towards the Palazzo della Signoria like a sea of steel and leather. Animated by murderous bloodlust, they rushed chaotically towards the entrance to the building.

  But their advance slowed as terror dawned on their faces.

  From the Tower of Arnolfo di Cambio and from the battlements of the palace, a black cloud of arrows soared through the sky towards them. Rinaldo’s soldiers watched the shafts rising into the grey sky and heard their fevered hissing, realizing too late that they were completely without cover in the middle of the square. They were the easiest of targets. The men raised their shields overhead in a desperate attempt to protect themselves – many not even having time to do that – and the arrows rained down on them like darts, piercing the shields and biting into their flesh.

  Rinaldo watched as his men were mown down. Some raised their hands to their pierced throats while others found themselves looking in shock at the fletchings of arrows sticking out of their faces. Still others clutched at their chests and fell face down on the stones of the square, which soon ran red with blood.

  How in hell was it possible? Had he wasted so much time waiting that the enemy had barricaded itself in the Palazzo della Signoria and organized its defence during the night? He had no idea – but the fact was that the archers were firing volley after volley at his men.

  He saw them fall, and, hearing the whistle of an arrow nearby, managed to duck out of the way just in time. He shouted out, but by now the scene in the square was carnage. He’d been convinced that he would be able to take the palazzo with ease, and it had never occurred to him that those who wanted Cosimo’s return could have organized themselves so quickly and so effectively.

  He gritted his teeth.

  ‘Men, to me!’ he yelled. But his soldiers were now backing away in an attempt to get themselves out of firing range of that hail of arrows that was pinning them, one by one, to the flagstones of the square.

  Rinaldo felt a cold wave of surprise flow through him. He hadn’t expected anything like this.

  He saw Cambio Capponi running towards him and then suddenly throwing open his arms and slumping to the ground, pierced by a shaft.

  The volleys rained down again and again until the men had finally managed to get out of range of the archers. The square was filled with corpses yet it had all happened as quickly as a flash of lightning: groaning men lay on the ground, which was covered with missiles, dead horses and the wounded, screaming in agony. Rinaldo kept well back: he had no intention of being killed before he had even fought. He had made a fatal mistake, he realized – the long-awaited battle was already almost over, and at great cost to his forces. They had thought it would be child’s play, but they had found themselves marching straight into the mouth of hell. He had sent them to slaughter.

  The men of the Republic glared down at them defiantly from the battlements. At that point, what the he
ll could he do?

  Niccolò Barbadoro got off his horse. His hands were covered with the blood of his fellow soldiers who had died in his arms, begging him for help. He spat on the ground while his black horse, foaming at the mouth, pawed the ground.

  ‘And how do we get out of this?’ he said.

  ‘We attack!’ shouted Rinaldo. The words came out in an impulsive reaction to his frustration and impotence, but even as he spoke, he knew that what he was suggesting was utter madness: another ten charges wouldn’t change the result by an inch.

  ‘Are you insane?’ cried Niccolò Barbadoro. ‘Do you want us all to be slain like dogs? And to what end? In the name of your blind ambition, which has already damned us all? I’m starting to think that Palla Strozzi was right.’

  Rinaldo was about to reply when he realized that, as if by magic, the arrows had suddenly ceased to fly. Astride a white horse, his hands raised, someone was coming across Piazza della Signoria towards them.

  ‘Are they surrendering?’ asked Niccolò Barbadoro incredulously. Rinaldo waved a hand to silence him. He knew the man well: it was Giovanni Vitelleschi, his good friend and one of the most esteemed patriarchs of Florence.

  The old sage eventually arrived before them.

  ‘My son,’ said Giovanni in a calm voice when he was before him, ‘I come to you on behalf of Pope Eugene IV who, as you know, is in Santa Maria Novella, where he has withdrawn because of the events which forced him to leave Rome.’

  ‘I am listening,’ Rinaldo murmured, uncertain what Giovanni was about to say.

  ‘Well, you have seen how hard Florence fights, and how Palla Strozzi and Giovanni Guicciardini have abandoned you. I come to inform you that Pope Eugene IV would be happy to negotiate honourable conditions for you with the palazzo if you and Niccolò Barbadoro would be kind enough to put down your weapons. He has faith in you and knows that you have been wronged; yet he believes that there would be greater profit for all if you were to enter the palace and talk rather than fight your brothers. The choice, of course, is yours but, in faith, I do not think you will take the palace easily, and it will cost you many more men even if you try to do so. Is that what you want?’

  Rinaldo looked him in the eye. He knew that Giovanni was right and that the soldiers inside the palace were ready to hold him off.

  His men were peering at him with a mixture of fear and uncertainty in their eyes. He knew that if he carried on, he would lose his credibility and their trust – which, given the catastrophic outcome of his first attack, he perhaps no longer deserved anyway. And anyway, what Giovanni Vitelleschi had said was irrefutable: how could they force their way into the palace after the men had been weakened in spirit more even than they had been weakened in number? And would he be able to save them from what looked like a certain massacre? The situation was weighted against them, to put it mildly, and before his own men had managed to cover even fifty paces, they would be slain by the archers on the battlements.

  It didn’t take a genius to realize that the men would mutiny – and probably lynch him – rather than let themselves be slaughtered under another hail of arrows. That was perfectly clear from their faces.

  Rack his brain as he might, Rinaldo could think of no way out: he was no strategist, much less a courageous leader. He had always used other people’s swords to advance his plans, and his inadequacy proved so much more shocking in that moment because it had arrived so suddenly and ruthlessly, jolting him out of his dreams of glory.

  He shook his head. It cost him dear to admit that all was lost, but life sometimes offers no choices.

  ‘Tell Pope Eugene IV that I will consider his offer,’ he concluded, ‘and that if I should follow his advice, I expect him to safeguard me and my men.’

  And there he stayed, waiting to decide what to do while the pale sun shone high in the sky.

  38

  Reversal of Fortune

  My beloved Cosimo,

  After a year of your absence, life becomes tiresome and the wait interminable. However, the time has come for your return and my heart overflows with more joy and love than ever before.

  Giovanni de’ Benci has confirmed the events of recent days. Not only did Rinaldo degli Albizzi fail to take the Palazzo della Signoria, which was strenuously defended, but, following the Pope’s intercession, he agreed to withdraw his men. The nobles who oppose him, however, exploited his uncertainty by calling the people to council and ordering your immediate return to Florence, condemning Rinaldo degli Albizzi, Rodolfo Peruzzi, Niccolò Barbadoro and Palla Strozzi to imprisonment, along with all their acolytes. It seems that Rinaldo attempted to refuse and remonstrated with Eugene IV, as it was he who – all unknowingly – betrayed him. But to no avail: his properties and lands have been confiscated and Rinaldo has left the city and taken refuge in Ancona.

  In any case, the Republic awaits you, Cosimo.

  We have returned home to Via Larga and I long only to welcome you into my arms. I have missed you so much. I am trying to decide what to wear so that I shall be beautiful for you when you arrive. It is said that you will be proclaimed Pater Patriae. In the end, all knots come to the teeth of the comb, as they say: who would have thought that this exile would have actually made your position stronger?

  And yet that is what has happened.

  And so, my dear Cosimo, I await you. Hurry back, because Florence acclaims and demands you.

  As do I.

  Always yours,

  Contessina

  Cosimo put the letter back in the pocket of his doublet, right above his heart.

  It was as though his wife’s words were a balm for the wounds of his soul.

  After galloping ceaselessly for hours, they had stopped at a fountain to water the horses, but now it was time to get back on the road. Florence was not far away and if they continued at that speed, it wouldn’t be long before they would see it.

  He climbed back into the saddle, turned his mount around and spurred it into a gallop once more. Lorenzo, Giovanni and Piero and all his men followed suit.

  As he went, he reflected on Venice and the friendships he had left there: Francesco Foscari, and Lieutenant Ludovico Mocenigo – and through him, Gattamelata. Venice would be a precious ally for Florence, and so would Francesco Sforza, who longed to take the Duchy of Milan for himself. Cosimo thought he should take advantage of these happy times to extend his hegemony over Florence and establish a new relationship with the Pope and with Rome. It was a way he could bring peace to his city by defeating Filippo Maria Visconti and the current Duchy of Milan, who did nothing but incite Lucca against them. Now, the time of stability, or at least of rebirth, had come. How was construction of the dome of Santa Maria del Fiore proceeding? How much money was left in the city’s coffers? Had the plague finally died away? These questions filled his mind. He must never again underestimate his enemies but he had no desire to be forever accompanied by an armed guard. He would not let what had happened change his way of life or that of his family.

  He gazed confidently ahead and his smile returned: around him he saw the Florentine countryside with its green meadows, and a sky so intensely blue it gleamed above them; and the air was fragrant with the perfumes of flowers and freshly cut hay.

  Suddenly, Cosimo and Lorenzo saw Florence appear in front of them in all its hauteur. Surrounded by walls and bristling with towers, it was beautiful enough to take your breath away.

  Cosimo felt his heart leap in his chest. As he grew older, he was finding it increasingly difficult to hold back tears in moments like this. Perhaps it was because of the distance from his beloved Contessina, perhaps because he had suffered for so long and had risked death only a year before, perhaps because he felt that the city had not yet granted him the ultimate triumph – and he could not stop himself from wondering if, when that moment came, he would be equal to the task.

  Or perhaps it was because when he looked at it, he once more saw his father and mother, whom he had loved so dearly and who were now gone.<
br />
  There were many reasons. No longer asking himself why, he let the tears fall.

  And he realized that, as his mother had once said, there was nothing to be ashamed of in tears – that it is only possessing the strength to show his feelings, be they happy or sad, which makes a man a man.

  *

  Months had passed but Laura knew that she must be patient. Her cell was tiny but her gaoler, Marco Ferracin, was a good sort. Better yet, he was attracted to her. She knew it, just as she knew that she had to continue to talk him round. It would take a while, but she mustn’t lose hope. She would wear down his resistance as water wears away rock: she had only to persevere. She had faced worse in her life and needed to concentrate on one thing alone: survival.

  To do so, she would deceive, lie and manipulate. They were the arts in which she had always placed her trust, and they had never betrayed her. She had grown used to living with the worst of the world – with thieves and traitors, executioners and turncoats – and vice and crime had become such a part of her that she couldn’t have rid herself of them had she wanted to. She couldn’t imagine living a normal life – and perhaps wouldn’t even have wanted to.

  It was too late for her. Her soul had been tainted when she was nothing but a girl, so what did she expect? To be able to go back to being a respectable woman? That would never happen. And she was certain that not even Schwartz would come to save her. She didn’t believe he was actually dead, but she knew that she had to look after herself.

  Therefore, there was no alternative. She had to use her charms upon her gaoler.

  She was absorbed in these gloomy thoughts when she heard the iron door of her cell creak open. Laura watched Marco Ferracin enter with another person and, at first, she didn’t understand why her gaoler was trembling and as white as a ghost. A moment later, a blade burst through the man’s chest, drenching him with blood.