by Taylor Buck
Nothing.
On his walk back to the dig site, he had the sneaking suspicion that he was being followed. On separate occasions he could’ve sworn he heard someone jogging behind him. However, the streets were tall and every noise was amplified… it was quite possible he was just hearing things.
Now only a few blocks from the dig site, Jack kept up a slow jog. Once the green fence came into view, he slowed his pace and approached the door. Chester was at the gate to meet him.
“You clear?”
“I think so.”
Chester unlocked the gate and opened the door for Jack.
“I don’t know why…” Jack said catching his breath, “I just got the feeling I was being watched.” He turned around and stared down the alley behind him, half expecting to see someone—but no one was there. He stepped inside and said nothing more about it. The two men gathered around the workstation.
“So. What’s this about a second key?” Jack asked.
He noticed a document was projected across the large wall to right of the computer table. It was a letter, clearly written in Cosimo’s handwriting; however, Jack could see signs of stress in the penmanship. It was more scrawled than formally written—meaning it was either written in haste or under extreme exhaustion.
My dear Marsilio,
My time is brief. I ask that you forgive the brevity of this letter. Please watch over little Lorenzo, as our family name lives on through him. Continue to mentor him in the way of the Thēsauros, for I envision a magnificent future under his leadership. He is our hope in returning this land to its glorious past.
I have one final favor to ask of you, my friend, and please abide to this instruction without waver—do not inform Lorenzo as to where the Thēsauros dwells. The power it holds is too great for a boy to wield.
Instead, continue to instruct him in its ways. When he becomes a man, his eyes will be opened. His stiletto guides and protects him. It is his compass to locate the truth.
For now, the Thēsauros remains in the protection of the four.
May the path of God guide you always,
Cosimo de’Medici
1464
“The 4?” Jack said aloud. “They had a treaty?”
“Apparently so,” Chester replied.
Jack trailed off in thought. “Cosimo, Plethon and Ficino… but who is the fourth?”
“Donatello,” answered Chester assuredly.
“You’re probably right. However, there is no suggestion that he knew any more than anyone else. As far as we know, he was simply asked by Cosimo to create a bust that held a key. We have no proof as we do with the others. That being said, it’s still highly probable… especially due to Donatello’s relationship with Cosimo.”
Jack stepped away as he pondered the information. Then he looked at Chester and scratched his head. “You said there was a second key?”
“Yes…” Chester said and looked at Jack with an odd glare. “It says it right there. Come on Jack. Even I can decipher this one. Look.”
Chester pointed to the second to last paragraph. “His stiletto guides and protects him. It is his compass to locate the truth…”
A smile grew across Jack’s face. “The stiletto… Chester, you might actually be right.”
“Of course I’m right,” Chester said leaning back in his chair and adjusting his glasses. “So what is this epiphany you had at the church?”
Jack faced Chester. It would take time to inform Chester about how he had come to believe the treasure was in the Medici Villa at Fiesole… unfortunately it was time they didn’t have.
“The Medici crest,” Jack began, “is a marker to the treasure. Usually there are 6 palles displayed; however, Cosimo’s tombslab shows 4 distinct green palles… representing 4 planets, the fourth of which signifies God. This same symbol appeared on the key that was found in Donatello’s bust of Plato, accompanied by the Roman Numeral IV.”
Chester nodded, at least physically indicating that he seemed to be following along.
“1453. The year that Constantinople fell is also the year that the Medici Villa at Fiesole was constructed… Cosimo’s fourth villa.”
“Fiesole?”
“Yes. I think that Cosimo hid away the treasure there. I also think that Lorenzo never found the treasure because he was looking for something that was right in front of him all along.”
Chester looked thoroughly confused. “What do you mean… right in front of him?”
“Self-imposed misdirection,” Jack explained. “He was so busy searching for the key that he failed to realize he already had the treasure.”
“I’m still not following you,” Chester said, throwing back his hair in a display of frustration. “How would he not have known about it?”
“Look at this letter…” Jack said pointing to the screen. “Cosimo never told him what to do, he merely directed Ficino to reveal it to him at the appropriate age. Judging by Lorenzo’s letter to Michelangelo, he was never made aware of the treasure, at least not in its entirety. For some reason or another, Marsilio Ficino kept it from him. Either he felt it was too dangerous or he felt that Lorenzo wasn’t ready.”
“Or Ficino kept it all for himself,” said Chester.
Jack frowned at Chester. “I would think it highly unlikely considering Ficino accredited everything he knew and owned to the Medici family.”
“Hey, you never know.”
Jack drummed his fingers together and studied the letter as he spoke. “The only logical answer is that Ficino kept the identity a secret because, for some reason or another, he couldn’t trust Lorenzo. Cosimo, Plethon, Ficino and—most likely—Donatello, are The Four Cosimo speaks of in this letter. They were the ones who knew about the Thēsauros. Marsilio Ficino outlived the other 3… so the knowledge remained in his possession the longest. Lorenzo was taught by Ficino his entire young adulthood, and in that time he was exposed to the ancient manuscripts and teachings of the Greek philosophers. He was taught the humanities… grammar, poetry, rhetoric, painting, sculpture, architecture, music, astronomy, physical education… all treasures in their own respect. You see?” Jack looked up at Chester enthused. “Lorenzo had unlimited access to this library of information, his own personal Thēsauros, or treasure trove, at his fingertips. The personal library inside the Medici Villa at Fiesole held these manuscripts… Ficino must have kept them tucked away from the public, only calling upon them for personal use… or use during his lectures at the Academy.”
“I thought you said the academy was held at Careggi?” asked Chester.
“I did, and it was. Up until 1453, then the majority of the philosophers and artists began meeting at Fiesole.” Jack looked away as he visualized. “It was the perfect atmosphere—nestled among a lush mountainside overlooking Florence… an absolute textbook example of Renaissance Humanist-influenced ambiance and architecture.”
Chester pulled up a map of the Villa Medici at Fiesole on the computer.
“Villa Medici at Fiesole,” he said as he typed. “It’s only 15 minutes away.”
“Perfect,” Jack said. “We’ve got to get a move on. It’ll be dark soon.”
“The MOTSU?”
“It’s in the car,” Chester said. “And here, take this.” He handed Jack a duffle bag with the TerraTEK logo.
“Let me guess,” Jack said. “More gadgets?”
“You only need them when you need them,” Chester replied sarcastically.
Jack chuckled. “In omnia paratus,” he said holding up 3 fingers in the air.
Chester looked at him funny. “A Cossack salute?”
“Cossack?” Jack blurted. “Chester, that’s the Boy Scouts… Be Prepared.”
“Oh,” Chester said uneasily. “Never was a Boy Scout...”
Jack shrugged. “It’s the survivalist motto. You know, interestingly enough the scouts used it as an acronym. It stands for Bravery, Enterprise, Purpose, Resolution, Endura—”
“I really don’t care,” Chester said.
“Are you going to tell Forlino and Valente about your villa theory?”
Jack shook his head. “I can’t jeopardize any of my chances right now. We’ve got 2 things going for us—free access to the treasure and a perfect opportunity to find Kathleen’s attacker. I don’t want anyone or anything getting in the way of this. I’m doing this alone.”
“Well, I’ve at least got your 6,” Chester said pointing to the sky. “Aerial support.”
Jack nodded appreciatively. “Good, thank you.” He grabbed the car keys and exited the gate. The Fiat alarm chirped as he unlocked the car and entered the driver seat. He fired up the engine and tore down the Via dei Castellani for a few blocks until he reached the waterfront, then he turned left and followed along the Arno River.
CHAPTER 37
FLORENCE
1478
THE PIGEONS SCATTERED FROM the steps of the Basilica and fluttered above the spires as the morning sun lit up the cathedral’s magnificent domed exterior. Late arrivals to Sunday mass hurried across the piazza and ascended the marble stairs leading to the church doors. Men and women were packed inside the cathedral, dressed in their finest garments. Gentlemen donned brocade-patterned doublets and brightly colored velvet breeches while women modeled large, billowy dresses and decorative hats. The progressive, fashion-forward-thinking residents of Florence had, over time, contested the strict laws within the church to dress modestly. Austerity was outdated. The new Florentine culture was primed to challenge the old ways.
Society had evolved under Medici rule.
Now, at nearly 30 years of age, Lorenzo was a groomed leader, well versed in all aspects of Humanist teachings. Including doctrine.
Lorenzo sat at the front of the cathedral on a bench beside his family members. This Easter Sunday the church was brimming with attendees. The head priest stood in the pulpit bellowing his message to the inhabitants therein. His voice echoed throughout the grandiose halls inside the cathedral, first loud, then slowly becoming quiet. Next, the angelic voices of the church choir rose and reverberated off the ornately decorated walls which towered around the masses below. After a hymn was sung, the priest was handed the elements of Communion—the bread and wine.
Lorenzo went to his knees and closed his eyes in reverence to God. Even though he knowingly allowed his city to balance at the precipice of decadence, he himself was a devoutly religious man. His grandfather taught him from a young age not to let money and social prominence affect his veneration to God. Cosimo was a preeminent testament to this; even though he was the one who ushered in a new revival of arts, he was also one of the most humble and dutiful men of the time. The town elders still told Lorenzo stories of his grandfather’s good deeds. These stories reminded Lorenzo of the promise he had made to Padre—the promise to protect the family and the secrets that were passed down.
Always ready.
Padre’s voice echoed in his mind.
Lorenzo opened his eyes and received the small wafer of bread in his mouth as the priest passed them out one-by-one. His eyes lowered to bow his head in prayer—gaze drifting across the patterned marble on the floor. The geometric design etched into the cathedral floor reminded Lorenzo of Padre’s tomb.
Padre…
Lorenzo attempted to clear his thoughts and focus his attention to God, yet he felt separated… as if a veil was obstructing his thoughts. He had felt the weight of business affairs and city matters grow as of late. As a result, Lorenzo had difficulty sleeping. To make matters worse, there had been a lingering rumor of an attempt to destroy the family. His council had informed him that reports were circulating the streets of an attempted coup to overthrow the Medici once and for all. Lorenzo took all reports seriously. He lived in utter fear for the lives of his family members as he carried the burden of protecting them all—a burden that he promised to carry alone.
Semper paratus.
Always ready. Always, he thought.
“Lorenzo,” a voice softly whispered. “The chalice.”
The voice of his younger brother, Giuliano, caused Lorenzo to emerge from his thoughts. Giuliano was pointing to the Communion cup which was being passed around. Lorenzo grasped the cup in his hands and took a sip from the chalice, tasting the sweet liquid upon his lips. He passed along the wine to Giuliano.
After the elements of Communion were shared, the choir erupted into a heavenly variation of Apostolo Glorioso. Lorenzo sang along to the words written by his close friend, Guillaume Du Fay.
Apostolo glorioso, da Dio electo…
A evangelegiare al populo Greco…
The cathedral resounded in beautiful harmony as the notes rose and fell over the modulating organ. Never was there a more pleasant sound in this world than the songs of Du Fay. Lorenzo loved to sing. He believed that the hymns sung by the choir, in the halls of this glorious cathedral, were the closest manifestation of heaven on earth.
Prego te, preghi me retrove teco…
Per li tuoi merci, nel devin conspecto…
The final note was lifted high and held in climactic sustain. The entire church body sang in full accord as the voices resonated in the halls and vibrated the wooden benches. Before the note fell, Lorenzo felt a warm smattering of liquid across his right cheek. He looked down and saw that his sleeve had black splotches across it. Slowly the black began to spread outward and absorb into the fabric, leaving behind a dark burgundy stain.
His defensive instincts immediately kicked in.
From his right side a dagger descended swiftly toward the jugular vein in his neck. Lorenzo parried to the left and swung clear of the strike; however, another dagger met him across the neck causing a sharp pain to shoot through his nerves. He swung around to face his attackers just as two men descended upon him all wielding daggers.
Chaos immediately ensued throughout the church. Screams of panic rang through the congregation. The entire front bench tumbled over as bodies were thrown in every direction. A pool of dark blood formed quickly on the floor. Lorenzo could see Giuliano lying there, his face smeared and contorted in an expression of deep anguish. A close friend, Bernardo Bandini, was standing over him repeatedly stabbing him along the neck and abdomen.
“Giuliano!” Lorenzo’s cry was muffled as the men behind him knocked him to the ground beside his brother. The church inhabitants rushed the door to escape, screaming and fleeing in every direction to escape the bloody cathedral. Lorenzo gritted his teeth and locked eyes with his brother, who could only stare back in a panicked expression, wide-eyed and smattered red. Lorenzo felt the sharp points of daggers entering his back; however, his thick jerkin coat absorbed the brunt of the blade and succeeded in protecting his vital organs. Superficial cuts. Giuliano’s eyes rolled back in their sockets as he finally succumbed to the wounds.
Lorenzo sprung to action, fueled by a visceral rage. Using the bench as a shield, he rolled underneath until he was clear of the gang of assailants. Two men split from the group, following Lorenzo. He recognized their faces… Stefano da Bagnone and… Francesco de’Pazzi.
“Francesco!” Lorenzo thundered. His eyes narrowed. He reached along his waist for his stiletto… his fingers fumbling and finding only rolls of fabric.
My dagger is gone…
He had left his stiletto at the villa out of respect for the holy place. Lorenzo never kept his dagger on him at mass…They knew as well.
Lorenzo had failed to keep Padre’s promise. He wasn’t prepared…he had let his little brother die and now he was presently outnumbered. His rage grew like a fire inside. He found himself gripped with grief. No! Not Giuliano! Think, Lorenzo. Think strategically. He needed to draw the assailants to a place where he had an advantage.
“Lorenzo!”
He heard his name shouted from across the altar. Lorenzo looked over to find his dear friend, Poliziano, calling to him. “In here. Quickly!” he shouted.
Lorenzo didn’t think twice; he knew that Poliziano, his closest confidente and esteemed mentor, would risk his life to aid in hi
s escape. Surely he was to be trusted. After all, they were like brothers...
Lorenzo got to his feet and met Poliziano at the far end of the altar. They ducked into the Sacrestia delle Messe, a nearby prayer chamber, and shut the door. Poliziano drew a heavy plank across the entrance.
“Are you hurt?”
“I’ll manage,” Lorenzo replied. “… but Giuliano...”
“I know.” Poliziano placed his hand upon Lorenzo’s shoulder and hung his head. “I am sorry my brother… but you must leave. You can’t let them find you… Florence needs you.”
Lorenzo breathed heavily, a snarl crept across his face. “I will slaughter them!” he growled, slamming his fist against the wall. “Every one of them. I will avenge my brother’s death.”
Poliziano looked him in the eyes. “Lorenzo, remember your teachings. Think clearly… react prudently.”
Lorenzo nodded appreciatively, knowing his dear friend was right. He accepted Poliziano’s instruction with utmost regard.
Poliziano walked to the west end of the room and placed his hands along the ridges of an embroidered wooden panel depicting a cherub pointing downward. He pressed firmly along the outside frame and the panel gave way, revealing a dimly lit passageway.
“Now go!” Poliziano commanded.
“Thank you, brother,” Lorenzo replied. His determined expression softened as they grasped each other by the shoulder, locking arms in an act of friendship.
Poliziano nodded to the exposed doorway, urging him to flee.
Lorenzo released his grasp and ducked inside the small tunnel. He crept along the passageway which continued under the church floor a considerable distance. Outside, he could hear the town residents yelling frantically in the streets.
Palle! Palle! Palle!
This cry was a sign of reassurance to Lorenzo, for it was directly associated with his name. Like a warning toll, it was intended to spread awareness of imminent threat or danger to the family. It originated from the presence of palles on the family coat of arms. The cries throughout the streets were a testament to just how much Florence stood behind the Medici. Lorenzo found strength in the chants outside and continued crawling. Eventually, he emerged into a small partition covered by a rose aperture overhead. He reached his hands up and grabbed a release lever. He turned the lever and the doorway gave way to a larger room with a staircase leading up a square-shaped tower. As he emerged, he found himself inside Giotto’s bell tower. Lorenzo had heard that there were numerous secret passageways within the church but had never needed to use them. In this instance he welcomed them greatly.