“And who are these beings who are going to devour us?” Mauricio asked, finding Marsilio Ficino’s reflection somewhat out of his reach.
“Demons, when one allows oneself to be swayed by anger or intolerant criticism toward other human beings,” answered Marsilio in a gentle, kind voice. “I think these infernal bodies feed off our base passions and try by every means at their disposal to make us addicted to them.”
“In that case, I hope that the demons are having a feast with the Pazzi and the rest of the conspirators,” Mauricio said, bringing the conversation to a terrain in which he felt more at ease.
The ideas circulating around the table were completely unpredictable, strange, and often fascinating; however they were so alien to the tradition in which he had been raised that Mauricio preferred not to venture into unknown territories. Judging by the familiarity with which they treated each other, the three men were friends. Lorenzo was enjoying the commentaries of both guests, without seeming to mind their scorn for the delicious meat his cook had prepared. In fact, Lorenzo seemed to catch their eye with a certain look of complicity in which Mauricio thought he detected a secret amusement when some of their opinions disconcerted him. Perhaps, though, these half smiles were provoked by him using the linen tablecloth to wipe his hands instead of the blue napkins the others were using. In his home, they had always wiped their hands with the tablecloth, should there be one, but he had to admit that the one covering this table was perhaps too fine to soil. It was best to do as the others by wiping his greasy fingers on the blue napkins.
“Let them rot in hell!” intervened Lorenzo, his relaxed face suddenly becoming stern, “And lest anyone forget the fate that awaits Satan’s servants, I have decided that their death throes shall be witnessed daily by the whole city. With that objective in mind, their deaths shall be painted life-size on the Bargello’s walls. I want the whole world to observe how Florence deals with her traitors.”
“If you wish to portray the full horror of the execution in detail, you would be hard put to find a painter more observant of reality than Maestro Leonardo,” suggested Marsilio.
“My good friends,” said Lorenzo feigning innocence, “it will not be I who shall decide the hand that executes the work. If my proposal is accepted, it is the Council of Eight who will choose the most suitable painter. And although I know Leonardo’s extraordinary qualities better than anyone, we should not be surprised if they opt for Sandro Botticelli. You all know the enormous affection Sandro professed toward my brother, Giuliano. Perhaps the Eight, aware of this brotherly bond, will prefer Sandro in the end, who is also a great painter.”
“And a great friend of yours … as I am honored to be as well,” added Leonardo.
Mauricio could not help taking great pleasure at the subtleties of the remarks. Reading between the lines, Lorenzo had said that the commission would go to Sandro Botticelli. Nevertheless, he had only expressed this as a mere possibility that was not for him to decide, while singing Leonardo’s praises at the same time. The latter was aware that behind the Eight stretched the long arm of Il Magnifico, and had suggested that Sandro would be chosen, being more of a friend. But in the end, he affirmed quite the contrary: both were equally friends. Mauricio had heard all about Florentine diplomatic daggers, able to kill with their praises and smiles. If this is what happened between friends …
“We shall see what comes about,” Marsilio intervened. “The only certainty is that Leonardo will not lack ideas or projects. In fact, just before our meal he was describing the ingenious way by which he was thinking of lifting the baptistery from the ground, without harming it, so as to place it upon some scaffolding.”
Marsilio had managed to change the subject. Lorenzo was now smiling again. It was obvious that these men were friends and that Il Magnifico had organized the meal so as to be able to relax from the enormous tension he was living under since his brother’s death.
“Yes, it certainly is a good idea,” Leonardo confirmed. “The baptistery of Saint John would be placed on the same level as the cathedral, thus enhancing the overall aesthetic appearance, while at the same time protecting it from the regular flooding of the River Arno.
“Fortunately, I am not the person to approve this project either,” said Il Magnifico. “If anyone is capable of raising the baptistery into the air and depositing it gently on a framework of planks, it is you. But were anything unfortunate to occur and the oldest church in the city were to be seriously damaged, both he who had proposed the idea and he who had approved it would have to leave Florence in a wooden box.”
“One could say you’re happy to have such a small margin of decision,” Leonardo pointed out ironically.
“I feel happy to live in a republic where public affairs are decided by responsible people elected democratically, and where the common citizen is able to decide about his own personal property. That being said,” he added with a wink, “this does not mean that I lack powers of decision or that I am ungenerous.”
“Knowing you, I would say that you are going to make us party to an announcement,” predicted Marsilio.
“Indeed I am,” continued Il Magnifico. “We have known each other for a long time and I regard you as my friends. But is it time that forges friendship, or rather a spiritual affinity that binds men that has nothing to do with the passing of the years. Isn’t it the case that when we meet a true friend whom we have not seen for many weeks, months, years even, we are soon talking with him as if we had never been parted? And surely Mauricio must be the best example of how friendship only requires a few brief moments for two friends to recognize each other?”
“You know full well, Lorenzo, that your grandfather Cosimo entrusted me to translate the books of Plato from Greek into Latin so that cultured men in Europe could finally read his works. I also had the privilege of initiating you into his teachings and therefore I am well aware of your devotion to that illustrious philosopher. Therefore, I do implore you not to wallow in your own oratorical skills by emulating Plato’s rhetorical questions and reveal without delay the news that is lurking in that mind of yours.”
“In other words, get to the point,” chuckled Leonardo.
Mauricio and all those present burst out laughing at Leonardo’s intervention. He apologized between giggles for his lack of tact, alleging that although he had been taught a great deal of practical knowledge, he had not received an adequate humanistic education. Therefore, he possessed the unfortunate habit of condensing into one word what a philosopher could spend a whole day rationalizing.
“I accept your apology,” said Lorenzo, a smile still playing on his lips, “in exchange for not having to endure any more interruptions. My announcement is very simple: I want to publicly thank Mauricio for saving my life; for this reason, I’m going to make him an offer for his ring, an offer far superior to any figure he could have imagined even in his wildest dreams. But I shall not accept no for an answer, for since the attack perpetrated upon me I sleep every night with the ring, which I consider to be the talisman that protects me.”
Mauricio looked expectantly at Lorenzo. What would this fabulous offer be? Would it enable him to live like a wealthy, distinguished man for the rest of his days with no need to earn his daily bread with the sweat of his brow? Il Magnifico kept a theatrical silence. He obviously loved being the center of attention. At last he spoke.
“I offer you the chance to become a partner of our tavola, the Medici Bank of Florence, with rights to five percent of annual profits and taking up the post of assistant manager, after an initial period of training, with an annual salary of 200 florins. I shall also take care of your residence. For the moment, you will have lodgings in my palace for a year, a location that is not only comfortable and safe, but convenient for learning everything worth knowing in Florence.”
Lorenzo looked at the assembly, knowing he had left them speechless. Mauricio’s brain was working faster than ever before. The offer was indeed fabulous and far exceeded all his ca
lculations, but was it a reality or merely stardust? If Lorenzo’s enemies were to prove successful, which seemed highly likely, what would become of the proposal? It would end in ruins. If the Medici regime were to fall, they would go bankrupt and would be worth less than a florin. One did not have to look far to find similar cases. The incalculable fortune of the Pazzi had evaporated like morning dew in a matter of hours. Their businesses and properties had passed into the hands of other families, supposedly creditors of the Pazzi. Whether these credits were real or simulated was irrelevant. Victory is avaricious when successful and shows no justice. Power is justice in itself. Mauricio knew this only too well. So he sought a way of rejecting the offer without seeming discourteous.
“I am overwhelmed by your generosity, but I cannot accept it. What you offer me is worth far more than what I am selling you. But friendship must not blind us from what is best for each of us. I lack the right education and experience in banking. For that reason, I would be perfectly content with a modest amount of money that would enable me to start up a textile business, as family tradition has made me knowledgeable about that kind of industry.”
Lorenzo’s face remained inscrutable. It was impossible to know if these words had been successful in convincing him.
“Two plus two?” he suddenly asked in Latin.
“Four,” answered Mauricio automatically, without stopping to think.
In spite of not having received a very thorough humanist education, nor having attended any university, he knew Latin as well as he knew arithmetic. In addition to the teachings he had received from his parish priest, his father had also gone to the expense of employing private tutors to instruct him in such matters. Full of enthusiasm, he had broadened his knowledge by voraciously devouring the works that Juan, his father’s bookseller, stocked on his handsome wooden shelves. The triumphant expression on Lorenzo’s face warned him that he had fallen into a sort of trap.
“You are too modest, Mauricio. You can add, you speak various languages, you have a serious business like the textile trade at your fingertips, and you even know how industrial espionage works.”
Il Magnifico paused for a moment and shot him a significant glance.
Mauricio instantly understood that Lorenzo was referring to secrets robbed by Sandro Tubaroni and used by his father to help his business prosper in Barcelona. How had he discovered this? Without having fully recovered from that surprise and blushing with embarrassment, Mauricio tried to defend himself.
“I have insufficient knowledge to work in banking,” he alleged. “I am ignorant when it comes to financial matters—they have never attracted me.”
Mauricio did not dare add something that also bothered him: usury, money lending to gain interest, was a terrible sin, condemned by the church. Was this not normal practice by banks even though they camouflaged it with complicated legal jargon?
“Don’t worry about any of that. You’ll gradually learn the ins and outs of the world of finance. What cannot be learned or taught is loyalty. And that is what I truly prize in these uncertain times. I cannot be in several places at once, but I can put my men of trust in places I consider suitable so as to see through their eyes. There will be time enough for me to explain the details. For now, all I want is for you to accept my proposal.”
“Lorenzo warned you he would not take no for an answer,” commented Leonardo ironically. Everyone laughed heartily except for Mauricio, who forced himself to smile.
10
Luca Albizzi inhaled the pungent odor of camphor permeating the main office of his palazzo, keeping the moths at bay with its emanations. If only it were that easy to rid himself of the bad thoughts that haunted him.
The conspiracy against Lorenzo had come to naught. The Pazzi had sown the seeds of their own misfortune by ignoring Renato’s strategy, the most intelligent member of the entire family. He knew full well that Lorenzo was brilliant in many ways, but a complete disaster where finances were concerned. Unlike his grandfather, Cosimo de Medici, he lacked the patience for the details that enable a bank to run with the precision of a well-oiled machine. Lorenzo was born to do everything on a grand scale: spectacular social gatherings, art in all its manifestations, high-level diplomacy. And all this required money, a lot of money, which Renato Pazzi had carried on generously lending him. With the generosity—he had been known to say—of someone presenting a man with the rope with which he will finally hang himself. Because the time would soon come when the Medici Bank, which had more debt than money in its safekeeping, would be unable to face its obligations and would be forced into bankruptcy. Then, the Medici would have inevitably lost all prestige, as well as the necessary support to stay in power. The Pazzi, with their flourishing finances, their international connections, and the backing of the pope, would easily rise to become the leaders of the city. And that was why Renato Pazzi had been opposed to the assassination of Lorenzo and his brother Giuliano and had requested a little more patience. The fruit was already so ripe that it was only a question of waiting for it to fall from the tree. They had not listened to him, and now all the important men of the Pazzi family were either dead or had been banished.
Once again Luca inhaled the smell of camphor imported from the far-off oriental lands of Cathay and let his mind wander toward happier thoughts. Although the coup d’état had failed, Lorenzo’s situation was very precarious. Confronted with more powerful enemies, his downfall seemed inevitable. Furthermore, the fall of the Pazzi provided Luca with an unexpected opportunity. Lorena Ginori had become free again. The union her parents had planned with Galeotto Pazzi had been broken. This young woman had become an extremely appetizing fruit on the bough he had been observing hungrily for some time now. She was an extremely desirable young woman and he had been observing her lustfully for many months. Her body had become shapely and womanly and her father had become extremely prosperous in the last few years. She was a perfect match, without a doubt. Aware that he was unable to compete with Galeotto Pazzi, he had kept a prudent silence concerning his intentions. Fortunately he was being given a new opportunity. If he played his cards right, Lorena would be his.
11
Lorena was radiant. At last her parents had forgiven her! They had been extremely angry that she had walked around the city without their permission on the very day it had erupted into violence and bloody conflict provoked by the Pazzi conspiracy. Their reaction was probably caused more by the fear of not knowing her whereabouts during those endless hours than by her actual rebellious escapade. But these considerations had not stopped them from punishing her for an indefinite time by not letting her leave the house. They had even forbidden her from going up to the terrace on the second floor, where she liked to watch people walking by and imagine, through their appearance and gestures, what went on in their lives.
The length of her confinement had seemed eternal to Lorena and she was consumed with a desire to walk around the streets again. She focused her energy on choosing her very best dress for the occasion. Going out to shop seemed to be the most exciting adventure she could possibly imagine. Noblemen, servants, merchants, artisans, knights, gangs of friends, and Brigati fraternities adorned with their cockades, all intermingled as if in some well-rehearsed ballet performed on a colorful stage: the markets and shops of the center of Florence. There, everything was possible. From the purchase of the most outlandish products recently imported from Asia, to listening to the shopkeepers’ latest city gossip. Cateruccia had told her that behind the doors of certain taverns, men and women would sit at wooden tables talking, drinking, and gambling. Naturally, she was strictly forbidden to enter such disreputable establishments. Nevertheless, no one could stop her from enjoying the street vendors from far-off cities, tempting people to buy their wares with ingenious performances and spectacles, or prohibit the admiring male glances that followed her as she walked. This was, without a doubt, what she enjoyed most. When some handsome youth caught her fancy she would reward him with a shy glance. She still reme
mbered the handsome, bold young man who, on a grey, overcast day, had exclaimed upon seeing her, “Today, the sun is hiding behind the clouds for it has grown pale at the sight of your beauty.” Lorena’s cheeks had flushed and her lips flickered with a smile. She had not answered of course, although she did wonder if she would see him again.
“That young man your father invited to lunch today seems nice,” Cateruccia said as she helped Lorena adjust her dress over her breasts, letting the folds fall down to the marble floor.
“Luca Albizzi?” replied Lorena. “He’s handsome, but there is something about him that makes me feel uneasy and it is not necessarily that pock-marked face of his nor the aquiline nose that reminds me of a bird of prey about to pounce on its victim.”
“A good sign, a good sign,” laughed Cateruccia. “Swarthy men with dark eyes tend to make you tingle when they are as virile as Luca.”
“You don’t understand,” replied Lorena. “I have a bad premonition as far as he is concerned. If I had any say, I would prefer not to see him again.”
“You know best. Undoubtedly your parents think the opposite. They were so overjoyed by Luca’s visit that they have lifted your punishment.”
A slight shiver ran through Lorena on hearing this comment, but she tried not to let it cloud her new-found happiness. Galeotto Pazzi, banished from Florence after the failed coup d’état, would never be her husband. Her brother Alessandro had forgiven her act of rebellion and had gone back to being as amiable and attentive with her as before. Even Maria, her little sister, had stopped showering her with questions that were as compromising as they were difficult to answer.
The Florentine Emerald: The Secret of the Convert's Ring Page 5