The Florentine Emerald: The Secret of the Convert's Ring

by Agustín Bernaldo Palatchi

  Making the most of the first chaotic hours following Piero’s flight from the city, the mob had burst into the Medici Palace, destroying and robbing everything in their path. Luca had also joined in the sacking of the palazzo, taking his revenge at last for so many years of humiliation. He had not restricted himself solely to causing damage either. At the instigation of Pietro Manfredi, he had searched for the fabulous jewel that Lorenzo used to wear on his ring finger. His enigmatic friend had promised him an astronomical sum of money if he managed to find it, but his search had proved fruitless. Luca consoled himself by remembering that at least he had stolen three small onyx cameos that were veritable works of art. He knew a Hebrew moneylender who would buy them without asking questions. Although he was not particularly fond of Jews, when it came to business deals one had to have friends, even if they were in hell.

  Anyway, today was a great day. The downfall of the accursed Medici meant the return of the exiles, starting with his own family, the noble Albizzi. An idea suddenly struck him, like a flash of lightning, filling him with immense pleasure: the Pazzi would now have the right to reclaim their old properties according to the laws that would soon be passed. And who lived in the old palazzo of Tommaso Pazzi but Lorena and Mauricio? When he eventually occupied a position of power in the new government, he would have free rein to take action.

  Hidden around the corner, a group of French soldiers shook him out of his happy reverie. There were a dozen of them and all they were doing was observing the unruly crowd swirling along the street. Fortunately the Signoria had convinced the king of France not to take sides with Piero de Medici after assuring him that it was an internal matter that only concerned Florence and would in no way change what had already been agreed upon. Had it been otherwise, it could have provoked a veritable bloodbath. However, it did mean that the foreign troops would be occupying the city within a very few days. His mansion had been marked with chalk, which meant he would be obliged to give lodgings to various soldiers. His great plans would have to be put on hold until the French left Florence peacefully. Luca prayed to God for this to come true.

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  Florence

  November 17, 1494

  Florence was decked out like a bride awaiting her loved one. Under the Signoria’s orders, all citizens were obliged to be in the streets in order to applaud the triumphant entrance of Charles VIII, king of France. Acrobats on stilts appeared to be walking on air above the heads of the multitude crowding into the piazzas. Other tumblers, wearing masks, stalked around on tall wooden poles that were hidden by long robes, making them appear like giants. Mobile platforms mounted on wooden wheels had been placed in the streets. Biblical scenes were portrayed on them in which Noah’s Ark, replete with animals, seemed to predominate. This theme had been chosen by the artists because Savonarola had been warning the Florentines for weeks that their situation was similar to the one the patriarch had found himself in before the great flood and that they would only be saved if they were capable of building a mystic ark within their own selves.

  Making an exception from the austere way of dressing imposed by Savonarola’s influence, the Signoria had announced that it would be appropriate for the Florentines to display their finest clothes in order to receive the French monarch with all due dignity. Lorena had chosen a brocade gown interwoven with silver depicting an intricate pattern of flowers. The baby she was carrying was less than three months old so she was still able to wear this spectacular outfit without discomfort. She felt as beautiful as the city, perhaps even more so, and would have enjoyed the day had it not been for the sad circumstances in which they found themselves. The French king was not Florence’s lover, but very possibly her potential executioner and Mauricio was still acting strangely. Today she had found it difficult to convince him to go out into the streets even though it was a direct order from the Signoria. She finally succeeded, arguing that should there be any disturbances he would be there to protect the children. In reality, she doubted that being in the state he was, he would be of much help should anything untoward occur, but it was better for him to make the effort rather than take refuge in the house. In fact, Lorena felt reassured, because Carlo, the burly cook they had hired a year ago, was accompanying them. Cateruccia also felt happy he was there for love had blossomed between them and they had recently married.

  Agostino and Simonetta, her two eldest children, were involved in a heated discussion about the significance of the two great columns displaying the French coat of arms that had been erected outside the entrance of the Medici Palace. Alexandra, who was only seven years old, watched the street spectacle firmly perched on Carlo’s broad shoulders, wide-eyed with wonder.

  The royal procession was now beginning to approach the front steps of the Duomo, near the strategic spot Lorena and her family had chosen to best contemplate such an important event. The neighing of the horses and the clatter of hooves on the cobblestones blended with enthusiastic shouts of “Long live France!” coming from the spectators. The number of soldiers on horseback seemed endless, but finally the king appeared, accompanied by dozens of attendants attired in elegant livery. Now the street resounded even more loudly with shouts of “Long live France! Long live the king!” Nearby, a woman fainted, overcome with emotion. She may have been a fervent admirer of Savonarola. The majority of Florentines considered the popular preacher to be a real prophet, for he had predicted the arrival of the king of France into the Italian peninsula and had described him as an envoy sent by God to purify their sins. Lorena was more skeptical where Savonarola was concerned. Yes, it was true that he had predicted the death of Lorenzo, but surely he knew how gravely ill he was. And as for the French invasion, preparations had been going on for a long time to cross the Alps, amid intense diplomatic activity that involved much coming and going of ambassadors between Florence and France.

  In any case, when the king of France finally dismounted, Lorena knew with absolute certainty that this man could not possibly be an envoy of God. About twenty years old, his countenance was ugly and his body rather deformed. His forehead was low and narrow and his eyes pallid and short-sighted. His aquiline nose was so disproportionately large that it seemed to want to reach the ground. His lips were sensual, but his chin was weak. Small of stature, his walk was unsteady as if he had a slight limp. Lorena also noticed that his hands moved nervously, shaken by spasms.

  Was this unfortunate man an emissary of God, destined to wash away the sins of Italy? If that were so, the Lord availed himself of the most ridiculous instruments so as to better humiliate his sinners. Lorena thought that the crown of France lay far too heavily on this poor youth’s head, however much his golden armor glowed, bathed by the last rays of sunshine. However, the ways of the Lord were mysterious and the sad truth was that they were all in the hands of the young man who so awkwardly walked up the steps of the Duomo. At the very moment he went through the doors of the cathedral, Lorena crossed herself.

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  As soon as he returned home, Mauricio sat down in his drawing room and anxiously gulped down a goblet of wine. The royal cavalcade had finished and the French soldiers who were going to lodge with them could arrive at any moment. He did not have the strength to receive them in much the same way he was unable to face even the most minor task these days. True enough that Piero de Medici’s downfall and the arrival of the French troops constituted very bad news, but Mauricio knew that the real reason for his deplorable state lay somewhere else. It had now been several weeks since he had not only lost his joy for living but also his capacity for dealing with everyday situations. In fact, during this time he had felt unable to go to the workshop or the artisans’ houses where the textiles were woven. Even having to attend any kind of meeting seemed an uphill struggle, to such an extent that he had cancelled quite a few. Talking to people, making the effort to be friendly or standing up to somebody in an argument, were all situations he preferred to avoid. Mauricio noticed his body was exaggeratedly tense and that he was bre
athing in short gasps. He felt a great fear deep inside himself. He had even suffered recurring nightmares in which he was attempting to hide but always ended up being discovered. He would wake up trembling, but never managed to remember who was hunting him down or why he was hiding.

  Cateruccia announced that the soldiers had arrived. Mauricio drained a last drink and slowly rose. As he received them, he noticed with surprise that they were not French, but Swiss mercenaries. This was obvious from the white cross stitched on their livery. He was shocked that the three soldiers were carrying halberds, their six-feet-high shafts topped by axe-shaped sharp blades. Nor were the enormous swords dangling behind their leather belts particularly reassuring. The mercenaries introduced themselves extremely politely, but Mauricio could not ignore the fact that they posed a grave threat. His reaction was to try and disguise his fear beneath an inscrutable expression.

  In a strange mixture of Catalan and Provencal Occitan, Mauricio managed to communicate with the mercenaries. Using gestures and slowly spoken sentences, he showed them the kitchen where they would be eating with the household servants. Afterward, they went upstairs to the second floor where he showed them the room they would be sharing during the length of the occupation. After some discussion, they had decided to install them in their son Agostino’s room and had prepared three beds to that effect. Obviously, Agostino would not be sleeping with them but in the bedroom of his two sisters. For safety’s sake, Cateruccia would sleep beside their children, accompanied by her husband Carlo who had brought up a large kitchen knife in order to defend themselves if necessary. Observing the mercenaries, Mauricio fervently prayed that no incidents should occur, for although all the servants had a plentiful supply of weapons in their room, none of them had ever been trained to fight. The Swiss soldiers, on the other hand, had made the art of killing their fellow man a means of earning a livelihood. And so it was that although he had kept the key to the soldiers’ room with the idea of locking them in at night if the situation required it, Mauricio had no reasons for optimism were any violent dispute to flare up.

  The mercenaries thanked him for his hospitality and asked if they could eat something. With a gesture of his hand, Mauricio told them to accompany him. They followed him after leaving their halberds casually in the room. When they reached the kitchen, Mauricio told them to ask Carlo, the cook, for whatever they wanted.

  Afterward, he returned to the drawing room, helped himself to another goblet of wine and tried to relax. A short while later, his wife woke him up, telling him it was time to retire to their room.

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  If coincidences have any meaning, the death of Pico della Mirandola on the very same day that the king of France occupied Florence, signaled the demise of the world that Lorena had so dearly loved. The apocalyptic visions of Savonarola had become an undeniable reality for the Florentines, while the humanism so encouraged by Lorenzo de Medici was reviled by even his oldest and most staunch defenders.

  It was Pico della Mirandola who had set man in the center of the universe, arguing that having not been created as an angel or an animal, a devil or a God, neither earthly or celestial, he therefore possessed the freedom to transform himself into whatever he wished. Unlike all other earthly creatures, predestined not to change their natures, Pico believed that man’s dignity was the result of being unconstrained by any boundaries whatsoever, thus being able to fly even higher than angels or fall lower than beasts. That prince of peace and understanding had also been the most brilliant advocate of a Christianity that was capable of integrating the Greek mysteries, Egyptian wisdom, and the occult traditions of Judaism, claiming they all reflected the same image of God. His thesis having been condemned by the church, he was arrested by the pope. It was only through Lorenzo’s personal intercession that he was able to leave prison and establish himself in Florence under his protection.

  However, the decline of Il Magnifico in conjunction with Savonarola’s rise had started corroding the humanistic structure that aspired to cement in the past the compressed present and the leap into the future. Pico della Mirandola himself had recanted his theories, given away his valuable properties, and had entered the Dominicans, the order to which Girolamo Savonarola, Lorenzo’s arch enemy, also belonged. Botticelli was also now ashamed of his pagan paintings and eagerly devoted himself to depicting pious religious scenes. Marsilio Ficino, the soul of the Platonic Academy, had prudently opted to retire in solitude to his villa in Careggi. Ángelo Poliziano, a personal friend of Lorenzo and one of the finest writers in Europe, had died two months before the prince of concord. Paolo del Pazo Toscanelli, Luigi Pulzi, Ermolao Barbaro, and many other eminent humanists whom Lorenzo loved, were now no longer in the land of the living. The silent cemetery of Florence was now the only place where the Academy could celebrate its old reunions.

  However, what truly worried Lorena was not the decline of philosophy and the arts, but the emotional wreck her husband had become. Mauricio was suffering an unusual sickness of the soul that made him unable to tackle the new times they were living through and because of this, was putting his whole family at risk. What strange thoughts were going through his mind? Where was this invisible wound, constantly suppurating and robbing him of his light-heartedness? What did her husband really feel? Fear? Desperation? Anguish? And why?

  Lorena desperately needed to know, but her husband gave her so few leads to follow that he was like an iron-bound chest locked with seven keys. It was precisely one key, which belonged to Mauricio’s desk, which might be capable of opening the hidden secrets of his heart. Her husband, following Lorenzo’s example, would often spend long hours writing in his study. Exchanging correspondence, a widespread practice much appreciated by men of culture, now occupied a large part of Mauricio’s time, but from his pen also flowed songs, poems, light-hearted tales that were much appreciated by his children … but also something else. Lorena knew that her husband jotted down all his most intimate feelings in a private diary.

  At any other time she would have felt it was disloyal to betray her husband’s confidence, but not under these circumstances. Mauricio, inebriated by wine, was snoring laboriously on the bed, without having found the strength to take off his boots. Underground currents lie hidden under the surface before suddenly bursting out, Lorena reflected, much like her husband’s inexplicable reactions. It was therefore perfectly legitimate to go exploring into forbidden territory, if by doing so she could avoid a catastrophe.

  She left the room with her husband’s keys and an oil lamp. The hallway she knew so well remained silent and plunged in darkness. Facing her, separated by the open space of the interior courtyard, was the room that housed the Swiss mercenaries. The door was firmly shut and the room was silent. Trusting that the day’s events and the watered-down wine that had been served at supper would be sufficient to send them into a deep sleep, Lorena continued walking. She was terrified at the thought of the mercenaries waking up to find her wandering alone around the house, while her husband lay helplessly in bed. The shadows cast on the wall by the lamp seemed harbingers of menace, her legs were shaking, and her heart was beating harder than she ever thought was possible. Trying to overcome her fear, Lorena concentrated on walking as slowly and as softly as she used to do as a little girl when she eavesdropped her parents’ conversations.

  The door to the study was ajar. Lorena entered silently, put the lamp on the table, lit a white candle, and commended herself to the Virgin of the Rocks. On the wall above the desk, a sanguine drawing of the virgin by Leonardo da Vinci seemed to be reassuring her with her hand. Lorena would have preferred to have had a painting of her wedding day instead of this very handsome sketch. However, after his triumphant return from Naples, Lorenzo was so overwhelmed by all the debts he had incurred that he had not commissioned Leonardo to go ahead with the wedding present he had promised. The brilliant artist, well aware of Il Magnifico’s financial difficulties, had chosen to leave Florence and find better luck by entering the services of th
e Duke Ludovico Sforza of Milan.

  Slowly taking her eyes away from the Virgin of the Rocks, Lorena fitted the key into one of the desk drawers. Her attention was immediately caught by the sight of a vellum notebook, shut tight with a small loop attached to a wooden toggle. On calfskin parchment, her husband’s elegant handwriting had expressed in blue ink what were perhaps his most intimate thoughts and secrets.

  Lorena returned to her bedroom just before dawn broke. Mauricio’s diary had moved her deeply. Her husband loved her with the most devoted passion, of that there was not the slightest doubt. The narrative of his life, contained in the notebook, expressed this in every imaginable way. What was surprising was that Mauricio not only described his daily experiences, but also transcribed his emotions in the form of poems or fragments of dreams. Furthermore, displaying the most exquisite sensibility, he sometimes described the events of the day as seen through her eyes or those of one of their children. The result was a vibrant epic story in which love, beauty, strife, and the mystery of God all combined to overflow with the joy of life.

  Where, then, was this death wish that was infecting Mauricio’s soul hiding? It was impossible to know. During the periods in which her husband had suffered his strange crises he had not written a single line, therefore there was not the slightest reference to the robbery at his country villa or any other problem of which Lorena might be unaware. Was it possible, then, to fight against an invisible enemy?

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  Feeling desperate, Lorena went early the next morning to the Sant’Ambrogio district to talk to Sofia, the woman who had so often helped in the past when life had confronted Lorena with challenges that were beyond her powers of understanding. Lorena was afraid as she crossed the city, after the first night of occupation by foreign troops. Trying to pass unnoticed, she was swathed in a shabby woolen garment and wore a veil on her head, the sort of clothes much approved of by followers of Savonarola. Thanks be to God, dawn had broken in Florence without any major incident during the night and a calm yet tense atmosphere reigned. Although foreign soldiers were to be seen patrolling the streets, none of them seemed to be causing problems. King Charles, having received reports of the recent uprising against Piero de Medici, must have concluded that the Florentines were a spirited lot, ready to take up arms at the slightest offence, and had warned his soldiers that any incident would be harshly punished. Either way, Lorena reached the shop owned by Sofia’s husband without being bothered by anyone. She found her friend in the storeroom where the various herbs, spices, and potions were kept and later sold in the establishment. After Lorena helped her to unpack some boxes, Sofia offered to listen to her.