“We are so sorry to disturb you,” Francesco de’ Pazzi said, his hands clasped in an apologetic gesture. “We have come at the behest of Ser Lorenzo. . . .”
Giuliano released a short sigh. “I understand. God knows, we must take care to please Lorenzo.” A glimmer of his old self returned, and he added with apparently genuine concern, “I only hope it is not too late to reassure the Cardinal that I hold him in the highest regard.”
“Yes,” Baroncelli said slowly. “Let us hope it is not too late. Mass has already started.”
“Let us go, then,” Giuliano said. He gestured for them to move back toward the entryway. As he lifted his arm, Baroncelli took note that Giuliano had dressed so hurriedly that he wore no sword at his hip.
Out they went, the three of them, into the bright morning.
The scowling man who had been waiting out in the loggia glanced up as Giuliano passed. “Ser Giuliano,” he called. “A word with you; it is most important.”
Giuliano looked over and clearly recognized him.
“The Cardinal,” Francesco urged frantically, then addressed the man himself. “Good man, Ser Giuliano is late for an urgent appointment and begs your understanding.” And with that, he took Giuliano by the arm and dragged him away down the Via Larga.
Baroncelli followed. He marveled that although he was still terrified, his hands no longer shook, and his heart and breath no longer failed him. Indeed, he and Francesco joked and laughed and played the role of good friends trying to cheer another. Giuliano smiled faintly at their efforts but lagged behind, so the two conspirators made a game of alternately pulling and pushing him along. “We must not keep the Cardinal waiting,” Baroncelli repeated at least thrice.
“Pray tell, good Giuliano,” Francesco said, catching the young man by his sleeve. “What has happened to make you sigh so? Surely your heart has not been stolen by some worthless wench?”
Giuliano lowered his gaze and shook his head—not in reply, but rather in indication that he did not wish to broach such matters. Francesco dropped the subject at once. Yet he never eased their pace, and within minutes, they arrived at the front entry of the Duomo.
Baroncelli paused. The thought of Giuliano moving so slowly, as though he were heavily laden, pricked at him. Feigning impulsiveness, he seized the young Medici and hugged him tightly. “Dear friend,” he said. “It troubles me to see you unhappy. What must we do to cheer you?”
Giuliano gave another forced little smile and a slight shake of his head. “Nothing, good Bernardo. Nothing.”
And he followed Francesco’s lead into the cathedral.
Baroncelli, meanwhile, had laid one concern to rest: Giuliano wore no breastplate beneath his tunic.
IV
On that late April morning, Giuliano faced a terrible decision: He must choose to break the heart of one of the two people he loved most in the world. One heart belonged to his brother, Lorenzo; the other, to a woman.
Though a young man, Giuliano had known many lovers. His former mistress, Simonetta Cattaneo, wife of Marco Vespucci, had been hailed as the most beautiful woman in Florence until her death two years ago. He had chosen Simonetta for her looks: She was fine-boned and fair, with masses of curling golden hair that fell far below her waist. So lovely was she that they had carried her to her grave with her face exposed. Out of deference to the husband and family, Giuliano had watched from a distance, but he had wept with them.
Even so, he had never been faithful. He had dallied with other women and occasionally he had reveled in the talents of whores.
Now, for the first time in his life, Giuliano desired only one woman: Anna. She was handsome, to be sure, but it was her intelligence that had entrapped him, her delight in life, and the greatness of her heart. He had come to know her slowly, through conversation at banquets and parties. She had never flirted, never attempted to win him; indeed, she had done everything possible to discourage him. But none of the dozens of Florentine noblewomen who vied and simpered for his affections matched her. Simonetta had been vapid; Anna had the soul of a poet, a saint.
Her goodness made Giuliano see his former life as repugnant. He abandoned all other women and sought the company of only Anna, yearned to please only her. Just the sight of her made him want to beg her forgiveness for his past carnal indulgences. He longed for her grace more than God’s.
And it seemed like a miracle when she at last confided her feelings: that God had created them for each other, and that it was His cruelest joke that she was already given to another man.
As passionate as Anna’s love for him was, her love of purity and decency was even greater. She belonged to another, whom she refused to betray. She admitted her feelings for Giuliano, but when he cornered her alone during Carnival at his brother’s house and begged for her, she rejected him. Duty, she had said. Responsibility. She had sounded like Lorenzo, who had always insisted his brother make an advantageous match and marry a woman who would add even more prestige to the family.
Giuliano, accustomed to having whatever he wanted, tried to bargain his way around it. He pleaded with her to at least come to him in private—simply to hear him out. She wavered, but then agreed. They had met once, in the ground-floor appartamento at the Medici palazzo. She had indulged in his embraces, his kiss, but would go no further. He had begged her to leave Florence, to go away with him, but she had refused.
“He knows.” Her voice had been anguished. “Do you understand? He knows, and I cannot bear to hurt him any longer.”
Giuliano was a determined man. Neither God nor societal convention gave him pause once he had made up his mind. For Anna, he was willing to give up the prospect of a respectable marriage; for Anna, he was willing to endure the censure of the Church, even excommunication and the prospect of damnation.
And so he had made a forceful argument: She should go with him to Rome, to stay in a family villa. The Medici had papal connections; he would procure for her an annulment. He would marry her. He would give her children.
She had been torn, had put her hands to her lips. He looked in her eyes and saw the misery there, but he also saw a flicker of hope.
“I don’t know; I don’t know,” she had said, and he had let her return to her husband to make her decision.
The next day, he had gone to Lorenzo.
He had wakened early and been unable to return to sleep. It was still dark—two hours before sunrise—but he was not surprised to see light emanating from his brother’s antechamber. Lorenzo sat at his desk with his cheek propped against his fist, scowling down at a letter he held close to the glowing lamp.
Normally Lorenzo would have looked up, would have forced away the frown to smile, to utter a greeting; that day, however, he seemed in uncommonly ill sorts. No greeting came; Lorenzo gave him a cursory glance, then looked back at the letter. Its contents were apparently the cause of his bad humor.
Lorenzo could be maddeningly stubborn at times, overly concerned with appearances, coldly calculating when it came to politics, and at times dictatorial concerning how Giuliano should comport himself and with whom he should allow himself to be seen. But he could also be enormously indulgent, generous, and sensitive to his younger brother’s wishes. Although Giuliano had never desired power, Lorenzo always shared information with him, always discussed with him the political ramifications of every civic event. It was clear that Lorenzo loved his brother deeply and would gladly have shared control of the city with him, had Giuliano ever shown an interest.
It had been hard enough for Lorenzo to lose his father and to be forced to assume power when so young. True, he had the talent for it, but Giuliano could see it wore on him. After nine years, the strain showed. Permanent creases had established themselves on his brow; shadows had formed beneath his eyes.
A part of Lorenzo reveled in the power and delighted in extending the family’s influence. The Medici Bank had branches in Rome, in Bruges, in most of the greater cities of Europe. Yet Lorenzo was often exhausted by the d
emands of playing the gran maestro. At times, he complained, “Not a soul in the city will marry without my blessing.” Quite true. And that very week, he had received a letter from a congregation in rural Tuscany, begging for his advice: The church fathers had approved the creation of a saint’s statue; two sculptors were vying for the commission. Would the great Lorenzo be so kind as to give his opinion? Such missives piled up in great stacks each day; Lorenzo rose before dawn and answered them in his own hand. He fretted over Florence as a father would over a wayward child, and spent every waking moment dedicated to furthering her prosperity and the Medici interests.
But he was keenly aware that no one loved him, save for the favors he could bestow. Only Giuliano adored his brother truly, for himself. Only Giuliano tried to make Lorenzo forget his responsibilities; only Giuliano could make him laugh. For that, Lorenzo loved him fiercely.
And it was the repercussions of that love Giuliano feared.
Now, staring at his distracted brother, Giuliano straightened and cleared his throat. “I am going,” he said, rather loudly, “to Rome.”
Lorenzo lifted his brows and his gaze, but the rest of him did not stir. “On pleasure, or on some business I should acquaint myself with?”
“I am going with a woman.”
Lorenzo sighed; his frown eased. “Enjoy yourself, then, and think of me suffering here.”
“I am going with Madonna Anna,” Giuliano said.
Lorenzo jerked his head sharply at the name. “You’re joking.” He said it lightly, but as he stared at Giuliano, his expression grew incredulous. “You must be joking.” His voice fell to a whisper. “This is foolishness. . . . Giuliano, she is from a good family. And she is married.”
Giuliano did not quail. “I love her. I won’t be without her. I’ve asked her to go with me to Rome, to live.”
Lorenzo’s eyes widened; the letter slipped from his hand and fluttered to the floor, but he did not retrieve it. “Giuliano . . . Our hearts mislead us all, from time to time. You’re enthralled by an emotion; believe me, I understand. But it will ease. Give yourself a fortnight to re-think this idea.”
Lorenzo’s paternal, dismissive tone only strengthened Giuliano’s resolve. “I’ve already arranged the carriage and driver, and sent a message to the servants at the Roman villa to prepare for us. We must seek an annulment,” he said. “I don’t say this lightly. I want to marry Anna. I want her to bear my children.”
Lorenzo leaned back in his chair and stared intently at his brother, as if trying to judge whether he were an impostor. When he was satisfied that the words had been meant, Lorenzo let go a short, bitter laugh. “An annulment? Courtesy of our good friend Pope Sixtus, I suppose? He would prefer to see us banished from Italy.” He pushed himself away from his desk, rose, and reached for his brother; his tone softened. “This is a fantasy, Giuliano. I understand that she is a marvelous woman, but . . . she has been married for some years. Even if I could arrange for an annulment, it would create a scandal. Florence would never accept it.”
Lorenzo’s hand was almost on his shoulder; Giuliano shifted it back, away from the conciliatory touch. “I don’t care what Florence will or won’t accept. We’ll remain in Rome, if we have to.”
Lorenzo emitted a sharp sigh of frustration. “You’ll get no annulment from Sixtus. So give up your romantic ideals: If you can’t live without her, have her—but for God’s sake, do so discreetly.”
Giuliano flared. “How can you speak of her like that? You know Anna; you know she would never stoop to deception. And if I can’t have her, I won’t have any other woman. You can stop all your match-making efforts right now. If I can’t marry her—”
Even as he spoke, he felt his argument fail. Lorenzo’s eyes were filled with a peculiar light—furious and fierce, verging on madness—a light that made Giuliano think his brother was capable of malevolence. He had seen such a look in Lorenzo’s eyes only rarely—never before had it been directed at him—and it chilled him.
“You’ll do what? Refuse to marry anyone at all?” Lorenzo shook his head vehemently; his voice grew louder. “You have a duty, an obligation to your family. You think you can go to Rome on a whim, pass our blood on to a litter of bastards? You would stain us with excommunication? Because that’s what would happen, you know—to both of you! Sixtus is in no mood to be generous to us.”
Giuliano said nothing; the flesh on his cheeks and neck burned. He had expected no less, though he had hoped for more.
Lorenzo continued; the hand that had reached for his brother now became a jabbing, accusatory finger. “Do you have any idea of what will happen to Anna? What people will call her? She’s a decent woman, a good woman. Do you really want to ruin her? You’ll take her to Rome and grow tired of her. You’ll want to come home to Florence. And what will she have left?”
Angry words scalded Giuliano’s tongue. He wanted to say that although Lorenzo had married a harridan, he, Giuliano, would rather die than live in such loveless misery, that he would never stoop to fathering children upon a woman he despised. But he remained silent; he was unhappy enough. There was no point in making Lorenzo suffer the truth, too.
Lorenzo emitted a growl of disgust. “You’ll never do it. You’ll come to your senses.”
Giuliano looked at him a long moment. “I love you, Lorenzo,” he said quietly. “But I am going.” He turned and moved to the door.
“Leave with her,” his brother threatened, “and you can forget that I am your brother. Don’t imagine I am joking, Giuliano. I’ll have nothing more to do with you. Leave with her, and you’ll never see me again.”
Giuliano looked back over his shoulder at Lorenzo and was suddenly afraid. He and his older brother did not joke with each other when they discussed important matters—and neither could be swayed when he had made up his mind. “Please don’t make me choose.”
Lorenzo’s jaw was set, his gaze cold. “You’ll have to.”
Later, in the evening, Giuliano had waited in Lorenzo’s ground-floor apartment until it was time to meet Anna. He had spent the entire day contemplating Lorenzo’s comment about how she would be ruined if she went to Rome. For the first time, he permitted himself to consider what Anna’s life would be like if the Pope refused to grant an annulment.
She would know disgrace and censure; she would be forced to give up her family, her friends, her native city. Her children would be called bastards and be denied their inheritance as Medici heirs.
He had been selfish. He had been thinking only of himself when he made the offer to Anna. He had spoken too easily of the annulment, in hopes that it would sway her to go with him. And he had not, until that moment, considered that she might reject his offer; the possibility had seemed too painful to contemplate.
Now he realized that it would save him from making an agonizing choice.
But when he went to meet her at the door and saw her face in the dying light, he saw that his choice had been long ago made, at the moment when he gave his heart to Anna. Her eyes, her skin, her face and limbs exuded joy; even in the shadowy dusk, she shone. Her movements, which had once been slow, weighed down by unhappy consequence, were now agile and light. The exuberant tilt of her head as she looked up at him, the faint smile that bloomed on her lips, the swift grace with which she lifted her skirts and rushed to him, relayed her answer more clearly than words.
Her presence breathed such hope into him that he moved quickly to her and held her, and let it infuse him. In that instant, Giuliano realized that he could refuse her nothing, that neither of them could escape the turning of the wheel now set in motion. And the tears that threatened him did not spring from joy; they were tears of grief, for Lorenzo.
He and Anna remained together less than an hour; they spoke little—only enough for Giuliano to convey a time, and a place. No other exchange was needed.
And when she was gone again—taking the light and Giuliano’s confidence with her—he went back to his own chamber and called for wine. He drank it
sitting on his bed and recalled, with exquisite clarity, an incident from childhood.
. . .
At age six, he had gone with Lorenzo and two of his older sisters, Nannina and Bianca, for a picnic on the shores of the Arno. Attended by a Circassian slave woman, they had traveled by carriage across the Ponte Vecchio, the bridge built a millennium before by the Romans. Nannina had been captivated by the goldsmiths’ shops that lined the bridge; soon to be married, she was already interested in womanly things.
Lorenzo had been restless and glum. He had just begun to take on the Medici responsibilities; the year before, he had begun receiving letters asking for his patronage, and their father, Piero, had already sent his eldest son to Milan and Rome on politically motivated trips. He was a homely boy, with wide-set slanting eyes, a jutting jaw, and soft brown hair that fell in a neatly trimmed fringe across a pale, low forehead; yet the sensitive intelligence that shone in those eyes made him oddly attractive.
They made their way to the pastoral neighborhood of Santo Spirito. Giuliano recalled tall trees, and a sweeping grass lawn that sloped down to the placid river. There, the slave woman set a linen cloth on the ground and brought out food for the children. It was late spring, warm with a few lazy clouds, though the day before it had rained. The river Arno was quicksilver when the sun struck it, leaden when it did not.
Lorenzo’s sullenness that day made Giuliano sad. It seemed to him that their father was too intent on making Lorenzo an adult before his time. So, to make him laugh, Giuliano had run down to the riverbank, gleefully ignoring the slave’s outraged threats, and stomped, splashing, into the water fully clothed.
His antics worked; Lorenzo followed, laughing, tunic, mantle, slippers, and all. By this time, Nannina, Bianca, and the slave were all shouting their disapproval. Lorenzo ignored them. He was a strong swimmer, and soon made his way quite a distance from the shore, then dove beneath the waters.