Painting Mona Lisa aka I, Mona Lisa

III

In the stark, massive Cathedral of Santa Maria del Fiore, Bernardo Bandini Baroncelli stood before the altar and fought to steady his shaking hands. He could not, of course-no more than he could hide the blackness in his heart from God. He pressed palms and fingers together in a gesture of prayer and held them to his lips. Voice unsteady, he whispered, pleading for the success of the dark venture in which he found himself entangled, pleading for forgiveness should it succeed.

I am a good man. Baroncelli directed the thought to the Almighty. I have always meant others well. How did I come to find myself here?

No answer came. Baroncelli fixed his gaze on the altar, fashioned of dark wood and gold. Through the stained-glass windows in the cupola, the morning light streamed down in golden rays, glittering with dust as they glinted off the golden fixtures. The sight evoked unsullied Eden. Surely God was here, but Baroncelli sensed no divine presence, only his own wickedness.

“God forgive me, a most miserable sinner,” he murmured. His quiet prayer mingled with the hundreds of hushed voices inside the cavernous Church of Saint Mary of the Flower-in this case, a lily. The sanctuary was one of the largest in the world, and built in the shape of a Latin cross. Atop the juncture of the arms rested the architect Brunelleschi’s greatest achievement: il Duomo. Dazzling in its sheer expanse, the huge dome had no apparent means of support. Visible from any part of the city, the orange brick cupola majestically dominated the skyline and had, like the lily, become a symbol of Florence. It stretched so high that when he first set eyes upon it, Baroncelli thought it surely touched the Gates of Heaven.

Baroncelli dwelled in a far lower realm this particular morning. Though the plan had seemed simple enough to be foolproof, now the painfully bright day had dawned, he was overwhelmed with foreboding and regret. The latter emotion had always marked his life: Born into one of the city’s wealthiest and most eminent families, he had squandered his fortune and fallen into debt at an advanced age. He had spent his life as a banker and knew nothing else. His only choices were to move wife and children down to Naples and beg for sponsorship from one of his rich cousins-an option his outspoken spouse, Giovanna, would never have tolerated-or to offer his services to one of the two largest and most prestigious banking families in Florence: the Medici, or the Pazzi.

He had gone first to the most powerful: the Medici. They had rejected him, a fact he still resented. But their rivals, the Pazzi, welcomed him into their fold; and it was for that reason that today he stood in the front row of the throng of faithful beside his employer, Francesco de’ Pazzi. With his uncle, the knight Messer Iacopo, Francesco ran his family’s international business concerns. He was a small man, with a sharp nose and chin, and eyes that narrowed beneath dark, disproportionately large brows; beside the tall, dignified Baroncelli, he resembled an ugly dwarf. Baroncelli had eventually come to resent Francesco more than the Medici, for the man was given to fits of temper and had often loosed a nasty tongue on his employee, reminding Baroncelli of his bankruptcy with stinging words.

In order to provide for his family, Baroncelli was forced to grin while the Pazzi-Messer Iacopo as well as young Francesco-insulted him and treated him as an inferior when in fact he came from a family with equal, if not more, prestige. So when the matter of the plot presented itself, Baroncelli had a choice: risk his neck by confessing everything to the Medici, or let the Pazzi force him to be their accomplice, and win for himself a position in the new government.

Now, as he stood asking God for forgiveness, he felt the warm breath of a fellow conspirator upon his right shoulder. The man praying just behind him wore the burlap robes of a penitent.

Standing to Baroncelli’s left, Francesco fidgeted and glanced right, past his employee. Baroncelli followed his gaze: It rested on Lorenzo de’ Medici, who at age twenty-nine was the de facto ruler of Florence. Technically, Florence was governed by the Signoria, a council of eight priors and the head of state, the gonfaloniere of justice; these men were chosen from among all the notable Florentine families. Supposedly the process was fair, but curiously, the majority of those chosen were always loyal to Lorenzo, and the gonfaloniere was his to control.

Francesco de’ Pazzi was ugly, but Lorenzo was uglier still. Though he was taller than most and muscular in build, his fine body was marred by one of Florence’s homeliest faces. His nose-long and pointed, ending in a pronounced upward slope that tilted to one side-had a flattened bridge, leaving Lorenzo with a peculiarly nasal voice. His lower jaw jutted out so severely that whenever he entered a room, his chin preceded him by a thumb’s breadth. His disturbing profile was framed by a jaw-length hank of dark hair.

Lorenzo stood awaiting the start of the Mass, flanked on one side by his loyal friend and employee, Francesco Nori, and on the other by the Archbishop of Pisa, Francesco Salviati. Despite his physiognomic failings, Lorenzo emanated profound dignity and poise. In his dark, slightly protruding eyes shone an uncommon shrewdness. Even surrounded by enemies, Lorenzo seemed at ease. Salviati, a Pazzi relative, was no friend, though he and Lorenzo greeted each other as such; the elder Medici brother had lobbied furiously against Salviati’s appointment as Archbishop of Pisa, asking instead that Pope Sixtus appoint a Medici sympathizer. The Pope turned a deaf ear to Lorenzo’s request and then-breaking with a tradition that had existed for generations-fired the Medici as the papal bankers to replace them with the Pazzi, a bitter insult to Lorenzo.

Yet today, Lorenzo had received the Pope’s own nephew, the seventeen-year-old Cardinal Riario of San Giorgio, as an honored guest. After Mass in the great Duomo, Lorenzo would lead the young Cardinal to a feast at the Medici palace, followed by a tour of the famed Medici collection of art. In the meantime, he stood attentively beside Riario and Salviati, nodding at their occasional whispered comments.

Smiling while they sharpen their swords, Baroncelli thought.

Dressed unostentatiously in a plain tunic of blue-gray silk, Lorenzo was quite unaware of the presence of a pair of black-frocked priests standing two rows behind him. The tutor to the Pazzi household was a youth Baroncelli knew only as Stefano; a somewhat older man, Antonio da Volterra, stood beside him. Baroncelli had caught da Volterra’s gaze as they entered the church and had glanced quickly away; the priest’s eyes were full of the same smoldering rage Baroncelli had seen in the penitent’s. Da Volterra, present at all the secret meetings, also had spoken vehemently against the Medici’s “love of all things pagan,” saying that the family had “ruined our city” with its decadent art.

Like his fellow conspirators, Baroncelli knew that neither feast nor tour would ever take place. Events soon to occur would change the political face of Florence forever.

Behind him, the hooded penitent shifted his weight, then let go a sigh which held sounds only Baroncelli could interpret. His words were muffled by the cowl that had been drawn forward to obscure his features. Baroncelli had advised against permitting the man to assist in the assassination-why should he be trusted? The fewer involved, the better-but Francesco, as always, had overridden him.

“Where is Giuliano?” the penitent whispered.

Giuliano de’ Medici, the younger brother, was as fair of face as Lorenzo was ugly. The darling of Florence, he was called-so handsome, it was said, that men and women alike sighed in his wake. It would not do to have only one brother present in the great cathedral. Both were required-or the entire operation would have to be called off.

Baroncelli glanced over his shoulder at the shadowed face of his hooded accomplice and said nothing. He did not like the penitent; the man had injected an undertone of self-righteous religious fervor into the proceeding, one so infectious that even the worldly Francesco had begun to believe that they were doing God’s work today.

Baroncelli knew God had nothing to do with this; this was an act born of jealousy and ambition.

On his other side, Francesco de’ Pazzi hissed. “What is it? What did he say?”

Baroncelli leaned down to whisper in his diminutive employer’s ear. “Where is Giuliano?”

He watched the weasel-faced Francesco struggle to suppress his stricken expression. Baroncelli shared his distress. Mass would commence soon now that Lorenzo and his guest, the Cardinal, were in place; unless Giuliano arrived shortly, the entire plan would evaporate into disaster. Too much was at risk, too much at stake; too many souls were involved in the plot, leaving too many tongues free to wag. Even now, Messer Iacopo waited alongside a small army of fifty Perugian mercenaries for the signal from the church bell. When it tolled, he would seize control of the government palace and rally the people against Lorenzo.

The penitent pushed forward until he stood almost alongside Baroncelli; he then lifted his face to stare upward at the dizzyingly high and massive cupola overhead, rising directly above the great altar. The man’s burlap hood slipped back slightly, revealing his profile. For an instant, his lips parted, and brow and mouth contorted in a look of such hatred, such revulsion, that Baroncelli recoiled from him.

Slowly, the bitterness in the penitent’s eyes eased; his expression gradually resolved into one of beatific ecstasy, as if he could see God Himself and not the rounded ceiling’s smooth marble. Francesco noticed, and he watched the penitent as though he were an oracle about to give utterance.

And give utterance he did. “He is still abed.” And, coming back to his senses, the man carefully drew the hood forward to conceal his face once more.

Francesco clutched Baroncelli’s elbow and hissed again. “We must go to the Medici Palace at once!”

Smiling, Francesco steered Baroncelli to the left, away from the distracted Lorenzo de’ Medici and past a handful of Florentine notables that comprised the first row of worshipers. They did not use the nearby northern door that led out to the Via de’ Servi, as their exit would more likely have drawn Lorenzo’s attention.

Instead, the pair moved down the outermost aisle that ran the intimidating length of the sanctuary-past brown stone columns the width of four men, which were connected by high, white arches framing long windows of stained glass. Francesco’s expression was at first benign as he passed acquaintance after acquaintance in the first few rows, nodding greetings as he went. Baroncelli, dazed, did his best to murmur salutations to those he knew, but Francesco pushed him along so swiftly, he scarce could catch his breath.

Hundreds of faces, hundreds of bodies. Empty, the cathedral would have seemed infinitely vast; filled to capacity on this fifth Sunday after Easter, it seemed cramped, crowded, and airless. Each face that turned to meet Baroncelli seemed filled with suspicion.

The first group of worshipers they passed consisted of Florence’s wealthy: glittering women and men weighed down by gold and jewels, by fur-trimmed brocades and velvets. The smell of the men’s rosemary and lavender water mingled with the more volatile, feminine scent of attar of roses, all wafting above the base notes of smoke and frankincense from the altar.

Francesco’s velvet slippers whispered rapidly against the inlaid marble; his expression grew sterner once he moved past the aristocracy. The aroma of lavender increased as the two men walked past rows of men and women dressed in silks and fine wool, embellished with the glint of gold here and silver there, even the spark of an occasional diamond. Unsmiling, Francesco nodded once or twice to lower-ranking business associates. Baroncelli struggled to breathe; the onrush of faces-witnesses, all of them-triggered a profound panic within him.

But Francesco did not slow. As they passed the middle-class tradesmen, the smiths and bakers, the artists and their apprentices, the smell of fragrant herbs gave way to that of perspiration, and the fine fabrics to the coarser weaves of wool and silk.

The poor stood in the final rows at the back: the wool carders, unable to muffle their coughing, and the fabric dyers, with their darkly stained hands. Their garments consisted of tattered wool and rumpled linen, perfumed with sweat and filth. Both Francesco and Baroncelli involuntarily covered their mouths and noses.

At last, they made their way out of the huge open doors. Baroncelli took a great sobbing gasp of air.

“No time for cowardice!” Francesco snapped, and dragged him down into the street, past the clawing arms of beggars planted cross-legged on the church steps, past the slender, towering campanile to their left.

They made their way through the great open piazza, past the octagonal Baptistery of San Giovanni, dwarfed by the Duomo. The temptation to run was great, but too dangerous, although they still made their way at a pace which left Baroncelli breathless despite the fact that his legs were twice the length of his employer’s. After the dimness of the Duomo, sunlight seemed harsh. It was a gloriously beautiful, cloudless spring day, yet to Baroncelli it seemed ominous all the same.

They veered north onto the Via Larga, sometimes referred to as “the street of the Medici.” It was impossible to set foot upon its worn flagstones and not feel Lorenzo’s iron grip upon the city. The wide street was lined with the palazzi of his supporters: of Michelozzo, the family architect, of Angelo Poliziano, poet and protégé. Farther down, out of sight, stood the church and convent of San Marco. Lorenzo’s grandfather, Cosimo, had rebuilt the crumbling cathedral and founded the convent’s famous library; in return, the Dominican monks revered him and provided him with his own cell for those times he was given to contemplation.

Cosimo had even purchased the gardens near the monastery, and Lorenzo had transformed them into a sculpture garden, a luxurious training ground for young architects and artists.

Baroncelli and his co-conspirator approached the intersection with the Via de’ Gori, where the cupola of Florence’s oldest cathedral, San Lorenzo, dominated the western skyline. It had fallen into ruin, and Cosimo, with the help of Michelozzo and Brunelleschi, had restored its grandeur. His bones rested there now, with his marble tombstone set before the high altar.

At last, the two men reached their destination: the rectangular gray bulk of the Medici palazzo, somber and stern as a fortress-the architect, Michelozzo, had been given strict instruction that the building was not to be ornate, lest it rouse suspicion that the Medici considered themselves above plain citizens. Yet the modest design still emanated sufficient magnificence to be suitable for entertaining kings and princes; Charles VII of France had dined in the great hall.

It struck Baroncelli that the building resembled its current owner: The ground floor was made of rough-hewn, rustic stone, the second floor of even brick, and the third was crafted of perfectly smooth stone capped by an overhanging cornice. The face Lorenzo presented to the world was just as polished, yet his foundation, his heart, was rough and cold enough to do anything to maintain control over the city.

It had taken barely four minutes to reach the Palazzo of the Medici, which dominated the corner of the Vias Larga and Gori. Those four minutes passed as though they were hours; those four minutes passed so swiftly Baroncelli could not even recall walking down the street.

At the southern corner of the building, closest to the Duomo, stood the loggia. It was covered from the elements, but broad archways offered its shelter to the street. Here, citizens of Florence were free to meet with others and converse, ofttimes with Lorenzo or Giuliano; a good deal of business was conducted beneath its stone ceiling.

On this Sunday morning, most folk were at Mass; only two men lingered in the loggia, talking softly. One of them-wearing a wool tabard that marked him as a merchant and possibly one of the Medici’s own bankers-turned to scowl at Baroncelli, who ducked his head, nervous at the prospect of being seen and remembered.

A few steps more, and the two conspirators stopped at the thick brass doors of the palazzo’s main entrance on the Via Larga. Francesco pounded adamantly on the metal; his efforts were finally rewarded by the appearance of a servant, who led them into the magnificent courtyard.

Thus began the agony of waiting while Giuliano was summoned. Had Baroncelli not been in the grip of fear at that particular moment, he might have been able to enjoy his surroundings. At each corner of the courtyard stood a great stone column connected to the others by graceful arches. Atop those was a frieze, adorned with pagan-themed medallions alternating with the Medici crest.

The seven famous palle, or balls, were arranged in what looked suspiciously like a crown. To hear Lorenzo tell it, the palle represented dents in the shield of one of Charlemagne’s knights, the brave Averardo, who had fought a fearsome giant and won. So impressed was Charlemagne that he allowed Averardo to design his coat of arms from the battered shield. The Medici claimed descent from the brave knight, and the family had borne the crest for centuries. The cry “Palle! Palle! Palle!” was used to rally the people on the Medici’s behalf. Of Cosimo the Elder, it had been said that he had branded even the monks’ privates with his balls.

Baroncelli let his gaze follow the path from one medallion to the next. One showed Athena, defending the city of Athens; another remembered the winged Icarus, soaring for the heavens.

At last he dropped his gaze to the courtyard’s centerpiece, Donatello’s bronze David. The sculpture had always struck Baroncelli as effeminate. Long curls spilled out from beneath David’s straw shepherd’s hat; his naked, curving form bore no masculine muscularity. Indeed, one elbow was crooked with the hand resting on the hip in a girlish posture.

On this day, Baroncelli drew a totally different impression from the statue. He saw the coldness in David’s eyes as the boy stared down at the head of the slain Goliath; he could see the keenness of the great sword in David’s right hand.

Which role shall I play today? Baroncelli wondered. David, or Goliath?

Beside him, Francesco de’ Pazzi was pacing the floor with his hands clasped behind his back and his small eyes glaring downward at polished marble. Giuliano had best come soon, Baroncelli reflected, or Francesco would begin muttering to himself.

But Giuliano did not appear. The servant, a comely youth, as well oiled as every part of the Medici machinery, returned with a look of practiced sympathy. “Signori, forgive me. I am so sorry to tell you that my master is currently indisposed and cannot receive company.”

Francesco barely managed to replace his fright with joviality in time. “Ah! Please explain to Ser Giuliano that the matter is most urgent.” He lowered his tone as if confiding a secret. “Today’s luncheon is in the young Cardinal Riario’s honor, you see, and he is sorely disappointed that Ser Giuliano will not be attending. The Cardinal is at the Duomo now with Ser Lorenzo, asking after your master. Mass has been delayed on this account, and I fear that should Ser Giuliano fail to come with us now, the Cardinal will take offense. We would not want him to report this to his uncle, the Pope, when he returns to Rome…”

The servant nodded graciously while wearing a small frown of concern. Yet Baroncelli sensed he was not quite convinced he should further disturb his master. Francesco clearly sensed the same, for he pressed harder. “We are here at the behest of Ser Lorenzo, who bids his brother come, and swiftly, as we are all waiting…”

The youth signaled his understanding of the urgency with a quick lift of his chin. “Of course. I will relay all that you have said to my master.”

As the lad turned, Baroncelli gazed on his employer, and marveled at his talent for duplicity.

Soon footsteps sounded on the marble stairs leading down to the courtyard, and then Giuliano de’ Medici stood before them. Though his brother’s features were imperfect, Giuliano’s were without flaw. His nose, though prominent, was straight and nicely rounded at the tip, and his jaw was strong and square; his eyes, large and golden brown, were framed by long lashes that were the envy of every Florentine woman. Delicate, well-formed lips rested atop even teeth, and his hair was full and curling, parted down the middle and brushed back to better show his handsome visage.

At twenty-four, life was good to Giuliano; he was young, lively, fair of face and voice. Yet his good nature and sensitive character ensured that he never made another feel inadequate. Indeed, his cheerful, generous nature made him generally loved by Florence’s citizens. While he might not have shared his brother’s painful brilliance at politics, he was astute enough to use his other attributes to gain public support. Were Lorenzo to die, Giuliano would have no difficulty in taking up the reins of power.

Over the past few weeks, Baroncelli had tried hard to despise him, and failed.

This morning the faint light that had begun to paint the bottoms of the columns revealed that Giuliano’s glory was sorely dimmed. His hair had not been combed, his clothes had been hastily donned-and his eyes were noticeably bloodshot. For the first time in Baroncelli’s memory, Giuliano did not smile. He moved slowly, like a man weighed down by heavy armor. Icarus, Baroncelli thought. He soared too high and has now fallen, scorched, to Earth.

Giuliano spoke, his normally melodic voice hoarse. “Good day, gentlemen. I understand Cardinal Riario has taken offense at my absence from Mass.”

Baroncelli felt a strange sensation in his chest, like that of his heart flipping over. Giuliano looked like a beast resigned to the slaughter. He knows. He cannot possibly know. And yet… he knows…

“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 demands 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.

Giuliano followed tentatively but, being younger, fell behind. He watched as Lorenzo took a great gulp of air and disappeared beneath the gray surface. When he did not reappear immediately, Giuliano treaded water and laughed, expecting his brother to swim beneath him and grasp his foot at any moment.

Seconds passed. Giuliano’s laughter turned to silence, then fear-then he began to call for his brother. On the shore, the women-unable to enter the water because of their heavy skirts-began to cry out in panic.

Giuliano was only a child. He had not yet overcome his fear of diving beneath the water, yet love for his brother drove him to suck in a deep breath and submerge himself. The silence there astonished him; he opened his eyes and peered in the direction where Lorenzo had been.

The river was muddy from the previous day’s rains; Giuliano’s eyes stung as he searched. He could see nothing but a large, irregular dark shape some distance away, deep beneath the waters. It was not human-not Lorenzo-but it was all that was visible, and instinct told him to approach it. He surfaced, drew in more air, then compelled himself to dive down again.

There, the length of three tall men beneath the surface, lay the craggy limbs of a fallen tree.

Giuliano’s lungs burned, yet his sense that Lorenzo was nearby made him push against the quiet water. With a final, painful burst, he reached the sunken branches and pressed a palm against the slick surface of the trunk.

At once, he grew remarkably dizzy, and heard a rushing in his ears; he shut his eyes and opened his mouth, gasping for air. There was none to be had, and so he drank in the foul Arno. He retched it up at once; then reflex forced him to gulp in more.

Giuliano was drowning.

Though a child, he understood clearly that he was dying. The realization prompted him to open his eyes, to capture a last glimpse of Earth that he might take with him to Heaven.

At that instant, a cloud moved overhead, permitting a shaft of sunlight to pierce the river so thoroughly that it caused the silt suspended in the water to glitter, and illumined the area directly before Giuliano’s eyes.

Staring back at him, an arm’s length away, was the drowning Lorenzo. His tunic and mantle had been caught on an errant branch, and he had twisted himself about in a mad effort to be free.

Both brothers should have died then. But Giuliano prayed, with a child’s guilelessness: God, let me save my brother.

Impossibly, he had pulled the tangled clothing loose from the branch.

Impossibly, the freed Lorenzo had seized Giuliano’s hands and pulled the two of them up to the surface.

From there, Giuliano’s memory became blurred. He remembered only snippets: of himself vomiting on the grassy shore while the slave woman pounded his back; of Lorenzo wet and shivering, wrapped in picnic linens; of voices calling out: Brother, speak to me! Of Lorenzo in the carriage on the ride home, furious, fighting tears: Don’t ever risk yourself for me! You almost died! Father would never forgive me!… But the unspoken message was louder: Lorenzo would never forgive himself.

Recalling the incident, Giuliano swallowed wine without tasting it. He would have gladly surrendered his life to save Lorenzo’s-just as easily and thoughtlessly as Lorenzo would have sacrificed himself to save his younger brother. It seemed to Giuliano a mockery that God had given him such a gift as Anna’s love-only to require him to wound the man he loved most.

Giuliano sat for hours, watching the darkness of night deepen, then slowly fade to gray with the coming of dawn, and the day he was to leave for Rome. He sat until the arrival of his insistent visitors, Francesco de’ Pazzi and Bernardo Baroncelli. He could not imagine why the visiting Cardinal should care so passionately about Giuliano’s presence at Mass; but if Lorenzo had asked him to come, then that was good enough reason to do so.

He hoped, with sudden optimism, that Lorenzo might have changed his mind, that his anger had faded and left him more receptive to discussion.

Thus Giuliano rallied himself and, like a good brother, came as he was bidden.

V

Baroncelli hesitated at the door of the cathedral as his objectivity briefly returned to him. Here was a chance to flee fate; a chance, before an alarm could be sounded, to run home to his estate, to mount his horse and head for any kingdom where neither the conspirators nor their victims had influence. The Pazzi were powerful and persistent, capable of mounting efforts to hunt him down-but they were neither as well connected nor as dogged as the Medici.

In the lead, Francesco had turned and goaded Baroncelli on with a murderous glance. Giuliano, still distracted by a private sorrow, was heedless and, flanked by the uncertain Baroncelli, followed Francesco inside. Baroncelli felt he had just crossed the threshold from reason into madness.

Inside, the smoke-filmed air was redolent with frankincense and sweat. The sanctuary’s massive interior was dim, save for the area surrounding the altar, which was dazzling in the late morning light streaming from the long arched windows of the cupola.

Again taking the least noticeable path along the north side, Francesco headed toward the altar, followed closely by Giuliano, then Baroncelli. Baroncelli could have closed his eyes and found his way by smell, measuring the stench of the poor and working class, the lavender scent of the merchants, and the rose of the wealthy.

Even before he caught sight of the priest, Baroncelli could hear him delivering his homily. The realization quickened Baroncelli’s pulse; they had arrived barely in time, for the Eucharist was soon to follow.

After the interminable walk down the aisle, Baroncelli and his companions arrived at the front row of men. They murmured apologies as they sidled back to their original places. An instant of confusion came as Baroncelli tried to move past Giuliano, so that he could stand on his right, the position dictated by the plan. Giuliano, not understanding Baroncelli’s intent, pressed closer to Francesco-who then whispered something in the young man’s ear. Giuliano nodded, stepped backward, and made an opening for Baroncelli; in so doing, he grazed the shoulder of the penitent, who stood waiting behind him.

Both Francesco de’ Pazzi and Baroncelli watched, breathless, to see whether Giuliano would turn and make apology-and perhaps recognize the man. But Giuliano remained lost in his own misery.

Baroncelli craned his neck to look farther down the row, to see if Lorenzo had noticed; fortunately, the elder Medici brother was busy bending an ear to a whispered comment from the manager of the family bank, Francesco Nori.

Miraculously, all of the elements were now in place. Baroncelli had nothing to do save wait-and pretend to listen to the sermon while keeping his hand from wandering to the hilt at his hip.

The priest’s words seemed nonsensical; Baroncelli strained to understand them. Forgiveness, the prelate intoned. Charity. Love thine enemies; pray for those who persecute you.

Baroncelli’s mind seized upon these phrases. Lorenzo de’ Medici had picked this Sunday’s priest himself. Did Lorenzo know of the plot? Were these seemingly innocuous words a warning not to proceed?

Baroncelli glanced over at Francesco de’ Pazzi. If Francesco had detected a secret message, he gave no sign of it; he stared straight ahead at the altar, his gaze unfocused but his eyes wide, bright with fear and hatred. A muscle in his narrow jaw twitched madly.

The sermon ended.

The elements of the Mass proceeded with almost comical swiftness: The Creed was sung. The priest chanted the Dominus vobiscum and Oremus. The Host was consecrated with the prayer Suscipe, sancte Pater.

Baroncelli drew in a breath and thought he would never be able to release it. The ceremony abruptly slowed; in his ears, he could feel the desperate thrum of his heart.

The priest’s assistant approached the altar to fill the golden chalice with wine; a second assistant added a small amount of water from a crystal decanter.

At last, the priest took the chalice. Carefully, he lifted it heavenward, proffering it to the large wooden carving of a dolorous, crucified Christ suspended above the altar.

Baroncelli’s gaze followed the cup. A shaft of sunlight caught the gold and reflected blindingly off the metal.

Again, the priest chanted, in a wavering tenor that sounded vaguely accusatory.

Offerimus tibi, Domine…

Baroncelli turned to look at the younger Medici next to him. Giuliano’s expression was grave, his eyes closed. His right hand was clenched in a fist; his left hand clasped it, and both were pressed tightly to his lips. His head was bowed, as if he were preparing to greet Death.

This is foolish, Baroncelli thought. He had no personal enmity toward this man; indeed, he liked Giuliano, who had never asked to be born a Medici. His quarrel with him was purely political, and certainly not great enough to warrant what he was about to do.

Francesco de’ Pazzi jabbed Baroncelli fiercely in the ribs, relating the unspoken message perfectly: The signal has been given! The signal has been given!

Baroncelli released a reluctant, inaudible sigh and drew his great knife from its hilt.

VI

A moment earlier, Lorenzo de’ Medici was engaged in courteous but muted conversation with Cardinal Raffaele Riario. Although the priest was finishing up his sermon, the wealthy power brokers of Florence thought nothing of discussing matters of pleasure or business-sotto voce-during Mass. The social opportunity was simply too great to ignore, and the priests had long ago become inured to it.

A scrawny lad, Riario looked younger than his seventeen years, and though he was currently a student of law at the University of Pisa, his enrollment there was clearly due more to his kinship with Pope Sixtus than any native intelligence.

Nephew, Sixtus called him. It was the euphemism by which popes and cardinals sometimes referred to their bastard children. The Pope was an extremely clever man, but obviously had got this boy on a woman with charms other than beauty or brains.

Even so, Lorenzo was obliged to show the young Cardinal a fine time while he was visiting Florence. Riario had specifically asked to meet with the Medici brothers and to be given a tour of their property and collection of art; Lorenzo could not refuse. This was the Pope’s so-called nephew-and although Lorenzo had endured public humiliation at Sixtus’ hands, even been forced to hold his tongue while the Medici were replaced by the Pazzi as the papal bankers-perhaps this was an overture. Perhaps Sixtus was trying to make amends, and this gangly young creature in scarlet robes was his emissary.

Lorenzo was eager to return to the family palace to ascertain whether this was indeed the case; otherwise, the Cardinal’s visit would irritate him greatly, if Sixtus was simply taking brazen advantage of Lorenzo’s generosity. It would be another insult.

But in case it was not, Lorenzo had called for a magnificent feast to be served after Mass in honor of the Cardinal. And if it happened that young Raffaele had come only out of a desire to enjoy the Medici art, he could at least report to his uncle that Lorenzo had treated him lavishly and well. It could serve as a diplomatic opening, one that Lorenzo would use to full advantage, for he was determined to reclaim the papal coffers from the clutches of the Pazzi Bank.

And so Lorenzo practiced his most gracious behavior, even though Francesco Salviati, Archbishop of Pisa, stood smiling disingenuously on Riario’s other flank. Lorenzo had no personal quarrel with Salviati, though he had fought long and bitterly against his appointment as archbishop. As she was controlled by Florence, Pisa deserved an archbishop of Medici blood-and Salviati was related to the Pazzi, who already were gaining too much favor with the Pope. While the Medici and the Pazzi publicly embraced one another as friends, in the arena of business and politics, there were no fiercer adversaries. Lorenzo had written an impassioned letter to Sixtus, explaining why appointment of a Pazzi relative as Archbishop would be disastrous to papal and Medici interests.

Sixtus not only failed to respond, he ultimately dismissed the Medici as his bankers.

Most would consider the papal request that Riario and Salviati be treated as honored guests a stinging blow to Medici dignity. But Lorenzo, ever the diplomat, welcomed them. And he insisted that his dear friend and senior manager of the Medici Bank, Francesco Nori, show not the slightest sign of offense. Nori, who stood beside him now in silent support, was desperately protective of Lorenzo. When the news came from Rome that the Pazzi had been appointed the papal bankers and the Medici were ousted, Nori had raged incessantly. Lorenzo had been obliged to calm his employee, though he had held his own anger in check, and spoke little of the affair. He could not afford the energy; he was already too busy scheming how he might win Sixtus back.

So he had exchanged pleasantries with the young Cardinal throughout the service and, from a distance, smiled a greeting to the Pazzi, who were in full attendance. Most of them had gathered at the other side of the cathedral, except for Guglielmo de’ Pazzi, who stuck to the Archbishop’s side like a burr. Lorenzo honestly liked Guglielmo; he had known him since he, Lorenzo, was a boy of sixteen, when Guglielmo had escorted him to Naples to meet Crown Prince Federigo. The older man had treated him like a son then, and Lorenzo had never forgotten. In time, Guglielmo married Lorenzo’s older sister, Bianca, strengthening his position as a friend to the Medici.

At the start of the sermon, the boy Cardinal gave a strange, sickly smile and whispered, “Your brother… where is your brother? I thought surely he would come to Mass. I had so hoped to meet him.”

The question took Lorenzo by surprise. Although Giuliano had made polite noises about coming to the Mass in order to meet Cardinal Riario, Lorenzo felt certain no one, least of all Giuliano, had taken the promise seriously. The most famous womanizer in Florence, Giuliano was notorious for his failure to appear at formal or diplomatic functions-unless Lorenzo insisted vehemently upon it. (Certainly he had not done so here.) Giuliano had already proclaimed himself unable to attend the luncheon.

Lorenzo had been thoroughly taken aback the previous day when Giuliano had announced his desire to run off to Rome with a married woman. Up to that point, Giuliano had taken none of his lovers very seriously; he had never spouted such foolishness before and certainly had never spoken of marriage. It had always been understood that, when the time came, Lorenzo would choose his bride and Giuliano would submit.

But Giuliano had been adamant about getting the woman an annulment-an achievement which, if Cardinal Riario had. not come as a papal overture, was well beyond Lorenzo’s grasp.

Lorenzo was frightened for his younger brother. Giuliano was too trusting, too willing to see the good in others, to realize he had many enemies-enemies who hated him solely for the fact he had been born a Medici. He could not see, as Lorenzo did, that they would use this affair with Anna to tear him down.

Giuliano, the sweet soul, thought only of love. Though it had been necessary, Lorenzo had not relished being cruel to him. And he could not blame Giuliano for his noble view of the tender sex. At times, he yearned for the freedom his younger brother enjoyed. This morning Lorenzo particularly envied him; would that he could linger in the arms of a beautiful woman and let Giuliano deal with the Pope’s nephew-who was still gazing politely at Lorenzo, waiting to learn the whereabouts of his wayward brother.

It would be impolitic to tell the Cardinal the truth-that Giuliano had never really intended to come to Mass, or meet Riario-and so instead Lorenzo indulged in a polite lie. “My brother must have been detained. Surely he will be here soon; I know he is eager to meet Your Holiness.”

Riario blinked; his girlish lips thinned.

Ah, Lorenzo thought. Perhaps young Raffaele’s interest was more than superficially diplomatic. Giuliano’s handsomeness was legendary, and he had stirred the passions of at least as many men as women.

Guglielmo de’ Pazzi leaned across the Archbishop and gave the Cardinal an encouraging pat on the shoulder. “Have no fear, Holiness. He will come. The Medici always treat their guests well.”

Lorenzo smiled warmly at him; Guglielmo dropped his gaze without meeting Lorenzo’s and gave a quick nod of acknowledgment, but did not return the smile. The gesture seemed odd, but Lorenzo was at once distracted by Francesco Nori’s whisper.

“Maestro… your brother has just arrived.”

“Alone?”

Nori glanced briefly to his left, at the north side of the sacristy. “He has come with Francesco de’ Pazzi and Bernardo Baroncelli. I do not like the look of it.”

Lorenzo frowned; he did not care for it, either. He had already greeted Francesco and Baroncelli when he had first entered the cathedral. His diplomatic instincts took hold of him, however; he inclined his head toward Raffaele Riario and said softly, “You see, Holiness? My brother has indeed come.”

Beside him, Cardinal Riario leaned forward, looked to his left, and caught sight of Giuliano. He gave Lorenzo an odd, tremulous grin, then with a snap of his head, forced his gaze back to the altar, where the priest was blessing the sacred Host.

The lad’s movement was so peculiar, so nervous, that Lorenzo felt a faint stirring of anxiety. Florence was always full of rumors, most of which he ignored; but Nori had recently reported that Lorenzo was in danger, that an attack was being planned against him. As usual, Nori could offer no specifics.

Ridiculous, Lorenzo had scoffed. There will always be whispers, but we are the Medici. The Pope himself might insult us, but even he dare not lift his hand against us.

Now, he felt a pang of doubt. Beneath the cover of his mantle, he fingered the hilt of his short sword, then gripped it tightly.

Only seconds later, a shout came from the direction Riario had glanced-a man’s voice, the words unintelligible, impassioned. Immediately after, the bells of Giotto’s campanile began to toll.

Lorenzo knew at once that Nori’s so-called rumors were fact.

The front two rows of men broke rank, and the scene became a clumsy dance of moving bodies. In the near distance, a woman screamed. Salviati disappeared; the young Cardinal flung himself at the altar and knelt, sobbing uncontrollably. Guglielmo de’ Pazzi, clearly terrified, began wringing his hands and wailing. “I am no traitor! I knew nothing of this! Nothing! Before God, Lorenzo, I am completely innocent!”

Lorenzo did not see the hand that reached from behind him and lightly settled on his left shoulder-but he felt it as though it were a lightning bolt. With grace and strength that came from years of swordsmanship, he pushed forward out of the unseen enemy’s grasp, drew his sword, and whirled about.

During the sudden movement, a keen blade grazed him just below the right ear; involuntarily, he gasped at the sensation of his tender skin parting, of warm liquid flowing down his neck onto his shoulder. But he stayed on his feet and held up his sword, ready to block further attacks.

Lorenzo faced two priests: one trembling behind a small shield, halfheartedly clutching a sword as he glanced at the crowd scrambling about him-most of them headed for the cathedral doors. But he was obliged to turn his attention to Lorenzo’s personal attendant, Marco, a muscular man who, though no expert with a sword, made up for it with brute strength and enthusiasm.

The second priest-wild-eyed and intent on Lorenzo-raised his weapon for a second attempt.

Lorenzo parried once, twice. Haggard, pale-skinned, unshaven, this priest had the fiery eyes, the open, contorted mouth of a madman. He also had the strength of one, and Lorenzo came close to buckling beneath his blows. Steel clashed against steel, ringing off the high ceilings of the now mostly deserted cathedral.

The two fighters locked blades, pressing hilt against hilt with a ferocity that caused Lorenzo’s hand to tremble. He stared into the eyes of his determined enemy, and drew in a breath at the emotion he saw there.

As the two stood with blades crossed, neither willing to give way, Lorenzo half shouted, “Why should you hate me so?”

He meant the question sincerely. He had always wished the best for Florence and her citizens. He did not understand the resentment others felt at the utterance of the name Medici.

“For God,” the priest said. His face was a mere hand’s breadth from his intended victim’s. Sweat ran down his pale forehead; his breath was hot upon Lorenzo’s cheek. His nose was long, narrow, aristocratic; he probably came from an old, respected family. “For the love of God!”

And he drew back his weapon so forcefully that Lorenzo staggered forward, perilously close to the blade.

VII

Earlier, as he drew his long knife and hefted it overhead, Baroncelli remembered all the dozens of phrases he had rehearsed for this instant; none of them came to his lips, and what he finally shouted sounded ridiculous to his own ears.

“Here, traitor!”

The church bells had just begun clanging when Giuliano looked up. At the sight of the knife, his eyes widened with mild surprise.

Yielding at last to madness, Baroncelli did not hesitate. He brought the blade down.

Lorenzo stumbled, off balance, toward his opponent-and let go a roar of self-disgust at the realization that he would never be able to lift his sword in time to fend off the coming blow.

But before the wild-eyed priest could shed any more of Lorenzo’s blood, Francesco Nori stepped in front of his employer with his sword drawn. Other friends and supporters began to close in around the would-be assassins. Lorenzo became vaguely aware of the presence of Angelo Poliziano, of the aged and portly architect Michelozzo, of the family sculptor Verrocchio, of a business associate, Antonio Ridolfo, of the socialite Sigismondo della Stuffa. This crowd sealed him off from his attacker and began to press him toward the altar.

Lorenzo resisted. “Giuliano!” he cried. “Brother, where are you?”

“We will find and protect him. Now, go!” Nori ordered, gesturing with his chin toward the altar, where the priests, in their alarm, had dropped the full chalice, staining the altarcloth with wine.

Lorenzo hesitated.

“Go!” Nori shouted again. “They are headed here! Go past them, to the north sacristy!”

Lorenzo had no idea who they were, but he acted. Still clutching his sword, he hurdled over the low railing and leapt into the octagonal carved wooden structure that housed the choir. Cherubic boys shrieked as they scattered, their white robes flapping like the wings of startled birds.

Followed by his protectors, Lorenzo pushed his way through the flailing choir and staggered toward the great altar. The astringent smoke of frankincense mixed with the fragrance of spilled wine; two tall, heavy candelabra were ablaze. The priest and his assistants now encircled the blubbering Riario protectively. Lorenzo blinked at them. The afterimage from the lit tapers left him near blinded, and in an instant of dizziness, he put his free hand to his neck; it came away bloodied.

Yet he willed himself, for Giuliano’s sake, not to faint. He could not permit himself a moment’s weakness-not until his brother was safe.

At the same moment that Lorenzo ran north across the altar, Francesco de’ Pazzi and Bernardo Baroncelli, down in the sanctuary, were pushing their way south, clearly unaware that they were passing their intended target.

Lorenzo stopped in mid-stride to gape at them, causing collisions within his trailing entourage.

Baroncelli led the way, brandishing a long knife and shouting unintelligibly. Francesco was limping badly; his thigh was bloodied, his tunic spattered with crimson.

Lorenzo strained to see past those surrounding him, to look beyond the moving bodies to the place where his brother had been standing, but his view was obstructed.

“Giuliano!” he screamed, with all the strength he possessed, praying he would be heard above the pandemonium. “Giuliano…! Where are you? Brother, speak to me!”

The crowd closed around him. “It’s all right,” someone said, in a tone so dubious it failed to provoke the comfort it intended.

It was not all right that Giuliano should be missing. From the day of his father’s death, Lorenzo had cared for his brother with a love both fraternal and paternal. “Giuliano!” Lorenzo screamed again. “Giuliano…!”

“He is not there,” a muffled voice replied. Thinking it meant his brother had moved south to find him, Lorenzo turned back in that direction, where his friends still fought the assassins. The smaller priest with the shield had fled altogether, but the madman remained, though he was losing the battle with Marco. Giuliano was nowhere to be seen.

Discouraged, Lorenzo began to turn away, but the glint of swift-moving steel caught his eye and compelled him to look back.

The blade belonged to Bernardo Baroncelli. With a viciousness Lorenzo would never have dreamed him capable of, Baroncelli ran his long knife deep into the pit of Francesco Nori’s stomach. Nori’s eyes bulged as he stared down at the intrusion; his lips formed a small, perfect O as he fell backward, sliding off Baroncelli’s sword.

Lorenzo let go a sob. Poliziano and della Stuffa took his shoulders and pushed him away, across the altar and toward the tall doors of the sacristy. “Get Francesco!” he begged them. “Someone bring Francesco. He is still alive; I know it!”

He tried again to turn, to call out for his brother, but this time his people would not let him slow their relentless march to the sacristy. Lorenzo felt a physical pain in his chest, a pressure so brutal he thought his heart would burst.

He had wounded Giuliano. He had hurt him in his most vulnerable moment, and when Giuliano had said, I love you, Lorenzo… Please don’t make me choose, Lorenzo had been cruel. Had turned him away, without help-the one thing he owed Giuliano most of all.

How could he explain to the others that he could never leave his younger brother behind? How could he explain the responsibility he felt for Giuliano, who had lost his father so young and had always looked to Lorenzo for guidance? How could he explain the promise he had made to his father on the latter’s deathbed? They were all too concerned with the safety of Lorenzo il Magnifico, whom they considered to be the greatest man in Florence, but they were wrong, all of them.

Lorenzo was pushed behind the thick, heavy doors of the sacristy. They slammed shut after someone ventured out to fetch the wounded Nori.

Inside, the airless, windowless chamber smelled of sacrificial wine and the dust that had settled on the priests’ vestments. Lorenzo grabbed each man who had pushed him to safety; he studied each face, and was each time disappointed. The greatest man in Florence was not here.

He thought of Baroncelli’s great curving knife and of the bright blood on Francesco de’ Pazzi’s thigh and tunic. The images propelled him to move for the doors, with the intention of flinging them open and going back to rescue his brother. But della Stuffa sensed his intention, and immediately pressed his body against the exit. Old Michelozzo joined him, then Antonio Ridolfo; the weight of the three men held the doors shut fast. Lorenzo was pushed to the outer edge of the engraved brass. There was a grimness in their expressions, an unspoken, unspeakable knowledge that Lorenzo could not and would not accept.

Hysterically, he pounded on the cold brass until his fists ached-and then he continued to pound until they bled. The scholar Angelo Poliziano struggled to wrap a piece of wool, torn from his own mantle, around the bleeding cut on Lorenzo’s neck. Lorenzo tried to push the distraction away, but Poliziano persisted until the wound was bound tight.

All the while, Lorenzo did not cease his frantic efforts. “My brother!” he cried shrilly, and would not be moved by those who came to comfort him, would not be stilled or quieted. “I must go and find him! My brother! Where is my brother?…”

…

Moments earlier, Giuliano had looked up in amazement as Baroncelli lifted his great knife overhead-the tip of the blade pointed directly at the younger Medici brother’s heart.

It happened too quickly for Giuliano to be frightened. Instinctively, he backed away-into a body that pressed against him, so firm and so fast, there could be no doubt its owner was part of the conspiracy. Giuliano glimpsed the man behind him, dressed in the robes of a penitent-and then gasped at the cold, burning sensation of steel sliding into his back, just below his ribs.

He had been terribly wounded. He was surrounded by assassins, and about to die.

The realizations did not distress him as much as the fact that he was trapped and unable to warn Lorenzo. Surely his brother would be the next target.

“Lorenzo,” he said emphatically, as Baroncelli’s knife at last came flashing down, the blade reflecting a hundred tiny flames from the candles on the altar. But his utterance was drowned out by Baroncelli’s panicked, nonsensical cry: “Here, traitor!”

The blow caught Giuliano between his uppermost pair of ribs. There came the dull crack of bone, and a second spasm of pain so intense, so impossible, it left him breathless.

Baroncelli’s clean-shaven face, so close to Giuliano’s own, gleamed with sweat. He grunted with effort as he withdrew the knife; it came out whistling. Giuliano fought to draw another breath, to call out Lorenzo’s name again; it came out less audible than a whisper.

And in that instant, as he stared up at the knife, as Baroncelli prepared to deliver another blow, Giuliano was transported to another place, another time: to the river Arno, on a long-ago day in late spring.

He called out for his brother, but no answer came; Lorenzo had disappeared beneath the cloudy water. Giuliano’s eyes stung. He could not find his strength or his breath, but he knew what he must do.

Dear God, he prayed, with the sincerity of a child. Let me rescue my brother.

With strength he did not have, he pushed backward against the penitent, causing the man to step back onto the hem of his garment and fall, tangled in his robes.

Giuliano was free to flee, to stagger away from his attackers-but he knew that their main target must be Lorenzo.

Time slowed, just as it did that day in the Arno. Despite his lethargy, Giuliano willed himself to do the impossible and create a barrier between the attackers and Lorenzo. If he could not cry out a warning to his brother, he could at least slow the murderers down.

He heard his brother’s voice. Giuliano! Brother, speak to me!

He could not have said whether it came from within the Duomo, or whether it was an echo from childhood, the voice of an eleven-year-old boy calling from the banks of a river. He wanted to tell his brother to run, but he could not speak. He struggled to draw in a breath, and choked on warm liquid.

Baroncelli tried to edge by him, but Giuliano wobbled intentionally into his path. Francesco de’ Pazzi pushed past his co-conspirator. The sight of blood had stirred him to frenzy; his small black eyes sparkled; his wiry body shook with hatred. Raising his dagger-a long blade, almost as slender and keen as a stiletto-he, too, tried to move beyond Baroncelli’s victim, but Giuliano would not let him pass.

Giuliano opened his mouth. What came out was an anguished wheeze, but he meant to shout, You will never get near my brother. I will die first, but you will never lay a hand on Lorenzo.

Francesco snarled something unintelligible and struck. Weaponless, Giuliano raised a defensive hand; the knife pierced his palm and forearm. Compared to the agony in his chest and back, these fresh wounds were no worse than the sting of an insect. Taking a step toward Francesco, toward Baroncelli, he forced them backward, giving Lorenzo time to flee.

Francesco, vicious little man, let loose a torrent of all the rage, all the enmity, that his family had felt toward the Medici. Each phrase was punctuated by a further blow of the dagger.

Sons of whores, all of you! Your father betrayed my father’s trust…

Giuliano felt the piercing bite in his shoulder, in his upper arm. He could no longer keep his arm raised; it fell limply to his blood-soaked side.

Your brother has done everything possible to keep us out of the Signoria.

Harsher wounds: his chest again, his neck, a dozen blows to his torso. Francesco was a madman. His hand, his blade, pummeled Giuliano so swiftly the two were enveloped in a crimson spray. His movements were so wild and careless, he struck himself in the thigh, shrieking as his blood mingled with his enemy’s. Pain fueled Francesco’s fury; again and again, he struck.

Spoken ill of us to His Holiness

Insulted our family

Stolen the city

Giuliano was drowning. Such calumny against his brother would normally have incited his anger, but he had come to a place where his emotions were still.

The waters inside the cathedral were murky with blood; he could scarcely see the wavering images of his attackers against the backdrop of scrambling bodies. Baroncelli and Francesco both were shouting. Giuliano saw their mouths agape, saw the glint of wielded steel, dulled by the muddy Arno, but heard nothing. In the river, all was silent.

A shaft of sunlight streamed in from the open door leading north to the Via de’ Servi. He stepped toward it, looking for Lorenzo, but the current pulled strongly on him now. It was so hard to walk through the swirling water.

Just beyond his reach, the raven-haired Anna was weeping, wringing her hands, mourning the children they might have had; her love tugged at him. But it was Lorenzo who had the final hold on his heart. Lorenzo whose heart would break when he found his younger sibling. It was Giuliano’s greatest regret.

“Brother.” Giuliano’s lips formed the word as he sank to his knees.

Lorenzo was sitting on the banks of the Arno, clutching a blanket round his shoulders. He was soaked through and shivering, but he was alive.

Relieved, Giuliano let go a shallow sigh-all the air that remained in his lungs-then sank forward and down, down to where the waters were deepest and black.

VIII

26 April 1478

To the Priors of Milan

My most illustrious lords,

My brother Giuliano has been murdered and my government is in the gravest danger. It is now time, my lords, to aid your servant Lorenzo. Send as many soldiers as you can with all speed so that they will be the shield and safety of my state, as always.

Your servant

Lorenzo de’ Medici

DECEMBER 28, 1479

IX

Bernardo Baroncelli rode kneeling in a small horse-drawn cart to his doom.

Before him, in the vast Piazza della Signoria, loomed the great, implacable palazzo, seat of Florence’s government and the heart of her justice. Topped by battlements, the fortress was an imposing, almost windowless rectangle, with a slender campanile tower at one corner. Only an hour before he was led to the cart, Baroncelli had heard its bell tolling, low and dolorous, summoning witnesses to the spectacle.

In the morning gloom, the palazzo’s stone façade appeared pale gray against the darkening clouds. Before the building, rising out of a colorful, varied assembly of Florence’s rich and poor, stood a hastily built scaffolding, and the gallows.

The weather had turned bitterly cold; Baroncelli’s final breaths hung before him as mist. The top of his cloak gaped open, but he could not pull it closed, for his hands were bound behind his back.

In this manner, unsteady and lurching each time the wheels encountered a stone, Baroncelli arrived in the piazza. No fewer than a thousand had gathered to witness his end.

At the crowd’s edge, a small boy, a fanciullo, caught sight of the approaching cart and, in his childish falsetto, sang out the rallying cry of the Medici: “Palle! Palle! Palle!”

Hysteria rippled through the throng. Soon its collective shout thundered in Baroncelli’s ears.

“Palle! Palle! Palle!”

Someone nearby threw a stone; it clattered harmlessly against the cobblestones beside the creaking cart. Only curses were hurled afterward. The Signoria had placed several policemen on horseback at strategic locations to prevent a riot; Baroncelli was flanked by mounted, armed guards.

This was to prevent him from being torn apart before he could be properly executed. He had heard the tales of his fellow conspirators’ gruesome fates: how the Perugian mercenaries hired by the Pazzi had been pushed from the high tower of the Palazzo della Signoria, how they had fallen into the waiting crowd below, who had hacked them to pieces with knives and shovels.

Even old Iacopo de’ Pazzi, who during his life had been respected, had not escaped Florence’s wrath. Upon the sound of Giotto’s chiming campanile, he had climbed upon his horse and tried to rally the citizens with the cry Popolo e libertà! The phrase was a rallying cry to overthrow the current government-in this case, the Medici.

But the populace had answered with the cry Palle! Palle! Palle!

Despite his sin, he had been granted a proper burial after his execution-with the noose still round his neck. But the city had been so filled with hatred in those wild days, he had not been at rest long before the Signoria decided it would be best to rebury his body outside the city walls, in unhallowed ground.

Francesco de’ Pazzi and the rest had swiftly met justice; only Guglielmo de’ Pazzi had been spared, because of Bianca de’ Medici’s desperate pleading with her brother Lorenzo.

Of the true conspirators, Baroncelli alone had escaped-by hiding in the Duomo’s campanile, its air still aquiver from the ringing of the bell. When his way was clear, he had fled on horseback-without a word to his family-due east, to Senigallia on the coast. From there, he had sailed to exotic Constantinople. King Ferrante and Baroncelli’s Neapolitan relatives had sent funds enough to sustain a dissolute life. Baroncelli made mistresses of the slave girls he had purchased, immersing himself in pleasure, trying to submerge all memory of the murders he had committed.

Yet his dreams were haunted by the image of Giuliano, frozen at the instant he had glanced up at the shining blade. The young man’s dark curls were tousled, his innocent eyes wide, his expression unself-conscious and slightly dazed by the sudden appearance of Death.

Baroncelli had had more than a year to contemplate the question, Would removing the Medici and replacing them with Iacopo and Francesco de’ Pazzi have bettered the city? Lorenzo was levelheaded, cautious; Francesco hot-tempered, swift to act. He would quickly have descended to the level of a tyrant. Lorenzo was wise enough to nurture the people’s love, as evidenced by the size of the crowd now gathered in the plaza; Francesco would have been too arrogant to care.

Lorenzo was, most of all, persistent. In the end, even Constantinople was not beyond his reach. Once his agents had located Baroncelli, Lorenzo had sent an emissary laden with gold and jewels to the sultan. Thus was Baroncelli’s fate sealed.

All criminals were hanged outside the city gates, then hastily stuffed into unhallowed ground. Baroncelli would be buried in a hole with them-but given the gravity of his misdeed, his execution was to take place in Florence’s most public arena.

Now, as the little cart rattled past the crowd toward the scaffolding, Baroncelli let go a loud groan. Fear gripped him with an anguish far worse than any physical pain; he felt unbearably cold, searingly hot, felt a dizzying sense of sinking. He thought he would faint, yet unconsciousness, cruelly, would not come.

“Courage, signore,” the nero said. “God rides with you.”

His nero, his Comforter, walked alongside the cart. He was a Florentine citizen named Lauro, and a lay member of the Compagnia di Santa Maria della Croce, also known as the Compagnia de’ Neri-the Company of the Black Ones-because its members all wore black robes and hoods. The company’s purpose was to give comfort and mercy to those in need-including those anguished souls condemned to die.

Lauro had remained with him from the moment he had arrived in Florence. He had seen to it that Baroncelli received fair treatment, was allowed proper clothing and food, that he was permitted to send letters to loved ones (Giovanna never responded to his plea to see her). Lauro had listened kindly to Baroncelli’s tearful admissions of regret, and remained in the cell to pray for him. The Comforter had beseeched the Virgin, Christ, God, and Saint John, patron of Florence, to give Baroncelli comfort, to grant him forgiveness, to allow his soul into Purgatory and thence to Heaven.

Baroncelli did not join him in prayer; God, he felt, would take it as a personal affront.

Now, the black-hooded Comforter walked beside him, speaking loudly-a psalm, a hymn, or prayer, all floating on the air as white vapor-but given the noise made by the crowd, Baroncelli could not make out the words. A single phrase thrummed in his ears and pulsed to the beating of his heart.

Palle Palle Palle

The cart rolled to a stop in front of the steps leading up to the gallows. The Comforter slid an arm under Baroncelli’s bound one and helped him awkwardly onto the cold flagstone. The weight of terror dropped the shivering Baroncelli to his knees; the Comforter knelt beside him and whispered in his ear.

“Do not be afraid. Your soul will ascend directly to Heaven. Of all men, you need no forgiveness; what you did was God’s own work, and no crime. There are many of us who call you hero, brother. You have taken the first step in purging Florence from great evil.”

Baroncelli’s voice shook so he could scarce understand his own words. “From Lorenzo?”

“From debauchery. From paganism. From the pursuit of profane art.”

Teeth chattering, Baroncelli glared at him. “If you-if others-believe this, then why have you not rescued me before now? Save me!”

“We dare not make ourselves known. There is much to be done before Florence, before Italy, before the world, is ready for us.”

“You are mad,” Baroncelli breathed.

The Comforter smiled. “We are fools for God.”

He helped Baroncelli to his feet; enraged, Baroncelli pulled away from him and staggered up the wooden steps alone.

On the scaffolding, the executioner, a young, slender man whose face was hidden beneath a mask, stood between Baroncelli and the waiting noose. “Before God,” the executioner said to Baroncelli, “I beg your forgiveness for the act I am sworn to commit.”

The inside of Baroncelli’s lips and cheeks cleaved to his teeth; his tongue was so dry, it left behind a layer of skin as he articulated the words. Yet his tone sounded astonishingly calm. “I forgive you.”

The executioner released a small sound of relief; perhaps there had been other doomed men more eager to let their blood stain his hands. He caught Baroncelli’s elbow and guided him to a particular spot on the platform, near the noose. “Here.” His voice was oddly gentle. And he produced from within his cloak a white linen scarf.

In the instant before he was blindfolded, Baroncelli scanned the crowd. Near the front was Giovanna, with the children. She was too distant for Baroncelli to be sure, but it seemed to him that she had been weeping.

Lorenzo de’ Medici was nowhere to be seen-but Baroncelli had no doubt that he was watching. Watching from a hidden balcony, or a window; perhaps from inside the Palazzo della Signoria itself.

Below, at the foot of the scaffolding, stood the Comforter, his expression serene and oddly satisfied. In an instant of epiphany, Baroncelli realized that he, Francesco de’ Pazzi, Messer Iacopo, Archbishop Salviati-all of them-had been fools, their small ambitions used to serve part of a larger scheme, one that filled him with almost as much dread as the prospect of his imminent death.

The executioner tied the scarf over Baroncelli’s eyes, then guided the noose over his chin and tightened it around his neck.

In the instant before the platform beneath him dropped, Baroncelli whispered two words, directed at himself.

“Here, traitor.”

X

The instant that Baroncelli’s body ceased its twitching, a young artist near the front of the crowd set to work. The corpse would hang in the piazza for days, until its decomposition caused it to drop from the rope. But the artist could not wait; he wanted to capture the image while it still possessed an echo of life. Besides, young hooligans, giovani, would soon amuse themselves by casting stones at it, and the imminent rain would cause it to bloat.

He sketched on paper pressed against a board of poplar, to give him a firm surface to work against. He had cut back the plume from his quill pen, for he used it so continually that any barbs there irritated his long fingers; he had carved the nib himself to a fine, sharp point, and he dipped it regularly, mindlessly, into a vial of brown iron gall ink securely fastened to his belt. Since one could not properly draw constrained by gloves, his bare hands ached from the cold, but he dismissed the observation as unworthy of his time. In the same manner, he dismissed the sorrow that threatened to overwhelm him-for the sight of Baroncelli evoked profoundly painful memories-and focused instead on the subject before him.

Despite all attempts to mask their true feelings, all men and women nonetheless revealed them through subtle signs in expression, posture, and voice. Baroncelli’s regret was blatant. Even in death, his eyes were downcast, as if contemplating Hell. His head was bowed, and the corners of his thin lips were pulled downward by guilt. Here was a man overwhelmed by self-loathing.

The artist struggled not to yield to his hatred, though he had very personal reasons for despising Baroncelli. But hate was against his principles, so-like his aching fingers and heart-he ignored it and continued with his work. He also found killing unethical-even the execution of a murderer such as Baroncelli.

As was his habit, he jotted notes on the page to remind himself of the colors and textures involved, for there was an excellent chance the sketch might become a painting. He wrote from right to left, the letters a mirror image of conventional script. Years before, when he had been a student in Andrea Verrochio’s workshop, other artists had accused him of unwarranted secrecy, for when he showed them his sketches, they could make no sense of his notes. But he wrote as he did because it came most naturally to him; the privacy conferred was a coincidental benefit.

Small tan cap. The quill scratched against the paper. Black serge jerkin, lined woolen singlet, blue cloak lined with fox fur, velvet collar stippled red and black, Bernardo Bandino Baroncelli, black leggings. Baroncelli had kicked off his slippers during his death throes; he was shown with bare feet.

The artist frowned at Baroncelli’s patronymic. He was self-taught, still struggling to overcome his rustic Vinci dialect, and spelling bedeviled him. No matter. Lorenzo de’ Medici, il Magnifico, was interested in the image, not the words.

He did a quick, small rendering at the bottom of the page, showing Baroncelli’s head at an angle that revealed more of the gloom-stricken features. Satisfied with his work, he then set to his real task of scanning the faces in the crowd. Those near the front-the nobility and more prosperous merchants-were just beginning to leave, hushed and somber. The populo minuto, the poor and struggling, remained behind to entertain themselves by hurling epithets and rocks at the corpse.

The artist carefully watched as many men as possible as they left the piazza. There were two reasons for this: The ostensible one was that he was a student of faces. Those who knew of him were used to his intent stares.

The darker reason was the result of an encounter between himself and Lorenzo de’ Medici. He was looking for a particular face-one he had seen twenty months earlier, for only the briefest of instants. Even with his talent for recalling physiognomies, his memory was clouded-yet his heart was equally determined to succeed. This time, he was resolved not to let emotion get the better of him.

“Leonardo!”

The sound of his own name startled the artist; he jerked involuntarily and, out of reflex, capped the vial of ink, lest it spill.

An old friend from Verrocchio’s workshop had been on his way out of the piazza, and moved toward him.

“Sandro,” Leonardo said, when his friend at last stood before him. “You look like a lord prior.”

Sandro Botticelli grinned. At thirty-four, he was several years Leonardo’s senior, in the prime of his life and career. He was indeed dressed grandly, in a scarlet fur-trimmed cloak; a black velvet cap covered most of his golden hair, cut chin-length, shorter than the current fashion. Like Leonardo, he was clean-shaven. His green eyes were heavy-lidded, filled with the insolence that had always marked his manner. Even so, Leonardo liked him; he was possessed of great talent and a good heart. Over the past year, Sandro had received several fat commissions from the Medici and Tornabuoni, including the massive painting Primavera, soon to be a wedding gift from Lorenzo to his cousin.

Sandro eyed Leonardo’s sketch with sly humor. “So. Trying to steal my job, I see.”

He was referring to the recently painted mural on a façade near the Palazzo della Signoria, partially visible behind the scaffolding now that the crowd was beginning to thin. He had received a commission from Lorenzo in those terrible days following Giuliano’s death: to depict each of the executed Pazzi conspirators as they dangled from the rope. The life-sized images duly inspired the terror they were meant to provoke. There was Francesco de’ Pazzi, entirely naked, his wounded thigh encrusted with blood; there, too, was Salviati in his archbishop’s robes. The two dead men were shown facing the viewer-effective, though not an accurate depiction of fact. Like Botticelli, Leonardo had been in the Piazza della Signoria at the moment Francesco-dragged from his bed-had been pushed from the uppermost arched window of the palazzo, hung from the building itself for all to see. A moment later, Salviati had followed and, at the instant of his death, had turned toward his fellow conspirator and-whether in a violent, involuntary spasm or in a final moment of rage-had sunk his teeth deep into Francesco de’ Pazzi’s shoulder. It was a bizarre image, one so troubling that even Leonardo, overwhelmed by emotion, failed to record it in his notebook. Paintings of other executed men, including Messer Iacopo, were partially completed, but one murderer was altogether missing: Baroncelli. Botticelli had probably taken notes himself this morning, intending to finish the mural. But at the sight of Leonardo’s sketch, he shrugged.

“No matter,” he said breezily. “Being rich enough to dress like a lord prior, I can certainly let a pauper like yourself finish up the task. I have far greater things to accomplish.”

Leonardo, dressed in a knee-length artisan’s tunic of cheap used linen and a dull gray wool mantle, slipped his sketch under one arm and bowed, low and sweeping, in an exaggerated show of gratitude.

“You are too kind, my lord.” He rose. “Now go. You are a hired hack, and I am a true artist, with much to accomplish before the rains come.”

He and Sandro parted with smiles and a brief embrace, and Leonardo returned at once to studying the crowd. He was always happy to see Sandro, but the interruption annoyed him. Too much was at stake; he reached absently into the pouch on his belt and fingered a gold medallion the size of a large florin. On the front, in bas relief, was the title PUBLIC MOURNING. Beneath, Baroncelli raised his long knife above his head while Giuliano looked up at the blade with surprise. Behind Baroncelli stood Francesco de’ Pazzi, his dagger at the ready. Leonardo had provided the sketch, rendering the scene with as much accuracy as possible, although for the viewer’s sake, Giuliano was depicted as facing Baroncelli. Verrocchio had made the cast from Leonardo’s drawing.

Two days after the murder, Leonardo had dispatched a letter to Lorenzo de’ Medici.

My lord Lorenzo, I need to speak privately with you concerning a matter of the utmost importance.

No reply was forthcoming: Lorenzo, overcome with grief, hid in the Medici palazzo, which had become a fortress surrounded by scores of armed men. He received no visitors; letters requesting his opinion or his favor piled up unanswered.

After a week without a reply, Leonardo borrowed a gold florin and went to the door of the Medici stronghold. He bribed one of the guards there to deliver a second letter straightaway, while he stood waiting in the loggia, watching the hard rain pound the cobblestone streets.

My lord Lorenzo, I come neither seeking favor nor speaking of business. I have critical information concerning the death of your brother, for your ears alone.

Several minutes later he was admitted after being thoroughly checked for weapons-ridiculous, since he had never owned one or had any idea of how to wield one.

Pale and lifeless in an unadorned tunic of black, Lorenzo, his neck still bandaged, received Leonardo in his study, surrounded by artwork of astonishing beauty. He gazed up at Leonardo with eyes clouded by guilt and grief-yet even these could not hide his interest in hearing what the artist had to say.

On the morning of the twenty-sixth of April, Leonardo had stood several rows from the altar in the Cathedral of Santa Maria del Fiore. He’d had questions for Lorenzo about a joint commission he and his former teacher Andrea Verrocchio had received to sculpt a bust of Giuliano, and hoped to catch il Magnifico after the service. Leonardo attended Mass only when he had business to conduct; he found the natural world far more awe-inspiring than a man-made cathedral. He was on very good terms with the Medici. Over the past few years, he had stayed for months at a time in Lorenzo’s house as one of the many artists in the family’s employ.

To Leonardo’s surprise that morning in the Duomo, Giuliano had arrived, late, disheveled, and escorted by Francesco de’ Pazzi and his employee.

Leonardo found men and women equally beautiful, equally worthy of his love, but he lived an unrequited life by choice. An artist could not allow the storms of love to interrupt his work. He avoided women most of all, for the demands of a wife and children would make his studies-of art, of the world and its inhabitants-impossible. He did not want to become as his master Verrocchio was-wasting his talent, taking on any work, whether it be the construction of masks for Carnival or the gilding of a lady’s slippers, to feed his hungry family. There was never any time to experiment, to observe, to improve his skills.

Ser Antonio, Leonardo’s grandfather, had first explained this concept to him. Antonio had loved his grandson deeply, ignoring the fact that he was the illegitimate get of a servant girl. As Leonardo grew, only his grandfather noted the boy’s talent, and had given him a book of paper and charcoal. When Leonardo was seven years old, he had been sitting in the cool grass with a silverpoint stylus and a rough panel of wood, studying how the wind rippled through the leaves of an olive orchard. Ser Antonio-ever busy, straight-shouldered and sharp-eyed despite his eighty-eight years-had paused to stand beside him, and look with him at the glittering trees.

Quite suddenly and unprompted, he said, Pay no attention to custom, my boy. I had half your talent-yes, I was good at drawing and eager, like you, to understand how the natural world works-but I listened to my father. Before I came to the farm, I was apprenticed to him as a notary.

That is what we are-a family of notaries. One sired me, and so I sired one myself-your father. What have we given the world? Contracts and bills of exchange, and signatures on documents which will turn to dust.

I did not give up my dreams altogether; even as I learned about the profession, I drew in secret. I stared at birds and rivers, and wondered how they worked. But then I met your grandmother Lucia and fell in love. It was the worst thing ever to happen, for I abandoned art and science and married her. Then there were children, and no time to look at trees. Lucia found my scribblings and cast them into the fire.

But God has given us you-you with your amazing mind and eyes and hands. You have a duty not to abandon them.

Promise me you will not make my mistake; promise me you will never let your heart carry you away.

Young Leonardo had promised.

But when he became a protégé of the Medici and a member of their inner circle, he had been drawn, physically and emotionally, to Lorenzo’s younger brother. Giuliano was infinitely lovable. It was not simply the man’s striking appearance-Leonardo was himself far more attractive, often called “beautiful” by his friends-but rather the pure goodness of his spirit.

This fact Leonardo kept to himself. He did not wish to make Giuliano, a lover of women, uncomfortable; nor did he care to scandalize Lorenzo, his host and patron.

When Giuliano appeared in the Duomo, Leonardo-only two rows behind him, for he had made his way as close as possible to Lorenzo, the better to intercept him-could not help but stare steadily at him. He noted Giuliano’s downcast demeanor, and was filled with neither sympathy nor attraction but with a welling of bitter jealousy.

The previous evening, the artist had set out with the intention of speaking to Lorenzo about the commission.

He had made his way onto the Via de’ Gori, past the church of San Lorenzo. The Palazzo Medici lay just ahead, to his left, and he stepped out into the street toward it.

It was dusk. To the west lay the high, narrow tower of the Palazzo della Signoria and the great curving cupola of the Duomo, distinct and dark against an impossible horizon of incandescent coral fading gradually to lavender, then gray. Given the hour, traffic was light, and Leonardo paused in the street, lost in the beauty of his surroundings. He watched as a carriage rolled toward him, and enjoyed the crisp silhouettes of the horses, their bodies impenetrably black, set against the backdrop of the brilliant sky with the sun behind them, so that all detail was swallowed. Sundown was his favorite hour, for the failing light infused forms and colors with a tenderness, a sense of gentle mystery, that the noon sun burned away.

He grew lost in the play of shadow on the horses’ bodies, on the rippling of muscles beneath their flesh, the spirited lift of their heads-so much so that as they came rumbling down upon him, he had to collect himself and move swiftly out of their way. He crossed in front of them and found himself standing on the southern flank of the Palazzo Medici; his destination, less than a minute’s walk away, was the Via Larga.

A short distance in front of him, the driver of the carriage jerked the horses to a stop; the door opened. Leonardo hung back and watched as a young woman stepped out. The twilight turned the marked whiteness of her skin into dove gray, her eyes and hair to nondescript darkness. The drabness of her gown and veil, the downward cast of her face, marked her as the servant of a wealthy family. There was purpose in her step and furtiveness in her posture as her gaze swept from side to side. She hurried to the palazzo’s side entrance and knocked insistently.

A pause, and the door opened with a long, sustained creak. The servant moved back to the carriage and gestured urgently to someone inside.

A second woman emerged from the carriage and moved gracefully, swiftly, toward the open entry.

Leonardo said her name aloud without intending to. She was a friend of the Medici, a frequent visitor to the palazzo; he had talked to her on several occasions. Even before he saw her clearly, he recognized her movements, the cant of her shoulders, the way her head swiveled on her neck as she turned to look up at him.

He took a step closer, and was finally able to see her face.

Her nose was long and straight, the tip downturned, the nostrils flared; her forehead was broad and very high. Her chin was pointed, but the cheeks and jaw were gracefully rounded, like her shoulders, which inclined toward the Palazzo Medici although her face was turned toward his.

She had always been beautiful, but now the dimness softened everything, gave her features a haunting quality they had not heretofore possessed. She seemed to melt into the air; it was impossible to tell where the shadows ended and she began. Her luminous face, her décolleté, her hands, seemed to float suspended against the dark forest of her gown and hair. Her expression was one of covert joy; her eyes held sublime secrets, her lips the hint of a complicitous smile.

In that instant, she was more than human: She was divine.

He reached out with his hand, half thinking it would pass through her, as if she were a phantom.

She pulled away and he saw, even in the grayness, the bright flare of fear in her eyes, in the parting of her lips; she had not meant to be discovered. Had he possessed a feather, he would have whisked away the deep line between her brows and resurrected the look of mystery.

He murmured her name again, this time a question, but her gaze had already turned toward the open doorway. Leonardo followed it, and caught a glimpse of another familiar face: Giuliano’s. His body was entirely obscured by shadow; he did not see Leonardo, only the woman.

And she saw Giuliano, and bloomed.

In that instant, Leonardo understood and turned his cheek away, overwhelmed by bitterness, as the door closed behind them.

He did not go to see Lorenzo that night. He went home to his little apartment and slept poorly. He stared up at the ceiling and saw the gently lucent features of the woman emerging from the blackness.

The following morning, gazing on Giuliano in the Duomo, Leonardo dwelled on his unhappy passion. He recalled, again and again, the painful instant when he had seen the look pass between Giuliano and the woman, when he had realized Giuliano’s heart belonged to her, and hers to him; and he cursed himself for being vulnerable to such a foolish emotion as jealousy.

He had been so ensnared by his reverie that he had been startled by a sudden movement in front of him. A robed figure stepped forward an instant before Giuliano turned to look behind him, then released a sharp gasp.

There followed Baroncelli’s hoarse shout. Leonardo had stared up, stricken, at the glint of the raised blade. In the space of a breath, the frightened worshipers scattered, pulling the artist backward with the tide of bodies. He had thrashed, struggling vainly to reach Giuliano with the thought of protecting him from further attack, but he could not even hold his ground.

In the wild scramble, Leonardo’s view of Baroncelli’s knife entering Giuliano’s flesh had been blocked. But Leonardo had seen the final blows of Francesco’s unspeakably brutal attack-the dagger biting, again and again, into Giuliano’s flesh, just as Archbishop Salviati would, in due turn, bite into Francesco de’ Pazzi’s shoulder.

The instant he realized what was happening, Leonardo let go a loud shout-inarticulate, threatening, horrified-at the attackers. At last the crowd cleared; at last no one stood between him and the assassins. He had run toward them as Francesco, still shrieking, moved on. It was too late to shelter, to protect, Giuliano’s good, innocent spirit.

Leonardo dropped to his knees beside the fallen man. He lay half curled on his side, his mouth still working; blood foamed at his lips and spilled from his wounds.

Leonardo pressed a hand to the worst of them, the gaping hole in Giuliano’s chest. He could hear the frail, gurgling wheeze of the victim’s lungs as they fought to expel blood and draw in air. But Leonardo’s efforts to stanch the flow were futile.

Each wound on the front of Giuliano’s pale green tunic released its own steady stream of blood. The streams forked, then rejoined, creating a latticework over the young man’s body until at last they merged into the growing dark pool on the marble floor.

“Giuliano,” Leonardo had gasped, tears streaming down his cheeks at the sight of such suffering, at the sight of beauty so marred.

Giuliano did not hear him. He was beyond hearing, beyond sight: His half-open eyes already stared into the next world. As Leonardo hovered over him, he retched up a volume of bright, foaming blood; his limbs twitched briefly, then his eyes widened. Thus he died.

Now, standing in front of Lorenzo, Leonardo said nothing of Giuliano’s final suffering, for such details would only fuel il Magnifico’s grief. Leonardo spoke not of Baroncelli, nor of Francesco de’ Pazzi. Instead, he spoke of a third man, one who had yet to be found.

Leonardo recounted that he had seen, in the periphery of his vision, a robed figure step forward on Giuliano’s right, and that he believed it was this man who had delivered the first blow. As Giuliano tried to back away from Baroncelli, the figure had stood fast, pressing hard against the victim to trap him. The crowd had obscured Leonardo’s sight to a great degree at that point-the unknown figure had briefly disappeared, perhaps had fallen, but he had gotten back on his feet. He did not even recoil when Francesco struck out wildly with the dagger, but remained firmly in place until Francesco and Baroncelli had moved on.

Once Giuliano had died, Leonardo glanced up and noticed the man moving quickly toward the door that led to the piazza. He must have paused at some point to look behind him, to be sure that his victim died.

“Assassin!” the artist shouted. “Stop!”

There was such outraged authority, such pure force in his voice that, amazingly, the conspirator stopped in mid-stride and glanced swiftly over his shoulder.

Leonardo captured his image with a trained artist’s eye. The man wore the robes of a penitent-crude burlap-and his clean-shaven face was half shadowed by a cowl. Only the lower half of his lip and his chin were visible.

Held close to his side, his hand gripped a bloodied stiletto.

After he had fled, Leonardo had gently rolled Giuliano’s body onto its side and discovered the puncture-small but very deep-in his mid-back.

This he relayed to Lorenzo. But he did not admit what he knew in his tortured heart: that he, Leonardo, was responsible for Giuliano’s death.

His guilt was not irrational. It was the product of long meditation on the events that had occurred. Had he, the artist, not been so overcome by the emotions of love and pain and jealousy, Giuliano might have lived.

It was Leonardo’s habit to study crowds-faces, bodies, posture-and from this, he usually learned a great deal of information. Almost as much could be read from a man’s back as from his front. If the artist had not been absorbed by thoughts of Giuliano and the woman, he would surely have noticed the exceptional tension in the penitent’s stance, for the man had been almost directly in front of him. He might have noticed something peculiar in Baroncelli’s or Francesco de’ Pazzi’s demeanor as they waited beside Giuliano. He would have sensed the anxiety of the three men and deduced that Giuliano was in great danger.

If he had only paid attention, he would have seen the penitent surreptitiously reach for the stiletto; he would have noticed Baroncelli’s hand tensing on the hilt of his knife.

And there would have been time for him to take a single step forward. To reach for the penitent’s hand. To move between Giuliano and Baroncelli.

Instead, his passion had reduced him to a witless bystander, rendered helpless by the panicked, fleeing crowd. And it had cost Giuliano his life.

He bowed his head at the weight of the guilt, then raised it again and looked in il Magnifico’s sorrowful, eager eyes.

“I am certain this man was disguised, my lord.”

Lorenzo was intrigued. “How can you possibly know that?”

“His posture. Penitents indulge in self-flagellation and wear hair shirts beneath their robes. They slump, cringe, and move gingerly, because of the pain each time the shirt touches their skin. This man moved freely; his posture was straight and sure. But the muscles were tensed-from emotional distress.

“I believe, as well, that he was from the upper classes, given the dignity and gentility of his aspect.”

Lorenzo’s gaze was penetrating. “All this you have ascertained from a man’s movements, a man who was draped in a robe?”

Leonardo stared back unflinching. He judged all men the same; the powerful did not intimidate him. “I would not have come if I had not.”

“Then you shall be my agent.” Lorenzo’s eyes narrowed with hatred and determination. “You shall help me find this man.”

So it was over the past year that Leonardo had been summoned several times to the Palazzo della Signoria’s basement jail, to carefully examine the lips and chins and postures of unfortunate men. None of them matched those of the penitent in the cathedral.

The night before Baroncelli’s execution, Lorenzo, now called il Magnifico, had sent two guards to bring Leonardo to the palazzo on the Via Larga.

Lorenzo had changed little physically-save for the pale scar on his neck. If his unseen wound had similarly healed, this day had torn it open, rendered it fresh and raw.

Leonardo, too, struggled beneath the burdens of sadness and guilt. Had he not been so stricken, he might have permitted himself to delight in il Magnifico’s unique features, especially his nose. The bridge rose briefly just beneath the eyebrows, then flattened and abruptly disappeared, as if God had taken his thumb and squashed it down. Yet it rose again, rebellious and astonishing in its length, and sloped precipitously to the left. Its shape rendered his voice harshly nasal and produced another odd effect as well: In the years Leonardo had known him, Lorenzo had never once stood in his famed garden and lifted a flower to inhale its scent. He had never once complimented a woman on her perfume, nor taken note of any odor, agreeable or disagreeable; indeed, he seemed caught off guard when anyone else did. Only one conclusion was possible: Lorenzo had no sense of smell.

That evening, il Magnifico wore a woolen tunic of deep rich blue; white ermine edged the collar and cuffs. He was an unhappy victor this night, but he seemed more troubled than gloating. “Perhaps you have already deduced why I have called for you,” he said.

“Yes. I am to go to the piazza tomorrow to look for the third man.” Leonardo hesitated; he, too, was troubled. “I need your assurance first.”

“Ask and I will give it. I have Baroncelli now; I cannot rest until the third assassin is found.”

“Baroncelli is to die, and rumor has it that he was tortured mercilessly.”

Lorenzo interrupted swiftly. “And with good reason. He was my best hope to find the last conspirator. But he insisted he did not know the man; if he did, he will take the secret to Hell with him.”

The bitterness in il Magnifico’s tone gave Leonardo pause. “Ser Lorenzo, if I find this third assassin, I cannot in good conscience turn him over to be killed.”

Lorenzo recoiled as if he had been struck full in the face; his pitch rose with indignance. “You would let an accomplice to my brother’s murder go free?”

“No.” Leonardo’s own voice trembled faintly. “I esteemed your brother more highly than any other.”

“I know,” Lorenzo replied softly, in a way that said he did know the full truth of the matter. “That is why I also know that, of all men, you are my greatest ally.”

Gathering himself, Leonardo bowed his head, then lifted it again. “I would want to see such a man brought to justice-to be deprived of his freedom, condemned to work for the good of others, to be forced to spend the remainder of his life contemplating his crime.”

Lorenzo’s upper lip was invisible; his lower stretched so taut over his jutting lower teeth that the tips of them showed. “Such idealism is admirable.” He paused. “I am a reasonable man-and like you, an honest one. If I agree that this accomplice, should you find him, will not be killed but instead imprisoned, will you go to the piazza to find him?”

“I will,” Leonardo promised. “And if I fail tomorrow, I will not stop searching until he is found.”

Lorenzo nodded, satisfied. He looked away, toward a Flemish painting of bewitching delicacy on his wall. “You should know that this man-” He stopped himself, then started again. “This goes far deeper than the murder of my brother, Leonardo. They mean to destroy us.”

“To destroy you and your family?”

Lorenzo faced him again. “You. Me. Botticelli. Verrocchio. Perugino. Ghirlandaio. All that Florence represents.” Leonardo opened his mouth to ask, Who? Who means to do this?, but il Magnifico lifted a hand to silence him. “Go to the piazza tomorrow. Find the third man. I mean to question him personally.”

It was agreed that Lorenzo would pay Leonardo a token sum for a “commission”-the sketch of Bernardo Baroncelli hanged, with the possibility that such a sketch might become a portrait. Thus Leonardo could honestly answer that he was in the Piazza della Signoria because Lorenzo de’ Medici wanted a drawing; he was a very bad liar, and prevarication did not suit him.

As he stood in the square on the cold December morning of Baroncelli’s death, staring intently at the face of each man who passed, he puzzled over il Magnifico’s words.

They mean to destroy us…