Michael White - The Medici secret

Descending the northern side of the Rialto, he turned immediately right into the fish market, Mercato del Pesce. He loved this place, loved even the pungent smell of fish being gutted by men in white overalls and rubber boots. At the stalls, he could see trays filled with scores of squid like distended brains; crabs, their claws grasping the air trying to reach some place they would never find, and whole tuna stamped with the name of the fishmonger who would slice it up to accommodate thirty families. Beyond the fish stalls stood row upon row of counters laden with fruit and vegetables, and beside these, flower stalls, a riot of every colour in every shade.

Jeff loved to cook and this was his favourite place to buy fresh produce. The stall holders all called him by his first name. They joked with him, and during the past year they had taught him a thesaurus of colloquialisms and obscene phrases.

He wandered slowly around the stalls picking the best cut of fish he could find, trout fillets which he knew Rose would love. He then selected courgettes, aubergines, mushrooms and firm new potatoes. Fifteen minutes after entering the market, he was done, two plastic carrier bags were filled with everything he needed to cook that night.

Leaving the market, the day had blossomed. Now there were plenty of people around and the light had changed from its former moody ambience to the bleach of true morning. It was time for a coffee and maybe even an aperitif.

Dropping the plastic bags beside a table, Jeff called over the waiter and placed his order. Then he noticed the TV in the far corner, high up on a wooden shelf. The news was on with the sound low. An image of a tank exploding and the faces of newly dead soldiers. Then the newsreader in the studio mouthed almost silent words before the picture changed. The waiter arrived with the coffee, a pair of small biscuits on the saucer. Jeff returned his gaze to the screen, a coloured bar now stretched across the bottom of the picture and he could read the words: MEDICI CHAPEL, FIRENZE. Above this, the image of a dimly lit room. He soon realised it was the crypt of the chapel. Then the picture dissolved, replaced with a head shot of Professor Carlin Mackenzie.

Jeff felt a sudden spasm in the pit of his stomach. He was about to call over the waiter to get the volume turned up but already the image on the screen had vanished, replaced by a shot of Downing Street. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone. Punching the keys, his mind acting on autopilot, he found the BBC Internet News Service. Clicking again he pulled up 'Breaking News' and scanned the brief report. It was only as he finished reading the last line he realised his hands were shaking.

Florence, 4 May 1410 Cosimo de' Medici considered his reflection in the small mirror in his bedchamber. He was an ugly young man and he knew it. Not for him the full blond curls of his best friend Ambrogio Tommasini; nor could he make claim to anything like Ambrogio's shapely nose, his large brown, sometimes fathomless eyes with their long lashes. Cosimo's face was an odd confection of mismatched features, a jutting chin, narrow lips and a wholly unappealing nose. Admittedly, his eyes were large and nicely shaped, but they were slightly different sizes and arranged either side of his nose without precision. Even though he had only just entered his twenty-second year, his hair was thin and wispy, his skin sallow. But then he smiled faintly and his face changed in an instant. He was still ugly, but a new light was revealed in his eyes, the sudden wrinkles around their sockets added a decade but they also offered warmth. He felt comfortable with the face that stared back at him, and at that moment he would not have exchanged his singular visage for Ambrogio's redoubtable beauty. Plucking from the bed his lucco, the rich crimson ankle-length coat he wore every day, he slipped his arms through the sleeves, letting the great folds of fabric drape luxuriantly around his wrists. A moment later, he was heading for the door.

Along the echoing corridor and down the broad, curving stone stairway, the house was silent, but as Cosimo stood in the hall he could hear the sound of people walking by on the road outside, and beyond this, the clatter of hooves on cobbles.

Cosimo found his mother, Piccarda, sitting in her sewing room situated close to the front of the house. The curtains had been drawn wide and sunlight spilled in through the shutters casting broad bands of lemon across the room. His six-year-old brother Lorenzo was playing with one of the cats. Olomo, the black slave boy, recently arrived from Lisbon, was cleaning ashes from the fireplace, sweeping them into a broad wooden pail tipped forward on to its rim. Waving a brash in a broad arc between sweeps of the dirt, he was trying to shoo away a brown and white kitten that was intent on demolishing and dispersing the pile of grey powder so carefully gathered from the grate. 'I'm to meet father at the eighth hour,' Cosimo said to his mother. 'But breakfast, Cosi.'

'I'll stop for some bread on the way. I'm late.' He kissed his mother on the cheek.

Lorenzo saw his brother and ran over to him. Cosimo ruffled the boy's hair. Then, lifting him high into the air, he whirled him around.

'Don't forget our ball game later, Cosi. Remember you promised,' Lorenzo exclaimed between squeals.

'How could I forget such an important engagement?' He placed his brother back on the rug, kissed the top of the boy's head, waved to his mother and was gone.

The Medicis lived in a large but rather plain house on the Piazza del Duomo, and the front windows on the upper floor offered a spectacular view across the city towards the Ponte Vecchio. The foreground was dominated by the unfinished colossus of the Duomo, in the distance the Cathedral of Santa Maria del Fiore could be seen encased in wooden scaffolding.

It was already busy on the streets close to the Duomo. Stepping out on to the piazza, Cosimo quickly dodged a man pulling a cart laden high with vegetables and turned south along Via dei Calzaiuoli towards the river and the banking district centred on Via Porta Rossa, where his father, Giovanni di Bicci had founded the Medici bank thirteen years earlier. The air was thick with a confusion of odours: an acidic tinge from the tanneries and the ammonia stench of fish guts clashed with the wonderful aroma of baking bread. But Cosimo was almost totally oblivious to the smells. He had been born just a few yards from here on a day when the same scents wafted all around. They were as natural to him as the spotless blue sky above the towers, the tiled roofs and the cobblestones of the street beneath his feet.

Looking up, he saw a matronly figure flapping a sheet as she pinned it to a length of thin rope above the balcony. From inside the house came the squeals of children, a crash and then an adult shouting. Cosimo smiled to himself and stepped up his pace; he was late after all.

A few yards on, and he could see the river glistening in the morning sun and directly ahead was the Ponte Vecchio with its huddled shops and houses, the tanners, purse-makers and a clutch of butchers. The bridge was already crowded with people bartering and haggling over the price of a fine leather pouch or a side of venison. On the river itself a small barge was approaching the quay, a young boy dressed in a black felt cap and badly ripped hose leaned forward at the prow and swung a rope, expertly lassoing the mooring post on his first attempt. The boy shouted something unintelligible to a man at the helm then ran aft to secure that end of the boat.

Cosimo turned right into Via Porta Rossa and saw immediately the grand facade of the banking house. A small crowd milled around outside just as it did on most days. At small wooden tables topped with green baize sat men in formal black jackets buttoned up tight to the neck. Around each table, a small crowd jostled, making it difficult for the men at the front to hold a proper discourse with the seated officials. On the tables could be seen quills and ink bottles, clusters of promissory notes and small piles of coins. Beside each table stood an armed guard, each clutching a pike, watching the eager faces and itching for some action.