Jeanne Kalogridis - Painting Mona Lisa

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 thinking of Lorenzo.

He finally understood the depth of his elder brother’s love and caring for him. When he had first become fascinated with Anna, he had gone to Lorenzo and asked, ‘Have you ever been in love?’ He had always felt pity for his brother, on account of his unhappy marriage.

Lorenzo had been busy at his desk, but at the sound of his brother’s voice, he had looked up and forced his stern expression to lighten. ‘Of course.’

‘No, Lorenzo, I mean desperately, hopelessly in love. So much in love that you would rather die than lose your beloved.’

Lorenzo sighed with mild impatience. ‘Of course. But the story ends sadly, so what would be the point in its telling?’

‘You never want to speak to me of sad things.’ Giuliano said. ‘Just like Father, always trying to protect me, as if I weren’t able to fend for myself.’

Hidden hurt glimmered in Lorenzo’s eyes as his gaze flickered down and to the side … and into the past. Giuliano realized he was thinking of their father, Piero, and of the day he died. In his last moments, Piero had asked to speak to his eldest son alone; Giuliano had always assumed it had been merely to relate political secrets. But at that instant, seeing the haunted look in Lorenzo’s eyes, Giuliano realized their conversation had dealt with something more important.

‘I’m sorry, Lorenzo. I didn’t mean to complain …’

Lorenzo gave a small, unhappy smile. ‘You’re entitled. But … you’ve already seen enough grief in your short life already, don’t you think?’

Recalling the conversation, Giuliano swallowed wine without tasting it. Now it seemed like a mockery that God had given him the wonderful gift of Anna’s love, only to have it cause everyone such pain.

He sat for hours, watching the darkness of night deepen, then slowly fade to grey 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.

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.

Still in the lead, Francesco turned and goaded Baroncelli on with a murderous glance. Giuliano, still distracted by his 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 air was filmed with smoke, redolent with frankincense and heavy with sweat. The sanctuary’s massive interior was dim, save for the area surrounding the altar, which was dazzling from the late morning light streaming in from the long arched windows of the cupola.

Again taking the least-noticeable path along the north side, Francesco headed towards 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 backwards, 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 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 frowned, straining 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?

Barconelli 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 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 heavenwards, proffering it to the large wooden carving of a dolorous, crucified Christ suspended above the altar.