The Sign of the Weeping Virgin (Five Star Mystery Series) (24 page)

“I do,” Lorenzo said.

“Because of a crude effigy?” Antonio Capponi said. “Sweet Jesus, what have we come to?”

Lorenzo jumped up and knifed forward, as if he meant to grab Antonio by the throat. “
My
effigy, Antonio!
My
house! Next time,
you
go to Naples, and I'll stay home! You watch
your
brother die for the Republic and wake every morning wondering if today's the day a madman will stick a knife in
you
.”

Lorenzo slung himself back into his chair, still watching Antonio Capponi, who slunk down, his pale skin scorched with heat. There was a minute silence. “
Our
city and government,” Lorenzo said, and in his voice there remained an undercurrent of fury. “We're mired in debt. War, weeping paintings. Who can blame people for wanting to tear off our heads? We've become a place of curving streets and dead ends in more ways than one.”

Pierfilippo Pandolfini's brown eyes darted around the faces of the other men. “I agree. It's time for reform. For change.”

“What shape would that change take? Exactly,” Guid'Antonio said.

A smile played on Tommaso Soderini's colorless lips.
Bravo, Guid'Antonio. Dig your own grave.

“Whatever it takes to establish a stronger government,” Lorenzo said.

“But a
balìa?
” Tommaso said. “However would we manage it? People are suspicious of us as it is. They would think we're up to no good.” He smirked. “Imagine that.”

“What is this? You know how it works.
We
wouldn't manage anything. We have a Republic, remember?” Lorenzo arranged two small bowls of olive oil and a large plate of bread and cheese in front of him in a straight line, setting the single large plate slightly apart. “The first bowl of oil is the nine Lord Priors, the second bowl, our other legislative councils. First, a majority of the nine would have to agree to ask the other councils to consider the appointment of the special commission, the
balìa
.”

He tapped the second bowl of oil. “If, and
only
if, those councils agreed would the commission be appointed.” He touched the plate. “In turn,
that
commission, whose members would consist of a great body of men, would determine what reforms should be set in place.

Exactly
, I mean,” he said, his brown eyes fixed on Guid'Antonio. “Even if a majority of the nine agreed to initiate the proposal—” Reaching over, Guid'Antonio slid the first bowl of oil away from the other small bowl and the plate. “What makes you think the other legislative councils would vote for the creation of an emergency committee? They might not agree we have an extreme crisis on our hands.”

He moved the second bowl away from the plate. “And as Tommaso says, God help us if the
popolo minuto
get the wrong idea. If they think we mean to seize the government, they'll hang us all, no questions asked.”

The
sala
was quiet and tense. Bartolomeo Scala looked up from his notes and put down his pen. Like Guid'Antonio, he was here only as a member of the Medici party's inner circle. And like the rest of the men present, he was willing to let Guid'Antonio butt heads with Lorenzo the Magnificent.

Lorenzo drew his hands back through his hair, holding it away from his face. “I woke to blood on my walls. Who's next? You, Guid'Antonio? Your family? All I am saying is the Lord Priors should consider moving forward. All I hope to do is to strengthen the government, not for me, but for the people.”

He sopped a piece of bread in the first bowl of oil and chewed it a while. “Every Prior currently in office would sit on the final commission. Along with a good number of other qualified men. Many of whom are sitting here now.”

Of course, yes: it was the law. Lorenzo surveyed the meeting table. “You, Capponi. You, too, Di Nasi.” Lorenzo gazed at his uncle. “You, Tommaso Soderini.” His eyes locked on Guid'Antonio. “And you, as well as everyone present and many of our closest friends.”

“As qualified men,” Guid'Antonio said.

Lorenzo's lips quirked in a smile. “Yes.”

Tommaso turned the plate, the emergency commission, the
balìa
, in a circle with the tips of his fingers. “No harm in thinking about it, surely.”

No harm
, Guid'Antonio thought,
since we will be the men who benefit most from any changes made in the Republic.

“The quieter we proceed, the better,” Tommaso said. “If we are to consider our necks.”

“It's always about our necks, isn't it?” Guid'Antonio said, his words dying into silence in the vast room.

And so, amid the light of many candles, the men parted, gathering their cloaks, many of them with thoughts blurred, not altogether unsuspicious of Lorenzo's true motives. At the door Lorenzo said, “Guid'Antonio, a moment alone,
per favore?
”

Guid'Antonio closed his eyes, seeking a small bit of rest, before opening them again. “Certainly.”

“You know all this will come down to numbers and influence. That is, if we get it going in the first place.”

“It almost always does. Come down to numbers and influence, I mean. Are you worried? People listen to you,” Guid'Antonio said.

Lorenzo laughed. “Not so much anymore, as you just witnessed. Whereas everyone values your good opinion and takes note when you withhold it.”

“Still?”

Lorenzo smiled and touched him lightly on the shoulder. “You know they do.”

Sharply aware his was the solitary shadow on the wall, Guid'Antonio walked through the loggia arcade in the light of dimly burning torches, his mind bounding over the events of the last four long days, to Ognissanti Church, to the weeping Virgin, and back again to Lorenzo. Lorenzo vulnerable, Lorenzo declaring in the privacy of his
studiolo
his firm belief the Medici party must strengthen itself or face the city's ruin along with the ruin of all their families. Lorenzo “hanged” in effigy, his palace smeared with blood, and now Lorenzo urging the men within the inner circle to consider tampering with the constitution of the Florentine Republic. Guid'Antonio breathed deeply, liking neither the direction of his thoughts nor the shrinking feeling they occasioned in the pit of his belly.

Just beyond the main gate, two guards stood watch, assigned by Palla Palmieri to their new post earlier today. Guid'Antonio passed the armed men, slowing at the figure of Lorenzo's uncle, Tommaso Soderini, seated on the stone bench facing Via Larga, his head resting against the front wall of Lorenzo's palazzo. Nighttime shadows furrowed the length of Tommaso's crimson robe. He said, “What took you so long?”

Guid'Antonio sat beside him. The street was quiet, shop doors and shutters locked, the night air warm but pleasant. At this hour, San Lorenzo market just around the corner was closed down.

“I spoke briefly with Bartolomeo to say Maddalena is in my prayers and to ask if she needs anything,” Guid'Antonio said.

“I didn't see him.”

“He left by the garden gate.”

“And does she? Need anything?”

“Prayers, only. His daughter Alessandra and her four sisters are in close attendance.”

Tommaso nodded, smiling. “Five daughters. Remarkable.”

“Yes.”

“Do you remember when Cosimo de' Medici built this palace?”

“Tommaso, I was only eight or so when Lorenzo's grandfather started construction here.”

“It must be your hair, all that silver you're sporting now. Also, it seems as if you've always been around. Like a not altogether unpleasant odor lingering in the air.”

“Thank you,” Guid'Antonio said. “I think.”

“Cosimo commissioned Brunelleschi for a design,” Tommaso said. “ ‘Too grand!’ Cosimo believed, so he hired Michelozzo, instead. This, after Brunelleschi already had built the Cathedral's magnificent brick dome. And after Cosimo had hired him to rebuild San Lorenzo. Cosimo knew the danger of flying too high. The old man said so many times. And yet, he devoted much of his life not only to books and learning, but to fine craftsmanship, as well. I was among the first to stroll through the loggia arcade there at our backs. To gasp at Donatello's little
David
, perched on a pedestal in the garden in all his naked glory. In those days, people considered that delicious sculpture pagan.”

“They still do,” Guid'Antonio said.

Tommaso chuckled. “No one had seen anything like it since the Greeks and Romans. Which was precisely the point. Ironic, isn't it, that Cosimo had it done for this palace as a symbol of Florentine liberty, as David conquered Goliath, so Florence conquered blah, blah, blah.”

Guid'Antonio relaxed with his hands in his lap, content to let the old man reminisce. He had heard enough stories about Cosimo de' Medici from his elders to fill a book. Several books. Upon Cosimo's death, the Florentine government had named him the Father of His Country, and him, yes . . . a private citizen.

“Alas, Lorenzo's father, Piero, lacked the physical energy to match Cosimo's fervor when it came to rebuilding Florence,” Tommaso said. “But even Piero understood the political importance of maintaining the
status quo
. Tamper with it, and you're risking your neck. Your family. You have a son named Giovanni, Guid'Antonio?”

“I do, yes.”

“Is he a good boy? Will he follow in his father's footsteps?”

“I don't know yet,” Guid'Antonio said, tucking away the implied compliment.

The old man puffed out a breath of air. “You had best find out.” He coughed, a terrible hack, causing the guards to stir and glance in their direction.

Alarmed, Guid'Antonio turned to the old man. “I'm fine,” Tommaso said. Coughing had weakened his voice. “We're bound by time and loyalties, my friend. You, our magnificent Lorenzo, and me. We may not always agree with one another—” He managed a laugh. “But we remain within his golden circle. Do you know why?” The little laugh gave way to another series of rasping coughs.

“Why?” Guid'Antonio asked.

Tommaso's pale blue eyes opened wide on him. “Because you and I are the only ones who dare tell him it's raining when he says the sun is shining. We tell him the
truth
. And he loves us for it. That's why he wants your approval in all things, my friend. For validation and to ease his conscience in the days ahead.”

Tommaso stood, drawing his cloak close about his shoulders. Bird wings. “I'm almost eighty years old. My nephew has nothing to fear from me. Weeping paintings to turn the populace against him? Hanging him in effigy?” Tommaso's mouth crimped in a smile. “Not me.” He raised his brow. “Not anymore.”

In silence, with Guid'Antonio acting as escort, they walked through wide dark streets to Ponte Trinita and then alongside the river to the next bridge, Ponte alla Carraia. Across this bridge lay Tommaso's palace in the Green Dragon district of the Santo Spirito quarter. Beyond the river, torches flickered here and there, chasing shadows from the dark piazzas and deserted streets.

Guid'Antonio let Florence's premier elected official walk unescorted across the bridge spanning the Arno's warm, dark water, but kept an eye on Tommaso's slight figure as he approached the Soderini Palace gate. Satisfied the old man was safe, Guid'Antonio turned from Ognissanti and walked in the direction from which they had just come, setting a course now for Santa Croce and the Del Vigna household.

There, through the iron gates, he had a clear view of Maria's moonlit garden. The house was dark and silent. At this hour, she slept, Maria, his sometimes lover, his wife. Here was a woman who gave her mother brave comfort; surely in good time he, too, would benefit from her devotion. Shaken somehow, and not at all certain why he had made this discomforting, nocturnal visit, Guid'Antonio withdrew and trod back toward his home in Ognissanti.

“Giorno.”
Strolling into the kitchen at noon the following day, dressed in traveling clothes, Guid'Antonio squeezed Amerigo's shoulder, kissed Domenica on both cheeks and gave Cesare, whom he had seen in his apartment a short while earlier, a nod of acknowledgment. Olimpia Pasquale looked up from the stone sink, smiling, swishing basil in a basin of water to clean it.

“Giorno,”
Domenica said. “Praise God for a miracle, you're happy again!” She crossed herself. “Olimpia, for God's precious love, don't crush the leaves.”

“What difference does it make?” Olimpia said back. “We're only going to pulverize them.”

“My happiness is so rare it bears commenting on?” Guid'Antonio said, smiling. The kitchen smelled deliciously of basil and garlic, pine nuts, and Parmesan cheese.

“This week, yes,” Cesare said, stepping quickly from the sink to the cold hearth in a move calculated to hide the bulky object looming beside the fire irons.

Guid'Antonio narrowed his eyes, watching his willowy—and wily?—manservant.

“All the more remarkable when one considers there's no rest for Medici men,” Amerigo said.

“Does the entire town know about the meeting at Lorenzo's house last night? And the vandalism that occasioned it?”

They stared at him wonderingly, as if he had just asked whether they knew there was a river running through town called the Arno. “Word of the attack on Lorenzo and the subsequent meeting swept Florence like wildfire,” Cesare said.

Attack. “And?” Guid'Antonio said.

“The
popolo minuto
wonder, ‘What next?’ as they always do when there's a nocturnal meeting at Palazzo Medici. They're calling Lorenzo's hanging an act committed by Satan to claim Lorenzo as his own. They're saying they wish they had done it themselves, rather than leave it to the Prince of Darkness.”

Domenica snapped her damp wiping towel at her son. “Cesare, if there's a prince of darkness in Florence, it's you! I should box your ears for repeating malicious gossip.”

“If you do, watch the earring, Mama, it's new from Verrocchio's.” Cesare danced away from his mother's wrath, grinning impishly.

“Domenica,” Guid'Antonio started, but hesitated as the object behind Cesare shook itself vigorously and rose up from the fireplace. “God's flesh. What is that?”

A touch of uncertainty crossed Cesare's face. And then he stepped aside to reveal a huge, hunch-shouldered, hairy beast: it was the mastiff dead at the hand of Bartolomeo Scala's secretary. Guid'Antonio's mouth dropped open. Miraculously, it appeared that in the past week the animal had gained weight; very little, of course, but in any event, the dog's ribs no longer seemed about to poke holes through his skin. Cesare had hidden him away. He had bathed and brushed the animal, too. For all his scars and beatings, the
cane corso Italiano
looked amazingly well. And what of the cur Alessandro Braccesi had killed at Lorenzo's palace gate? Well. Florence had a multitude of stray, starving dogs.