But Madonna Lucrezia stunned Francesco by advising him that Giuliano would not be attending the banquet the following evening.
“His leg is still quite sore, and further, he has now come down with an inflammation of the eye, which appears to be contagious as he has passed it on to little Piero. So it is best if he stays in bed for another few days, I think.”
Francesco de Pazzi tried not to let his panic show. This plot only worked if both Medici could be murdered on the same night.
“But . . . ,” he spluttered, trying to think fast, “the young cardinal is anxious to meet him and will be so disappointed if he is not
there.”
Lucrezia de’ Medici smiled. Giuliano was so likeable and charming, it was natural that many would be disappointed if he were not in attendance. But, truth be told, he was a bit vain, and the inflammation of his eyes was something he did not want to show off at a banquet. She hoped to appease Francesco with her reply.
“The cardinal will have the opportunity to see Giuliano at High Mass. He would not like to miss the Easter service, given that he has much to be thankful for and wants nothing more than to celebrate the glorious resurrection of Our Lord. But he will return to the palazzo immediately afterward, no doubt exhausted and sore, as he has yet to be out of bed since his accident.”
Francesco de Pazzi had stopped listening. Everything had changed yet again. There was now only one thing to be done; the path was clear. The Medici brothers would have to be assassinated in the cathedral during the Easter Mass the following morning.
“You are mad, I tell you. Mad.” Montesecco’s bellowing shook the walls of the Pazzi palazzo. “I will have none of it. You have pushed me too far. I will not add sacrilege to my crimes under God. I will not murder a man—any man—during Mass. In a cathedral. On Easter Sunday. Do you not hear yourselves? Is there no decency left in any of you?”
Salviati wrinkled his rodent nose. “How dare you speak to us like that? We have no choice, and as it appears that God has forced our hand, we must assume that it is his will.”
Jacopo de Pazzi was tired. He was too old for this, and none of it was to his taste anymore. “Montesecco is right. This goes too far.”
Francesco de Pazzi was nearly hysterical. “You don’t understand. This is our only chance! Montesecco, you said yourself that the troops from Imola and the surrounding regions of Romagna were on the march and will be at the walls of Florence tomorrow by the end of Mass. We must time this so that those troops can come to our defense immediately. You will cover Lorenzo in the basilica, and I will cover Giuliano.”
Jacopo de Pazzi blinked hard at his nephew as if seeing him for the first time. “You? You are going to wield the dagger that kills Giuliano de’ Medici?”
“Of course.” Francesco said it as if it were the most natural thing in the world. “I will be hailed as a hero, as one of the men who was brave enough to take on the Medici menace and free Florence of the tyrants.”
Oh dear God, Jacopo thought, shaking his head. Francesco really
is mad.
And in that moment, each of the men involved in what would be known to history as the Pazzi Conspiracy was forced to make a decision. For Francesco de Pazzi and Archbishop Salviati, both blinded by greed, envy, and unbridled ambition, there was only one course of action. They were determined, even excited, about killing the Medici brothers on Easter. And while Salviati would not be wielding any daggers, he had his own role. He would be the one, when given the signal from the cathedral, to march into the Signoria and seize the government. He would be aided by a co-conspirator whose duty was to give the signal to let the troops into the city, while marching with the archbishop to demand control of the Signoria. They would be accompanied by mercenaries from Montesecco’s troops, all of whom would be prepared to kill any member of the council who tried to stop them. This was a revolution. This was war. People would die. It was the way of the world.
But for Gian Battista da Montesecco, the plot had irrevocably dissolved into sacrilege and insanity. He had been searching for a way to remove himself from it. Even before meeting the old man in the tavern, he knew he was on the wrong side. He did not want to kill Lorenzo de’ Medici. His would not be the hand that ended so noble a life. In fact, it crossed his mind at that moment to kill Francesco de’ Pazzi and Archbishop Salviati instead, ensuring the safety of the Medici brothers for a while longer. Later he would have much cause to wish he had acted on that particular instinct.
“I’m out.” Montesecco looked at the other three men in disgust. “Jacopo, I think you are beyond this too, but you are a man and must make your own choice. As for the two of you”—he spat on the ground as he prepared to take his leave—“you will be good company for each other in hell. Give the Devil my best, and tell him I will not be too far be-
hind you.”
And before anyone could object, Montesecco was out the door and out of Florence. He didn’t look back as his horse carried him as fast as he could ride back to Romagna.
Jacopo Bracciolini had fallen from grace.
He had once been Lorenzo de’ Medici’s partner in Hermeticism and heresy when they were younger, but he had grown into a handsome, self-indulgent, and completely corrupt man. He was tormented by his own insecurities and eaten away by envy over the glory of Lorenzo de’ Medici’s golden life as the most respected and desired man in Florence. The younger Bracciolini had all of his father’s mental acuity but none of his nobility; he was a cerebral genius, but the dangerous kind—a man completely disconnected from his heart. While he was capable of extraordinary feats of intellect, he had no desire to use his mind for anything that wasn’t immediately amusing or entertaining for him. He had stolen from his father to save himself from his gambling debts, had sold off his mother’s jewelry and pilfered his sisters’ dowries to protect himself from the trouble he was constantly embroiled in. Giving himself the title Florence’s Ultimate Hedonist, he hosted wild, underground orgies where he indulged the darkest elements of the city in nights of unruly—and often unthinkable—pleasures. There was nothing he wouldn’t try, no risk he wouldn’t take, and he was fond of saying that he experienced all the deadly sins on a daily basis. So when he was first approached by Francesco de Pazzi to participate in the coup d’état to overthrow the government of Florence, he was delighted by the prospect.
“What’s in it for me?” had been his first question, had always been his first question in any circumstances. Francesco de Pazzi initially offered Bracciolini a ridiculous sum of money to gain his attention. He then rattled off a number of additional incentives that he knew would appeal to the heathen hedonist: a country house, Circassian slave girls—virgins, of course—and various treasures to appeal to his vanity.
But Bracciolini, while an outrageous narcissist, was not entirely stupid. He had asked the key question.
“Why me? I am not skilled in war and politics. I am a scholar by trade and a hedonist by practice. The only time I ever held a sword was in one of Lorenzo’s tournaments, and that was for show. Why do you want me to lead this rebellion with you?”
“The Order of the Holy Sepulcher,” Francesco de Pazzi said, looking his prey square in the eye.
Bracciolini had stopped smiling then. God, how he hated the Order, and everyone involved with it. The mere mention of it made his stomach turn.
“I see. And as Lorenzo is the Poet Prince, the golden boy of the sanctimonious Order, you know I have no qualms about seeing him dead,” Bracciolini guessed. He didn’t mention what was foremost in his mind at that moment: nothing would make him happier than to see that little bitch they all called Colombina throw herself into the Arno in grief over Lorenzo’s murder. That alone was worth more to him than all the money he was being promised.
Francesco nodded. “Yes, I know. But there’s more. And there are far greater riches in your future than you can dream of should you choose to help us. The pope himself is asking for your assistance.”
Ah, now we were getti
ng somewhere. To be on the payroll of the pope was to ensure that the future was paved with gold.
“What does he want from me?”
“Intelligence. He wants you to come to Rome and tell him everything you know about the Order and about the Medici as its leaders. He wants any relics or documents that your father may have kept pertaining to the Order, and any book or paper given to your father by Cosimo.”
Bracciolini’s father, Poggio, had been Cosimo de’ Medici’s closest friend and ally. He had been instrumental in the Order. In fact, the Bracciolini family had been connected to the Order of the Holy Sepulcher for many generations, and Jacopo had been raised in their sacred traditions. He had even spent some time in the presence of the Master with Lorenzo when they were children. But he was always different, never quite able to focus on or grasp the lessons of love and community that were the central elements of the Libro Rosso. It didn’t help that he was constantly compared to Lorenzo and Sandro, who were stellar pupils and devoted initiates. Bracciolini was jealous of Lorenzo’s position and Sandro’s talent, neither of which he had in equal measure. He had once wanted to be a painter, but his time in the workshops proved that he was best suited for crushing minerals to mix pigments.
When Lucrezia Donati—known only in the Order as Colombina—had come into the fold and joined the Order at the age of sixteen, something snapped in Bracciolini’s already twisted mind. She was the most beautiful creature he had ever seen. He could actually believe the Order’s teachings about the divinity of women when he looked upon Colombina. But his adoration was short-lived when it became obvious that she belonged to Lorenzo. Here was yet another great privilege that Lorenzo possessed that was out of Bracciolini’s reach. His envy, and his hatred, simmered. Bracciolini went to the Donati home and informed Colombina’s father that the merchant Medici intended to make his treasured, noble-born daughter into his lowly mistress, if he hadn’t ruined her in that way already. His informing had been the reason the Donati had forbidden Lorenzo to have further contact with their daughter. Later, Bracciolini would also be the informer who brought the news of Colombina and Lorenzo to Niccolò Ardinghelli’s doorstep. Repeatedly. His information, which included cruel goading with invented graphic details, had led to Colombina’s beating at the hands of her enraged husband.
One night after getting very drunk, he waited outside the Antica Torre for Colombina. She was the new princess of the Order, their precious Expected One, the Master’s golden student. But he knew what she really was. She was Lorenzo’s whore. And Lorenzo was in Milan on a diplomatic mission for his father at the time, so it seemed logical to Bracciolini that Colombina would be in need of a stand-in while Lorenzo was away. He grabbed her as she passed the little alley that separated the Antica Torre from Santa Trinità and put his hand over her mouth before she could scream. She bit him, drawing blood. And she wasn’t finished yet. Sweet, fine-boned Colombina, it turned out, was a fighter. She pulled the brooch out of her mantle and stuck him with it hard, the pin digging deep into his flesh. Bracciolini screamed, loud enough to bring a member of the Gianfigliazza family out of the tower and to Colombina’s rescue.
Bracciolini threatened her, blackmailed her, came up with every foul idea he could invent to shut her up, but to no avail. Colombina, the voice of truth, demanded that he pay for his attack upon her and refused to allow him to turn it on her and somehow make it her fault. She would not be the victim of his lies, nor would she allow him to go free and do this to another woman. He had not only disgraced the good name of Bracciolini, he had violated every possible rule of the Order. And for his kindly, devoted father, this was the greatest crime imaginable. Jacopo was ostracized from his family and disinherited as a result.
Every second of pain Jacopo Bracciolini had ever experienced in his life had come from Lorenzo de’ Medici, his little whore, and their blessed Order.
And now he considered his good fortune for a moment. Was it possible? Was he actually being offered to be paid handsomely to destroy Lorenzo and the Order?
“What are the pope’s intentions?” he asked de Pazzi. “Is he going to declare them heretics?”
How delicious that would be. Maybe he would burn Lorenzo at the stake like that crazy French bitch they always yammered on about. Maybe Lorenzo’s whore would burn too, and he would get to watch. Perhaps he would recommend this to the pope. Certainly he would emphasize the hated Colombina’s role as both heretic and adulteress while informing His Holiness of the crimes committed against the Church regularly by the Order.
“It is not for me to say what the Holy Father does with the information,” de Pazzi answered. “But I would assume that it is his greatest desire to eliminate heresy in all its forms.”
“As it is mine, Francesco. So consider me your partner, and tell the pope that if he will prepare appropriately comfortable accommodations for my arrival, I will deliver all the evidence he desires. And perhaps far more than he even expects!”
Jacopo Bracciolini paid an unexpected visit to the Palazzo Medici on Via Larga shortly after his secret meeting with Francesco de Pazzi.
While Lorenzo was aware of the younger Bracciolini’s roguish reputation and would never forget what he had done to Colombina, he agreed to see his childhood friend privately in his studiolo for the sake of the old family connections. However, he wondered how long it would be into the conversation before Bracciolini asked to borrow money from him.
“Lorenzo, my old friend.” Bracciolini embraced him and kissed him on both cheeks before continuing. “I have come to make amends for the events of the past. It has been many years since I treated your Colombina in that unforgivable manner. I would apologize to her myself, as the events of that night haunt me all these years later, but I know that she would not hear it from me. I was hoping you might tell her how sorry I am. I assure you, I am a changed man.”
Lorenzo nodded graciously. The apology seemed sincere enough. He would not judge it yet but rather see where this meeting was headed. He remained silent and let Bracciolini talk.
“I know you are wondering why I am here. I bet you are even waiting for me to ask for a loan from you. Well, you are incorrect if that is what you think. I have come asking for nothing but your forgiveness. And to present you with a gift.”
Bracciolini removed a beautifully bound book from his satchel and presented it to Lorenzo with ceremony.
“The History of Florence, as written by my father, Poggio Bracciolini. As you know, he wrote it in Latin. But inspired by your love of the Tuscan language, I have translated the entire book into our vernacular. I have been working on it for years. And I have dedicated this Tuscan version to you, for encouraging our language and because you are now as much a part of the history of Florence as your grandfather.”
Lorenzo was stunned. The last thing he had expected from this now notorious member of the Florentine nobility was a gift of this magnitude. Lorenzo paged through the beautiful book, which was a masterwork of translation and history. Perhaps there was real hope for Bracciolini yet. He was still capable of extraordinary feats of academia, despite his increasing dissipation, and he was gracious enough to add passages about Lorenzo’s accomplishments to the text.
Lorenzo thanked him and brought out several bottles of his best wine. The two men drank into the night, talking about the good times when they were younger. Lorenzo relaxed as they discussed Plato and their early days with Ficino and laughed about some of their antics as boys. He was so convinced that Bracciolini was sincerely trying to change his life that he even brought his childhood friend up to date on the Order and their plans for the future.
Despite his years as a leader immersed in the dangers of Florentine politics, Lorenzo always wanted to find the best in people. He was not naturally skeptical, and he believed in giving every man a chance to atone for his past and redeem himself through his future. The trait was part of his spiritual education, but it was also essential to his character. It was how he was made. That Lorenzo was so noble and fo
rgiving was what made him great. It was also what made him vulnerable.
Jacopo Bracciolini kept his word to the Pazzi conspirators, providing Sixtus IV with more evidence than he could have ever imagined for Lorenzo’s heresy. He had strategized his visit to Lorenzo perfectly and knew him well enough to be certain he would fall for the book. It had gone exactly to plan, and Lorenzo had spilled all kinds of secrets when he let his guard down. Everything Bracciolini knew about the Order he verified in that evening’s conversation. He embellished a bit when sending the report to Pope Sixtus, just to make it that much more valuable. Then he demanded double the original payment as reward for such perfect evidence of heresy against the Medici and their supporters. His money was paid in pieces of silver as a little joke from the Curia.
Bracciolini was firmly committed to storming the Signoria with Salviati, the archbishop of Pisa, during the assassination. It would be a dramatic piece of theater, and one he would enjoy playing a leading role in. He almost hoped there would be resistance so he could kill a member of the council as part of the spectacle. He had never plunged a sword into a man; it was a new and exciting experience he was looking forward to.
With Bracciolini firmly committed to the plan, Francesco de Pazzi now needed to find a few more assassins. Losing Montesecco was an enormous blow, but it was not insurmountable. He consulted with Archbishop Salviati, who came up with a solution. It was imperfect, perhaps, but a solution nonetheless. The archbishop had found two priests who were willing—even excited—to kill Lorenzo de’ Medici. The first was Antonio Maffei. He was a scrappy little man from Volterra, a Florentine possession that had endured a civil war. The bloody uprising there had left more than half the population dead. Maffei had lost his own mother and sisters to the marauders who came into Volterra. The marauders were paid mercenaries, brought in by the Medici family to quell the rioting there when the Florentine army was spread too thin on other frontiers. While it was not Lorenzo’s fault that the mercenaries turned out to be brigands and criminals, their devastation of Volterra was often blamed on him. Lorenzo visited Volterra on many occasions, offering personal restitution to the people there following the bloodshed. He spent a fortune of his own money to restore the town and its remaining citizens. And his guilt haunted him; Lorenzo had nightmares about Volterra regularly. It was the greatest regret of his political career.