Medici ~ Ascendancy Read online

  MEDICI – ASCENDANCY

  Matteo Strukul

  Translated from the Italian

  by Richard McKenna

  www.headofzeus.com

  Contents

  Cover

  Welcome Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  February 1429

  Chapter 1: Santa Maria Del Fiore

  Chapter 2: The Death of Giovanni de’ Medici

  Chapter 3: In Cauda Venenum

  Chapter 4: Last Wishes

  Chapter 5: Rinaldo degli Albizzi

  Chapter 6: The Perfumer

  Chapter 7: Faith and Iron

  August 1430

  Chapter 8: An Important Interview

  Chapter 9: The Battlefield

  Chapter 10: The Honour of Blood

  Chapter 11: Triumph

  Chapter 12: The Camp

  Chapter 13: Cosimo and Francesco

  Chapter 14: The Agreement

  September 1430

  Chapter 15: The Plague

  Chapter 16: Carts Stacked High with Death

  Chapter 17: A Nocturnal Discussion

  April 1431

  Chapter 18: Nobles and Peasants

  Chapter 19: The Nightmare

  Chapter 20: The Death of Niccolò da Uzzano

  April 1433

  Chapter 21: The Last Words

  Chapter 22: Filippo Brunelleschi

  September 1433

  Chapter 23: The Accusation

  Chapter 24: Contessina

  Chapter 25: Cruel Beauty

  Chapter 26: The Beginnings of a Plan

  Chapter 27: Nocturne with Fire and Blood

  Chapter 28: To Change the Course of the Stars

  October 1433

  Chapter 29: The Plot

  Chapter 30: Reinhardt Schwartz

  Chapter 31: Farganaccio

  Chapter 32: The Sentence

  January 1434

  Chapter 33: Venice

  Chapter 34: The Incident

  Chapter 35: Death in Venice

  Chapter 36: The Red-Headed Lady

  September 1434

  Chapter 37: Piazza di San Pulinari

  Chapter 38: Reversal of Fortune

  September 1436

  Chapter 39: Filippo Maria Visconti

  Chapter 40: The Dome Completed

  Chapter 41: Towards a New War

  Chapter 42: Poisons and the Major Arcana

  February 1439

  Chapter 43: A Difficult Choice

  Chapter 44: The Archbishop of Nicaea

  Chapter 45: Council of War

  July 1439

  Chapter 46: The Meeting of the Churches

  Chapter 47: The Confession

  June 1440

  Chapter 48: Towards the Battlefield

  Chapter 49: The Bridge at Forche

  Chapter 50: The Duel

  Chapter 51: Shame

  July 1440

  Chapter 52: The Hanging

  Chapter 53: Pity and Vendetta

  September 1440

  Chapter 54: The Death of Lorenzo

  September 1453

  Chapter 55: Sweet Hopes

  Author’s Note

  Acknowledgements

  About the author

  An Invitation from the Publisher

  First published in Italian as I Medici. Una dinastia al potere in 2016 by Newton Compton

  First published in the UK in 2019 by Head of Zeus Ltd

  Copyright © Matteo Strukul, 2016

  Translation copyright © Richard McKenna, 2019

  The moral right of Matteo Strukul to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. All characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  ISBN (HB): 9781786692092

  ISBN (XTPB): 9781786692108

  ISBN (E): 9781786692085

  Cover design: Patrick Knowles

  Images: © Shutterstock

  Cover image: The Journey of the Magi to Bethlehem, c. 1460. Fresco by Benozzo Gozzoli © Bridgeman Images

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  Head of Zeus Ltd

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  WWW.HEADOFZEUS.COM

  To Silvia

  February 1429

  1

  Santa Maria Del Fiore

  Cosimo raised his eyes to a sky that was as blue as lapis lazuli dust. It made his head spin, so he quickly brought his gaze back down to his surroundings. Around him were the masons, some mixing lime with the pale sand of the Arno River to prepare the mortar while others perched on the partition walls, eating a quick breakfast. They worked exhausting shifts, often spending whole weeks up here and sleeping among the wooden scaffolding, bricks, slabs of marble and rubble.

  Almost two hundred feet above the ground.

  Seen from up here, the city both entranced and unnerved him. Placing his feet carefully, Cosimo slipped between the beams of the scaffolding, its edges like the sharp black teeth of some mythological creature, and made his way slowly to the base of the dome, which was under construction. The architects and master builders called it ‘the drum’. He glanced down at the piazza below, where, with wide-eyed wonder, the people of Florence were finally witnessing the completion of Santa Maria del Fiore cathedral. Wool carders, tradesmen, butchers, farmers, prostitutes, publicans and wayfarers, all seeming to mouth a silent prayer of thanks that Filippo Brunelleschi’s design was nearing completion. The dome for which they’d waited so long was taking shape, and it looked as though it would be that eccentric, balding goldsmith with the bad teeth and the surly demeanour who would accomplish it.

  Cosimo could see Brunelleschi now, drifting like a lost soul between the piles of building materials and stacks of bricks, his expression seemingly absent but surely in fact engrossed in who knew what calculations. His eyes were so pale and clear that they resembled chips of sparkling alabaster set on his pallid skin, which was stained with all manner of paints and building materials.

  The clanging of hammers roused Cosimo from his daydreaming: the metalsmiths were at work, and shouted orders and instructions echoed through the air. Cosimo took a deep breath and then looked downwards towards the base of the octagonal structure. The gigantic hoist Brunelleschi had designed turned endlessly as, guided by a young lad, the two chained oxen trudged calmly in silent circles, working the cogs and gears of the winch drum which was capable of hauling heavy stones up to impossible heights.

  Brunelleschi had devised some truly amazing machines. He had designed them himself; then he’d called in the very best craftsmen and driven his workers mercilessly, and the arsenal of mechanical wonders he had rapidly assembled allowed him to lift and set slabs of marble, sections of wooden scaffolding and dozens of sacks of sand and mortar precisely in place.

  Cosimo was overjoyed to see how well the work was proceeding. Before Brunelleschi, no one had managed to design a dome capable of spanning the vast 118-foot-wide octagonal drum, but not only had Brunelleschi managed it, he had somehow contrived to do it without visible supports. His design had none of the external buttresses or wooden centring that Neri di Fioravanti had proposed, and it had left the commissioning Opera del Du
omo committee open-mouthed with amazement.

  Brunelleschi was either a madman or a genius, perhaps even both. And the Medici – and Cosimo, above all – had wedded themselves to the man’s crazed brilliance. He smiled at the audacity of it and reflected upon what the cathedral might eventually come to mean, not only for his city but also for himself. To judge from what was happening up there, he had every right to feel ecstatic as he looked at that ever-growing construction site. It was like some crazed Tower of Babel of scaffolding and planks, which played host to a multitude of workmen: wheelwrights, rope makers, bricklayers, plasterers, carpenters and ironmongers, food vendors, wine sellers, and even a cook equipped with an oven for baking bread to serve to the men. Labourers were climbing up the wooden scaffolding while others worked on wicker platforms perched on the surrounding rooftops like birds’ nests as though they had enlisted a flock of storks to help them complete the titanic project.

  ‘So what do you think, Messer Cosimo?’ asked a quiet, firm voice.

  Cosimo spun round and found himself face to face with Filippo. A gaunt man with frenzied eyes, Filippo was clad in a red tunic and nothing else. Full of a mixture of pride and hostility, his evasive gaze spoke of his rebellious, sometimes violent nature, but it softened when he met men he considered noble.

  Cosimo did not know if he was numbered among these, but he was undoubtedly the firstborn son of Giovanni de’ Medici, the family patriarch who had generously financed the construction and had provided crucial support for Brunelleschi’s involvement in the project.

  ‘Magnificent, Filippo, magnificent,’ he said, his eyes glowing with wonder. ‘I did not expect to see such progress.’

  ‘We are still far from finishing; I want to be clear about that. The most important thing, messer, is that you allow me to work.’

  ‘As long as the Medici are among the principal patrons, you have nothing to fear. On that you have my word, Filippo. We started this together, and together we will finish it.’

  Brunelleschi nodded.

  ‘I shall attempt to complete the cupola in accordance with classical canon, as planned.’

  ‘I don’t doubt it, my friend.’

  While he was talking to Cosimo, Filippo’s eyes darted everywhere: first to the builders preparing mortar and laying the bricks one by one, next towards the source of the blacksmiths’ constant hammering and finally to the carts carrying bags of mortar down in the square. In his left hand he grasped a parchment containing one of many preparatory designs and in his right he held a chisel. Cosimo wondered what plans he had for that.

  But that was Brunelleschi for you.

  And as abruptly as he had appeared, Brunelleschi gave him a nod of farewell and disappeared between the beams and scaffolding of the dome, swallowed up by that colossal, restless enterprise buzzing with activity. Cosimo was left staring at the imposing wooden arches while shouts announced the hoisting of yet another load.

  Suddenly, he heard a voice from behind him call his name.

  ‘Cosimo!’

  Holding on to the scaffolding, he turned and saw his brother Lorenzo approaching. Before he even had the chance to greet him, Lorenzo cut him short.

  ‘It’s our father, Cosimo. Our father is dying.’

  2

  The Death of Giovanni de’ Medici

  As soon as Cosimo entered the room, his wife Contessina came up to him, her beautiful dark eyes red from weeping. She was clad in a simple black robe and a fine gossamer veil.

  ‘Cosimo...’ she murmured. She could say nothing more – all her energies were focused on holding back her tears. She wanted to stay strong for her beloved husband. He put his arms around her and embraced her, but after a moment she freed herself.

  ‘Go to him now,’ she said. ‘He’s waiting to see you.’

  Cosimo turned to Lorenzo and, for the first time that day, actually saw his face. His brother had made sure to walk ahead of him as they descended the scaffolding and rushed to the Palazzo Medici.

  Lorenzo’s white teeth were biting into his lower lip, and Cosimo suddenly realized how distressed he was. Lorenzo’s handsome countenance, which usually seemed impervious to tiredness, was sallow, and there were dark rings under his green eyes. He needed to rest, thought Cosimo. Over the past few days since their father had fallen ill, Lorenzo had been working tirelessly on the bank’s financial affairs. An active, practical man – less gifted than Cosimo in arts and letters, but possessed of a quick and lively intellect – his brother had always been the one who stepped in to bear the brunt of whatever hard work needed doing and to shoulder the responsibilities of the family. Cosimo, on the other hand, had dedicated himself to following, together with several members of the Opera del Duomo committee, the progress of the dome. He was the member of the family entrusted with strategy and politicking, much of which was conducted through lavish displays of arts patronage. Though formally it was the committee which was responsible for the dome’s construction, all Florence knew how much Cosimo had pushed for the candidacy and eventual selection of Filippo Brunelleschi. He had dipped into the family’s resources to finance the wondrous edifice that was now approaching completion.

  Cosimo embraced his brother and then entered his father’s chamber.

  The room was lined with thick brocades that allowed no more than a dim, almost unearthly light to permeate the darkness. Here and there were golden candelabras. The reek of wax made the air stifling.

  When he saw his father, his eyes now dim and watery with approaching death, Cosimo knew there was nothing to be done. Giovanni de’ Medici, the man who had raised the family to the city’s highest rank, was dying. His face, once so confident and determined, was grey with illness and upon it was a shadow of resignation that rendered him a pale imitation of his previous self. Cosimo was deeply shocked. He could barely believe that Giovanni, once so strong and purposeful, could have been brought so low in a matter of days by a fever. Cosimo’s mother was at the bedside, holding one of his father’s hands in hers. Piccarda’s face was still beautiful, even if her usual composure was now absent: her long black lashes were silver with tears and her pursed lips as red as the bloodied blade of a dagger.

  She murmured his name and then fell silent – all other words seemed meaningless.

  Cosimo looked back at his father and thought again how suddenly his illness had struck, and without any apparent cause. Their eyes finally met and Giovanni felt a surge of energy when he recognized his son. He might be weakened, but he had no intention of giving in. In that moment, his usual character was roused, urging him to fight on even if it were for the last time. Heaving himself up with a wheeze, he sat up in the middle of the bed among the down pillows that Piccarda had positioned for his comfort. He pushed them aside with a gesture of irritation and beckoned to Cosimo to come over.

  Though he had promised himself he would be strong, Cosimo could no longer hold back his tears. Ashamed of his weakness, he quickly wiped his eyes with the back of his hand and went over to his father.

  Giovanni had last words to impart before he left this world.

  His dark eyes glittering like buttons of polished onyx in the flickering candlelight of the room, he strained forward towards his son, and Cosimo grasped him by the shoulders.

  ‘My son,’ he croaked, ‘swear to me that you will be sober in your politicking. That you will live with moderation. Like a simple Florentine. But that you will not hesitate to act with force when necessary.’

  The words came out quickly but were enunciated carefully, with the last reserves of his father’s energy.

  Cosimo looked at him, lost in the dark, shining pupils of his father’s eyes.

  ‘Promise me,’ insisted Giovanni, with a last burst of strength. His penetrating eyes stared into Cosimo’s and his expression was both determined and severe.

  ‘I promise,’ replied Cosimo, his voice breaking with emotion.

  ‘Then I can die happy.’

  Giovanni closed his eyes and the muscles of his fa
ce relaxed. He had battled against death just to be able to exchange those final words with his beloved son. They expressed all that he was and had been: his dedication to his city and its people, his restraint and humility, his moderation and discretion, never flaunting wealth or abundance, and – of course – his ruthless, hard-headed talent for making decisions.

  His hand grew cold and Piccarda began to sob softly.

  Giovanni de’ Medici was dead.

  Cosimo embraced his mother. ‘Be strong,’ he whispered. She felt frail and helpless in his arms and her cheeks were wet with tears. He broke away and lowered his father’s eyelids, closing forever those eyes that had once burned with such vitality.

  Lorenzo sent for the priest to administer the last rites.

  As Cosimo went to leave the room, Lorenzo stepped into his path. He hesitated a moment before speaking, fearing that he might be disturbing his brother, but Cosimo nodded for him to proceed.

  ‘Speak,’ he murmured. ‘What is it that cannot wait?’

  ‘It regards our father,’ said Lorenzo.

  Cosimo raised an eyebrow.

  ‘I suspect that he was poisoned,’ said Lorenzo through clenched teeth. His words hit Cosimo like a blow from a hammer.

  ‘What? How can you say such a thing?’ As he spoke, he reached out to grab Lorenzo by the collar, but his brother, anticipating his reaction, caught hold of his arms.

  ‘Not here,’ he said in a choked voice.

  Cosimo understood – he was behaving like a fool. He let his hands fall to his sides.

  ‘Let us go outside,’ he said.

  3

  In Cauda Venenum

  The air in the garden was still cold.

  It was 20 February and although spring was on its way, the sky seemed unwilling to relinquish its leaden colour. A bitter wind blew over the Palazzo Medici, and sheets of ice were forming where freezing water splashed into the basin of the fountain at the centre of the hortus conclusus.

  ‘Do you realize what you’re saying?’

  Cosimo was distraught – and furious. He had just lost his father; now he also had to deal with a conspiracy. What did he expect, though? His father had been a powerful man, and over the years had made many enemies. And Florence was what it was: on the one hand the essence of magnificence and power, and on the other a den of vipers, whose most powerful families had always frowned upon Giovanni’s rise. Cosimo’s father had built up a financial empire over the last twenty years, daring to open banks not only in Florence but also in Rome and Venice. Worse still, his father had always refused to disown his humble origins and instead of allying his house with the noble families, he had chosen to remain among the ordinary people, carefully avoiding any political office. You could count the number of times he had entered the Palazzo della Signoria on the fingers of one hand.