Medici ~ Ascendancy Read online

  Piero looked at his mother, Contessina. Her face was flushed and tears glistened on her cheeks. Her beautiful red lips trembled with fear and anger. How was it possible that she didn’t understand? He had to fight! He wanted to prove to his father and to all of Florence what he was made of!

  ‘I’m a Medici like my father, and his father before him, don’t you see? I’m not a politician, nor a merchant – I’m not like them, Mother! I have no talent for numbers, nor for art or political games. I only have these arms and this heart, which beats for our people.’

  Contessina was sitting on the edge of the canopy bed with her face in her hands. She was sobbing now.

  Piero turned away. Seeing her in that state was upsetting but he had made his decision. He stared at the orange flames of the candles, their reflections flashing in his pupils like burning tongues. He knew he wasn’t like his father, or even like his uncle Lorenzo, and it distressed him. He wanted to prove to everyone that he was a true Medici, and this war was an incredible opportunity. He didn’t want to miss it.

  After all, no one else in the family had undertaken a military career, so why shouldn’t he be the one to do so? His constitution was somewhat frail and he wasn’t a professional soldier, but he knew how to use a sword.

  It was then that his grandmother, Piccarda, entered.

  At the sight of her, Contessina seemed to perk up, as though her courage had suddenly returned.

  A breeze blew through the windows of the room, bringing with it the moist scents of the warm August evening. Piccarda looked at her grandson and her beautiful daughter-in-law, still red-eyed and teary.

  ‘What is the matter?’ she asked, her voice incredulous with surprise.

  ‘Oh, Milady Piccarda,’ said Contessina, who had no intention of missing the opportunity to turn the sudden appearance of Piero’s grandmother to her advantage, ‘Piero won’t listen to me. He wants to go and fight against Sforza. But what would be the point, I asked him, if Fortebraccio’s fate is already sealed?’

  ‘Should we just stand by and watch Milan take Lucca, and then perhaps come here too?’ asked Piero in exasperation.

  Piccarda glared at him.

  ‘Is this true, Piero?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘That you wish to enlist in Fortebraccio’s army?’

  ‘I want to fight for my city,’ he said, this time angrily.

  Piccarda didn’t flinch.

  ‘Have you any idea what is happening?’

  Piero shook his head.

  ‘Francesco Sforza has come down through Val di Nievole and is advancing. He is encountering practically no resistance. He set up camp a few days ago in Lunigiana. Fortebraccio’s days are numbered, and that is why your father and your uncle have gone into action.’

  Piero’s eyes widened.

  ‘Are you surprised?’

  ‘But... where have they gone?’ was all the boy managed to say.

  Piccarda narrowed her eyes until they became two slits. Piero still had much to learn. His mother ought to be harder on him – but what Contessina couldn’t manage for herself, Piccarda was more than capable of.

  ‘Cosimo and Lorenzo left for Montespertoli to speak to Niccolò da Uzzano, our main political ally. They will convince him that we Medici do not wish to encourage war but at the same time cannot tolerate Sforza taking Lucca in this way.’

  ‘And how will they do that?’ asked Contessina, who was listening to her mother-in-law as though to the wisest of women.

  Piccarda stared into her eyes and sighed.

  ‘My girl, they will do it with the only thing that really matters to Sforza – money. But we don’t know if that will be enough. That’s why, in the event that they are unlucky in Lunigiana, Lorenzo is ready to go to Rome, not only to inspect our bank there but, if necessary, to be received by the Pope. Fortunately, our family has always enjoyed papal favour – at least since Giovanni, with great foresight, decided to help Baldassarre Cossa – sorry, His Holiness Pope John XXIII. And of course we continue to do so with Pope Martin V. Will that suffice? That is a question I ask myself constantly. In my heart I truly hope it will, but if Cosimo’s plan doesn’t work, the pontiff will certainly be able to influence the fate of the conflict.’

  ‘And so...?’ asked Pietro hesitantly. He knew that there was little point discussing it with his grandmother. She always had the last word and before her, his boldness seemed to have melted like snow in the sun

  ‘And so, my beloved grandson, all your enthusiasm would be wasted in pointless sacrifice! Battles are won long before they are fought: always remember that! You belong not to a family of soldiers but to a family of bankers, politicians and artists. Put to good use the education that your father has provided you; not everyone who has Carlo Marsuppini and Antonio Pacini as preceptors. You should be grateful for that education and devote every moment of your time to learning. One day, the responsibility for this family will be yours – and having received so much, you will need to give something back!’

  As she spoke, Piccarda admonished her grandson with a finger. Her firmness and severity were such that the young man was immediately silenced.

  Contessina said nothing, just looked at her admiringly.

  It had only been a few months since Piccarda had lost her beloved husband, but that terrible event seemed to make her stronger with each day that passed.

  ‘Now prepare yourself for the night and go to bed,’ she concluded. ‘Your mother and I are going to pray for the happy outcome of your father’s negotiations.’

  11

  Triumph

  As he made his entry into Lucca, Francesco Sforza tried to look radiant with joy. Despite the toll taken by the battles he had fought over the last few days, he sat stiffly upright on his black horse. His long hair was soaked with sweat and his armour, finely tooled and decorated, gleamed under the relentless sun. He wished he could have taken it all off and worn a simple tunic. He hated the heat, but at least he would be paid well for enduring it. The profession of arms demanded a show and victory demanded pomp. And pomp required some small sacrifices.

  That triumphant entry into Lucca was one of them. According to Paolo Guinigi, the tyrant of Lucca, it was what the people desperately wished to see. And so he had to grit his teeth... and sweat.

  And the people were there waiting for him. In long lines, they filled the narrow streets of Lucca, thronging its squares and crowding its streets, waving rags of white and red – the city’s colours. There were so many of them that it almost made him dizzy.

  Bartolomeo D’Alviano, who rode alongside Francesco Sforza at the head of the parade, kept peering around him, not knowing where to look.

  Damsels threw down flowers from the windows of the houses and murmured promises of love. The common girls shouted up to them and bared their white breasts, while the men cried out the name of Sforza, who had freed them from the Florentine yoke, and the children on their fathers’ shoulders stared wide-eyed at the splendour of the soldier of fortune.

  If only they knew what his job was really like, thought Francesco. Stabbing people in the back, that was his job. Always playing dirty. In war, there was no such thing as honourable conduct, just tricks to make sure you got home with your hide intact. He had won many more battles through ambush and subterfuge than on the battlefield. But in that moment, he didn’t give a damn. And anyway, when it was time to fight, he had never been one to hold back.

  Florence, Lucca, Siena and Pisa were nothing but rabid dogs whose only thought was to snap at one another in the name of a hegemony none of them could actually impose.

  The shouts rose up into the sky and the white and red flags of Lucca hung immobile and limp in the infernal heat of that August day.

  Under the blazing sun, they made their way through the city until they reached the Cittadella: a compact fortress with twenty-nine towers which stood before them in all its grandeur, its gates guarded by soldiers clad in the colours of the city.

  ‘He might be the lord o
f the place,’ murmured D’Alviano, ‘but it looks as though he lives barricaded up in his own house.’

  ‘His days are numbered,’ Francesco Sforza murmured back. ‘Don’t you know what they call him?’

  ‘No, I don’t,’ replied Bartolomeo.

  ‘The wife-killer,’ said Sforza.

  ‘Curious nickname... Why?’

  ‘Because he’s gone through four in the space of twenty years. Maria Caterina degli Antelminelli, married at eleven years old – she died soon after giving birth. Ilaria del Carretto, who didn’t survive the second son, and then Piacentina da Varano and Jacopa Trinci.’

  ‘Good God, it’s a massacre.’

  ‘That’s right. Now do you understand who we’re dealing with? The man is a snake, so let me do the talking, my friend, because I fear that we will have to fight for every single ducat. For this same reason, let me tell you that tonight I am expecting the Florentines at our camp, on the far bank of the Serchio River. They have an offer for me. So remember: don’t say a word.’

  ‘The Florentines?’ asked D’Alviano incredulously.

  ‘Cosimo de’ Medici.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Really.’

  And so saying, Francesco Sforza set off towards the entrance of the Citadel. D’Alviano and his men followed him and were soon swallowed up by the large gate of the fortress, which closed behind them, blocking out the cheers of the people who continued to fill the city of Lucca with cries of joy.

  ‘My friends,’ Paolo Guinigi greeted them when Francesco Sforza and Bartolomeo D’Alviano made their entrance in the hall of the Signoria. His voice, which could not have been more cheery, was in complete contrast to the grim expression upon his face, which was adorned by a curly, pointed beard that made him look like a vulture.

  He had been waiting for them for a long time. He was wearing a beautiful dark-blue jacket, richly embroidered with silver thread and loosely closed at the waist with a fine silk sash.

  ‘My beloved lord, how are you?’ asked Francesco Sforza.

  ‘Very well, now that I have you in my house. I trust that Florence will stay away from the battlefield now.’

  ‘I am sure of it,’ said Sforza. ‘Niccolò Fortebraccio took such a beating in Lunigiana that he won’t be back. Not as long as I’m here to protect you, at least.’

  ‘And that,’ exclaimed Guinigi, pointing to the sky as if he had just been struck by divine inspiration, ‘is what matters! As long as you watch over Lucca, my friends, I can sleep soundly. Despite the enthusiasm you have seen for yourselves today, the people are not exactly enamoured of me.’

  ‘Really?’ asked Sforza, feigning surprise.

  Paolo Guinigi seemed not to notice the amused grin that had flickered across the mercenary captain’s face.

  ‘Ungrateful wretches!’ he said. ‘I’ve broken my back for them. I have commissioned works of art for them, had this impregnable fortress built to defend them... And this is how they repay me.’

  ‘Built for them or for yourself, my lord?’

  Sforza had no intention of passing up the most amusing part of the absurd situation.

  Guinigi noticed his sarcasm but he was a man of spirit and quite capable of coming up with a witticism in response.

  ‘Now, Captain, a lord and his people are the same thing, are they not?’

  ‘Of course, my lord, of course,’ granted Sforza. ‘Would you, therefore, in the name of our covenant and agreement, now give me ten thousand ducats to settle our bill and add as many again as advance payment for future protection? I have lost at least a hundred men over the last few days, and defence, as you know, costs dearly.’

  ‘A debt is a debt,’ replied Guinigi promptly. He snapped his fingers and, a moment later, two men came into the room carrying a chest which they deposited at Sforza’s feet.

  ‘There,’ said the lord of Lucca. ‘Feast your eyes, sirs: ten thousand gold ducats. You have earned them.’

  Bartolomeo D’Alviano was almost blinded by the sight of all those shiny coins, but Francesco Sforza was made of sterner stuff.

  ‘Very well. The debt has been settled. But what about the future?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You heard me.’

  Guinigi’s face twisted into what was supposed to be a smile. The result would have sat very comfortably upon the muzzle of a weasel.

  ‘Ten thousand ducats to secure the future of this city, and before even having even lifted a finger against the enemy? Come, Captain, you didn’t ask for so much last time. Don’t you think you’re being a little greedy?’

  ‘Do you wish to put your safety and that of your people at risk by bartering with me? Because, as you know, the Florentines will soon regroup and come back to lay siege to the city. Perhaps they won’t send Fortebraccio, but they will certainly find someone capable of commanding a gang of villains in exchange for a handful of gold. Do you really want to take such a risk?’

  Paolo Guinigi sighed.

  ‘Five thousand now,’ he said between gritted teeth, ‘and another fifteen at the conclusion of the job. But I don’t want to see a single Florentine anywhere near my city.’

  Sforza cocked his head to one side.

  ‘Five thousand is better than nothing, but it’s not enough. I will attempt to make it do for the moment, however.’

  ‘Do so, and I will go up to twenty thousand ducats at the end of the job. You know how deep my devotion to the Duke of Milan is.’

  ‘As deep as your purse, my lord.’ As he spoke, Francesco Sforza looked around him at the frescoes on the walls depicting the seasons in vivid hues, the armour, the racks of swords – for parades only, of course – the dressers and closets of Franco-Flemish manufacture with carvings of grapevines, and beautiful accessories in wrought iron. There was a pair of triptychs on wooden panels, and the imposing table in the centre of the room was impeccably laid with porcelain, solid gold cutlery and magnificent goblets, with twelve wooden chairs, elaborately carved and decorated, around it. From the exposed beams on the ceiling hung impressive wrought-iron chandeliers, each with twelve candles.

  For a tyrant who was hated by his people, Paolo Guinigi seemed to be doing rather well for himself. And it was all thanks to people like Sforza – the soldiers of fortune who risked being skewered while they did his dirty work for him.

  ‘Those frescoes of the four seasons are beautiful, aren’t they? They’re by Priamo della Quercia.’ Guinigi’s voice was mellifluous. ‘While my men count out the five thousand ducats, I hope you will join me for lunch?’

  Without waiting for confirmation, Paolo Guinigi picked up a small golden bell from the table and rang it so hard he seemed to wish to break it.

  Within a few moments, a head servant appeared along with an entire squadron of table staff: a carver, a butler, a bottler and a napkin bearer, each in turn describing the characteristics of the food and the wine that would be served.

  After the endless descriptions of hams, sausages, filled pastas, pies, roasts and stews, cheeses, fruits and pastries, D’Alviano looked ready to draw his sword and send the sextet of servants on their way to a better place. Sforza gave him an affectionate glance and motioned for him to resist.

  When the six had finished informing Paolo Guinigi and his two guests of the wonders that awaited them for lunch, the lord of Lucca finally invited the two soldiers to sit down.

  Francesco Sforza didn’t need to be told twice, and as he went towards his chair – which bore more than a passing resemblance to a throne – he reflected how art, clothing, textiles, furniture, chandeliers, frescoes, fine food and wines might be wonderful but were also poisons which could weaken a man to the point of making him unable to take care of himself and his people. It was a destiny he hoped to avoid.

  It was with double satisfaction therefore that he took his place at the table while the servants busied themselves bringing before them all that fabulous food.

  He knew that the meal would be a pleasant interlude in a day t
hat would end with an important negotiation. He hoped that it would all go well. If Guinigi had even a suspicion of his double-dealing, he would have far worse problems to deal with, and he did not want to have to slit his Amphitryon’s throat.

  But if Guinigi didn’t behave, he wouldn’t hesitate to do so.

  12

  The Camp

  After all the blood and the booty, and after entering Lucca as a hero and dining with the debauched Paolo Guinigi, Francesco Sforza was happy to get back outside the city and make camp across the Serchio River at Colle del Lupo, outside Pescia.

  It had been a long day, and all that frivolousness had been so wearing that he’d almost rather have been back on the battlefield. It was always the same: when he was fighting he wanted to be somewhere quiet, but when he was, he wished he was back fighting again. The part of the job that he hated most was the endless meetings with the lords and dukes who gave him his assignments. He was happy to get paid but would have preferred to spend his time doing very different things with very different people. As far as Sforza was concerned, Guinigi was an imbecile, just like his ducal master, Filippo Maria Visconti. And what good was accumulating money in military campaigns if you didn’t have time to retreat to a castle and spend your days hunting and making love to young maidens? One of whom you could take as your favourite, or even better, as your beloved wife? Why should such a possibility be denied him? Why couldn’t he have been in Guinigi or Visconti’s place? What did he lack? Nothing, as far as he could see – and he was able to fight too. Perhaps it was their political acumen and their love of plots and intrigues that he was missing.

  Allies! he thought. That was what he needed! Men of ambition to help him in his ascent and benefit from what he could give them in return.

  Absorbed in these thoughts, he lay on the bed he’d had made up in his large tent and waited for his reward to be brought to him. In a corner, some kind soul had placed a table with a couple of flasks of Chianti.

  Eventually, the reward arrived.