LITMIR.BIZ

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Mass in honour of the young Cardinal. And if it happened that young Raffaele had come only out of a desire to enjoy the Medici art, he could at least report to his uncle that Lorenzo had treated him lavishly and well. It could serve as a diplomatic opening, one that Lorenzo would use to full advantage, for he was determined to reclaim the papal coffers from the clutches of the Pazzi bank.

      And so Lorenzo practised his most gracious behaviour, even though Francesco Salviati, Archbishop of Pisa, stood smiling disingenuously on Riario’s other flank. Lorenzo had no personal quarrel with Salviati, though he had fought long and bitterly against his appointment as archbishop. So close to Florence, Pisa deserved an archbishop of Medici blood – and Salviati was related to the Pazzi, who already were gaining too much favour with the Pope. While the Medici and Pazzi publicly embraced each other as friends, in the arena of business and politics, there were no fiercer adversaries. Lorenzo had written an impassioned letter to Sixtus, explaining why the appointment of a Pazzi would be disastrous to papal, and Medici interests.

      Sixtus not only failed to respond, he ultimately dismissed the Medici as his bankers.

      Most would consider the appearance of Riario and Salviati as honoured guests a stinging blow to Medici dignity. But Lorenzo, ever the diplomat, welcomed them. And he insisted that his dear friend and the senior manager of the Medici Bank, Francesco Nori, show not the slightest sign of offence. Nori, who stood beside him now in silent support, was desperately protective of Lorenzo. When the news came from Rome that the Pazzi had been appointed the papal bankers, and the Medici were ousted, Nori had raged incessantly. Lorenzo had been obliged to calm his employee, though he had held his own anger in check, and spoke little of the affair. He could not afford the energy; he was already too busy scheming how he might win Sixtus back.

      He had exchanged pleasantries with the young Cardinal throughout the service, and from a distance, smiled a greeting to the Pazzi, who were in full attendance. Most of them had gathered at the other side of the cathedral, except for Guglielmo de’ Pazzi, who stuck to the Archbishop’s side like a burr. Lorenzo honestly liked Guglielmo; he had known him since he, Lorenzo, was a boy of sixteen, when Guglielmo had escorted him to Naples to meet Crown Prince Federigo. The older man had treated him like a son then, and Lorenzo had never forgotten. In time, Guglielmo married Lorenzo’s older sister, Bianca, strengthening his position as a friend to the Medici.

      At the start of the sermon, the boy Cardinal gave a strange, sickly smile and whispered, ‘Your brother … where is your brother? I thought surely he would come to Mass. I had so hoped to meet him.’

      The question took Lorenzo by surprise. Although Giuliano had made polite noises about coming to the Mass in order to meet Cardinal Riario, Lorenzo felt certain no one, least of all Giuliano, had taken the promise seriously. The most famous womanizer in Florence, Giuliano was notorious for his failure to appear at formal or diplomatic functions – unless Lorenzo insisted vehemently upon it. (Certainly he had not done so here.) Giuliano had already proclaimed himself unable to attend the luncheon.

      He had been thoroughly taken aback the previous day when Giuliano had announced his intention to run off to Rome with a married woman. Up to that point, Giuliano had never taken his lovers very seriously; he had never spouted such foolishness before and certainly had never spoken of marriage. It had always been understood that, when the time came, Lorenzo would choose his bride and his brother would submit.

      But Giuliano had been adamant about getting the woman an annulment – an achievement which, if Cardinal Riario had not come as a Papal overture, was well beyond Lorenzo’s grasp.

      Lorenzo was frightened for his younger brother. Giuliano was too trusting, too willing to see the good in others, too good natured to realize he had many enemies – enemies who hated him solely for the fact he had been born a Medici. He could not see, as Lorenzo did, that they would use this affair with Anna to tear him down.

      Giuliano, the sweet soul, thought only of love. Though it had been necessary, Lorenzo had not relished being cruel to him. But he could not blame Giuliano for his weakness when it came to women.

      Lorenzo himself was a passionate worshipper of the fairer sex, if a more circumspect one; he arranged trysts only occasionally, and then under cover of night. And though he had loved many women, he had kept them secret from his wife Clarice Orsini, a rigid, annoyingly pious woman.

      Most wives were tolerant, even forgiving, of their husband’s desire to keep a mistress. But Clarice tolerated nothing, forgave nothing. Piero had insisted his elder son marry into the powerful, princely Orsini clan – and Lorenzo had regretted his decision ever since.

      Lorenzo and his father Piero had both tried to impress upon Clarice the need for the Medici to behave as common citizens, and remain modest in their aspect and dress – but such restrictions vexed her. Though her home was exquisitely adorned, Clarice could not bear having to keep her huge diamond and ruby necklaces, her jewel-studded gowns and glittering hairnets locked away – even on those days when her husband entertained pontiffs and kings. Lorenzo had bought her more appropriate jewellery, and gowns considered breath-taking by Florentine standards – but it was never enough. Clarice wished to dress like royalty.

      To placate her, Lorenzo had arranged for her to sit for the great artist Sandro Botticelli. ‘Make her look as best you can,’ he’d told Sandro. And being a good husband, he had set the painting in a great gilded frame and hung it in his appartamento.

      But Clarice – despite Botticelli’s best efforts, and despite her noble blood – looked far from comely or regal. In profile, she was slumped and small-busted, with a nose so prominent it overwhelmed her thin, pursed lips. Her tiny eyes showed little sign of interest or intelligence, but a great deal of haughtiness and disgust at her fate. As a reproach to her husband, Clarice had posed entirely without jewellery, in a plain brown dress that would have been better suited to a struggling merchant’s wife. Her dull red hair was pulled unceremoniously back into a plain white silk cap.

      Lorenzo treated her kindly, though the favour was not returned. He reminded himself that Clarice had presented him with three of his greatest joys in life: his sons, four year old Piero, Giovanni, a toddler, and little Giuliano, who was still an infant. Already he had spoken to the most learned scholar in Florence, his friend Angelo Poliziano – who stood near him now, at Mass – and asked him to be the boys’ official tutor when they were old enough.

      At times, Lorenzo yearned for the freedom his brother Giuliano enjoyed. This morning, he particularly envied him. Would that he could linger in the arms of a beautiful woman, and let Giuliano deal with the Pope’s nephew– who was still gazing politely at Lorenzo, waiting to hear the whereabouts of his wayward brother.

      It would be impolite to tell the Cardinal the truth – that Giuliano had never intended to come to Mass, or meet Riario – and so instead Lorenzo indulged in a polite lie. ‘My brother must have been detained. Surely he will be here soon; I know he is eager to meet Your Holiness.’

      Riario blinked; his girlish lips thinned.

      Ah, Lorenzo thought. Perhaps young Raffaele’s interest was more than superficially diplomatic. Giuliano’s handsomeness was legendary, and he had stirred the passions of at least as many men as women.

      Guglielmo de’ Pazzi leaned across the Archbishop and gave the Cardinal an encouraging pat on the shoulder. ‘Have no fear, Holiness. He will come. The Medici always treat their guests well.’

      Lorenzo smiled warmly at him; Guglielmo dropped his gaze without meeting Lorenzo’s and gave a quick nod of acknowledgment, but did not return the smile. The gesture seemed odd, but Lorenzo was at once distracted by Francesco Nori’s whisper.

      ‘Maestro … your brother has just arrived.’

      ‘Alone?’

      Nori glanced briefly to his left, at the north side of the sacristy. ‘He has come with Francesco de’ Pazzi and Bernardo Baroncelli. I do not like the look of it.’

      Lorenzo frowned; he did not care for it, either. He had already greeted Francesco and Baroncelli when he had first entered the cathedral. His diplomatic instincts took hold of him, however; he inclined

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