Read Online I, Mona Lisa by Jeanne Kalogridis - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Jeanne Kalogridis
Tags: Fiction, Historical
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the rest had swiftly met justice; only Guglielmo de’ Pazzi had been spared, because of Bianca de’ Medici’s desperate pleading with her brother Lorenzo.
Of the true conspirators, Baroncelli alone had escaped—by hiding in the Duomo’s campanile, its air still aquiver from the ringing of the bell. When his way was clear, he had fled on horseback—without aword to his family—due east, to Senigallia on the coast. From there, he had sailed to exotic Constantinople. King Ferrante and Baroncelli’s Neapolitan relatives had sent funds enough to sustain a dissolute life. Baroncelli made mistresses of the slave girls he had purchased, immersing himself in pleasure, trying to submerge all memory of the murders he had committed.
Yet his dreams were haunted by the image of Giuliano, frozen at the instant he had glanced up at the shining blade. The young man’s dark curls were tousled, his innocent eyes wide, his expression unself-conscious and slightly dazed by the sudden appearance of Death.
Baroncelli had had more than a year to contemplate the question, Would removing the Medici and replacing them with Iacopo and Francesco de’ Pazzi have bettered the city? Lorenzo was levelheaded, cautious; Francesco hot-tempered, swift to act. He would quickly have descended to the level of a tyrant. Lorenzo was wise enough to nurture the people’s love, as evidenced by the size of the crowd now gathered in the plaza; Francesco would have been too arrogant to care.
Lorenzo was, most of all, persistent. In the end, even Constantinople was not beyond his reach. Once his agents had located Baroncelli, Lorenzo had sent an emissary laden with gold and jewels to the sultan. Thus was Baroncelli’s fate sealed.
All criminals were hanged outside the city gates, then hastily stuffed into unhallowed ground. Baroncelli would be buried in a hole with them—but given the gravity of his misdeed, his execution was to take place in Florence’s most public arena.
Now, as the little cart rattled past the crowd toward the scaffolding, Baroncelli let go a loud groan. Fear gripped him with an anguish far worse than any physical pain; he felt unbearably cold, searingly hot, felt a dizzying sense of sinking. He thought he would faint, yet unconsciousness, cruelly, would not come.
“Courage, signore,” the
nero
said. “God rides with you.”
His
nero
, his Comforter, walked alongside the cart. He was aFlorentine citizen named Lauro, and a lay member of the Compagnia di Santa Maria della Croce, also known as the Compagnia de’ Neri—the Company of the Black Ones—because its members all wore black robes and hoods. The company’s purpose was to give comfort and mercy to those in need—including those anguished souls condemned to die.
Lauro had remained with him from the moment he had arrived in Florence. He had seen to it that Baroncelli received fair treatment, was allowed proper clothing and food, that he was permitted to send letters to loved ones (Giovanna never responded to his plea to see her). Lauro had listened kindly to Baroncelli’s tearful admissions of regret, and remained in the cell to pray for him. The Comforter had beseeched the Virgin, Christ, God, and Saint John, patron of Florence, to give Baroncelli comfort, to grant him forgiveness, to allow his soul into Purgatory and thence to Heaven.
Baroncelli did not join him in prayer; God, he felt, would take it as a personal affront.
Now, the black-hooded Comforter walked beside him, speaking loudly—a psalm, a hymn, or prayer, all floating on the air as white vapor—but given the noise made by the crowd, Baroncelli could not make out the words. A single phrase thrummed in his ears and pulsed to the beating of his heart.
Palle Palle Palle
The cart rolled to a stop in front of the steps leading up to the gallows. The Comforter slid an arm under Baroncelli’s bound one and helped him awkwardly onto the cold flagstone. The weight of terror dropped the shivering Baroncelli to
Of the true conspirators, Baroncelli alone had escaped—by hiding in the Duomo’s campanile, its air still aquiver from the ringing of the bell. When his way was clear, he had fled on horseback—without aword to his family—due east, to Senigallia on the coast. From there, he had sailed to exotic Constantinople. King Ferrante and Baroncelli’s Neapolitan relatives had sent funds enough to sustain a dissolute life. Baroncelli made mistresses of the slave girls he had purchased, immersing himself in pleasure, trying to submerge all memory of the murders he had committed.
Yet his dreams were haunted by the image of Giuliano, frozen at the instant he had glanced up at the shining blade. The young man’s dark curls were tousled, his innocent eyes wide, his expression unself-conscious and slightly dazed by the sudden appearance of Death.
Baroncelli had had more than a year to contemplate the question, Would removing the Medici and replacing them with Iacopo and Francesco de’ Pazzi have bettered the city? Lorenzo was levelheaded, cautious; Francesco hot-tempered, swift to act. He would quickly have descended to the level of a tyrant. Lorenzo was wise enough to nurture the people’s love, as evidenced by the size of the crowd now gathered in the plaza; Francesco would have been too arrogant to care.
Lorenzo was, most of all, persistent. In the end, even Constantinople was not beyond his reach. Once his agents had located Baroncelli, Lorenzo had sent an emissary laden with gold and jewels to the sultan. Thus was Baroncelli’s fate sealed.
All criminals were hanged outside the city gates, then hastily stuffed into unhallowed ground. Baroncelli would be buried in a hole with them—but given the gravity of his misdeed, his execution was to take place in Florence’s most public arena.
Now, as the little cart rattled past the crowd toward the scaffolding, Baroncelli let go a loud groan. Fear gripped him with an anguish far worse than any physical pain; he felt unbearably cold, searingly hot, felt a dizzying sense of sinking. He thought he would faint, yet unconsciousness, cruelly, would not come.
“Courage, signore,” the
nero
said. “God rides with you.”
His
nero
, his Comforter, walked alongside the cart. He was aFlorentine citizen named Lauro, and a lay member of the Compagnia di Santa Maria della Croce, also known as the Compagnia de’ Neri—the Company of the Black Ones—because its members all wore black robes and hoods. The company’s purpose was to give comfort and mercy to those in need—including those anguished souls condemned to die.
Lauro had remained with him from the moment he had arrived in Florence. He had seen to it that Baroncelli received fair treatment, was allowed proper clothing and food, that he was permitted to send letters to loved ones (Giovanna never responded to his plea to see her). Lauro had listened kindly to Baroncelli’s tearful admissions of regret, and remained in the cell to pray for him. The Comforter had beseeched the Virgin, Christ, God, and Saint John, patron of Florence, to give Baroncelli comfort, to grant him forgiveness, to allow his soul into Purgatory and thence to Heaven.
Baroncelli did not join him in prayer; God, he felt, would take it as a personal affront.
Now, the black-hooded Comforter walked beside him, speaking loudly—a psalm, a hymn, or prayer, all floating on the air as white vapor—but given the noise made by the crowd, Baroncelli could not make out the words. A single phrase thrummed in his ears and pulsed to the beating of his heart.
Palle Palle Palle
The cart rolled to a stop in front of the steps leading up to the gallows. The Comforter slid an arm under Baroncelli’s bound one and helped him awkwardly onto the cold flagstone. The weight of terror dropped the shivering Baroncelli to
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