anybody try to kill her in her own bed chamber? How dare they presume to make her a pawn in the battles between the Medicis and the Lorraines? She lay back down on her bed and wondered again about her mysterious saviour, certain that Lorenzo was behind it somehow. And resolved that when she awoke in the morning she would take up her paintbrushes and end this stupid war between the two Houses by painting over all their towers, replacing them with parklands and gardens where the citizens of the city could be free to enjoy their own lives.
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Cosimo wished he had insisted on holding his brotherâs service in one of their small family chapels instead. It was too dark and too hot in the crypt under the cathedral. And he wanted to be alone with his brother, not crammed into a damp-smelling hole like this with too many family members and lackeys all about him. But protocol dictated a public funeral. Protocol dictated that Giulianoâs mourners be allowed to see his coffin and weep and wail over it, whether their tears be genuine or not, while he stood there proud and brave.
So he stood at the back of the throng, on a slightly raised platform, watching the jostling crowd in the too small space, with his aged mother at his side. She was a little deaf but still sharp of mind, and had never forgotten he was her first born. He held her by the arm and, leaning close to her, said, âI am sorry to have brought you to such a miserable place as the funeral of your second born son.â
His mother muttered something and dabbed at her eyes with an ornate cloth. She had already lost two sons to sickness while they were young and one daughter to a riding accident. He and Giuliano were all that remained of her five children and she had often said they were each the man they were only because of the other. But Cosimo knew what was really in her head. The two boys were raised together, attended lessons together, were trained in fighting together, and it had always been Giuliano who was the better of them. But he was not the first born.
âLook at them trying to outdo each other in showing how much they loved him and how much his death fills them with grief,â he said to his mother softly. âBut they donât know grief! I could fill the entire cathedral with my sorrow. I could fill the whole city until it pressed at the walls and threatened to break them under its weight. I could fill the known world with my sadness.â
She patted his hand in reply. He looked at her face, the tears welling in her eyes, and said, âI will have artists paint frescos and sculpt statues that capture my grief.â Then, âAnd a hundred years hence people will look at them and say, âNever has man known such grief as thisâ.â His mother turned to him and put a hand to his face. âI will show them what real grief is,â he said, taking her hand from his face and holding it tightly. Then his mother turned towards several of the people who approached them with their heads bowed to show their respect. Cosimo gave each a curt nod and watched them trying to work their way back through the press of bodies. âGiuliano deserved better than this,â he said, leaning closer to his mother. âHe deserved a service in the cathedral above.â His mother nodded her head a little, as if agreeing, but knowing that it would have been against custom to do so.
Cosimo watched his mother closely and then said, âHe was always wiser than me. He knew what courses of actions were ill-considered and which were not. He had a better eye for strategy than I ever did.â And then, in a whisper his mother could barely hear, âHe would have made a better head of the House than me, wouldnât he?â His mother patted his hand again, not acknowledging if she had heard or understood him, and she smiled and nodded to another well-wisher who had come up and bowed to them. âBut it was not in
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Cosimo wished he had insisted on holding his brotherâs service in one of their small family chapels instead. It was too dark and too hot in the crypt under the cathedral. And he wanted to be alone with his brother, not crammed into a damp-smelling hole like this with too many family members and lackeys all about him. But protocol dictated a public funeral. Protocol dictated that Giulianoâs mourners be allowed to see his coffin and weep and wail over it, whether their tears be genuine or not, while he stood there proud and brave.
So he stood at the back of the throng, on a slightly raised platform, watching the jostling crowd in the too small space, with his aged mother at his side. She was a little deaf but still sharp of mind, and had never forgotten he was her first born. He held her by the arm and, leaning close to her, said, âI am sorry to have brought you to such a miserable place as the funeral of your second born son.â
His mother muttered something and dabbed at her eyes with an ornate cloth. She had already lost two sons to sickness while they were young and one daughter to a riding accident. He and Giuliano were all that remained of her five children and she had often said they were each the man they were only because of the other. But Cosimo knew what was really in her head. The two boys were raised together, attended lessons together, were trained in fighting together, and it had always been Giuliano who was the better of them. But he was not the first born.
âLook at them trying to outdo each other in showing how much they loved him and how much his death fills them with grief,â he said to his mother softly. âBut they donât know grief! I could fill the entire cathedral with my sorrow. I could fill the whole city until it pressed at the walls and threatened to break them under its weight. I could fill the known world with my sadness.â
She patted his hand in reply. He looked at her face, the tears welling in her eyes, and said, âI will have artists paint frescos and sculpt statues that capture my grief.â Then, âAnd a hundred years hence people will look at them and say, âNever has man known such grief as thisâ.â His mother turned to him and put a hand to his face. âI will show them what real grief is,â he said, taking her hand from his face and holding it tightly. Then his mother turned towards several of the people who approached them with their heads bowed to show their respect. Cosimo gave each a curt nod and watched them trying to work their way back through the press of bodies. âGiuliano deserved better than this,â he said, leaning closer to his mother. âHe deserved a service in the cathedral above.â His mother nodded her head a little, as if agreeing, but knowing that it would have been against custom to do so.
Cosimo watched his mother closely and then said, âHe was always wiser than me. He knew what courses of actions were ill-considered and which were not. He had a better eye for strategy than I ever did.â And then, in a whisper his mother could barely hear, âHe would have made a better head of the House than me, wouldnât he?â His mother patted his hand again, not acknowledging if she had heard or understood him, and she smiled and nodded to another well-wisher who had come up and bowed to them. âBut it was not in
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