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Book: The Sign of the Weeping Virgin (Five Star Mystery Series) by Alana White
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Authors: Alana White
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deliberately. “Far too sharp-witted for that. Whereas if something isn't done to prevent a civil war in our streets, our own heads will land there.”
In Tommaso's flat gaze, Guid'Antonio saw fifty years of relentless service to the Florentine Republic and the bitter frustration that must come with Tommaso's role as Lorenzo de' Medici's second. With more legitimate authority than his thirty-one-year-old nephew, certainly. Christ, but for Bartolomeo's secretary, Alessandro Braccesi, and Amerigo, every man in this room wielded more official power than Lorenzo, for all the good it did them. Lorenzo might be uncrowned, but he was the prince of the city, the green grass springing up beneath the feet of everyone who supported the Medici family. Hadn't they—largely, the men in this room—placed the mantle of leadership on Lorenzo's shoulders almost a dozen years ago, when his father died of crippling gout? In December 1469, Lorenzo had been twenty, a strapping youth more interested in poetry and horses than politics. Now they must reckon with the fact power fit him like a second skin.
“Alternatively,” Tommaso droned on, “we may find ourselves in exile, with new men as our replacements.”
“Exile?” Amerigo went deathly pale. The Vespuccis, the Soderinis, the Medicis and Pandolfinis, stripped of wealth and power and run from the city?
This time, the others ignored Amerigo's intrusion into the conversation. “You might as well tie blocks of stone to our necks and drown us in the Arno,” Pierfilippo Pandolfini said.
“Or heave us from yon windows into Piazza della Signoria,” Antonio Capponi cut in. “Exactly as we did Francesco and the archbishop of Pisa two years ago.”
The
vacca
, the great bell of Arnolfo di Cambio's bell tower, mooed the noonday hour, marking with exact precision the chill quiet pervading the Great Hall.
Exile
. Who could imagine any worse fate? No: even death paled by comparison.
With an impressive air of grace, Tommaso gathered his coat lightly about his shoulders, and rose. “No wonder to me the Virgin was seen weeping. Even I am weary of my nephew's conflict with Pope Sixtus IV.”
The old man's brown eyes sought Guid'Antonio. “I must say, former Ambassador Vespucci, I do enjoy your reports. For all the rest of it, if my nephew doesn't want to go to Rome, we can't force him to do it.” For an instant, he paused, eyebrows raised. “Or can we?”
Guid'Antonio was donning his cloak when Pierfilippo Pandolfini hurried over. The younger man embraced him, smiling, though his eyes were dark and troubled. “Guid'Antonio, I'm glad to have you home.” In an undertone, Pierfilippo said, “Admire my jewelry, quickly!”
“There's a beautifully crafted ring. Who's the maker? Andrea, by the look,” Guid'Antonio said.
“Yes, or one of the boys in his shop, though I paid Verrocchio's own price.” Pierfilippo lowered his voice. “It's true the current turns against us with all swiftness. But appease Sixtus, my ass! Lorenzo's four months in Naples gave his uncle freedom of action he otherwise never could have managed. A cunning man may accomplish everything in less time. What better opportunity to begin taking the upper hand, which everyone knows Tommaso has always wanted? Missing ladies, miraculous paintings, and civil unrest in our streets. Miraculous
timing
, don't you think?”
Raising his voice, Pierfilippo finished, smiling broadly, “God be with you, friend. We'll get together, have some wine.” With that, he took hasty leave.
Guid'Antonio's eyes traveled to the messenger who had entered the chamber and stood speaking with Bartolomeo Scala. He frowned to himself, mulling over Pierfilippo's words while Amerigo slid his writing instruments into his satchel and secured the straps. Could Tommaso Soderini be stirring up trouble on the Pope's coattails in hopes of ruining Lorenzo? If so, who were Tommaso's accomplices? Were the other families who supported Lorenzo in danger?
In Tommaso's flat gaze, Guid'Antonio saw fifty years of relentless service to the Florentine Republic and the bitter frustration that must come with Tommaso's role as Lorenzo de' Medici's second. With more legitimate authority than his thirty-one-year-old nephew, certainly. Christ, but for Bartolomeo's secretary, Alessandro Braccesi, and Amerigo, every man in this room wielded more official power than Lorenzo, for all the good it did them. Lorenzo might be uncrowned, but he was the prince of the city, the green grass springing up beneath the feet of everyone who supported the Medici family. Hadn't they—largely, the men in this room—placed the mantle of leadership on Lorenzo's shoulders almost a dozen years ago, when his father died of crippling gout? In December 1469, Lorenzo had been twenty, a strapping youth more interested in poetry and horses than politics. Now they must reckon with the fact power fit him like a second skin.
“Alternatively,” Tommaso droned on, “we may find ourselves in exile, with new men as our replacements.”
“Exile?” Amerigo went deathly pale. The Vespuccis, the Soderinis, the Medicis and Pandolfinis, stripped of wealth and power and run from the city?
This time, the others ignored Amerigo's intrusion into the conversation. “You might as well tie blocks of stone to our necks and drown us in the Arno,” Pierfilippo Pandolfini said.
“Or heave us from yon windows into Piazza della Signoria,” Antonio Capponi cut in. “Exactly as we did Francesco and the archbishop of Pisa two years ago.”
The
vacca
, the great bell of Arnolfo di Cambio's bell tower, mooed the noonday hour, marking with exact precision the chill quiet pervading the Great Hall.
Exile
. Who could imagine any worse fate? No: even death paled by comparison.
With an impressive air of grace, Tommaso gathered his coat lightly about his shoulders, and rose. “No wonder to me the Virgin was seen weeping. Even I am weary of my nephew's conflict with Pope Sixtus IV.”
The old man's brown eyes sought Guid'Antonio. “I must say, former Ambassador Vespucci, I do enjoy your reports. For all the rest of it, if my nephew doesn't want to go to Rome, we can't force him to do it.” For an instant, he paused, eyebrows raised. “Or can we?”
Guid'Antonio was donning his cloak when Pierfilippo Pandolfini hurried over. The younger man embraced him, smiling, though his eyes were dark and troubled. “Guid'Antonio, I'm glad to have you home.” In an undertone, Pierfilippo said, “Admire my jewelry, quickly!”
“There's a beautifully crafted ring. Who's the maker? Andrea, by the look,” Guid'Antonio said.
“Yes, or one of the boys in his shop, though I paid Verrocchio's own price.” Pierfilippo lowered his voice. “It's true the current turns against us with all swiftness. But appease Sixtus, my ass! Lorenzo's four months in Naples gave his uncle freedom of action he otherwise never could have managed. A cunning man may accomplish everything in less time. What better opportunity to begin taking the upper hand, which everyone knows Tommaso has always wanted? Missing ladies, miraculous paintings, and civil unrest in our streets. Miraculous
timing
, don't you think?”
Raising his voice, Pierfilippo finished, smiling broadly, “God be with you, friend. We'll get together, have some wine.” With that, he took hasty leave.
Guid'Antonio's eyes traveled to the messenger who had entered the chamber and stood speaking with Bartolomeo Scala. He frowned to himself, mulling over Pierfilippo's words while Amerigo slid his writing instruments into his satchel and secured the straps. Could Tommaso Soderini be stirring up trouble on the Pope's coattails in hopes of ruining Lorenzo? If so, who were Tommaso's accomplices? Were the other families who supported Lorenzo in danger?
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