The Botticelli Secret - By Marina Fiorato Page 0,40

dare gainsay.” He met his nephew’s look. “Yes,” said Lord Silvio simply. “Il Magnifico, Lorenzo de’ Medici himself.” He said it as if he were uttering the name of God Almighty.

Now, I only knew three things about the ruler of our city-state of Florence.

Qualcosa Uno: he was stabbed during the Pazzi conspiracy, but escaped while his brother Giuliano was butchered in the cathedral.

Qualcosa Due: he was a banker and therefore richer than Croesus.

Qualcosa Tre: he writes poetry in Tuscan, hence his association with Angelo Poliziano, his poet friend that everyone keeps going on about.

Clearly, by the look on Brother Guido’s face, I had underestimated the reach of the man.

“And you could . . . petition for us with him?” he asked his uncle.

Lord Silvio thought for a moment. “I can do better than that. He is a firm friend of my heart, and I will take you to see him on the morrow.”

I spoke at last. “Back to Florence?” My heart felt a great gladness and terror at the same time.

He smiled. “No need. He has a palace here, in Pisa, that great palazzo with the red and white brick, that you may have seen today. One whole bank of the river—the Lungarno Mediceo—is named after him and his family. His heralds have given it out that he will be here in residence for the saint’s day, tomorrow. Or, I should say, today.” For it was well past midnight.

Brother Guido and I gabbled our relieved thanks. Surely, il Magnifico could protect us. I was already thinking of how I would dress my hair, for what greater feather in my cap than an assignation with the greatest of the Medicis. I had all but forgotten my earlier attraction for Lord Silvio, when he took my hand to lead me down the stair. “I shall see you in the morning, then, nephew,” he called over his shoulder to Brother Guido. “And you, signorina,” he murmured in lower tones, “come to my chamber when the bells ring for Lauds.”

My heart and my cunt thrilled at the words. I was to be bedded after all, and was safe from danger too. I pressed his hand with joy, but ‘twas short-lived, for Brother Guido heard.

“My lord!”

Lord Silvio stopped in his tracks.

“You cannot importune Signorina Vetra,” began Brother Guido heatedly. “It is not seemly. Think of the saint for whom we celebrate.”

Lord Silvio smiled indulgently. “Guido, Guido. How can you, a man of the cloth, understand the ways of the flesh? Besides, God gave us our bodies and our sensations to enjoy. To deny ourselves would be the greater sin.”

“I? Not understand?” brayed Brother Guido. “Of course I understand. D’you think because I wear this”—he grabbed a handful of fustian draped over his chest—“that my heart does not beat, that my blood does not flow, that my senses—and yes, my bodily lusts—do not thrill in the face of beauty?” He looked at me then, his face contorted with agony like a damned soul, his eyes shining with tears. “To take the vows is not to numb all feeling, but to feel them just as fully yet deny bodily pleasures and devote yourself to God. For one night, I ask you to do the same.”

His uncle turned once again to go, clearly anxious to avoid argument with one he so loved. But Brother Guido spun him violently round by the shoulder. “If you will not think of God, then think of my aunt, the mother of your son, your dead wife.” He placed a biting emphasis on the word. “You cannot so dishonor her in this house!”

The shout echoed around the walls, just as laughter had done moments ago. I looked fearfully at Lord Silvio, now sad and still and dangerous in his silence. He spoke in quiet, measured tones that did not for a moment conceal his anger. “My wife was dearly beloved, as the Good Book says, but has been dead for ten years. My son is a weaning milksop, not fit to bear our name. And my nephew”—here two pairs of angry blue eyes mingled in stares that were eerily alike—“should have a care how he tells his uncle how to act within his own walls.” And then the sadness drowned the anger. “I’m alone, Guido. With you gone, is there to be no comfort left to me?”

Suddenly he was not a great lord anymore, just a man of middle years, alone in the world despite his wealth and consequence. I felt sorry for