Da Vinci's Disciples

Chapter 5

“Clouds gather only where a storm brews”

“Clouds gather only where a storm brews”“Are you excited, Mona Viviana?” Fiammetta’s husband Patrizio greeted her at his palazzo door with an almost girlish twitter, plump cheeks dimpling as he held his free arm out to her. His grandly bedecked wife already in her position on his other.

“I am thrilled, dear Patrizio,” Viviana replied, taking the offered limb. “And I am grateful to be with you both, as always.”

Around the short man, the women shared bemused smiles, indulgence tinged with shared secrets.

“Have you ever seen the city so beautiful?” Viviana asked, the splendor of the moment enveloping her—erasing her husband’s virulence from her mind—as they made their way through streets teeming with smiling neighbors.

“It has been some time,” Patrizio agreed as he strutted along.

Viviana sighed, gaze full of Florence embraced by spring, cleaned to perfection, adorned in its finest costume. Festoons of flowers hung on every doorjamb and balcony, their sweet aroma filling the air. Family banners fluttered, snapping softly in the gentle breeze.

“Magnifico asked us to put on our best for his guests,” Fiammetta said without a smile. “And what Lorenzo de’ Medici bids, we Fiorentino"s do.”

MagnificoFiorentino"s “Whatever the reason,” Viviana held her head high as they walked the crowded, cobbled streets, “I am glad for it.”

With a single gong, the church bells of the city began their clamoring, a splendid concerto, every bell in use to call this, the High Mass of Ascension Sunday, to order. Those so privileged or given special dispensation, rushed to the doors of the Duomo, while the rest of the city made their way to their own parishes in hopes of equal salvation or to the piazza to watch the privileged pass. Friends were in that crowd, special friends of all sorts; Viviana’s critical gaze swept the faces for those dear to her, but to no avail.

“You have made us late again, Patrizio!” Fiammetta shouted at her husband though he walked right beside her. The tolling grew louder. The urgency of sound quickened her step. Speed and breeze forced her free hand to hold fast to the jeweled veil atop her straw-like hair.

“I am moving as fast as I can.” The very bald, very round man hurried to keep up with his scurrying wife, pulling Viviana with him, his knees popping outward, his belly jiggling.

With the turn of a corner, the grand and golden Duomo rose up before them, a blazing testament to the glory of Florence. Viviana felt the familiar hitch in her breath at the magnificent sight. As they hurried over the irregular cobbled rectangle of the Piazza del Duomo, her gaze scurried over its sights: from Giotto’s campanile, the Column of Saint Zanobius, the Baptistry, to the dome itself—the round, golden vault—Filippo Brunelleschi’s wonder.

campanile“But what is this?” Patrizio slowed his pace, holding them back with a tick of his chin.

There, on the left side of the Duomo, they spied a small group of men hastening away from the side entrance, led by none other than the powerful Medici brothers.

away“But…but…,” Viviana stammered, a hand rising to her cheek. “Mass could only have just begun, if at all.”

“It is your fault,” Fiammetta grumbled at her husband. “It is because we are so late.”

Patrizio slanted a petulant look upon his wife. He rushed the women forward, bringing them ever closer to the towering front door of the cathedral, the scrolled pediment above, and the sculptures standing guard on each side.

“Slower,” Fiammetta hissed as they drew nearer, and Viviana bit back a smile. She knew there was nothing in Heaven or the cathedral to impel her inquisitive friend to enter its confines until she saw for herself what had impelled the dignitaries out.

But they need wait no longer. From the narrow Via Larga degli Spadia—the straight street of the sword forgers leading directly from the Medici Palace to the Cathedral de Santa Maria del Fiore—they spied the return of the Medicis, their group enlarged to an imposing brigata, bright with cardinal red, archbishop purple, fine velvets, and shiny leather. As the trio of friends converged on the front entrance, the Medici contingent did so from the west side.

brigata“Oooh,” Fiammetta luxuriated on the picture. “And now they return with their guests.”

Viviana gaped at the group of men, their power, their eminence apparent as each step brought them closer. Yet the more she stared at them, the more she knew them, not for who they were…everyone would recognize Cardinal Riario and Archbishop Salviati, even the small and swarmy Francesco de’ Pazzi…but she knew them, as a group. She could not recall from where. Something about them together struck a chord in her mind, a discordant note. She tilted her head, study and stare ever more intense, still she could not name it. Her pale eyes narrowed against a bright flash of light, a reflection…

knew…but no, it could not be. Her sight played tricks upon her mind. What an absurdity. What she saw was nothing but a glint from a strand of fine rosary beads. She believed it, only with a shiver of unease.

Fiammetta salivated on such a juicy tidbit of gossip, “A mistake has been made it would seem. It looks as if the Medici were to meet the guests at their palazzo not the cathedral, but—”

“But I will truly be angry with you, my wife, if we do not enter before they do,” Patrizio hissed between clenched teeth.

“What in the name of…” Viviana hissed in turn.

Within the Medici contingent, a man had suddenly stopped and embraced the man beside him, none other than Lorenzo’s younger brother, Giuliano. Awkward surprise contorted the handsome young man’s face until the other released him.

“Bernardo Bandini, what are you about?” Patrizio whispered aloud.

Without thought, Viviana squeezed his arm; he had seen it too. Together they watched as Bandini released Giuliano, as he turned to whisper in the Archbishop’s ear, who whispered in another’s. The argument ended as the Archbishop left the man for the more accommodating company of two priests.

“What? What is that you say?” Fiammetta slowed her pace once more.

“Come. No more now,” Patrizio replied, yanking her forward without answer.

He hurried them into the cathedral, his wife leaning backward to get a last glimpse of the strange contingent. Viviana leaning forward.

For the third time that morning, Lapaccia Cavalcanti climbed the stairs to the third floor of her spacious home, one she had searched for the better part of an hour. Her aging knees screeched; inflicted lungs struggled for breath. She could find no sign of her son.

Andreano had promised to escort her to Mass, and he had never gone back on his promises, not in all the years of her widowhood. The deceased Andrea Cavalcanti, one of the greatest knights in all of Italy, a title earned by blood, both inherited and shed, would be disappointed in his son were he to renege on his promise to his mother, any promise.

As Lapaccia looked in her son’s room one more time, her shoulders drooped in surrender. His ornamental sword was gone from its resting place on the bedpost. His boots lay nowhere on the floor—Andreano’s notion of ‘put away.’ There was nothing for it; he had left and early, for she was a dawn riser. She would return to her own rooms and have her maids remove her splendid gown, for she had never, and would never, venture out alone socially, regardless that Viviana and Fiammetta awaited her.

Lapaccia trudged to her chambers, forgetting why as soon as she entered. Crossing thick tapestry set atop grey stone floor, she stopped before the wall of windows and the balcony beyond. The vista took in the better part of the western quadrant, the old section of Florence long since taken over by brothels and their clientele. It was a world of lascivious dirt within a city of elegant beauty.

Lapaccia watched, enthralled.

Droves of men flowed from ramshackle inns sandwiched between brightly painted bordellos. Stern-faced, adorned in dark leather and boots, yet their path could bring them nowhere other than the Duomo. Lapaccia had seen many things from these windows but never had she seen such a contingent making for Mass.

She turned from the dichotomous sight, one thought alone nagging at her.

Where are you, Andreano?

Where are you, Andreano?Viviana stood near the front of the congregation beside the Conte and Contessa, for once as enthralled with Fiammetta’s rank as Fiammetta had always been. She forgot any and all earlier concerns. Her slippered feet—her best pair, though worn—tapped upon patterned marble. Her thumbs twirled in the cup of her hands. It was the best attempt at quiet reverence she could manage within the multitude of distractions.

The Gothic vaults of the central nave towered above, guarded by the columns and round arches of ancient Rome, so high only birds could reach its apex, set aglow by the sweet light streaming in through the mammoth clerestory windows. It was a cave of wonders built by the hand of man; a hand guided by God.

Viviana aimed her eyes forward, on the priest standing in wait, small and encapsulated within the chancel and the cupola above it.

“Where is our Lapaccia?” Fiammetta leaned close to whisper.

Viviana merely shrugged in ignorance. They had planned to be together on this special occasion, but the woman and her son were nowhere in sight.

Mass was often no more than an excuse to see and be seen but never had Viviana witnessed so many watching so many others. Yes, it was Ascension Day, and with a cardinal coming to celebrate it at that. Still, the congregation appeared incongruently heavy with men…well-dressed, well-outfitted, standing side by side, and yet apart.

A metal hinge creaked. Viviana blinked as sunlight and the Medici brothers burst through the door. The chorus struck a rousing chord as if to sing their praises and not those of God. Both brothers accompanied the cardinal to his seat beneath the cupola. Viviana lowered her head as the priests began their parade of blessing, thuribles clacking, releasing the spicy scent of the incense that did little to mask the odor of so many bodies packed side by side.

The brothers separated, each taking the head of one side of the congregation, as far apart and as far forward as they could. Lorenzo to the left, Giuliano to just a few rows before Viviana. She wondered if perhaps they separated to discourage contrast of one so powerful and one so beautiful. With them and their group, the church filled: dignitaries, nobles, clergy, and dashing soldiers. Viviana tried not to stare at the luminaries but failed. A few she recognized as those she had seen approach with the Medici contingent, malcontent slick upon their faces, shrouded in a disquiet out of sorts with such a hallowed place.

Many congregants marveled at the sight of the Medici brothers and their guests. Viviana felt it too, their magnetism. But at the glimpse of one of the men among them, at the tall, thin man most simply called da Vinci, her breath became a shallow, elusive thing. Her emulation of the artist bordered on obsession, regardless of the salacious rumors that swirled around him like a storm.

Movement snatched her attention. Archbishop Salviati, the hem of his rich purple cappa magna slapping at his ankles, scampered down the far aisle on his short legs. Viviana turned rudely from the altar—eyes wide, brows high—following the clergyman hurrying past the ranks. Oh, over there now—an equally disruptive sight. Messer Jacopo de’ Pazzi, the presiding patriarch of the powerful family, yanked her gaze to the right as he too rushed from the cathedral, and out the opposite door.

Viviana looked round, forehead creased, wide blue eyes beseeching; had none of the other congregants seen what she had, did they not find it baffling? True, she was not so familiar with Mass among esteemed patrons, but none considered such displays of disrespect normal. Did they?

“Bene dictam, adscrí ptam, ra tam, rationábilem, acceptabilém fácere dignéris.”

“Bene dictam, adscrí ptam, ra tam, rationábilem, acceptabilém fácere dignéris.”Viviana pinned her gaze forward, shaking her head softly to set aside and away all confusing thoughts, for the priest was making the sign of the cross, three times, over the great chalice. The Consecration had begun; the blessing of the body and blood of Christ.

In this moment, she often found the greatest connection to Jesus.

Today it was not to be.

The bell rang, the host was elevated, and…

“HERE, TRAITOR!”

The scream tore through the church, a shrieking, evil explosion. Viviana’s breath faltered. Her heart hammered. Directly in front of her, directly beside Giuliano de’ Medici, a mad man came to life. He was not alone.

“Look out!” Viviana screeched and pointed at the daggers raised high just as the priest upon the altar raised the host. The shiny steel flashed in her gaze. The flaying weapons intent upon spreading pure madness. Downward they plunged.

Viviana’s world turned blood-red.