He shook his head.
‘Then let us find Cook.’
On the way out, my father picked up my lamp and sighed. ‘God help us, Daughter. God help us not to give in to our anger again.’
‘Amen,’ I said.
Before Zalumma retired that night, I sought her out and coaxed her into my little room. I closed the door behind us, then jumped upon my cot and wrapped my arms around my knees.
More of Zalumma’s wild, wiry tendrils had escaped from her braids and they glinted in the light of the single candle in her hand, which lit her face with a delightfully eerie, wavering glow – perfect for the gruesome tale I wished to hear.
‘Tell me about Messer Iacopo,’ I coaxed. ‘Father said they desecrated his body. I know they executed him, but I want to hear the details.’
Zalumma resisted. Normally, she enjoyed sharing such things, but this was one subject that clearly disturbed her. ‘It’s a terrible story to tell a child.’
‘All the adults know about it; and if you won’t tell me, I’ll just ask Mother.’
‘No,’ she said, so sharply her breath nearly extinguished the flame. ‘Don’t you dare bother her with that.’ Scowling, she set the candle down on my night table. ‘What do you want to know?’
‘What they did to Messer Iacopo’s body … and why. He didn’t stab Giuliano … so why did they kill him?’
She sat on the edge of my bed and sighed. ‘There’s more than one answer to those questions. Old Iacopo de’ Pazzi was the patriarch of the Pazzi clan. He was a learned man, and esteemed by everyone. He didn’t start the plot to kill the Medici brothers; I think he got talked into it once it was clear the others were going to go ahead with or without him.
‘Your mother has told you that when they murdered Giuliano, they rang the bells in the campanile next to the Duomo?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, that was the signal for Messer Iacopo to ride his horse into the Piazza della Signoria and shout “Popolo e liberta!", rallying the people to rise up against the Medici. He had hired almost a hundred Perugian soldiers to help him storm the Palazzo della Signoria; he thought the citizens would help him. But it didn’t go as he planned. The Lord Priors dropped stones on him from the palazzo windows, and the people turned on him, crying, “Palle! Palle!"’
‘So, when he was captured, they hung him from a window of the palazzo – the same one as Francesco de’ Pazzi and Archbishop Salviati. Because of his noble rank and the people’s respect for him, he was first allowed to confess his sins and receive the final sacrament. Later, he was buried in his family tomb at Santa Croce.
‘But a rumour started. People whispered that before he died, Iacopo had commended his soul to the Devil. The monks at Santa Croce grew frightened and exhumed the body to rebury it outside the city walls, in unconsecrated ground. Then, some giovani dug up the body when Messer Iacopo was three weeks dead.
‘He had been buried with the noose still round his neck, and so the giovani dragged his corpse by its rope all over the city.’ She closed her eyes and shook her head, remembering. ‘They mocked him for days as if his body were a puppet. They took him to his palazzo and banged his head against the door, pretending that he was demanding entry. I …’ She faltered and opened her eyes, but did not see me.
‘I saw him, and the giovani as I walked back from market one day. They had propped the corpse against a fountain, and were speaking to it. “Good day, Messer Iacopo!", “Please pass, Messer Iacopo.” And, “How is your family today, Messer Iacopo?”
‘And then they pelted the cadaver with stones. It made an awful sound – dull thuds; it had been raining for four days while he was buried in the earth, and he was very bloated. He had been wearing a beautiful purple tunic the day he was hung – I had been in the crowd. The tunic had rotted, covered now with a greenish black slime, and his face and hands were white as the belly of a fish. His mouth gaped open, and his tongue, all swollen, thrust outward. He had one eye shut and one open, covered with a grey film, and that one eye seemed to look right at me. It felt like he was pleading for help from beyond the grave.
‘I prayed for his soul, then, even though everyone was afraid of saying a kind word about the Pazzi. The giovani played with his body for a few more days; then they grew tired of it, and threw it in the Arno. It was seen floating to the sea as far away as Pisa.’ She paused, then looked directly at me. ‘You must understand: Lorenzo has done many good things for the city. But he kept the people’s hatred of the Pazzi alive. I have no doubt at least one of the giovani pocketed a florin or two, dropped into his palm by Lorenzo himself. His vengeance knew no bounds, and for that, God will someday make him pay.’
The next day, by way of apology, my father took me with him in his carriage to deliver his very best wools to the Medici palazzo. We rode inside the great iron gates. As always, I remained in the carriage while servants tethered the horses and my father went in the side entry, accompanied by Medici servants laden down with his wares.
He was inside longer than usual – almost three-quarters of an hour. I grew restless, having memorized the building’s façade, and exhausted my imagination as to what lay behind it.
At last the guards at the side entry parted and my father emerged. But instead of returning to our coach, he stepped to one side and waited. A cadre of guards sporting long swords followed him out the door. An instant later, a single man emerged, leaning heavily on the muscular arm of another; one of his feet was unslippered, wrapped to just above the ankle in the softest combed wool used for newborns’ blankets.
He was sallow and slightly stooped, blinking in the bright sun. He looked to my father, who directed his attention to our wagon.
I leaned forwards on the seat, mesmerized. The man – homely, with a huge crooked nose and badly misaligned lower jaw – squinted in my direction. After a word to his companion, he drew closer, wincing with each step, scarcely able to bear any weight on the stricken foot. Yet he persisted until he stood no more than the length of two men from me. Even then, he had to crane his neck to see me.
We stared unabashed at each other for a long moment. He appraised me intently, his eyes filled with cloaked emotion I could not interpret. The air between us seemed atremble, as though lightning had just struck: he knew me, though we had never met.
Then the man gave my father a nod, and retreated back inside his fortress. My father entered the carriage and sat beside me without a word, as if nothing unusual had taken place. As for me, I uttered not a word; I was stricken speechless.
I had just had my first encounter with Lorenzo de’ Medici.
The new year brought ice-covered streets and bitter cold. Despite the weather, my father abandoned our parish of Santo Spirito and began crossing the Arno to attend Mass daily at the cathedral of San Marco, known as the church of the Medici. Old Cosimo had lavished money on its reconstruction and maintained a private cell there, which he had visited more frequently as he neared death.
The new prior, one Fra Girolamo Savonarola, had taken to preaching there. Fra Girolamo, as the people called him, had come to Florence from Ferrara less than two years earlier. An intimate of Lorenzo Medici, Count Giovanni Pico, had been much impressed by Savonarola’s teachings, and so had begged Lorenzo, as the unofficial head of San Marco, to send for the friar. Lorenzo complied.
But once Fra Girolamo gained control of the Dominican monastery, he turned on his host. No matter that Medici money had rescued San Marco from oblivion; Fra Girolamo railed against Lorenzo – not by name, but by implication.