It was therefore necessary to make up for a few hours of travel, possibly avoiding other unexpected occurrences.
No more than a hundred feet outside the inhabited area, on the dusty road to Florence, the three papal knights had just begun to increase their speed when they were joined by a man on horseback with a showy bandage between his arm and shoulder.
“Sir… Sir, please. Stop…”
The breathless man was the same one Tristano had just saved and had a short while before entrusted, together with his woman, to the care of the Lippi house. The papal officer had to stop again.
“Please, my lord, listen to me,” continued the imploring supplicant, “What you have done and demonstrated is more noble than any coat of arms that adorns your breast and any crown that dominates your family coat of arms.”
Then, getting off his horse, he prostrated himself before the diplomat:
“Allow me to show you my eternal gratitude and offer you my services only as a partial restoration of the unquenchable debt that I contracted when Your Excellency stole me and even more my woman from the murderous ferocity of those brutes. This entire night I could not help but think about what happened and decided, if you accept, I offer you, without asking for anything in return, my humble sword and I swear my loyalty to you as long as you permit me to serve you.”
Tristano, for the high office he held, was certainly not short of protection and frankly until then he had always managed on his own… but he saw in the eyes of that man, who almost implored him, a particular light and a sense of sincere gratitude, loyalty, disinterest, something out of the ordinary. So much so that, without the humble person being able to add anything else, he asked:
“What's your name, brave man?”
“Pietro Di Giovanni, my lord,” he replied, raising his head.
“Get up Pietro. Given the delay that I am augmenting because of you, alas, your protection against the wrath of my lord will not be sufficient… I have no blazons or coats of arms to display, but I appreciate your gratitude and accept your services. But now, if you care so much, before I think any more about it, get on your horse and let's move on without further delay.”
And so the group resumed their race towards the Eternal City.
IV
The Magnificent’s ring
Pietro, a mature man, uncouth, scruffy in appearance but not that rough, was very skilled with the sword (with what he had inherited from his father he had attended the Bolognese school of Lippo Bartolomeo Dardi); he was endowed with an excellent technique and, although no longer young, he was physically well prepared; he did not like to call himself a mercenary, but, like many others, he had hitherto earned a living in the pay of one or other noble, taking part in the many battles and brawls that in those years animated the entire peninsula.
During the journey, at a time they had slowed their pace, the swordsman came up beside Tristano and, being careful never to let the muzzle of his horse go in front of that of his new lord, he dared ask:
“Will you allow me, a question Your Excellency?”
“Of course Pietro, ask me,” replied the distinguished official, turning his head a few degrees towards his daring assistant.
“How did you get that ring, sir? Is it really the Magnificent’s ring?”
Tristano was silent for a few moments giving a half smile but then, certain that he could trust this man, whom he had known for a few days but who he valued already, let go of his reserve and began his story:
“Seven years have passed since Cardinal Orsini took me with him to Florence for the first time, following a medical delegation that had been created specifically to provide assistance to His Most Reverend Excellency, Rinaldo Orsini, archbishop of Florence, he had been ill for two weeks with no sign of remission. Once I arrived in the city, while the physicus with his apprentices – among whom was my friend Jacopo – were immediately sent to the diocese to be at the bedside of the suffering prelate, the cardinal took me with him to Madonna Clarice, his granddaughter and wife of Lorenzo de' Medici, the Magnificent.
I still remember the sweet and maternal gaze with which Donna Clarice welcomed me, holding out her hand. She introduced me to her family and friends and immediately put every comfort in the edifice at my disposal. Every evening the banquets were attended by writers, humanists, artists, superfine courtiers and… most of all by beautiful women.
The most beautiful of all, the one who still today is unable to match and oust from the throne of my ideal, was Simonetta Cattaneo Vespucci.
The evening I saw her for the first time, she was wearing a brocade lined in red velvet, which left a generous neckline clearly visible, preciously bordered by a black gamurra, which clung perfectly to her turgid breast and fell to her feet holding the soft form of that admired and desired body. She let most of her blond curls fall lose on her shoulders, while only a small part was expertly gathered in a long braid enriched with cords and very small pearls. A few rebellious locks framed that harmonious, fresh, radiant, ethereal face. Her eyes were large and melancholy, very sensual, at least as far as could be seen from the faint smile on her velvety, parted red lips, highlighted by the a small dimple on her chin, the same red color as the day.
If I had not had the disastrous news of her death shortly after, I would still believe she was a goddess embodied in a perfect feminine shell.
Everyone held that she had only one flaw: she already had a husband… rightly jealous. At only sixteen she had married the banker Marco Vespucci, in Genoa in the presence of the doge and all the aristocracy of the maritime republic.
She was very much loved by society (and at the same time envied); in those years she had become the favorite muse of many writers and artists, among them the painter Sandro Botticelli, a longtime friend of the Medici family, who had fallen in love with her platonically and painted her portraits everywhere: even on the banner that he had made for the carousel of that year, epically won by Giuliano de' Medici, portrayed her ethereal face.
The following day we were invited to a banquet at the Villa di Careggi that the Magnificent had organized in honor of the Borromeo family with the implicit intent of introducing their daughter to his brother Giuliano, who, however, like and perhaps more than many, had clearly lost his head for Cattaneo. After the first pleasantries, in fact, Giuliano left the room and the guests, secluding himself in the garden, where Vespucci's wife was waiting for him, took advantage of the absence of her husband, who had been traveling on business since that morning.
Between one course and the next, Lorenzo delighted his guests by proclaiming precious sonnets that he had composed. On the other hand, if necessary, some of the distinguished guests answered in rhyme, pleasantly enlivening the symposium. In addition to noble friends and family, esteemed neo-Platonic academics were seated at the table such as Marsilio Ficino, Agnolo Ambrogini and Pico della Mirandola, as well as several members of the Florentine Council.
Although he was the affirmed head of the richest and most powerful family in Florence and was increasingly becoming the undisputed arbiter of the political balance on the peninsula, Lorenzo was only twenty-six years old and had the undoubted merit of having been able to build a young court around him, brilliant but at the same time wise and capable. In a few days of knowing him, he had become my model to strive for, a concentration of values to which I should aspire. However, what made us objectively different and that I could have never equaled, apart from the eleven years of age, was his being able to count on a solid and closely-knit family: his mother, Donna Lucrezia, was, even more so since the death of her relative Piero, his omnipresent accomplice and councilor; Bianca, sweet and beloved sister, doted on her elder brother, never missed a chance to praise him and every time she publicly pronounced his name her eyes shone; Giuliano, a disorderly younger brother, despite his venial disagreements and impertinences, however, was always at his side and involved in every political success or failure; Clarice, despite having learned of a few marital betrayals, had never ceased