The Orphan of Florence Read online

  Sixtus was no real pope. He was a politician of the greediest kind. He wanted not just the one property; he wanted all of Italy to rule. Lorenzo knew the sale would dangerously shift the balance of power toward Rome. Thank God he had escaped—barely—with his life. His younger brother, Giuliano—with the same name as me—hadn’t been so lucky.

  Stout continued his monologue. “No one in Florence would ever toss you a denarius now, because things are so bad. But,” he paused for emphasis. “There is the wealthiest man in Italy. He cares enough to share his blessings with a pauper like you.”

  I had to ask, even though I was pretty sure of the answer. “And who is this wealthiest man?”

  Stout smiled beatifically. “The Holy Father. Who’s invitin’ you to work on the side of God, for riches now and eternal, you might say. We seen what smarts you have, with letters and codes and such. Astonishin’, that the Almighty would give such wits to a street cur like you, but mysterious is His ways.”

  He searched my face for a reaction; finding none, he continued. “And then there’s the fact you has quick fingers. You can lift things off people easy without anyone noticin’. And you can just as easily slip ’em into someone’s pocket.”

  Steal things. Deliver them on the sly. That was what the Magician had hired me to do, but I had never imagined he would use his powers against Florence. If he did, then our city was surely doomed.

  “You want me to spy for Rome. To be a courier.” I tried to say it matter-of-factly, without utter disgust.

  “Maybe, even someday, to read code. Or make it. They say you have a way with letters and such.”

  Who knows what the Magician had originally intended for me? But then he had seen my secret alphabet. I’d stupidly written it in the cold mud for him. He had pegged me for a spy, and now his cohorts were trying to recruit me to the enemy side.

  All those kindnesses he showed me, all those lies, all that so-called “trust,” were intended to sway me to treason.

  “Don’t think of it as spyin’ for Rome,” Stout wheedled. “It’s for God. For the Holy Father. For Florence, really—it’s the best thing for her. You’d be savin’ not only every citizen’s life, but every citizen’s soul.”

  Except Lorenzo’s, I thought. Like every other pauper, I was irritated with him; hunger will do that to a person. But like I said, I’m loyal. Loyal to Lorenzo and loyal to Florence, which to my mind were the same.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about, I truly don’t,” I said innocently. “I’ll just leave now and forget this conversation. Who’d believe me, anyway? I’m a thief.”

  I took a deep breath and moved to stand up, but Lean’s bony talon of a hand pushed me right back down.

  “You don’t really got a choice,” Stout said, his voice grown harsh and deep; his eyes narrowed to slits near hidden by folds of flesh. “It’s that, or be dispatched to hell straightaway.”

  The tip of Lean’s dagger found its way to the infant soft flesh beneath my chin. I drew in my breath, terrified to exhale, thinking of the instant when the Magician, in his guise as Ser Giovanni, had done the same with his stiletto. I wish he’d just killed me then.

  So he was a traitor, the great Magician of Florence, swayed by the obscene wealth of Rome. And he thinking that I, a hungry thief, would be just as easily swayed by it, like Judas with his thirty pieces of silver.

  Amazing, how fast the mind sprints when confronted with death: I could have agreed with the men, promised to work for Rome—and played along just long enough so that I could flee the city, but Ser Abramo had his magical claws in me. Going to warn Tommaso and Cecilia would only lead my enemies to them. Who knew what horrible things might happen to me, to them, as a result of the spell cast on me the night before? As a result of the new talisman hanging around my neck?

  It could have been no accident, Ser Abramo kidnapping a potential courier who just happened to be talented with letters, with secret codes. What human—or spectral—eyes had been watching me, and for how long?

  They knew about Tommaso and Cecilia. And if I quailed at any of their requests, what would become of my friends?

  Not that I cared, mind you.

  It all came down to the fact that I am loyal, and stupidly so. I could no more betray Florence and Lorenzo de’ Medici than I could Tommaso or Cecilia. At least the latter two had the florin now and would get on fine without me. As for hell, if it existed, could it really be worse than living on the winter streets?

  I slowly let go my breath. “Palle, palle,” I said softly; the Medici’s rallying cry, referring to the family crest, five red balls—palle—and one blue upon a golden shield. “Long live Lorenzo and the Florentine Republic.”

  Six

  I closed my eyes and tensed, waiting for my demise. They say that having one’s throat cut is a quick and fairly painless way to go, but the thought of choking to death on my own blood was daunting.

  Instead, Stout let go such a delighted chuckle that I dared open my eyes. At the same time, Lean nudged me off the stool. I stumbled forward and grabbed the edge of Stout’s desk to keep from falling. I scrambled for the door, yanked it open, and ran, not bothering to wonder why neither man felt inclined to chase me.

  “Tell His Magnificence this one’s loyal enough,” Stout shouted cheerfully. His voice echoed in the cavernous chamber beyond the door, where a white-haired but burly man awaited me. A burly man clad in a scarlet felt hat and matching cloak pushed to one side to reveal his hand resting on the pommel of a long sword.

  I would have run past him had he not blocked my way. He did so firmly but politely, and—to my complete shock—put a gentle hand on my arm and led me forward in the direction I’d been running.

  Stymied, I stared at our surroundings. Dirt filmed the high, small windows, which let in enough light to reveal a vast storehouse filled with at least a dozen square wooden looms, each as large as three men, their metal weights hanging high upon the chains without fabric to weigh them down. Nearby, rows of wooden tubs smelled of absent dye; tall shelves that had once borne piles of silk and wool lay bare, covered in dust—casualties, I thought, of the war. At the far end of the warehouse, near the huge, padlocked double doors stood a carriage, its arched, skeletal roof covered by a large red tarp to protect the occupants from winter winds and curious gazes. Two handsome geldings were harnessed to it in single file, the first white and the second black and bearing a servant with a crop.

  As I paused in confusion, wondering whether to flee or stay, a man in his prime stepped from the carriage and turned to help an older woman down.

  Gentleman and lady, I should have said, because both were dressed in heavy winter cloaks of the finest black wool which, like their regal bearing, marked them as persons of great importance.

  They turned to face me as they lowered their cowls, revealing necks swathed in brown marten’s fur, the mark of wealthy commoners, not royalty. The man wore a dark red hat of soft felt with a rolled brim, and an excess of fabric at the crown that was stylishly draped to one side. He scowled and gestured impatiently at the servant standing beside me.

  I put my hand upon the servant’s arm. I could do nothing else, because even at a distance, I recognized the man in the fine black cloak. Recognized the wavy dark hair, parted down the middle and hanging a few inches above his shoulders; recognized the slight underbite and mildly stocky, powerful build. Most of all—especially as I neared him—I recognized the exceptionally large nose. It wouldn’t have made him particularly homely had it not been for the fact that at mid-bridge, it veered alarmingly to one side, as though someone had taken a pair of pincers to it and twisted hard. As if that weren’t enough, the bridge of said nose was almost completely flattened, as if someone had taken not just pincers but a hammer to it. Lorenzo de’ Medici was an eloquent speaker—he always addressed the crowds at carnival and holidays—but it was hard for children not to titter at his incredibly nasal voice, which sounded as though he was speaking with his nose pinched shut. I c
ouldn’t help wondering whether his appearance was the result of a clumsy midwife with strong hands.

  I used to do a great impression of him for the other girls at the orphanage.

  Beside him stood a matron wearing a sheer black veil wrapped around her plaited and coiled gray hair. Her face was oval in shape, and her lips thin and drawn downward at the corners; she lacked her son’s underbite. It was hard not to recognize her, either, because of the nose, although the bridge was not flattened like her son’s.

  She had appeared in public only discreetly, in the shadow of her celebrated sons (one now before me, the other dead, the cause of the black mourning she now wore). But I recognized her all the same as Lucrezia Tornabuoni de’ Medici, and her son as Lorenzo, politely called the Magnificent.

  I was escorted up to them, and we three regarded each other a silent moment before I realized my mouth was gaping open and shut it. Lorenzo was scowling, his arms folded resolutely over his chest. He was clearly unhappy to be here, but Donna Lucrezia wore a faint smile.

  “May I have a closer look at you, young man?” she said, in a voice not at all nasal, but low and liquid.

  Before I could answer, she moved toward me and took my elbow before leading me over to a window. The servant hurried to unlatch and throw open the shutters, so that the two of us stood in a pane of winter light glittering with dust.

  She took my chin gently in her hand, covered by the softest leather ever to touch my skin, and studied my face intently. Her eyes were large, heavy-lidded, and hazel—quite beautiful, although worry and time had left purple crescents and wrinkles beneath them. The light struck her pupils, milky from age.

  She drew back, gasping. “Your eyes,” she said.

  I lowered my gaze, wondering if such an educated woman believed the superstition that my having one green eye and one brown meant I was cursed, or a witch, or both.

  But she seemed stunned, not frightened. She raised gloved fingers to her mouth in a successful effort to get control of herself. Her own eyes filled with indecipherable emotion, she lowered her hand and asked gently, “What’s your name, dear?”

  “Giuliano,” I said, and felt a pang of guilt for taking the same name as her son, who had all too recently been stabbed repeatedly until he had bled to death in the great cathedral during Sunday mass.

  But she didn’t flinch. “A handsome name,” she said. “And how old are you, Giuliano?”

  “Seventeen,” I said, then thought about it, and corrected myself. “Eighteen.”

  “And your family? Are they here, in Florence?”

  “I’m from the orphanage,” I answered.

  She looked inward for a long time, as if still struggling for composure, and then turned away from me and walked back toward her son. “Go,” she told him. “Look.”

  Lorenzo moved toward me and squinted hard into my eyes.

  “Huh,” he said. Something about me had struck him as odd—my eyes, I suppose—but, unlike his mother, he was unshaken. He went back over to her and began to whisper, though I could hear every word.

  “Even if this lad is…” He cast a glance over his shoulder and scowled briefly in my direction. “Even if he is who Abramo thinks he is, it doesn’t mean we can trust the boy. He’s still a petty thief. We owe him nothing. He’s not trustworthy.”

  “I want him,” Lucrezia said firmly.

  I gasped softly, thinking that my intelligence finally had been recognized; like my lucky tutor-friend from the orphanage, I was going to have a benefactor who would educate me.

  But would the famous Lucrezia Tornabuoni de’ Medici be willing to sponsor me if she knew the truth of my sex?

  “He deserves that,” she continued quietly. “And he has shown he can be trusted, regardless of what you say. He’s bright, he has skills … It makes no sense to risk him. Find someone else, and let me take him.”

  Lorenzo’s expression grew cold. “There’s no time for that. Let’s get him trained and get on with it. He’ll be fine. He’s been living on the streets all these years. And if he proves himself to Abramo, you can do whatever you want with him.”

  Donna Lucrezia looked on her son with sad affection and concern. “You’ve hardened, Lauro.”

  A faint ripple of grief passed over his features. “With good reason,” he said tautly.

  “So the loss of our loved one justifies risking him?” she countered, with a nod at me. “Despite the unmistakable resemblance?”

  I found my breath and my tongue. “Resemblance?”

  Both ignored me, each staring intently at the other. They knew who I was. They knew, and they were standing there discussing my fate as though I didn’t matter.

  I lost my composure, and with it, my habit of always keeping my voice in a lower register. In a perfectly girlish soprano, I cried out, “Donna Lucrezia, please!”

  Lorenzo glanced over his shoulder at me, frowning at the interruption. But Donna Lucrezia pressed her hand to her heart and fastened her myopic gaze on mine.

  She stepped past her son to stand in front of me and put her hands upon my shoulders. Once again, she stared searchingly into my face.

  “My dear,” she breathed. It was an address, not an interjection. She was a woman of keen perception and recognized another one, even if her distracted son did not. I struggled to keep the fear I felt from registering on my face. Would she tell her son? Would she tell Abramo?

  Danger was one thing; the thought of being forced into skirts and married off was quite another.

  She put a gloved, maternal hand to my cheek, as if I hadn’t been a thief, an orphan, the lowest of the low. As if I mattered. I waited for her to divulge my secret to her son, but for some reason, she held back.

  “You know who I am,” I pleaded softly.

  She shook her head—not in reply to the question, but to indicate that she was restrained from answering it, as if it had been too dangerous a thing to utter in front of all these men.

  At last she said, “Giuliano.” Her tone was pointed as she uttered the name, but so faintly that only I heard that she knew it wasn’t my real one. “We are depending on you to help us and Abramo.” She shot a sly sidewise glance at Lorenzo, who failed to note it. “For the time being. And then I will help you. As soon as I possibly can.” She paused, and then with emphasis on each word asked, “Will you help us in our time of trouble?”

  I’d heard of the Medici’s legendary charm and scoffed at those weak enough to fall under its sway. But at that moment, I would have promised her my life.

  “I swear, Madonna,” I said solemnly. “And to you, Your Magnificence.”

  Lorenzo lifted his eyebrows. “Admirable patriotism,” he remarked curtly. “See that you do.” He gave me the briefest of nods, and gestured for his mother to return to the carriage.

  “God keep you,” Donna Lucrezia said simply.

  Together, they turned away. The driver remounted the black horse while Lorenzo, grasping his mother’s arm firmly, helped her back into the carriage.

  Stout and Lean unlocked the padlock and pushed open the tall double doors to the warehouse, letting in the winter wind. The driver called to the horses, and they began to move.

  I stood watching as the carriage rumbled off, wondering who the hell I was and what the hell I’d just sworn to do.

  * * *

  I returned to Ser Abramo the way I’d left: hidden beneath swaths of fabric in a rickety cart, this time unbound.

  Eventually, the cart made its way through the city and over the bridge to the Oltrarno. I was let out in the forest a ways from Ser Abramo’s hidden estate and had to use my memory to find my way back.

  Ser Abramo was still waiting at the wall, his expression stoic, faintly guarded. “I apologize for scaring you twice now,” he said matter-of-factly. “It was necessary.”

  In retrospect, I realize now how hard he was working to control his emotions. But at the time, I looked at him with disbelief. Scaring me? I had been kidnapped, terrified, threatened with death.
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  “You son of a bitch,” I said, my voice low and trembling at the start, but escalating rapidly into a shout. “You let them take me. You knew all this time! Donna Lucrezia said—”

  He cut me off with heat to match my own. “Don’t ever use names. Especially not that one. Not ever.” He paused. “I assumed you passed the loyalty test, or they wouldn’t have brought you back.”

  “Oh, I proved myself loyal enough,” I responded bitterly. “But that’s not what you’re asking about, is it?”

  He tilted his head, studying me intently, silently, waiting.

  “You want to know how much I know! Well, I know everything!”

  His expression changed only subtly: his lips parted, and his eyes widened a bit. In the charged silence, I could just hear him lightly draw in his breath. “Everything?”

  “All this time, you’ve known who I am!” I shouted. “And Don—she knows, too. I have family somewhere. Tell me where they are, and who I am now, or I swear to God I’ll cut you!” It was ridiculous bravado—I didn’t even have my razor on me—but I didn’t give a rotting fig.

  He didn’t react to my threat at all, but took a moment to parse what I’d said. His expression grew even more unreadable. Calmly, he responded, “We’re certain of nothing, Giuliano, and even if we were, telling you now won’t do you any good.”

  “Well, tell me anyway!” Like a child, I stamped my foot.

  The act seemed to galvanize him. He turned the thunderous gaze of the Magician on me. “No. The time isn’t right.” He drew in an angry breath and paused before letting loose an impassioned torrent.

  “Has it occurred to you—assuming it’s even true—that maybe we’re actually trying to protect you? That it might hurt not only you, but others as well? You’re going to have to trust someone for the first time in your life, urchin—me.” He pulled the leather thong, heavy with keys, from his neck, singled one out, and thrust it at my face.

  “Here,” he snapped. “We haven’t time to waste arguing; things have become critical and we have work to do. This key will actually open the gate.”