Painting Mona Lisa aka I, Mona Lisa

Lorenzo faced two priests: one trembling behind a small shield, halfheartedly clutching a sword as he glanced at the crowd scrambling about him-most of them headed for the cathedral doors. But he was obliged to turn his attention to Lorenzo’s personal attendant, Marco, a muscular man who, though no expert with a sword, made up for it with brute strength and enthusiasm.

The second priest-wild-eyed and intent on Lorenzo-raised his weapon for a second attempt.

Lorenzo parried once, twice. Haggard, pale-skinned, unshaven, this priest had the fiery eyes, the open, contorted mouth of a madman. He also had the strength of one, and Lorenzo came close to buckling beneath his blows. Steel clashed against steel, ringing off the high ceilings of the now mostly deserted cathedral.

The two fighters locked blades, pressing hilt against hilt with a ferocity that caused Lorenzo’s hand to tremble. He stared into the eyes of his determined enemy, and drew in a breath at the emotion he saw there.

As the two stood with blades crossed, neither willing to give way, Lorenzo half shouted, “Why should you hate me so?”

He meant the question sincerely. He had always wished the best for Florence and her citizens. He did not understand the resentment others felt at the utterance of the name Medici.

“For God,” the priest said. His face was a mere hand’s breadth from his intended victim’s. Sweat ran down his pale forehead; his breath was hot upon Lorenzo’s cheek. His nose was long, narrow, aristocratic; he probably came from an old, respected family. “For the love of God!”

And he drew back his weapon so forcefully that Lorenzo staggered forward, perilously close to the blade.

VII

Earlier, as he drew his long knife and hefted it overhead, Baroncelli remembered all the dozens of phrases he had rehearsed for this instant; none of them came to his lips, and what he finally shouted sounded ridiculous to his own ears.

“Here, traitor!”

The church bells had just begun clanging when Giuliano looked up. At the sight of the knife, his eyes widened with mild surprise.

Yielding at last to madness, Baroncelli did not hesitate. He brought the blade down.

Lorenzo stumbled, off balance, toward his opponent-and let go a roar of self-disgust at the realization that he would never be able to lift his sword in time to fend off the coming blow.

But before the wild-eyed priest could shed any more of Lorenzo’s blood, Francesco Nori stepped in front of his employer with his sword drawn. Other friends and supporters began to close in around the would-be assassins. Lorenzo became vaguely aware of the presence of Angelo Poliziano, of the aged and portly architect Michelozzo, of the family sculptor Verrocchio, of a business associate, Antonio Ridolfo, of the socialite Sigismondo della Stuffa. This crowd sealed him off from his attacker and began to press him toward the altar.

Lorenzo resisted. “Giuliano!” he cried. “Brother, where are you?”

“We will find and protect him. Now, go!” Nori ordered, gesturing with his chin toward the altar, where the priests, in their alarm, had dropped the full chalice, staining the altarcloth with wine.

Lorenzo hesitated.

“Go!” Nori shouted again. “They are headed here! Go past them, to the north sacristy!”

Lorenzo had no idea who they were, but he acted. Still clutching his sword, he hurdled over the low railing and leapt into the octagonal carved wooden structure that housed the choir. Cherubic boys shrieked as they scattered, their white robes flapping like the wings of startled birds.

Followed by his protectors, Lorenzo pushed his way through the flailing choir and staggered toward the great altar. The astringent smoke of frankincense mixed with the fragrance of spilled wine; two tall, heavy candelabra were ablaze. The priest and his assistants now encircled the blubbering Riario protectively. Lorenzo blinked at them. The afterimage from the lit tapers left him near blinded, and in an instant of dizziness, he put his free hand to his neck; it came away bloodied.

Yet he willed himself, for Giuliano’s sake, not to faint. He could not permit himself a moment’s weakness-not until his brother was safe.

At the same moment that Lorenzo ran north across the altar, Francesco de’ Pazzi and Bernardo Baroncelli, down in the sanctuary, were pushing their way south, clearly unaware that they were passing their intended target.

Lorenzo stopped in mid-stride to gape at them, causing collisions within his trailing entourage.

Baroncelli led the way, brandishing a long knife and shouting unintelligibly. Francesco was limping badly; his thigh was bloodied, his tunic spattered with crimson.

Lorenzo strained to see past those surrounding him, to look beyond the moving bodies to the place where his brother had been standing, but his view was obstructed.

“Giuliano!” he screamed, with all the strength he possessed, praying he would be heard above the pandemonium. “Giuliano…! Where are you? Brother, speak to me!”

The crowd closed around him. “It’s all right,” someone said, in a tone so dubious it failed to provoke the comfort it intended.

It was not all right that Giuliano should be missing. From the day of his father’s death, Lorenzo had cared for his brother with a love both fraternal and paternal. “Giuliano!” Lorenzo screamed again. “Giuliano…!”

“He is not there,” a muffled voice replied. Thinking it meant his brother had moved south to find him, Lorenzo turned back in that direction, where his friends still fought the assassins. The smaller priest with the shield had fled altogether, but the madman remained, though he was losing the battle with Marco. Giuliano was nowhere to be seen.

Discouraged, Lorenzo began to turn away, but the glint of swift-moving steel caught his eye and compelled him to look back.

The blade belonged to Bernardo Baroncelli. With a viciousness Lorenzo would never have dreamed him capable of, Baroncelli ran his long knife deep into the pit of Francesco Nori’s stomach. Nori’s eyes bulged as he stared down at the intrusion; his lips formed a small, perfect O as he fell backward, sliding off Baroncelli’s sword.

Lorenzo let go a sob. Poliziano and della Stuffa took his shoulders and pushed him away, across the altar and toward the tall doors of the sacristy. “Get Francesco!” he begged them. “Someone bring Francesco. He is still alive; I know it!”

He tried again to turn, to call out for his brother, but this time his people would not let him slow their relentless march to the sacristy. Lorenzo felt a physical pain in his chest, a pressure so brutal he thought his heart would burst.

He had wounded Giuliano. He had hurt him in his most vulnerable moment, and when Giuliano had said, I love you, Lorenzo… Please don’t make me choose, Lorenzo had been cruel. Had turned him away, without help-the one thing he owed Giuliano most of all.

How could he explain to the others that he could never leave his younger brother behind? How could he explain the responsibility he felt for Giuliano, who had lost his father so young and had always looked to Lorenzo for guidance? How could he explain the promise he had made to his father on the latter’s deathbed? They were all too concerned with the safety of Lorenzo il Magnifico, whom they considered to be the greatest man in Florence, but they were wrong, all of them.

Lorenzo was pushed behind the thick, heavy doors of the sacristy. They slammed shut after someone ventured out to fetch the wounded Nori.

Inside, the airless, windowless chamber smelled of sacrificial wine and the dust that had settled on the priests’ vestments. Lorenzo grabbed each man who had pushed him to safety; he studied each face, and was each time disappointed. The greatest man in Florence was not here.

He thought of Baroncelli’s great curving knife and of the bright blood on Francesco de’ Pazzi’s thigh and tunic.