I, Mona Lisa Read Free Page A

have to be called off.
    Baroncelli glanced over his shoulder at the shadowed face of his hooded accomplice and said nothing. He did not like the penitent; the man had injected an undertone of self-righteous religious fervor into the proceeding, one so infectious that even the worldly Francesco had begun to believe that they were doing God’s work today.
    Baroncelli knew God had nothing to do with this; this was an act born of jealousy and ambition.
    On his other side, Francesco de’ Pazzi hissed. “What is it? What did he say?”
    Baroncelli leaned down to whisper in his diminutive employer’s ear. “Where is Giuliano?”
    He watched the weasel-faced Francesco struggle to suppress his stricken expression. Baroncelli shared his distress. Mass would commence soon now that Lorenzo and his guest, the Cardinal, were in place; unless Giuliano arrived shortly, the entire plan would evaporate into disaster. Too much was at risk, too much at stake; too many souls were involved in the plot, leaving too many tongues free to wag. Even now, Messer Iacopo waited alongside a small army of fifty Perugian mercenaries for the signal from the church bell. When it tolled, he would seize control of the government palace and rally the people against Lorenzo.
    The penitent pushed forward until he stood almost alongside Baroncelli; he then lifted his face to stare upward at the dizzyingly high and massive cupola overhead, rising directly above the great altar. The man’s burlap hood slipped back slightly, revealing his profile. For an instant, his lips parted, and brow and mouth contorted in a look of such hatred, such revulsion, that Baroncelli recoiled from him.
    Slowly, the bitterness in the penitent’s eyes eased; his expression gradually resolved into one of beatific ecstasy, as if he could see God Himself and not the rounded ceiling’s smooth marble. Francesco noticed, and he watched the penitent as though he were an oracle about to give utterance.
    And give utterance he did. “He is still abed.” And, coming back tohis senses, the man carefully drew the hood forward to conceal his face once more.
    Francesco clutched Baroncelli’s elbow and hissed again. “We must go to the Medici Palace at once!”
    Smiling, Francesco steered Baroncelli to the left, away from the distracted Lorenzo de’ Medici and past a handful of Florentine notables that comprised the first row of worshipers. They did not use the nearby northern door that led out to the Via de’ Servi, as their exit would more likely have drawn Lorenzo’s attention.
    Instead, the pair moved down the outermost aisle that ran the intimidating length of the sanctuary—past brown stone columns the width of four men, which were connected by high, white arches framing long windows of stained glass. Francesco’s expression was at first benign as he passed acquaintance after acquaintance in the first few rows, nodding greetings as he went. Baroncelli, dazed, did his best to murmur salutations to those he knew, but Francesco pushed him along so swiftly, he scarce could catch his breath.
    Hundreds of faces, hundreds of bodies. Empty, the cathedral would have seemed infinitely vast; filled to capacity on this fifth Sunday after Easter, it seemed cramped, crowded, and airless. Each face that turned to meet Baroncelli seemed filled with suspicion.
    The first group of worshipers they passed consisted of Florence’s wealthy: glittering women and men weighed down by gold and jewels, by fur-trimmed brocades and velvets. The smell of the men’s rosemary and lavender water mingled with the more volatile, feminine scent of attar of roses, all wafting above the base notes of smoke and frankincense from the altar.
    Francesco’s velvet slippers whispered rapidly against the inlaid marble; his expression grew sterner once he moved past the aristocracy. The aroma of lavender increased as the two men walked past rows of men and women dressed in silks and fine wool, embellished with the glint of