I, Mona Lisa Read Free Page B

gold here and silver there, even the spark of an occasional diamond. Unsmiling, Francesco nodded once or twice to lower-ranking business associates. Baroncelli struggled to breathe; theonrush of faces—witnesses, all of them—triggered a profound panic within him.
    But Francesco did not slow. As they passed the middle-class tradesmen, the smiths and bakers, the artists and their apprentices, the smell of fragrant herbs gave way to that of perspiration, and the fine fabrics to the coarser weaves of wool and silk.
    The poor stood in the final rows at the back: the wool carders, unable to muffle their coughing, and the fabric dyers, with their darkly stained hands. Their garments consisted of tattered wool and rumpled linen, perfumed with sweat and filth. Both Francesco and Baroncelli involuntarily covered their mouths and noses.
    At last, they made their way out of the huge open doors. Baroncelli took a great sobbing gasp of air.
    “No time for cowardice!” Francesco snapped, and dragged him down into the street, past the clawing arms of beggars planted cross-legged on the church steps, past the slender, towering campanile to their left.
    They made their way through the great open piazza, past the octagonal Baptistery of San Giovanni, dwarfed by the Duomo. The temptation to run was great, but too dangerous, although they still made their way at a pace which left Baroncelli breathless despite the fact that his legs were twice the length of his employer’s. After the dimness of the Duomo, sunlight seemed harsh. It was a gloriously beautiful, cloudless spring day, yet to Baroncelli it seemed ominous all the same.
    They veered north onto the Via Larga, sometimes referred to as “the street of the Medici.” It was impossible to set foot upon its worn flagstones and not feel Lorenzo’s iron grip upon the city. The wide street was lined with the palazzi of his supporters: of Michelozzo, the family architect, of Angelo Poliziano, poet and protégé. Farther down, out of sight, stood the church and convent of San Marco. Lorenzo’s grandfather, Cosimo, had rebuilt the crumbling cathedral and founded the convent’s famous library; in return, the Dominican monks revered him and provided him with his own cell for those times he was given to contemplation.
    Cosimo had even purchased the gardens near the monastery, and Lorenzo had transformed them into a sculpture garden, a luxurious training ground for young architects and artists.
    Baroncelli and his co-conspirator approached the intersection with the Via de’ Gori, where the cupola of Florence’s oldest cathedral, San Lorenzo, dominated the western skyline. It had fallen into ruin, and Cosimo, with the help of Michelozzo and Brunelleschi, had restored its grandeur. His bones rested there now, with his marble tombstone set before the high altar.
    At last, the two men reached their destination: the rectangular gray bulk of the Medici palazzo, somber and stern as a fortress—the architect, Michelozzo, had been given strict instruction that the building was not to be ornate, lest it rouse suspicion that the Medici considered themselves above plain citizens. Yet the modest design still emanated sufficient magnificence to be suitable for entertaining kings and princes; Charles VII of France had dined in the great hall.
    It struck Baroncelli that the building resembled its current owner: The ground floor was made of rough-hewn, rustic stone, the second floor of even brick, and the third was crafted of perfectly smooth stone capped by an overhanging cornice. The face Lorenzo presented to the world was just as polished, yet his foundation, his heart, was rough and cold enough to do anything to maintain control over the city.
    It had taken barely four minutes to reach the Palazzo of the Medici, which dominated the corner of the Vias Larga and Gori. Those four minutes passed as though they were hours; those four minutes passed so swiftly Baroncelli could not even recall walking down the