Work Text:
26th April, 1478
The fresco extended across the east, south and west walls of the family chapel; it shone with the rich tones of lapis lazuli and gold, bright reds and deep greens. The landscape was that of Tuscany, with its greenery and its rocky reliefs, its brilliant skies and its diverse fauna. The fortress, camping high in the picture, was built in the way of European castles and bore more than a passing resemblance to their country house of Cafaggiolo. But the subject belonged to another land, one that lay far away, in a region most Italians, unless they be merchants or mariners, would never get to know, the Holy Land. From the fortress a procession departed, a long cavalcade of lordly pilgrims, the magi gone to pay homage to the Christ child.
The Magi, however, didn't look like grandees of Biblical times.
The faces that stood out from the fresco were rather ones Lucrezia knew well. Sitting astride a humble donkey was her father in law, Cosimo, with a white head hair of hair hidden by a red cap. And there was her own husband, sitting on a pale horse. Usually at sight of him Lucrezia felt a wave of longing and steadfast love. Not today. Today she could only hurry to the next figure, that of the bold youth leading the procession. Though they were idealised, she recognised in him the features of her beloved first born. Lorenzo had always inspired such pride in her, such delight. He was everything she had raised him to be and more. He'd listened to his grandfather's counsel and he had borne Contessina's gentle guidance lightly. Lucrezia ought to have revelled at sight of him, but today she couldn't. So she let her eyes linger on the figure of her younger son. In the fresco he was but a child. The artist had known him only as such. He couldn't have guessed at the dignified man he would become, the recipient of all her love and joy. And though the painted version was lacking, didn't at all match the vibrant young man Giuliano was, his likeness exuded life. His cheeks were fresh and pink, his expression lively.
She compared the painted version to the real man lying on the slab in front of her. The features were similar, if slightly different when it came to details. But the glow of life had abandoned Guiliano. Her boy had always been beautiful and full of a zest for life that lit Lucrezia's heart with gladness.
Though Bianca was the youngest, Giuliano had been the younger of her boys, and as such he had always had a special place in her heart. She had always loved her children equally, but that soft spot for Giuliano had never quite gone away.
She took his hand. It was cold, as if he had spent a day in out in the chilly weather, or running around in the gardens of Cafaggiolo in winter as he had done as a child. And for a moment, but a brief one, she saw his features as they had been then, rounder, and ruddier from all the game playing. Though their hours were regulated by lessons and martial activities, her boys had known their untamed moments, when their eyes had sparked in the abandon of some wild pursuit.
As if that gesture could somehow restore him, Lucrezia kissed her son's cold hand. Naturally, he didn't react. Not a twitch, not a quaver. She hadn't really expected that to happen. She had always lauded herself for being practical, for being able to deal with the realities of life in a sensible way. Sentimentality had never been for her. She had planned and plotted so that her children could have advantageous marriages, the way the Tornabuonis had planned and plotted to ensure she herself became a Medici, the way the Bardis had with her mother in law.
And though her actions had been guided by a desire to establish her family and secure its future, she had always pictured her children happy. In her vision of the future Lorenzo and Clarice would be content, rearing one youngster after another. And Giuliano would have done the same one day, putting by his reckless days. She had hoped he would form a good alliance with Novella Foscari. But he had found love elsewhere.
She'd been pained by his downward spiral after the death of his beloved, aggrieved, for the young life lost, and for the loss of her son's peace of mind. But even after that she'd seen a glimmer of hope, a new born acceptance, maybe a hint of a renewed vitality.
But Giuliano's life had been cut short that morning. The numerous wounds his body bore stood testimony to that. They had cleaned him and composed his corpse, of course. Countless servants had come and gone, bearing wash basins and fresh linens and candles to see by. You would almost have thought that they were physicians hurrying to the bedside of a patient, or midwives attending a birth.
Yet there was only death here. Even in the sombre glow of the half-consumed candles, it was evident. Whatever spark had animated her boy was missing. His skin had lost all glow; his limbs had become rigid with death.
He was becoming less and less her son and more and more a mysterious entity, something foreign and unknowable that she dreaded with a sombre fear.
She gave a sob; it resounded in the empty chapel, becoming less a part of her and more of an ominous echo.
She lifted her gaze and cleared her throat. She needed to compose herself. As hard as it was, she needed to come to terms with what had happened.
But tears coursed down her cheeks. She couldn't help thinking back to the morning. She had been there for Mass, Easter mass. She had gone in with a light heart and thoughts of a bright future. And then, and then... She had screamed, that she remembered clearly. Her throat was still painfully raw because of that. And then she had found herself in the sacristy, with Lorenzo, Clarice and poor Nori.
She had called for her child. She had wanted to go out to him. She had had no power in her limbs though. Desperation had seized her. Her heart had been beating too violently for comfort. And yet she had hoped somebody could do something.
She wiped a tear with her fingers.
While in the sacristy, she had had no thought for the clamouring assassins outside. Though they had tried to take the door down, they had been of no import to her. Even if she had wanted to take their eyes out with her own hands, they had still been of no consequence to her.
Lucrezia was a Tornabuoni. A Medici. She had always been proud. But all that pride had meant nothing in the moment. She had begged Clarice to let her go to her baby. She had reproved Lorenzo for not saving his brother.
Maybe if they had got to him sooner, staunched one of the innumerable wounds that riddled his body, he could have lived. Ugly wounds they were, horrible to see. She wished they could have composed Giuliano's body better, though she must admit they had worked hard. If his killers hadn't been so vicious, bestowing countless wounds, he would have looked like a sleeping man. But they hadn't. He had been out there and fallen prey to assassins, and all the while Lucrezia herself had been safe.
Clarice had told her to stay. Lorenzo had said Giuliano was already dead. She had believed him. She had seen the knife come down. She had known then with the clarity of a revelation that she was about to lose him. The fog of despair had taken her. Not a thought formed in her mind. Yet a thousand emotions had moved her, torn her apart like hungry fiends from hell. She had feared and dreaded, hoped and quashed that hope. She had hated and she had had no feeling but for the child that was gone.
She had stayed in the sacristy, she had survived.
She looked ahead at the tremulous light that burned in the sconces. It flickered across the paintings, making them come alive, and brightened the altar just a little.
Perhaps she ought to have sacrificed her life for her son's. Maybe she shouldn't have listened to Clarice at all. That had been the voice of prudence, the voice of reason. But ought a mother be prudent? The answer had to be no.
Then why had she waited? Why had she complied? While anguish ate at her, she'd stayed put. Her heart had known, then why hadn't she followed suit?
Though she had seen it before, the figure of a Madonna with child struck her with new meaning. In the painting, Christ was nothing but a babe in arms, haloed angels singing his glory. Yet that child was destined for death. Like Lucrezia, the Virgin hadn't saved her son. She hadn't spared him the pain of a violent death.
Had she suffered like Lucrezia was suffering? As if a vital part of hers was gone forever?
Had Mary remembered, as Lucrezia did, scenes from her son's childhood?
For Lucrezia could still see her young Giuliano, running pell-mell down the stairs of Palazzo Medici. She could summon the image of her son playing in the fields near their country estate, the wheat coming as high as his knees. She clearly remembered every aspect of his face as it had been when he was but a suckling babe. Piero used to say their boy had taken after his mother. But she could spot the Medici cast in his face even when his features were still shifting through the phases of childhood.
Ah, Piero. What would he have made of this? He wouldn't have borne it. He wouldn't have survived the blow. He'd always been weaker than she was.
The question was, could she endure this?
She was searching for answers, when the old massive door to the chapel opened. A serving girl stood there in her simple woollen dress. Her hair hung mostly out of her tress, indicating she had had a hectic day of it. She was carrying a basket full of tall white candles. The expensive kind, only the best for the Medici family. “I'm sorry, Madonna,” she said with a curtsy. “I was bid change the candles.”
While Lucrezia sat in the chapel, the candles had indeed dwindled, rendering the pew area dark with the shadows of incipient night. She hadn't noticed, for her mood was sombre, but they were in need of replacement.
As Lucrezia hadn't said anything yet, the serving girl said, “I can come back later, Madonna.”
“No.” Lucrezia made her voice steady, not allowing it to falter at all. “Please do as you were told.”
Hesitating, the girl looked over her back. But then she took a step into the chapel, and another. She busied herself replacing the candles, blowing out the ones that were nothing more than molten ends.
When the girl had done, she paused. She looked downwards, holding the now empty basket in her hands. “I'm sorry for your loss, Madonna.” She bit her lip, bearing Lucrezia's gaze with decorum, though her frame had become smaller in spite of her daring address. “We all respected Messer Giuliano.” She paused, accepting Lucrezia's scrutiny. “The people... The people liked him.”
Lucrezia knew that. It was half the reason why Lorenzo had had the populace's support in the aftermath of the conspiracy. Public indignation at the Pazzi's use of violence had reached untold heights. That didn't restore Giuliano to her, but it helped. It helped that his name was on the people's lips and that those lips uttered blessings for her mourning family. “Thank you,” Lucrezia said.
The girl dropped a second curtsey, steadied her basket and left the chapel.
Alone, Lucrezia stared ahead. She wasn't looking at Giuliano's body anymore. She wasn't letting herself be brought down again. Her sorrow at her loss would never dim, but there was merit in the girl's words.
Giuliano had been beloved. As Medici, they had the people's goodwill. And without the Pazzi to bar their way, they had Florence in the palm of their hands. Giuliano himself would have said so. He was a practical man, who could do without Lorenzo's soaring ideals. They had to make use of this. They had to be strong.
Lucrezia was, after all, a Medici. She might not have been born into the family, but marriage had made her one. She would have to bear her loss and stand tall. She would have to set the example, and show pride in the fact that the Medici did not bend. It was the only way to insure their present, and their future.
As hard as it was, as much as tears wanted to well in her eyes, she straightened, and pulled back her shoulders. She could take it; she would do this with grace and strength.
Standing, she bent over the slab Giuliano had been placed on. She kissed his alabaster forehead, and rearranged his hair to perfection, so that he looked as handsome in death as he had in life. She had done this many a time when he was but a lad; she was aware this was the last. Satisfied, she re-arranged the folds of her gown around her and made for the door.
There, she crossed herself, swallowed before pushing her chest out, and, chasing sorrow from her mien, she left. She would be the strongest of them all. She would be the force animating her family. She would lead by example and be the best Medici she could be.
For their name would make history.
The End