Painting Mona Lisa. Jeanne Kalogridis

privates.) Indeed, one elbow was crooked with the hand resting on the hip in a girlish posture.

      However, on this day, Baroncelli drew a totally different impression from the statue. He could see the coldness in David’s eyes as the boy stared down at the head of the slain Goliath; he saw how he gripped the great sword in his right hand.

      Which role shall I play today? Baroncelli wondered. David, or Goliath?

      Light and shadow conspired to distort both beautiful and mundane images, and impregnate them with hidden meaning. Above him, Athena struggled with Poseidon over Athenian souls, and Icarus, winged and filled with optimism, would soon plunge to his death.

      Beside him, Francesco de’ Pazzi was pacing the floor with hands clasped behind his back, and small eyes glaring downwards at polished marble. Giuliano had best come soon, Baroncelli reflected, or Francesco would begin muttering to himself.

      But Giuliano did not appear. The servant, a comely, well-trained youth, as well-oiled as every part of the Medici machinery, returned with a look of practised sympathy. ‘ Signori, forgive me. I am so sorry to tell you that my master is currently indisposed and cannot receive company.’

      Francesco leapt forwards, and barely managed to replace his fright with jovialness in time. ‘Ah! Please explain to Ser Giuliano that the matter is most urgent.’ He lowered his tone as if confiding a secret. ‘Today’s luncheon is in the young Cardinal Riario’s honour, and he is sorely disappointed that Ser Giuliano will not be attending. The Cardinal is at the Duomo now with Ser Lorenzo, asking after your master. Mass has been delayed on this account, and I fear that, should Ser Giuliano fail to come with us now, the Cardinal will take offence. We would not want him to report this to his uncle, the Pope, when he returns to Rome …’

      The servant nodded graciously while wearing a small frown of concern. Baroncelli sensed he was not quite convinced that he should further disturb his master. Francesco clearly sensed the same, for he pressed harder. ‘We have come at the behest of Ser Lorenzo, who bids his brother come, and swiftly, as we are all waiting …’

      The youth gave a quick lift of his chin, signalling his understanding of the urgency. ‘Of course, I will relay all that you have said to my master.’

      As the lad turned, Baroncelli gazed on his employer, and marvelled at his talent for duplicity.

      In less time than either he or Francesco expected, footsteps sounded on the marble stairs leading down to the courtyard. Soon Giuliano de’ Medici stood before them, in a tunic of pale green velvet embroidered at the neck and sleeves with gold thread. Though his brother’s features were imperfect, Giuliano’s were without flaw. His nose, though prominent, was straight and nicely rounded at the tip; his jaw was strong and square; and his eyes were large and golden brown, framed with lashes that were the envy of every Florentine woman. Delicate, well-formed lips rested atop even teeth, and his hair was full and curling, parted down the middle and brushed back to better show his handsome visage.

      Giuliano was always smiling and laughing. At twenty-four, life was good to him; he was young, lively and fair of face. Yet his good nature and sensitive character were such that he never made another feel inadequate. Indeed, his jocular demeanour and generous nature made him generally loved by Florence’s citizens. While he might not have shared his brother’s painful brilliance at politics, he was astute enough to use his other attributes to gain public support. Were Lorenzo to die, Giuliano would have no difficulty in taking up the reins of power.

      Over the past few weeks, Baroncelli had tried hard to despise him, and failed.

      The faint morning light that had begun to paint the bottoms of the columns revealed that today Giuliano’s glory was sorely dimmed. His hair had not been combed, his clothes had obviously been hastily donned – and his eyes were noticeably bloodshot, as though he had not slept. For the first time in Baroncelli’s memory, Giuliano did not smile. His manner was sombre, and he moved slowly, like a man weighed down by heavy armour. Icarus, Baroncelli thought. He has soared too high and has now been scorched.

      When Giuliano spoke, his normally melodic voice was hoarse, almost as rasping as his brother’s. ‘Good day, gentlemen. I understand Cardinal Riario has taken offence at my absence from Mass?’

      Baroncelli felt a strange sensation in his chest, as if his heart was flipping over. Giuliano looked like a beast resigned to the slaughter. He knows. He cannot possibly know. And yet … he knows …

      ‘We are so sorry to disturb you,’ Francesco de’ Pazzi said, his hands clasped in an apologetic gesture. ‘We have come at the behest of Ser Lorenzo …’ Despite the business rivalry between the Medici and the Pazzi, they were related by the marriage of Giuliano’s elder sister to Francesco’s brother Guglielmo. This called for a public show of cordiality, even affection – a fact Francesco was relying on now.

      Giuliano released a short sigh. ‘I understand. God knows, we must take care to please Lorenzo.’ A glimmer of his old self returned, and he added with apparently genuine concern, ‘I only hope it is not too late to reassure the Cardinal that I hold him in the highest regard.’

      ‘Yes,’ Baroncelli said slowly. ‘Let us hope it is not too late. Mass has already started.’

      ‘Let us go, then,’ Giuliano said. He gestured for them to move back towards the entryway, and as he lifted his arm, Baroncelli noticed that Giuliano had dressed so hurriedly that he wore no sword at his hip.

      Out they went, the three of them, into the bright morning.

      The scowling man who had been waiting out in the loggia glanced up as Giuliano passed. ‘Ser Giuliano,’ he called. ‘A word with you; it is most important.’

      Giuliano looked over and clearly recognized him. A disgruntled banker, Baroncelli thought. Perhaps Lorenzo had recently let the man go. Or could it be someone with knowledge of the plot? Someone who was deliberately trying to stall them?

      ‘The Cardinal,’ Francesco urged frantically, then addressed the man himself. ‘Good man, Ser Giuliano is late for an urgent appointment and begs your understanding.’ And with that he took Giuliano by the arm and dragged him away down the Via Larga.

      Baroncelli followed. The fright had made his mind finally take leave of his body. He marvelled that, although he was terrified, his hands no longer shook and his heart and breath no longer failed him. Indeed, he and Francesco joked and laughed and played the role of good friends trying to cheer another. Giuliano smiled faintly at their efforts but lagged behind, so the two conspirators made a game of alternately pulling and pushing him along. ‘We must not keep the Cardinal waiting,’ Baroncelli repeated at least thrice.

      ‘Pray tell, good Giuliano,’ Francesco said, catching his young brother-in-law by his sleeve. ‘What has happened to make you sigh so? Surely your heart has not been stolen by some worthless wench?’

      Giuliano lowered his gaze and shook his head – not in reply, but to indicate that he did not wish to broach such matters. Francesco dropped the subject at once. Yet he never eased their rapid pace, and within minutes, they arrived at the front entry of the Duomo.

      Baroncelli paused. He was already half-mad, already doomed to Hell, so saw no point in suppressing any further urge towards deceit … and the sight of Giuliano moving so slowly, as though he were heavy laden, pricked at him. Feigning impulsiveness, he seized the young Medici and hugged him tightly. ‘Dear friend,’ he said. ‘It troubles me to see you so unhappy. What must we do to cheer you?’

      Giuliano gave another forced little smile and a slight shake of his head. ‘Nothing, good Bernardo. Nothing.’

      And he followed Francesco’s lead into the cathedral.

      Baroncelli, meanwhile, had laid one more concern to rest: Giuliano wore no breastplate beneath his tunic.

       IV

      On that late April morning, Giuliano faced a terrible decision: he