The Medici Return (Cotton Malone #19)

Chapter 53

CHAPTER 53

E RIC WALKED WITH THE PRIEST.

They left the crypt and climbed back to ground level, exiting by a side door into the summer evening. A paved path led through a small garden to another building, which the priest unlocked with a key from his cassock.

“Over the centuries some of the tombs have been periodically opened and inspected,” the priest said as he flicked a wall switch and the room lit up. “When that happened, these are the things that were found.”

The room was filled with glass cases that displayed a variety of artifacts. Nothing overtly formal about the presentation, but its presence was unexpected. He stepped around the room and took a quick survey of the various artifacts. Lots of jewelry, clothing fragments, lace, combs, ornaments, a brush with no bristles. No gold. Silver. Or anything else of obvious value.

“We have never advertised the fact that we have this,” the priest said. “Academicians know about it, and it has been mentioned in some historical texts. But the Pazzis are not the Medicis. So their graves were not littered with wealth.”

He smiled. “No, they were not. Which, I suppose, was always the bane of their existence.”

“Sadly, that is correct. The family seems defined solely by what a few criminals did nearly six hundred years ago.”

“And the irony of it all was that what they tried to do had the opposite effect,” he said. “The killing of Giuliano de’ Medici and the attempted murder of Lorenzo de’ Medici only created more Medici power.”

Which was true.

And the old adage also seemed relevant. History is written by the victors. A dramatic account of the Pazzi attack, Pactianae Coniurationis Commentarium , was quickly published in 1478 that nearly sanctified the Medici. But that was unrealistic. The fifteenth and sixteenth centuries were brutal in Italy. Murder and mayhem common. War nearly an everyday occurrence. It was the time of Machiavelli. Eric’s hero. Who wrote his favorite text. The Prince.

For Machiavelli people acquired power in five ways.

By conquest, virtue, fortune, crimes, or popular selection.

True, an election would be involved in the National Freedom Party’s rise to power, but that ascension would come about only through skill and resource. According to Machiavelli, those who relied on virtue had a hard time rising to the top. Once there, though, they could easily become secure in their position. Why? Simple. They crushed their opponents along the way, which earned the fear and respect of everyone else. The virtuous were usually strong and self-sufficient, making few compromises with their allies.

Reforming an existing political order was one of the most difficult things to do. People were naturally resistant to change, and those who benefited from the old order definitely resisted that change. Those who stood to benefit from the new order were less enthusiastic in their support, as it was impossible to satisfy everyone’s expectations. Inevitably, somebody would be disappointed. Which meant, according to Machiavelli, that a smart prince must have the means to force people’s continued support, even when they had second thoughts, otherwise power would be lost.

Hence why he had to recruit the Roman Catholic Church.

“There may be something of interest to you,” the young priest said.

His mind came back to the present.

And he was led to one of the cases.

“There, the second shelf, and a copper plate. It has writing etched into it.”

He’d seen something similar before. When they’d opened Anna Maria’s tomb there’d been not only a crown but a large gold medallion, one side showing her likeness and name, the other a sun irradiating the world with the words DIFFUSO LUMINE . Behind her head, engraved on a copper plate, was a Latin inscription of forty-four lines describing her good deeds and high character, the sorrow she’d borne in seeing all of her family die before her, and the fortitude with which she’d endured her disappointments and sorrows. Medici graves were full of such self-serving epitaphs. Apparently the Pazzi were no different, as here was another.

“We know this came from Raffaello de’ Pazzi’s grave,” the priest said.

He studied the words.

VIRTUTES GENERIS MIEIS MORIBUS ACCUMULAVI. PROGENIEM GENUI FACTA PATRIS PETIEI. MAIORUM NUI LAUDEM UT SIBEI ME ESSE CREATUM. LAETENTUR STIRPEM NOBILITAVIT HONOR.

“Can you read it?” he asked. “I do not know Latin.”

“It says, ‘By my good conduct I heaped virtues on the virtues of my clan. I begat a family and sought to equal the exploits of my father. I upheld the praise of my ancestors, so that they are glad that I was created of their line. My honors have ennobled my stock.’”

He wondered who composed the epitaph. Anna Maria? Unlikely, considering the covert situation of their marriage and child. But whoever composed it obviously felt strongly about the man.

He noticed there were a few more of the copper plates in other cases.

“It was a funeral tradition,” the priest said, “to place the copper plates inside the graves. These were removed long ago. What makes this one, from Raffaello de’ Pazzi’s grave, unique is that there is writing on the back. None of the others have that.”

He was intrigued. “Can I see?”

The priest nodded and opened the glass case, carefully turning the copper plate and its stand to reveal more Latin.

“It’s an odd paragraph,” the priest said. “One that no one here has ever been able to understand.”

“Could you translate it for me?”

“‘Ne’er will the sweet and heavenly tones resound, Silent be the one nature feared, and when he was dying, feared herself to die. Forever silent be his harmonies, only in his third son’s bright world be justice found. Auguror eveniat. ’”