The Medici Return (Cotton Malone #19)

Chapter 81

STEFANO, ALONG WITH HIS TWO NEW A MERICAN FRIENDS, ENTERED the Ammannati Courtyard, which cast a clear feel of imperial Rome with its array of Ionic and Corinthian columns. Many a spectacle had occurred right here through the centuries, the palace long identified with the ruling families of Florence, whether they be Italian, French, or Austrian.

He was impressed with Stephanie Nelle. He’d never before known or been associated with an intelligence agency head outside of the Entity. She was confident and self-assured but not cocky or arrogant. She listened far more than she spoke, which was always the sign of a good leader. Malone seemed to greatly respect her too. She’d arrived yesterday and worked all day with Cardinal Stamm. Cardinal Richter had previously left for Rome to deal with Ascolani. He’d been told that the secretary of state had been relieved of his office, suspended from duties, and arrested. The pope had ordered all of that, along with reappointing Stamm as head of the Entity. Stamm had ordered Stefano to stay in Florence and assist the Americans with whatever they might need. Malone had worked most of yesterday on deciphering the writings of Anna Maria de’ Medici. It was impressive the amount of knowledge the American carried around in his brain.

“ I collect information ,” Malone had said. “ I like facts of all kinds. I accumulate them like some folks keep coins or stamps. ”

That and the internet had allowed them to steadily solve a three-hundred-year-old puzzle.

Eric Casaburi died instantly from his wounds, so nothing more would be learned from him. But blood and tissue samples had been preserved from his body. Cardinal Stamm had ordered the bishop who oversaw the village of Panzitta to allow the tomb of Raffaello de’ Pazzi to be opened and a DNA sample taken. They utilized the same expert Casaburi had used with Anna Maria. Late last night the results were delivered. Casaburi was definitely DNA-connected to Raffaello on the paternal side, confirming his parentage back to 1743. That and what they’d found among the archives at Santa Croce seemed to prove that Casaburi was a legitimate heir of a royal Medici.

The only thing missing was a properly executed Pledge of Christ.

The church’s copy was gone. Ascolani had said he destroyed it. Maybe so. Maybe not. No matter. He was never going to acknowledge that it still existed. So they focused on finding the second copy belonging to the Medici.

And Malone thought he knew exactly where it was located.

C OTTON LOVED PUZZLES.

They challenged his mind.

And this one had been a great swirling maelstrom of possibilities.

Yesterday he and Stefano had reviewed everything and formed some conclusions. He’d informed Stephanie and told her what was needed. She’d never wavered a moment and assured him it would happen. Now he followed her as she led them into the palace where a middle-aged woman waited. She was introduced as the museum curator, in charge of all the palace collections.

And they were vast.

Room after room of paintings and sculptures, along with fine china, silver- and goldsmithery, furniture, and other royal fittings. Most came from the Medici, part of Anna Maria’s Family Pact, but much more had been added in the centuries since the family’s demise. She led them through the palace to a space identified as the Room of the Jewels. An object sat atop one of the glass cases. About two inches long and that much wide. A small cradle, gold enameled with pearls and diamonds.

“I thought you might like to see this,” the curator said. “It is one of the many jeweled trinkets that Anna Maria Luisa de’ Medici bequeathed to Florence. It was given to her by her husband, Johann Wilhelm, Elector Palatine, as an augury for the announced, and much desired, birth of an heir. Sadly, that never came true as she miscarried. I was told yesterday about what you have discovered. If you look close, between the two rockers are the words AUGUROR EVENIAT . I wish it will come.”

“The same thing she wrote in her diary,” Cotton said. “And what was also inside the Pazzi tomb.”

The curator nodded. “Precisely. It seems you may be on the right track.”

He’d done some old-fashioned detective work and, together with Stefano, pieced together a theory.

In 1512 Pope Julius II did in fact borrow ten million gold florins from the Medici family, which its then-head Giuliano de’ Medici negotiated. That transaction was evidenced by a Pledge of Christ, which Julius provided with his seal and signature. A promise in perpetuity. Payable on demand. Not your ordinary promissory note. But nonetheless enforceable provided that the demand came after July 1532, twenty years after the original promise, and was made by Giuliano de’ Medici or his heirs, successors, and assigns. Two copies of the pledge existed. The church’s had been accounted for and was assumed destroyed. The Medici copy?

That was the rub.

Presumably Giuliano de’ Medici took possession of that document. But Giuliano died in 1516, sixteen years before the pledge could even be demanded. He was succeeded as family head by his nephew Lorenzo. The mantle of power as the lord of Florence kept being passed down from Medici to Medici until Cosimo I became the first Grand Duke of Tuscany in 1569. That royal title was made possible by both the Holy Roman emperor and Pope Pius V.

Pius himself crowned Cosimo.

And a deal was made. There had to have been.

History noted that Pius V was instrumental in having the Tuscan grand duchy created. The Medicis also wanted full assurances that it would never be taken away. They had already survived two banishments from Florence. Now they wanted their power solidified.

So it was agreed.

The pledge would not be enforced so long as the duchy remained inviolate.

If this deal had not occurred then why would the Medicis, who were bankers in the business of making loans, forgo collecting what had to be the largest single debt ever created? There had to have been an agreement, especially considering that from 1475 to 1605 four separate Medicis were pope—Leo X, Clement VII, Pius IV, and Leo XI—none of whom ever moved for the Vatican to pay the debt. To keep that threat in place the Medicis had to have safeguarded their copy of the pledge, since it was their fail-safe against anyone trying to take their duchy. If that happened they could immediately invoke the help of the Roman Catholic Church, which would either have to protect the royal title or pay the debt, which was accruing at a rate of 10 percent for every year after 1532 it remained unpaid.

So where had they hidden the document?

Anna Maria wrote that—

The pledge was secured with two writings, one for Rome, the other for our family. I leave that pledge to you alone. It does not belong to the people of Florence.

So she seemed to have had the document in 1743. The next sentence in her diary was clear. It rests safely under a watchful eye and this verse will lead the way.

Which made the next verse critical.

Know the darkened world has long missed the night and day, which while the shade still hung before his eyes, shone like a guide unto steps afar. Ne’er will the sweet and heavenly tones resound, silent be the harmonies of his sweet lyre, only in Raffaello’s bright world can it be found. Auguror eveniat.

Along with the words from Raffaello de’ Pazzi’s grave.

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.

Lots of clues there.

And thank goodness for the internet.

At first he’d been baffled by now only in Raffaello’s bright world can it be found . Was that a reference to Raffaello de’ Pazzi’s grave? Yes and no. Anna Maria had been clever, recognizing the double entendre, which had taken him and Stefano a little time to see.

The answer came from the Pazzi’s grave.

Silent be the one nature feared, and when he was dying, feared herself to die.

It had taken only a few seconds of an internet search to know where Anna Maria had found those words.

From the inscription on Raffaello Sanzio da Urbino’s marble sarcophagus, placed there when he died in 1520. His name in English was much shorter. And far more well known. Raphael. One of the greatest painters and architects of the High Renaissance. The actual inscription was an elegiac distich written by another cardinal, Pietro Bembo. HERE LIES THAT FAMOUS RAPHAEL BY WHOM NATURE FEARED TO BE CONQUERED WHILE HE LIVED, AND WHEN HE WAS DYING, FEARED HERSELF TO DIE.

Anna Maria had recognized that her second husband and the great painter had the same first name. Clever her use of that coincidence.

Once he’d zeroed in on Raphael, the next link from Anna Maria’s warning that Only in his third son’s bright world be justice found was easy to decipher. Giuliano de’ Medici, who made the loan to Julius II, was a third son. And only in Raphael’s bright world can it be found. A simple Google search had provided the final piece of the puzzle.

In 1515 Raphael was commissioned to paint a portrait of Giuliano di Lorenzo de’ Medici. It was to be sent to Philiberta of Savoy, the aunt of Francis I of France, to whom Giuliano had become engaged. The couple had not yet met, so the portrait was created to provide her an idea of his physical appearance. The match had been a political one. Pope Leo X, Giuliano’s brother, himself also Medici, was hoping to cement an alliance between the French and the papacy through marriage. At that time portraits were often part of the diplomatic arrangements for such dynastic marriages. So Giuliano sat for the painting.

They left the Room of the Jewels and walked through the various galleries. They passed through the Rooms of the Planets—Venus, Apollo, Mars, Saturn, and the last one, Jupiter.

Where they stopped.

The curator explained that, for the Medici, the space had been used as a throne room where the grand dukes held public audiences. Which made sense as the walls were richly decorated, full of frescoes, white and gilt stucco works, and plumes decorated with shells.

On one of the walls he spotted Raphael’s portrait.

“It has hung here, inside the Pitti Palace, off and on since 1743,” the curator said to them. “Its provenance is fairly known.”

They listened as she explained that the portrait was sent to France to serve its purpose, but was returned to Florence after Giuliano di Lorenzo de’ Medici married Philiberta in 1515 and became the Duke of Nemours. The French were grooming Giuliano for the throne of Naples, but he died prematurely in 1516. A further connection to Giuliano could be found in what Anna Maria had written.

Know the darkened world has long missed the night and day, which while the shade still hung before his eyes, shone like a guide unto steps afar.

Giuliano was buried in the New Sacristy of the Church of San Lorenzo. Michelangelo himself crafted the tomb with a sculpture of Giuliano holding the baton of an army commander. At his feet reclined the figures of Night and Day. Night, a giantess, twisting in uneasy slumber. Day, a herculean figure, glancing wrathfully over his shoulder.

Night and Day.

Cotton stared at the portrait hanging on the wall.

Giuliano cast a deflected, sidelong glance, fashionably dressed in the French style with a black doublet over a scarlet vest and a cloak of grayish-green brocade bordered with fur. He wore a wide-brimmed hat tilted to reveal a gold hairnet beneath. His right arm rested on a parapet, the hands holding a folded missive, a pictorial device used at the time to show attentiveness to office. He had just been appointed captain-general of the church by his brother Pope Leo X, the fact alluded to with the Castel Sant’ Angelo in the background beyond a drawn curtain. He also sported a beard, which was customary for the French. After his death the painting stayed with the Medici and was part of the initial bequest from Anna Maria to Florence in the Family Pact.

Cotton motioned. “All roads point to this painting. Only in Raphael’s bright world can it be found.”

“You think there’s something hidden there,” the curator asked.

“I think it’s worth a look. Anna Maria seemed to enjoy symbolism. She chose this painting for two reasons. First, it is of the man who made the pledge. Then second, notice Castel Sant’ Angelo in the background. That was where the popes kept their treasury. She’s sending a message.”

“I find it fascinating that this particular painting could prove so important,” the curator said. “It is inscribed in the lower left corner.”

Cotton stepped close and saw the letters R.S.M.V. “Is that Raphael’s notation?”

“It is. But though it is recognized as a Raphael, most art historians say it was painted by students in his workshop, not by the artist himself. Hence why Raphael’s more common signature, Raphaello, is not there. All of which diminishes the painting’s importance and value. There’s even a copy that belongs to the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York. For decades there has been a debate as to which is the original. We have used ours here as a placeholder. The painting that is normally hanging in that spot is being restored. This one just temporarily fills the empty space.”

“Cotton is convinced there might be something there,” Stephanie said. “That’s good enough for me. We need to take a look.”

The curator motioned. “The alarms are off, and I have been instructed to accommodate your wishes.”

Cotton and Stefano approached the painting and lifted it off its wall hooks. It measured about three feet by two feet, enclosed in a heavy wood frame with carved ornamentation, painted a burnished gold.

“The frame is not original to Raphael’s time,” the curator said. “But everything else is.”

They laid the frame on the floor atop a drop cloth that had been waiting for them, with the painting facing downward. This way they could examine its back side. The painting itself, a tempera and oil, had been created on canvas, which was stretched on a wooden frame.

But Cotton immediately noticed something and pointed. “Why is the back covered?”

“It is not unusual,” the curator said. “The piece of wood there is clearly old. We have seen that before.”

“We need to remove it,” Cotton said.

The curator seemed hesitant, so he said, “I thought you were asked to accommodate our wishes.”

“But not to destroy something.”

“It’s a filler painting. Like you said, with little historical or monetary value. And there’ll be no damage to the other side.”

Cotton watched as one of the museum attendants carefully examined the back of the painting. He’d been summoned by the curator and told to bring tools. The young man used a small chisel and began to work it between the solid backing board and the frame itself. Some splintering occurred as it was forced apart. Not unexpected. But minor.

Then he noticed something.

The chisel could only penetrate about half an inch.

He bent down and examined the gap the attendant had generated. “There’s some sort of tab in there. Inserted into a slot in the frame. You’re going to have to work all the way around so the backboard comes free in one piece.”

Which was precisely what the attendant did, twisting the chisel and freeing the tab that extended out on all four sides. The wood creaked from the pressure of the tab’s release. It took a few minutes for the backing to be readied for removal.

The attendant was excused, and the curator dropped to her knees.

With both hands she worked the backing away from the frame and exposed a thin cavity beneath.

A holding spot.

Lying inside against the back side of the canvas was a piece of vellum, identical in shape and size to the one they’d seen at Santa Maria di Castello. Cotton bent down close and saw that it was written in Latin, signed with a G by Julius II, like the other, with the odd Medici mark drawn in the lower left corner.

The second copy of the Pledge of Christ.

Right where Anna Maria pointed.

“Incredible,” the curator muttered.

Cotton carefully lifted out the document, this one not in a protective plastic sleeve. He placed his open palm beneath the sheet to provide support, mindful that he did not wear gloves. The vellum seemed intact, and the writing was still clearly legible.

“What are you doing?” the curator asked.

“He is doing what I asked,” a new voice said.

Cardinal Stamm entered the room, dressed officially in scarlet, a gold pectoral cross against his thin chest, looking every bit like a prince of the church. The old man drew close and examined the document.

“Anna Maria seems to have either known it was there,” Stamm said, “or placed it there for her son to find. Hidden with Giuliano de’ Medici, behind the Castel Sant’ Angelo. How ironic. The Medici who made the loan protected the collateral.”

Stamm motioned and a priest entered with a slim, hard-sided leather briefcase, which was opened. Cotton gently laid the document inside, and it was snapped shut.

“That is a historical document belonging to this museum,” the curator said. “I was not instructed to allow any removal.”

“This document will be placed in the Vatican archives,” Stamm said. “There it will stay, safe and protected, until a lawful Medici royal heir appears to claim it.”

Cotton smiled. “Of course, no one knows it exists, except us.”

“Actually, there is a woman in a village about an hour from here who also knows. But she is not long for this world and few, if any, will pay her any mind.”

“So no Medici heir will ever appear,” Cotton said.

Stamm shrugged. “That is not my problem. I have done all that the church should do. The document will be properly preserved. What else may or may not occur is of no matter to me.”

And with that the cardinal and the priest with the pledge left. Before they did so, though, Stamm said, “Father Giumenta, I’d like you to come too.”

“Of course.” The young priest turned and shook Cotton’s hand. “It was an honor to work with you.”

“The honor was all mine,” Cotton said. “You take care.”

The three prelates left.

The curator seemed flustered. “I will have to report this.”

“Good luck with that one,” Stephanie said. “That cardinal is not someone who makes irrational moves. I assure you, he’s cleared it all with the right people.”

“We will see about that.”

And the woman left the gallery.

“I appreciate what you did,” Stephanie said to him. “You went above and beyond. Running in the Palio? And you won it? That’s one for the record books.”

“The horse won. Not me.”

“You did good. I appreciate it all, Cotton.”

She stepped across the room and admired some of the paintings. He’d known her a long time. They’d been through so much together. He owed her more than he could ever repay. He also knew that she hadn’t come all the way to Italy because of the Pledge of Christ. Something else was wrong.

So he waited.

“What are you going to do about your supposed daughter?” she asked him.

“I’m still not sure. Maybe that ghost should be left undisturbed.”

“Is that what you want?”

“I’m not sure what I want. I’m still processing.”

“You know what I would do.”

He did. “And I’m leaning in that direction.”

“I have a problem, Cotton. A big one.”

Finally. To the point.

“I hate to ask. But I need your immediate help.”

His answer was never in doubt.

“You’ve got it.”