Chapter 47
CHAPTER 47
E RIC HAD STAYED UP INTO THE EARLY HOURS OF THE MORNING READING Anna Maria’s diaries. They were in places affectionate, full of lively incident, but also packed with compassion and insight. Sadly, almost none of the Medici family writings had survived. Most disappeared long ago. Some of the bank ledgers still existed, as did scattered correspondence, and the poetry of Lorenzo the Magnificent had long been published, but few of their personal thoughts committed to words had made it into the modern world. When the royal line extinguished in 1743 so had their memory. If not for Anna Maria’s extraordinary gift of the Medici art and possessions to Florence the family could have easily faded away to nothing.
Like the Pazzis.
But they had not.
His reading of the diaries revealed that Anna Maria was a deeply conflicted woman. She’d birthed a child at age fifty-three, which in the eighteenth century was more often than not a death sentence.
Yet she’d taken the chance.
I lapsed into exceeding sharp pain in great extremity, so that the midwife did believe I should be delivered soon. But it fell out contrary, for the child stayed in the birth with his feet first and in this condition continued till Thursday morning between two and three a clock. By then I was upon the bed, bearing my child with such exquisite torment, as if each limb were divided from the other. Being speechless and breathless I was, by the infinite providence of God, in great mercy, delivered. I trust in the mercy of the Lord. He requiring no more than He gives and, in His infinite grace, He spared me from death, my soul was miraculously delivered.
But that joy had been quickly enveloped by a harsh reality.
She’d secretly married a Pazzi without the permission of her brother, the Duke of Tuscany. Her husband had died, leaving her alone without any visible means of support, except what her father provided. True, Cosimo III adored his daughter. But eighteenth-century Italy was a man’s world. There were no equal rights, MeToo movement, or political correctness. Occasionally a woman could rise to power. Elizabeth I of England, along with Catherine the Great of Russia, showed that it was possible. But a lot of things had to align just right for that to happen. None of which fell Anna Maria’s way.
Her father died and her brother became grand duke.
Unfortunately, years earlier Anna Maria had been involved with engineering her brother’s marriage to a German princess. Gian despised his wife and blamed Anna Maria for his misery. That, combined with his resentment over how their father had felt about her, eventually made the situation intolerable.
My brother has a body that is unpleasantly formed, whose breath seriously stinks, and has the worst constitution imaginable. He burns with arrogance and anger. He sends me fiery letters that voice his distaste and disgust for his only sister. He drinks and eats to excess and grave extravagance. We are so different. I have learned that the simpler you live the more you will be esteemed by others. My brother thinks the opposite. I have always tried to maintain the dignity of the Medici in public. My brother will be the ruin of Tuscany but there is nothing that can be done about it. He is destined to rule, but will most likely find an early death.
History noted that just after her father died in 1723, Anna abandoned the Medici royal palace and moved to a family villa outside of Florence. She lived there until her brother died in 1737. Could she have carried on a secret love affair and birthed a child without anyone knowing?
Apparently so.
But he was still perplexed. Why give the child away?
His grandmother had been correct, however.
The diaries provided the answer.
I have twice visited with His Holiness Our Pope, Clement XII, who was most considerate, and I made him aware of my private regrets and desires. His Holiness’s response, being a citizen of Florence, was both wise and comforting. He agreed that my esteemed family has come to its natural end. At my departure from this life those who remain, not of the royal line, will surely dissolve themselves into nothing. For so long I have marked my time, waiting until matters take shape. My loving husband has been gone for sixteen years. My primary concern was then, and remains, the safety and well-being of my son. Because he now prospers as a vital young man, I am able to reduce my sorrow somewhat. Even now, these so many years later, he seems close and will always be remembered. He is called Gregorio Cappello. His first name means watchful, vigilant. I like that. Perhaps my thoughts might one day make their way to him. If so, I want him to know that I tried to temper the situation. As any mother would I want my spirit to endure, to be a good and faithful servant. But above all I do not want my son to hate me.
The reference to Medici murder was not fleeting.
In 1576 Isabella de’ Medici, daughter of Cosimo I, found herself trapped in a loveless marriage. Her husband humiliated her openly with a mistress. In response she made the mistake of taking a lover. So her husband strangled her to death and promptly married his mistress. Historians say that the husband acted under the instructions of Isabella’s brother, Grand Duke Francesco I de’ Medici, as her growing influence and popularity began to rival Francesco’s power. With the birth of Isabella’s son, concerns of a potential coup further spurred Francesco to act. Then an ironic twist occurred. Eleven years later, Francesco and his wife, Bianca Cappello, died within hours of each other. Malaria was the named cause, but many believed it to be acute arsenic poisoning. The culprit? Francesco’s brother, Cardinal Ferdinando de’ Medici, who was in danger of being excluded from the succession if Francesco’s own illegitimate son was legitimized and inherited the title of grand duke.
No question. What went around came around.
So Anna Maria’s concerns about violence were understandable.
Thankfully, each entry bore a date. What he’d just read was dated March 1741. Two years before she died. By then her son would have been a young man. Was he aware of his adoption? Or had the secret of his birth parents been maintained? He gravitated to the latter since the diaries mentioned nothing about any direct contact.
They did, though, speak of grief.
Being alone has toughened me, which was all the more tender in that not an hour, not a moment, not an instant has elapsed that I do not think of my beloved. Men take greater satisfaction in the powers of their own eyes than in their fame proclaimed by others. But my late husband was held in the highest esteem. I take pride and assign pre-eminence to the valor and wisdom in which he was abounded. It is true that pain is greater in the one who has greater knowledge than in the one who is least aware. I could have died myself as I saw his body breathe its last breath. Only the consolation of his eternal memory has sustained me in life. His wisdom and virtue are the jewels of my widowhood and have many times worked to dry my tears. It nourishes me to hear what great people said about him. “A force of nature has died.” “A paragon of ancient loyalty has expired.” “A true heart of Tuscany is gone.” What better boast could one who has been torn from human affairs have than the fond recollection of others. I still recall what was said at his funeral, when one man proclaimed, “Here he is, just buried, and pride rises up to heaven terrifying the most courageous.” No truer words could have been spoken. I have long ago consented to the Divine Will, without piercing my heart further, by lending an ear to the harmony of praise.
She clearly loved Raffaello de’ Pazzi. Entries continued to speak of him in nothing but glowing terms. One in particular was reflective.
Since childhood I have admired the ceiling fresco in the Old Sacristy of San Lorenzo. It is a representation of the sky, with the constellations visible over Florence the night of July 4, 1442. An identical starry vault fresco exists over the altar in the Pazzi Chapel at Santa Croce. The great Brunelleschi created both, before the infamy that some misguided Pazzis brought to their family. Yet my family allowed them both to remain. Lorenzo could have destroyed them, but he did not. I found his actions instructive, and perhaps a sign that the Medici hate knew its bounds and that forgiveness was not something out of the question. After all, Lorenzo’s precious sister was married to a Pazzi, and was allowed to remain in her marriage, though living in exile. I too chose to love a Pazzi and I too went into a self-imposed exile. My husband was fond of saying, Into the wolf’s mouth. May the wolf die. Such good wishes were always easy to come from his lips.
She was right.
After the attempt on his life Lorenzo hung every Pazzi he could link to the murder of his brother. He showed no mercy. None. But his sister Bianca’s Pazzi husband was not hung. Instead he was sent into exile and Bianca went with him, both dying away from Florence. All Pazzi women were forbidden to marry anyone. Many fled Tuscany. But he exempted his sister’s daughters from that decree.
Which showed something.
Eric knew Anna Maria died February 18, 1743. The last entry was dated nine days before.
And seemed most critical.
I write this to my son with a frankness that is necessary. My illness has progressed and I am not long for this world. Writing this seems superfluous because, as my son, I could not have any greater love, benevolence, or reverence for you. May God grant you a long and prosperous life so all may enjoy your sweet success. To those good people who raised you I thank them with all the abundance of my heart. You have been liberated from the burden of my troubled past and for that I am happy. As my life grew older and the burden of what I was bequeathed from my father and brother became more evident I made two decisions. The first concerned the beauty and art my family has amassed over the centuries. It now all belongs to me and I decided that it would stay in Florence, for the benefit of the Florentines, in perpetuity. That seemed the right course to take. All of that was done to the greater good. But for you, my son, one thing remains. Something our family acquired long ago and only you, or your children or their children, can claim. If these words ever find their way to you, know that I have made this decision as a way to say, once again, how sorry I am for not being a part of your life. All that was Medici is gone, save for one sacred pledge given by Pope Julius II to Giuliano de’ Medici in 1512. Ten million gold florins, loaned to the Pope, with repayment sworn before God to the Medici, their heirs and assigns. You, my son, are Medici. Your mother and father were duly married. You are the last remaining royal Medici heir, as will be your children after you. 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. Instead, it rests safely under a watchful eye and this verse will lead the way.
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
The last two words were interesting. Auguror Eveniat. He used the phone to translate them. I wish it will come.
He’d read all nine volumes. There had been a lot of insight, but the most pressing inquiries remained unanswered. Number one? How had all this remained secret for centuries? His family had clearly harbored the diaries. Why not reveal them? Expose them to academicians? Tell the world. His grandmother blamed it on indifference and illiteracy.
Was that the answer?
He’d slept in his former room, the one he’d occupied up to the time he left for university. A shower and shave had also been possible after he walked to a nearby store for some toiletries. His grandmother had slept soundly through the night, with the nurse there, on duty. They needed one more conversation. Perhaps the last one they would ever have. His patience with the past had reached an end. Only the future remained important. And it had become that much brighter thanks to a text from Florence. Confirmation. You are genetically connected to Anna Maria Luisa at a probability of 99%.
Good news.
Now for the rest.
He found his grandmother again in the parlor, sitting quietly, staring out the window.
“I read them all,” he said.
“Then you know the depth of her pain, and the joy of her gift.”
“Why did you keep those diaries hidden? Why did your father and his before him do the same?”
“No one cared what we knew or what he had.”
“But the pledge? The promise to pay the debt. What about that?”
“That document is gone. It has been five hundred years.”
That he did not want to hear.
But it did answer the question. His family had simply not possessed the drive or ability to do anything meaningful. And without DNA technology their claim to be a royal Medici would have fallen on deaf ears. He was the first of his family to have all the necessary tools.
“Nonna.” He thought the more intimate name might soften the bitter nerves. “I have four problems. The first is establishing that there was a legal marriage between Anna Maria and Raffaello de’ Pazzi. The second is locating Pazzi’s grave. The third is proving a genetic connection between Pazzi and me. The final dilemma is finding the Medici copy of the Pledge of Christ.”
“It does not exist.”
“How do you know that?”
She said nothing.
But she’d been right on one thing. They were Medici.
It rests safely under a watchful eye and this verse will lead the way.
Those words had to mean something, along with what came after.
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.
What had Anna Maria meant?
Then it hit him.
Only in Raffaello’s bright world can it be found.
Of course. Now he knew.