Chapter Seven
A parade of bronze statues prances through the piazza—gods, warriors, lions, wolves—forming a path leading to the Palazzo della Signoria’s open doors.
A shadow flies overhead, a bronze stag whomping inches away.
I see my shocked expression reflected in its blank eyes before it scampers off to join the others.
I click my jaw shut, not wanting to gape like a peasant.
This is… a breathtaking amount of magic.
A Medici display of power and might if there ever was one.
The Palazzo della Signoria’s rough-stone face juts into the piazza like a jaw braced for a fight.
It’s one of the oldest buildings in Florence, built long before the angels blessed us with beauty.
Inside the interior courtyard rich blue-and-gold frescos adorn the walls behind the loggia.
If I tip my head all the way back, I can just glimpse the palazzo’s austere clock tower piercing the winter sky: the Torre d’Arnolfo.
Niccolo told me the Medici patriarch was once a prisoner inside it.
’Tis hard for me to believe there was ever a time when the Medici didn’t rule our supposed republic.
Their immense wealth has shaped Florence for years—making the city theirs in practicality if not in name.
The thought leaves me sulky and bothered.
After Niccolo disappeared, I lurked outside their bank until the owner, Piero de’ Medici, appeared.
I threw myself on my knees and begged him for relief with Casa delle Volpi, but he only laughed and ruffled my paint-speckled hair like I was dog.
“Your family made a deal with us,” he said bluntly.
“Pity it was a bad one. Let it be a lesson to you.”
If the Medici can waste their money feting their son for his wedding, why couldn’t they forgive the money a dead man owed them? What does adding one more crumbling house to their vast investments do for them? Owning Casa delle Volpi would mean nothing to them, but it would mean everything to us.
I can’t help feeling there’s a slimy, rotten core in their hearts. It must be why the Medici have never had an angel of their own. The holy beings must sense the wrongness in them too.
The artists mill in the palazzo’s courtyard until after the church bells strike the hour. Then, with the chiming still humming through the air, the doors to the palazzo’s innards burst open.
Piero de’ Medici, the family patriarch, stands with his son Lorenzo.
The crowd explodes into cheers; some artists even bow to the old man like he’s a king.
Piero indulgently lifts both hands, a grandfather welcoming his grandchildren.
“Gentiluomini! My eldest son is marrying this summer. To celebrate this occasion, we need a wedding portrait, one worthy of the Medici name and gorgeous enough to make the angels weep! Each morning, we will unlock the palazzo’s doors, and my Lorenzo will sit in this courtyard.
Every workshop will send their very best artists to capture his likeness, and Lorenzo’s bride shall choose the portrait she most likes when she arrives.
Whoever paints the winning portrait will become my family’s own personal painter and receive one hundred florins for his work! ”
There’s a feeling in my stomach like I’m falling. I sway, catching myself against Leonardo’s arm. The courtyard’s noise fades away, my head echoing with Piero’s words, so loud, there isn’t room in me for anything else.
One hundred florins?
It’s an unthinkable sum. Far more than I’ve made after almost five years in Verrocchio’s workshop. Even after the workshop’s cut, it would be enough to buy Casa delle Volpi. Enough to dower my sisters with gold to marry princes.
Enough to change my life.
And to be the Medici’s personal painter… it’s not opening my own workshop, but ’tis close to it.
“Lorenzo will sit his first hour today, starting now.” Piero’s teeth flash. “I hope you came prepared.”
Chaos unleashes. Some artists draw out linen and charcoal from their bags, others bark at their boys to sprint back to their workshops to grab supplies. Master Verrocchio circles his index finger, gesturing for us to flock around him.
“Ragazzi, this is a chance to prove yourself. Anyone who wishes to be considered will give me a sketch by the end of the week. The artist of the most promising one will enter the Medici commission.” He takes a bag of charcoal from his belt with a wink. “May the best artist win!”
We fall upon the bag with a flurry of excited whispers and furtive glances.
“Four months isn’t much time to complete a painting.” Leonardo frowns.
Merda, I’m still leaning on him. I back off quickly and snag a charcoal stick. “Perhaps not for you.”
Leonardo’s eyebrows rise, and a lick of guilt lashes me. He fixed my millipede dog in a single morning. The same one I couldn’t complete for weeks. Had never completed, because he did it for me.
“Sorry. That was uncalled for.”
“It was rude,” Leonardo agrees breezily. “But your apologies are getting better, so I’ll forgive you if you give me your charcoal.”
Master Verrocchio’s bag is empty.
I clutch my stick tightly. Not sketching Lorenzo’s likeness now will cost me a day, but Leonardo did do me a favor, and I’ve done nothing but snarl at him for it. It was, objectively, a nice thing for him to do, even though I hate that he did it.
A bargain can help you make up for the lost time.
Perhaps a month of my life for a week of perfect memory. Then I’d only need to see Lorenzo once.
I unclench my fist and let the charcoal fall. “Happy to.”
Leonardo catches the stick with a smirk. “Why, thank you, Virgil. Has the new angel broken the curse that turned your heart to stone?”
I turn away with an annoyed wave and try not to let the words slip under my skin.
A lesser artist would give up, but not me.
The Medici have been de facto rulers of Florence for so long, some of their personal art collection must have snuck its way inside the government palazzo.
I can look at it and get a better sense of what they like, learn how to create something that feels familiar yet fresh.
When no one is looking, I go through the unlocked doors into the palazzo’s halls. I have a feeling I’m not allowed here, but I wasn’t explicitly told not to explore either.
I scurry down the corridors, poking my head through the open doors.
Endless offices and parlors and receiving rooms, the stone walls outside them bare and boring.
Finally, two grand double doors etched in filigreed gold catch my eye.
With a surreptitious look over my shoulder, I test one of the handles.
Unlocked.
This room is the largest one and filled with dark wood benches, enough for a hundred people. I ease inside slowly, grinning at the rows and rows of portraits on the walls. Finally!
They aren’t exceptional pieces, but it’s striking how similar they are, all of them squares in simple wooden frames.
Some are so old and dusty, I can barely make out the faces, but a few still stink with the egg smell of fresh tempera paint.
The subjects themselves are… interesting.
Most of the men look frightened or angry, or both.
Are these portraits of politicians? It would explain both the ugliness and the location, but there are more than nine portraits here, and only nine elected officials hold office at once.
They must be of something else, but what?
The opening and closing of a nearby door tugs me from my thoughts. It doesn’t matter who these men are. The portraits aren’t the inspiration I’m looking for, unless I want Lorenzo’s bride to feel sad and bored when she sees my painting.
I move to leave, but a flash of red catches my eye.
I turn.
And gasp.
I lift trembling fingers and trace the familiar cheekbone, the smile I know better than my own. The one I’d recognize anywhere.
Niccolo.
My missing brother.
On the wall of the most important building in Florence.