I, Mona Lisa by Jeanne Kalogridis Read Free Book Online Page B

from the direction Riario had glanced—a man’s voice, the words unintelligible, impassioned. Immediately after, the bells of Giotto’s campanile began to toll.
    Lorenzo knew at once that Nori’s so-called rumors were fact.
    The front two rows of men broke rank, and the scene became a clumsy dance of moving bodies. In the near distance, a woman screamed. Salviati disappeared; the young Cardinal flung himself at the altar and knelt, sobbing uncontrollably. Guglielmo de’ Pazzi, clearly terrified, began wringing his hands and wailing. “I am no traitor! I knew nothing of this! Nothing! Before God, Lorenzo, I am completely innocent!”
    Lorenzo did not see the hand that reached from behind him and lightly settled on his left shoulder—but he felt it as though it were a lightning bolt. With grace and strength that came from years of swordsmanship, he pushed forward out of the unseen enemy’s grasp, drew his sword, and whirled about.
    During the sudden movement, a keen blade grazed him just below the right ear; involuntarily, he gasped at the sensation of his tender skin parting, of warm liquid flowing down his neck onto his shoulder. But he stayed on his feet and held up his sword, ready to block further attacks.
    Lorenzo faced two priests: one trembling behind a small shield, halfheartedly clutching a sword as he glanced at the crowd scrambling about him—most of them headed for the cathedral doors. But he was obliged to turn his attention to Lorenzo’s personal attendant, Marco, a muscular man who, though no expert with a sword, made up for it with brute strength and enthusiasm.
    The second priest—wild-eyed and intent on Lorenzo—raised his weapon for a second attempt.
    Lorenzo parried once, twice. Haggard, pale-skinned, unshaven, this priest had the fiery eyes, the open, contorted mouth of a madman. He also had the strength of one, and Lorenzo came close to buckling beneath his blows. Steel clashed against steel, ringing off the high ceilings of the now mostly deserted cathedral.
    The two fighters locked blades, pressing hilt against hilt with a ferocity that caused Lorenzo’s hand to tremble. He stared into the eyes of his determined enemy, and drew in a breath at the emotion he saw there.
    As the two stood with blades crossed, neither willing to give way, Lorenzo half shouted, “Why should you hate me so?”
    He meant the question sincerely. He had always wished the best for Florence and her citizens. He did not understand the resentment others felt at the utterance of the name Medici.
    “For God,” the priest said. His face was a mere hand’s breadth from his intended victim’s. Sweat ran down his pale forehead; his breath washot upon Lorenzo’s cheek. His nose was long, narrow, aristocratic; he probably came from an old, respected family. “For the love of God!”
    And he drew back his weapon so forcefully that Lorenzo staggered forward, perilously close to the blade.

 
     
     
     
     
     
VII
     
     
    E arlier, as he drew his long knife and hefted it overhead, Baroncelli remembered all the dozens of phrases he had rehearsed for this instant; none of them came to his lips, and what he finally shouted sounded ridiculous to his own ears.
    “Here, traitor!”
    The church bells had just begun clanging when Giuliano looked up. At the sight of the knife, his eyes widened with mild surprise.
    Yielding at last to madness, Baroncelli did not hesitate. He brought the blade down.
     
    Lorenzo stumbled, off balance, toward his opponent—and let go a roar of self-disgust at the realization that he would never be able to lift his sword in time to fend off the coming blow.
    But before the wild-eyed priest could shed any more of Lorenzo’s blood, Francesco Nori stepped in front of his employer with his sword drawn. Other friends and supporters began to close in around the would-be assassins. Lorenzo became vaguely aware of the presence of Angelo Poliziano, of the aged and portly architect Michelozzo, of the family