The Florentine Emerald: The Secret of the Convert's Ring

By Agustín B. Palatchi

In this epic historical adventure, a quest for love and enlightenment brings the Renaissance-era Florence of Leonardo da Vinci and Lorenzo de Medici to life
Cardona, 1478. About to die in the dungeons of a Spanish castle, Mauricio’s father reveals the secret of his concealed Jewish ancestry. For centuries, the Coloma family, descendants of the rabbi Abraham Abulafia, has set out to protect an emerald ring with the inscription Light, light, more light. After his father’s execution, Mauricio is forced to flee Barcelona and travel to Florence in the hope of selling the ring to Lorenzo de Medici. In the city of the arts, he meets some extraordinary characters—including Marsilio Ficino, Pico della Mirandola, and Leonardo da Vinci.
Mauricio seems poised to live the life he has always dreamed of, and yet, deadly dangers lurk: secret plots, murder, warfare, the ascent of the sinister Savonarola. But who is behind it all—and why seek to ruin Lorenzo and Mauricio? What is the source of the power of this emerald they all want to possess at any cost, and what mystery lies behind its cryptic inscription?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Barcelona eBooks
• Release date: Mar 4, 2014
• ISBN: 9781480482654

Agustín B. Palatchi

Agustín B. Palatchi (b. 1967), a native of Barcelona, earned a law degree, had his own practice, and now works as a tax lawyer for the Spanish government. A passionate student of history and psychology, he is convinced that without knowing our past, we cannot understand ourselves or the world in which we live. His first novel, La alianza del converso (The Florentine Emerald, 2012), was well received by the critics and the public in Spain. It has recently been published in Italy and is being translated into other languages. His next book, El gran engaño (The great deception), will be published in 2013. Palatchi is currently working on a historical novel set during the French Revolution and the Napoleonic Wars.

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THE FLORENTINE EMERALD

The Secret of the Convert’s Ring

Agustín B. Palatchi

Contents

Cast of Characters

Part One

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Chapter 61

Chapter 62

Chapter 63

Chapter 64

Chapter 65

Chapter 66

Chapter 67

Part Two

Chapter 68

Chapter 69

Chapter 70

Chapter 71

Chapter 72

Chapter 73

Chapter 74

Chapter 75

Chapter 76

Chapter 77

Chapter 78

Chapter 79

Chapter 80

Chapter 81

Chapter 82

Chapter 83

Chapter 84

Chapter 85

Chapter 86

Chapter 87

Chapter 88

Chapter 89

Chapter 90

Chapter 91

Chapter 92

Chapter 93

Chapter 94

Chapter 95

Chapter 96

Chapter 97

Chapter 98

Chapter 99

Chapter 100

Chapter 101

Chapter 102

Chapter 103

Chapter 104

Chapter 105

Chapter 106

Chapter 107

Chapter 108

Chapter 109

Chapter 110

Chapter 111

Chapter 112

Chapter 113

Chapter 114

Chapter 115

Chapter 116

Chapter 117

Chapter 118

Chapter 119

Chapter 120

Chapter 121

Chapter 122

Chapter 123

Chapter 124

Chapter 125

Chapter 126

Chapter 127

Chapter 128

Chapter 129

Part Three

Chapter 130

Chapter 131

Chapter 132

Chapter 133

Chapter 134

Chapter 135

Chapter 136

Epilogue

Chapter 137

Chapter 138

Chapter 139

About the Author

To Raquel. Thanks to her inspiration, the novel was able to find its way.

To my mother. Without her, nothing would ever have been possible.

To Francesc. A man of such generosity that he contributes only the very best.

Cast of Characters

LORENZO DE MEDICI

His extraordinary charisma and manifold talents allowed him to govern the Republic of Florence with even more authority than a king. A fine poet, admired for his verse, he encouraged commerce in place of the sword and took the most outstanding artists of the time under his protection.

LEONARDO DA VINCI

Multifaceted creator and Renaissance genius, far in advance of his time, the wings of his imagination soared over the arts and science with equal ease. Painter, engineer, musician, inventor, and so much more. His work is a faithful reflection of his brilliant and eclectic mind.

MARSILIO FICINO

Priest, doctor, philosopher, and soul of the Platonic Academy in Florence—gathering place of the most illustrious minds. He translated the Corpus Hermeticum by Hermes Trismegistus and the Dialogues of Plato. He reintroduced ancient wisdom to the Christian world.

PICO DELLA MIRANDOLA

Prodigious scholar of noble lineage and an early defender of human freedom, he dared to stand up to Rome by proclaiming that the great religions—Egyptian, Hebrew, Greek and Christian—all shared the same essential truths.

GIROLAMO SAVONAROLA

An ascetic, visionary monk who imposed his will on Florence. His intense hate of feminine vanity, the sages of antiquity, festive music, empty luxury, and naked bodies as depicted in sculptures and paintings, completely transformed the city.

CHRISTOPHER COLUMBUS

One of the most famous and most studied characters in history. Despite this, many mysteries still surround him, as the great seafarer concealed his origins and the real motivations behind his deeds.

ABRAHAM ABULAFIA

An influential thirteenth-century Kabbalist from Aragon who traveled throughout Galilee, Sicily, and Greece before settling in Barcelona. His contact with Eastern traditions, including Sufism, enriched his works, which were highly esteemed in the Italian peninsula.

Other Historical Characters

FRANCESCO PAZZI

Impulsive and charismatic member of the noble Pazzi family, whose enormous wealth and contacts in high places rivaled those of the Medici family.

JACOPO PAZZI

Patriarch of the Pazzi family.

FRANCESCO SASSETTI

General manager of the Medici Bank.

BERNARDO RUCELLAI

Banker and humanist, he was married to Lucrecia Medici, Lorenzo’s sister.

PIERO MEDICI

Lorenzo’s firstborn son, he inherited none of his father’s talents.

GIOVANNI MEDICI

Lorenzo’s second son, diplomatic and intelligent, he would go on to become Pope Leon X.

Fictional Characters

MAURICIO COLOMA

Only son of a Barcelona merchant, his world falls apart when his father reveals disturbing family secrets to him moments before being executed. Obliged to flee, he travels to Florence in the hope of selling an extraordinary ring to Lorenzo de Medici.

LORENA GINORI

A young, impetuous Florentine condemned to marry a man whom she finds loathsome. Francesco, her father, is not prepared to allow his daughter’s personal feelings to get in the way of a marriage that would be so advantageous to the family’s social standing.

LUCA ALBIZZI

An ambitious nobleman down on his luck, he yearns to recover the lost splendor of his family’s name and be the driving force to avenge the family honor snatched away by the Medici when they expelled his ancestors from Florence.

CATERUCCIA

Purchased as a slave on the occasion of Lorena’s birthday, she is much more than an exotic servant from the Black Sea, for thanks to her conscientious caring she has won a place in the hearts of the Ginori family.

GALEOTTO PAZZI

Member of the noble Pazzi family.

BRUNO

Quick-witted bookkeeper at the Tavola Medici in Florence (tavola means bank—its business, such as loans and money-changing, was conducted by men seated behind a tavola, the Italian word for table.)

PIETRO MANFREDI

Prominent Florentine merchant, he hides many secrets behind his elegant facade.

SOFIA PLETHON

Daughter of Gemisthos Plethon, one of the learned scholars saved by escaping to Florence before the Turks conquered Constantinople.

FRANCESCO GINORI

Wealthy trader. Husband of Flavia and father of Lorena.

FLAVIA GINORI

Distinguished Florentine lady. Wife of Francesco and mother of Lorena.

MARIA GINORI

Younger sister of Lorena.

ALESSANDRO GINORI

Elder brother of Lorena.

ELIAS LEVI

Prestigious rabbi.

MICHEL BLANCH

Nothing can be revealed about this character, not even whether he finally makes an appearance.

Part One

1478–1480

1

Cardona, Spain

April 3, 1478

My life has been one long succession of errors and tomorrow I shall die.

It was only after many years had passed that his son grasped the full meaning of these words. The fact is the truth was too terrible for Mauricio Coloma to accept unquestioningly. Chained up in that claustrophobic and foul-smelling cell in Cardona Castle, his father was the very embodiment of defeat, bitterness, and suffering.

Torture, Mauricio supposed, was the reason his father had been reduced to such a pitiful condition. His hair had been shaved and his skull was a mass of blood-stained scabs. His broken nose forced him to breathe through his mouth and when he spoke he seemed to choke on his own words. His dislocated jaw and swollen features completely distorted his expression. Only his light-colored eyes reminded Mauricio of the man he had always known. They shone with even more intensity than usual, as if to devour all the attention of his only son in these last moments left him as he awaited death.

The previous week Pedro Coloma, his father, had gone to Cardona Castle to claim payment for a large order of fabric. During his stay in the fortress, the Count of Cardona stabbed the king’s herald after a heavy meal lubricated by far too much wine. The affair would have been of no concern to a modest proprietor of textile mills in Barcelona, had he not been a witness to the murder. Chosen to be the scapegoat for this most unfortunate incident, Pedro Coloma was accused of committing the crime with the aim of encouraging a new rebellion of the serfs, whose just grievances had already provoked ten long years of civil war. In this way, by adding another death to the first, the hot-tempered Count of Cardona aimed to avoid both the royal rage and the payment of the old debt owed to his father.

Surely there must be some way of preventing your execution! exclaimed Mauricio, as if mere words could have the power to change the inevitable.

Devastated by a pain so deep that it seemed to pierce his soul, as if it were torn fabric, consumed by a searing fire forcing its way through his feeling of complete impotence, stunned by a torrent of emotions that clouded all understanding as if an explosion of gunpowder had shattered his brain, Mauricio could hardly bear not being able to help the person he loved so much. Mauricio’s mother, the only woman his father had ever loved, died giving birth to him and in his innermost heart he felt he had never fulfilled the hope placed in him. And now, when his father most needed him, most, he was failing him yet again.

My son, you are now twenty-one years of age. Since your childhood, I have allowed your passion for books to be a refuge from the reality you preferred to avoid. But now, the time for dreaming has come to an end.

His father’s abrupt rebuke shook him to the core, dissipating a kind of haze that had always shielded him like a protective barrier from direct contact with his most painful emotions, those he did not wish to confront. It was no longer possible to escape that anguish by plunging into the mists of his imagination. His father’s steady, challenging gaze prevented him from doing so.

Once you have left this cell I shall confess to the crime I did not commit, said Pedro Coloma. No one can bear pitiless and prolonged torture. The reason I have been able to resist without surrendering has been my stubborn insistence on seeing you in exchange for my admission of guilt. They were even denying me that last wish. Now listen to me carefully, for we have little time left. Tomorrow, at dawn, I shall be executed for high treason. They will take my life and confiscate all my possessions. You will be left penniless and forced to live like a beggar unless you do exactly as I say.

There was no room left in Mauricio’s mind to worry about his uncertain future. Motherless and possessing neither brothers nor sisters, whatever he was he owed to the person who had cared for him since childhood with tenderness, patience, and love. Had it been possible, he would not have hesitated for a moment to take his father’s place, for his only wish was for the salvation of the man who was still trying to guide him, even now, from the very depths of the pit of sorrow that fate had assigned as his ultimate dwelling place. However, the only choice left to him was to listen to the instructions from that paternal voice, every word laden with doom.

You must search for a jewel of incalculable value hidden in our home in Barcelona. As you know, the entrance hall of our house is made up of tiles laid out in eight black and white rows, like a chessboard. Under the tile where you would place the white king, you will discover a ring crowned with the most beautiful emerald you could possibly imagine. Not even King Solomon at the very height of his glory could have possessed such a precious jewel.

Mauricio was completely taken aback. The textile trade was prosperous, but not to the extent of purchasing such a fabulous jewel. Hidden there, lay a great secret. The secret for which his father had been able to withstand such atrocious torture that even his captors had to admit defeat. The secret that he wanted to pass on before he died. The secret whose radiance would mark Mauricio’s life. His father, by this time, was speaking slowly and haltingly, and, by dint of enormous effort, took several deep breaths before continuing.

When you find the ring, cross the Pyrenees swiftly, with no looking back. Do not tarry or you will be incriminated for being in possession of family property that should have been confiscated with the rest of our belongings. Do not try and sell it secretly either or a moneylender will offer you a ridiculous price in exchange for not giving you away. Follow my counsel and go to Florence, the prodigious city, he urged while close by the hoarse laughter of the guards could be heard behind the door. "Lorenzo Il Magnifico, the magnanimous prince without a crown, is the governor of that city and his great passion for precious stones is well known. There you can start a new life."

Where does this stone come from, father? Is there something else I should know? Mauricio demanded, hearing the creaking of the door hinges.

His father coughed and breathlessly continued with his surprising utterances, ignoring the jailer’s footsteps.

I should have explained so many things to you while I still had time … I am a descendant of Jews and, although you might not like this, a certain number of our family were moneylenders. It is possible that they took the ring as a guarantee against an unpaid debt, though I am not sure, as the jewel has been passed from father to son for centuries. Accustomed as they are to persecutions, Jews have always observed the habit of keeping objects of great value, which could easily be transported or concealed. In that way, should they be forced into exile, they could always rebuild their lives in another country after selling whatever valuable object they had discreetly brought with them, just as you should now do.

Your time’s up, announced the jailer.

His father broke down in tears and Mauricio clasped him to his chest, wishing to convey in that final contact all the love that he had sometimes been unable to express: a love that flowed with more strength than he had ever felt, an uncontrollable torrent of emotion sweeping aside everything in its path. Gone was the overflowing latrine, the lurking rats sensing death, the slimy contents of an earthen bowl masquerading as food, gone was the disfigured face of his father. All that remained was love. An immense love that soared up like a chant, as if the dismal cell were, in reality, a cathedral of the spirit.

Do you know, muttered his father, I sometimes wonder if the Grand Rabbi Abraham Abulafia might have punished me for being the first of his descendants to betray the Jewish faith. Pray for me, I beg of you.

Questions pierced Mauricio’s mind like lacerating arrows but nevertheless, to save his father from more pain, he kept the anxieties rising up inside him to himself. It had never even crossed his mind that Jewish blood ran through his veins. That confession implied that his grandparents had not been true Christians, but merely marranos: false converts, who practiced their Jewish rites in secret. Mauricio felt the heavy hands of the guards grabbing him from behind and he clung to his father with all his strength.

Do not lose heart, father. God awaits you once you have left this inferno.

When the jailers finally managed to pry them apart, Mauricio knew it would be the last time he would ever see his father. His last words echoed within him like a blessing.

My death will be a new beginning, my son. The bad luck that has blighted our family will be forever buried with my lifeless body. Whatever sins we may have committed in the past will be forgotten. You will start a new life in Florence and good fortune will accompany you. All hopes for the future of our lineage reside in you, the last living Coloma of our household. May our past not prove to have been a voyage undertaken in vain. Remember these words, my last words, and do as I told you. Accept my dying voice as that of one who knows.

2

Florence, Italy

April 26, 1478

On the fifth Sunday after Easter, Mauricio entered Florence early. Behind him, the enormous watchtowers and impenetrable walls protecting the city seemed to be telling him there was no going back. The past lay buried in Barcelona. Far more turbulent waters than those he had just crossed on his sea journey from the ciudad condal, the city of counts, were awaiting him in his new destination. A ring and a small amount of money, just enough to enable him to survive for a few days, were all he possessed to help him forge his future.

Hesitantly, he entered the church of Santo Spirito and, resting on one of its well-worn benches, closed his eyes and nostalgically recalled memories of his childhood when his father would recount stories from the Bible just before he went to sleep: the creation of the universe in seven days, the expulsion from the Garden of Eden, Noah’s Ark, the Tower of Babel, the epic story of the child Joseph and his gift for interpreting dreams. Indeed the holy book provided the best opportunity for delving beyond the visible world. What was there before God created light, the firmament, and the stars? Were they infinite these stars that illuminated nights on earth? The young Mauricio would ponder on these and other similar questions in the darkness of his bedroom long after his father had extinguished the wick of his oil lamp. It was then that he would find consolation in the mother he had never known, who would smile down on him from heaven and encourage him to reach out and find the answers to all these hidden mysteries. His father, who was perhaps linked by some invisible bridge to the heavens, had always protected him and allowed him to escape from the workshop and immerse himself in the mass of reading matter piled up in the house of his old friend Juan, an esteemed Barcelona bookshop owner. It was there, in the tranquility of a solitary garret that he had learned to live other lives and to travel to distant lands. That world, replete in equal parts of mystery and security was now irretrievably lost.

Like an empty shell tossed around by the wind, like a grain of sand lost in the desert, like a tremulous dew drop threatened by the sun … there was no metaphor that could describe the utter confusion and loss provoked in him by the unjust death of his father. His past was full of secrets and untruths and the future promised to be as unpredictable as a storm at sea. The emerald was his only hope to avoid sinking into a pit of misery and even that thought provoked bitter remorse in him.

Had it not been for the resplendent ring, his father would not have been tortured in an ordeal reserved for the worst criminals. Had it not outshone the stars, his father would not have spent the last days of his existence wracked by unbearable agony. Had it not resembled a sacred jewel, fashioned in the forge of the gods, his father would have bid farewell to life with a short sigh, just enough time for the executioner to gain a pair of boots and a few blood-spattered coins. However, the emerald was made of the same substance as heavenly bodies, his father had fought to the limits of his endurance in order to reveal its existence to his son, and he in turn, fulfilling his role in the drama, had come to Florence to sell this mysterious stone.

What was the provenance of this sublime jewel? Why had his father never spoken of it? He had deliberately concealed an important part of his family history, inexorably related to his unexpected Hebraic connections. Mauricio could understand his father’s reluctance to speak about a past that Mauricio himself was ashamed of. It was very hard for his Christian pride to accept that he was descended from Jewish converts to Christianity, and in some way he felt as if a part of him was contaminated by a lie. And yet there were so many facts about his origins he was still unaware of … What if his father’s omissions were caused by some other hidden reason? Perhaps there was mortal danger in uncovering something that he had taken such trouble to hide.

Although he was invaded by incomprehension, anguish, and sadness in these dark hours, one unquenchable desire emerged through the gloom of his soul like a litany repeated a thousand times: to accomplish the mission that his father had entrusted him with in his last breath, grasping a message called hope from the jaws of death. He would not allow his sacrifice to go in vain. For the first time in his life, he told himself, he had to rise to the hopes placed in him.

Whatever sins we may have committed in the past will be forgotten. You will start a new life in Florence and good fortune will accompany you. Those words rang in his ears and filled him with confidence. He pleaded to Jesus Christ that his father’s posthumous blessing would guide his steps and then left the church.

As Mauricio crossed over the bridge of Santa Trinita, memories of the textile trade in Barcelona came back to him. On both banks of the River Arno, crowds of men were washing wool with a mixture of liquid disinfectant and horse urine, which impregnated the air with its penetrating odor, while others rinsed out the trimmed sheep wool in the river waters. Beaters struck the soaking wool stretched out on wicker frames while others finished the process on the edge of the river, combing and separating the fibers.

They were all carrying out tough, badly remunerated jobs. The carders and spinners were not well paid either. If a thief were to steal his ring, he too would be condemned to live in poverty. Afraid to lose the jewel in a stroke of ill fortune, Mauricio decided to head toward the Medici Palace without further delay.

He had dressed for the occasion in a suit of clothes his father had presented him with the year before in honor of his twentieth birthday. It was his best attire: a white linen shirt, a blue silk doublet, and elegant red hose. A velvet sash concealed the knot that connected the top of the hose to the doublet. Without a doubt, he looked like a wealthy merchant. But he was no Florentine. The gentlemen of that city were scrupulously clean shaven and wore either scarlet hats or strips of cloth resembling turbans on their heads. In contrast, his long hair flowing in the wind and bushy beard made him stand out as a foreigner. If he looked in the slightest way disoriented or hesitant, he would soon attract the attention of the ruffians that lurk in all cities in search of unsuspecting victims. Danger lay in wait for him everywhere, including at the inn where he had left his belongings. The owner, a greedy-eyed man, had filled him with deep mistrust when he described the best way to reach the Medici Palace.

With this in mind, though wandering lost in a labyrinth of narrow streets, he affected confidence and kept up a steady pace, preferring not to stop and look around at the small drapers’ shops built into the old Roman walls or wander around the many shops and workshops where traders and artisans offered a wealth of captivating wares. Not even the fragrant smells of the colorful market could stop his progress, in spite of not having eaten lunch. Tender capons, juicy venison, fresh fruit, sweet honey, and cheeses swarming with flies would all have to wait until he had sold the ring.

When some hens bustled noisily out into the street coming from a large arched doorway, a smile fleetingly crossed Mauricio’s face for the first time. Perhaps, he told himself, the disoriented fowl were fleeing from the noisy hammering resonating from within, beyond the vaulted entrance. He was probably in front of one of the renowned workshops producing Florentine art and whose importance could be measured by the quantity of hens they possessed; as in Barcelona, fresh egg yolk was used to seal the colors in tempera paintings. Mauricio had never seen so many artists’ studios or such exquisite shops. There was no question he was in the city of arts and fashion, although this distinction, just like in Barcelona, was not enough to prevent the cobbled streets from being spattered with the excrement of horses, donkeys, mules, and other beasts of burden. It was inevitable, he mused, the richer the city the more it will reek of dung. And Florence was extremely rich.

When he caught sight of the immense dome of the cathedral dominating the reddish rooftops of the city, his face could barely hide an expression of amazed wonder. Never could he have imagined that such an immense dome could ever have been built. Mauricio wondered if it would be big enough to house under its great shadow the forty thousand inhabitants of this great metropolis, one of the most populated in Christendom. Forcing himself not to delay however, he kept walking. Continuing down the Via Larga, a few steps away, stood the Medici Palace. Now there was no getting lost.

Sure enough, at the next crossroad he not only found the Medici Palace, but it would seem the very man himself, Lorenzo Il Magnifico. He was almost certain he was not mistaken. With a serene expression, he was quietly conversing in front of the door of the palace with someone who seemed to be an extremely young cardinal. His scarlet cassock, the galero crowning his head, and the purple silk sash all proclaimed his position. In the case of Lorenzo, it was impossible to identify him from his attire. The velvet doublet he wore, reaching down to his ankles, only revealed the fact that he enjoyed an excellent social position, unlike lesser fortunate mortals whose doublets made of inferior material reached no lower than their knees. However, the irregular features of his face coincided exactly with the description that Mauricio had received.

Tall and sturdy, he had an enormous nose with a caved-in bridge that twisted toward the right, making it difficult for the rest of his features to find their place; each one seemed to belong to a different person. His large sunken eyes were too widely set apart from his long nose; his strong chin and prominent jaw were disproportionate in comparison with the rest of his face, and his broad clear brow was abruptly slashed across by thick, angular eyebrows. His thin lips made a marked contrast to the exuberance of the rest of his features. Probably these asymmetrical traits embodied the secret of Lorenzo, for Il Magnifico was a man of many parts.

Prince of Florence in all things other than title, the city being officially a republic, his virtues were incalculable. An astute politician, discoverer, and protector of artists, as skilful jousting on horseback as wielding a pen, he was considered one of the finest poets in Italy. Owner of the Medici Bank, the most renowned in Europe, he was moreover the very soul of the Accademia Platonica, a meeting place for philosophers and the most illustrious minds in Christendom. An athlete and skilled swordsman, orator, and scholar, he also loved social gatherings, where he shone as a musician and dancer. Mauricio’s whole future depended on how this man of genius would receive him.

He weighed up whether to address the prince without a crown in Latin but dismissed the thought. Although he had studied Latin, he only used it to read, pray, and listen to mass. His delivery would surely seem coarse to someone educated by the very best teachers and who used Latin every day in conversation and letters. Fortunately, he could speak the language of Tuscany. Many years ago his father had brought in the master dyer Sandro Tubaroni as a partner in the family textile business. This roguish Florentine had stolen certain commercial secrets about the oricello lichen from the house of Rucellai, thanks to which the business back in the ciudad condal had seen a marked increase in its sales. However, Sandro Tubaroni was no vulgar robber of other people’s secrets, but rather a genial, dramatic Italian, as much a lover of the good things in life as he was of art. Fascinated by the magnificent illustrated copy of La Divina Commedia that Sandro had brought with him from Italy, Mauricio industriously copied in longhand Dante Alighieri’s masterpiece. In this way, imitating the superb style of writing and, thanks to the Florentine master’s willingness to teach him, he ended up learning the language that charmed him as much by its musicality as by the spectacular images conjured up by the brilliance of the poet. Paradoxically enough, Mauricio reflected, seemingly useless activities carried out for sheer pleasure could turn out to be more productive in the end than those one has been forced to do.

But there was no more time for reflection. It was time for action. Mauricio’s feet, ignoring the doubts in his mind, carried him right up to Lorenzo. There was no turning back now.

Most distinguished Lorenzo, Mauricio exclaimed, overcoming his fears, your fame transcends frontiers, reaching every corner of the world. For this reason I have journeyed from Barcelona to offer you a jewel fit for an emperor.

The young cardinal made a dismissive gesture with his hand suggesting that they were not interested in hearing him out. In spite of this, Lorenzo smiled and addressed him.

I am much obliged by your offer, but I am no more than a simple citizen. I am no emperor. I am not even a nobleman.

Lorenzo’s modesty was feigned, because everyone knew he held the reins of power in Florence. His answer therefore was an invitation to continue talking. The cardinal, on the other hand, seemed to be in a great hurry.

Lorenzo, I beg of you, enjoined the prelate. Let us not delay or we shall arrive late.

Mauricio understood that if he wanted to keep the great man of Florence’s attention he had to succeed with the words that followed. He had to keep trying even though he might be ignored.

My lord, the jewel I carry is a unique talisman. But it is also extremely proud. If you turn your back on it, perhaps it will take offence and be unwilling to give you the benefit of its light.

Mauricio had been daring and maybe his boldness would capture Lorenzo’s attention. His inordinate fondness for jewels and amulets, for which he was prepared to pay small fortunes, was widely known.

Il Magnifico smiled again and gestured to the cardinal to restrain his impatience.

It is never good to offend if it can be avoided. Show me, then, what you have brought from afar.

Mauricio reached down to his belt and untied the cord of a small leather pouch hanging from it. On taking out the ring he was once again enraptured, as if he had seen it for the first time. On a square base of old gold rested an emerald of such beauty that it seemed fashioned by the gods rather than belonging to this world. Deep green and luminous, the gem seemed to pulsate with a life of its own. Cut by a masterly hand, the stone resembled a kind of cosmic cube mounted upon two clasps of white gold that were encrusted with tiny diamonds. On the underside of the base written in Castilian Spanish was the inscription, "Luz, luz, más luz": Light, light, more light.

Lorenzo avidly devoured the ring with his eyes and took it in his hands. His wide-open eyes denoted extraordinary interest.

I have never seen anything like this before. It is absolutely exceptional. How much do you want for it, sir? asked Lorenzo, after fitting the jewel on his ring finger as if he was already its new owner.

Mauricio Coloma, native of Barcelona, your humble servant in Florence, and of justice in all places, he replied solemnly, mentally calculating how much Lorenzo would be willing to pay. He was facing a man of some thirty years of age, powerful, self-confident, and the owner of an incalculable fortune. The fact was he already had the ring in his possession. If he decided not to pay him even a florin, what could Mauricio do against the most important man in Florence?

Cardinal Raffaele, forgive our boldness, interrupted two recent arrivals. The archbishop of Pisa begs you not to tarry more in coming to the cathedral. The entire city awaits you.

Mauricio looked at these men. Both were clad in tight-fitting, dark green jackets with long sleeves and of sober cut. Over this livery they wore a sleeveless tunic free of any adornment. From their appearance and attitude they must have been servants of the cardinal acting as heralds.

Young Raffaele looked pleadingly at Lorenzo, who reacted promptly.

It is not proper for a good host to make his most distinguished guests wait. And even less so an entire city. Let us leave then without delay. Please grant me the favor of accompanying us, Mauricio. When holy mass is over, we shall have time to value this fabulous jewel you have had the sensibility to bring to my door.

Mauricio had been warned that Florentines are as elegant with their words as they are treacherous in their actions. And here he was walking toward the Duomo, cathedral of Florence, together with a cardinal and a poet prince. Nevertheless, he no longer had the ring: Lorenzo did. Would he offer a fair price? Or would he decide to keep it without paying him even a florin? Mauricio had very few reasons to trust the nobility.

A very thin line divided poverty from great luxury. Only a short walk separated the grandiose Medici Palace from the peasants and workers he had seen that morning on the other side of the River Arno. They usually lived crammed into small houses built of adobe and sandstone with barely any windows or light, one bed for the whole family and a coarse linen shirt as their only garment. Who was free to choose their destiny? His own rested entirely on the jewel that Lorenzo was so casually sporting on his finger.

3

Florence

April 26, 1478

My face seems like a stranger’s, someone I never knew, thought Lorena Ginori as she gazed at her reflection in the large oval mirror in her bedroom. Was it really possible that such a bitter destiny awaited one so young?

Her faithful Cateruccia was putting the finishing touches to her mistress’s hair with the curling tongs that brought out the natural wave in her chestnut-colored locks. That was the physical trait Lorena was most proud of: she hardly needed to brush her hair for those corkscrew ringlets, which all women longed for, to appear. Her younger sister, on the other hand, could spend hours wielding curling tongs, only to end up with a far less effective result than Lorena could achieve after a mere few minutes.

Today though, she did not care about her hairstyle, nor her beautiful dress, a brilliant shade of blue that her father’s looms alone had managed to create after many attempts. Kept in secret, this morning they were to display it for the first time in front of the cream of Florentine society during the Sunday High Mass that was to be attended by Lorenzo de Medici, the archbishop of Pisa, and Cardinal Raffaele Riario, nephew to the pope.

Only two days before, she would have found it difficult to get to sleep with the excitement of such an important event. But the fact she had barely slept the night before was not because of the mass that was to take place in the splendid cathedral of Florence, but rather the weeping provoked by the sad future her father was about to impose upon her. She also thought that the unwished-for future was the cause of a macabre nightmare that had terrified her that night: a vision of the high altar of the Duomo stained red with innocent blood. She could hardly have imagined that her nightmares would become true that very morning as a result of a conspiracy to assassinate Lorenzo de Medici in Florence Cathedral during the solemn moment of the Eucharist.

Throughout her childhood, Lorena had experienced recurring premonitions that would appear to her suddenly in a blinding flash and that would predict certain events. Her father had never believed in them. On the contrary, he had punished her severely for what he considered to be dangerous, compulsive lies. Her mother, frightened that such abnormal happenings could reach the ears of the religious authorities who would favor exorcising the girl, advised her not to breathe a word. Although tormented, Lorena had learned to keep silent; as time passed, the troublesome visions had become less frequent until they finally disappeared altogether from her life and her memory. At least, that is what Lorena thought.

And so, unaware of the events that would leave their mark on the course she and Florence were to take, she descended the stairs that led from the main bedrooms to the ground floor, where her parents and brother and sister were waiting for her. On seeing her parents, all she could feel was coldness in her heart. No emotion, neither warm nor loving, nestled within her.

Your eyes are all red, said her mother with concern.

And you are paler than a three-day old corpse, added her father with his characteristic sensitivity.

Lorena could feel her eyes welling again, but before she burst into tears an unprecedented, intense feeling swept through her body, making her shake so violently that it seemed as if she was possessed by something with a life of its own.

I already told you yesterday that I did not want to marry Galeotto Pazzi! she heard herself scream, surprising herself with her own reaction.

Let us not start that again! retorted her father, You’re over sixteen and you’re a woman now. It is not about what you want to do, but what you ought to do. Within three months the marriage will take place, according to the agreement I made with the Pazzi family.

You’ll grow to like Galeotto, my child, intervened her mother gently. Many young women would give anything to marry such a gentleman. The Pazzi are aristocrats. Their wealth equals that of the powerful Medici family and their lineage is without a doubt superior. It would not be preposterous to think that maybe one day in the not-too-distant future the government of Florence could fall into their hands.

Lorena was still filled with the powerful force that seemed to surge from her very depths and take over her personality. Although she knew it was not fitting, she needed to protest and scream that what they wanted to do with her life was unjust.

Well let these young women marry Galeotto! Do I have to endure his foul smelling breath every time he pleases? Lie with a man who revolts me and serve him? Never!

How can you be so selfish? demanded her father.

Lorena could see in his eyes the fierce determination that burned in him when he was convinced of being right, which, in other words, was always.

You know full well, he continued, "how difficult it has been for me to attain the prominent position I now occupy in the guild of the Calimala. We have even been able to buy this small palace. Were your grandparents still alive their eyes would shine with pride. And now we are being offered an unsurpassable opportunity! To marry an affluent member of the nobility! Do you not see the doors opening in front of our very eyes? Perhaps your children, my grandchildren, will one day become part of the government of Florence. How can you think only of yourself when the whole future of our family is in the balance? It is inconceivable!"

Lorena understood only too well those reasons and felt ashamed that her attitude might obstruct the social ascent of the family. Nevertheless, her whole being was screaming and enjoining her to resist to her very last breath. Amazed at her own daring, once again she answered back.

Galeotto Pazzi is pot-bellied and his breath always reeks of wine. He is not only vulgar, but also conceited. I wouldn’t hesitate if I only had to marry a name. But what you want is for me to marry an older man who will revolt me with his intimacy. In God’s name are there no other options?

None as suitable as this one, explained her mother. Your father has already arranged this alliance with the Pazzi family, so there is no more to discuss as far as this is concerned. Galeotto’s company will not be as disagreeable as you think. His pastimes and his business will keep him occupied most of the time. Once you have children you will be able to run the household and educate them in the manner you think most appropriate. Now you are young and impetuous. As you mature and see your children grow with all the opportunities within their reach, you will understand the destiny your father chose for you was not as bad as you thought.

Lorena wondered if her mother was talking from her own experience. Her voice had a ring of truth. Did she have some way of escape or was it better to resign herself? Her father’s countenance was unyielding. She knew perfectly well that his greatest dream was to overcome the barrier that separated the prosperous merchant from the influential oligarchy that ruled Florence. This union could make it possible. Her father would never give in. Her mother’s feelings would not change the future they had in store for her. Nor would the opinion of her younger sister, who was observing the whole scene wide-eyed, paralyzed, and dumb with astonishment. Maria, only twelve and a half years old, was a big child who never complained or protested. How could her sister understand this desperate reaction if Lorena was the first one to be surprised? As for her elder brother Alessandro, his indignant and disapproving expression did not have to be put into words. As the only male child, he was obliged to aggrandize the name of Ginori, and he seemed almost as angry as his father.

This marriage is a matter of honor for the whole family, her father admonished in a harsh tone. You should be proud instead of arguing. Or is it those books of yours that have softened your brain? I have told your mother a thousand times that it is not appropriate for a refined young lady to spend so much time reading. The real world doesn’t consist of those outlandish troubadours that you so delight in. You live in Florence, not in an idyllic poem. It will be done as I say. And now let us depart for the cathedral or we shall arrive late for mass.

Lorena crumbled. What could she do? Only just sixteen, she was practically a child and had no means with which to oppose her father’s will. She felt small and insignificant … Unable to contain herself, she sat down and burst into tears, burying her face in the folds of her skirt.

It’s pointless, Francesco, she heard her mother saying. It would be better if Lorena does not come with us to the cathedral. Her eyes are far too swollen and red.

But the dress …

It is not suitable, Francesco. Can’t you see the state the girl is in? Her whole face is disfigured. What will people say? It is preferable that she stays at home and gets over it. It will do her good. Cateruccia will stay here and look after her.

Once her parents had left, Lorena knelt in front of the crucifix in her room and implored the Redeemer to perform a miracle.

Oh Lord, you who are all powerful, you know I worship you, please prevent this marriage and give me another husband.

Would God listen to her prayers or consider them too selfish to heed?

4

When the sacred chalice was raised in full view of the congregation, Mauricio only had eyes for the ring on Lorenzo’s hand. He felt unworthy for not paying due attention to the miraculous conversion of bread and wine into the flesh and blood of Christ. But had he not been so preoccupied by the jewel, he would not have seen a priest pull a knife from under his tunic and seize Lorenzo by his shoulder while another cleric rushed forward to stab him.

Without a moment’s hesitation, Mauricio sprang up and violently pushed the attacker, who crashed to the ground. Beware sire, he shouted as he fought with the other priest. It was perhaps thanks to this that Lorenzo had time to react and break loose from the priest who was holding him down. His neck was cut just below his right ear and was bleeding. Ignoring the wound, Il Magnifico wrapped his left arm with his cape, using it as an improvised shield to repel another attack from the priest who was trying to kill him.

What was happening? There was no time to speculate. If Lorenzo died, all would be lost, including Mauricio’s last hope. A large group of men armed with daggers and swords appeared, running at full speed

Reviews for The Florentine Emerald

[manyra-1 · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

I'd like to echo what the others have said. It may have been because it's a translation but the characters seemed static and much of the dialogue was a dry history lesson.

Still, I kept thinking about the story, looking forward to picking it up again. The pace picked up towards the end and the interactions became more natural.

I've read better books about Renaissance Florence and worse. It is a worthwhile read.