Medici Justice

By Brett Savill

The Ottoman army is sweeping across Europe, yet Christian nations are too divided by hatred to join forces. In Florence, the Pazzi family tries unsuccessfully to overthrow the ruling Medici. One assassin escapes to Istanbul where Kit Smith is tasked with bringing him back to justice. In London, Beatrice Caldwell loses everything when the Medici confiscate her assets. She must pursue those responsible from one city to the next to recover what she has lost, and find out what is truly important

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu Publishing Services
• Release date: Nov 27, 2019
• ISBN: 9781684713882

Brett Savill

Brett Savill's introduction to innovation came when he helped Intel Capital at PricewaterhouseCoopers (PwC). As well as working with start-ups, he is an experienced executive, non-executive director, and adviser in the corporate, government and not-for-profit sectors. Brett has been a CEO, COO, CFO, and corporate development director. He is also a former PwC partner and senior adviser at Alvarez and Marsal, as well as Chair of leading addiction charity, SMART Recovery Australia. He has a BA (Hons), MBA, and is a Fellow of the Australian Institute of Directors. In his spare time, he plays golf badly and writes fiction.

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SAVILL

Copyright © 2019 Brett Savill.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored, or transmitted by any means—whether auditory, graphic, mechanical, or electronic—without written permission of the author, except in the case of brief excerpts used in critical articles and reviews. Unauthorized reproduction of any part of this work is illegal and is punishable by law.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

ISBN: 978-1-6847-1389-9 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-6847-1388-2 (e)

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Scripture taken from the King James Version of the Bible.

Lulu Publishing Services rev. date:  11/20/2019

PART ONE

Many shall be restored who are now fallen

Many shall fall that are now in honour.

Horace

Chapter One

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A FRIEND, A FELON OR A FOE

F rom across the Bosphorus, the muffled echo of the call to prayer proclaimed this was the capital, not just of the Sultan’s empire, but the whole world.

Ash-hadu anna Muhammadan-Rasul ullāh: I acknowledge that Mohammed is the messenger of God.

Hayya’alas-ṣalāh; Hayya ʿalal-falāḥ: Hasten to prayer; hasten to success.

Kit Smith stretched forward to kiss the girl with a sudden realisation that these moments were so precious because they were so fleeting. Dusty air chaffed his lungs. He felt the scratches where her fingernails had raked the soft skin of his stomach. He glimpsed the gap-teeth through the curtain of her hair. Never in his short life had he been closer to anyone, if only he ignored the irreconcilable gulf between them. Wider, much wider, than the Bosphorus. In the half-light of the warehouse, he could make out discarded clothing littering the floor between the piles of Italian paper, the spices and the fox pelts. He knew they would have to return to their respective lives soon.

Just a few moments more.

He closed his eyes just as someone began to clap. The sound echoed through the warehouse, jolting him from the sad tranquillity that followed pleasure. The girl screamed, covered the frail rigging of her ribcage, and scampered out of sight. His heart went with her. They had to be more careful in future. The warehouse door slammed, and he rearranged his clothing with as much dignity as he could muster all the while trying to squint into the darkness.

A well-spoken voice boomed from the shadows. ‘You used to be so God-fearing, apprentice. How times have changed. She flees from her sins, whilst you luxuriate in them.’

‘I’m a factor now, not an apprentice,’ Kit spluttered, thinking he recognized the accent.

‘Well, I’m unstinting in my devotion.’ The speaker articulated each syllable as though he was bestowing a favour.

‘You lay so much stress on your devotion it’s difficult to value it.’ Kit scrambled to his feet with his fists raised as the figure stepped into the light. ‘Antonio de’ Medici? How the devil did you find me?’

‘The devil had nothing to do with it.’

Antonio wore black velvet with ruffled sleeves and a matching beret feathered and tasselled and banded in gold. No matter how fashionable in Italy, it was a poor choice of ensemble. He stood an inch or two shorter than Kit and must have been forty years old. His hair was black and oiled - so different from Kit’s curly mop - and his plump lips twitched, as if struggling to suppress a smile of gentilezza condescension that arose from a secret he was too generous to reveal.

Antonio sauntered forward until he was only a few inches away. ‘You’re as blond and gangly as ever, and just as insolent.’ He paused to smirk at Kit’s raised fists. ‘I know you delight in vexing me, notwithstanding my goodwill. However, for the sake of my mission, I’ll not be goaded. I’m here to recover an assassin. A filthy, godless assassin. And you’re to assist me.’

Kit bent down to pull on his boots. ‘We’ll see about that,’ he grunted. ‘I last saw you when they kicked you out of Bruges. They couldn’t stand you then, and you’ve not changed.’

‘Nonsense. I’m diplomat to the nation of Florence, serving Lorenzo himself; whereas you’ve moved from lapdog to lying with the enemy.’

Kit straightened to face him. ‘We’re only allies in commerce with the Sultan.’

‘Allies in commerce but not in Christ. Alas.’ Only this bitter thought could wring sincerity from his mocking lips. ‘Follow me.’

They stepped out of the warehouse, and into the evening sun. It was a short walk across the courtyard, and the silence was broken only by the scrunching of Kit’s boots and the diplomat’s silken slippers. Above them, a bank of clouds shone with the preternatural brilliance of an eggshell. Twilight at dusk was different from daybreak: the darkness was active; the light drowsy, as if anticipating its forthcoming retreat.

In front of them stood Lorenzo Carducci, flanked by his wife and daughter. The light made their dresses glow; expensive fabric, excellent seamwork. Old Lorenzo had a baggy, lived-in face so folded in wrinkles it appeared to come from a larger man. He crossed himself as he entered the house, and Kit remembered the tie-beam under the floorboards burnt with a dozen interlocking Vs to protect his family from evil.

Lorenzo’s daughter stood on tip toe to whisper in his ear. ‘We told the diplomat you were book-keeping. Or was it double-entry?’

Kit blushed. Exposure to this savage city had left her with the manners of an infidel. He helped Lorenzo to his seat knowing his master’s position was precarious. If he did badly, his contract could be terminated, and the trade passed to another merchant. If he did too well, the bank might give his position to a Medici family member thus severing his livelihood entirely.

Two pitchers of Syrah stood sweating at either end of the table. ‘Servant pour us wine,’ commanded the old man. ‘Many said we’d be bankrupted when the tariffs were raised, yet here we are.’ The servant raised the pitcher and the liquid formed a glowing thread in the candlelight. They toasted his Holiness the Pope. They toasted their masters in Florence. They toasted God and Profit.

‘Surviving,’ scoffed Antonio as he surveyed the room.

‘We’re thriving,’ said Kit, proud of his part in their success. ‘We’ve imported four thousand bolts this year, one quarter of the Medici’s entire wool production.’

‘You contradict me?’ said Antonio.

‘No, it was a qualification,’ said the Englishman.

‘That itself is a contradiction, Kitty-kit-kit-kit,’ came the smirking reply.

Three years ago, Kit had arrived in Istanbul as a factor or manager. Old Lorenzo adopted him, and now he was addicted to the city like the old men with their hashish. He saw a path for himself as well, that involved expanding the business until the Medici set up a partnership, rather than using a correspondent. And who better to be that partner than the man who had proved himself, was good with numbers, and knew the local language?

‘What’s the news from Florence, Signor Antonio?’ said Lorenzo’s wife.

‘Fashion improves - this year it’s Roman dress, broad linen wraps draped over one arm - and morality declines,’ he chuntered. ‘My housekeeper had the temerity to marry without my permission. Fortunately, I’m forgiving and allowed her to remain in the house out of regard for her honesty.’ Several hours later, his attractive face wilted from heat or tiredness or too much wine. ‘The Sultan wishes to conquer us, yet we trade with him?’

‘He’s the only one who can release your assassin,’ said Lorenzo.

‘Let me educate you two about our situation. The Pazzi murderers have been punished, except for one who fled shamefully to Istanbul thinking he was safe.’

‘We know about this,’ said Kit. ‘It happened in April and it’s summer already.’

‘You clearly don’t know the Sultan imprisoned the assassin because he’s our friend. Our friend.’

‘It’s been a long journey for you, Signor. You must be tired,’ Kit suggested.

‘Wrong again, apprentice. Fatigue’s a luxury the diplomat cannot afford.’

Kit tried to stifle a laugh. ‘You take the assassin back to Florence for trial?’

‘Execution. We don’t make a golden bridge for a fleeing…’

Fatigue might be a luxury the diplomat could not afford, but his heavy-lidded eyes were overcome by assaults of tiredness that had been amassing since dinner and could no longer be resisted. Less a luxury, more a necessity. A skein of spittle dribbled down his brilliantine beard, even in sleep his lips twitched. Kit almost pitied his curious combination of ambition and indolence.

Antonio jerked awake. ‘We don’t make a golden bridge for a fleeing…’

‘Friend?’ Kit suggested.

‘No, that’s not it at all.’ Antonio shook his head.

‘Felon?’

He nodded until Lorenzo reminded him that it was foe not felon.

‘Foe,’ the diplomat repeated. ‘We don’t make a golden bridge for a fleeing foe. The apprentice will accompany me, and he’ll even be rewarded for his troubles.’

‘No,’ said Kit. The word rippled around the inkhorns and quills and gutting tallow candles, through the pages of the ledgers with their silent, columned sentinels of who owed whom, and what, by when. ‘My place is here. I don’t work for you.’

‘Let’s see, boy. Let’s see where your place is and who you work for.’ Antonio dragged himself off to bed without waiting for a response.

After the door closed, Lorenzo stepped forward to jab Kit in the chest. His eyes were bloodshot, and his shaking hands unravelled the skin of his wrinkled face. ‘You’ve no right to treat him with such disdain.’

‘He’s a pompous prig,’ said Kit, feeling as if something had been pulled from under him.

‘He’s been sent by Lorenzo de’ Medici himself. You say you want to honour me but use my warehouse for whoring. You tell me you want to become a partner, yet you ridicule the Medici representative on a just and holy mission.’

Kit retired to the room he shared with the servants. His head throbbed with alcohol, and something else besides. It was halfway between sunset and sunrise. The red light had gone from the western sky and the white light in the east was some way off. The call to prayer started.

Hayya’alas-ṣalāh; Hayya ʿalal-falāḥ. Hasten to prayer; hasten to success.

He took some time to fall asleep as he tried to make sense of what had happened that day. Philosophers maintained that all knowledge was untrustworthy, even of the self. The reflection in the mirror was not the observer, but a distortion. And in trying to understand himself, man became lost in a room of mirrors endlessly imitating, reversing and bending his reflection into infinity. All he could hope for was the self-knowledge to appreciate his necessary ignorance.

However, Kit did not appreciate his ignorance that night, and he doubted things would be better in the morning. He wanted to rise above his station, yet something undermined him. Rewards were dangled in front of him, things he dearly wanted, and yet he turned them down.

His master, Lorenzo, talked about a mission to return an assassin for execution. However, this did not seem like justice, which was something solid and impersonal. It sounded like revenge. His master also mentioned his ambition to become a partner, but all Kit could think of was the diplomat’s smug face and twitching lips.

A golden bridge, a friend, a felon, a foe.

Chapter Two

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THE WHITE PARROT

K it knew he would not go to Florence with the diplomat which felt like betrayal. At least, it seemed like betrayal, but it might have been something else he could not name. Whatever it was, his alcohol-fuelled, guilt-fogged brain was rattled, and memories surfaced and splintered as he drifted in and out of sleep.

On his first day in Istanbul, three hundred bales of wool towered in a silent censure above him on the quayside. He had sailed there on a Venetian carrack, constructed in the Arsenale, owned by the Republic, and leased by merchants bold enough to risk their capital. He had waited on the docks alone, but for three hundred bales of wool. Invigorated and daunted, he drew in a ragged breath of air. He was twenty-three. Old enough to live with the infidel enemy, yet not so old his absence would be a loss to his masters.

Several hours passed. An old man shuffled over to offer something to drink. Kit refused, the brew smelled of rotten fruit and even inexperienced travellers knew of tricksters who drugged the unwary and the trusting.

Constantinople existed no more because the Sultan had changed its name to Istanbul after he breached her walls, slaughtered her people and desecrated her churches. Having completed this outrage, he invited everyone to return, and promised freedom of worship. The Venetians were allowed back in small numbers. The Genoese were expelled then returned under duress. The Florentines were neither large enough to threaten, nor small enough to be worthless trading partners.

He was to deliver three hundred bales to his new master, but no one was on the docks to greet him. Kit could not leave in case the bales were stolen. He could not instruct someone to find his new master because he was not sure whom to trust. Several more hours passed.

Kit puzzled at why the land seemed to pitch and roll as if he was still at sea. Something must have happened to the message regarding his arrival or, worse still, to Signor Carducci himself. Either way, he was stuck at the quayside with no one to trust.

Darkness fell.

The port became deserted.

His throat was parched, and he was starving having only eaten a small amount at first light. At this rate, he would spend his first night in this foreign land unsleeping, thirsty, ravenous and alone. Sometime later, someone shook him. There was a moment between sleep and wakefulness when the shadows seemed longer and more confusing, the sensations harsher and more threatening.

‘Frankish? Florentine?’ Two men were waving torches, their heads entombed in white head-napkins.

The prod seemed less a gentle awakening, and more a prelude to attack, the Latin was deplorable, and the men had neither the carts to transport the wool, nor the skills to make a merchant mark.

When Kit did not respond, they reverted to a language he did not understand. He drew his dagger. Torches flapped. They started talking more loudly, the invariable antidote to incomprehension.

‘Another Florentine left some hours ago,’ Kit explained in the exaggerated manner of one trying to convince children. He prodded his dagger in their faces until they left, but they reappeared a short while later. ‘Frankish? Florentine?’ they repeated, but he chased them into the darkness.

The moon was half-hidden by the clouds, but it still caused the water to phosphoresce silver and cobalt. How stupid he had been to fall asleep. Or weak. He must not let it happen again. How strange to think that every Medici servant in every branch across every nation could look up at the same moon. How many were alone with such riches, Kit wondered?

He rinsed his face feeling the seawater run down the inside his doublet. He counted each circumnavigation of the wool bales as the moon crept higher, arcing in a parabola across the night sky. He took to singing English ditties from his childhood, Latin hymns from his schooldays and then he remembered Trionfo di Bacco which was said to be written by Lorenzo de’ Medici himself.

Women and young lovers,

Long live Bacchus and long live Love!

Everyone play music, dance and sing!

The heart burns with sweetness!

No toil and no pain!

Kit paused, too tired to recall how it finished. Then from the darkness, a deep bass boomed in response.

That what must be, it had better be

Let those who seek, find joy today,

Tomorrow brings no certain truth.

He almost jumped out of his skin. The singer was old and tall, and at his side, were the two miscreants Kit had seen off earlier. ‘Christopher Smith,’ the singer spoke, as he sang, in the Tuscan dialect, ‘you sent my men in search of a Florentine who doesn’t exist. Not once but twice.’ Kit was about to justify himself, but the old man embraced him. ‘We’ll get on well, patron saint of travellers, for you didn’t leave your post, and I know you’re from London not Florence. So, in truth, you did not lie.’

The memory of his first day in Istanbul disappeared, and Kit sat up with a start. One of the servants in the sleeping quarters was having a bad dream, and he cried out. Then silence. Kit remembered the smirking diplomat who had arrived that day. Anger, like alcohol, raged in his blood. There was a cup of water beside his bedding, which he drank before sinking again into slumber.

The old man who had sung to him on the quayside was Lorenzo Carducci, the Medici correspondent and Kit’s new master. He had been pleased and amused when they first met - Kit had been brave, he had not lied - and the story had been repeated many times since. However, Kit had disappointed him today. More than that, he had humiliated him. He had disdained the Medici’s representative who was on a mission to return an assassin to justice. He had used the warehouse for whoring.

A verse from Psalms summed up his shame: my confusion is continually before me, and the shame of my face hath covered me¹. Tomorrow, he would bite his tongue and help the pompous Antonio de’ Medici.

However, there was no defence against his whoring because the girl was not the first, rather the latest in a long line since coming to Istanbul. There were tall girls, thin girls, fat girls, blondes, red-heads, black girls, girls oiled and shaved smooth so their skin resembled marble; those that cried and those that laughed; screamers who scratched as if their lives were at stake; those who wanted comfort, and those who were so disgusted by the two-backed beast they could not bear their shame.

Of course, he paid them more than they asked, often stowing a trinket in a pocket as he left. Yet having yielded to the madness, shocking in its intensity, he hungered for more.

Honesty, particularly towards oneself, was something he held sacred. Therefore, he did not hide from the truth that he was possessed by some madness far away from the strictures of the church that would be reprehensible in a Christian land. Looking back on his behaviour, there was always some part of him yearning for a girl in London. He imagined her wearing a steepled hennin. A man might be laid low by such a high hat. Her name was Beatrice and this ravenous frenzy was his reparation for the damage her absence caused. That, at least, was how he tried to exonerate his behaviour.

When he first arrived in Istanbul, he had been a docile scribe. However, as time passed, he pressed for greater responsibility, to become a principal in the drama of commerce rather than its off-stage prompt. This was another manifestation of his madness, more subdued this time, but one nevertheless that also grew more voracious as it fed.

Old Lorenzo was reluctant to give Kit more responsibility. He was enjoying the fruits of the long years in Istanbul and Kit knew he must seem, not just an intrusion, but a usurper arriving late and claiming credit. However, the old man was too kindly to be resentful, and too generous not to take some pride in his protégé. Moreover, his ill-health meant Kit progressed to larger and larger transactions. And as he progressed, he demanded more.

A final memory rose unbidden in his raging mind. The Sandal Bedesten, the Grand Bazaar or cloth market, dwarfed anything in Christendom with its stone piers and bays surmounted by roofs and domes. Moreover, it was one of several in the city - the Cevâhir Bedestan for luxuries, the Esir Pazarı for slaves, the Sahaflar Carsisi for books. Locals said the Sultan himself came there in disguise to eat his pudding. If he did, Kit never saw him, but the bazaars were the only place where gentlewomen could go, and where foreigners had a chance to encounter the Imperial Harem and the Court.

The Medici were close to completing their largest trade - six hundred and ninety-four bales for a fat merchant who reclined on cushions fanned by servants. He was a private entrepreneur, known as a Khawaja, entrusted with marketing spices. Kit’s master had let him come alone to complete the paperwork. Above all, he was instructed to ensure payment was received before releasing the wool. Old Lorenzo was exposed at that moment, having goods on several vessels. He was cautious by nature and Kit felt he should be bolder.

‘I’m sorry your master’s not here, blondie.’ Kit nodded knowing the fat merchant thought it amusing a fair Englishman worked for the Florentines. His features were waxy. Sweat discoloured his chemise and pooled in the runnels of his cheeks. He panted as he spoke. ‘I’m sorry your master’s not here because I’ve no money.’

The sentence landed with a plop that radiated around the room. Kit turned away to buy some time. Beside him, a white parrot hooked its beak onto the bars of its cage. He was ordered to ensure payment was received before releasing the wool; however, as he considered the merchant’s waxy skin and glistening face, he recalled a rumour he had heard. It was said the merchant owed money to one of the generals and was being pressured to repay.

‘That’s not what was agreed,’ he said fingering the birdcage.

The fat merchant shrugged - a little too casually to be genuine. Behind the gluttony and the banter, Kit sensed he was sick with fear. He slid the latch on the door of the birdcage. The fat merchant’s chin quivered. The parrot was free to leave but cocked its head as if freedom was a trap.

Some hours later, Kit found his master at dinner enjoying a quiet meal with his family. The old man did not sigh at his lateness. However, as Kit burst in, he wiped the meat from his knife, placed it beside his trencher and nodded. It was all the permission Kit needed.

‘I know you said to ensure the payment’s received before the wool’s released.’

‘Indeed.’

‘But if the Khawaja’s in debt, he might never pay.’ Kit said breathless with excitement.

‘Hence the need for documentation.’ Old Lorenzo dabbed his lips with a cloth.

‘Worse, the Medici name might be tainted by trading with someone no longer in favour,’ Kit continued. ‘How much better to use the situation to get a better deal. In doing him a favour, we’ve extracted goods worth double what he owes.’

‘You were there to complete the paperwork. Have I misunderstood something, Kit?’

‘Perhaps, but only in a good sense. Come see.’

Kit babbled on about how clever he was as Lorenzo followed him to the warehouse. The doors swung open to reveal a trove of fox pelts, silks and spices. He pointed out each in turn, speculating on their value in Venice. The goods were indeed worth double the wool he had given in exchange, provided he could find a buyer. Kit stopped talking after his long, self-congratulatory monologue and there was an even longer silence.

‘You’d make a better partner than a manager, Kit.’ His master kneaded his cheeks as if to press something in or out.

‘Thank you, Signor,’ the Englishman replied.

‘I mean it’s not confidence you lack, but courage.’

Kit felt his success leaking away. ‘How so?’

‘The courage to accept delay over action, the courage to admit you’re not authorized,’ old Lorenzo muttered as he hobbled out of the warehouse stern as the Recording Angel. ‘The courage to ask advice.’

After three years of working with this generous man, of ruing his losses and celebrating his successes, of tending him in illness and sharing his life like an adopted son, Kit felt a fraud. He had taken a huge risk, but it was a risk with his master’s money and reputation and not his own. The door was open, but the parrot remained in the cage. The brave and truthful Englishman was a fornicating impostor.

Somewhere in the distance, a cock crowed. Kit sat up remembering the diplomat and his missing assassin. The sun had risen, and it was morning already. He would help in Istanbul but would not go to Florence.

Chapter Three

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THE TULIP GARDEN WILL BE DESTROYED

‘S o good of you to join us with your clothes on.’

Kit pushed through the crowd of soldiers who were waiting for him to show them the way. They whooped and cheered, so Antonio must have told them about the girl in the warehouse. Out of the corner of his eye, Kit could not avoid seeing the diplomat in his aquamarine cloak with buttons of twisted gold. Clay-coloured eyes dared him to respond. There was a stick in one hand which he played with as if showing off some new fashion.

‘Social graces are what separates man from the madman and the beast,’ said the diplomat. ‘Wouldn’t you agree?’

‘No, I wouldn’t. And who are you to lecture on social graces after you snuck up on me in the warehouse?’ Kit bowed his head as they headed off.

Pera was the suburb of Istanbul where merchant adventurers were housed. Market stalls lined the streets with sweet and salty pastries, chickpeas and watermelons. To the north of Istanbul was the Khanate of Krimea; to the south, Egypt; to the west, Christian lands; and to the east, the Federation of the White Sheep. The city was a cross-roads where it was impossible to identify a cuisine’s provenance, creed or culture. They did not matter, because everything belonged to the Sultan.

‘I’m diplomat to Florence. I live by social graces, whereas you luxuriate in your badly concealed sins. You use your awkwardness as evidence of some rough authenticity,’ continued the diplomat, raising his voice so that everyone in the street could hear. ‘It’s not. It’s a child’s petulant refusal to treat appearance with the seriousness it deserves.’

A camel’s imperious stare and pompous bottom lip reminded Kit of the diplomat. His head ached. Appearance with the seriousness it deserves. He pushed forward to escape the diplomat’s presence. When he thought about Antonio, through the fug of his hangover, he saw a painting of a man - meticulous, mannered, shiny with varnish. Yet if he turned the painting sideways, there was no depth or inner life. Integrity was no more to him than what he wanted to appear, something to be discarded after use like the latest fashion.

The light was furry with smoke and dust. Between the buildings, Kit caught coppiced forests shimmering silver and green. Even after three years, he was still astounded by the untouched depths of the countryside. Lions, tigers and leopards prowled the Anatolian steppe long after they had disappeared from Christian Europe. Truly Istanbul was both savage and civilized at the same time. London, Bruges, and even Florence were dowdy by comparison.

Someone sneezed. In the gutter, a seagull’s decaying body crawled with flies. Hawkers begged to be their first customer, and thereby purchase good luck for the whole day. They talked in a variety of languages, but the soldiers closed ranks as if fearing attack.

The party took a meandering half an hour to walk the length of Pera, and Kit - calmer and more lucid now - was curious to see how Antonio proceeded. The Pazzi family employed the assassin who had fled to Istanbul. Only when he arrived, after the long journey from Florence, the Sultan had him imprisoned. Kit did not expect the meeting to take long. The Sultan left each nation to run according to its own laws provided there was no trouble. He struggled to imagine how much trouble the effete diplomat could cause even with a dozen soldiers. Diplomacy was, after all, the art of negotiation not war.

The door to the Pazzi compound splintered at the first touch of the axe. Antonio waved his stick in one direction and the servants were bundled into a storeroom, he waved it in the other and soldiers ransacked the warehouse. Then he began to search for the ledgers. Crockery smashed, shelves splintered, ground spices stained their clothing.

‘Stop for the love of Sweet Jesus,’ a gentlewoman screamed.

And there was a moment when everything stopped, as if the scene had been arranged for a painting: the soldiers stood motionless in the act of destruction; the servants froze static mid-struggle; and, in the middle of this mayhem, Antonio raised his thick eyebrows and smiled.

‘Thank you,’ sobbed the lady.

The sobbing stopped after a short while,