Strukul - Medici: Ascendancy

Translated from the Italian
by Richard McKenna

www.headofzeus.com

First published in Italian as I Medici. Una dinastia al potere in 2016 by Newton Compton

First published in the UK in 2019 by Head of Zeus Ltd

Copyright Matteo Strukul, 2016

Translation copyright Richard McKenna, 2019

The moral right of Matteo Strukul to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

This is a work of fiction. All characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the authors imagination or are used fictitiously.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

ISBN (HB): 9781786692092

ISBN (XTPB): 9781786692108

ISBN (E): 9781786692085

Cover design: Patrick Knowles

Images: Shutterstock

Cover image: The Journey of the Magi to Bethlehem , c. 1460. Fresco by Benozzo Gozzoli Bridgeman Images

4YY

Head of Zeus Ltd

First Floor East

58 Hardwick Street

London EC1R 4RG

WWW.HEADOFZEUS.COM

To Silvia

Cosimo raised his eyes to a sky that was as blue as lapis lazuli dust. It made his head spin, so he quickly brought his gaze back down to his surroundings. Around him were the masons, some mixing lime with the pale sand of the Arno River to prepare the mortar while others perched on the partition walls, eating a quick breakfast. They worked exhausting shifts, often spending whole weeks up here and sleeping among the wooden scaffolding, bricks, slabs of marble and rubble.

Almost two hundred feet above the ground.

Seen from up here, the city both entranced and unnerved him. Placing his feet carefully, Cosimo slipped between the beams of the scaffolding, its edges like the sharp black teeth of some mythological creature, and made his way slowly to the base of the dome, which was under construction. The architects and master builders called it the drum. He glanced down at the piazza below, where, with wide-eyed wonder, the people of Florence were finally witnessing the completion of Santa Maria del Fiore cathedral. Wool carders, tradesmen, butchers, farmers, prostitutes, publicans and wayfarers, all seeming to mouth a silent prayer of thanks that Filippo Brunelleschis design was nearing completion. The dome for which theyd waited so long was taking shape, and it looked as though it would be that eccentric, balding goldsmith with the bad teeth and the surly demeanour who would accomplish it.

Cosimo could see Brunelleschi now, drifting like a lost soul between the piles of building materials and stacks of bricks, his expression seemingly absent but surely in fact engrossed in who knew what calculations. His eyes were so pale and clear that they resembled chips of sparkling alabaster set on his pallid skin, which was stained with all manner of paints and building materials.

The clanging of hammers roused Cosimo from his daydreaming: the metalsmiths were at work, and shouted orders and instructions echoed through the air. Cosimo took a deep breath and then looked downwards towards the base of the octagonal structure. The gigantic hoist Brunelleschi had designed turned endlessly as, guided by a young lad, the two chained oxen trudged calmly in silent circles, working the cogs and gears of the winch drum which was capable of hauling heavy stones up to impossible heights.

Brunelleschi had devised some truly amazing machines. He had designed them himself; then hed called in the very best craftsmen and driven his workers mercilessly, and the arsenal of mechanical wonders he had rapidly assembled allowed him to lift and set slabs of marble, sections of wooden scaffolding and dozens of sacks of sand and mortar precisely in place.

Cosimo was overjoyed to see how well the work was proceeding. Before Brunelleschi, no one had managed to design a dome capable of spanning the vast 118-foot-wide octagonal drum, but not only had Brunelleschi managed it, he had somehow contrived to do it without visible supports. His design had none of the external buttresses or wooden centring that Neri di Fioravanti had proposed, and it had left the commissioning Opera del Duomo committee open-mouthed with amazement.

Brunelleschi was either a madman or a genius, perhaps even both. And the Medici and Cosimo, above all had wedded themselves to the mans crazed brilliance. He smiled at the audacity of it and reflected upon what the cathedral might eventually come to mean, not only for his city but also for himself. To judge from what was happening up there, he had every right to feel ecstatic as he looked at that ever-growing construction site. It was like some crazed Tower of Babel of scaffolding and planks, which played host to a multitude of workmen: wheelwrights, rope makers, bricklayers, plasterers, carpenters and ironmongers, food vendors, wine sellers, and even a cook equipped with an oven for baking bread to serve to the men. Labourers were climbing up the wooden scaffolding while others worked on wicker platforms perched on the surrounding rooftops like birds nests as though they had enlisted a flock of storks to help them complete the titanic project.

So what do you think, Messer Cosimo? asked a quiet, firm voice.

Cosimo spun round and found himself face to face with Filippo. A gaunt man with frenzied eyes, Filippo was clad in a red tunic and nothing else. Full of a mixture of pride and hostility, his evasive gaze spoke of his rebellious, sometimes violent nature, but it softened when he met men he considered noble.

Cosimo did not know if he was numbered among these, but he was undoubtedly the firstborn son of Giovanni de Medici, the family patriarch who had generously financed the construction and had provided crucial support for Brunelleschis involvement in the project.

Magnificent, Filippo, magnificent, he said, his eyes glowing with wonder. I did not expect to see such progress.

We are still far from finishing; I want to be clear about that. The most important thing, messer , is that you allow me to work.

As long as the Medici are among the principal patrons, you have nothing to fear. On that you have my word, Filippo. We started this together, and together we will finish it.

Brunelleschi nodded.

I shall attempt to complete the cupola in accordance with classical canon, as planned.

I dont doubt it, my friend.

While he was talking to Cosimo, Filippos eyes darted everywhere: first to the builders preparing mortar and laying the bricks one by one, next towards the source of the blacksmiths constant hammering and finally to the carts carrying bags of mortar down in the square. In his left hand he grasped a parchment containing one of many preparatory designs and in his right he held a chisel. Cosimo wondered what plans he had for that .

But that was Brunelleschi for you.

And as abruptly as he had appeared, Brunelleschi gave him a nod of farewell and disappeared between the beams and scaffolding of the dome, swallowed up by that colossal, restless enterprise buzzing with activity. Cosimo was left staring at the imposing wooden arches while shouts announced the hoisting of yet another load.