andy cannon

This project has been a challenge and a bit of a mess almost from the start. From this point on I cobbled together three radically different stories, each unsatisfying in its own way, scrapping two versions completely. You have identified the flaw in the premise that causes all the trouble... the false cover provided to a scandalous relationship that everyone seemingly ignores. In hindsight, as you point out, a relationship between Matteo and Danilo could have better been sustained. Let me cogitate on this for a few days. This story, like the reputation of the Pazzi family, may be beyond salvation.

Once a month, on a night fixed more by habit than generosity, the servants of the palazzino on the Via dei Servi were given leave until morning. Danilo went with the others, grateful and unsmiling, and the house settled into a rare, hollow quiet. Matteo and Lauretta did not go to either of their family palazzi that evening. The thought of ceremony and watchful eyes had felt unbearable. Instead they supped alone at the long table, a modest meal laid out by habit rather than appetite: a wheel

She waited for him in the antechamber outside his office, standing so still that at first he mistook her for a servant sent to fetch something and forgotten there. She was young, though exhaustion had pressed years into her face. Her hands were folded at her waist, empty. No basket. No note. No mark of employment. The wool of her dress was plain and worn thin at the elbows, the color faded to something between brown and gray, as if it had been washed too often in bad water. “Messere Ro

And all too often, their cruelest impulses result in destructive action cloaked in "it's God's will."

The summons came on cream-colored vellum, folded once, sealed with the lily. Matteo recognized the hand at once, not Lorenzo de' Medici’s, but one of the clerks who wrote for him when discretion mattered. The phrasing was courteous, almost affectionate. His stomach tightened anyway. The council chamber was already warm when he entered, the tall windows thrown open to the spring air. Dust motes drifted in the light like pollen. Around the long table sat men who had known Florence longer than

Uhhhh ..... yes? She... um... stepped out into the piazza to smoke a cigarette... yep, that's it... having a smoke. Maybe an Aperol spritz while she's out.

Dawn came pale over Florence. The sky above the tiled roofs was white as milk, and from the hills beyond the Arno a haze of smoke drifted eastward, the last breath of some far-off ruin. The streets below the palazzo were empty... no market calls, no carts, no bells. The interdict had stripped the city of its voice. Lauretta moved through the corridor with her veil drawn close, her slippers whispering. The house chapel lay in half-light, its altar swathed in linen like a corpse prepared for

At dawn, two small cannon are wheeled into place before one of the gates. Alarm bells sound within the walls . The cannon continuously fire at the gate, gradually reducing the stout wood to splinters. The roar of artillery had silenced the bells. Dust and smoke hung over San Casciano like a burial shroud. With a thunderous crack the battered wall gave way, stones tumbling as if in surrender. The city gate fell off its hinges, and the Florentine banners surged forward. Trumpets blared, dr

I think that every person of faith has to come to terms and reconcile the Ideal Christian or Ideal Jew or Ideal Muslim against their own deeply flawed humanity. Look at some other characters in this story--- Matteo's father, uncle and brother all subscribe to the policy of wives for duty, mistresses for pleasure, commandments against adultery notwithstanding. Sixtus IV very coyly demurs from condoning murder but indicates he would appreciate someone killing the Medici brothers for him. The Pazzi conspirators certainly did not shirk from violating the sanctity of the Sabbath in pursuit of power and wealth, which I have never seen enumerated among Christian virtues. Even beyond the realm of fiction. the current US government is packed with people who loudly proclaim their allegiance to Jesus, and I can't think of many of them whose behavior, if Christianity were outlawed, could be indicted let alone convicted.

Peposo remains one of the glories of Florentine cuisine. The origin myth of this dish of cheap cuts of beef braised with pepper in cheap red wine over a low flame attributes it to Filippo Brunelleschi who wanted the masons to spend more time laboring over the construction of the cupola of the Duomo rather than clambering down the scaffolding to eat in the piazza. Danilo’s Secret Peposo Recipe Ingredients (measured by instinct, corrected by audacity): A scandalous quantity of coarse black pepper 3–4 cloves of garlic (or more) 1 bottle of rough red wine Beef, cut into large, stubborn chunks (shin if you respect tradition) Salt (a pinch, a fist, who is counting?) Method 1. Take a pot of good, honest clay. If it has not yet survived a fire, distrust it. Place within it the beef, garlic, salt, and enough pepper to trouble your conscience. 2. Drown the matter in wine. 3. Set it to the gentlest fire you can persuade into cooperation. A peposo must murmur, not boil. If it bubbles, you have already failed. 4. Leave it. Do not fuss. Do not stir overmuch. This is a dish that improves in neglect. Let it cook for hours—three at the least, five is better 5. Stir only when compelled by doubt. Each stirring releases a fragrance that will draw neighbors, creditors, and accusations. 6. Taste near the end. If it does not sting the tongue and warm the bones, add more pepper. If it frightens you slightly, it is correct. 7. Serve over coarse polenta. Ladle generously. A thin serving suggests moral weakness. “Remember,” as Danilo would say, “Peposo is not cooked—it is endured. And if it brings tears to the eyes, all the better. It proves the soul remains within the body.”

The bells had not rung for weeks. Florence had learned the sound of its own breathing... the scrape of cart wheels on the stones, the slap of laundry against the river steps, the faint hiss of wind through empty cloisters. Even the pigeons seemed subdued, their wings beating softly against the blank sky as though afraid to stir whatever judgment hung above. In the palazzino on Via dei Servi, silence had settled like dust. Servants moved with exaggerated care, speaking only in whispers.

Rain lashed the shutters of Palazzo Tornabuoni, a thin, impatient tapping. Inside, the hall was heavy with candle smoke and damp wool. The air shimmered above the candelabra where tallow bled into gold. Voices murmured low, conspiratorial, as though Heaven might overhear. On one side of the long walnut table sat Giovanni de’ Rossi, his features carved by sleeplessness. Opposite him, Bartolomeo Tornabuoni leaned forward, a ledger open, quill trembling between his fingers. Candles haloed his

The noon light was merciless. It carved the city into bone and shadow, bleaching the banners above shuttered windows. Smoke drifted from the Piazza like spent incense, and the bells, hoarse from frenzy, tolled slow. like hearts weary of beating. Matteo crossed the square with Danilo at his shoulder, the servant’s jaw locked tight. His doublet was scorched at one sleeve, his eyes still carrying the raw edge of battle. Each clang of the bells made him flinch. “You should never have

They say revenge is a dish best served cold. One imagines Clement late at night addressing a portrait of Sixtus IV, "Oh, yeah, that chapel you built and named after yourself? I'm making a few changes. How does the "Sistine Latrine" sound?"

Egregiously pedantic footnote. The baby that Giuliano's mistress gave birth to a month after his death was Giulio de Giuliano de' Medici, later Pope Clement VII. A capable and devout man, his papacy was beset by challenges he inherited including Martin Luther's Protestant Reformation; a quarrel in Italy between two powerful kings, Charles V of the Holy Roman Empire and Francis I of France, each demanding that Clement choose a side; and Turkish incursions into Catholic Europe led by Suleiman the Magnificent. Not the least of his worries was the enmity of England's Henry VIII after Clement denied his petition to divorce Catherine of Aragon, leading to England's split from the Church.

The bells of Florence tolled and tolled, wild, merciless, hammering judgment into the April sky. The city was a furnace of sound and smoke. Matteo shoved through the crush, shoulder to shoulder with Gianluca, their breath ragged, boots slipping on stones slick with spilt wine and blood. Bells clanged above them in a brazen storm, hammering the air like iron fists. The smell of tallow and scorched wool drifted from a dozen torches carried aloft by men howling vengeance. Bells clamored f

Isn't that the truth! I don't detail the punishment of the patriarch, Jacopo Pazzi, because that is a story where truth is too strange to translate to fiction. During the turmoil of the afternoon, he escaped Florence to hide in nearby Castagno, but he was recognised and dragged back to Florence. He was tortured and hanged next to fellow conspirator Archbishop Francesco Salviati. Jacopo's body was removed from his tomb at Santa Croce, thrown in a ditch, paraded through the streets, and left at the door of the Palazzo Pazzi, where his head was used as a door knocker. After that, his body was thrown into the Arno, where it was fished out by children (!!!) , hung from a tree, beaten and thrown back into the river.

Apparently, this was not the first attempted strike by the conspirators , but earlier ones fell through because Lorenzo and Giuliano were not together, and they (correctly as it turned out) thought that a surviving brother would furiously avenge the murder. The miscalculation of killing a man in the cathedral during Easter mass at the Elevation of the Host shocks us in more secular times.

Easter Sunday bloomed in the glorious Tuscan spring, ending the long winter with promise of hot summer days, signaling the end of the austere season of Lent with the holiest day on the calendar. All of Florence strolled to mass at the Duomo, Santa Maria del Fiori, through streets filled with the scents from meat roasting in kitchens both great and humble. The bells tolled like bronze thunder above Florence, summoning its soul to worship. Their deep voices rolled across the rooftops, into

Danilo's is the voice that should be in every ear: He won't speak the truth when a lie serves him better, but he always tells you exactly the truth you need to hear.

Chapter Six The banker’s study in Palazzo Rossi still smelled of beeswax and old parchment when Messer Ludovico Rossi pressed the order upon his nephew. “A gift, Matteo. To show our appreciation for inclusion in the Ragusa venture. A devotional work for the Medici chapel at the Church of San Lorenzo, Saint Lawrence upon his gridiron, steadfast in martyrdom. Nothing elaborate: panel, tempera, a touch of gilt. Pious, tasteful, and not too dear.” Ludovico’s fingers drummed the led

That is an interesting point. One aspect of historical fiction that fascinates me is that we have limited knowledge of the day-to-day lives of both the poor and women. The wool merchant sees himself as the aggrieved party in this, and wants to ensure that he has no out-of-pocket expenses. He is willing to keep the woman on after the child is born as long as he is not inconvenienced. Is that a reflection of reality? I am not sure. The 21st century cynic that I am doubts that her parents or priest would be any less inclined to divert the coins to personal use. I also suspect that she would have been sent packing as soon as the condition was obvious, especially if the lady of the house was of a suspicious or jealous nature. There is a great museum in Sweden dedicated to the state-of-art seventeenth century navy ship, Vasa, which sailed 300 meters into Stockholm harbor, caught an errant breeze and promptly rolled over and sank. In the 1970s, the well preserved ship was raised and put on display. One exhibit was a metal hinge and clasp that was originally part of a bag of some kind. The cloth pouch had long since disintegrated, and the museum used this as a metaphor for history in general. The metal work was done by a man, and the cloth work by a woman. His contribution is preserved almost 400 years later. Hers is lost in the mist of time. In a more empathetic world, Matteo would not have stopped at the half gesture of satisfying her master and actually done something for her if he felt responsibility for Danilo's possible involvement by asking his father for a position in the Rossi palazzo to raise her child. I can't imagine that the patriarch would have done that, but who knows? He may have seized the request as proof of his son's heterosexuality and granted it.

Egregiously pedantic footnote: The Medici family, Lorenzo: his brother, Giuliano: and their mother, Lucrezia, were, of course, historical figures in 15th-century Florence. The Tornabuoni family were also a historical prominent family, but Lauretta and her parents are fictional. As far as I know, no Rossi banking family existed, but I was dismayed to learn recently that there was a family of that name in Parma, the Counts of San Secondo. and one of them was married to Lorenzo de' Medici's oldest sister. This story was almost complete when I discovered that, but I am irrationally attached to the name for the purposes of this story, so I left it in place. The historic Rossi family and Matteo's family are at best distant cousins

Chapter five A few evenings later, the night air in Florence carried the scent of crushed thyme and warm stone. A bell tolled in the distance, low and sonorous, as Gianluca Colonna and Matteo Rossi made their way along the Via del Palagio, their footsteps softened by the hour and the vintage they had consumed. Behind them, two broad-shouldered retainers walked at a distance, watchful but indulgent of their masters’ laughter. Danilo was off doing whatever a cat does when he is free to be a c

The feast followed at sunset, when the Tornabuoni salone was transformed from courtroom to carnival. The same table that had borne parchments and ink now sagged beneath peacocks glazed in saffron, loaves plaited like crowns, and platters of oranges bristling with cloves. Wine ran as freely as the lawyers’ tongues had done earlier. Lutes and rebecs drifted from the gallery above, their notes weaving through the chatter of two great rival houses pretending at unity. Matteo stood near the hea