andy cannon

Lorenzo was gone. Matteo understood it first as an absence of shape rather than fact. He entered the council chamber at the usual hour, greeted the usual men, took his place, and felt the room tilt slightly, as though one of its supporting beams had been removed overnight. Lorenzo’s chair stood empty. It was not unusual for the Magnifico to arrive late, or to send word ahead. This was neither. The chair was set as always, papers arranged with habitual precision, as if the day had

Lauretta chose the hour with care. Matteo was at his desk, sorting correspondence that no longer required his judgment, only his signature. The window was open. Late afternoon light fell across the papers, illuminating names he recognized and outcomes he had not shaped. His fingers paused and resumed, paused and resumed, as if the rhythm itself were a decision. Lauretta stood in the doorway for a moment before entering. She watched him without speaking. He did not notice at once.

More than 30 years ago I read an essay in Gnosis magazine that answered the question "If Christianity is a religion of love, why are so many adherents hateful and intolerant?" It discussed a process of co-opting in which secular institutions use religious symbols and ideas to advance its own non-religious agenda. An example it offered is the promotion of the concept of a 'Protestant Work Ethic' in late nineteenth-century USA when there is nothing inherently hard working about Protestant sects or their theology. However it was a useful tool to fight waves of Catholic immigrants and their dirty, lazy, unAmerican ways. That lives on today when Latin American refugees are simultaneously portrayed as stealing jobs and sponging off welfare.

Fra Benedetto entered the outer library quietly, the sound of his steps muted against the worn stone floor. Sunlight slanted through the high windows, catching dust motes that floated in thin beams. Gianluca was seated at a table, hands resting on the polished surface, eyes tracing the lines of a manuscript he had just finished. The quiet of the liminal hour seemed to soften the edges of the room. Benedetto paused, taking in the light, the air, the rhythm of Gianluca’s hands moving over the pape

The chamber was full when Matteo arrived, though it did not feel crowded. Voices softened as he entered, the way they always had. A clerk rose, nodded, and indicated the seat that had been kept for him near the table’s inner curve. Someone murmured his title. Someone else offered a smile that was careful and brief. Matteo sat. The agenda was already laid out. He recognized the hand, the phrasing. He did not recognize the order. The first matter was read aloud and resolved before h

Duly noted.

They found one another late, when the house had thinned to echoes and the servants had learned which footsteps to ignore. Lauretta was in the small room off the loggia, the one she favored when she does not wish to be interrupted. A lamp burned low beside her, the flame trimmed so carefully it seemed almost symbolic. She was not reading. Her hands rested folded in her lap, as if she had been waiting for something to arrive and had just realized it already had. “Matteo,” she said when h

Matteo learned first from the silence. It arrived before the clerk, before the papers, before the careful courtesies that usually insulated his mornings. The antechamber had already been cleared when he entered his study; the fire burned low though the hour was early. Someone had anticipated him, and in that anticipation there was a pressure he could not yet name. The clerk spoke softly, as if the room itself were listening. “There are two matters,” he said, setting nothing on the

A rich vein of detail! This is such a fascinating era, and I am amazed that there so little fiction exploring it. I guess you have to be a bit of a history geek like myself to find the inner workings of Church politics interesting! Another bit about Frederico da Montefeltro--- I have known his portrait by Piero della Francesca since I was a child, with the curiously-shaped nose. I only found out a few years ago the the bridge of his nose was torn off in a joust, and apparently the wound was quite gnarly from the other side.

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