Page 97 of The Medici Return

“What is happening here?” the prior muttered over the noise, still staring out the window.

“Apparently,” Ascolani said, “you have some dissension in your ranks.”

“How wonderful of you to note the obvious. The question is why.”

CHAPTER 66

ERIC WAS HAVING TROUBLE SLEEPING.

He’d returned to his parents’ house in Varallo, his grandmother and the nurse down for the night. He’d wanted to head back to Florence but he was tired, the hour was late, and Florence was another hour away. The day had been one of the most momentous of his life. He now knew who and what he was.

A Medici.

No. More than that.

A Medici in the royal line that traced all the way back to Cosimo de’ Medici, Cosimo I, who traced his heritage back to Giovanni di Bicci de’ Medici, the founder and originator of the Medici Bank. Cosimo I ruled for thirty-two years and was an ardent supporter of Pope Pius V who, in 1569, declared him the first Grand Duke of Tuscany. For the next 168 years a Medici sat on the throne. Francesco. Ferdinando. Cosimo II. Ferdinando II. Cosimo III. Gian Gastone. All Medici. Gian died without heirs, which ended the Medici hold on the duchy with Gian’s sister, Anna Maria, hiding her legitimate, royal Medici heir.

Then there was the Pledge of Christ itself.

On the drive back from the Pazzi crypt he’d received a text from a woman named Camilla Baines, who lived in Siena. Being evercautious, he’d asked for and received information on her. She was a known commodity. A successful entrepreneur who’d made a sizable fortune from the pharmaceutical industry. Not noted as overly political, she had supported several of the local candidates and had expressed support for the National Freedomers. Siena’s district for parliament’s lower house was one of the thirty-eight the party wanted to turn their way. Baines clearly was a woman in the know, as she’d been quite blunt in her message.

You are looking for a Pledge of Christ granted by Julius II to the Medici. I have it and the attached photograph proves that. We should talk.

Sure enough a high-resolution image was included that showed an olden document written in Latin. But Baines had included a translation to Italian that evidencedTen million gold florins provided by God’s humble servant, Giuliano de’ Medicito the Universal Church, the way Catholics referred to themselves before the Protestant Reformation. Due no earlier than July 16, 1532, along with something else. No Christian in the sixteenth century, much less a pope, would ever acknowledge the payment of interest. That was a mortal sin.To that end the said repayment shall be accompanied by a gift equal to ten percent of the outstanding balance for each year since the date noted herein. We offer this gift freely and voluntarily, with our sincere thanks, and know that the Universal Church will always and forever honor this pledge without challenge or protest.

But who could collect?

Giuliano de’ Medici, his heirs, successors and assigns.

He’d already checked. Giuliano, who lived from 1479 to 1516, was also in the direct line of succession from Cosimo I back to Giovanni di Bicci de’ Medici.

Was there an end date for collection?

No.

We trust in the mercy of Almighty God, and the merits and intercessions of the blessed saints, to ensure that this pledge survives for the present and eternal times until fully satisfied.

Perfect.

Interestingly, the pledge spoke of duplication. There were two.We have caused the faith and testimony of each and every one of the forgoing promises to be made in the name of Christ and on behalf of Christ, in duplicate.

And he was staring at the church’s copy, found, according to Baines, within a nearby Carthusian monastery. He’d made a quick calculation based on the gold content of ten million florins of the time, their worth today, along with the yearly gift compounded, and come out with hundreds of billions of euros.

All good.

Which helped temper the bad news that had also come his way.

He lay in the bed, his gaze locked on the ceiling.

His pollsters had sent an email earlier that indicated the National Freedom Party’s 60 percent support had waned a bit, down 3 percentage points, especially in the south of Italy. Those thirty-eight seats in parliament were becoming more difficult to secure. They needed the party leaders back on the campaign trail, doing what they did best. Stirring up emotions. Cementing support. Raising money. Every day of the soon-to-start official campaign season had to count.

Italian politics had always been shrouded in mystery and scandal. Its political system had remained largely the same since 1947, but its electoral laws changed frequently. New parties emerged as quickly as they disappeared, and controversy and corruption were commonplace. So much so that the people had become anesthetized. Apathy was at an all-time high. General elections decided the composition of both the lower house, the Chamber of Deputies, and the upper house, the Senate. Every Italian over the age of eighteen was eligible to vote, but strangely the voters themselves did not select the most powerful person in government, the prime minister. Rather, he or she was chosen after the new parliament convened and a candidate had won both a confidence vote from the Deputies and the president’s personal approval.

Governments collapsed with alarming frequency. There’d beensixty-eight different ones in the seventy-nine years since the republic was formed in 1947. The nation’s socioeconomic frailties, owing to a fragmented cultural heritage, a stark north–south divide, and overreliance on external financial support, exacerbated things. Even worse, the country’s political landscape had grown more volatile in the past few years. Violence was not out of the question. Achieving a working majority government had risen to the level of a near impossibility. His party wanted to change all that. With 60 percent support they had a chance. What they could not afford was for the Catholic Church to stay neutral or, even worse, to back other candidates. To make sure that did not happen he needed to speak with Camilla Baines. But both calls he’d made to her had gone to voice mail.

The hour was late.

Nearing midnight.

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