Page 20 of The Medici Return

FLORENCE, ITALY

ERIC STEPPED OUT ONTO THE PLATFORM. HE SENSED NO ONE WATCHING, no eyes turning abruptly his way, no hurried movements, no one acting suspiciously. He was known, for sure, but not enough to forfeit his anonymity among millions of Italians. Mainly he kept a watch for the media, but absent them he could still move about with relative impunity.

He’d taken one of Trenitalia’s fast Red Arrow trains, splurging for its executive class that offered comfortable leather seats and complimentary steward service. The journey north to Florence had been fast. About ninety minutes, far preferable to a four-hour car drive. He’d needed to get here quick. He only had until Friday to gather his ammunition.

People were right. Florence was indeed one of the world’s most handsome cities, wearing its age with an obvious dignity. It sat on an open plain filling both sides of the River Arno, surrounded by rings of higher ground adorned by nature and art. Little is known of its ancient history. Originally a mere suburb of an Etruscan hill town, its fate changed in Roman times thanks to a commanding location. Its most dramatic transformation began in the fifteenth century with the rise of the Medici. For the next three hundred years, they covered the city with monuments, churches, and palaces created anddecorated by the greatest minds of the time. Petrarch, Boccaccio, Raphael, Michelangelo, Galileo. It became the cradle of the Renaissance. The Athens of the West. Its growth and prosperity due mainly to trade, woolen cloth the main export. He’d always liked what one observer had written.We must dearly love Florence, for she is the mother of all those who live by thought. We must study her without ceasing, for she offers us an inexhaustible source of instruction.

That she did.

He found a taxi and was driven into the heart of the city.

Evening had arrived and the cafés were alive with patrons, the streets bustling with tourists enjoying the end of another summer day. He walked toward the town center, the air becoming denser, the route twisting between endless rows of multistory buildings jammed together like soldiers on parade.

He entered the Piazza della Signoria and stared up at the Palazzo Vecchio. Once the political center of Florence and Tuscany. Fortress-like in appearance. Erected in a time of danger when Florence was divided by factions, assailed by conspiracies, and threatened by popular tumult. The home of the Signoria, who once lorded over the city. Its representatives held office for only two months, living in the palace together, each in their own quarters, ready to transact the public’s business at any hour of the day or night. Every time he visited the piazza he thought about 1497, the last day of the annual carnival. Dominican friar Savonarola, a religious fanatic who’d managed to gain control of the city, erected a pyramid consisting of masquerade costumes, masks, wigs, rouge pots, musical instruments, dice boxes, books of poetry, parchments, illuminated manuscripts, works of art, and paintings, especially those that represented feminine beauty. The pile was set afire and the Signoria appeared on the palace’s balcony, watching, the smoky air echoing song, the pealing of bells, and the sound of trumpets.

The famed Bonfire of the Vanities.

A year after that another pile stood in the piazza when Friar Savonarola and two of his companions were burned at the stake for treason.

What irony.

But the citizens of Florence had never been able to tolerate oppression for long.

The bells in the palazzo’s tower rang for 6:00P.M.In times of trouble those same bells had once called the men of Florence to arms. The sound, like the lowing of a cow, could be heard in every part of the city.

He slowed his step and kept walking until he found La Giostra, located between the Duomo and the Piazza di Santa Croce, his favorite Florentine restaurant. People stood outside studying the enticing selections on the menu displayed behind glass. The restaurant served only sixteen tables scattered beneath a low barrel ceiling supported by brick arches, low lit from twinkling amber lights, like Christmas all year long. It was constantly crowded and reservations were tough to get, but the owners always made room for him. So he’d called ahead and asked that a table for two be held. His guest was waiting, already enjoying some pear ravioli.

“Some wine would make that taste even better,” he said, approaching the table and taking a seat.

“Then by all means, order us some.”

He’d not come to eat, but knew this man would require stroking. He was one of the foremost experts on DNA analysis in Italy, teaching at the Università degli Studi di Milano and operating a testing lab that had an international reputation. He was also a vocal conservative who’d liked that the secretary of the fastest rising new-right party had taken an interest in him. Two years ago this expert had established a DNA link between himself and Gregorio Cappello. They were definitely related—to a probability of 99.99 percent. He’d known that when the time came to apply pressure the Vatican would want verified proof of his lineage. Recent evidence, too. So he’d held off until now to have the final test run. The one that would establish a definitive link between Gregorio Cappello and the Medicis.

“We have two hours until the appointment,” he said to his guest. “So let us enjoy the food and wine.”

He caught the waiter’s attention and placed a drink order.

The first DNA matching request had been innocuous. A family thing, was what he’d told this man. A connection to a lost ancestor in the Cappello line. But this next test? That was something altogether different. Richter had been correct earlier. History noted that the Medici family ended in two steps. The first was in 1737 when the last male heir, Gian Gastone, died. The family had always been patriarchal but, with no male heirs, everything passed to Gian’s sister, Anna Maria Luisa. But she died in 1743, leaving no heirs.

Or so the story went.

His grandmother had laid out the rest. How Cappello was a direct ancestor. Now it was up to him to prove her tale true.

So he took a few minutes and explained. When finished, he said, “If your tests are conclusive, I want you to announce the results to the world. It will beyourtriumph. The return of the Medicis, proven by you.”

Not an altruistic gesture by any means. He needed the credibility that this academician would give the finding to hammer his point home to both the Vatican and the world that the Medicis had returned.

The media would love it.

The waiter returned with two glasses of a dark 2018 Sassicaia. His favorite. It was aged in French oak barriques for two years, then spent another six months stored in bottles before being sold. Loaded with the sweet flavors of wild berries tempered by a smoky tobacco-like taste. Perfection. He offered a toast. “To a successful endeavor.”

They clinked glasses.

And he enjoyed a satisfying sip.

But he wondered.

Would the test confirm what his grandmother had told him? What his family had secretly believed for centuries? For so long he’d relied on faith.

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