“Flung from the tower
the Archbishop swings,
the only one left to survive.
He bites and he gasps
while everyone laughs
For no more Pazzi-led lies!
For no more Pazzi-led lies!
Old Jacopo
he sulks and he mopes,
he can’t bear to see us all thrive.
He howls and he scowls
and releases his bowels
For
No more Pazzi-led lies!
Swing! Swing! Dance and sing!
And come join us in our blasphemy.
Swing! Swing! Gasp and breathe!
We’ll all choke to death under the Pazzi!
We’ll all choke to death under the Pazzi!”
“This is your song Niccolò!” Federico shouted in astonishment. He stared at Niccolò and Antonio with both disbelief and hollowness. His shirt was stained around the collar and on the table was a small puddle of ale that he spilled. “Niccolò, how is everyone singing your song right now?”
Antonio and Niccolò made eye contact and burst out laughing.
“It is that time of the night, Antonio,” Niccolò said, “Federico has lost it again.”
“Lost what, my friends?” Federico asked.
“Your wit.” Niccolò jabbed.
“Not that you had much to begin with in the first place.” Antonio quipped. The two started to burst out laughing again.
“I do not see what’s so amusing, my friends! This is incredible! Everyone was just singing Niccolò’s song!”
“Idiota!” Antonio said, “You were singing it when we came in; you taught everyone the words!”
Niccolò laughed and took a long sip of his ale. “I am pleased everyone is enjoying it so.” For the first time, Antonio saw him blush.
Federico merely waved them off and returned his attention to his drink.
As Niccolò’s song ended, someone began to sing a bawdy rendition of The Olive Merchant’s Wife. The Spotted Lily was filled with boisterous laughter and merriment as the haggard bar-maiden rushed from table to table, ensuring that all of her rowdy customers were having their fill of ale. As Antonio looked around the tavern, he found no other familiar faces and was forced to settle with the company of a bawdy Niccolò and an intoxicated Federico. It wasn’t until he surveyed the tavern for the third time that he noticed a man with short blonde hair and a sculpted chin. He was staring at Antonio with intense eyes. Once the man realized that Antonio was looking at him, he smiled, causing Antonio to blush.
He waited outside for him, giving the blonde man the same type of look and signal he would give Jacopo Saltarelli. If he was the type of man that he thought he was, he would know exactly what Antonio was doing. A few minutes passed and no one exited the tavern. Just as he thought that he read the situation wrong and grew embarrassed, the man with the chiseled jaw walked out. He looked around and saw Antonio standing shyly against the wall. Antonio’s heart raced as the man with the wry smile came closer.
“Salute,” Antonio said casually as he approached. His heart was beating fast, nervous yet excited at the same time.
“Come with me,” the man said sensually. The man never looked back as he continued walking but knew that Antonio would follow.
They walked in silence past the Mercato Vecchio and into one of the many alleyways. The man stopped and smiled, but as soon as Antonio relaxed enough to be warmly embraced, he felt a stiff sting from a blow to his face. Dazed and caught off-guard, Antonio was unable to react swiftly enough to resist the man when he forcefully grabbed his arms and pinned them behind his back.
“Bastardo,” Antonio shouted, “let me go!”
Shrewd laughter echoed throughout the alleyways as a short man who appeared to be only a few years older than Antonio emerged from the shadows. “Buona sera, sodomite.” The short man chuckled.
Antonio’s eyes grew wide at being called a sodomite. He had heard of such traps like these, but he never thought that he would be the victim of one. Although he knew the city was rather lenient with people like him, his heart raced from the horrendous possibilities of what could still happen next.
“What do you want from me,” Antonio asked, struggling not to convey any fear in his voice. He tried wriggling free of the blonde man’s grip but knew it was in vain.
“You insult me, sodomite,” The short man said sharply, “and not for the first time either.” In a sudden movement, he struck Antonio in his face, causing his nose to crumple under the force. Antonio howled in pain. “How dare you forget about yesterday, figlio di puttana. The audacity for a commoner as low as yourself to even think about laying their hands on me! And a sodomite at that! You who were born a nobody and commit sins against nature! I will not have it!” The short man gave a quick jab to his stomach. Antonio bent forward and the blonde man released him, causing him to collapse onto the ground. The two then proceeded to kick Antonio relentlessly as he tried fending off blows by curling into a fetal position.
The blows were vicious and Antonio soon began to veer into unconsciousness. Suddenly, the blows seized and there was a loud crunch as the blonde man collapsed to the ground beside him. Antonio looked up and saw Giancarlo towering over him, enraged. In a sudden movement, Giancarlo wrestled the short man to the ground, got on top of him, and began to pummel his face with a violent barbarity. By then the blonde man had gotten back to his feet, his nose gushing blood, but moving to wrest Giancarlo off his companion. With a great force, Giancarlo shoved the man and flung him into a nearby wall. The back of the man’s head struck the wall violently, causing him to collapse and lay there face down in his agony. Giancarlo stood up and surveyed the scene. The short man didn’t move. His face was badly bloodied, but Giancarlo saw his chest faintly moving up and down. The blonde man hardly moved either. There was a small puddle of blood around his head as he groaned in agony. Giancarlo looked down and saw Antonio laying on the ground, staring at him incredulously.
“Are you alright?” He asked, moving to help Antonio up. “You are bleeding.”
“My nose,” Antonio said spitefully, “I think it’s broken.”
“Come, let’s go somewhere to clean you up.”
Header Image: Barbadori Altarpiece, Filippo Lippi. 1438.