There was a rip-roarious cheer from the Piazza as the five conspirators were thrown out of a window in the Palazzo Della Signoria and left to hang. Four of the conspirator’s necks snapped as they dropped, killing them instantly, but the neck of the plump Archbishop Salviati of Pisa, clad in his purple robes, did not. He was forced to dangle there as the life was slowly squeezed out of him. However, it seemed as if Archbishop Salviati was not yet ready to die. He shifted his body weight back in forth like a pendulum in an attempt to swing himself toward the stiff corpse of Francesco Pazzi. As soon as he got in distance, the holy Archbishop, in his struggle to survive, would try and bite into the shoulder of Francesco as an attempt to grip on to something. The crowd took great enjoyment in this macabre scene.
“Ha! Look Antonio, the piggy in purple is trying to partake in a final supper,” Giancarlo gleefully exclaimed.
“Sì, it is if Judas had not satiated his appetite enough.” Antonio mocked, “Tell me ‘Father’ Piggy, did the blood of Giuliano not satisfy your appetite? It seems that your love of flesh includes both the living and the dead!”
His movements grew more and more sluggish as Archbishop Salviati became increasingly unsuccessful in his vain but desperate attempts to live. As Salviati drew his last breaths, the crowd in the Piazza burst into a cheer. “Palle! Palle!” The crowd cheered. “Buona salute ai Medici!” A group of troubadours gathered in the piazza and pulled out their instruments to perform a merry tune. The burly barkeep Guido Medini rolled a barrel of ale all the way from his tavern in the Santa Croche district. The crowd reveled and partook in the festivities, all in praise for the Medici- the true masters of Florence.
“Come, Giancarlo,” Antonio said, “the ale is flowing, the conspirators are dead, and the fate of Florence is still controlled by the people. It is time to drink! Let us commemorate the life of the good Giuliano.”
Giancarlo and Antonio drank and reveled in the festivities until it was dusk. By then, most people had left the Piazza. The bodies of the conspirators still hung on the Palazzo. It would not be until the cover of absolute darkness that anyone would dare to cut them down.
The boisterous roars of the festivities near the piazza grew dimmer as Giancarlo and Antonio walked farther away from the celebrations. The sky was a bright and burning orange as the sun began to set for the night; undoubtedly, this sight of such natural beauty, one that was powerful enough to make an artist weep and even bring the most ignorant of the Popolo Minuto to tears, was surely a sign of God’s approval of the recent events today.
“What a joyous life we live,” Giancarlo said as he gently grabbed Antonio’s soft hand.
“When I see such beauty as this,” Antonio drunkenly lamented, “I-I can’t think about anything else other than how small and insignificant we are in the eyes of God.”
There was a brief pause as Giancarlo thought. “But come now, I see it as the opposite. Yes, we may be small, and we may never be powerful enough to be able to create such beautiful sights as this, but think about how special we must be to be the recipients of this splendor.”
There was no response. The warmth from the divine and gentle love showered on the two as the water from the Arno gently lapped against the bridge.
“A love eternal,
A life ephemeral,
A puppet in the scheme of things,
A king, only in my dreams,” Giancarlo softly said.
Antonio said nothing, he merely rested his head on Giancarlo’s shoulder, but as he did, Giancarlo tensed.
“Come, my friend,” Giancarlo whispered. “It’s getting late, and I must go.”
“Will you be coming to the bottega tomorrow, Giancarlo?” Antonio asked. He looked up to Giancarlo with his pleading eyes.
Giancarlo smirked, “I will be there.”
Header Image: Journey of the Magi to Bethlehem, Benozzo Gozzoli. 1459.