WHERE THE WILLINGNESS IS GREAT



August 1513

Disgruntled, disgraced, dismantled - such is the state of a defamed Medici.

Dear Giulio, 

I hope you find it in your heart to think of me. And perhaps even of my escape. Are you aware of the mould on the bricks, the lock on the door, the drip-drip-drip of the mystery liquid on the ceiling… 

I detest all of it. The dampness of my prison cell; the darkness; the light filtering in through the barred window, my only access to sunlight. 

It is very difficult to practise prose in this place, especially writing a letter to a vexed brother, from a vengeful brother.

I wait. My good behaviour has allowed me to take a later dinner outside – a fathomless luxury. Giving up on the letter, I leave the stylus on the wall’s nook, and the crumpled paper beside it. 

Then I ponder my brother: Giulio de Medici, first bastard son of a backbiting father. Detestable sibling who did not stand up for his younger brother when he was being detained – even though he had acted for an honourable cause. They tore me away, despite my golden name. 

Medici, Medici. Like music on the tongue. Silver string of influence, wealth with every step. Oh, what a wonderful life. Oh, how grand. 

How grand, I think again, palms pressed to the rusting metal door. It swings open to reveal the guard. He frowns at me. “Hello, Writer.” 

“Hello, Alessio.” It isn’t even his real name– that I don’t know. On the first night, I named him Alessio: defender, of iron cells and frustrated prisoners. I look at his tired face, at the brown locks that cover his eyes. He is an Albizzi, I know, from the shape of them. That dead family.

He doesn’t know me either. I smile at him.

“Your meal is waiting for you in the courtyard.” 

The steps wind down to the open, groundfloor courtyard, where a rush of fresh air awaits. The wind tickles my skin, flirts with my shirt, and I almost sob at the embrace of stirring sunrays. 

Today is the day of my escape.

Alessio gestures to the bowl on the bench in the corner. It is plain ravioli and parsnips. I eat quickly, gaze bouncing from one guard to another, all stationed in a line by the wide arches along the periphery.

“You can’t stay long,” Alessio says. 

“Why? Are you letting me leave?”

He scoffs. 

“You’re very frustrated today.” 

“I suppose,” Alessio grimaces. “The new Archbishop visits today. We must clear the courtyard.”

“Including unruly prisoners?”

“I suppose,” he grins this time, slightly.

I grin too. 

Somewhere past the walls, a bell tolls. 

Alessio glances to the sky, then back at me. “It’s time to return to your cell, Writer.”

“So unjust - I’ve only begun to feel the sun’s embrace on my skin.”

He drags a rough hand through his hair. “It can’t be helped. You will have the rest of your allotted time tomorrow.”

The imposing advance of footsteps shifts our focus. Alessio’s eyes snap to attention, and he hauls me bodily to the side, out of view, behind a pillar. “Be quiet,” he whispers, turning to greet the new arrivals.

A row of soldiers enters the courtyard, vigilantly. In between them strides forward the Archbishop of Florence. Or, as I know him, my brother, Giulio de Medici. 

I stare in horror at the straight cut of his hair, the stern slit of his mouth. It would not be a stretch to say my mouth fell to the ground. I hadn’t realised he’d already been named Archbishop. Last I knew, Cosimo de Pazzi remained on the unsteady throne, still withering away.

“I hear,” Giulio begins– the entire courtyard pauses. “My brother is held in this building.”

“Brother, your Grace?” Alessio’s eyes flicker uncertainly.

“He set a ridiculous scene in Rome before the end of the Medici exile, protesting for the continuation of the Florentine Republic.” Giulio wrinkles his nose. “Foolish and tiresome.” 

“This brother,” Alessio treads carefully. A mouse before a lion drunk on grandeur. “What does he look like?”

“He possesses dark hair and has a mole on his chin. His eyes resemble mine– resemble a Medici’s. He is only honest in the company of his pen and paper.” 

Alessio gasps. 

At this, Giulio lifts an eyebrow. “It seems the public has not been informed about my brother’s existence, capture aside. No matter. We are looking to make an example of him. Do you know where he is?” 

Alessio takes a moment to compose himself, gaping like a fish. He seems to fight a mental battle, knights on two fronts, one side donning halos and the other horns. Protect or follow? 

Betrayal must also snake into his heart. A Medici I was all along, and him an Albizzi. Rivals for centuries. 

Alessio clears his throat, his dilemma apparently resolved. “Your brother is on the fourth cell in the above level.” 

So he has chosen to protect me. How valiant. Had he thought I would be tortured? This is not a worthwhile sacrifice. 

I move to the other end of the courtyard, the slide of the shadows concealing. Alessio, Giulio and his parade of soldiers climb to the next floor. 

Much of the prison has cleared itself of the ground level, so it’s easy to find a door in the outer wall, and to swing it open. Outside, the Florentine air hits me hard and familiar: the smell of leather, fish, and strong sulphur. I linger there, until a horse-drawn cart rounds the corner.

I leap onto its back. As it drives away, I see a pair of stunned eyes staring at me from a barred window – Giulio from my cell. As per my plan. Behind him stands Alessio, gaze shocked rigid, but surely he can’t begrudge me such a saccharine opportunity. 

I grin wide and wave. It appears Giulio’s inspection has gone very, very wrong, despite the discovery of a stylus and a letter.