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the tangled clothing loose from the branch.
    Impossibly, the freed Lorenzo had seized Giuliano’s hands and pulled the two of them up to the surface.
    From there, Giuliano’s memory became blurred. He remembered only snippets: of himself vomiting on the grassy shore while the slave woman pounded his back; of Lorenzo wet and shivering, wrapped in picnic linens; of voices calling out:
Brother, speak to me!
Of Lorenzo in the carriage on the ride home, furious, fighting tears:
Don’t ever risk yourself for me! You almost died! Father would never forgive me!
 . . . But the unspoken message was louder: Lorenzo would never forgive himself.
     
    Recalling the incident, Giuliano swallowed wine without tasting it. He would have gladly surrendered his life to save Lorenzo’s—just as easily and thoughtlessly as Lorenzo would have sacrificed himself to save his younger brother. It seemed to Giuliano a mockery that God had given him such a gift as Anna’s love—only to require him to wound the man he loved most.
    Giuliano sat for hours, watching the darkness of night deepen, then slowly fade to gray with the coming of dawn, and the day he was to leave for Rome. He sat until the arrival of his insistent visitors, Francesco de’ Pazzi and Bernardo Baroncelli. He could not imagine why the visiting Cardinal should care so passionately about Giuliano’s presence at Mass; but if Lorenzo had asked him to come, then that was good enough reason to do so.
    He hoped, with sudden optimism, that Lorenzo might havechanged his mind, that his anger had faded and left him more receptive to discussion.
    Thus Giuliano rallied himself and, like a good brother, came as he was bidden.

 
     
     
     
     
     
V
     
     
    B aroncelli hesitated at the door of the cathedral as his objectivity briefly returned to him. Here was a chance to flee fate; a chance, before an alarm could be sounded, to run home to his estate, to mount his horse and head for any kingdom where neither the conspirators nor their victims had influence. The Pazzi were powerful and persistent, capable of mounting efforts to hunt him down—but they were neither as well connected nor as dogged as the Medici.
    In the lead, Francesco had turned and goaded Baroncelli on with a murderous glance. Giuliano, still distracted by a private sorrow, was heedless and, flanked by the uncertain Baroncelli, followed Francesco inside. Baroncelli felt he had just crossed the threshold from reason into madness.
    Inside, the smoke-filmed air was redolent with frankincense and sweat. The sanctuary’s massive interior was dim, save for the area surrounding the altar, which was dazzling in the late morning light streaming from the long arched windows of the cupola.
    Again taking the least noticeable path along the north side, Francesco headed toward the altar, followed closely by Giuliano, then Baroncelli. Baroncelli could have closed his eyes and found his way bysmell, measuring the stench of the poor and working class, the lavender scent of the merchants, and the rose of the wealthy.
    Even before he caught sight of the priest, Baroncelli could hear him delivering his homily. The realization quickened Baroncelli’s pulse; they had arrived barely in time, for the Eucharist was soon to follow.
    After the interminable walk down the aisle, Baroncelli and his companions arrived at the front row of men. They murmured apologies as they sidled back to their original places. An instant of confusion came as Baroncelli tried to move past Giuliano, so that he could stand on his right, the position dictated by the plan. Giuliano, not understanding Baroncelli’s intent, pressed closer to Francesco—who then whispered something in the young man’s ear. Giuliano nodded, stepped backward, and made an opening for Baroncelli; in so doing, he grazed the shoulder of the penitent, who stood waiting behind him.
    Both Francesco de’ Pazzi and Baroncelli watched, breathless, to see whether Giuliano would turn and make