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apology—and perhaps recognize the man. But Giuliano remained lost in his own misery.
    Baroncelli craned his neck to look farther down the row, to see if Lorenzo had noticed; fortunately, the elder Medici brother was busy bending an ear to a whispered comment from the manager of the family bank, Francesco Nori.
    Miraculously, all of the elements were now in place. Baroncelli had nothing to do save wait—and pretend to listen to the sermon while keeping his hand from wandering to the hilt at his hip.
    The priest’s words seemed nonsensical; Baroncelli strained to understand them.
Forgiveness
, the prelate intoned.
Charity. Love thine enemies; pray for those who persecute you
.
    Baroncelli’s mind seized upon these phrases. Lorenzo de’ Medici had picked this Sunday’s priest himself. Did Lorenzo know of the plot? Were these seemingly innocuous words a warning not to proceed?
    Baroncelli glanced over at Francesco de’ Pazzi. If Francesco had detected a secret message, he gave no sign of it; he stared straight ahead at the altar, his gaze unfocused but his eyes wide, bright with fear and hatred. A muscle in his narrow jaw twitched madly.
    The sermon ended.
    The elements of the Mass proceeded with almost comical swiftness: The Creed was sung. The priest chanted the
Dominus vobiscum
and
Oremus
. The Host was consecrated with the prayer
Suscipe, sancte Pater
.
    Baroncelli drew in a breath and thought he would never be able to release it. The ceremony abruptly slowed; in his ears, he could feel the desperate thrum of his heart.
    The priest’s assistant approached the altar to fill the golden chalice with wine; a second assistant added a small amount of water from a crystal decanter.
    At last, the priest took the chalice. Carefully, he lifted it heavenward, proffering it to the large wooden carving of a dolorous, crucified Christ suspended above the altar.
    Baroncelli’s gaze followed the cup. A shaft of sunlight caught the gold and reflected blindingly off the metal.
    Again, the priest chanted, in a wavering tenor that sounded vaguely accusatory.
    Offerimus tibi, Domine
 . . .
    Baroncelli turned to look at the younger Medici next to him. Giuliano’s expression was grave, his eyes closed. His right hand was clenched in a fist; his left hand clasped it, and both were pressed tightly to his lips. His head was bowed, as if he were preparing to greet Death.
    This is foolish
, Baroncelli thought. He had no personal enmity toward this man; indeed, he liked Giuliano, who had never asked to be born a Medici. His quarrel with him was purely political, and certainly not great enough to warrant what he was about to do.
    Francesco de’ Pazzi jabbed Baroncelli fiercely in the ribs, relating the unspoken message perfectly:
The signal has been given! The signal has been given!
    Baroncelli released a reluctant, inaudible sigh and drew his great knife from its hilt.

 
     
     
     
     
     
VI
     
     
    A moment earlier, Lorenzo de’ Medici was engaged in courteous but muted conversation with Cardinal Raffaele Riario. Although the priest was finishing up his sermon, the wealthy power brokers of Florence thought nothing of discussing matters of pleasure or business—sotto voce—during Mass. The social opportunity was simply too great to ignore, and the priests had long ago become inured to it.
    A scrawny lad, Riario looked younger than his seventeen years, and though he was currently a student of law at the University of Pisa, his enrollment there was clearly due more to his kinship with Pope Sixtus than any native intelligence.
    Nephew, Sixtus called him. It was the euphemism by which popes and cardinals sometimes referred to their bastard children. The Pope was an extremely clever man, but obviously had got this boy on a woman with charms other than beauty or brains.
    Even so, Lorenzo was obliged to show the young Cardinal a fine time while he was visiting Florence. Riario had specifically asked to meet with the Medici brothers and to