Dawn of the Last Medici

The midnight bells rang out across the rooftops of Florence one rainy night in the April of 1497, carrying with them the weight of a city caught between beauty and its slow decay into inevitable rot. Rain, as thin as threads of silk, drizzled over the cracked terracotta tiles and slid down crumbling stone walls. In the time worn workshop that sat behind the old apothecary, Matteo wiped his stained hands on his grubby apron and leant closer to the flickering oil lamp.

The tincture hadn’t turned. The root he had used had been no good.

“Damn,” he muttered, grinding the pestle harder, though he knew it wouldn’t fix anything. “It’s all spoiled.”

Behind him, Maestro Bernardi snored into a pile of manuscripts, ink staining the corner of his lip. Matteo thought about waking him, but the old man had been working since midday and had barely eaten. Instead, he banked up the coals and stepped out into the alleyway to get some air and clear his head.

That’s when he heard them.

Two men, their low voices, slipping through the shadows like wolves at the edge of firelight.

“…he will be attending Mass at dawn,” one said, the words barely audible above the drizzle and the water dripping from the roof onto the cobbles below. “At Santa Croce. There will be no guards. The boy thinks himself invincible.”

“Then he dies like the rest of them,” the other said. “Savonarola’s orders were clear.”

Matteo didn’t move. He didn’t even breathe; he was so scared he would be discovered. He felt like a rabbit about to trigger a snare. If they discovered him skulking in the shadows, the rabbit would die.

“You’re sure the priest will let us in?”

“He hates the Medicis more than we do. The cathedral doors will be unlocked, I assure you. We just walk in, then we finish it, and we vanish before anyone knows the boy is gone.”

They turned the corner, footsteps fading away, no longer audible on the wet cobbles, their voices barely a whisper on the wind. All was silence again, apart from the water splashing on the ground.

Matteo stood still, afraid to move, the rain running down the back of his neck. Then he turned and ran.

It had been four years since Lorenzo de’ Medici died, and Florence hadn’t recovered yet. Fra Girolamo Savonarola, with his eyes like coals and voice like thunder, had taken the pulpit and the people’s and ultimately their hearts. He called for fire, for a cleansing, for the city to be free of all the greed and the lust for gold. The people were desperate, starved, and furious, so they had listened.

Now the Medici name was a curse on half of the lips in Florence, and a whispered prayer for the rest.

Matteo didn’t care much for politics. He was just seventeen, a humble apprentice apothecary, and most days, he cared only for clean glassware and fresh herbs. But Giuliano de’ Medici, he mattered, or he mattered to some. Not just because he was heir to a legacy, but because he was young. He was clever, and reckless enough to believe Florence still had hope.

And now he was going to be murdered before sunrise.

The street was slick and silent as Matteo pushed past the shuttered shops, slipping once on the wet cobbles. He kept to the alleys, ducking under balconies and the clotheslines devoid of clothes that littered the alleyway, knowing that if he were seen, especially if he was seen running like this, he’d be stopped.

He had to get to Santa Croce. But Giuliano would never arrive unannounced. He’d be staying somewhere nearby, probably in one of the many Medici safe houses. If Matteo could find out which one—

The thought shattered as someone stepped out of the darkness in front of him.

A monk. His robes were soaked; and his hood was low. But there was something wrong about the way he stood, like he was waiting. That he did not belong.

Matteo’s boots slid on the wet stone as he tried to halt, but the monk grabbed him by the collar and slammed him against the wall.

“You’re out late,” the man growled. “Not stealing from God’s people, are you?”

Matteo coughed, struggling. “Let go! I’m an apprentice. I work for Maestro Bernardi. I’m going home.”

The monk tilted his head. “You’re not one of Savonarola’s boys. I can tell.”

“I—I heard something,” Matteo gasped. “There’s going to be a killing. Giuliano de’ Medici… they plan to do it at dawn!”

The monk froze. “Who told you that?”

“I overheard two men. They said the priest at Santa Croce was helping them—”

The monk slammed him again. “You speak that name in the open and you’ll hang before morning. Who are you?”

“I just told you,” Matteo snapped. “I don’t care about sides. But if they kill Giuliano, the city will drown in blood. I need to warn someone—”

The monk looked over his shoulder. The rain dripped from his sleeves. “Go through the plague quarter,” he said finally. “The streets there will be empty. The guards won’t follow you there.”

Matteo stared. “I’ll die a horrible death from the plague.”

“Not if you keep your head down and don’t touch anything. You want speed? That’s the way.”

The monk stepped back into the shadows and was gone.

The plague quarter was more rot than stone. Whole buildings had caved in or been scorched in quarantine fires. Windows were bricked up, doors painted with red crosses. No one lived there, not anymore.

Matteo tied a cloth over his mouth and pushed through, stepping carefully, trying not to look too long at the black stains on the walls.

He wasn’t halfway through when he heard footsteps, and they weren’t rats. They were too heavy.

He ducked behind a collapsed doorway just as two men passed wearing dark cloaks, hoods drawn. One carried something wrapped in cloth, long and it looked heavy. Maybe a sword.

Matteo’s throat tightened. He waited until they had passed, then turned and ran the other way.

By the time he reached the edge of the quarter, his legs were shaking and his lungs burned. He paused only to throw up in the gutter, then staggered on.

The Medici townhouse was near the Arno, behind high stone walls and an iron gate. Matteo banged the brass knocker until his fists hurt, yelling for help.

Finally, a shutter creaked open. A voice snapped down. “Who are you?”

“Tell Giuliano de’ Medici, there’s a plot against his life! He mustn’t go to Santa Croce at dawn! Please, let me speak with him!”

A long pause. Then, “Wait there.”

Minutes passed, and he saw no one. Nothing moved.

Then the gate creaked open, just enough for a figure to slip out. It was a young man, not much older than Matteo, with dark eyes and a cloak too fine for the hour.

“You’re either mad,” the man said, “or very brave. I haven’t worked out which yet.”

“They’re going to kill you,” Matteo said, trying not to collapse. “Two men. They said the priest would leave the doors unlocked. You have to stay away.”

The man studied him. “What’s your name?”

“Matteo.”

“Come with me.”

He turned, and Matteo followed him through a side passage into a narrow hall lined with oil lamps and velvet curtains. The man led him to a small study where maps and sealed letters covered a table.

Another man sat behind the desk, older, with a scar across his jaw.

“Matteo,” said the younger man, “this is my uncle. I believe you just saved his life.”

Matteo blinked. “You’re not Giuliano?”

“I’m Carlo. Giuliano isn’t here. He left for Santa Croce an hour ago. Alone.”

The world seemed to tilt.

“I was too late,” Matteo whispered, more to himself than anyone else.

The older man stood up. “Not necessarily. We have horses. If you know the route they’ll take—”

“I don’t,” Matteo said. “But I can guess.”

“Then guess fast,” the man growled. “If we don’t reach him in time, this city will burn before the sun rises.”

The hooves clattered like thunder through the narrow streets, echoing off stone walls and shuttered windows. Matteo clung to the saddle, fingers cramping around the reins, his knees screaming with every jolt. Carlo rode ahead, his cloak flying, torchlight trailing behind them like fire in the wind.

They’d split from the uncle at the Piazza del la Signoria. He was riding straight to the city guards to raise an alarm, though they both knew it might not be enough. Not here. Not when so many wore the badge of Savonarola beneath their cloaks.

Matteo’s thoughts tangled in the wind. He kept seeing the moment Giuliano would step through the doors of Santa Croce, the warm light of dawn, a quiet prayer, and walk straight into the hands, the blades of the assassins.

“We’ll never reach him through the main roads!” Matteo shouted over the wind.

“Then where?” Carlo snapped.

“There’s an aqueduct path. It runs under the artisan district. It’s tight, but it’ll cut the distance in half. We can reach the square before the sun rises!”

Carlo didn’t hesitate. He jerked his reins, and together they turned sharply into a side alley, hooves skidding on wet cobbles. The horses barely fit. At one point, Matteo’s knee scraped a wall hard enough to draw blood.

They found the path just past an abandoned glasswork, half-swallowed by ivy. Matteo dismounted and scrambled down first, holding the torch low. The tunnel opened into an old maintenance route; it was dark, damp, but solid.

They led the horses single file, ducking low. Rats scattered at their feet.

“Who are you really?” Carlo asked, voice low.

“I am what I said I am, just an apprentice apothecary. That’s all.”

Carlo gave him a look of disbelief. “Then why are you risking your life for someone you’ve never met?”

Matteo thought about it hard. Did he even know why? “I guess it is because the men who wanted him dead… they sounded like they’ve already won. Like nothing could stop them. That’s the kind of thinking that will kill this city.”

Carlo nodded once. “You may not be a fighter, but you are a thinker, and braver than most men I’ve ever known. A man with a conscience to do the right thing without knowing why you are doing it.”

They pushed on through the tunnel. It stank of mould and old stale water, but it eventually opened up into a drainage outlet near the cloister wall of Santa Croce.

The sky above was beginning to show the lightening of the sky just before dawn. It would not be long now.

They tied the horses behind a crumbling fence and crept toward the basilica. There were no bells yet. No morning chants. Just silence, broken only by the faintest whisper of movement near the east transept.

Matteo crouched behind one of the stone pillars, eyes sharp.

There were shadows shifting near the altar door. Three men, their hoods were up. One held a long blade.

“They’re already inside,” he breathed.

Carlo’s jaw tightened. “Then we go in through the sacristy. There’s a stair behind the side chapel. It’ll bring us out near the altar.”

“You’ve done this before then.”

“I’ve been chased through enough churches to know the layout.”

Matteo followed him, a little apprehensively though. Every step seemed to get louder in his ears. The old side door creaked open, just enough to make his skin prickle with fear. Inside, the air was much colder, thick with the smells of incense and dust.

They moved with silent steps, slipping past the relic cases and the faded tapestries. Above them were stained glass windows. They flickered with the early morning light. It was beautiful, but wrong somehow. Like watching an angel cry, while the world bled.

As they neared the nave, they heard footsteps once again. Someone was trying not to be heard. They were moving slowly but their hard footwear left imprints in the air.

Matteo peered around the stone partition.

Giuliano de’ Medici stood at the front of the church, facing the altar, utterly unaware of the danger he was in.

The men were behind him now, and closing in, step by inevitable step.

Matteo didn’t think. Some primeval instinct propelled him forward.

“Giuliano!” he shouted, cracking the silence like a slap around the face.

Giuliano turned, startled to see the assassin’s lunge.

Carlo tackled the first one from behind, sending him sprawling to the ground. Matteo grabbed a pew and swung it sideways, catching another across the legs. The third man had the dagger out. Poised, he slashed at Carlo, catching him across the arm.

Blood splattered the floor.

Giuliano, finally realising what was happening, dove behind the altar steps, kicking over a candlestick as he went. It clanged like a bell as it hit the tiled floor, clattering down the step, ringing out until it came to rest against the pew.

The first man was up again. He was taller, leaner, and oh so fast. He grabbed Matteo by the collar and drove him into a column with immense force. Matteo gasped, the air knocked out of him, stars flashing in his eyes.

“Wrong place, boy,” the man hissed.

Matteo fumbled for anything, grasping at air until his hand closed around the brass candle base. He swung upward with all of his might.

The sound was sickening. The man dropped to the floor instantly, a dark smear spreading across the stone tiles.

Across the chapel, Carlo finally had the upper hand now. He fought like someone used to knives in the dark; he was efficient, brutal. He slashed the attacker’s wrist, burying it deep, then twisted the weapon free, plunging it into the man’s side.

The man dropped without a sound.

In the mayhem, the third man had seen the light, and had vanished from sight.

Carlo ran to Giuliano, eyes scanning the shadows. “Are you hurt?”

“No,” Giuliano said, stunned. “Who—what—”

Matteo wiped blood from his face. “There’s another. He got away.”

“Let him run,” Carlo muttered. “The whole city will know by noon. This was no ordinary killing. It was an attempted execution, ordered by someone high.”

Giuliano looked at Matteo. “You. What’s your name?”

“Matteo.”

“You’ve just saved the last Medici left standing in Florence. That makes you either very lucky… or very dangerous.”

“I’m tired,” Matteo said. “And I’d really like to sit down now, if you don’t mind.”

Giuliano actually smiled. “So would I.”

They buried the bodies in silence, behind the sacristy wall. Giuliano insisted on doing it himself. There was something fierce within him, not just anger, but a sort of lingering grief.

Matteo leant against a column, arms shaking. He hadn’t stopped shaking since the moment they left the house.

Carlo sat beside him, binding the wound on his arm. “You did well. Not many people would’ve run toward danger like that.”

Matteo didn’t reply right away. He stared up at the stained glass, now glowing with pale pink light.

“I was afraid,” he said finally. “The whole time. I’m still afraid.”

“Good. That means you’re not stupid.”

Matteo gave a half-laugh. “What happens now?”

“Giuliano won’t let this go quietly. This will be a message—to Savonarola, to the people, to anyone who thinks Florence belongs to the darkness.”

“You think people will listen?”

“They listened to a preacher in rags who promised fire. Maybe they’ll listen to a man who nearly died to avoid it.”

Matteo nodded slowly. “And me?”

“You could go back to your herbs. Or…” Carlo stood, brushing dirt from his cloak.

“You could work for us. The Medici remember their debts, and always pay them in full.”

Matteo looked down at his stained hands. “I’m no assassin.”

“No. But you're fast. You’re clever. And you don’t run when it matters.”

He considered that, as the bells began to ring a new day in.

Medici was alive, and he was still here to see dawn break once more.