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  Eventually, a man in a military uniform arrived and escorted the boys to a separate room to fence. Mario held the sword with both hands until corrected by the instructor. Federico laughed, but quickly apologized.

  “Is this truly your first lesson, or are you joking with me?” he asked Mario. It was the first time Federico had spoken kindly to Mario.

  “I’ve never held a sword, let alone fought with one.”

  “Well, we won’t be fighting today,” the instructor corrected him, then walked the two boys through basic poses and maneuvers until they were tired of swinging their swords around.

  Toward the end of the lesson, Lorenzo appeared in the doorway and watched them curiously. When the instructor had told them to put their equipment away for the day, Lorenzo stepped forward.

  “Where is it that you live, Mario?” he asked, and then, seeing the panic on the boy’s face, he told the instructor to leave the room.

  “You said before you had never been trained. A boy your age?” Lorenzo looked at Mario suspiciously, circling him and Federico as he spoke. “You said you were good at fighting, though. What kind of fighting?”

  “I’m sorry, sir,” Mario said. He didn’t know if he should answer truthfully.

  “Who do you fight?” Lorenzo asked the boy sternly.

  “Boys at the market. Who try to steal from me.”

  “Steal from you?” Lorenzo appeared shocked. The very idea of theft seemed to repulse him.

  “Honestly, Lorenzo,” called out a familiar voice from the doorway. Mario looked up to see Pico, the model for Saint Francis, enter the room. “As a great patron of the arts, you should have a more developed eye.”

  “Should I?” said Lorenzo gruffly, but he was smiling. “Do enlighten us, dear Pico. When you look upon our young friend, what do you see?”

  Pico rubbed his chin as he looked Mario up and down. He winked once at the boy before turning to address Lorenzo.

  “Surely, you’ve noticed the black stains on the soles of his shoes. Though only the soles are stained. This boy has been walking very carefully through the dirty streets. Trying not to soil his new clothes, I assume. Only the garbage-strewn streets of Florence would stain a man’s shoes that dark.”

  Mario looked down at his feet.

  “Plus, you can tell from his hair that he’s been malnourished until a short time ago,” Pico said. Then he reached his hand out and gripped Mario’s shoulder. “Never be ashamed of who you are, son. You had no control over what family you were born to, no more than I did. Or young Federico here.”

  The boys looked at each other and smiled.

  Lorenzo laughed. “Impressive, Pico. Yet isn’t talk like that what got you into so much trouble with the church?”

  Pico turned to Mario and Federico. “The church is a little upset with me,” he told them.

  “A little? A lot,” Lorenzo corrected him.

  “And for publishing a book, of all things,” said Pico, shrugging.

  “What is the book about?” Federico asked.

  “It’s about how we are all deserving of dignity and respect,” Pico said.

  “Except perhaps the astrologists!” Lorenzo laughed.

  “True.” Pico grinned.

  “Pico has nine hundred theses on the Dignity of Man,” Lorenzo bragged. “He’s staying here under my protection, having been called a heretic by the Catholic Church. It’s all a misunderstanding, though. Pico’s message is peaceful and uplifting.”

  “It also tends to be upsetting to those in power,” Pico said.

  “He was imprisoned in Paris,” Lorenzo added.

  “Indeed. Luckily for me, Lorenzo is friends with King Charles,” Pico said.

  “That is an overstatement.”

  “I still don’t understand,” Federico said. “What is it you wrote in this book that has people so upset?”

  “I wrote mainly about the importance of human will,” Pico said. “I believe human beings shape their own destinies. Which is why I don’t believe in astrology. It claims our lives are predestined, and they aren’t.”

  Lorenzo nodded. “We’re calling it Humanism. One of the great ideals of our Renaissance! It is . . . only somewhat popular at the moment.”

  “Which means I find myself in need of a messenger,” Pico said. “I have a letter for the Vicar General, a man named Vincenzo Bandelli. But I can’t safely leave the estate, and I can’t trust the letter with just anyone.” He gave Mario a serious look. “Can I ask you to deliver it for me?”

  “Of course, sir,” Mario said.

  “Can I come?” asked Federico.

  Mario smiled, then nodded.

  “We’ll let Ghirlandaio know where you’ve gone,” said Lorenzo. “And we’ll promise to get you home safely tonight.” He looked down at Mario’s shoes and lifted an eyebrow. “Wherever home may be.”

  Pico gave the boys a wrapped letter, sealed with a blob of wax. Pressed into the wax was an elaborate symbol that looked a bit like the Greek letter omega. He gave Mario a coin and told him that another coin would be waiting for him when he returned with Vincenzo’s reply.

  The boys took Lorenzo’s carriage back into the city. On the way, Mario asked Federico if he had been back to the chapel to see his portrait, and when the boy said yes, Mario asked what it was like for his family to have a chapel. Federico thought about it for what seemed like a long time.

  “It’s like watching my future being built,” the boy said. “Some day after my father is gone, I’ll be the head of the bank. Just as some day I’ll be married in that chapel. It’s already decided.”

  “That doesn’t sound very fun at all,” Mario said. “Having your whole life planned for you.”

  “Neither does not knowing,” Federico said defensively. Mario couldn’t argue with that. He thought about it, and he would happily trade a life planned out for a life of begging for food.

  But then Mario thought of what Pico had said about astrology, and about each person having the chance to shape his own future.

  Perhaps that was worth something, too?

  The address on Pico’s letter led them to a convent.

  Mario and Federico moved quietly and respectfully through the space, past a line of candles on an altar. Tucked away in a corner, there was a private booth with ornate Gothic spires carved out of wood. A man stepped out of it and looked at the boys curiously.

  “My children,” the man said as he approached them. The shadows from the candles made the man’s face look sinister.

  Federico stood behind Mario.

  “I have a message for the Vicar General,” Mario told the man. “Vincenzo Bandelli.”

  “And who sent the message?” the man asked, his dark eyebrows furrowing.

  “Pico,” Mario said. Federico coughed, and Mario corrected himself. “Giovanni Pico della Mirandola.”

  The man scoffed, hearing Pico’s name. “I am Vincenzo Bandelli. And you can tell Pico he already has his answer.”

  “I beg your pardon, sir,” Mario said, holding out the letter. “It is my job to see that this message gets delivered. And you haven’t even opened it.”

  The man took the letter, a sour frown on his face. He cracked the wax seal and read the message inside. As he did, his eyes lit with rage, and then understanding. He asked the boys to come with him to his office, and when they did, they were surprised by the opulence of the room. The convent itself was stark, minimally decorated, but Vincenzo’s office was a grand hexagon with a high, arched ceiling. There was a painting on each of the walls, and each was lit with two candles. The paintings were of landscapes and shipwrecks, herds of animals and armies at war. They weren’t the kind of paintings Mario would expect a priest to have in his private office.

  There were also shelves and shelves of books, rolls of maps, and a wide curtain with constellations of stars sti
tched onto it like a map of the night sky.

  Vincenzo took out a sheet of paper from his desk drawer and wrote a brief message back to Pico. He then folded the letter, wrapped it with a second sheet of paper, and took a candle from his desk to drip wax onto it, sealing it closed. He handed it to Mario with the wax still wet, looking severely displeased, and then sent the boys away, locking the front door to the convent behind them.

  They didn’t speak at first, but once they were a good distance from Vincenzo’s office, Federico got shivers.

  “I didn’t like that man,” the boy said to Mario, who agreed.

  “Let’s read his letter!” Federico said, snatching it out of Mario’s hand. Mario didn’t like that idea at all. He needed the coin that was promised him and didn’t want to take Pico’s trust for granted. But by the time he was able to react, Federico had already broken the wax seal and was reading the letter.

  It said: I hope you aren’t making a grave mistake. The friar is more dangerous than you know. That was all, aside from the signature: Your fellow Hystorian.

  The note didn’t make sense to the boys. Mario punched Federico in the arm for opening the letter, and Federico rolled his eyes. He folded the message as it initially had been and discarded the outer sheet.

  “Trust me,” Federico said, and he directed the carriage driver to the bank.

  Once inside, Federico asked to see his father, and they were led to Francesco Sassetti’s own office. They were instructed to wait for him, but as soon as the door was closed, Federico leapt to his feet and rummaged through his father’s desk for a sheet of paper, which he quickly found. He wrapped the letter with the sheet, then dripped candle wax onto it to seal it shut.

  “See, he’ll never know the difference,” Federico said, handing the letter back to Mario, and then the two boys left the office without waiting for Federico’s father.

  On their way out of the bank, however, Francesco Sassetti appeared and, not fully understanding what his son had agreed to, forbade Federico to return with Mario. He insisted that it was too late to travel any more that day, so Mario journeyed alone back to Lorenzo’s estate. It was dark when he arrived at the villa, but Pico thanked him warmly and didn’t seem to notice the letter had been read. Mario left with a second coin, knowing his mother would be proud of him.

  The spring and summer months were typically easier on Mario’s family, and that year was no exception. Groceries were not as difficult to come by. Mario’s mother no longer had to worry that her children would freeze.

  Mario and Federico had grown close, and played together often at Federico’s estate. Ghirlandaio hadn’t had work for Mario in months, having completed his masterpiece at the chapel, but for once Mario didn’t care about earning money. He was too busy enjoying his friendship to worry about what the winter would bring.

  One day, Mario and Federico were playing in the valley south of the Sassetti home. There were daffodils along the hillside, white with a dark orange center, like a fried egg. The boys were skipping stones across a wide pond deep in the valley, and out of nowhere Federico asked Mario if they were friends.

  Mario said, “Yes, of course we are.” But Federico didn’t seem satisfied.

  “My father says that you’re only friends with me because we’re rich,” Federico said, not looking at Mario. “You come to our villa and eat our food. You let our servants wash your clothes and prepare your bed.”

  All of what Federico was saying was true, but Mario knew he would want to be friends with Federico even if the Sassetti family were as poor as his own was. He just didn’t know how to prove that.

  “My father says that if you were an honest man, you would have offered half of your earnings to me, when we delivered that message for Pico.”

  That made Mario angry. Why should he offer money to Federico? His friend didn’t need the money! Besides, he hadn’t joined Mario for the second half of the journey. Federico’s father had forbidden it.

  “I’m more honest than you!” Mario yelled. “You’re the one that opened the letter!”

  “Don’t you dare scream at me on my family’s land,” Federico said.

  “Then let’s go into the city, and I’ll scream at you there,” Mario said, trying to be funny.

  “We both know my family practically owns the city, too,” the other boy said smugly. Mario didn’t like this side of Federico. He liked when they played games that were even, so that when one of them won, it was fair and square. This didn’t seem even. It seemed like Federico didn’t want Mario to win.

  “The people of Florence own the city, not you. Buy up as much as you want, but you can’t own a city.”

  Federico turned around and headed up the hill toward his home. Mario followed him, neither of them speaking to the other. When they had made their way back to the villa, Federico went straight inside, ignoring the questions from his servants, and Mario understood that he was supposed to go home. He didn’t like leaving without saying good-bye to Federico, and he didn’t like how his friend had made him feel.

  Mario refused to take the carriage that was offered to him and instead walked the entire way back into the city. By the time he got home, it was nearly dark. His mother had assumed he was staying at Federico’s for the night, and so she was startled when he opened the door.

  She could tell from the look on his face that he was upset. She opened her arms to him, and Mario felt much younger than he was. He let his mother hold him for a long time, and was so exhausted from the walk that he fell asleep in her arms.

  The next day, Mario wanted badly to talk to Federico, but his little sister was sick and his mother asked him to care for her while she worked. By the time his mother returned, it was too late for Mario to make the long trek to the Sassetti estate and return again by dark. If Federico was still upset with him and turned him away, Mario could be stranded outside of the city walls.

  A week passed before Mario was able to make the journey, and when he did, the guard at the gate to the property told Mario that the Sassettis weren’t accepting company. When he asked why not, afraid that it wasn’t true, the guard pointedly ignored him.

  Mario was upset, but he wasn’t ready to give up yet. The best thing he could do, he decided, was ask for advice from someone far wiser than himself. And the first person who came to mind was Pico.

  When he arrived at the gate to the Medici estate, he learned they weren’t accepting guests either. Only after Mario begged the guard for an hour did the man agree to ride his horse up to the villa to ask if Pico would make an exception, but the guard returned angry with a folded note for Mario. It wasn’t sealed, and yet there was candle wax on it. At first he thought the guard had opened Pico’s note, and then he read the message:

  Mario,

  I do not wish to see anyone whom I cannot trust, and I do not trust you. I know that you opened Vincenzo’s letter. The note and envelope were made of different parchments, and I recognized the outer sheet as coming from the bank. Francesco Sassetti told me you’d been there. I’m disappointed in you.

  Pico

  Mario couldn’t believe it. He was being blamed for Federico’s actions.

  That was the end of Mario’s time rubbing elbows with the rich and famous of Florentine society. If he were being honest, he did miss the luxuries of the Sassetti home. But he missed Federico’s companionship far more.

  The years passed, and while Mario’s family did not thrive, they survived. Mario was able to work odd jobs from time to time. When work was scarce, he continued to beg.

  It was a cold day in April when Mario learned of the death of Lorenzo the Magnificent. Even for a young beggar with little interest in current events, this news was impossible to miss. The rumor was already circulating in the public spaces as the sun rose. By noon, women were wailing in the streets. Even those who had never met the man, had never laid eyes on him, felt the loss keenly.

/>   Lorenzo had been a champion to the city, beloved by all. He had kept her enemies at bay. What changes might come in the wake of the man’s death?

  It seemed to Mario that all of Florence attended the man’s funeral. Those who could not fit into the packed basilica lined the streets for blocks around it. Mario wanted to attend the service. His memory of Lorenzo as a kind, energetic, affable man had not dimmed with the years. But he felt no desire to cram his way through the crowds. Nor did he care to run into any of the Sassetti family.

  Mario decided to visit Ghirlandaio’s frescoes instead. He hadn’t seen them in a long time, and he decided it was a more personal way to honor Lorenzo’s memory.

  He assumed the church would be empty, but when he entered, he heard a voice echoing throughout the large space. It sounded like a sermon. He followed the voice until he saw the congregation, all dressed in black, and then he realized what he had stumbled upon. It was a second, smaller funeral oration for Lorenzo.

  Mario sat in the back row and listened. The man at the front of the chapel spoke passionately — not so much about Lorezno, though. He spoke more generally about humanity and the importance of living a good life. He said a great change was coming to Florence, and that her people had to be ready. Mario was moved by the speaker, and looked around at the rest of the congregation to see if they, too, were moved. To his surprise, he recognized Ghirlandaio seated a few rows in front of him.

  After the funeral, he gathered the courage to speak to the painter. He only wanted to pass along his sympathies to his old mentor, but when Ghirlandaio saw Mario, he embraced him like a father might.

  “My work has kept me busy of late,” said the man. “But I have often thought of you. How perfect that I should see you here.”

  “Why are you here, sir?” Mario asked. “Why not at the basilica? I assumed —”

  “It is this friar. Girolamo Savonarola.” The painter inclined his head toward the front of the chapel. “He was at dear Lorenzo’s deathbed when the great man died of the gout. Yet they had no love for each other. I suppose I was curious what the friar would say.”