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Francesco wished his injuries hurt more than his pride. He had lost to the Medici boy, and his uncle was furious. His wrath had only added to his own burning shame and bitterness. He couldn’t face Jacopo anymore. Or anyone, for that matter. The last thing he wanted was empty comfort and sneering pity.
The calm and the fresh breeze of the night were a welcome change to Francesco. He wandered in the deserted streets of the neighborhood. He considered going for a drink, but he quickly gave up. He would see too many familiar faces in the taverns. Instead he decided to go to the Medici mansion in a sudden need of self-punishment. He wanted to catch their shadows at their windows, hear their cheerful voices celebrating the victory of their beloved Lorenzo. Francesco was so caught up in his brooding that he didn’t notice the young man at the fountain until he was twenty feet from him.
Lorenzo Medici.
Apparently someone had heard his wish for self-inflicted pain. Yet in the pale light of the moon, he didn’t seem to smile. No, he was crying, realized Pazzi with perplexity. He was crying his eyes out alone at a fountain in the middle of the night. Golden, beautiful Lorenzo with his infuriating goodwill and his easy smiles had morphed into a sorrowful shadow. Why? What terrible thing happened to throw him in such a state?
Suddenly aware of a presence, the Medici boy turned to him. Time froze as they looked in each other’s eyes. The bright, cheerful man who won the tournament hours ago looked like a lost soul. He looked broken. Francesco never thought he’d ever describe Lorenzo like that.
It disturbed him.
Before he could question the curious feeling in him, the Medici boy snapped out of the spell. Standing up swiftly, he fled like a scared deer in the opposite direction and disappeared in the dark streets. Francesco Pazzi blinked, struck dumb by this strange meeting. A chill went down his spine. Suddenly feeling uneasy, he headed home. He couldn’t help thinking about Lorenzo’s eyes. For a reason he couldn’t explain, seeing him like that upset him. When he finally crossed the doors of the family mansion, Francesco threw a last glance to the dark street. For a split second, he thought Lorenzo was watching him in the darkness. He turned away, took shelter in the safety of his home and ignored the strange memory clinging to his mind.
That night, Francesco Pazzi dreamed of a crying golden boy.