The Tuscan sun bathed the city in golden light, reflecting off the terracotta roofs and the waters of the Arno. The Piazza della Signoria vibrated with the bustle of merchants, artists and philosophers, all contributing to the splendour of the Renaissance. I, Giovanni de’ Medici, son of Lorenzo I de’ Medici and Clarissa Orsini, walked the streets of our city with a book in my hand: Dante Alighieri’s Divine Comedy. Since I was a child, the poet’s words had ignited in me a love of philosophy, art and knowledge.

My father, Lorenzo, was a shrewd and calculating man, but with a vision that transcended the wealth and power of our family. He had inherited from his own father, Cosimo, the belief that the true Medici legacy was not only in banking, but in art and culture. My mother, Clarissa, although she came from a noble Roman family and her marriage to my father had been arranged, loved him sincerely. And he loved her. Their affection was discreet but genuine, a love built over the years, respect and complicity.

My brothers, on the other hand, were different from each other. Piero, the eldest, had always felt the weight of duty on his shoulders. He did not possess our father’s vision, but his loyalty to the family was unwavering. Giuliano, on the other hand, had a free spirit. Passionate and brave, he found pleasure in hunting, fencing and parties, although his heart was noble. We often discussed philosophy: he believed in the power of action, while I found answers in contemplation.

“You are still with Dante, Giovanni,” Giuliano commented with a mocking smile as he watched me read in the gardens of our palace.

“And you should read one someday,” I replied with a smile, closing the book. “Dante understood the world better than any sword ever could.”

My brother laughed and plopped down on the bench next to me. But before he could answer, a familiar voice interrupted us.

“Your father is looking for you,” announced Sandro Botticelli, the artist who was our family’s protégé and close friend.