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Dozens of voices echoed off the buildings crowded around the narrow streets of Florence.

Vendors hawked goods from market stalls, calling out prices and the unimpeachable quality of their wares.

Somber men quietly shared information about the latest conflict between the big banking firms.

Franciscan and Dominican preachers shouted about the inevitable hellfire awaiting the people of Florence

unless they changed their sinful ways.

A fight broke out between a pair of cloth workers over a dead, raised voices leading to punches

and then a crash as one went headfirst through a market stall.

One man pushed his way through the commotion. He examined a piece of fruit and put it back in the

stall. He pricked up his ears at the discussion of banking conflicts, and he ignored the Hellfire

preachers. He walked through the cramped lanes of Florence like he owned it.

In a sense, he did, and he broke through the hustle and bustle and turned under the cobbles of a side street.

He opened an unassuming door and walked into a crowded office, where six clerks sat behind wooden desks.

The room was filled with the sounds of work.

Abacus's clacking incessant, pens scratching, papers shuffling, the thud of closing account books.

The clerks barely bothered to look up as their boss arrived.

Anything less than total attention on the task at hand would have been unacceptable.

Cosimo de Medici hadn't become the de facto ruler of Florence and head of the richest financial institution in Europe by rewarding fawning attention over hard work.

Cosimo passed through the desks and chairs and made his way into a small private room.

He shrugged off his cloak, revealing an expensive but understated red velvet doublet

and dropped his hat onto the desk.

...