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

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

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

Franciscan and Dominican creatures 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 debt, 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 them.

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.

Advocates clacking incessant, hens 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

...