July, Florence.
After last year's operation, Di Maggio had regained control of the political scene. Rivals such as Medici and Albizzi had been suppressed or driven out.
Yet the worsening situation abroad had brought Florence's economy to a standstill. Some guild members could no longer make money, and their resentment toward Di Maggio steadily mounted.
At ten in the morning, Phil finished the meeting and left the hall with a dark expression, traces of ink still on his forehead. During the argument inside, someone had thrown an ink bottle. He had dodged quickly, but some ink had still splashed onto him.
"Cotton prices rose because the Eastern Roman Empire restricted exports. Grain is expensive because of the drought. Why blame us for these things? This is outrageous."
Phil took the handkerchief offered by his attendant, wiped his forehead several times, and strode down the crowded street.
Ahead stood a square, pale-yellow building three stories high, known as the Church of Saint Michael, or the Guild Church.
Florence had twenty-one guilds in all, each with its own patron saint. Fourteen niches had been built into the church's outer walls, each holding the statue of a guild's patron saint.
The seven least influential guilds, such as the Wine Merchants Guild and the Innkeepers Guild, had not been granted niches of their own.
Phil walked halfway around the walls. Before each statue, guild members prayed in twos and threes.
He stopped before the statue of John the Evangelist, the Silk Guild's patron saint, and prayed silently.
When he finished, Phil noticed something strange in the looks people around him were giving him. His two guards sensed that something was wrong and moved to either side of him, watching their surroundings warily.
"Sir, there seems to be something over there."
Phil followed his guards