I, Mona Lisa (19 page)

Panicked, I looked back at
il Magnifico.

He was smiling sympathetically. His eyes were amazing; kind now, and reassuring for my sake, but beneath that was a brilliance, breathtakingly shrewd and sensitive. “Don’t be afraid, young Madonna,” he said, in a weak, nasal voice. “Your father has personal and religious reasons for being uncomfortable at our gathering; it is kinder to release him from such an obligation, don’t you think?”

He held out his free arm to me and I took it, winding mine around his so that my hand lightly clasped his wrist. His own hands were gnarled, the fingers so misshapen and overlapping he could scarcely grip his cane. I suspected it had been some years since he held a pen.

We began to stroll together. I could sense that he used the walking stick to bear a great deal of his weight, so I tried to be more of a support to him than a hindrance.

“Yes,” I said, dully, for all my wit had fled. “He has always disliked social functions; in fact, I cannot remember when he last attended one.”

“I am afraid that you are burdened with me for an escort this evening,” he said, as we made our way to the entry. “And I am sorry for it. Every marriageable young woman who has entered my household has been nervous enough, but at least the others have been comforted by the presence of family.”

“Their mothers and sisters,” I added, thinking how I had none.

He nodded, then said softly, “I hope, dear Lisa, that you are not too dreadfully uncomfortable.”

“I am terrified,” I answered quite earnestly, then blushed at my own unintended candor.

He lifted his face to the waning sun and laughed. “I like that you are honest and given to frank speech, Madonna. You will fare better than most.”

We made our way past armed guards into a wide hallway with polished marble flooring and displays of centuries-old armor and weapons; from there, we passed into another corridor, its walls adorned with paintings hung in gilded frames.

“I gave my condolences regarding your mother’s death to your father,” Ser Lorenzo said. “I should like now to give them to you. Madonna Lucrezia was a fine woman, of great beauty and intelligence; none had a nobler soul.”

I studied him askance. “You knew her?”

He smiled wanly. “When she was younger, and well.” He said no further, for we had arrived at the hall’s conclusion, and tall arching doors; a pair of servants, one on either side, threw them open.

I expected a chamber of moderate size, filled with at most a dozen Florentine noblewomen. I encountered something quite different.

The room could easily have held more than a hundred people; it was high ceilinged and as vast as a sanctuary. Though the sun still hung low in the sky, torches and candelabra of every description blazed. Despite its size, the room was quite warm, given the presence of three large hearths, well fed and blazing. Here again were displays of ancient armor and weaponry, marble busts on pedestals, breathtaking tapestries—one of them, the Medici crest with the
palle
, in Florence’s colors of blue and gold. Pagan-themed paintings covered
the walls; what was not obscured was festooned in beribboned garlands, decorated by ornate masks, a salute to Carnival.

Banquet tables—laden with roast lamb and pig and every type of fowl imaginable, as well as nuts, fruits, bread, cheese, and sweets—had been pushed against the walls. But there was to be no formal dining; the vast display of food was available to any guest at any moment they wished. There were servants to provide plates and knives, servants with empty goblets and flagons of wine. The guests helped themselves to refreshment, then stood talking, or seated themselves upon convenient groupings of chairs.

I was last to arrive: The wine had apparently been flowing for some time, for the conversation was convivial and quite loud, competing with the musicians. I was too overwhelmed to actually count, but my impression was that there were at least thirty persons in the room.

And I the only female.

As was the custom for girls being considered for marriage, I expected for all talking to cease; I expected each man to turn around, and for Lorenzo to make an announcement that I had arrived. I expected to be eyed carefully.

But Lorenzo said nothing, and as we entered the room, the men—divided into several small groups, some laughing, some arguing, some telling tales—did not so much as look up at us.

I kept staring into the crowd, thinking I would at least find one feminine face—perhaps that belonging to Lorenzo’s daughter-in-law, Madonna Alfonsina—but she was nowhere to be seen. This was strictly a gathering of gentlemen, and I could not help but wonder whether my future husband stood among them.

“These are my friends.” Lorenzo raised his reedy voice above the noise. “I have been unable to enjoy their company for some time. As it is Carnival, I thought they would enjoy some small entertainment.” He inclined his head to smile at me. “As I hope you will.”

I did not refuse when he summoned a servant, who brought a goblet—of exquisite gold, adorned with the darkest blue lapis lazuli I had ever seen. It contained watered wine, the most delicious I had ever tasted. The goblet was embarrassingly full.

“This is quite a lot of wine,” I remarked, then silently cursed myself.

His expression turned sly and playful. “Perhaps you shall need it.”

Of that, I had no doubt. “Will you not have some?”

He shook his head, his smile grown sheepish. “My time for indulgence is long past, I fear. Here”—he glanced up, and with his sharp chin indicated a small group of men sitting in the center of the room—“I should like to introduce you to some of my dearest friends.”

I took a swift sip of wine. So, I was to be judged after all—and by the closest of Medici associates. I firmly fixed a small, demure smile upon my lips, and walked arm in arm with my host.

Il Magnifico
steered us toward a group of four men, three sitting and one standing beside a table, where plates of food and goblets of wine rested. The man on his feet, the speaker of the moment, was approaching the half-century mark in age. His blond hair was streaked with gray, his body fleshy, his clean-shaven face puffy from drink; even so, one could see he had been quite handsome as a youth, for he had full, sensual lips and great, heavy-lidded eyes. Obviously wealthy, he wore a sapphire velvet
farsetto
beneath a skillfully draped sky-blue mantle. In one hand was a small plate, heaped with food; in the other, the tiny leg of a roasted quail, which he held up and addressed as if it could hear him.

“Alas, sweet bird,” he intoned mockingly, “how tragic for you that you were never rescued by our friend here—and how fortuitous for me that you have instead made my acquaintance first!”

Off to the side sat a dark-haired, dark-eyed lad of perhaps eighteen, whose great high brow seemed precariously balanced atop a jaw so foreshortened it looked as though he had lost all his teeth; his appearance was not helped by the fact that his eyes bulged, or that his demeanor was withdrawn and sullen. He clutched his wine, sipping it while the others enjoyed amicable conversation. The second was an old man, wizened and bald save for a few wisps of hair at the temples. And the third . . .

Ah, the third. The third, the “friend” to whom the speaker referred, I judged to be between the ages of thirty and forty—or perhaps ageless, for his dress and grooming were quite out of fashion, more
appropriate to that of ancient Greece or Rome. He wore a tunic so long it reached his knees, of rose-colored, unadorned fabric and untailored construction. His hair, pale brown streaked with gold and silver, fell in perfect waves past his shoulders, almost to his waist, and his beard, also waving, matched it in length. Despite the oddity of his attire, he was, quite simply, the most beautiful thing in the room. His teeth were white and even, his nose straight and narrow, and his eyes . . . If Lorenzo was brilliant, this man was the sun. In his eyes was a remarkable sensitivity, a razor-keen perceptiveness.

I prayed silently:
Dear God, if I must have one man in Florence—one man out of thousands—let it be he.

Lorenzo lingered just far enough back so that the four need not interrupt their conversation to acknowledge him. Just as the first man finished speaking, the old one, sitting in the chair next to my beautiful philosopher, frowned at him and asked, “Is it true, then, what they say? That you go to market to buy caged birds and set them free?”

My philosopher grinned charmingly; the standing man with the quail answered for him. “I have accompanied him several times on such missions,” he said, then popped the roasted leg into his mouth and drew out the bone, stripped of flesh. Chewing, he added, his voice muffled: “He has done so since he was a stripling.”

The old man stared in disbelief at the philosopher. “So you eat
no
meat?”

My man said simply, with neither judgment nor apology, “I do not, sir. Have not, for the course of my adulthood.”

The old man recoiled. “Outrageous notion! How is it, then, that you have survived?”

“Through wit alone, and barely then, dear Marsilo. That, and soup, bread, cheese, fruits, and fine wine.” He raised his goblet and took a sip.

“But surely this will shorten your life!” Marsilo persisted, truly alarmed. “Man must have meat to be strong!”

My philosopher set his goblet upon the table and leaned forward engagingly. “Shall we wrestle to determine the truth of the matter? Perhaps not you, Marsilo, given your venerable condition, but our
Sandro here will gladly take your place.” He glanced up at the quaileater’s ample belly. “He has clearly eaten the lion’s portion of Florence’s meat—indeed, he has taken a portion just now. Sandro! Off with your mantle! Let us set to it and decide this empirically!”

The old man laughed at such foolishness; Sandro said, with mock boredom, “It would be an unfair contest. You have ridden all night from Milan to come see Lorenzo, and are tired. I have too much pity to take advantage of an old friend—who would lose the fight even were he well rested.”

There came a pause; Lorenzo stepped into it, with me on his arm. “Gentlemen.”

They turned. All but the beautiful philosopher seemed startled to find me, a mere girl, in their company.

“Here is a young lady you must meet.” Lorenzo took a step back from me, breaking our link, and gestured at me as though I were a prize. “This is Madonna Lisa di Antonio Gherardini, daughter of the wool merchant.”

The consumer of quail set down his plate, put a hand to his breast, and bowed grandly. “Sandro Botticelli, a humble painter. I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Madonna.”

“And this is my dear friend Marsilo Ficino,” Lorenzo said, gesturing at the elderly gentleman, who by virtue of his age and infirmity did not rise; Ficino greeted me with a disinterested nod. “Our Marsilo is head of the Florentine Academy as well as the famed translator of the
Corpus Hermeticum
, and so is greatly respected by us all.”

“An honor, sirs,” I said to both men, and curtsied, hoping that the great Botticelli would not detect the quaver in my voice. He had created his greatest masterpieces by then:
Primavera
, of course, and
The Birth of Venus
, both of which graced the walls of Lorenzo’s villa at Castello.

“This young lad”—Lorenzo lowered his voice and smiled faintly at the dark-haired, scowling youth who could scarcely bring himself to look at us—“is the talented Michelangelo, who resides with us. Perhaps you have heard of him.”

“I have,” I said, emboldened perhaps by the young man’s extreme
shyness. “I attend the church of Santo Spirito, where his handsome wooden crucifix is displayed. I have always admired it.”

Michelangelo lowered his face and blinked—perhaps a response, perhaps not, but I took it as one, and the others seemed to judge it normal.

My philosopher rose. He was slender, straight, and tall—his body, like his face, was perfectly proportioned. At first sight of me, he had recoiled slightly, as if troubled; as his unease faded, it was replaced by an odd and tender melancholy. “I am called Leonardo,” he said softly, “from the little town of Vinci.”

I
stifled a surprised gasp. I remembered when my mother and I had stared together at the last portrait on the wall in the Piazza della Signoria, that of the murderer Bernardo Baroncelli—the painting done with a surer, more elegant hand. Here was its creator.

“Sir,” I said, my voice catching, “I am honored to meet such a great artist.” In the corner of my eye, I saw Botticelli jab Leonardo with an elbow in a display of mock jealousy.

He took my hand and studied me so intently that I flushed; there was more than an artist’s admiration in his gaze. I saw deep appreciation, mixed with an affection I had not earned. “And I am honored, Madonna, to meet a living work of art.” He bent down and brushed the back of my hand with his lips; his beard was as soft as child’s hair.

Please
, I repeated silently.
Let him be the one.

“I thought you were bound to Milan now,” I said, wondering why he was present.

“It is true, the Duke of Milan is my patron,” he replied amiably as he let go my hand. “Though I owe my career entirely to the graciousness of
il Magnifico.
”

“Quite the genius, our Leonardo,” Botticelli interjected dryly. “In Milan, he paints, he sculpts, he sketches plans for magnificent palazzi, he directs the construction of dams, he plays the lute and sings. . . .” He faced his old friend. “Tell me, is there anything you do
not
do for the Duke?”

The tone of the question was markedly sly; old Ficino let go the beginnings of a snigger, then drew himself up short as if suddenly remembering Lorenzo’s and my presence. Lorenzo directed a veiled warning glance at the two men.

“That is the extent of it,” Leonardo responded mildly. “Although I do have plans for altering the course of the sun.”

Laughter followed—issuing from all save Michelangelo, who huddled more closely to his goblet, as though frightened by the noise.