I, Mona Lisa (29 page)

“Fra Girolamo knows nothing,” I replied heatedly. “Giuliano is a good man, from a family of good men, and I will marry him someday!”

He reached forth to slap me so swiftly that I never saw the gesture; in the next instant, I was holding my hand to my stinging cheek.

“God forgive me,” he said, as surprised as I by his action. “God forgive me, but you provoke me. How can you speak of marrying one of the Medici? Have you not heard what the prophet has said of them? Have you not heard the people’s talk?”

“I’ve heard.” My tone was ugly. “I don’t care what you, or Fra Girolamo, or the people think.”

“You terrify me.” He shook his head. “I am frightened for your sake. Frightened for you. How many times must I repeat myself? You are following a dangerous path, Lisa. Safety lies only with Fra Girolamo. Safety lies with the Church.” He drew in a shuddering sigh, his expression tortured. “I will pray for you, child. What else can I do?”

“Pray for us both,” I countered, as unkindly as possible, then turned imperiously and ran up the stairs to my chamber.

Z
alumma had not managed to hear all of the conversation between my father and Giuliano, but she heard enough to know that an offer of land and ten thousand florins had been refused. When Giuliano finally asked what offer would be acceptable, and what he could possibly do to prove the sincerity of his intent, my father had finally replied, “You know, Ser Giuliano, that I am a disciple of Fra Girolamo.”

“Yes,” Giuliano admitted.

“Then you understand my reasons for refusing you, and why I will never yield on this subject.” Then my father had risen and proclaimed the discussion at an end.

“But,” Zalumma confided in me, “I saw Ser Giuliano’s eyes, and the set of his jaw. He is just like his uncle; he will never give up. Never.”

During that spring and summer, I refused to abandon hope. I was convinced I would hear from Giuliano again.

Indeed, when Piero’s third cousins, eager for recompense from
France, concocted a plot against him, I told myself that this was the worst that could possibly happen. And when Piero—avoiding his father’s mistake with the Pazzi—put the conspirators under house arrest, in a generous gesture designed to quiet his detractors, I felt great relief. A crisis had been averted; surely the people would quit criticizing Piero’s every move.

But Florence was cruelly fickle. She had, after all, exiled both Petrarch and Dante, those whom she now hailed as her greatest sons. Piero was deemed weak, ineffective.

With my father and Count Pico—who was growing wan and sickly—I listened to Savonarola’s Easter sermon. He had delivered the Lord’s message as best he could, he said, and this sermon was the last he would deliver until God summoned him to the pulpit again. It took all my resolve not to smile with relief.

Let everyone hurry to enter the refuge of God’s Ark, he said. “Noah invites you today; the door stands open, but the time will come when it shall close, and many will regret not having entered.”

I had no intention of either entering or entertaining regret. Indeed, I was jubilant to be spared Fra Girolamo’s frantic proclamations. I still attended Mass twice daily—accompanied by Zalumma and my father but, blessedly, not by the unctuous Pico—at the church of Santo Spirito, where my mother was buried, where her memory gave me peace, where God was a just and loving deity, more interested in rescuing souls and comforting the sick than in tormenting sinners.

I needed no God to provide torment; my own heart provided it easily. One evening after supper, in the privacy of my chamber, I penned a single line with my mother’s quill. After signing it, I carefully folded the paper twice and sealed it with red wax.

I proffered it then to Zalumma.

She stood with arms folded over her breast. She looked formidable with her curling black hair brushed out, creating a voluminous, unruly frame for her face, which in the candle’s glow had taken on the color of the moon. “It is no longer so easy,” she said. “Your father watches me closely.”

“Then someone else can go to the Palazzo Medici. I don’t care how you do it; just get it done.”

“First you must tell me what it says.”

Had it been anyone other than Zalumma, who had cared so attentively for my mother in her illness and stood beside me at her death, I would have reminded her at once that she was exhibiting dangerous impertinence for a slave. I sighed, dropped my shoulders in surrender, then uttered the words that had stolen my sleep for so many nights.

“Give me a sign and an opportunity, and I will come to you.”

This was monstrous, beyond scandal; a proper marriage could never be obtained without the father’s consent. I risked disapproval not only from society but from Giuliano himself.

I sat and waited wearily for Zalumma’s tirade.

It did not come. She studied me for a long, silent moment. And then she said, softly but most deliberately: “I will go with you, of course.”

She took the letter and slipped it in her bosom. I reached forth and squeezed her hand. We did not smile; our conspiracy was far too grave a matter. If my father refused, ex post facto, to give his consent to my marriage, I would have no more status than a mistress.

My dearest Lisa,

 

Your letter touches me so that I weep. That you should be so willing, for my sake, to risk censure for me humbles me, moves me to become a man worthy of you.

But I cannot permit you to come to me now.

Do not think for an instant that I will ever abandon you, or our love; you remain foremost in my thoughts. But you must realize that the simple act of communicating with me has opened you to danger. And that troubles my heart even more than the separation we must endure.

No doubt you have heard of the attempted overthrow of Piero by our cousins Lorenzo and Giovanni. And our
situation has grown even worse. Only today, Piero received a letter from our ambassadors in Lyons. Charles has dismissed them; at this moment, they are making their way back to Tuscany. Our bankers, too, have been expelled.

Has my love waned? Never! But I cannot bear to see you put yourself in harm’s way. Be patient, beloved; let time pass, let the matter with King Charles resolve itself. Give me time, too, to think of a way to appease your father, for I cannot ask you to come to me under such unhappy circumstances—though at the same time, I am deeply moved by your willingness to do so. You are a strong woman; my father would be very proud.

When I am certain of your safety, I will send for you.

Until then, I remain

 

Yours forever,
Giuliano

I did not, could not, reply. What did it serve to express my hurt, my frustration, even my anger at him for not inviting me to come to him at once? What had politics to do with our love?

Late summer passed miserably. The weather grew sultry. Scores of fish died and floated on the waters of the Arno, their rotting flesh glistening silver in the sun; the stench permeated the city. It was the smell, the faithful said, of Death marching southward over the Alps. Despite the prophet’s silence, more and more citizens, even those of the nobility, yielded to his teachings and gave up their fine dress. Black, deep grays, dark blues, and browns colored the streets; gone were the brilliant peacock hues of blues, greens, and purples, the cheerful saffrons and rich scarlets.

Come into the Ark . . . cito, cito!

Fear had gripped the public mind. Lost without Savonarola to tell them what God was thinking, people spoke in awestruck murmurs of signs and portents: of clouds in the sky near Arezzo forming into soldiers on horseback, swords hefted above their heads; of a nun at Santa
Maria Novella, overcome during Mass by a vision of a fiery red bull ramming the church with its horns; of a terrible storm in Puglia, its darkness interrupted by a dazzling thunderbolt which revealed not one, but three suns hung in the sky.

My father apparently forgot about Giuliano’s proposal and about arranging my marriage to a
piagnone.
He grew more troubled and distracted than usual. According to Zalumma, the Medici now refused to buy their woolen goods from him, severing a business relationship that had endured since the time of Cosimo de’ Medici and my great-grandfather. Business was bad: While wool was the fabric of choice for the nobler
piagnoni,
my father could no longer sell his brightly colored weaves, and it was proving difficult even to sell the dull ones, as people were reluctant to spend money on wardrobes during such uncertain times.

But there were other things perturbing him that I could not divine. He went early to Mass at Santo Spirito, then went to his shop directly afterward and did not return home until evening; I was certain he attended vespers in the Duomo, or San Marco, most likely meeting his friend Pico there. He never spoke of it, though, and he returned home late and dined with Ser Giovanni, no longer caring whether I was there to greet them at the supper table.

By August, King Charles had mobilized his troops and crossed the Alps; the conquering Cyrus had begun his inexorable march toward Tuscany.
What does Piero de’ Medici plan to do to help us?
people demanded. My father snorted in disapproval. “He entertains himself with sports and women; like Nero, he plays while Rome burns.”

Public hysteria increased throughout September: The eastern coastal town of Rapallo, south of Turin and Milan, was ravaged by the mercenaries who marched alongside the French. These soldiers were nothing like our Italian
condottieri,
who looted freely and trampled crops, but spared lives. No, these purchased swords belonged to the fierce Swiss, for whom treasures were not enough: They craved blood. And they spilled it generously, killing every single living soul they encountered. Infants suckling at their mothers’ breasts were speared through; women whose bellies were swollen from pregnancy
were flayed alive. Limbs and heads were hacked off. Rapallo had become a gruesome graveyard of unburied, festering flesh piled high in the sun.

And all of us in Florence were mad with terror; even my father, formerly so eager to greet the End of Days, was afraid. The public sought reassurance, not from Piero de’ Medici, not from our Lord Priors, but from the one man who now held the city’s heart in his hands: the prior of San Marco, Savonarola. Such was the public clamor that he abandoned his self-imposed silence and agreed to preach on the Feast of Saint Matthew in the great Duomo.

Knowing the crowds would be great, we arrived at the outskirts of the Piazza del Duomo at dawn, when the sun was low and the light still gray. The sky was filled with red-tinged clouds that promised rain.

We found the church steps, the garden, the square itself overflowing with so many people that our driver could not pull the carriage into the piazza proper. Zalumma, my father, and I were required to climb down and struggle on foot toward the cathedral.

There was no Christian charity to be found. A physically strong man, my father pushed unapologetically, even brutally, through the crowds, creating just enough space for Zalumma and me to follow by pressing close behind him.

It took us the better part of an hour to make it into the church. Once my father was recognized, we were treated like dignitaries: Dominican monks escorted us the rest of the way, to the front of the sanctuary directly facing the pulpit. Despite the size of the crowd, the pews had been left inside the church, and seats had been reserved for each of us.

And there, waiting for us, was Count Giovanni Pico. His appearance shocked me. He had come almost every night to my house for the past several months, but I had not come down to catch so much as a glimpse of him. Now I saw that he had aged beyond his years, grown gray-skinned and gaunt. Leaning heavily upon a cane, he attempted to rise when he saw us, but his limbs trembled so badly that he abandoned the effort. My father sat beside him, and the two conferred urgently, quietly. As I watched them, I caught a glimpse of a familiar
form behind them: Michelangelo. Wearing tailored black, he had clearly entered the ranks of the
piagnoni:
The severity of his dress served to accentuate the darkness of his eyes, his hair, the pronounced height of his pale brow, and the shortness of his jaw. At the sight of me, he lowered his face as if embarrassed.

I cannot say how long we waited for Mass to begin; I know only that a great deal of time passed, during which I said many prayers on Giuliano’s behalf. I was far more frightened for his life than for my own.

At last, the processional began. The smoke of incense wafted on the air. The congregation, the choir, even the priest seemed dazed. We went through the motions of ritual halfheartedly, murmuring responses without hearing them, without considering their meaning. Our minds were focused on one thing: the appearance of the prophet.

Even I—sinner, skeptic, lover of the Medici and their pagan art—found it impossible to resist the agony of anticipation. When the prophet at last ascended the steps to the podium, I—and Pico, and my father, and Zalumma—and every other person in the cathedral, including the priest, held our breaths. The silence at that moment felt impossible, given that over a thousand souls sat shoulder to shoulder within the sanctuary, and several thousand more stood on the steps and in the piazza outside; the only sound, as Savonarola surveyed the assembly, was the distant rumble of thunder.

After his months of solitude and fasting, Fra Girolamo was ghastly pale, his cheekbones shockingly prominent. On this day, there was no confidence in his wide eyes, no righteousness, only agitation and sorrow; his jutting lower lip trembled as if he struggled to hold back tears. His shoulders slumped, and his hands gripped the edges of the lectern desperately, as though he labored beneath an unbearable weight.

Whatever words he was about to pronounce were, for him, a dreadful burden. He ran bony fingers through his unkempt black curls, then clutched them tightly and released a groan.