I, Mona Lisa (35 page)

She then led me on a tour of the kitchens and the interior of the house, including the living quarters of Piero’s wife, Alfonsina, and their children. Afterward, she showed me the library, with its tall shelves of beautifully carved wood that held countless leather-bound tomes and parchment scrolls.

I chose a copy of Petrarch—his
Canzoniere,
containing more than three hundred sonnets. Most of the other volumes were in Greek (of which I knew nothing) or Latin (in which I possessed uncertain skill). I took the little book back to Lorenzo’s bedchamber and—smiling kindly at the Goliath of a guard who attended me—settled in the chair beside the freshly fed fire to read.

I had thought Petrarch a safe choice. He wrote in Tuscan, which would require little of my wavering concentration, and his love poetry would remind me of my reason for joy: Giuliano. Yet as I carefully turned the pages, I found nothing but torment. Poem after poem contained not the beauty of passion, but only the sorrow and torment it
caused. Here was poor Petrarch, mourning the death of Laura, the object of his never-requited love:

. . .
the lightning of her angelic smile, whose ray
To Earth could all of paradise convey
A little dust is now.
And yet I live—and that I live, bewail . . .

I scoffed at the tears that welled in my eyes and wiped them away, scolding myself; I had never been one to weep at poetry. Yet another sentence left me troubled:

But then my spirits are chilled, when at your departure
I see my fatal stars turn their sweet aspect from me.

My fatal stars. I remembered something I hadn’t thought about for a long time: the encounter with the astrologer and my stinging words to my mother, who had only been trying to spare me worry. In my mind, I could hear the astrologer’s voice:
In your stars I saw an act of violence, one which is your past and your future.

I thought of my mother dying at Savonarola’s hands and was seized by the abrupt, unreasoning fear that Giuliano—my future—was to be his next victim.

“Stop,” I told myself aloud, then looked guiltily toward the door to see if my giant on the other side had heard me. There came no voice, no movement; I gave my head a little shake to clear it, then frowned and continued reading. I was determined to find something happy, something bright—a good omen to counter the ill.

I flipped through the pages again, and found, in Petrarch’s fluid Tuscan, the verse

Il successor di Karlo che la chioma
Co la corona del suo antiquo adorna
Prese a gia l’arme per fiacchar la corna
A Babilonia, et chi da lei si noma
The heir of Charlemagne, whose brow
The crown of ancient times adorns
Now wields his sword against the horns
Of Babylon, and those who to her bow.

I shut the book, set it down, and went over to the fire. The heat was fierce; I crossed my arms over my chest, tightly, as if to hold in the fear. They were all connected somehow: Leonardo, the third man, Lorenzo’s death, the
piagnoni
 . . . and me.

When I looked up, I saw Uccello’s
Battle of San Romano
, with its bright banners flying in an imaginary wind. Captain Tolentino still appeared brave and determined, but this time he seemed very alone, soon to be overwhelmed by the enemy.

Giuliano did not return until late afternoon—so close to the hour he was scheduled to leave that I summoned Laura and sent her after him to be sure he came to see me before he left.

He no longer wore his false cheerfulness; his eyes were serious, his brow faintly lined. He brought with him a valet who dressed him in a severe tunic of dark gray, untrimmed.

When the valet was gone, I said lightly, “You look like a
piagnone.
”

He did not smile. “I have to leave soon. Did Laura show you where Giovanni’s suite is?”

“Yes.”

“Good.” He paused; I knew he was choosing his words carefully. “If for any reason Piero and I are detained . . . if we’re late, or if anything happens to worry you, go to Giovanni at once. He’ll know what to do.”

I scowled, using displeasure and disapproval to mask my unease. “What could possibly worry me? Why would I want to go to Giovanni?”

My husband’s lips twitched slightly as he made the decision to be candid. “Our things are packed. Giovanni knows where they are, and
he knows where to take you. We’ve agreed on a place where we can meet. So if we’re detained . . .”

“I want to go with you. I can’t stay here.”

He gave a short, soft laugh devoid of humor. My suggestion was outrageous, of course: I was a woman, and women would not be welcome at the Palazzo della Signoria. And I already knew Giuliano well enough to know he would never let me accompany him on such a dangerous outing.

“Lisa.” He took my shoulders tenderly. “We’ve come to an agreement with King Charles; the Signoria may not like it. I was a fool to let Piero continue to listen to Dovizi—everything he’s encouraged my brother to do has made our family look bad. I should never have let things get to this stage; I was too busy looking after our banking interests, left too much of the politics in Piero’s hands. Piero won’t like it, but from this day forth, I’ll insist on being more involved. Dovizi will not be sleeping under our roof tonight. Piero will listen only to my counsel from now on.”

He paused then, and looked toward the window. I knew he was listening for the bells.

“You have to go now, don’t you?”

In reply, he took my face in his hands. “I love you.” He gave me a small, sweet kiss. “And I’ll be back soon, I promise you. Don’t worry.”

“All right,” I said. Somehow, I managed to speak and behave very calmly. “I’ll let you go without me on one condition.”

“What?” He tried to sound playful.

The connection between Leonardo’s letter and Lorenzo’s dying words still gnawed at me, and I feared that my opportunity to learn the truth was fast escaping. “Answer this question. Who is the third man? The penitent?”

His hands dropped to his sides. His lips parted, and he frowned at me, dumbstruck. “After all this time . . . you remember my father saying that?” And then he collected himself. “He was dying. He didn’t know what he was saying.”

“You’re a terrible liar. Who did he mean?”

Giuliano’s shoulders slumped slightly in defeat. “He was the one
man who escaped,” he said, and at that instant the bells began to ring.

We both started, but I persisted. Time was slipping away, and I had a sudden keen desire to know, as if both our fates depended on it. “Escaped what?”

“They caught everyone involved in the conspiracy to kill my uncle. But one man escaped.”

“Your father saw him?”

He shook his head, visibly anxious now, his body turning toward the door. “Leonardo,” he said. “Leonardo saw him; my uncle died in his arms. Lisa, I have to go. Kiss me again.”

I wanted to cry from sheer worry, but instead I kissed him.

“The guards are just outside,” he said quickly, “and they will tell you if you need to go to Giovanni. Stay here. Laura will bring you something to eat.” He opened the door, then turned his head to look at me one last time. His face was young, painted with fireglow; his eyes were shining and anxious. “I love you.”

“I love you,” I said.

He closed the door. I went over to the window and opened it, unmindful of the chill. There was finally a break in the clouds, and I caught a glimpse of the low sun, coral orange. I leaned out for a while, listening to the bells; then I watched as finally Piero and Giuliano set out on horseback, accompanied by some thirty men.

“Leonardo,” I said, with no one there to hear me. Somehow we were connected to each other and the trouble that was surely coming now.

I
listened to the cascading harmony of the church bells until the very last note faded into the vibrating air. I felt I ought to go downstairs to the chapel, where Giovanni and Michelangelo were no doubt at vespers; I felt I should pray to my mother’s benevolent God to protect my husband. But I was too agitated at that point to converse with God or anyone else. I was too agitated, in fact, to obey Giuliano and sit patiently in the bedchamber.

I was dressed in my wedding gown, since Zalumma had never arrived with my other clothes; because it was chilly, I put on the lovely brocade overdress with its fur lining. Something made me pause and retrieve my two gold medallions from the desk, where Laura had put them when she had undressed me the night before. I slipped them into the inside pocket of the overdress, and stepped out into the antechamber.

My giant rose to his feet. “Is there anything you need, Madonna Lisa?”

“No. I’m just going to the kitchen to get something to eat,” I lied cheerily, and graced him with my best smile.

His expression grew troubled. “But Ser Giuliano gave orders—”

My smile broadened. “That I was to stay in my room. I know. But
he said if I got hungry, there was no harm in going to the kitchen. Besides, I’m bored of Petrarch. I wanted to borrow another book from the library.”

“We can fetch you food—whatever you like. And if you tell us the book—”

“Ah, but I’m not familiar with the library, so I wouldn’t know what book to ask for.” My tone grew pleading. “Please. I’ll only be a minute.”

“Very well,” he said, reluctant. “But I must respectfully ask that you don’t dawdle. Ser Giuliano would never forgive me if he returned and I could not account for your whereabouts.” He led the way to the antechamber door and paused to instruct the two guards there in a low voice. As I made my way down the corridor, I could hear one of them following me at a discreet distance.

I went downstairs, passing more armed guards. I had no desire to go to the kitchen, of course; I only wanted to distract myself. And so I wandered out into the courtyard.

It was almost as I remembered: There, in the center, was Donatello’s sleek, girlish bronze David, and nearby a stone bust of Plato. But many of the ancient pieces were gone, and, most notably, so was the terra-cotta sculpture of the elder Giuliano.

I had heard of the famed Medici gardens and knew that they lay beyond the courtyard. I passed between a pair of columns connected by an arch of
pietra serena,
crossing through a loggia until the building opened up again.

Here I found the formal garden, a third the size of the vast palazzo. At the center of a bright green lawn, two flagstone paths, lined by potted fruit trees, intersected. Between the trees stood thickets of rosebushes, thorny and starkly pruned for the coming winter. Behind the bushes, at carefully placed intervals, stood life-sized statues on high pedestals. The one that most caught my eye portrayed the Hebrew, Judith, her fist clutching the hair of her fallen enemy, Holofernes. Her other hand bore a large sword, hefted above her head, ready to render the blow that would finish the gory task of hacking Holofernes’ head from his body.

And stacked neatly upon the flagstone, next to the walls, were piles
and piles of weapons and armor: shields, helmets, maces, long swords, daggers, and lances reminiscent of Uccello’s masterpiece.

The sight evoked a thrill: All this time, the Medici had been preparing for a war.

I lifted my gaze to a small group of soldiers who stood nearby, conversing idly with one another; they stopped to stare back at me with curious, unfriendly expressions.

Perhaps, I told myself, this was simply Piero’s doing—the result of his unease and mistrust, like the Orsini troops who awaited him by the San Gallo city gate. Perhaps Giuliano had never approved this, or thought it necessary.

Nevertheless, I went over to one of the mounds of knives and carefully teased out a sheathed dagger—the smallest one there. The men did not like it; one of them made a move as if to come over and stop me, but the others held him back. I was now, after all, one of the Medici.

I unsheathed the dagger and held it to the fading sunlight. It was pure steel, double-edged, with a razor-sharp tip. My breath was coming hard as I slid it back into the leather, then nestled it into the inside pocket of my overdress.

The guard who had followed me from the house was waiting beneath the archway. I gave him a challenging stare, knowing that he had watched me take the weapon; he said nothing.

I let him follow me to the library. No more Petrarch; I wanted something unemotional, dry and demanding, to force my thoughts away from all unpleasantness. This time I chose a Latin primer. If everything went as planned—if the Signoria and Piero could be reconciled—I wanted to improve my education in the classics, as I would be entertaining many scholars. I wanted never to cause my husband any embarrassment by seeming like an unlettered peasant, and I was already worrying about how to impress my new sister-in-law.

I returned to my room and closed the door, which greatly relieved my guardians. I slipped my overdress off and laid it over the chair, then sat down by the fire. The book was meant as a child’s introduction to Latin; I opened the book and read:

Video, vides, videt, videmus, videtis, vident
 . . .

I see, you see, he sees, and so on. Had I been calm, I would have flown through the pages, but my thoughts were so scattered that I stared at the words stupidly. In order to concentrate at all, I read them aloud.

I droned on for only a few minutes when I was interrupted by a sound outside my window—the low, melancholy tolling of a bell, the one popularly known as the “cow” because it struck the same pitch as cattle lowing.

It was the bell that summoned all Florentine citizens to the Piazza della Signoria.

I
dropped the book, ran to the window, and flung open the shutters. It was still light outside and I peered down the street, straining toward the Piazza della Signoria. The clanging increased in tempo; I watched as servants wandered out of the grand palazzi down the street to stare, as pedestrians below stopped and turned their faces in the direction of the piazza, transfixed. Beneath me, a small army of men hurried out of the main and side entrances of our building, shields held at chest level, unsheathed swords clenched in their fists.