I, Mona Lisa (54 page)

I closed my eyes. When I opened them again, I said, “You must promise me that no one will hurt him. That no harm will come to him. . . . If I thought that you, that Piero, was a danger to him, I—”

“Lisa,” he said. His tone was sharp. “You are trying to protect someone who isn’t worthy of your protection.” He turned his face toward the window. “I had hoped this moment would never arrive, that you would be spared. I see now, of course, that it was only a matter of time.”

“If you hurt him, I won’t help you.” My voice shook.

“Salai!” he called, so loudly that I started, thinking at first that he was shouting at me. “Salai!”

In a moment, Salai appeared in the doorway, grinning; at the sight of us, his good humor evaporated.

“Watch her,” Leonardo commanded. He left the room. After a moment, I could hear him shuffling about in the next chamber, searching for something.

When he returned, he held a folio in his hand; he dismissed Salai with a curt nod. Then he took the folio over to the long table against the far wall, and opened it, and began going through the drawings—a few done in charcoal, some in ink, most in meltingly delicate red-brown chalk—until he found the one he sought.

He laid his forefinger on it firmly, accusatorily.

I moved to stand beside him; I looked down at the drawing.

“You were right,” he said. “I made a sketch immediately after the event and kept it for a very long time. This is one I made recently, in Milan. After you asked me, I realized the time might come for you to see it.”

It was a fully rendered drawing of a man’s head, with a hint of the neck and shoulders. He was in the act of turning to look over his shoulder far, far behind him. He was draped in a cowl, which hid his hair, his ears, and left most of his face in shadow. Only the tip of his nose, chin, and mouth were visible.

The man’s lips were parted, one corner drawn lower as his face turned; in my mind, I could hear his gasp. Although the eyes were hidden in blackness, his terror, his spent anger, his dawning regret were conveyed surely in the one brilliant, horrified downward turn of the lower lip, in the straining muscles of his neck.

I looked at the man. I felt I knew him, but I had never seen him before. “This is the penitent,” I said. “The man you saw in the Duomo.”

“Yes. Do you recognize him?”

I hesitated and at last said, “No.”

He cleared a space upon the table, took the drawing from the portfolio, and set it down. “I did not learn what I am about to show you until recently.” He took up a piece of crumbling red chalk and beckoned for me to stand close beside him.

And he began to draw with the same natural ease that another man might use to walk or breathe. He made light, staccato strokes over the jaw first, and the chin; it took me a moment to realize he was drawing hair, a beard. As he did, the penitent’s jaw softened; the upper lip disappeared beneath a full mustache. He drew a pair of lines, and the corners of the man’s mouth were suddenly braced by age.

Slowly, beneath his hand, appeared a man I knew, a man I had seen every day of my life.

I turned away. I closed my eyes because I did not want to see more.

“You recognize him now.” Leonardo’s voice was very soft and unhappy.

I nodded, blind.

“His involvement was not born of innocence, Lisa. He was part of the conspiracy from the beginning. He joined not out of piety, but out of jealousy, out of hate. He does not merit anyone’s protection. He destroyed Anna Lucrezia. Destroyed her.”

I turned my back on him, on the drawing. I took a step away.

“Did you go to him, Lisa? Did you say anything to him? Did you speak to him of me, of Piero?”

I went to my chair and sat. I clasped my hands and leaned forward, elbows on my knees. I wanted to be sick. I had worn my knife that day, hungry for the moment I would meet the third man.

Leonardo remained next to the table, the drawing, but he faced me. “Please answer. We are dealing with men who do not shrink from murder. Did you go to him? Did you say anything to him, to anyone?”

“No,” I said.

I had told Leonardo half the truth—that I had said nothing about him or about Francesco’s letters. Perhaps it was the half truth that showed on my face, in my aspect, for Leonardo asked me no further questions. But even he, for all his charm, could not convince me to sit for him that day, nor could he interest me in conversing about all that had happened since we last had met. I returned home early.

Francesco was late returning from his
bottega
. He did not stop at
the nursery to greet me and Matteo; he went into his chambers and did not venture out until summoned to supper.

My father was also late in arriving for the meal, and he, too, did not come to the nursery first, as was his custom. I arrived at the table to find Francesco stone-faced, defeated, gripped by cold, powerless rage. He uttered my name and gave a curt nod in greeting, but his features never stirred.

My father did his best to smile—but given what I had learned from Leonardo, I found it difficult to meet his eyes. Once the food was served, he inquired after Matteo’s health, after mine; I answered with awkward reserve. After those pleasantries were dispensed with, he began to speak a bit about politics, as he and Francesco so often did, after a fashion that I might understand and be educated.

“Fra Girolamo is working on an apologia,
The Triumph of the Cross
. There are those who claim that he is a heretic, a rebel against the Church, but this work will show just how orthodox his beliefs are. He is writing it expressly for His Holiness, in answer to charges brought by his critics.”

I glanced sidewise at Francesco, who addressed his
minestra
and revealed no trace of an opinion on the matter. “Well,” I said tentatively, “he has certainly preached strenuously against Rome.”

“He preaches against sin,” my father countered gently. “Not against the papacy. His writings will show his absolute respect for the latter.”

I knew better, but I looked down at my plate and did not answer.

“I think it is wise of Fra Girolamo to address such questions,” he said; and when neither I nor Francesco replied immediately, he surrendered, and the three of us ate in silence.

After a few moments, Francesco surprised me by speaking—suddenly, with cool bitterness. “Let the prophet write what he will. There are some who believe he has little chance of placating His Holiness.”

My father looked up sharply from his food; in the face of Francesco’s icy gaze, he soon looked down again.

Supper ended without another word. My father took his leave immediately
afterward—a fact for which I was glad, as I was far too troubled by my new knowledge to be comfortable with him. Francesco returned to his room. I went up to the nursery and played with Matteo in an effort to cheer myself, to blot out the image of my father plunging his blade into Giuliano’s back.

It was not until I had put my son to bed and returned to my chamber that I understood Francesco’s anger. Before I could reach for the door, it opened before me, and Zalumma seized my arm and pulled me inside. She closed the door quickly behind us, then leaned against it, her eyes bright, her manner excited but furtive.

“Did you hear? Did you hear, Madonna? Isabella just told me—the news is spreading quickly tonight!”

“Hear what?”

“Savonarola. The Pope has done it at last: He has excommunicated him!”

S
ummer brought with it a second, fiercer outbreak of
la moria
, the Death. Florence was hard hit: Stretchers were seen everywhere, carrying to the hospitals those pedestrians who had collapsed en route to their homes, their shops, their churches.

My visits to Santissima Annunziata came to a halt. Even if I had wanted to venture out onto the plague-ridden streets, I had no news to share with Leonardo, since I no longer had access to my husband’s letters. Fearful of contagion, Francesco had given up his nightly prowling and stayed in his chambers, often sitting in the study; he went out only to his nearby shop, and more rarely, when the most important business called, to the Palazzo della Signoria. Yet despite
la moria
, he received more visitors than ever: Lord Priors,
Buonomi
, and other men who were never introduced to me, about whom I never asked. Savonarola was in political danger, and Francesco was desperate to save him.

To avoid the danger of traveling back and forth over the Arno, my father came to stay with us for a time. After Francesco’s visitors departed, he often called my father into his study, and the two men
would speak together at length. I did not try to spy on these meetings, but there were times I could hear their low voices, the pitch and timbre of their conversations. Francesco always sounded argumentative, imperious; my father sounded simply unhappy.

After an oddly early and lengthy visit from one Lord Prior, Francesco and my father came down in the morning to eat. I was at the table, with Matteo squirming in my lap; I had never before brought him downstairs to eat, but he was almost two years old, and I dreamt of teaching him to eat with a spoon. When the two men arrived, Matteo was happily pounding the utensil against the surface of Francesco’s fine, polished table. I expected my husband to be displeased, to speak sharply, since he had been in foul temper of late. But Francesco, for the first time in days, smiled.

My father stood beside him, grim and cautious.

“Wonderful news!” Francesco exclaimed, raising his voice just enough to be heard over Matteo’s drumming; he was in far too good a mood for the noise to irritate him. “We have just captured a Medici spy!”

I tried to draw a breath and failed; I sat up straight, barely averting my head in time to avoid Matteo’s wildly flailing arm. “A spy?”

My father seemed to sense my sudden fear; he pulled out a chair and sat beside me. “Lamberto dell’Antello. You’ve heard of him: He was one of Piero’s friends,” he said quietly, next to my ear. “He even went with Piero to Rome. He was discovered trying to get into Florence with a letter. . . .”

Francesco stood smiling across from us; I put a restraining hand on Matteo’s wrist and ignored him when he complained. “Yes, Lamberto dell’Antello. He was captured yesterday, and is being interrogated now. This will be the end of the
Bigi
. Lamberto is talking, giving names.” He moved toward the kitchen. “Where is Agrippina? I need some food, and quickly. I must leave for the Palazzo della Signoria this morning. They’re holding him at the Bargello prison.”

“Do you think it’s safe to go out?” I asked out of concern for appearances’ sake, not for Francesco.

“It doesn’t matter if it is or isn’t—this is far too important to miss!” He disappeared into the kitchen. “Agrippina!”

In the instant he was gone, my father studied me searchingly. I tried my best to appear mildly interested in the news about Lamberto, mildly and pleasantly distracted by my wriggling child. I tried, but I suspected my father saw my fear.

I know I saw his.

Once Francesco had eaten and left in the carriage, my father and I took Matteo out to run in the gardens behind the palazzo. The garden was green and lush, the mist rising from the lion fountain soft and cool. I strolled beside my father, letting my son run slightly ahead of us, calling out to him not to trample the boxwood, not to touch the thorny rosebushes. I might as well have told him not to be a little boy.

I was still angry at my father. I knew he would never cause me harm, but each time I looked on him, I saw the penitent. Even so, I worried for his sake. “I am afraid,” I told him. “The excommunication—Francesco will say that you’ve failed him.”

He gave a little shrug to make light of it. “Don’t worry about me. I have spoken with Fra Girolamo—I, and others. He is finally convinced that he must make amends. He knows he has been foolish—that he has failed to control his tongue and that he speaks like one possessed in the pulpit. But he will write his apologia. And he has already sent private letters to His Holiness, begging for forgiveness. Alexander will be soothed.”

“And if he isn’t?”

My father stared ahead at his sturdy grandson. “Then Florence will be placed under papal interdict. No Christian city will be allowed to do business with us unless we turn over Savonarola for punishment. But that won’t happen.” He reached for my hand to comfort me.

I did not mean to pull away, but could not stop myself. His eyes filled with hurt.

“You have been angry with me. I don’t blame you, for all I’ve
done—terrible things. Things I pray God will forgive, though I long ago gave up any hope of Heaven.”

“I’m not angry,” I said. “I want only one thing: for us to leave Florence with Matteo. I can’t bear it here any longer. It’s growing too dangerous.”

“It’s true,” he admitted sadly. “But right now, it’s impossible. When they found Lamberto dell’Antello, the Lord Priors became crazed. Every one of them is a
piagnone
now and out for blood. They’ve closed all nine gates of the city: No one can come in, no one can go out; every letter is intercepted, read by the Council of Eight. They are questioning everyone, looking for Medici spies. Were it not for my usefulness to Francesco, they would question us.” His voice grew hoarse. “They will destroy the
Bigi
—every man who looked kindly on Lorenzo or his sons. And they will have Bernardo del Nero’s head.”

“No,” I whispered. Bernardo del Nero was one of Florence’s most revered citizens, a longtime intimate of Lorenzo de’ Medici. He was a strong, clearheaded seventy-five years of age, childless and widowed, and so he had devoted his life to the government of the city. He had served with distinction as gonfaloniere, and was irreproachably honest. So well liked was he that even the Signoria respected and tolerated his political position as head of the
Bigi
. “They wouldn’t dare hurt him! No citizen would stand for it.”

But I was even more worried for Leonardo, who was effectively trapped within the city, unable to communicate with the outside.