What Remains of the Fair Simonetta (24 page)

Chapter 42

My days passed in anticipation of Sandro coming to me, and my nights spent wrapped in his arms. During the sunlight hours, when I wasn’t writing my biographies, I groomed or exercised out of narcissism and boredom. Antonella stared curiously as I performed all sorts of calisthenics to keep myself active, while remaining locked in my chamber, but abstained from partaking herself.

Several weeks into my sentence, Marco solemnly invited me to join the family for supper, but I declined, preferring to spend my confinement away from my confiners.

Giuliano still made the occasional visit in order to profess his “courtly love” for appearances’ sake, and Piero threatened my life if I didn’t maintain the farce that all was well in front of the Medici Golden Boy. I actually began to look forward to Giuliano’s visits to my sitting room to break up the day. Now past his pursuit of me, we could have real conversations, and he was still a decent piece of eye candy to behold. When his arrogance became too much for me to bear, I’d claim fatigue and return to my isolation.

My only request of my captors was to have an hour a day to breathe fresh air and take in some sunlight; the view from my bedchamber window not enough to sustain me. Carlo would grudgingly escort me to the roof of the
palazzo
where I could see the comings and goings of Sandro’s now thriving
bottega.
I spotted Leonardo paying him a visit one day and longed for another intellectual conversation about my old life, while just being the old me.

Mariano came and went with his wagon stacked with hides, making his way to the river each day. Without realizing I was perched on the roof high above, he gazed longingly at my window, and I knew my business with him was not yet done.

I looked out on Florence like a princess trapped in her tower, waiting for Prince Charming to rescue me. And night after night, he would—if only for a little while. I spent glorious hours listening to Sandro chat about his day, make love to me, sleep by my side, then leave before the bells of lauds rang, and the Town Crier bore his morning news.

One night, the hour was especially late when Sandro finally came to me. Antonella had me bathed, plucked and primped, and I felt especially sexy when he entered my chamber exhilarated and chuckling. “What’s so funny?” I asked, preferring to tear his clothes from him than listen.

“Have I mentioned how much I love to teach my craft?” Sandro asked, as he sat down on my bed and removed his boots, as if we were an old married couple.

“Mmm hmm,” I muttered, as I crawled over to him and kissed his neck.

“A disciple of mine by the name of Biagio, made an exact copy of a Madonna with eight angels that I had painted for San Francesco. I was so proud.” He stroked my face and kissed me a few times before continuing. “Today I convinced a patron to purchase Biagio’s copy for six gold florins.”

“That’s great!” I exclaimed, as I unfastened the twenty plus buttons of the new pearl colored jacquard doublet he wore. Sandro’s response to his disrobing was to laugh some more. “I don’t get the joke,” I said, slightly annoyed.

“I told Biagio to hang the painting in a good light, then fetch the patron so he could see it in its place. Biagio replied to me, ‘Oh Master, how well you have done!’”

“You did do good, right?” Doublet successfully removed, I searched for the way into his tan poofy diabolically-difficult-to-breach trousers.

“Yes, but while he was gone, Filippino and I prepared eight red caps of pasteboard and fastened them with wax to the heads of the angels.”

I pushed Sandro to his back, so better able to work on his pants, while he lounged with his hands behind his head.

Amused with himself, and ignoring me, Sandro chuckled again. “When he returned with our patron, his angels were changed to the
Signoria
of Florence!”

“Oh, my. What did the patron say?” I asked, looking up briefly.

“Biagio raised his eyebrows and was about to cry out and excuse himself. But our patron was in on the jest and praised his painting, so Biagio remained silent.”

I finally deciphered the code for unfastening his trousers and assuming he was done with his story, I yanked them off. But his tale continued, despite his nakedness.

“Biagio went back with the patron to his house to collect the six florins.”

“Oh?” In order to fully direct his attention on me, I decided to service him in a way he couldn’t possibly ignore. He quickly lifted his head, and his story abruptly ceased. I now had his full attention.

He arched his back and clutched the sheets with both hands. I stopped for a moment and asked, “Was there something you were trying to tell me?”

“No,” he squeaked.

Proud of my distraction, I continued for a moment before he pulled me up on top of him, and my shift was sent flying to the floor. After we were both satisfied, and lay on our backs, sweaty and panting, I finally asked him to finish his story.

“What was I speaking of, again?”

“Biagio, silly.”

“Yes, of course. When Biagio returned with his florins in hand, the red hats were gone. We removed them in his absence.”

“What did he say when you told him what you’d done?”

“Uh…we never told him. Biagio appeared baffled and said, ‘Master, I know not whether I am dreaming, but when I came in before these angels had red hats upon their heads and now they have none.’ I told him he had lost his wits, and the money had gone to his head!” Sandro smiled deviously.

“That was really cruel.” I laughed.

“Yes, I suppose it was. But not the cruelest joke I have ever played.”

“What was the cruelest, Master Botticelli?” I traced my finger across his smooth, glistening chest.

“Several years back, my father rented a house on the Borgo amidst all the cloth weavers. Our neighbor would run his eight looms at all hours of the day and night, causing the house to constantly shake. When I asked him to kindly stop so I could continue my studies, he stated that he
could
and
would
do as he pleased in his own house.”

“So what did you do?” I asked, though a little afraid to hear.

“My young friends and I carried a large boulder to the top of the wall that separated our houses, my roof being conveniently higher than his.” Sandro gestured to demonstrate. “We balanced the boulder on top of the wall, so if the looms caused any further shaking, the boulder would crush his roof, and his looms.”

“What? How did he react?”

“He asked me to take the boulder down, of course, to which I replied that I
could
and
would
do as I pleased in my own house.”

“And?”

“He miraculously became a better neighbor!”

I slapped his arm in amusement. Sandro laughed again, before turning so our eyes would meet, and kissing me passionately.

“Simonetta?”

“Yes, Sandro.”

“Lorenzo has recommended me to Pope Sixtus…to paint his new chapel. I have been summoned to Rome.”

I feigned surprise at his revelation. “That’s great!”

His face became grim. “It means I would be leaving Florence for a year, maybe two.”

“Oh.” The obvious finally slapped me in the face. “But you have to go.”

I pondered intently on the necessity of making every moment count with him. My time here would certainly be long over by the time he returned.

He sat up and took my hands. “I want you to come with me.” Before I could reply, he continued. “I have made enough florin these last weeks to sustain us for a time.”

“But how could we possibly—?”

“Worry not. I will find a way,” he assured, then kissed me again as if to prevent me from questioning him further.

Chapter 43

Sandro and I spent the next few weeks exchanging fantasies of how our united life would be, once we were safely alone and away from the forces that kept us apart. Each time we were together, our future seemed possible, as if it could go on forever. But when I asked him pointed questions about how we were going to pull it off, he became evasive and would only answer, “Worry not.” Even though I saw our move to Rome as a way to escape my fateful death, I couldn’t fathom how the Vespucci, the Medici, and especially the Pope would allow us to live in sin while Sandro frescoed the sacred Sistine Chapel.

Eight days before our set departure, Sandro announced that he had finished the
Saint Augustine
in His Study,
and wanted me to be the first to see it before its unveiling. My escape from the
palazzo
had to be made through his house, and at an hour late enough for the darkness to conceal us.

Sandro helped me into the servant’s gown, since Antonella had already retired to Amerigo’s room for the night. Just as he fastened the last few buttons, Marco barged into my chamber.

“Simonetta!” Marco cried, his voice harried. We lurched back at his intrusion and Marco’s face froze for a moment at the sight of Sandro in my chamber, but he was clearly too preoccupied to react.

“Luciana is gravely ill. You must come with me,” Marco demanded.

“Where is she?”

“My father cast her from the
palazzo
, and she has been forced to live on the streets. He forbade me from seeking her out. But tonight, I ignored him…and…I found her lying on the Ponte Vecchio
.
”

It was all my fault.

If I hadn’t suggested that Marco grow some balls, and tell his father he loved Luciana, Piero wouldn’t have felt the need to kick her to the curb.

“Word has spread of the care you administered to Jacopo Filipepi in his final hour,” Marco continued. “And I wish for you to comfort Luciana in the same way.”

“Grab the litter, Marco,” I insisted. “I’ll get Amerigo and Antonella to help.”

“I cannot bring her here,” Marco sighed, as he shook his head.

“The hell you can’t! You’re just gonna let her die on the bridge like a dog?” I pointed a demanding finger. “Do it right now!”

Marco’s eyes grew wide, “My father still has Carlo posted outside,” he whispered. “He will wake my father, and we shall not make it past the threshold with her.”

“There is another way,” Sandro interjected. “I have a litter. Come with me, Marco.”

My husband hesitated before following my lover through Antonella’s bedchamber and into the staircase that connected our two houses. I raced up to wake Antonella and Amerigo and once Amerigo grabbed some cloth napkins at my request, the pair reluctantly followed me into Sandro’s chamber.

Sandro quietly led the four of us from his chamber, down the stairs, and out his front door, while he and Marco carried the tattered litter. It felt so strange to be outside again in the dark, torch-lit city-state, after all of my weeks of confinement; and the circumstances of my escape were even stranger.

We hurried alongside the river, while Antonella grumbled continuously, wanting to know why we would help someone like Luciana, who had never meant us anything but harm. I understood her point, but something was still driving me to help her. Not even someone as wicked as Luciana should die alone in the streets.

The normally bustling bridge was quiet as the butcher shops were closed for the night, and the only inhabitants of the Ponte Vecchio were a plethora of transients. Marco pointed to the far side of the bridge, where we found Luciana in a fetal position amongst the other discarded souls. Her arm was curled over her face, and a muffled cough shook her otherwise still form.

As I drew near, I wrapped one of the napkins over my nose and mouth. Even though determined to help her, there was no way I’d let the likes of Luciana lead to my demise. As the others looked on, I bent down and rubbed her back. “Luciana, we’re going to help you,” I whispered soothingly.

“
Idiota?
” Luciana snapped, then coughed profusely.

“Yeah, it’s me,” I answered, turning my face from her.

It was good to know the illness hadn’t wiped the bitch out of her yet.

As Marco and Sandro set the litter down and rolled Luciana onto it, there was anger on her face at being under my control—her rage only slightly diminished by fever and malaise.

I went to grab a corner of the litter, but Sandro, Marco, Amerigo, and Antonella almost simultaneously protested that a noblewoman, even one dressed as a servant, should not carry out such a task. The realization that I’d probably rocked their world enough for one night came through, so instead I led them through the streets and simply opened the doors as they carried Luciana through Sandro’s house and into Antonella’s chamber.

After helping place Luciana onto her bed, Antonella felt that giving up her sleep and her room was enough of a sacrifice, so she retired with a huff with Amerigo to his chamber.

Luciana was damp with sweat and coughed almost incessantly. “Sandro, do you still have the tobacco syrup you bought for your uncle?” I asked, fearing that someone might hear her hacking through the
palazzo
walls.

“I believe so,” he replied, before he rushed off to his room to look.

“Marco, she needs fluids. Go get her some water. Lots of water.”

“But, Carlo…”

“Do I have to think of everything? Tell him, I finally gave in to you, and after bedding me, I need my thirst quenched.”

Marco nodded without replying, and scurried off through my chamber.

Luciana lifted her head and asked, weakly, “Why are you…helping me,
idiota?
”

“Because you’d do the same for me, right?” I asked, sarcastically. “You have nothing to fear from me, Luciana. You never did. I know Marco loves you and only you. And you can start showing your gratitude by calling me Simonetta.”

Luciana twisted her face away from me, as Sandro returned with the tobacco syrup. I bid Sandro farewell, as Luciana’s presence was the biggest passion-block I could imagine. And despite her inevitable objections, she needed to be cared for. I lifted my napkin mask and kissed Sandro deeply—despite Luciana—before he slid out through the door behind the painting.

When Marco returned with the water, I snatched it from him and tried to shoo him off as well, but he insisted I give him a moment with Luciana. He whispered something in her ear that elicited no reaction, then kissed her gently on the forehead, before making his way for the door.

Before he exited, Marco turned back. “You will send for me if…” he muttered, clearly fearing the worst.

“I’ll have Amerigo get you,” I assured him, and Marco nodded reluctantly before letting himself out of my chamber.

Luciana spat insults as I stripped the damp servant’s gown from her and washed her sweaty, feverish, dark skin. I interpreted her venomous blasts as a good sign; she couldn’t die and be pissed off at me at the same time.

I dried her thoroughly and dressed her in one of my clean shifts. Luciana swung feebly when I brushed her thick, black hair and bound it with a band, then propped her up with pillows and gave her the horrid tobacco syrup to swallow. She appeared as though she might spit it back at me, so I plugged her nose to force it down before giving her a water chaser.

“Leave me be…Simonetta,” she demanded.

At least she called me by my name. Or someone’s name, anyway. Either way it was progress.

“I’m not gonna leave you alone, until you drink three goblets of water.” I poured the first goblet and thrust it in her face to show her I meant business. Some of the vital liquid spilled as she tried to steady the flow into her mouth, so I held it for her while she drank and drank.

Finally, Luciana sank back into Antonella’s bed and fell into a deep sleep. Her condition seemed somewhat stable, with her respirations even and regular, but I sat in a chair and watched her for the night, just to make certain.