I, Mona Lisa (10 page)

His guilt was not irrational. It was the product of long meditation on the events that had occurred. Had he, the artist, not been so overcome by the emotions of love and pain and jealousy, Giuliano might have lived.

It was Leonardo’s habit to study crowds—faces, bodies, posture—and from this, he usually learned a great deal of information. Almost as much could be read from a man’s back as from his front. If the artist had not been absorbed by thoughts of Giuliano and the woman, he would surely have noticed the exceptional tension in the penitent’s stance, for the man had been almost directly in front of him. He might have noticed something peculiar in Baroncelli’s or Francesco de’ Pazzi’s demeanor as they waited beside Giuliano. He would have sensed the anxiety of the three men and deduced that Giuliano was in great danger.

If he had only paid attention, he would have seen the penitent surreptitiously reach for the stiletto; he would have noticed Baroncelli’s hand tensing on the hilt of his knife.

And there would have been time for him to take a single step forward. To reach for the penitent’s hand. To move between Giuliano and Baroncelli.

Instead, his passion had reduced him to a witless bystander, rendered helpless by the panicked, fleeing crowd. And it had cost Giuliano his life.

He bowed his head at the weight of the guilt, then raised it again and looked in
il Magnifico
’s sorrowful, eager eyes.

“I am certain this man was disguised, my lord.”

Lorenzo was intrigued. “How can you possibly know that?”

“His posture. Penitents indulge in self-flagellation and wear hair shirts beneath their robes. They slump, cringe, and move gingerly, because
of the pain each time the shirt touches their skin. This man moved freely; his posture was straight and sure. But the muscles were tensed—from emotional distress.

“I believe, as well, that he was from the upper classes, given the dignity and gentility of his aspect.”

Lorenzo’s gaze was penetrating. “All this you have ascertained from a man’s movements, a man who was draped in a robe?”

Leonardo stared back unflinching. He judged all men the same; the powerful did not intimidate him. “I would not have come if I had not.”

“Then you shall be my agent.” Lorenzo’s eyes narrowed with hatred and determination. “You shall help me find this man.”

So it was over the past year that Leonardo had been summoned several times to the Palazzo della Signoria’s basement jail, to carefully examine the lips and chins and postures of unfortunate men. None of them matched those of the penitent in the cathedral.

The night before Baroncelli’s execution, Lorenzo, now called
il Magnifico
, had sent two guards to bring Leonardo to the palazzo on the Via Larga.

Lorenzo had changed little physically—save for the pale scar on his neck. If his unseen wound had similarly healed, this day had torn it open, rendered it fresh and raw.

Leonardo, too, struggled beneath the burdens of sadness and guilt. Had he not been so stricken, he might have permitted himself to delight in
il Magnifico
’s unique features, especially his nose. The bridge rose briefly just beneath the eyebrows, then flattened and abruptly disappeared, as if God had taken his thumb and squashed it down. Yet it rose again, rebellious and astonishing in its length, and sloped precipitously to the left. Its shape rendered his voice harshly nasal and produced another odd effect as well: In the years Leonardo had known him, Lorenzo had never once stood in his famed garden and lifted a flower to inhale its scent. He had never once complimented a woman on her perfume, nor taken note of any odor, agreeable or disagreeable; indeed, he seemed caught off guard when anyone else did. Only one conclusion was possible: Lorenzo had no sense of smell.

That evening,
il Magnifico
wore a woolen tunic of deep rich blue; white ermine edged the collar and cuffs. He was an unhappy victor this night, but he seemed more troubled than gloating. “Perhaps you have already deduced why I have called for you,” he said.

“Yes. I am to go to the piazza tomorrow to look for the third man.” Leonardo hesitated; he, too, was troubled. “I need your assurance first.”

“Ask and I will give it. I have Baroncelli now; I cannot rest until the third assassin is found.”

“Baroncelli is to die, and rumor has it that he was tortured mercilessly.”

Lorenzo interrupted swiftly. “And with good reason. He was my best hope to find the last conspirator. But he insisted he did not know the man; if he did, he will take the secret to Hell with him.”

The bitterness in
il Magnifico
’s tone gave Leonardo pause. “Ser Lorenzo, if I find this third assassin, I cannot in good conscience turn him over to be killed.”

Lorenzo recoiled as if he had been struck full in the face; his pitch rose with indignance. “You would let an accomplice to my brother’s murder go free?”

“No.” Leonardo’s own voice trembled faintly. “I esteemed your brother more highly than any other.”

“I know,” Lorenzo replied softly, in a way that said he
did
know the full truth of the matter. “That is why I also know that, of all men, you are my greatest ally.”

Gathering himself, Leonardo bowed his head, then lifted it again. “I would want to see such a man brought to justice—to be deprived of his freedom, condemned to work for the good of others, to be forced to spend the remainder of his life contemplating his crime.”

Lorenzo’s upper lip was invisible; his lower stretched so taut over his jutting lower teeth that the tips of them showed. “Such idealism is admirable.” He paused. “I am a reasonable man—and like you, an honest one. If I agree that this accomplice, should you find him, will not be killed but instead imprisoned, will you go to the piazza to find him?”

“I will,” Leonardo promised. “And if I fail tomorrow, I will not stop searching until he is found.”

Lorenzo nodded, satisfied. He looked away, toward a Flemish painting of bewitching delicacy on his wall. “You should know that this man—” He stopped himself, then started again. “This goes far deeper than the murder of my brother, Leonardo. They mean to destroy us.”

“To destroy you and your family?”

Lorenzo faced him again. “You. Me. Botticelli. Verrocchio. Perugino. Ghirlandaio. All that Florence represents.” Leonardo opened his mouth to ask,
Who? Who means to do this?
, but
il Magnifico
lifted a hand to silence him. “Go to the piazza tomorrow. Find the third man. I mean to question him personally.”

It was agreed that Lorenzo would pay Leonardo a token sum for a “commission”—the sketch of Bernardo Baroncelli hanged, with the possibility that such a sketch might become a portrait. Thus Leonardo could honestly answer that he was in the Piazza della Signoria because Lorenzo de’ Medici wanted a drawing; he was a very bad liar, and prevarication did not suit him.

As he stood in the square on the cold December morning of Baroncelli’s death, staring intently at the face of each man who passed, he puzzled over
il Magnifico
’s words.

They mean to destroy us
. . . .

Lisa

I
will always remember the day my mother told me the story of Giuliano de’ Medici’s murder.

It was a December day thirteen and a half years after the event; I was twelve. For the first time in my life, I stood inside the great Duomo, my head thrown back as I marveled at the magnificence of Brunelleschi’s cupola while my mother, her hands folded in prayer, whispered the gruesome tale to me.

Midweek after morning Mass, the cathedral was nearly deserted, save for a sobbing widow on her knees just beyond the entry, and a priest replacing the tapers on the altar’s candelabra. We had stopped directly in front of the high altar, where the events of the assassination had taken place. I loved tales of adventure, and tried to picture a young Lorenzo de’ Medici, his sword drawn, leaping into the choir and running past the priests to safety.

I turned to look at my mother, Lucrezia, and tugged at her embroidered brocade sleeve. She was dark-haired, dark-eyed, with skin so flawless it provoked my jealousy; she, however, seemed unaware of her amazing appearance. She complained of the adamant straightness of her locks, of the olive cast to her complexion. Never mind that she was fine-boned, with lovely hands, feet, and teeth. I was mature for my
years, already larger than she, with coarse dull brown waves and troubled skin.

“What happened after Lorenzo escaped?” I hissed. “What became of Giuliano?”

My mother’s eyes had filled with tears. She was, as my father often said, easily provoked to deep emotion. “He died of his terrible wounds. Florence went mad; everyone wanted blood. And the executions of the conspirators . . .” She shuddered at the memory, unable to bring herself to finish the thought.

Zalumma, who stood on her other side, leaned forward to scowl a warning at me.

“Didn’t anyone try to help Giuliano?” I asked. “Or was he already dead? I would have at least gone to see if he was still alive.”

“Hush,” Zalumma warned me. “Can’t you see she is becoming upset?”

This was indeed cause for concern. My mother was not well, and agitation worsened her condition.

“She was the one who told the story,” I countered. “I did not ask for it.”

“Quiet!” Zalumma ordered. I was stubborn, but she was more so. She took my mother’s elbow and, in a sweeter tone, said, “Madonna, it’s time to leave. We must get home before your absence is discovered.”

She referred to my father, who had spent that day, like most others, tending his business. He would be aghast if he returned to find his wife gone; this was the first time in years she had dared venture out so far and so long.

We had secretly planned this outing for some time. I had never seen the Duomo, though I had grown up looking at its great brick cupola from the opposite side of the Arno, in our house on the Via Maggio. All my life, I had attended our local church of Santo Spirito and thought it grand, with its interior classical columns and arches made of
pietra serena
, a fine, pale gray stone. Our main altar was also centered beneath a cupola designed by the great Brunelleschi, his final achievement; I had thought Santo Spirito, with its thirty-eight side altars, impossibly grand, impossibly large—until I stood inside the great
Duomo. The cupola challenged the imagination. Gazing on it, I understood why, when it was first constructed, people were reluctant to stand beneath it. I understood, too, why some of those who heard the shouting on the day of Giuliano’s murder had rushed outside, believing the great dome was finally collapsing.

Magic it was, for something so vast to rise into the air without visible support.

My mother had brought me to the Piazza del Duomo not just to marvel at the cupola, but to slake my yearning for art—and hers. She was wellborn and well educated; she adored poetry, which she read in Italian and Latin (both of which she had insisted on teaching to me). She had passionately acquired a wealth of knowledge about the city’s cultural treasures—and had long been troubled by the fact that her illness had prevented her from sharing them with me. So when the opportunity arose on that bright December day, we took a carriage east and headed across the Ponte Vecchio into the heart of Florence.

It would have been more efficient to head straight down the Via Maggio to the nearest bridge, the Ponte Santa Trinità, but that would have denied me a visual treat. The Ponte Vecchio was lined with the
botteghe
of goldsmiths and artists. Each
bottega
opened directly onto the street, with the owner’s wares prominently displayed in front of the shop. We all wore our best fur-lined capes to protect us from the chilly air, and Zalumma had tucked several thick woolen blankets around my mother. But I was too elated to feel cold; I stuck my head outside the carriage to gape at golden plaques, statuettes, belts, bracelets, and Carnival masks. I gazed on chiseled marble busts of wealthy Florentines, on portraits in progress. In the early days, my mother said, the bridge was home to tanners and fabric dyers, who used to dump their noxious-smelling chemicals directly into the Arno. The Medici had objected: The river was cleaner now than it had ever been, and the tanners and dyers worked in specified areas of the city.

On our way to the Duomo, our carriage paused in the vast piazza, in front of the imposing fortress known as the Palazzo della Signoria, where the Lord Priors of Florence met. On a prominent wall of an adjacent building was a grotesque mural: paintings of hanged men. I
knew nothing of them save that they were known as the Pazzi conspirators, and that they were evil. One of the conspirators, a small naked man, stared wide-eyed and sightless back at me; the effect was unnerving. But what intrigued me most was the portrait of the last hanging body. His form differed from the others, was more delicately portrayed, more assured; its subtle shadings poignantly evoked the grief and remorse of a troubled soul. And it did not seem to float, as the others did, but possessed the shadow and the depth of reality. I felt as though I could reach into the wall and touch Baroncelli’s cooling flesh.