He nodded, pleased, as I returned it to him. “We have many medallions, too, designed by our best artists. Here is one made many years ago by our own Leonardo. It is quite rare; few were cast.” He replaced the ruby almost carelessly, then reached with greater reverence for a gold coin; a faint melancholy settled over him.
I took the medallion and read the inscription:
PUBLIC MOURNING
. There was Giuliano, vainly lifting his hands against the blades wielded by his assassins. At the same time I appreciated its beauty, I inwardly shuddered at Zalumma’s tale of Messer Iacopo’s corpse.
Eighty men in five days
, my father had said. Could this gentle man have been capable of such crimes?
“Please,” he said. “Take it, as a gift.”
“I have one,” I said—and was immediately embarrassed by my thoughtless response to such an unthinkably generous offer. “My mother gave it to me.”
He had been studying me quite intently; at my words, his gaze sharpened further, then gradually softened. “Of course,” he said. “I had forgotten that I presented some of these to friends.”
Instead, he gave me a different medallion, one which featured a picture of his grandfather Cosimo and the Medici crest. This was by a different artist, one skilled though lacking the delicacy of Leonardo’s hand; even so, I was simply amazed and perplexed by
il Magnifico
’s generosity.
He seemed to grow tired after that, but he persisted in showing me another collection, one of cameos of chalcedony ranging from the palest white to the darkest gray, and another of brilliant red and orange carnelians. Most of those were intaglios, beautifully carved into the stone, some inlaid with gold by the famous Ghiberti.
There was also a display of goblets carved from precious stones, set with gems, and adorned with silver and gold; but he was near the end of his strength by then, and so he singled nothing out from among them. Instead, he led me to a pedestal where a single shallow dish—slightly larger than the one from which I took my supper—was displayed.
“This also is chalcedony, though the cup itself is reddish brown,” he said, his voice a hoarse whisper. On top of the darker background was a milky cameo of several figures from ancient times. “It is my single greatest treasure. This is Osiris, holding the cornucopia, and here is his wife, Isis, seated. Their son Horus plows the Earth.” He paused, and pride crept into his tone. “This cup was used by the kings and queens of Egypt in their rituals. Cleopatra herself drank from it. When Octavian defeated her, it was lost for a time, then it resurfaced in Constantinople. From there, it traveled to the court of King Alfonso of Naples. At last it came to Rome, where I acquired it.” He read my poorly restrained eagerness and smiled. “Go ahead. Touch it.”
I did so, marveling at its perfection despite its age; its condition was so pristine that I had assumed, before Lorenzo’s comments, that it was another Florentine creation. The edges were cold and perfectly smooth. I glanced back at Ser Lorenzo with a smile and realized that he was studying, with great fondness and enjoyment, not the cup, but me.
My rapture was interrupted by the sound of footfall. I turned and saw Giovanni Pico, bearing in his hand a goblet filled with dark liquid. He was as surprised to see me as I him. Caught off guard, I recoiled. He smiled politely; I could not.
“Why, it is Antonio Gherardini’s daughter,” he remarked. I doubt he remembered my name. “How are you, my dear?”
Lorenzo faced him with great weariness. “So, Giovanni, you know our Madonna Lisa.”
“I am a close friend of Antonio’s.” Pico acknowledged me with a nod. It was impolite, but I said nothing; I had not seen Count Pico since the day of my mother’s funeral. While he had come often to visit my father afterward, I had refused to receive him and stayed in my room. Despite his courteous demeanor now, he surely knew I hated him.
Pico’s expression was studied, but he could not entirely hide his curiosity as to my presence; although he was part of the Medici household, he was apparently neither a part of this evening’s celebration nor privy to its cause. “I have been looking for you, Lorenzo,” he scolded amiably. “You are late in taking the physician’s draught.” He smiled knowingly at me. “Our host is often too busy attending to the needs of others to give enough thought to his own care.”
Lorenzo grimaced mildly. “Ser Giovanni has been one of our most cherished household guests for many years. We do not agree on certain subjects . . . but we remain friends.”
“I shall convert you yet,” Pico replied with good humor. Yet there was a sense of unease in the air, as if their alliance were forged now of convenience and a desire to keep an eye on what the other was doing. “Forgive me for interrupting your conversation. Please, Madonna Lisa, Ser Lorenzo, continue. I shall wait patiently until you are finished. But mind, dear Lorenzo, that you do not forget your health.”
Lorenzo noted my curious glance regarding the draught; after all, he had left Leonardo and me alone in the courtyard with the comment that he was going inside to take it. “I was . . . detained by other business,” he murmured, for my ears alone.
“You have been most gracious, Ser Lorenzo,” I said, thinking only of escape, for the proximity of Pico left me unnerved; the memory of my mother’s death was still too fresh. “But I believe you would benefit by a period of rest. With your permission, I should like to take my leave.”
Perhaps he heard the distress in my voice—or perhaps he was exhausted—for he did not protest. “Leave the draught,” he told Pico. “Go and see that Ser Antonio’s carriage is ready, and tell him his daughter will meet him there. You will find him in the chapel. Then go see Piero and send him to me.”
I felt great relief the instant Pico left. Once he did,
il Magnifico
said, “The presence of Ser Giovanni upsets you.”
I stared down at the gleaming marble floor. “He was present when my mother died.”
“Yes. I recall him mentioning it.” He gathered his thoughts. “There is nothing more bitter than losing those we most love. An early death, a wrongful one, provokes the worst sort of grief. It turns the heart easily toward hatred.” He lowered his gaze. “I lashed out vengefully when my brother died. It has come to haunt me now.” He paused to stare at the place where Pico had stood. “Ser Giovanni is a man given to great extremes. A more educated man does not exist, yet his heart belongs to the friar Girolamo now. The world has lost one of its greatest philosophers. Have you heard of his theory of syncretism?”
I shook my head.
“It proposes that all philosophies and religions hold the kernel of truth—and all contain errors. Our Giovanni said that each should be examined, to determine common truths and dismiss the fallacies.” He smiled wryly. “For that, the Pope suggested he be burned. He came here two years ago, to enjoy my protection. And now he supports a man who would see me brought down.”
His face clouded suddenly; he let go a sigh that seemed to issue from his very bones. “Child, I must be discourteous and ask to sit in your presence. This evening has drained me more than I expected.”
I helped him to a chair. This time he relied heavily upon my arm, no longer able to maintain the pretense that he was mostly recovered. He sat down with a small groan beneath the picture of the dying Saint Sebastian and leaned against the wall. He closed his eyes; in the shadow of the torchlight, he looked twice his age. Frightened, I asked, “Shall I bring you the draught?”
He smiled thinly, then opened his eyes and gazed on me with affection. “No. But will you hold an old man’s hand, my dear, to comfort me until Piero comes?”
“Of course.” I moved to stand beside him and bent down a bit to clasp his hand; it was cold and so thin one could easily feel the twisted bones.
We remained this way in easy silence until
il Magnifico
asked softly, “If I summon you, Lisa, will you come again?”
“Of course,” I repeated, though I could not imagine what might provoke him to do so.
“Our Leonardo was quite taken with you,” he said. “I confess, I saw him sketch you in the courtyard. I shall commission him to paint your portrait when he is able to leave his duties in Milan for a time. Would that be agreeable to you?”
I was stunned beyond speech. My first thought was of my father: Such an honor would greatly increase his prestige and enhance his business, yet I doubted that would outweigh his fanatical devotion to Savonarola’s teachings. It would solidify his relationship to the Medici in a way that was sure to garner the disapproval of his new associates.
But now was not the time to voice such doubts. When I could speak, I said, “It would be more than agreeable,
maestro.
I am thrilled by the thought.”
“Good,” he replied, and gave a short, determined nod. “It is done.”
We spoke no further until the door opened again, and Lorenzo’s son entered.
“Giuliano,” he said. His tone betrayed his irritation. “I sent for your brother. Where is Piero?”
“Indisposed,” Giuliano answered swiftly. His face was flushed, as though he had run in response to the summons; at the sight of me, his expression brightened slightly. “Are you feeling unwell, Father?” He glanced about the room and caught sight of the untouched draught. “You are late in taking the physician’s prescription. Let me bring it to you.”
Lorenzo let go my hand and waved his son’s words away. “My
youngest,” he said to me with unmistakable fondness, “is as quick to indulge my wishes as my eldest is to ignore them.”
Giuliano smiled; something in the gesture reminded me of the terra-cotta bust in the courtyard.
“I regret that I cannot accompany you back to your father,” Lorenzo continued, “but Giuliano is a responsible young man. I give you my guarantee that he will see you safely there.” He reached for my hand once more and squeezed it with remarkable force for one so infirm. “God be with you, my dear.”
“And with you, sir. Thank you for your kindness in inviting me to your home. And for the commission of the portrait . . .” We released our grip upon each other reluctantly. I felt an odd sadness as I took young Giuliano’s arm and left his father, a frail and ugly man surrounded by the wealth and beauty of the centuries.
I
n the corridor, Giuliano and I walked past more sculptures and portraits and delicate porcelain vases half my height, all lit by tapers held in elegantly wrought candelabra of bronze, silver, and gold. We did so in awkward silence; I rested my hand stiffly upon his forearm, while he stared straight ahead and moved with a natural dignity more suited to one a decade his senior. Like his sire, he was dressed in dark, somber colors and a simple fitted tunic of my father’s finest wool.
“I am sorry, Madonna Lisa, that my father’s illness interrupted your visit with him.”
“Please don’t apologize,” I answered. “I’m sorry that Ser Lorenzo is still unwell.”
In the wavering light, Giuliano’s shadowed expression grew solemn. “Father makes light of it to his visitors, but he has been so sick the past few months we all thought he would die. He is still very weak; the doctors told him not to invite any guests, but he was determined to see his friends again. He especially wanted to see Leonardo. And—he did not tell me, but I assume that he wished to meet you for the purpose of a future marriage arrangement?”
“Yes,” I said. The mention of the artist from Vinci—who had
made special effort to come for this gathering—stirred my hopes. “But it is terrible about your father. What ails him?”
“His heart.” Giuliano gave a frustrated shrug. “At least, that is what the doctors say, but I think they know far less than they admit. He has always suffered from gout—sometimes so bad that he shrieks in agony if even bed linen brushes his skin. And his bones ache. But lately, he has been plagued by a dozen different complaints, none of which his physician seems able to relieve. He is weak; he cannot eat; he is restless and in pain. . . .” He shook his head and stopped in mid-stride. “I have been so worried for him. He is forty-three, but he seems like an old man. When I was little, he was so strong, running with us children, playing as if he were one of us. He used to lift me up on his horse and I would ride with him . . .” His voice broke; he fell silent in order to gather himself.
“I am so sorry.” I had just lost my mother; I understood well the fear that now gripped this boy. “But he
is
improved from before, is he not?”
“Yes . . .” He nodded rapidly without meeting my gaze.
“Then certainly he will continue to get better. You must have hope.”
He came to himself suddenly. “Forgive me, Madonna! You are our guest, and here am I complaining to you. I should not trouble you with such concerns. . . .”
“But I wish to know such things. Ser Lorenzo was so kind to me; he was showing me his collection, even though he was so tired.”
Giuliano smiled wistfully. “That is like my father. He loves to collect beautiful things, but they bring him no real pleasure unless he can share them with others and watch them take delight in them. I have heard people say that he can be cruel when it comes to business or politics, but I have seen only good in him.” He paused; his tone lightened. “Did you enjoy the tour, Madonna?”
“Very much.”
“I know my father would want to finish sharing his collection with you. May I ask him whether you could return to view more of it? Perhaps we could arrange for you to visit our villa at Castello; there are many amazing paintings there and beautiful gardens.”
“I would like that.” Though I reeled happily at the thought, my answer was hesitant. I doubted my father would ever allow me a second chance to visit the Medici. I was still worrying whether he would ever consider letting an artist—even one as renowned as Leonardo—enter our home.
Giuliano smiled at my response. “That would be wonderful, Madonna Lisa! As my father is unwell, perhaps he would permit me to serve as your guide.”
I was suddenly unsettled by the realization that he was taken with me. Surely Lorenzo had not invited me here as a potential bride for his son—Giuliano was still a few years away from the marriageable age for men. And when he did wed, his bride would come from one of the noblest houses in Italy. She would certainly not be the daughter of a wool merchant.