A proper reply escaped me. Fortunately, we had arrived by that time at the side entry to the palazzo. There were no servants here; I remembered dimly that guards stood on the other side, out in the cold. Giuliano halted.
“I leave you here only an instant, Madonna, to make sure your father is waiting for you. I shall return to escort you to him.”
He leaned forward impulsively, unexpectedly, and kissed my cheek. Just as swiftly, he was gone.
I was glad for his disappearance and the absence of witnesses. Judging from the heat on my face and neck, I must have blushed deep as
chermisi
crimson.
I was torn. This was a kind, likable lad, and handsome—a catch certainly beyond my hopes—yet I could not help but respond to his kiss with a rush of giddiness. At the same time I reminded myself that I was smitten with Leonardo da Vinci. I was safest resting my hopes for wedlock there. Even though he was the result of an illicit union with a servant girl, Leonardo’s father was one of the best-known notaries in Florence. He came from a good family, of roughly the same wealth and prestige as my father’s.
By the time Giuliano returned, I was still too abashed to meet his
gaze. He led me out into the chill night, past the guards with swords prominent on their hips, and helped me into the carriage without any acknowledgment of the illicit kiss. And when I settled beside my father, he said simply, “Good night, Madonna. Good night, Ser Antonio. May God be with you both.”
“And with you,” I replied.
As we rode out onto the Via Larga my father was distant, troubled; prayer and contemplation had apparently done little to soothe him or ease the sting of delivering his only child into the hands of Savonarola’s enemy. He spoke without meeting my eyes.
“How was it?” he asked curtly. “What did they do, put you on display for the women?”
“There were no women there. Only men.”
“Men?” He turned his head to glance at me.
“Friends of
il Magnifico.
” Leery of my father’s disapproval, I did not want to reveal too much, but my curiosity would not let me rest. “Many artists. Leonardo da Vinci was there.” I knew better than to mention Lorenzo’s commission of my portrait; I would leave such negotiations to better diplomats than I. I paused, suddenly timid. “Does he have a wife?”
“Leonardo?” Distracted, my father frowned in the failing light at the road ahead. “No. He is one of our most famous sodomites. Years ago, he was brought up on charges; they were dropped, but he has lived for years with his ‘apprentice,’ young Salai, who is surely his lover.” His voice was without inflection—odd, considering his normally pious disapproval of such men.
With apparently great effort, he asked me the appropriate questions: Who else had been there? Had Ser Lorenzo given any indication as to what man he thought might be suitable? What had I done while there?
I answered curtly, with fewer and fewer words; he did not seem to notice that his offhanded words about Leonardo had stung me. At last
he fell quiet, lost in some unhappy reverie, and we rode without speaking through the cold dark city. I hugged the fur-lined overdress tightly to my body as we crossed over the deserted Ponte Santa Trinità, toward home.
I
spent the next week newly eager to meet my father for supper, in case he had received word from Lorenzo. I still ached over the news about Leonardo’s preference for men. A part of me hoped my father was wrong, or perhaps lying in order to dissuade me from marrying an artist, since such men were generally judged to make unreliable husbands. But I knew I had seen the light of attraction in the artist’s eye.
During this time, I received a brief letter from the so-called sodomite, smuggled to me without my father’s knowledge. When I broke the seal, two more pieces of paper fell out, and slipped to the floor.
Greetings, Madonna Lisa, from Milan.
Our good Lorenzo has commissioned me to paint your portrait. I can think of nothing more agreeable; your beauty begs to be recorded for all time. As soon as I fulfill certain obligations for the venerable Duke Ludovico, I will come to Florence for an extended stay.
I enclose some rough sketches I have made, for your enjoyment. One is a more careful rendering, based on the cartoon I made that evening in the Medici palazzo. The other is copied from my own notebook, and is of special interest to those in the Medici inner circle.
I am eager to begin work on the painting, and look forward to seeing you more than I can say.
Your good friend
,
Leonardo
I retrieved the papers from the floor and studied them with reverence. I understood completely now why Leonardo had been called upon to finish the sculpture of Giuliano de’ Medici after his death: His recall of my features was astonishing. From the sparsely rendered ink drawing made in the courtyard, he had produced, in crisp and delicate silverpoint on cream paper, a remarkable rendering of my face, neck, shoulders—truer, it seemed, and more sacred, more profound than any image rendered by my mirror. He had caught me not in the pose he had requested, but rather the instant before, when I had been staring at Giuliano’s terra-cotta bust, then turned to look over my shoulder at the artist. Only my face, in three-quarter profile, was developed and carefully shaded; my hair and shoulders were intimated by a few quick lines. At the back of my head was a vague structure that might have been a hairnet or a halo. My eyelids, the prominence of my chin, the area of my cheeks just beneath my eyes, had been highlighted by the careful application of white lead.
The corners of my lips curled ever so slightly: not a smile, but the promise of one. It was a reflection of the goodness I had seen in the dead Giuliano’s eyes; I might have been an angel.
Dazzled, I stared at the drawing for some time before I finally directed my attention to the other page.
This was a swifter, cruder rendering, and one which provoked my memory; I had seen the image somewhere before, and it took me some
time before I recalled that I had seen it together with my mother, on a wall near the Palazzo della Signoria.
It was that of a man dangling from a noose, his face downcast, his hands bound behind his back. Beneath it, the artist had written:
“The execution of Bernardo Baroncelli.”
It was a gruesome image, inappropriate to send to a young girl; I could not imagine what had prompted Leonardo to do so. What had Baroncelli to do with me?
The letter itself also renewed my confusion.
I look forward to seeing you more than I can say
. . . . Was this an allusion to love? But he had signed the letter, with unusual casualness,
your good friend.
Friend, and nothing more. At the same time, the letter thrilled me: Lorenzo’s commission, then, was a reality, and not just idle speech intended to flatter.
So I waited each night for my father, desperate for word of the portrait or, more important, mention of an invitation to visit Castello.
Each night I was disappointed. My father offered nothing on the matter and grunted a negative reply each time I dared ask whether he had heard anything from Ser Lorenzo about a possible match.
Yet after one such discouraging supper, as I retired to my bedroom, Zalumma met me, lamp in hand, and closed the door behind us.
“Do not ask how I acquired this; the less you know, the better,” she said, and withdrew from her bodice a sealed letter. I seized it, thinking it would be from Lorenzo. The wax bore the imprint of the
palle
crest, but the content was far from expected. By the light of Zalumma’s lamp, I read:
My esteemed Madonna Lisa,
Forgive the liberty I took when you came to my father’s palazzo recently; and forgive the one I take now by writing you this letter. I am too bold, I know, but my courage springs from a desire to see you again.
Father is very ill. Even so, he has given leave for me to
take you, with an escort of his choosing and one chosen by your father, to our villa at Castello for a tour. This very day, my brother Piero is writing a letter to Ser Antonio asking permission for you to accompany us.I am filled with anticipation at the prospect of meeting you once more. Until then, I remain
Your humble servant
,
Giuliano de’ Medici
F
or the next few days, I forced all thoughts of Leonardo da Vinci away—though in private I puzzled over the drawing of Bernardo Baroncelli. Foolish girl that I was, I focused instead on the moment Giuliano had leaned forward to place a kiss upon my cheek. I dreamed of Botticelli’s
Venus
and
Primavera.
I had only heard them described; now I tried to imagine how they looked on the walls at Castello. I even imagined what my own portrait might look like hanging next to them. I yearned to immerse myself once more in beauty, as I had under Ser Lorenzo’s gentle guidance. At night, I lay in bed and, for the first time since my mother’s death, had thoughts that took me outside myself, outside my father’s house and all the sorrow.
Recently, my father’s business had increased, requiring him to return even later than usual; I had taken to giving up and retiring without speaking to him until morning. He often came home with Giovanni Pico, drinking wine and talking, ignoring the dinner table.
But now I was filled with special determination: I waited steadfastly, ignoring the grumbling of my stomach, sitting for hours at the supper table until he came. I asked no questions of him; I merely sat
and ate, certain each night that he would at last mention Lorenzo’s invitation. This I did for four nights, until I could suffer my impatience no longer.
I bade Cook keep supper warm, then seated myself at the readied table. There I sat three hours, perhaps more, until the burning tapers were almost spent and my hunger had grown so strong I contemplated telling Cook to bring me food.
At last my father entered—blessedly, without Count Pico. In the candles’ glow, he appeared haggard and disheveled; he had not taken the time to trim his gold-tinged beard since his wife’s death. Here and there, hairs curled, unruly and out of place, and his mustache, too long, touched his lower lip.
He seemed disappointed, though not surprised, to see me.
“Come sit,” I said, gesturing, then went to tell Cook to bring the meal. When I returned, he was seated but had not bothered to remove his mantle, though the fire in the hearth was quite warm.
We remained silent as Cook brought first the
minestra
, the soup, and set it before us. When she had gone, I let a moment pass while my father addressed himself to his supper, then asked—trying, and failing altogether, to hide the nervousness I felt:
“Have you received a letter of late on my behalf?”
Slowly he set down his spoon and gazed across the table at me, his amber eyes unreadable. He did not answer.
“From Lorenzo de’ Medici?” I pressed. “Or perhaps Piero?”
“Yes, I received a letter,” he said, then lowered his face and took another spoonful of soup.
Did he enjoy tormenting me? I was forced to ask, “And your reply?”
He paused over his bowl, then—with a contained ferocity that made me start—slammed his spoon down against the table. “There will be no reply,” he said. “I kept my promise to your mother: I will let Lorenzo serve as your marriage broker. But he had best choose a godly man—if he lives long enough to make a decision.”
His anger aroused my own. “Why can I not go? What harm is there in it? I have been so unhappy! This is the only thing that can ease it.”
“You will never again set foot in the house of the Medici.” His eyes were lit with fury. “Their time is about to end. God will cast them down; their fall shall be great. Relish the memory of all the beautiful treasures you were shown, for they will all soon be gone, reduced to ash.”
I judged him to be parroting the words of his new savior and so ignored this. But I demanded hotly, “How do you know I was shown treasures? How do you know?”
He ignored the question. “I have been patient with you, out of tenderness and respect for your sorrow. But I fear for your soul. You will come with me tomorrow to hear Savonarola preach. And you will ask God to turn your thoughts away from worldly things and toward the heavenly. And you will pray, too, for forgiveness for your anger at Fra Girolamo.”
My fists clenched; I set them upon the table, bitter at the realization that a bright and beautiful world—one filled with art and the Medici, with Leonardo and the rendering of my own image by delicate, skilled hands—was going to be denied me. “It is
you
who should pray to God for forgiveness. You are the one who caused your wife’s malady; you are the one who led her to her death. You are the one who camps now with her murderers, and remains blind to their guilt in order to ease your own.”
He stood so rapidly the chair behind him screeched against the stone. His eyes filled with angry tears; his right hand trembled as he struggled to keep it by his side, to keep it from rising and striking out at the one who provoked his rage. “You know nothing. . . . You know nothing. I ask you this only because I love you! May God forgive you.”
“May God forgive
you
,” I retorted. I abandoned my chair and turned, skirts whirling; it gave me some small satisfaction that I left the room before he could.
Later that night, lying abed listening to Zalumma’s soft, regular breath and my own growling stomach, I reveled in my disappointment.
The inability to see Giuliano made me yearn all the more to set eyes upon him again.
During those brief moments when I did not stew in self-pity, I contemplated what my father had said. Had he merely assumed that
il Magnifico
would not be able to resist showing a new visitor—be she only a most insignificant girl—the glories contained in his study? Or was there more behind his words?