His son, who was cleaving a lamb’s skull for the brains inside, caught our conversation and called over his shoulder. “Some say it was Lorenzo de’ Medici’s doing. That he had a magical ring with a genie trapped inside, and that it escaped last night and caused the havoc.”
His father snorted and shook his head. “Superstition! But . . . I must confess, this incident gives credence to Fra Girolamo’s teachings. I was not a follower, but perhaps I will go to San Lorenzo this evening to hear what he has to say about the matter.”
Shaken to the core, I left with the lamb’s shoulder and kidneys, leaving the brains for another. Our next stop would have been the baker’s, but I told our driver of the catastrophe. Though he was loyal to my father and forsworn to deliver me only to those places I was permitted, he was easily convinced to take us to the Piazza del Duomo to see the devastation for ourselves.
The roads leading to Santa Maria del Fiore were crowded, but the closer we drew to the cathedral, the more we were reassured: The red brick dome still rose against the Florentine sky.
“Foolish gossip!” Zalumma muttered. “Wild imaginings, fomented by that madman.”
Madman,
I thought. The perfect term for Fra Girolamo, but one I dared not use in my own home . . . and given the maniacal devotion of his followers, one that was not safe to utter on the streets.
The piazza was filled with carriages and people on foot who had come to see the destruction. It was not of the scale alleged by the
butcher, but lightning had struck the brass lantern that topped the great cupola, leaving it scorched. And there was damage to the structure: Two niches had hurtled to Earth, one splitting the cupola, the other leaving a gaping hole in the roof of a nearby house. Chunks of marble had fallen as well and rolled to the west side of the sanctuary, where they rested in the piazza. Pedestrians had congregated around each one, standing at a respectful distance; a child reached forth to touch one of the stones, and his mother swiftly snatched him away, as if the marble itself were somehow cursed.
A white-haired elder pointed west, toward the Via Larga. “You see?” he cried, apparently addressing the entire crowd. “They have rolled toward the Medici palazzo. God has warned
il Magnifico
to repent his wicked ways, but He can hold back His anger no more!”
I walked back to our driver, who still sat on top of the carriage, marveling at the sights.
“I have seen enough,” I said. “Take us back home, and quickly.”
I took to my bed and told my father that I was ill and could not attend the evening Mass with him. I spent that day and the next waiting for a letter from Giuliano which never came.
I did come down for a late supper at my father’s special request. I thought at first that he intended to make a special appeal for me to attend Mass with him the following morning and so was reluctant, and did my best to appear as miserable as possible. But he had come, instead, to share perplexing news.
“The lions in the Palazzo della Signoria,” he began. I knew of them, of course; they had been gifts from Lorenzo. The two lions were kept in cages and displayed as symbols of Florence’s power. “After all this time, one has killed the other. These are signs, Lisa. Signs and portents.”
It was the evening of the eighth of April. I undressed for bed and lay down, but my eyes would not close; I tossed until I annoyed Zalumma, who murmured a drowsy complaint.
When I heard the sound of a carriage rumbling to a stop behind
our palazzo, I pulled on my
camicia
and hurried out to the corridor to peer out the window. The driver was climbing down by that time; I could make out little else but the outline of horses and a man moving beneath the glow of the torch he held aloft. The cant of the driver’s shoulders, his rapid pace, spoke of unhappy urgency.
He was headed for the loggia. I turned and moved swiftly to the top of the stairs, listening carefully. He pounded the door and cried out my father’s name. Some confusion ensued, with the scuffling sounds of sleepy servants, until at last the driver was admitted.
After a time, I heard my father’s stern voice, and the driver’s unintelligibly soft reply.
By the time my father’s footfall—the hurried steps of a man startled into wakefulness—rang on the stairs, I had already wrapped myself in my
mantello.
I held no candle, and so he started at the sight of me. His face was ghoulishly illuminated by the candle in his hand.
“So, you are awake then. Did you hear?”
“No.”
“Get dressed, and quickly. Bring your cloak, the one with the hood.”
Utterly confused, I returned to my chamber and roused Zalumma. She was sleepy and could make no sense of my uncertain explanation, but she helped me tug on a gown.
I went downstairs, where my father waited with his lamp. “No matter what he says to you,” he began, then was seized by an unidentifiable emotion. When he recovered, he repeated, “No matter what he says to you, you are my daughter and I love you.”
I
did not reply, for I had no idea how to respond. He led me outside, through the loggia, to a waiting carriage and driver. I stopped in mid-stride at the sight of the
palle
crest upon the door. Giuliano? But that was impossible—my father would never happily surrender me to him.
My father helped me inside, then closed the door and reached through the window for my hand. He seemed uncertain whether to accompany me. At last, he said, “Be careful. Try not to be seen or to speak to others. Tell no one of what you see or hear.” And with that, he stepped back and motioned for the driver to move on.
The hour had dulled my ability to think clearly—but by the time the carriage rattled over the flagstones on the Ponte Vecchio, I realized I had been summoned.
The trip took longer than I had expected. We headed not to the Palazzo Medici, but out of the city, a good hour into the countryside. At last we rolled past the black shapes of trees onto a gravel driveway. We traveled some way before the driver brought the horses to a stop between a square formal garden and the front of the house.
Though the hour was late, every window was golden with light; here was a house where no one slept.
The men who stood guard at the entrance to the villa had abandoned their posts and sat nearby, next to lit torches in the open air, talking softly. As the driver helped me from the carriage, one of them pinched the bridge of his nose just beneath his brow and began to sob loudly. The others hushed him, and one of them hurried over to admit me.
Inside, a young servant girl was waiting in the grand, breathtakingly adorned hall.
“How is he?” I asked, as she led me at a swift pace down the corridor.
“Dying, Madonna. The doctors do not expect him to survive this night.”
I felt pierced by this news, heartsick for Giuliano and his family. The works of art I moved past—the paintings alive with riotous colors, the sculptures delicate and gilded—seemed cruel.
We arrived at Lorenzo’s bedchamber door to find it shut. The antechamber, like the one in the Via Larga palazzo, was filled with carefully arranged jewels, goblets, and gold intaglios. Piero’s wife, Madonna Alfonsina, sat in the room, slumped, pregnant and ungainly despite her beautiful coppery gold curls. She wore a simple
camicia
with a shawl thrown over her shoulders. Beside her sat Michelangelo, who held his great head in his hands and did not look up as I entered.
Alfonsina, however, shot me the most baleful of glances when I curtsied and introduced myself. She turned her face scornfully away. She had clearly assumed the role of family matriarch and seemed more agitated than mournful. Her eyes were dry and angry, giving the impression that she was deeply annoyed with her father-in-law for inconveniencing her so.
The old philosopher Marsilo Ficino stood at the door, apparently the go-between. “Madonna Lisa,” he said kindly, though he struggled to contain his tears. “I am glad to see you again, and sad that it must be under such circumstances.”
He reached for my arm to take me inside the inner sanctum—but our progress was halted by shouts echoing down the corridor, moving toward us with the sound of rapid footsteps. I turned to see Giovanni
Pico leading Savonarola in our direction; behind them, Piero and Giovanni de’ Medici followed.
Piero’s face was red and streaked with tears. “You have betrayed us, bringing him here!” he shouted. “Why do you not simply strike us, spit on us at the time of our worst grief? Such acts would be far kinder than this!”
At the same time, his brother Giovanni thundered: “Do not disregard us! Come away from him, or I shall fetch the guards!”
As Pico and Savonarola neared Ser Marsilo and the closed door, Alfonsina rose, unmindful that her shawl slipped from her shoulders, and slapped Pico with such force that he took a faltering step back.
“Traitor!” she screeched. “You would mock us by bringing this ape under our roof at such a time? Get out! Get out, both of you!”
Michelangelo watched the scene with the helpless eyes of a child; he neither rushed to Alfonsina’s defense nor spoke up on behalf of his prophet. Marsilo wrung his hands and murmured, “Madonna, you must not agitate yourself so. . . .”
Pico was stymied in the face of such hostile resistance; apparently he had expected a more gracious welcome. “Madonna Alfonsina, I wish to cause your family no pain—but I must do as God directs me.”
Savonarola remained silent, his gaze directed inward, his stiff posture betraying his discomfort.
The door to the inner chamber opened; everyone turned as if awaiting word from an oracle.
My Giuliano stood in the doorway, his brow furrowed in disapproval. “Hush, all of you!” He seemed older than when we had last met. He was not even fifteen, and while his skin and hair bore the luster of youth, his eyes and posture were those of a man worn down by many cares. “What is this?”
Even as he asked the question, his gaze lit upon Savonarola. There was a swift, subtle flash of contempt in his eyes, immediately replaced by uncommon, careful poise. His tone turned gentle and concerned.
“Please, all of you. Remember that Father can still hear us. We have a responsibility toward him—he who has always been responsible
for all of us—to make his last moments as calm and serene as possible. Let us cause him no more dismay.”
Still glaring at Pico and his companion, Alfonsina picked up her shawl and flung it over her shoulders.
Giuliano took note. “Piero,” he called to his brother in a light tone. “Your wife has not eaten all day. Could you take her and see that she gets some food? It would make Father happy to know that she is seen to. . . .”
Piero visibly surrendered his anger. He nodded and put his arm around Alfonsina’s shoulders. She looked up at her husband with affection; clearly, she loved him, and he her. I saw the subtle shift in Giuliano’s expression at the sight: He was moved, pleased, and deeply relieved that these two should now take care of each other.
He then addressed his brother, the Cardinal: “Dear brother, have you finished the arrangements?”
Portly and rumpled, Giovanni shook his head. Like Giuliano, he had not wept; his composure seemed to spring from a natural reserve rather than from a desire to spare others pain. He spoke in a practical tone, free from the emotion that had taken hold of the others. “Not all the details of the service. The opening hymn eludes me. . . .” A slight exasperation entered his tone. “Father did a poor job, choosing only the Gospel and one hymn. Such things need to be given a great deal of forethought, as they will make a lasting impression on the crowd.”
Giuliano’s speech was uncontrived and sincere. “Of any person, we trust you to choose rightly, even though the time is short. Perhaps prayer will help.” He sighed. “Brothers, go and do what you can. You know we will send for you the very instant Father worsens. Now let me deal with our unexpected guest.”
Alfonsina and the two brothers swept past Pico and Savonarola with disdain. When they were out of earshot, Giuliano said gently, as if speaking to a much-loved child, “Michelangelo, brother. Have you eaten?”
The great head lifted; dark, tormented eyes beheld his questioner. “I will not. I cannot. Not so long as he suffers.”
“Would it ease your heart to pray?”
The young sculptor shook his head. “I am where I wish to be. I am not like the others, Giuliano. You need not worry yourself with me.” As if to give proof of that, he sat up and clasped his hands upon his lap, struggling to display composure; the corner of Giuliano’s mouth quirked with affection and skepticism, but he let the young man be.
Next he turned and addressed Pico and the friar: “Gentlemen, please seat yourselves. I will consult with my father as to whether he is strong enough to receive you. But first, I must speak to a friend.” He paused. “Kind Marsilo, will you see to Ser Giovanni and Fra Girolamo’s needs? They have come a long way and might require food or drink.”
At last he took my arm and led me over the threshold, then closed the door behind us. There was an instant, before he led me into the room, when we looked at each other and it felt as though we two were alone—yet there was no joy between us. His expression was numb, his eyes filled with strain.
“It was kind of you to come when Father called for you,” he said, as though kindly addressing a stranger. “I must apologize for not being able to go to the garden—”
“Do not even speak of that,” I said. “I am so sorry, so sorry. Your father is a good man, and you are, too.” I moved to take his hand.
He drew back; emotion welled up in him. “I can’t . . .” His voice broke. “Nothing has changed for us, Lisa. Surely you understand that. But I must be strong, and any show of gentleness makes it difficult. . . . It’s for Father, do you understand?”
“I understand. But why did he send for
me
?”
Giuliano seemed perplexed by the question. “He likes you. It’s his way. And . . . you know that he has raised Michelangelo as his son, yes? He saw him one day on our property, sketching a faun. He saw the talent. And he must see something in you worth nurturing.”