I let the letter fall to my lap and wept inconsolably. I had no faith—in God’s kindness, in Savonarola’s merciless teachings, in Giuliano’s ability to escape the demands of duty and station. I was only a wool merchant’s daughter that Lorenzo had taken a foolish interest in, that Giuliano had been silly enough to develop feelings for—feelings that certainly would pass with time.
I wanted to feed the letter to the lamp, to shred it into a thousand pieces, throw them into the air, and watch them settle like dust.
Fool that I was, I folded the letter carefully and put it away with other keepsakes: Giuliano’s medallion, and that of Cosimo and the Medici crest; the drawing of me by Leonardo, and his letter; and Giuliano’s letters, including the one he had expressly asked me to burn.
T
he year 1493—the year after Lorenzo’s death, the first full year of Piero’s reign—passed grimly for me. I began my monthly bloods and did everything possible to hide the fact from my father, bribing the laundress not to mention the stained linens. Even so, Father began to speak of potential husbands. He had kept his promise to my mother, he said; it was not his fault that Lorenzo had died before giving his opinion on a match. And my fate could certainly not be trusted to that dolt, Piero, who had already proved useless as Florence’s marriage broker—he had allowed several pairings that provoked the disapproval of old noble families. No, my father had in mind a distinguished man, well placed in Florentine society but nonetheless godly, and when the time was right, he would receive him as my suitor.
Fortunately, I was still young, and my father’s talk of a husband remained simply that. Despite our uneasy relationship, I knew my father loved me, and that he missed my mother terribly. I was his one connection to her, and so I believed he was reluctant to part company with me.
That same year, the legend of the
papa angelico
—that unworldly
pope who would be chosen by God, not man—merged with a second old story, that of the coming of a second Charlemagne, who would cleanse the Church. This Charlemagne would then unite Christendom under the spiritual rule of the
papa angelico.
It did not help matters that the French king was named Charles, or that he listened to such legends and took them to heart. Nor did it help that he set his sights on Naples, deciding that the southern principality by the sea rightly belonged to him. After all, it had been wrested from French control only a generation earlier by old King Ferrante’s father, Alfonso the Magnanimous. Barons with French loyalties still dwelled within the city and would gladly raise their swords in support of their true ruler, Charles.
Savonarola seized on these ideas, merging them with his holy vision. He was shrewd enough never to suggest directly that he was that angelic pope, but he began to preach that Charles would wield the Lord’s avenging sword. Charles would scourge Italy and bring her to penitent knees, and the faithful should welcome him with open arms.
Perhaps Fra Girolamo and his most devoted followers were eager to see a foreign king invade Italy, but everyone I knew was unnerved by the thought. A sense of gathering doom hung over us all. By the end of the year, everyone in Florence was aware that Charles was making plans to invade Naples the following June.
“O Lord,” the prophet cried, during one of his Advent sermons, “You have dealt with us as an angry father; You have cast us from Your presence. Hasten the punishment, and the scourge, that we may more quickly be united with You!” He spoke of an ark that the penitent could enter to be protected from the fury that was coming. And he ended each speech with the phrase “
Cito! Cito!
Quickly! Quickly!” urging the faithful to seek refuge before it was too late.
But with the passing of another year, the spring of 1494 brought—for me, at least—new hope. Long after I had surrendered my dream of seeing Giuliano again, Zalumma dropped another letter bearing the waxen Medici seal into my lap.
My most beloved Lisa,
Perhaps now you will believe that I am a man of my word. I did not give up, and here is the result: My brother Piero has at last given me permission to ask for your hand. My heart rejoices; this Earth has become for me no less than Heaven.
I hope that my long silence did not make you doubt the depth of my feelings for you, and I pray God that your own feelings have not changed toward me. I must in good faith warn you: We Medici have heard the grumblings against us, and the unfair accusations against Piero. Public sentiment has turned; and if your father and you accept my proposal, be aware that you might well be marrying into a family whose influence is waning. Piero remains confident that all will be well, but I fear a different outcome. He has received a letter from Charles’s ambassadors demanding that the French army be given free passage through Tuscany, as well as arms and soldiers. Piero feels he can give no clear answer; he is bound through family ties to support Naples, and Pope Alexander has issued a bull proclaiming Alfonso of Calabria king of that southern realm. His Holiness has also threatened to withhold our brother Giovanni’s benefices as Cardinal should Piero fail to protect Naples from Charles’s advance.
Yet every member of the Signoria is required by law to take an oath never to raise arms against France, and Florence has always relied heavily on her trade. And so my eldest brother finds himself in an impossible situation. It does not help matters that his advisors give him conflicting advice. Show the people that all is well, one man tells him, and so my brother kicks a football in the public streets, plays a game in full view of the citizens, to give the impression that life goes on as normal. What is the result? Ne’erdo-well, the people call him, and Zuccone, pumpkin-head.
I cannot help but think that he is the victim of a concerted effort to discredit and bring down our house.
Ponder this before you write me, love, and give me your answer. Let me know whether your feelings toward me have changed. And if you give me word: I shall come! Once I have received permission to call on your father, I will inform you of the day and hour.
I count the moments until I see you again. My happiness now resides in your hands.
Whether yea or nay, I remain
Yours forever,
Giuliano
I dropped the letter into my lap and raised my hands to my burning cheeks. Zalumma was, of course, standing over me, eager to learn what the letter contained.
I stared up at her, my face slack, my tone dull with the deepest amazement. “He is coming here to ask for my hand,” I said.
We looked, both wide-eyed, upon each other for one long moment, then seized each other’s shoulders and giggled like children.
I
responded immediately to Giuliano. So great was my hope that I refused to remember my father’s railing against the Medici, or his threat to marry me to a godlier man. Instead, I clung to Giuliano’s promise that he would find a way to strike an agreement. He was after all
il Magnifico
’s son, skilled at diplomacy and the art of compromise. I trusted him to achieve the impossible. And because I was dangerously unskilled at diplomacy—especially when it came to my father—I held my tongue and said nothing to him of Giuliano’s intent.
Lent arrived. On the first Friday of the season, Savonarola took the pulpit. He preached that a “new Cyrus” was preparing to cross the Alps—not the Persian king of ancient times, but obviously Charles, who would be forced to do so on his southern march into Italy.
If the people had watched Fra Girolamo with awe before, they now looked upon him as a demigod, for he had—in their minds—predicted two years earlier what came to be known as “the trouble with France.”
“God is his guide,” Savonarola proclaimed of this new Cyrus. “Fortresses will fall before him, and no army will be able to resist
him. And he who leads Florence will behave as a drunken man, doing the opposite of what should be done.” Having criticized Piero, the preacher targeted the Borgia pope: “Because of you, O Church, this storm has arisen!” Again, he spoke of the Ark, where the righteous could take refuge from the coming deluge ending his sermon again with the cry “
Cito! Cito!
Quickly! Quickly!”
During this time, King Charles moved his court from Paris southward to Lyons—uncomfortably close to Tuscany. Every Florentine citizen grew anxious; those who had formerly scoffed at Fra Girolamo now began to listen.
A few weeks before Easter, upon a morning gray and overcast with clouds, Zalumma and I arrived home quite early from market; a light drizzle hung in the air and had settled on my face and hair. My father had announced earlier that he would forgo not only meat for Lent but fish as well, and since we were all obliged to join him in his piety, I had no need to stop at either the butcher’s or the fishmonger’s.
As our carriage pulled round to the back of our palazzo, I spied there a second vehicle—one bearing the Medici coat of arms on its door. It had not been there long; the handsome white horses were still breathing heavily from their trip across the Arno. The driver, sitting at his post, smiled amiably in greeting.
“God have mercy on us!” Zalumma uttered.
I climbed down and gave our own driver instructions to take the food round to the kitchen. I was at once furious at my father; he had obviously arranged a meeting with my suitor at a time when I would be absent. At the same time, I was surprised that he had even agreed to speak with Giuliano. It rekindled my hope that my intended could convince not only his brother, but my father as well.
My anger turned to terror as I took stock of my appearance. To quiet my father, I had taken to wearing very plain, dark clothes, and even maintained the outdated tradition of wearing topaz, a gem reputed to cool the flames of Eros and help virgins keep their chastity.
That day, I had chosen a high-necked gown of dark brown wool, which went nicely with the topaz necklace: I looked the part of a devoted
piagnona
. My veil of black gossamer had failed to protect my hair from the dampness, and a mutiny of frizzy locks peeked out from beneath.
I seized Zalumma’s hand. “You must find a way to hear their conversation! Go!”
She needed no further prompting, but set off almost running, while I walked more slowly, with what little decorum I could muster, into the house.
The door to the great room stood open, further proof that my arrival had not been expected.
I heard my father’s calm and earnest tone, which relieved me at once; I had expected it to be hostile. As I passed by the open door, he glanced up.
Had I been gifted with more self-control, I might have continued on, but I stopped to gaze at Giuliano. Out of respect for my father, he had dressed conservatively in unadorned blue wool, and a mantle of a blue so dark it was almost black. I had not set eyes on him for months, since the morning of his father’s funeral. He had grown and matured a great deal since then. He was taller, his face leaner and more angular, his shoulders and back broader. I was relieved to see that my father had received him properly, summoning wine and food for his guest.
Giuliano in turn studied me, and his radiance stole my breath.
“Lisa,” my father called. For one giddy instant, I thought he might invite me in, but he said, “Go to your chambers.”
I moved numbly up the stairs. Behind me, Zalumma’s voice inquired whether Ser Antonio wanted more wine. She would serve as my eyes and ears, but this comforted me little. I went to my room but could not rest, so I ventured out into the corridor. I could not hear what was happening below me—the voices were too soft to distinguish—and so, helpless, I stared out the window at the driver and the fine horses.
The quiet voices were a good omen, I told myself. Giuliano, a gifted diplomat, had found a way to reason with my father.
I suffered for several minutes before I at last saw Giuliano emerge from our loggia and cross the courtyard toward his carriage.
I flung open the window and cried out his name.
He turned and looked up at me. The distance was enough to hinder speech, but I learned all I needed in a glimpse.
He was downcast. Yet he raised a hand in the air as if reaching for me; and he took that hand and pressed the palm against his heart.
I did an outrageous thing, an unspeakable thing: I lifted my skirts high and ran down the stairs at breakneck speed, determined to stop Giuliano in his carriage, to join him, to ride away from the house where I was born.
I might have made it—but my father had just stepped outside of the chamber where he had entertained his guest and, realizing where I was headed, stepped in front of the door and barred my path.
I raised both hands to strike him—or perhaps just to push him out of the way. He seized my wrists.
“Lisa, are you mad?” He was honestly amazed.
“Let me go!” I shouted, my tone anguished, for I could hear Giuliano’s carriage already rumbling toward the gate.
“How do you know?” His tone turned from one of amazement to one of accusation. “How do you know why he came? What made you think this was anything other than business? And how did you come to be so infatuated with him? You have been lying to me, hiding things from me! Do you have any idea how dangerous that is?”
“How could you turn him away, seeing how we love each other so? You loved Mother—how would you have felt if you had been refused her? If her father had turned you away? You care nothing for my happiness!”
Instead of raising his voice to match mine, he lowered his. “To the contrary,” he said. “I care everything for your happiness—which is why I turned him away.” Then in an impatient burst, he demanded, “Do you not hear the discontent in the streets? The Medici have attracted
God’s wrath and that of the people. For me to give my daughter over to them would be to put her directly in harm’s way. It is only a matter of time before the French king comes, bearing the scourge of God in his hand; what then will become of Piero and his brothers? You attend Mass twice daily with me. How is it you have not heard all that Savonarola has said?”