I clung fiercely to reason. The citizens had been summoned; I could not assume it was to cheer Piero’s downfall. It might well be to cheer his triumph.
I leaned out of my window for an eternity—like my neighbors, awaiting a sign. Painful moments passed before it came: softly, from the east and south, a distant, unintelligible rumble at first. Then a single voice, high and clear, rode upon the wind.
Popolo e libertà! Popolo e libertà!
I thought at once of Messer Iacopo astride his horse in the great piazza, trying in vain to rally the people to his cause. Only now it was
my husband and his brother in that same piazza—and their efforts had been just as vain.
I thought of Messer Iacopo’s corpse, bloated and blue-white, exhumed from its grave and dragged through the city streets.
Beyond my window, servants ran back into palazzi, slamming doors; pedestrians scattered, running toward the sound or fleeing it.
I pushed myself away and quickly donned my overdress. I had brought nothing else with me, and so had nothing else to take—but instinct stopped me at the door. I pulled open the drawer to the desk, found Leonardo’s folded letter, and cast it upon the fire.
Go to Giovanni,
my husband had said.
I rushed out into the antechamber to find the guards had gone. I ran into the corridor and there saw Michelangelo running toward me. His shyness was gone, replaced by urgency; this time, he met my gaze directly. We stopped just short of colliding; his breath came ragged, like mine.
“Where is Giuliano? Has he returned?” I asked.
He spoke at the same instant I did. “Madonna, you must flee! Go quickly to Giovanni!”
“Giuliano—”
“I have not seen him. I don’t think he has returned. But I know he would want you to go with his brother.”
He took my elbow and steered me down the stairs, across the courtyard, up another flight of stairs. He pushed me faster than I could run; twice, I stumbled over my skirts.
When we reached our destination, Michelangelo flung open the door. Giovanni, his movements deliberate and calm, was instructing a pair of servants on where his packed trunks should be taken. Only when he glanced up did I see the nervousness in his eyes, but his voice was steady.
“What is it?” He seemed irritated, almost hostile, at the interruption.
“You must take care of Madonna Lisa,” Michelangelo answered brusquely, with clear dislike. “You promised your brother. My destination will not be a safe one for her.”
“Oh. Yes.” With a flick of his fingers, Giovanni dismissed the servants, red-faced beneath the weight of their burdens. “Of course.”
Michelangelo turned to me. “I pray God we meet again, under better circumstances.” Then he was gone, his rapid steps ringing in the corridor.
Giovanni’s scarlet robe and red velvet cap were immaculate; he was freshly shaven and groomed, as though he had prepared himself for a high-ranking visitor. He was too distracted, perhaps too frightened, to dissemble. He stared at me without kindness. I was a nuisance, a mistake.
“Go and ready yourself for travel,” he said. “I will send Laura to help you.”
I did not believe him for an instant. I motioned to my clothing. “I have nothing to take. This is all I brought with me.” Which was true, except for the mousy brown dress my father had insisted I wear; I was all too glad to leave that behind.
“Then go to your quarters.” The Cardinal studied me, then said, “Look, this is nothing more than a few Lord Priors trying to incite a riot. With luck, my brothers”—he hesitated just before he said the last two words; I knew he had almost said
Giuliano
—“will be able to calm everyone down. In the meantime, I’m riding out to help them.” He let go a sigh, as if resigned to showing mercy. “Don’t worry; I won’t leave you here.”
“Thank you,” I said.
“Go. I’ll call for Laura to sit with you.”
I crossed the palazzo and returned to Lorenzo’s bedchamber. I could not resist staring out the open window, which had filled the room with cold air, despite the fire. Outside, dusk had fallen; in its failing light, torches flickered in the distance. They came from the west, the direction of San Marco, down the Via Larga. Those holding them aloft cried out, again and again:
Palle! Palle! Palle!
I stared at the shadowy forms materializing from the gloom. Most were on horseback, a few on foot; these were the wealthy, with their servants, probably friends and family from the palazzi lining the Via Larga, a Medici enclave. The light they bore glanced off fine unsheathed
swords, off necklaces of gold, off gems. They took their places alongside the men guarding the front of the Medici palace.
Palle! Palle!
Converging from the opposite direction, from the Piazza della Signoria, the cry
Popolo e libertà!
began to take physical form: Dark figures approached, ill-lit by flaming rags lashed to long sticks or the handles of brooms.
Abaso le palle! Down with the balls!
The sharp tines of pitchforks, the points of dented, crooked lances, the smoothed tips of wooden clubs, reared against a deepening sky.
Just before the two forces met, a new contingent emerged from the ranks of Medici supporters. From my distant perch, I could not make out faces—not even that of the rider on horseback who held a lamp illuminating his features. But I recognized the scarlet of his cape, the broadness of his shoulders, his dignified carriage: Giovanni rode out slowly, surrounded by a swarm of armed soldiers.
“Palle!”
he cried at the approaching threat, in a beautiful, thunderous voice. “Good citizens of Florence, hear me out!”
But the good citizens of Florence would not listen. A stone flew through the air, striking the shoulder of Giovanni’s black mount, causing it to rear. Giovanni managed to calm it, but a decision was made: Rather than tackle their opponents head-on, the Cardinal and his group elected to gallop north, down an alleyway.
I could only pray he still intended to head for the piazza.
As Giovanni and his men receded from my view, the angry citizens advanced. Their number seemed infinite, stretching into the dim light as far as I could see. Bodies on foot were joined by wealthier Medici enemies on horseback, bearing maces, sturdy lances, swords, Turkish scimitars.
Realizing they were overwhelmed, many Medici supporters rode off, abandoning the palazzo guards to do battle alone.
I saw ghastly silhouettes, heard ghastly sounds:
A peasant was speared through his stomach and lifted off his feet by a soldier’s lance; a merchant dropped to his knees as a mace shattered his skull. A fallen guard screamed hoarsely as a farmer skewered
him with a pitchfork. Another rioter stooped down to seize his dropped torch and set the body ablaze.
Uccello’s painting could never capture the smells, the noise, the swiftness and confusion. He had shown war as pageantry; I witnessed it as madness.
Beneath me—echoing through the house—came furious banging, the sound of metal and flesh hammering wood. Some of the rioters had made it to the door.
Laura had not come; I knew then that she never would. I made the decision to leave, but as I began to turn from the window, frantic motion in the nearest alleyway captured my attention.
The fast-moving riders held torches and lamps to light their way in the gathering dark. On their heels followed a furious, roaring crowd. I was seized by the hope that this was Giuliano. I leaned farther out the window. As the group neared the battle in front of the palazzo, I recognized Giovanni. Not until he was almost directly beneath me could I make out his desperate cries.
“Renounce . . . Piero . . .
Popolo e libertà!
”
And the angry citizens who had chased him thus far, the citizens who pelted him and his guards with stones, shouted quite rightfully:
Traitor! Traitor!
I ran from the window. I lifted my skirts high and ran down the stairs, through the corridors, into the courtyard, through the loggia, and out into the garden. There were no weapons to be found there now—only Giovanni, exhausted, gasping, striding in the direction of the palazzo with two soldiers in tow.
“Did you see him?” I called. The noise outside the walls was dreadful.
Giovanni was all business; the earlier kindness I had seen in him had vanished, replaced by a cold determination. He passed me without a glance, without slowing, and when I ran after him, he offered up curtly: “I couldn’t get to the piazza.”
“You didn’t see him, then? See Giuliano?”
“Piero is here.” He gestured behind us.
I rushed to the wooden fence and opened a latched gate; I stepped
through and found myself in the large unpaved area just outside the stables. It smelled of dung and hay and hot, lathered horses. Perhaps thirty or forty mounts, reined in by their riders, stamped nervously in place; men called to each other, discussing strategies for venturing out again while incurring the fewest casualties. I scanned their faces, but did not see the one I wanted.
“Giuliano!” I demanded. “Where is Giuliano?”
Most of the men, caught up in the turmoil of war, ignored me; a few eyed me curiously, but did not reply.
A firm hand clamped itself on my shoulder. I whirled about to see Piero, sweating and grim-faced, his eyes a bit wild.
“Where is Giuliano?” I repeated.
“It didn’t go well,” he said, numb of failure. “Damn Loreno—he betrayed us; he wouldn’t let me enter through the main gate. I couldn’t accept such an insult: ‘Enter alone, through the side, and put down your arms.’ What am I, a servant? I lost my temper, told them all to go to Hell, and Loreno, that son of a whore, surrendered the key to the bell tower to my enemies—”
I seized his arms.
“Where is Giuliano!”
He recoiled from me. “Giuliano is still at the piazza, trying to quiet the crowd.” At the fury on my face, he added in a rush, “It was his idea; I didn’t want to leave him. He knows if things get bad to meet me at the San Gallo gate. . . .”
I turned away, disgusted. As I walked toward the stable, I began to form a plan.
“Leave with us!” Piero called after me. “They’re fetching my things now. . . . Are you packed?”
I ignored him. There was a long line of stalls, as far as I could see, and almost every one of them empty. An elderly man was arguing with a pair of soldiers; I shouted louder than any of them. “A horse! I need a horse, at once!”
“Here now,” said the older man, who was no doubt master of the stables. His tone started out imperious; I think in the excitement he mistook me for one of the chambermaids, but a second glance at my dress changed his demeanor. “Forgive me, Madonna—you are Giuliano’s
new wife, yes?” He had no doubt arranged the carriage that brought me to this palazzo. “You have need of a mount? Does Ser Piero know of this? I thought he had judged a carriage more defensible, and able to carry your belongings—”
“He has changed his mind,” I said. “I have no belongings. He said I must have a horse
now.
” My stare challenged him.
A group of six armed men entered. “Are the wagons filled?” one of them asked the stablemaster. “Ser Piero wants plenty of hay and water for the long ride.”
The old man lifted a hand at them, then turned to me. “See here, Madonna, I have only so many horses . . .” He turned to the soldiers. “And only so much hay and water . . .”
Furious and shaking, I turned my back to him and walked away, brushing past the soldiers without seeing them. I walked past stall after stall as the stablemaster argued with the men. Stall after empty stall.
But one—at the far end—contained a mare, perhaps the mount the stablemaster was saving for his own escape. She was already saddled, with the bit in her mouth, and when I moved toward her, she snorted. Her coat was gray, save for a spot of black on her muzzle. As I opened the gate and stepped inside the stall, she took a step back, bowing her head and regarding me with eyes that were worried and dark, with the whites showing.
“Here now,” I said, unintentionally echoing the stablemaster. “If anyone is frightened, it’s I.” I set a tentative hand upon her soft, twitching muzzle; her quick breath was warm on my skin.
“Can I mount you?” I asked. The prospect made me nervous. I was used to traveling in carriages; my father believed women were poorly suited to ride. In my case, perhaps, he was right. It was a difficult business. We were both anxious, and I too short; I had to stand on an overturned bucket before I could swing awkwardly up into the saddle. My long skirt, with its train, made the venture even more difficult. Once up, I tucked my gown round my legs as best I could, and let the overdress furl out around me.
The mare was used to a firmer hand than mine, but I gave her her
head, knowing she would take the shortest way out of the stables; luckily, her preferred route did not lead us past the stablemaster.
Once we were out in the yard, I continued to let her lead, since she knew the way out to the Via Larga.
Armed guards milled about in front of the bolted gate topped with deadly sharp spikes and lined with iron bars thick as my arm. Through the bars, I could see the black shapes of soldiers standing in the flickering play of firelight and shadow. The men moved little; not yet engaged in battle, they were the rear guards, the last line of protection against the mob.
On my side, one soldier stood directly next to the bolt.
I rode up to him and leaned down. “You there. Open the gate.”
He looked up at me; even the dim light could not hide the fact that he thought me mad. “Madonna, they’ll tear you to pieces.”
“Everyone’s confused out there. No one will notice where I’ve come from; no one knows who I am. I’m not armed; who will attack me?”
He shook his head. “It isn’t safe for a lady.”
I felt around in the pocket of my overdress—pushing the heavy sheathed dagger aside—and pulled out one of the medallions without looking to see which it was. It caught just enough torchlight to shine. “Here. It’s worth more than a florin. Perhaps a lot more.”
He took it, frowned at it, then realized what it was. He glanced guiltily about him, then without another word, quietly slid the bolt and pushed the gate open—only a crack, since the press of bodies outside kept it from swinging very far. The mare and I sidled out, barely squeezing through; the rough iron skinned my bared shins and snagged the fine threads of my gown and overdress.