But for the time, we had more than enough food to eat—especially given Francesco’s connections.
My husband’s mood was exceptionally cheerful during those days. I did not learn why until one evening at supper, when he was feeling particularly loquacious.
The storm outside had eased to constant heavy drizzle. After weeks of gloom, our palazzo was drafty and cold, so the three of us—my father, Francesco, and I—sat as close as possible to the fire.
Francesco had spent the afternoon at the Palazzo della Signoria; as a result, he was dressed in his best
lucco
, the long burgundy tunic trimmed with brown sable at the sleeves and neck. He came home smiling, and his cheerfulness only seemed to increase after his arrival. By the time we all sat down at the table—at the instant the wine was poured—Francesco could no longer contain himself.
“Good news, Ser Antonio!” he said, addressing himself to my father—my wan, faded father, who was Francesco’s age but looked far older. Francesco’s eyes were bright; his cheeks and the tip of his nose were still flushed from his ride home through the chill, damp air. Tiny beads of moisture had collected in his silver hair and gleamed with firelight. “You will remember, of course, the Pope’s brief last year, which called for Fra Girolamo to stop preaching?”
“I do,” my father replied, without enthusiasm. Savonarola’s sermons had continued in defiance of the order. There were those who said excommunication could not be far behind.
“His Holiness has, after investigating the matter, realized the unfairness of this request. Today, the Signoria received notice from him that Fra Girolamo can continue to preach, so long as he does not excoriate Rome, and specifically His Holiness.” Francesco beamed, then leaned his head back and took a long swallow of wine.
I listened but maintained a polite, disinterested expression. Secretly, I wondered whether Francesco had in fact learned this from the Signoria, or from his mysterious correspondent. I decided to search his desk that night if possible.
“Well,” my father said, “it’s just as well that he doesn’t anger Rome. People were beginning to worry, you know.”
“Such worries are unfounded,” Francesco said. “And people are too quick to forget all that Fra Girolamo has done for Florence. Charles might have razed the city, were it not for the friar’s intervention.”
My father nodded faintly, then stared distractedly into the fire.
“But what of the rumor,” I began, with feigned innocence, “that a letter was intercepted long ago, on its way to France . . . from Fra Girolamo to King Charles?”
My husband turned sharply on me. “Where did you learn such a thing?”
“Agrippina said she overheard it at the market. They say the friar begged Charles to come to Italy so that Florence would believe his prophecy.”
“I know what it says. How can you repeat such an obvious lie?”
“I mentioned it because I knew you would know the truth,” I said,
so smoothly I astonished myself. “I have also heard the Pope was thinking of leaving the Holy League.” Pope Alexander had formed the League—which was backed by Naples, Milan, and the Holy Roman Emperor—in order to oust Charles from Italy. Savonarola of course opposed it, but Florence had been under great pressure from Rome to join.
This calmed Francesco. “That I had not heard. It is very possible. It would certainly be good news for us.” He paused and took another gulp of wine, then shot my father a sly glance. “Ser Antonio,” he said. “I was thinking that it’s high time you had another grandchild to enjoy.” His gaze flickered at me briefly before he smiled down into his goblet. “I am not a young man. I need sons who can take over the family trade. What do you think?”
Sickened, I lowered my eyes and stared down at the wine in my own cup. I yearned to drown myself in it.
“I think,” my father answered slowly, “that I had only one child. And I never felt lacking. I am very proud of my daughter.”
“Yes, we all are,” Francesco replied swiftly; his expansive mood could not be darkened. “And of course, it is wrong of me to discuss such things without first consulting my beloved wife.” He finished his goblet of wine and called for more, then abruptly changed the subject to the implications of the foul weather.
“High prices are coming,” my father said. “This happened before, when I was a boy. If the rains don’t stop, we won’t have any crops. And if that happens, I guarantee you, the starving will riot.”
“We need have no worry,” Francesco said firmly. “God smiles on Florence. The rain will stop.”
My father was unimpressed. “What if it doesn’t? What if there are no crops at all? Savonarola had best intercede if the sun is to shine on us again.”
Francesco’s smile faded a bit; he turned his careful gaze on my father. “It will, Ser Antonio. I promise you, it will.”
“Floods bring plague,” my father said. “Hunger brings plague. I have seen this before. . . .”
Thinking of Matteo, I started. My father saw it and, chastened,
took my hand. “I did not mean to frighten you. Plague would never affect us, Lisa.”
“Indeed not,” Francesco said, with a hint of warning. “We are in no danger of floods here, nor of hunger. No one in my house will ever go hungry.”
My father nodded by way of acquiescence before lowering his gaze.
We ate mostly in silence, except for Francesco’s complaint that the peasants were still too ignorant to realize the truth of the matter: that the Duke of Milan, Ludovico Sforza, and not Fra Girolamo, had given the Pisans the keys to their fortress. An unfortunate confusion, since it made men speak out against the one who loved them the most and prayed to God fervently on their behalf. It was, Francesco insisted, the only possible reason for the growth of the
Arrabbiati
, who were very close to becoming a formal political party opposing Savonarola and the
piagnoni
.
Afterward, Francesco hinted broadly that he and I were tired and would retire early; my father—who normally stayed later and enjoyed his grandson’s company—took the hint graciously and left.
As I excused myself to retire to my chambers, Francesco rose and gave me a pointed look.
“Go to your room,” he said, not ungently, “and tell Zalumma to undress you. I will be up shortly.”
I did so with a disgust so profound it verged on nausea. As Zalumma unlaced my gown, we studied each other with the same fear we had experienced on my wedding night.
“If he hurts you . . .” Zalumma murmured darkly.
I shook my head to silence her. If he hurt me, there was nothing I or she could do about it. I watched her put my gown in the wardrobe, then stood patiently as she brushed out my hair and braided it. At last, I sent her away. Dressed only in my
camicia
, I sat on the bed and apologized to Giuliano.
Francesco touches only my body
, I told him.
He’ll never touch my love for you
.
I waited alone on my bed for a miserable half hour. When the door
opened, I looked up to see Francesco, his eyes red-rimmed and glittering, his balance unsteady. In his hand he held a goblet of wine.
“Beloved wife,” he murmured. “What do you say to my desire to have another son?”
I didn’t meet his gaze; perhaps he would think it modesty. “You are my husband. I cannot fight your wishes.”
He sat down beside me, letting his full weight drop carelessly onto the bed, and put his goblet down on the night table; the wine sloshed over the rim and perfumed the air. “Don’t you have wishes yourself? Surely
you
want more children. What mother doesn’t?”
I couldn’t look at him. “Of course I want more.”
He took my hand; I let it go limp in his grasp. “I am not a fool, Lisa,” he said.
The words caused the hairs on the back of my neck to prick. Did he know? Had my searches in his study been detected? Had Claudio seen something?
But he continued, “I know that you don’t love me, though I had hoped you would learn to. You are a very beautiful woman and an intelligent one. I take pride in calling you my wife. And I had hoped you would repay my kindnesses by giving me many heirs.”
“Of course,” I repeated.
He stood up. His tone grew businesslike, cold, faintly threatening. “Lie down, then.”
I lay down.
It was an impersonal procedure. He remained completely dressed, and lowered his leggings only as far as necessary. With care but not tenderness, he crawled between my legs, lifted my
camicia
, and inserted himself. But he was not altogether ready; in fact, his proximity to me quenched all ardor and he shrank. He remained still for a moment, breathing hard, then suddenly pushed his palms against the mattress, raising his upper torso.
I thought he meant to extricate himself. Immediately I stirred, hopeful that he would proclaim defeat and leave.
“Lie down, I said!” He lifted one hand, turned the back of it
toward me as if preparing to strike. I flinched and turned my face away.
This pleased him. He grew inside me; as he did, he closed his eyes and began to whisper to himself. “Whore. Insolent bitch!”
I thought of nothing. I let my head strike the wooden headboard. I listened to it hammer against the wall.
This continued long, painful moments; it was difficult for him, but he goaded himself on with foul words until at last he achieved his aim.
When he was done, he pushed himself away from me, quickly arranged himself, and left without a word, closing the door behind him.
I called for Zalumma. A good wife would have lain in the bed and allowed herself to become pregnant. But I rose at once, and when Zalumma arrived, I said, my voice shaking: “I won’t bear his child. Do you understand? I won’t!”
Zalumma understood. The next morning, she brought me a flagon of tea and instructed me on how to use it.
M
y father’s warning had been prophetic: The rain never abated. At mid-month, the Arno flooded, washing away all the crops. In early June, the Rifredi River spilled over its banks, destroying what few fields were left.
By the time the sky dried up in summer, the city suffered from an outbreak of fever. For Matteo’s sake, I permitted no visitors to the nursery, nor did I allow him to leave the palazzo. He was just starting to take his first clumsy steps; the more I looked into his face, the more I saw his father’s.
I left the house rarely. Once the fever became widespread, I forbade Zalumma to go with Agrippina to market, and I went to Santissima Annunziata only irregularly, owing to the fact that I found no new letter in Francesco’s desk during those weeks.
But, wishing to appear a good wife and allay suspicion, I continued to attend Savonarola’s Saturday sermons for the women. His ranting against the Medici and their followers continued, but was combined with another obsession: Alexander’s cohabitation, in the Vatican, with his young mistress, Giulia Farnese, and his penchant for inviting prostitutes to his parties.
“You leader of the Church!” he railed. “Each night you go to your
concubine, each morning you go take the sacraments; you have provoked God’s anger. You harlots, you miserable pimps, you have turned your churches into stalls for whores!” And when the cardinals grumbled that he ought not speak so of the Pope, he proclaimed: “It is not I who threaten Rome, but God! Let her do what she wills, Rome will never extinguish this flame!”
Several nights later, after my husband had gone to visit his own concubines and the servants had all retired, I made my way to Francesco’s study.
The letter hidden in the desk was plaintive.
Let him rail against the Medici, I said. But I did not encourage him to attack Alexander—far from it! He is undoing all my careful work here in Rome. Make it exceedingly clear to those involved: If they do not stop this foolishness at once, they will pay dearly!
In the interim: The people’s hunger could lead to grumbling. Rally them. Focus their attention not on their bellies, but on Heaven, and Fra Girolamo
.
I silently repeated the words to myself, emblazoning each one in my mind so that I could summon them again at will.
The next morning, I left the book for Isabella to see. The following day, I rode to Santissima Annunziata just as the bells announced sext.
Salai made no further attempt at subterfuge. The Servants of Mary were all at prayer and would soon be supping at the refectory; our way was clear. We walked from the chapel to a narrow corridor, then up a flight of spiraling stone stairs. At the top was a blank wooden wall; Salai went to the corner and hooted, soft as a dove, and a panel hidden in the wall slid open. We stepped inside.
A young artist wearing the long, paint-stained tunic of his craft closed the panel behind us. We walked down a corridor that opened onto three rooms: a monk’s cell with a cot; a larger chamber where a pair of young men, fresh plaster streaked on their cheeks, their hands,
and their long aprons, were preparing a fresco; and the room where I had met with Leonardo.
The portrait of me still rested on the easel; Salai informed me that in his haste, Leonardo had forgotten to take it. I studied it: Except for the outlines and shadows, my skin was represented by the stark white of the gesso panel. I looked like a half-materialized ghost.
I smiled at the painting.
And I smiled at Salai as I recited the contents of the letter to him. He wrote the words down slowly, laboriously, stopping several times to ask me to repeat myself.
I left the church feeling lighthearted. Leonardo’s efforts were bearing fruit, I thought. The Pope would surely silence Savonarola now. The Medici’s enemies were flailing, and it was only a matter of time before I would greet Piero again.
I smiled because I was ignorant. I smiled because I did not realize that the letter in fact threatened all that I held dear.
In the fall, plague came. Savonarola still preached, but Francesco allowed me to remain home. No new letters arrived for him from Rome requiring me to venture out to the family chapel. I was deprived of my forays to Santissima Annuziata, and with the worsening weather, I could neither sit out on my balcony nor walk in the garden. I chafed.