I, Mona Lisa (62 page)

The Duomo’s interior was dim and cool. As I passed over its threshold, the edges of the present blurred and melted into the past. I could not judge where one ended and the other began.

We moved together down a side aisle: Salvatore on my far left, Francesco to my immediate left. On my right was the murderous young soldier. Our pace was brisk; I tried to see past my false husband, past Salvatore. I searched desperately for a beloved face—praying that I would see it, that I would not.

But I saw little as we swept relentlessly toward the altar. I gleaned only impressions: A sanctuary less than a third full. Beggars, black-wimpled nuns, merchants; a pair of monks hushing a group of restless urchins of varying ages. As we walked past other nobles to take our
place—second row from the altar, on the side by the wooden choir—Francesco smiled and nodded to acquaintances. I followed his gaze and saw Lord Priors, six of them in various places surrounding us.

I wondered which were accomplices, and which victims.

At last we came to rest beneath the massive cupola. I stood between my husband and the unhappy soldier, and turned my head to my right at the sight of bodies moving toward us.

Matteo. Matteo walking on strong little legs, clinging to the hand of his stooped nursemaid. Stubborn boy; he would not let her carry him. As he neared, I let go a soft cry. Francesco gripped my arm, but with the other, I reached out to my son. Matteo saw me, and with a shattering smile, he called to me, and I to him.

The nursemaid seized him, pulled him off his feet, and carried him until she stood beside the soldier, our barrier. Matteo writhed, trying to worm his way to me, but she held him fast, and the soldier took a slight step forward so that I could not touch my child. I turned away, anguished.

“We thought it best,” Francesco said softly to me, “that a mother be able to see her son. To know where he is at every moment so that she is always reminded to act in his best interest.”

I looked at the soldier. I had thought he came to serve as my guard and my assassin alone. Now I looked at him waiting with his great knife beside my son; hatred so pressed on me I could scarcely stand.

I had come to the Duomo with one aim: to kill Francesco before the signal was given. Now I faltered. How could I save my child and still see my tormentor dead? I had only one blow. If I struck at the soldier, Francesco would surely strike at me—and Salvatore de’ Pazzi was within sword’s reach of Giuliano’s heir.

Your child is already dead
, I told myself,
just as you are
. We had no salvation; I had only one chance—not at rescue, but revenge.

I put my hand—the one that had reached for Matteo—lightly on my waist, where the dagger lay hidden. And I marveled that I was willing to abandon my son in the interest of hate; how like my father Antonio I had become. But he had faced only one loss, I reasoned stubbornly. I had suffered many.

I fingered my belt and did not know what I should do.

Mass began. The priest and acolytes processed to the dark altar limned with gold and crowned with a carving of the dying Christ upon the cross. The swinging thurible bled frankincense-laden smoke into the shadowy dimness, further blurring shapes and the edges of time. The choir sang the
Introit
and
Kyrie
. Behind us, a scattering of giggling orphans pushed their way toward the front of the church, mixing in with the offended nobility. One of the monks followed, hissing reprimands. The smell of sour, filthy children wafted our way; Francesco disapprovingly lifted a kerchief to his nose.

Dominus vobiscum
, God be with you all, the priest said.

Et cum spiritu tuo
, Francesco replied.

As the priest’s assistant chanted the Epistle, I detected motion in the periphery of my vision. Something, someone dark and cowled, had sidled his way through the assembly to stand behind me. I imagined I heard his breath, felt it warm on my shoulder. I knew that he had come for me.

He will not strike yet
, I told myself, though the urge to reach for my weapon was strong.
He will not kill me until the signal
.

Francesco glanced sidewise over his shoulder at the hooded assassin; approval flickered in his gaze. This was part of his plan. As he turned back, he caught me watching him and was pleased by my fright. He graced me with a cold, falsely benign smile.

The choir sang the Gradual:
Arise, Lord, in Thine holy anger. Lift up Thineself against the rage of my adversaries
.

Far to my left, a ripple passed through the row of priors and nobles and flowed to Salvatore de’ Pazzi. He turned to my husband and whispered. I strained to hear him.

“. . . have spotted Piero. But not . . .”

Francesco recoiled and unintentionally strained his neck, peering to his left at the crowd. “Where is Giuliano?”

I tensed, agonizingly aware of the assassin at my back, at the soldier standing beside my child. If Giuliano had failed to come, they might well kill us immediately. A pair of urchins behind us hooted at a joke; the monk hushed them.

I did not hear the Gospel. I heard the priest droning during the sermon but could not interpret his words. The fingers of my right hand hovered at the edge of my belt. Had the soldier or my assassin moved, I would have lashed out blindly.

Another tide of whispers washed Salvatore’s way. He murmured to Francesco and gestured with his chin at a distant point to his left. “He is here. . . .”

He is here
.

Here, somewhere near me, beyond my sight or voice, beyond my touch in the moment before I was to die. I did not cry at the knowledge, but I swayed beneath its weight. I looked down at the marble beneath my feet and prayed.
Be safe and live. Be safe
. . . .

The priest chanted the
Oremus
, took the Host, and lifted it toward the crucified Christ in offering.

Offerimus tibi, Domine
 . . .

Salvatore rested his hand upon the hilt of his sword and leaned toward Francesco. His lips formed a word:
Soon
.

As he did so, my assassin leaned in instantly, smoothly, stepping upon my train so that I could not bolt, and pressed his lips to my ear.

“Monna Lisa,” he whispered. Had he not uttered those two words, I would have taken up the dagger. “When I signal, fall.”

I could not breathe. I parted my lips and took in air through my mouth and watched as the priest’s assistant moved to the altar and began to fill the chalice with wine. Francesco’s hand hovered at his hip.

The second assistant stepped forward with a decanter of water.

“Now,”
Salai whispered, and pressed something hard and blunt against my back, beneath the ribs, to make it appear as though he were delivering a fatal thrust.

Wordless, I sank to the cool marble.

Beside me, Francesco cried out and dropped to his knees just as he drew his knife; it clattered beside him on the floor. I pushed myself up to sit. Salai’s army of street urchins streamed forward, surrounding the soldier. One knifed him in the back and pulled him down so that a second could slash his throat.

The world erupted in a chorus of shrieks. I clawed to my feet,
screaming Matteo’s name, cursing my tangled skirts. The orphans had swarmed him and his nursemaid; I pulled my father’s stiletto free and lurched toward them. My son was nestled in the arms of one of the monks from the Ospedale degli Innocenti.

“Lisa!” he cried. “Lisa, come with us.”

The bells in the campanile began to ring. A frantic nobleman and his wife ran past, almost knocking me down. I stayed on my feet as a wave of other panicked worshipers followed. “Leonardo, take him!” I shouted. “I will follow, I will follow—only
go
!”

He turned reluctantly and ran. I held my ground despite the fleeing crowd, and turned back to Francesco.

He had fallen onto his side and hip; Salai had wounded him and kicked his knife away. He was helpless.

“Lisa,” he said. His eyes were feral, terrified. “What good will it serve? What good?”

What good, indeed? I crouched down and approached him with the dagger raised overhand—the wrong way. Salai would not have approved. But I wanted to bring it down the way Francesco de’ Pazzi had brought his weapon down on Lorenzo’s brother: wildly, carelessly, with a spasm of fury, with a spray of crimson, with a thousand blows for each wrong done. I would have spared no piece of his flesh.

Entrapped my father

Murdered my loved ones

Stole my life and my child

“You aren’t my husband,” I said bitterly. “You never were. For the sake of my true husband, I will kill you.” I leaned down.

And he struck first. With a small blade, hidden in his fist. It bit into the flesh just beneath my left ear and would have sliced quickly to my right. But before it reached center I pulled away, astonished, and sat back on my haunches.

“Bitch,” he croaked. “Did you think I would let you ruin it all?” He sagged to the floor, still alive, and glared at me with hatred.

I put a hand to my throat and drew it away. It was the color of garnets—a dark necklace, Francesco’s final gift.

I can bleed to death here
, I thought.
I can have my revenge. I can kill Francesco now and bleed to death and they will find me later, here, dead atop his corpse
.

I chose not to kill him.

I heard a roaring in my ears, the sound of the tide. Like Giuliano in Francesco’s lie, I was drowning, as surely as if I had fallen into the Arno from the Ponte Santa Trinità. Fallen, and sunk deep. And I had descended to a place, finally, where my emotions were still.

I did not worry for Matteo. I knew he was safe in his grandfather’s arms. I did not worry for myself, I did not try to flee my attackers; I knew that I was no longer their target. I did not worry about Francesco or my hatred of him. I would let God and the authorities deal with him; it was not my place. I knew my place now.

Dear God
, I prayed.
Let me rescue Giuliano
.

Through a miracle, I rose.

My body was agonizingly leaden, moving as if through water, but I willed it to do the impossible: I moved in the direction Salvatore de’ Pazzi had gone, to go in search of my beloved. The stiletto was heavy; my hand trembled with the effort to hold it.

I heard his voice.

Lisa! Lisa, where are you?

Husband, I am coming
. I opened my mouth to cry out, but my voice was no more than an anguished wheeze, lost in the roar of the flood.

The waters inside the cathedral were murky; I could scarcely see the wavering images of fighters against a dizzying backdrop of innocents in flight. There were orphans here—filthy lads with small glinting blades—and men with wielded swords, peasants and priests and noblemen, but I could make no sense of it. My hearing faded until the frenzied chiming of the bells sank to nothingness. In the river, all was silent.

Sunlight streamed in from the open door leading to the Via de’ Servi, and in its shaft, I saw him: Giuliano. He wore a monk’s robes.
His cowl was thrown back, revealing his dark curling hair and a beard I had never seen. In his hand was a long sword, the point tilted toward the ground as he rushed forward. He was entirely a man; in my absence, he had aged. His features, pleasingly irregular, were taut and limned with faint bitterness.

He was amazing, and beautiful, and gave me back my heart.

But I was no longer here to surrender to emotion: I was here to redeem the transgressions of others. I was here to accomplish what should have been done almost two decades ago: stop the murder of innocents.

And I saw him, Salvatore, Francesco de’ Pazzi’s son, fighting his way through the onslaught of fleeing worshipers, holding his sword at his side. He was moving toward Giuliano.

But Giuliano did not see him. Giuliano saw only me. His eyes were lights from a distant shore; his face was a beacon. He mouthed my name.

I yearned to go to him, but I could not make the mistakes Anna Lucrezia, Leonardo, the elder Giuliano, made. I could not yield to my passion. I forced my gaze from Giuliano’s face and kept it fastened on Salvatore. It was impossible to walk, yet I staggered behind him. I stayed on my feet, despite the pull of the escaping crowd. God granted a miracle: I did not fall. I did not faint or die. I half ran.

As I neared both men, Giuliano’s joyous brilliance faded to concern, then alarm. He now saw the blood spilling from my throat, soaking my bodice. He did not see Salvatore approaching from the side; he saw only me, following. He did not see Salvatore an arm’s length away, raising his sword, ready to bring it down, to kill Lorenzo’s most loved son.

But I saw. And had I possessed the strength, I would have thrown my body between the two men. I would have taken the blow meant for my beloved. But I could not reach him in time; I could not step between the two men. I could only surge forward, using all the air that remained in my lungs, and close in on Salvatore from behind.

And in the instant that Salvatore raised his blade, in the instant before he brought it down upon Giuliano, I reached farther than was
possible. With the dagger, I found the soft spot beneath Salvatore’s ribs and buried it there.

I remembered the painting on the wall of the Bargello of Bernardo Baroncelli. I remembered the ink drawing of him dangling from the rope, his dead face downcast, still stamped with remorse. And I whispered:

“Here, traitor.”

Relieved, I let go a sigh. Giuliano was alive, standing in dappled sunlight on the banks of the Arno, waiting with his arms open. I sank into them and down, down where the waters are deepest and black.

Lisa
JULY 1498