With apparently great effort, he asked me the appropriate questions: Who else had been there? Had Ser Lorenzo given any indication as to what man he thought might be suitable? What had I done while there?
I answered curtly, with fewer and fewer words; he did not seem to notice that his offhanded words about Leonardo had stung me. At last he fell quiet, lost in some unhappy reverie, and we rode without speaking through the cold dark city. I hugged the fur-lined overdress tightly to my body as we crossed over the deserted Ponte Santa Trinità, toward home.
XXVI
I spent the next week newly eager to meet my father for supper, in case he had received word from Lorenzo. I still ached over the news about Leonardo’s preference for men. A part of me hoped my father was wrong, or perhaps lying in order to dissuade me from marrying an artist, since such men were generally judged to make unreliable husbands. But I knew I had seen the light of attraction in the artist’s eye.
During this time, I received a brief letter from the so-called sodomite, smuggled to me without my father’s knowledge. When I broke the seal, two more pieces of paper fell out, and slipped to the floor.
Greetings, Madonna Lisa, from Milan.
Our good Lorenzo has commissioned me to paint your portrait. I can think of nothing more agreeable; your beauty begs to be recorded for all time. As soon as I fulfill certain obligations for the venerable Duke Ludovico, I will come to Florence for an extended stay.
I enclose some rough sketches I have made, for your enjoyment. One is a more careful rendering, based on the cartoon I made that evening in the Medici palazzo. The other is copied from my own notebook, and is of special interest to those in the Medici inner circle.
I am eager to begin work on the painting, and look forward to seeing you more than I can say.
Your good friend,
Leonardo
I retrieved the papers from the floor and studied them with reverence. I understood completely now why Leonardo had been called upon to finish the sculpture of Giuliano de’ Medici after his death: His recall of my features was astonishing. From the sparsely rendered ink drawing made in the courtyard, he had produced, in crisp and delicate silverpoint on cream paper, a remarkable rendering of my face, neck, shoulders—truer, it seemed, and more sacred, more profound than any image rendered by my mirror. He had caught me not in the pose he had requested, but rather the instant before, when I had been staring at Giuliano’s terra-cotta bust, then turned to look over my shoulder at the artist. Only my face, in three-quarter profile, was developed and carefully shaded; my hair and shoulders were intimated by a few quick lines. At the back of my head was a vague structure that might have been a hairnet or a halo. My eyelids, the prominence of my chin, the area of my cheeks just beneath my eyes, had been highlighted by the careful application of white lead.
The corners of my lips curled ever so slightly: not a smile, but the promise of one. It was a reflection of the goodness I had seen in the dead Giuliano’s eyes; I might have been an angel.
Dazzled, I stared at the drawing for some time before I finally directed my attention to the other page.
This was a swifter, cruder rendering, and one which provoked my memory; I had seen the image somewhere before, and it took me some time before I recalled that I had seen it together with my mother, on a wall near the Palazzo della Signoria.
It was that of a man dangling from a noose, his face downcast, his hands bound behind his back. Beneath it, the artist had written: “The execution of Bernardo Baroncelli.”
It was a gruesome image, inappropriate to send to a young girl; I could not imagine what had prompted Leonardo to do so. What had Baroncelli to do with me?
The letter itself also renewed my confusion. I look forward to seeing you more than I can say. . . . Was this an allusion to love? But he had signed the letter, with unusual casualness, your good friend. Friend, and nothing more. At the same time, the letter thrilled me: Lorenzo’s commission, then, was a reality, and not just idle speech intended to flatter.
So I waited each night for my father, desperate for word of the portrait or, more important, mention of an invitation to visit Castello.
Each night I was disappointed. My father offered nothing on the matter and grunted a negative reply each time I dared ask whether he had heard anything from Ser Lorenzo about a possible match.
Yet after one such discouraging supper, as I retired to my bedroom, Zalumma met me, lamp in hand, and closed the door behind us.
“Do not ask how I acquired this; the less you know, the better,” she said, and withdrew from her bodice a sealed letter. I seized it, thinking it would be from Lorenzo. The wax bore the imprint of the palle crest, but the content was far from expected. By the light of Zalumma’s lamp, I read:
My esteemed Madonna Lisa,
Forgive the liberty I took when you came to my father’s palazzo recently; and forgive the one I take now by writing you this letter. I am too bold, I know, but my courage springs from a desire to see you again.
Father is very ill. Even so, he has given leave for me to take you, with an escort of his choosing and one chosen by your father, to our villa at Castello for a tour. This very day, my brother Piero is writing a letter to Ser Antonio asking permission for you to accompany us.
I am filled with anticipation at the prospect of meeting you once more. Until then, I remain
Your humble servant,
Giuliano de’ Medici
XXVII
For the next few days, I forced all thoughts of Leonardo da Vinci away—though in private I puzzled over the drawing of Bernardo Baroncelli. Foolish girl that I was, I focused instead on the moment Giuliano had leaned forward to place a kiss upon my cheek. I dreamed of Botticelli’s Venus and Primavera. I had only heard them described; now I tried to imagine how they looked on the walls at Castello. I even imagined what my own portrait might look like hanging next to them. I yearned to immerse myself once more in beauty, as I had under Ser Lorenzo’s gentle guidance. At night, I lay in bed and, for the first time since my mother’s death, had thoughts that took me outside myself, outside my father’s house and all the sorrow.
Recently, my father’s business had increased, requiring him to return even later than usual; I had taken to giving up and retiring without speaking to him until morning. He often came home with Giovanni Pico, drinking wine and talking, ignoring the dinner table.
But now I was filled with special determination: I waited steadfastly, ignoring the grumbling of my stomach, sitting for hours at the supper table until he came. I asked no questions of him; I merely sat and ate, certain each night that he would at last mention Lorenzo’s invitation. This I did for four nights, until I could suffer my impatience no longer.
I bade Cook keep supper warm, then seated myself at the readied table. There I sat three hours, perhaps more, until the burning tapers were almost spent and my hunger had grown so strong I contemplated telling Cook to bring me food.
At last my father entered—blessedly, without Count Pico. In the candles’ glow, he appeared haggard and disheveled; he had not taken the time to trim his gold-tinged beard since his wife’s death. Here and there, hairs curled, unruly and out of place, and his mustache, too long, touched his lower lip.
He seemed disappointed, though not surprised, to see me.
“Come sit,” I said, gesturing, then went to tell Cook to bring the meal. When I returned, he was seated but had not bothered to remove his mantle, though the fire in the hearth was quite warm.
We remained silent as Cook brought first the minestra, the soup, and set it before us. When she had gone, I let a moment pass while my father addressed himself to his supper, then asked—trying, and failing altogether, to hide the nervousness I felt:
“Have you received a letter of late on my behalf?”
Slowly he set down his spoon and gazed across the table at me, his amber eyes unreadable. He did not answer.
“From Lorenzo de’ Medici?” I pressed. “Or perhaps Piero?”
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“Yes, I received a letter,” he said, then lowered his face and took another spoonful of soup.
Did he enjoy tormenting me? I was forced to ask, “And your reply?”
He paused over his bowl, then—with a contained ferocity that made me start—slammed his spoon down against the table. “There will be no reply,” he said. “I kept my promise to your mother: I will let Lorenzo serve as your marriage broker. But he had best choose a godly man—if he lives long enough to make a decision.”
His anger aroused my own. “Why can I not go? What harm is there in it? I have been so unhappy! This is the only thing that can ease it.”
“You will never again set foot in the house of the Medici.” His eyes were lit with fury. “Their time is about to end. God will cast them down; their fall shall be great. Relish the memory of all the beautiful treasures you were shown, for they will all soon be gone, reduced to ash.”
I judged him to be parroting the words of his new savior and so ignored this. But I demanded hotly, “How do you know I was shown treasures? How do you know?”
He ignored the question. “I have been patient with you, out of tenderness and respect for your sorrow. But I fear for your soul. You will come with me tomorrow to hear Savonarola preach. And you will ask God to turn your thoughts away from worldly things and toward the heavenly. And you will pray, too, for forgiveness for your anger at Fra Girolamo.”
My fists clenched; I set them upon the table, bitter at the realization that a bright and beautiful world—one filled with art and the Medici, with Leonardo and the rendering of my own image by delicate, skilled hands—was going to be denied me. “It is you who should pray to God for forgiveness. You are the one who caused your wife’s malady; you are the one who led her to her death. You are the one who camps now with her murderers, and remains blind to their guilt in order to ease your own.”
He stood so rapidly the chair behind him screeched against the stone. His eyes filled with angry tears; his right hand trembled as he struggled to keep it by his side, to keep it from rising and striking out at the one who provoked his rage. “You know nothing. . . . You know nothing. I ask you this only because I love you! May God forgive you.”
“May God forgive you,” I retorted. I abandoned my chair and turned, skirts whirling; it gave me some small satisfaction that I left the room before he could.
Later that night, lying abed listening to Zalumma’s soft, regular breath and my own growling stomach, I reveled in my disappointment. The inability to see Giuliano made me yearn all the more to set eyes upon him again.
During those brief moments when I did not stew in self-pity, I contemplated what my father had said. Had he merely assumed that il Magnifico would not be able to resist showing a new visitor—be she only a most insignificant girl—the glories contained in his study? Or was there more behind his words?
I slept fitfully, waking several times. It was not until the sky outside began to lighten that I woke again, my mind clear and focused on a singular image.
It was that of Giovanni Pico clad all in black, the physician’s draught nestled carefully in his hands.
XXVIII
The following morning, as Zalumma helped me dress for market, a knock came at my door.
“Lisa,” my father called. “Hurry and finish. The driver is ready to take us to Mass.”
So, he intended to make good on the previous evening’s threat. My heart began to pound. Curious, Zalumma frowned at me.
“He intends to take me to hear Savonarola,” I hissed at her. “Before God, I will not go!”
Zalumma, unshakably on my side, ceased lacing my sleeves and called out, “She was slow to wake and will be ready in a few moments, Ser Antonio. Can you return then?”
“I cannot,” my father answered, his tone unyielding, determined. “I will stand here until she comes out. Tell her to hurry; we must leave soon.”
Zalumma looked at me and lifted a finger to her lips—then she crept to a chair and gestured for me to help. Together, we lifted it quietly from the floor and took it to the door. She propped it so that it barred entry, then silently slid the bolt to lock us in.
Then, as if we had committed no crime, I stood while Zalumma returned to lacing my sleeves.
After a long pause, my father again pounded the wood. “Lisa? I can’t wait longer. Zalumma, send her out.”
Zalumma and I faced each other, our eyes wide and solemn. The long silence that followed was interrupted by the sound of the door being tried, then muttering, then renewed pounding.
“Do you dare defy me! How shall you face God, disobeying your father so when all he has at heart is your well-being?”
Angry words came to my lips. I pressed them tightly together and held my tongue.
“Lisa, answer me!” When none came, he called, “What shall I do? Bring an axe, then?”
Still I would not speak, though my temper vexed me. After a lull, I heard him weeping. “Do you not see?” he moaned. “Child, I’m not doing this to be cruel. I do this for love of you. For love of you! Is it so horrible going to listen to Fra Girolamo, knowing that it will please me?”
His tone was so pitiful that I was almost moved, but I held my silence.
“It is the End of Days, child,” my father said mournfully. “The End of Days, and God comes to pass judgment.” He paused, then let go a heartfelt sob. “I feel as though it is the end. . . . Lisa, please, I cannot lose you, too. . . .”
I bowed my head and held my breath. At last I heard him move away; there followed the sound of his tread upon the stairs. We waited some time, fearful of a trick. Finally, I motioned for Zalumma to unbar the entry. She did so, and after a quick glance outside to confirm my father’s absence, she gestured for me to come to the window.
Below us, my father was walking alone to the carriage, where the driver waited.
My sense of jubilation was temporary; I knew I could not elude him forever.
That evening, I did not go down for supper. Zalumma smuggled me a plate, but I had little appetite and ate sparingly.
The knock came later, as I expected; once again, my father tested the door, which I had bolted. This time he did not call out, only stood quietly for a time, then let go a deep sigh of surrender and retreated.
This continued for more than two weeks. I began to take all my meals in my chamber and ventured out only when I knew my father was absent; often, I sent Zalumma alone to market in my place. After a time, he ceased coming to my door, but filled with mistrust, I continued to avoid him and kept myself locked in my room. When he was at Mass, I slipped away to Santo Spirito, arriving late and worshiping briefly, then leaving before the service had ended.
I had, like my mother, become a captive in my own home.
Three weeks passed. Lent came, and with it, my father’s zeal increased. He frequently stood outside my door and preached of the dangers of vanity, gluttony, and wealth, of the evils of Carnival and celebration while the poor starved. He begged me to attend Mass with him. So great were the crowds who came to listen to Florence’s fiery Savonarola—some journeying from the surrounding countryside as his fame spread—that he had moved from the smaller church at San Marco to the massive sanctuary at San Lorenzo, the church which housed the bones of the murdered Giuliano. Even then, my father said, the building could not house all the faithful; they swelled out onto the steps and into the street. The hearts of Florentines were turning to God.
I remained silent, protected by the thick wood that stood between us. At times I lifted my hands to my ears in an effort to blot out the sound of his earnest voice.
Life grew so unpleasant I began to despair. My only escape was marriage, yet I had given up hope on the artist from Vinci, and Giuliano, owing to his high position, was unattainable. In the meantime, Lorenzo—who alone was capable of uttering the name of an appropriate groom—was too ill to speak.
Yet my spirits were lifted when Zalumma, smiling, returned from market one day and slipped another letter
, stamped with the Medici seal, into my hands.
My dearest Madonna Lisa,
I am truly disappointed that your father has yet to respond to our letter requesting that you be permitted to visit Castello with us. I can only assume that this is no oversight, but a tacit refusal.
Forgive me for not writing you sooner. Father has been so desperately ill that I am beginning to give up hope. The gemstones suspended in wine, administered by the doctors, have proven useless. Because of his poor health, I have not troubled him; however, I have spoken to my eldest brother, Piero, who has agreed to write a second letter on my behalf to Ser Antonio. He will suggest to your father whether, should he deem a visit to Castello inappropriate, he might entertain the possibility of my visiting you at your palazzo—with your father and my brother present, of course.
Should that be refused as well, I must ask: Is there perhaps a public place where we might accidentally encounter one another in the city?
I apologize for my brazenness. It is desperation to see you again that makes me so. I remain
Your humble servant,
Giuliano de’ Medici
The letter remained in my lap for some time as I sat, thinking.
The marketplace was the obvious choice. I went there often, so no one would think it odd. Yet it was likely that I would encounter a neighbor there, or a family friend, or the wife or servant of a man who knew my father. It was a crowded public place—but not crowded enough to elude our driver’s keen eye and too full of familiar faces. A tryst between a young girl and a Medici son would be noticed. There was no other place the driver regularly took me. If I went anywhere out of the ordinary, he would certainly report it to my father.
Zalumma stood beside me, consumed by curiosity. Courtesy, however, kept her silent, waiting for me to share what I wished of the missive’s contents.