I moved closer until my hip pressed against the edge of the bed. “The dowry,” the older man whispered; his breath smelled of the grave.
“Yes, Father.” Giuliano’s face was barely a finger’s breadth from his father’s. He smiled, and Lorenzo, just able to discern the sight, smiled faintly back.
“The only one,” he breathed. “Like my brother. So good.”
“Not so much as you, Father. Not ever so much as you.” Giuliano paused, then turned his face toward me and said, again very clearly so that Lorenzo might understand, “My father wishes to let you know that he has made arrangements for your dowry.”
Lorenzo wheezed, struggling for air; Giuliano and the doctor both moved quickly to lean him forward, which seemed to ease his discomfort. When he was recovered, he beckoned for his son and whispered a word I could not decipher; Giuliano gave a little laugh.
“Prince,” he said. And despite his feigned lightheartedness, his voice caught as he looked at me and said, “Enough money so that you might marry a prince if you wish.”
I smiled in case Lorenzo could see, but my gaze was on Giuliano. “Then you have not chosen the man?”
Lorenzo did not hear; but his son already had the answer. “He has not chosen the man. He has bequeathed that task to me.”
I pressed against the bed and leaned closer to the dying man. “Ser Lorenzo.” I raised my voice. “Can you hear me?”
His eyelids fluttered; he whispered a rapid response, his tongue thick, cleaving to the inside of his dry mouth so that I could not divine his meaning. Giuliano glanced up. “He hears you.”
Boldly, I reached for his hand. It was limp and hideously gnarled, a talon, yet I pressed it to my lips with sincere affection and reverence. He was aware of the gesture; his eyes, shot through with blood, softened with great warmth and tenderness.
“You have been so kind to me, a wool merchant’s daughter; you have been so generous to so many people. The beauty, the art, that you have given us all, Ser Lorenzo—it is a debt we can never repay.”
His eyes filled with tears; a small moan escaped him.
I knew not whether it was a sign of pain or emotion, and looked to Giuliano in case there was need of the doctor; he shook his head.
“What can I do to show my gratitude?” I pressed. “In what small way can I ease your suffering?”
Lorenzo whispered again; this time, I divined the words from the movement of his lips before his son echoed them. “Pray . . .”
“I will. I will pray for you each day I live.” I paused and squeezed Lorenzo’s hand before letting go of it. “Only tell me why you have shown me such favor.”
He struggled very hard to enunciate the words clearly, so that I heard them directly from his lips and not those of an intermediary. “I love you, child.”
The words startled me; perhaps, I thought, Ser Lorenzo in his death throes was delirious, overly given to emotion, or not quite aware of what he was saying. At the same time, I acknowledged their truth. I had been drawn to Ser Lorenzo from the first moment I saw him; I had recognized at once a dear friend. So I answered, most honestly, “And I love you.”
At that, Giuliano turned his head, that his father might not see his struggle to contain himself. Lorenzo, a look of the purest adoration on his face, moved feebly to pat his arm. “Comfort him . . .”
“I will,” I said loudly.
Then he uttered something that made no sense. “Ask Leonardo . . .”
He gave a small gasp and dropped his hand, as if the effort had exhausted him. He stared beyond me, at something or someone invisible to the rest of us; he squeezed his eyes shut and grimaced with sorrow. His voice was still a whisper, yet agitation strengthened it so that I could understand every word.
“The third man. I failed you. . . . How can I go? Leonardo now, he and the girl . . .”
The ravings of a dying man, I thought, but Giuliano turned back toward his father at once, eyes narrowed. He understood Lorenzo’s meaning very well, and it troubled him. He put a comforting hand on his father’s shoulder.
“Don’t worry about that, Father.” He chose his words carefully. “Don’t worry. I’ll take care of everything.”
Lorenzo mumbled a partly inaudible response; I decided he had said, How can I go to him when I have failed? His limbs moved weakly beneath the covers.
Giuliano looked up at me. “It is best he rest for a moment now.”
“Good-bye, Ser Lorenzo,” I said loudly.
He seemed not to hear. His head lolled on the pillow; his eyes were still fixed on the past.
I straightened and stepped back from the bed. Giuliano accompanied me, and we went together toward the door and the small foyer that gave us a measure of privacy.
I did not know how to rightly take my leave of him. I wanted to tell him that until that moment, I had been a silly girl with a foolish infatuation based upon his social charms and letters, a girl who had thought she was in love because she yearned for a life filled with beauty and art, free of the misery beneath her father’s roof.
I wanted to tell him how he now truly had my love—a love as real as if he were my brother, my kin. And I was amazed and humbled that one so compassionate and strong should have chosen me.
I did not tell him these things for fear of making him cry. But I could not resist the impulse to embrace him before leaving; with honest affection and grief, we pressed against each other tightly without saying a word.
He opened the door and handed me to Marsilo Ficino, then closed it again. I was escorted to the carriage. It was a clear night, and cool. I leaned out of the window and stared up at the stars, too saddened to weep.
When I returned home, my father was sitting in the great hall staring into the hearth, the tormented expression on his face painted coral by the fire. As I passed by, he leapt to his feet and came to me, his entire face a question.
“He has bequeathed me a large dowry,” I said shortly.
He looked at me, his gaze keen, searching. “What else did he say?”
I hesitated, then decided to be honest. “That he loved me. And that Giuliano was good. His mind was failing him, and he said a few things that made no sense. That’s all.”
His eyes held unspeakable misery. He bowed his head. He is honestly sad, I realized. He is grieving . . . .
Then he lifted his head abruptly. “Who was there? Did anyone see you?”
“Lorenzo, of course. Giuliano. Piero, his wife, and Giovanni . . . and Michelangelo.” I took a step away from him. I was in no mood to recount the events of that evening. As an afterthought, I added, “Pico brought Savonarola. The family was very upset.”
“Pico!” he said, and before he could stop himself, added, “Was Domenico with him?”
“No. I’ll talk about it another time, please.” I was profoundly exhausted. I lifted my skirts and went up the stairs, not caring that he stood behind me, watching my every step.
In my room, Zalumma was asleep. Rather than wake her, I remained dressed and leaned upon the windowsill, still watching the stars. I knew they shone down on the villa at Careggi, and I felt that by gazing on them, I remained connected to those who held vigil there.
I had been there perhaps an hour when a light flared high in the heavens, then streaked across the dark sky, leaving a trail of swift-fading brilliance in its wake.
Signs, I heard my father say. Signs and portents.
Still dressed, I lay on the bed but did not sleep. The sky had barely begun to lighten when I heard the tolling bells.
XXXIII
Lorenzo lay in state in the church where his brother was buried. All of Florence turned out to mourn him, even those who had so recently agreed with Savonarola that il Magnifico was a pagan and a sinner, and that God would strike him down.
Even my father wept. “Lorenzo was violent in his youth,” he said, “and did many bad things. But he grew kinder in his old age.”
Giovanni Pico came to our house to discuss the loss, as if whatever ne
ws I had borne home to my father was of little consequence. I was not the only one to have seen the comet that night; servants at Careggi had witnessed it as well. “On his deathbed, Ser Lorenzo received Savonarola and was greatly comforted by him,” Pico reported, dabbing his eyes and slurring after many glasses of the wine my father served him. It surprised me to see him so bitterly torn by Lorenzo’s passing. “I believe that he, indeed, repented his sins, for he kissed a jeweled cross several times and prayed with Fra Girolamo.”
Savonarola did not preach that day. Instead, the citizens who had so recently swarmed upon the steps of San Lorenzo to listen to Florence’s prophet now waited patiently to catch a final glimpse of her greatest patron. All of Pico’s influence could not spare us hours of standing along with the others.
We entered the church sometime after noon. Near the altar lay Lorenzo, in a simple wooden box atop a pedestal. He had been dressed in a plain white linen robe, and his hands—the fingers pulled and carefully arranged so they no longer appeared so contorted—had been folded over his heart. His eyes were closed, his lips smoothed into a slight smile. He was no longer in pain, no longer weighed down by crippling responsibilities.
I glanced up from his body to see Giuliano, standing a short distance from the casket between his brother Piero and a bodyguard. Behind them stood a haggard Michelangelo and the artist from Vinci, uncommonly stern and solemn.
The sight of Leonardo brought me no hope, no joy: My thought was only of Giuliano, and I stared steadily at him until our gazes met. He was worn from crying, and now too exhausted for tears. His expression was composed, but his misery showed in his stance, even the cant of his shoulders.
At the sight of me, a light flickered in his eyes. It was inappropriate for us to speak, for us even to acknowledge each other—but in that instant, I learned all I wanted to know. It was as I had thought: We had not spoken of the fact that his father had given him the task of choosing my husband, but he had not forgotten.
I had only to be patient.
The next morning I walked, as usual, with Zalumma to Mass at Santo Spirito. When the service was over and we stepped outside into the pleasant spring sun, Zalumma lingered behind the departing crowd.
“I wonder,” she said, “if I might be permitted to see your mother.”
I did not answer immediately. My grief was still too raw to go to the place where my mother had been buried.
“Do what you wish,” I said. “I’ll stay here, on the steps.”
“Won’t you come?” Zalumma said, with uncharacteristic wistfulness; I turned away and stared determinedly up at the swaying limbs of alder trees against the sky. Only after I heard her steps recede did I relax.
I had stood only a moment, warming myself in the sun, trying not to think about my mother, when I heard earnest voices in the near distance. One was Zalumma’s; the other, a man’s, somewhat familiar.
I turned. Less than a minute’s stride away, amid the crypts and headstones, statues and rose brambles, Zalumma stood talking to Leonardo. He stood in profile, a wooden slate in one hand. Beneath a red skullcap, his hair fell in waves just past his shoulders; his beard had been shortened and trimmed. He seemed to sense me watching, for he turned and smiled broadly, then bowed from the shoulders.
I gave a slight curtsy and held my ground as he approached. Zalumma flanked him, with an air of furtive complicity. She had known he would be waiting.
“Madonna Lisa,” he said at last. Although he smiled, his air was grave, given that Florence was still in a state of mourning. “Forgive me for intruding on your privacy.”
“It’s no intrusion,” I said. “I’m glad to see you.”
“And I you. I left Milan at once when I heard il Magnifico was failing, but sadly, I arrived too late. I have been staying at the Palazzo Medici. I heard you might be here today. I hope it is not too thoughtless of me, given the unhappy circumstances. . . . I wonder if I might convince you to sit for me.”
I spoke without thinking. “But Ser Lorenzo is gone. So there is no longer any commission.”
His answer was swift and firm. “I have already been paid.”
I sighed. “I don’t think my father would permit it. He thinks art is foolishness. He is a follower of Savonarola.”
Leonardo paused. “Is he with you?”
I looked at the slate in his hand. Fresh paper had been attached to it; he wore a very large pouch on his belt. I put a hand to my hair, my skirts. “You intend to draw me now?”
The corners of his eyes crinkled with amusement. “You are perfection, just as you are.”
I felt mildly panicked. “I can’t stay long. I am only supposed to attend Mass, then return home. If I’m late, the servants will wonder where I’ve been and might say something to my father when he comes home.”
“We were paying our respects to your mother,” Zalumma said loudly. I shot her a glance.
Leonardo, by that time, had pulled something from his pouch: a piece of burned charcoal tied to a small, sanded stick. “I know I sent you a copy, based on the sketch I made that night in the Medici courtyard. But I am displeased with it.”
“Displeased!”
“It resembles you, certainly, but I want . . . something more. I am not good at expressing myself in words, but if you would simply trust me . . . and sit only for a few minutes, no longer. I have no desire to cause any problems with your father. Your servant here will keep watch over the time.”
I relented. He led me a short ways from the churchyard, where a great boulder rested beneath an oak. There I sat; and he encouraged me to turn gently, again looking over my shoulder at him, so that my face was in three-quarter view.
He took the charcoal—made, he explained, from a stick of willow that had been scorched in an oven until it turned black—and began to draw with impressive speed. The broad outlines came first and quickest.
After a minute or two of silence, I asked, “So, how is it that you remembered all my features so easily—after seeing me only once? The cartoon you made of me was very crude. Yet the drawing you sent me . . . you remembered every detail.”
He kept his focus on his work and answered distractedly, “The memory can be trained. If I want to remember a face, I study it very closely. Then, at night, when I lie awake, I recall every feature, one by one.”
“I could never remember them so clearly!”
“It’s quite simple, really. Consider noses: There are only ten types of profiles.”
“Ten types!” I gave a short laugh. He lifted an eyebrow at that, and I immediately stifled my smile and did my best to relax my face into its original pose.
“Ten types of profiles: straight, sharp, aquiline, flat, round, bunched, some with a hump or curve above the middle, some with the same below. If you commit those types to memory, then you have a storehouse to draw on, which will aid your recall.”
“Amazing.”
“Then there are, of course, eleven different sorts of noses when one looks at them from the front. Even, or thick in the middle, or thick at the beginning, or thick at the tip . . . but I am boring you.”
“Not at all. And the nostrils?”
“They are a separate category, Madonna.”
I fought to suppress a grin. After a while, I changed the subject to one I was more keenly interested in. “You are staying at the Palazzo Medici. You are very close to the family, then.”
“As close as an outsider can be.”
“How are . . . how are the sons faring?”
A faint crease appeared above his nose. “Giovanni is fine, as always. The world could end and it would not affect him. Piero . . . I think Piero finally realizes the gravity of his situation. Everyone had been speaking to him for years about the responsibility he would take on when his father died. It’s just now become real to him.”
“And Giuliano?” I pressed, a little too quickly. He saw, lowered his gaze a bit, and gave a faint, sad smile.
“Giuliano is grieving. No one was dearer to Loren
zo than he.”
“He is a very good person.”
The artist’s expression softened; he paused, the charcoal in his hand hovering just above the paper. “He is.” His tone lightened. “He was quite pleased to hear I intended to honor the commission.”
“He was?”
He smiled in the face of my poorly hid excitement. “Yes. I think he appreciates your friendship greatly.”
I flushed, unable to speak.
“Perfect!” he said; the charcoal flew over the page. “Continue thinking of that. Just that . . .”
I sat in flustered silence. He stared at me and drew, then stared at me again, for a long moment. . . . And some troubling thought made him flush and look down. He stared at the drawing, but he did not see it.
But he had seen something. Something in me, something he had recognized. It tugged at him, and he averted his eyes from me, lest they reveal a secret. At last, he regained control of himself, and continued to draw until Zalumma finally said, “It’s time.”
I rose and dusted off my skirts. “When will I see you again?”
“I don’t know,” he said. “I must return to Milan tomorrow. Perhaps, by the next time we meet, I will have produced a sketch that satisfies me. If so, I will transfer it to a panel so the painting can begin.” His tone grew dark. “With Lorenzo gone . . . difficult times are coming for his sons. If things deteriorate, it might no longer be an advantage to be friends with the Medici. If you are thinking of making a match . . .” He had embarrassed himself by saying too much; he fell silent.
I drew back and frowned; my cheeks began to burn. Why was he saying such a thing? Did he think I was interested in Giuliano for personal gain, for the prestige? “I must leave now,” I said, and began to turn away.
A thought stopped me. I turned back and demanded, “Why do you wish to paint me?”
He was the one now flustered. “I thought I had answered that question.”
“It’s not because of the money. What is it?”