The magus nearest me was young, dressed in Florentine fashion and borne by a white horse caparisoned in red and gold. Following him on horseback were faces I recognized: the old Piero de’ Medici and his young sons Lorenzo—distinctly homely, even in his idealized youth—and the handsome Giuliano. Lorenzo gazed in the direction of the Holy Child, but his brother faced the viewer, staring at an indistinct point in the far distance, his expression uncharacteristically solemn.
It gave me no comfort to recognize, in a corner of the wall, the fetching visage of Giovanni Pico.
Although it was almost noon, the interior of the chapel was gloomy. Several candles burned, their light flickering off the prodigious amount of pure gold leaf applied to the walls, and highlighting the amazing colors: the pinks and corals, turquoises and greens of angels’ wings and birds, the reds and golds of raiment, the dazzling whites and blues of sky, the deep greens of hills and trees.
“Madonna, stop!” The servant Laura paused; drawn away from the fresco, I glanced about, confused. Not until the priest gestured did I look down at my feet and see the garland of dried roses and wildflowers strewn across the chapel floor.
Giuliano knelt and broke the garland in two with a deliberate gesture.
I could not have been more thoroughly won. He rose, took my hand, and drew me to stand beside him at the altar.
Despite his nerves and youth, Giuliano was in command of himself; he turned to Michelangelo with the assuredness of a man who has borne much responsibility in his life. “The ring,” he said. He might not have been able to provide the gown, a great cathedral filled with people, or my father’s blessing, but he had endeavored to give me those things he could.
Michelangelo palmed the item to Giuliano. There was an easiness between those two conspirators that made me think they had been close friends, almost brothers, for some time, devoted to the same causes, holding the same secrets. And that, again, troubled me.
Giuliano took my hand and slipped the ring onto my finger. The band adhered to the city ordinance governing wedding rings, being of unadorned gold, and thin. It was also perilously loose, so he closed my fist over it to hold it in place, then whispered into my ear, “Your hands are even finer than I thought; we shall have it properly fitted.”
He nodded to the priest, and the ceremony commenced.
I remember nothing of the words, save that Giuliano gave the priest his answer in a strong voice, while I had to clear my throat and repeat myself in order to be heard. We knelt at the wooden altar where Cosimo, Piero, Lorenzo, and the elder Giuliano had prayed. I prayed, too, not just for happiness with my new husband, but for his safety and that of his family.
Then it was over, and I was wed—under strange and uncertain circumstances, married in the eyes of God, at least, if not in those of my father or Florence.
XLI
Our small wedding party moved to the antechamber of Lorenzo’s apartments where, three years earlier, il Magnifico had encouraged me to touch Cleopatra’s cup. That jewel of antiquity was gone now, as were almost all of the displays of coins, gems, and golden statuettes. Only one case of cameos and intaglios remained; paintings still covered the walls, and wine had been poured for us into goblets carved from semiprecious stones inlaid with gold.
In a corner of the room, two musicians played lutes; a table, festooned with flowers, held platters of figs and cheeses, almonds and pretty pastries. Though Laura prepared me a plate, I could not eat, but I drank wine undiluted for the first time in my life.
I asked Laura again to find out whether Zalumma had come. She left me at a most subdued celebration, which consisted of my husband, Michelangelo, and me; the priest had already left.
Awkwardly, after a prompting elbow administered by Giuliano, Michelangelo raised his goblet—from which he had not yet drunk—and said, “To the bride and groom; may God grant you a hundred healthy sons.”
For a fleeting moment, the sculptor smiled shyly at me. He drank a small sip and set his goblet down. I drank, too—a great swallow. The wine, astringent on my tongue, warmed me as it went down.
“I take my leave of the happy couple,” Michelangelo said, then bowed and made his exit, clearly eager to be free of his social obligation.
The instant he was gone, I turned to Giuliano. “I am fearful of him.”
“Of Micheletto? You are joking!” My new husband smiled; he had regained control of his nerves and was doing his best to appear relaxed. “We were raised as brothers!”
“That is precisely why I am worried,” I said. “It increases the danger to you. You know my father makes—has made—me attend Fra Girolamo’s sermons. And I have seen the sculptor present at almost every one. He is one of the piagnoni.”
Giuliano lowered his gaze; his expression became thoughtful. “One of the piagnoni,” he said, in an inscrutable tone. “Let me ask you this: If you were threatened by the piagnoni, how could you best protect yourself from them?”
“With guards,” I answered. I had drunk more wine than was my custom, and anxiety had rendered me incapable of clear thought.
The corner of Giuliano’s mouth quirked. “Well, yes, there are always guards. But isn’t it better to know what your enemies are planning? And perhaps to find ways to sway them in your favor?”
“So, then,” I began, with the intention of saying carelessly, Michelangelo is your spy. But a knock came at the door before I could utter the words.
I had hoped it was Laura, with news that Zalumma had come—but instead it was a manservant, his brow furrowed.
“Forgive the intrusion, Ser Giuliano.” His well-modulated, polished voice was just loud enough to be audible. “There is a visitor. Your presence is required at once. . . .”
My husband frowned. “Who? I gave instructions that we—”
“The lady’s father, sir.”
“My father?” I barely got the words out before terror rendered me speechless.
Giuliano gave the servant a nod and put a comforting arm around my shoulder. “It’s all right, Lisa. I expected this, and am ready to speak with him. I’ll reassure him, and when he is calm, I will send for you.” And he quietly ordered the servant to stay with me until Laura reappeared, and to inform her to wait with me. Then he kissed me gently upon the cheek and left.
There was nothing to do but pace nervously inside the strange but familiar chamber; I took a final sip of wine from my beautiful chalcedony goblet, then set it down. No measure of spirits could ease my fear. I felt anger, too—anger that my fate was not my own to declare, but rather something to be discussed and decided by men.
I walked back and forth, my hem whispering against the inlaid marble floor. I cannot say how many times I had crossed back and forth inside the long chamber by the time the door opened again.
Laura stepped over the threshold. Her expression was guarded—and after the manservant relayed Giuliano’s command to her, it became even more so. The manservant left, and Laura stayed; the instant we were alone, I demanded of her: “Zalumma has not come, has she?”
She gazed up at me with reluctance. “No. Our driver was sent back without her. Forgive me for not telling you sooner, Madonna. I learned this before the ceremony—but it would have been cruel to have upset you beforehand.”
The news struck me with force. I loved Giuliano and would not leave him—but I could not imagine what life would be like if my father forbade Zalumma to come to me. She had attended my birth, and was my truest link to my mother.
The better part of an hour passed. I refused offers of food and drink as I sat on a chair with Laura standing over me, murmuring comforting words.
I did not hear them: I was addressing myself silently, sternly. I had my husband’s feelings to think of now. For Giuliano’s sake, I would be poised and calm and gracious, no matter what followed.
My determined thoughts were interrupted by a loud clattering sound; something had struck the window’s wooden shutters, which were closed, although the slats were open. Laura rushed ov
er and opened the shutters, then recoiled at another loud thud—the sound of something striking the outside wall just below us.
I rose and sidled next to her in order to peer down.
His hair still damp from the baths, my father bent down in the middle of the Via Larga, ready to grasp another stone. He had climbed out of his wagon and dropped the reins. The horse, confused, took a few paces forward, then a few back; the driver of the carriage behind his cursed loudly.
“Here, you! Make way! Make way! You can’t just leave your wagon there!”
My father seemed neither to see nor hear him. As he reached for the stone, one of the palazzo guards shouted, “Move on! Move on, or I shall have to arrest you!”
Several passersby—a Lord Prior on horseback, a servant with a basket full of bread, a filthy woman in tattered clothes, herding equally filthy, barefoot children—had already stopped to gape at the scene. It was midday Saturday, and the broad street was filled with carriages, pedestrians, and riders.
“Then arrest me,” my father cried, “and let the world know that the Medici think they can steal anything they want—even a poor man’s daughter!” Even at this distance, I could see his utter hysteria on his face, in his posture; he had rushed here without his mantle or cap. He clutched the rock and rose, ready to hurl it. The guard advanced and menacingly raised his sword.
Two floors above them, I leaned out of the window. “Stop, both of you!”
The guard and my father froze and stared up at me; so, too, did the gathering crowd. My father lowered his arm; the guard, his weapon.
I had absolutely no idea what to say. “I am well,” I shouted. It was horrible, having to communicate such private matters in this way. The noise in the street forced me to call out as loudly as my lungs permitted. “If you love me, Father, grant me this.”
My father dropped the stone and hugged himself fiercely, as if trying to contain the agony inside him; then he raised his arms and waved them at me. “They have taken everything, don’t you see?” His voice was ragged, a madman’s. “They have taken everything, and now they want you, too. I will not—I cannot!—let them have you.”
“Please.” I leaned out the window, so precariously far that Laura caught me by my waist. “Please . . . can’t you let me be happy?”
“Stay with him,” my father cried, “and it will be only the beginning of sorrow for you!” This was no threat; his tone held only grief. He stretched out a hand toward me and caressed the air, gently, as if stroking my cheek.
“Lisa,” he called. “My Lisa! What can I say to make you hear me?”
That morning when I had left the house, I had summoned all of my hatred of him so that I would have the strength to leave. I reminded myself of how, long ago, he had struck my mother and caused her illness; how he had forced her to see Savonarola, which resulted in her death; how, worst of all, he had betrayed her memory by allying himself with her murderers.
But now I saw only a pitiful man who, out of frantic concern for me, had just publicly shouted himself hoarse without embarrassment. Against my will, I remembered the unquestionable love in his eyes when he had begged my mother to see Fra Girolamo, out of hope that she might be cured. Against my will, I thought of the monstrous suffering he must have endured when he realized his urging had led to her death.
“Please,” he called, still reaching as if he could somehow touch me. “I can’t protect you here! You are not safe; you are not safe.” He let go a little moan. “Please, come home with me.”
“I can’t,” I replied. Tears dripped from my eyes onto the street below. “You know that I can’t. Give me your blessing; then we can receive you, and you can rejoice with us. It is so simple.” And it seemed to me so simple: My father only needed to rise, to enter the palazzo, to accept and embrace us, and my life would be complete. “Father, please. Come inside and speak to my husband.”
He dropped his arm, beaten. “Child . . . come home.”
“I can’t,” I repeated, my voice so hoarse, so faint that this time he could not hear me clearly. But he understood from my tone what had been said. He stood for a moment, silent and downcast, then climbed back onto his wagon. His teeth bared from the pain of raw emotion, he urged the horses on and drove furiously away.
XLII
Laura closed the shutters as I wiped my eyes on my fine brocade sleeve.
I sat down, overwhelmed. I had focused so thoroughly on my joy at going to see Giuliano, on my fear as to whether my escape would succeed, that I had forgotten I loved my father. And despite the public’s dissatisfaction with Piero, despite the teachings of Savonarola, he still loved me. Somehow I had failed to realize that hurting him would feel like rending my own flesh.
Laura appeared at my elbow with a goblet of wine; I waved it away and rose. Poor Giuliano would be coming from a thoroughly upsetting encounter with my outraged father. It had been hard enough for him to get Piero’s permission to marry me, and he still did not have his brother Giovanni’s approval. But the deed had been done, and I could think of only one way to cheer my new husband: to focus on our joy at being together.
I looked at Laura’s worried face. “Where is the bridal chamber?”
She seemed slightly taken aback. It was still daylight, after all. “Here, Madonna.” She gestured at the door that led to the inner chamber.
“Lorenzo’s bedroom?” I was somewhat aghast.
“Ser Piero was too uneasy to sleep there. Your husband was his father’s favorite, you know, and I think it gave him comfort to take over his father’s rooms. He has slept here ever since Ser Lorenzo died.”
I let Laura lead me into the chamber. The room was spacious, with a floor of pale, exquisite marble and walls covered with brilliant paintings. Yet compared to the rest of the palazzo, it possessed a slightly Spartan air. I got the impression that, like the antechamber, many valuable items had been removed and stored elsewhere.
Lorenzo’s ghost was absent this day. Dried rose petals had been strewn over the bed, filling the room with a lovely fragrance. On a desk nearby was a flagon of garnet-colored wine, and two goblets fashioned of gold, intricately engraved, as well as a plate of almonds and candied fruit.
“Help me undress,” I told Laura. If she was surprised by this request, she hid it well. She removed my cap and sleeves, then unfastened my gown; I stepped out of the heavy garment, and watched as she folded and put it away with my other things in the polished dark wardrobe that held Giuliano’s clothes.
I wore nothing now except my camicia, delicate and sheer as spider’s silk. Zalumma had done her best to prepare me for my wedding night, but I still struggled not to let my nerves get the better of me. “I would like to be alone now,” I said. “Will you tell my husband that I am waiting for him here?”
She closed the door quietly behind her as she left.
I moved to the desk and poured some of the wine into a goblet, then took a small sip. I savored it carefully, attempting to relish its deliciousness in an effort to summon the sense of pleasure and joy with which I might greet Giuliano. Beside the flagon was a small velvet pouch; I lifted it and could feel within something hard—jewelry, I guessed, a present from a groom to his bride—and I smiled.
Yet as I stood in front of the desk, I could not help noticing that one item upon it was out of place, as if the reader had been called suddenly away. The green wax seal had been broken so that the letter lay half unfolded. I might have ignored it, but the merest glimpse of a familiar script caught my eye, and I could not resist setting down my goblet and picking the letter up.
It bore neither a signature nor any indication of its intended recipient.
I appreciate your willingness to release me from any formal obligation to locate the penitent—the one your father referred to as the third man. But I am morally bound to continue the search, despite the dwindling possibility that this man still lives.
All my efforts to sway Milan to your side have failed. Here is the truth about Duke Gian Galeazzo’s
death: The assassins acted at the behest of his uncle Ludovico Sforza who, without pausing to mourn his brother’s passing, has already proclaimed himself Duke, despite the existence of Gian Galeazzo’s young son, the rightful heir. With Ludovico in power, Milan is no longer your friend; this I learned from the new duke himself, who has come to trust me fully. He has turned the minds of Charles and his ambassadors against you, and now prepares to betray you with hopes of stealing even more power.
His distrust of Florence is the result of years of patient work by his advisors and certain associates. This, along with my investigation, has led me to the irrefutable conclusion that our Ludovico is influenced by those in league with the piagnoni.
I was startled and confused by the last sentence. The piagnoni were sincere, if overly zealous, Christians. It was true that Savonarola believed King Charles had been chosen by God to punish Italy for her wickedness—but why would they want to influence the Duke of Milan? And how could an advisor influencing Ludovico against Florence possibly bring the author to the conclusion that the piagnoni were responsible?
But I was even more intrigued by the handwriting—distinctive, strikingly vertical and slantless, the f’s and l’s long and flourished, the n’s squat and fat. The spelling was uncertain. A moment passed before I at last recalled where I had seen it.
Greetings, Madonna Lisa, from Milan.
Our good Lorenzo has commissioned me to paint your portrait. . . .
XLIII
I glanced up at the sound of the door opening, and did not quite manage to set the letter back down before Giuliano entered.
In one guilty glimpse, I noticed three things about him: first, that he came in with a forced smile, though he had clearly suffered an unnerving exchange with my father; second, that the forced smile faded as his lips parted in awe and his eyes widened at the sight of me in my sheer gown; and third, that he noticed the letter in my hand, and his sharp concern and irritation with himself took precedence over the other two emotions.