Piero let go a faint gasp. Giovanni dropped back into his seat and put a hand upon his barrel of a chest. The latter was first to speak, in that melodious voice which, despite its owner’s agitation, was pleasurable to hear. “You’ll have to get it annulled. You can’t waste Medici seed on a commoner.”
I flushed, angry enough to forget my nervousness.
Giuliano spoke, his tone heated. “She is no commoner. She is my wife and she is staying here, under her husband’s roof. The marriage has been consummated, and I will not tolerate talk of an annulment again.” He turned to Piero. “As for our conversation—she already knows everything, so she will stay. You are both going to give her a kiss and welcome her into the family.”
Giovanni rose and gave me a curious look as he stepped toward me and took my hands; his own were soft and fleshy. With abrupt offhanded charm, he smiled and said, “I will give you a kiss because you are so beautiful, Lisa.” Then he lifted a brow and, with a swift glance at Giuliano, added, “But I can easily make arrangements. . . .”
“I will not hear it,” Giuliano warned.
“Well, then,” Giovanni said, with resigned diplomacy. “Sit beside me, Madonna Lisa. You sit, too, Giuliano. This is your wedding feast, then, is it? After so much consummation, a feast is in order. Let me ring for the servants.” He rose and pulled on a nearby chain that hung from an opening in the wall, then returned to his chair and gestured for us to take ours.
Piero was too agitated to offer his hands or a kiss. He remained on the opposite side of the table as Giuliano and I sat beside the Cardinal.
“Greetings will have to wait. I’ve just come from the Signoria.” Piero spread his hands in exasperation, as if to say, I have given them everything . . . what more do they want? “I have saved Florence—saved her at the small cost of a few fortresses and some ducats—”
“How many?” Giovanni demanded.
Piero’s voice lowered abruptly. “Two hundred thousand.”
Giuliano did not react but merely gazed steadily at his eldest brother; clearly, he already knew this fact.
Giovanni set down his goblet with such force that wine spilled over the rim onto the table. “Christ in Heaven!” Giovanni swore. “What were you thinking? No wonder the Signoria won’t talk to you! No wonder they’ve sent this fellow full of Doomsday nonsense—this Savonarola—to Pisa.”
Piero turned on him defensively. “Savonarola? To Pisa? Now they mock me openly!”
Giuliano sounded weary, frustrated. “Didn’t you read the letter I sent you?”
Once again, Piero’s eyes darted to the side. “You have no idea how busy I was, how beset. . . . I can’t be blamed for missing a detail.”
“You never read it at all,” Giuliano said calmly. “If you had, you would have known that the Signoria was upset about the fortresses and the money. The French are laughing at us, brother. They hardly expected to gain Sarzana, much less Sarzanella and Pietrasanta and a mountain of gold. The Signoria is rightly furious. My letter asked you to come here directly so that we might plan a strategy to approach them.”
Piero sagged, deflated; the nuances of diplomacy and negotation were beyond him, yet he maintained a weak defiance. “Little brother,” he said, in a low tone, “I had to go by myself. I have to do this by myself; otherwise, who would respect me? I am not Father. . . .”
“None of us are,” Giuliano answered gently. “But the three of us together can equal him.” This he said out of apparent generosity, for Giovanni had returned to dismantling his pheasant and listened with an observer’s detachment.
The speakers paused then as a servant entered. Giovanni directed him to bring wine, and food “for our two lovers here.” Once the man departed, the conversation resumed.
By that time, Piero had reclaimed his indignation. “I did stop in front of our palazzo when I first came into town—I’m not a total idiot. There was a crowd waiting outside in the loggia, eager to hear my report. I told them the good news, that everything had been made right with Charles. I did exactly what you had suggested: I ordered sweetmeats thrown to the people and wine served, just as Father did when he returned from negotiating with King Ferrante. But no one was in the mood to celebrate, apparently. They drank my wine and ate my food, all the while staring silently at me, as if I’d done something wrong.
“So I went on to the Palazzo della Signoria.” It was the custom for the highest members of Florence’s government to inhabit the palazzo during their tenure; they took their meals there and even slept there. “Do you know what they did? They turned me away! Sent a servant to the door to say, ‘Come back tomorrow—they are eating supper.’ I showed him with a gesture what I thought of that!” He snorted. “I’m not a complete fool. I know about the people’s grumbling. I’ve taken no chances. I made arrangements with Paolo. Eight hundred Orsini soldiers—five hundred on horseback, three on foot—are camped at the San Gallo gate right now awaiting my signal, in case there’s trouble.”
“Who told you to do that?” Giuliano pressed his hands to his face in disbelief and aggravation, then just as swiftly removed them.
“Dovizi.”
Ser Piero Dovizi was Piero’s closest advisor.
“I’m going to repeat this again: You can’t trust Dovizi! I don’t think he has our best interests at heart anymore.” Giuliano made a noise of frustration. “Don’t you see how it appears? The Signoria and the people are already angry that you acted without approval. Now you’ve brought an army with you. What’s to keep them from thinking that you intend to seize complete power?”
“I would never do such a thing!”
“They don’t know that. Our enemies take every opportunity to fuel rumor. We have to be extremely cautious, to think of the repercussions our actions might have. Any peasant, any citizen, who lives near the Porta San Gallo is going to see an army there. They know the French are coming—and here are Orsini soldiers waiting. What will they think?” Giuliano shook his head. “Do you know what Savonarola preached? Last week, after everyone learned that the French had sacked Fivizzano and spilled much innocent blood there?”
I thought immediately of Michelangelo sitting quietly in the great crowd at San Lorenzo, listening and remembering carefully all that was said.
“He told the crowd he had predicted Charles’s coming two years ago, when he said that the sword of God would swoop down from the heavens and smite all of Florence’s sinners. Smite us, in other words, and anyone who doesn’t agree with Fra Girolamo. Don’t you see that Savonarola is playing to their fears, making them worry that Florence and France will go to war? And that’s precisely what they’ll think when they see the Orsini camped at the gate. Why won’t you consult with me before you do these things?”
Piero bowed his head, then looked toward the fire; his face relaxed and drained of arrogance and outrage. “I’ve tried to be what Father wanted me to be. But no matter how hard I try, I fail. I did as you said: I tried to negotiate free passage with King Charles—and now Alfonsina is furious with me, won’t even speak to me. I have the feeling she’s going to stay at Poggio a Caiano forever. I had to lie to Paolo Orsini to get his troops; he doesn’t know of my intention to let Charles pass. And the Pope will hate us when he learns of it. What must I do?”
“Control your temper, for one thing,” Giuliano said matter-offactly. “No more obscene gestures. Let’s talk tonight about a plan for approaching the Lord Priors tomorrow, and then we’ll go together to the Palazzo della Signoria. As for Alfonsina, the Orsini, and the Pope—we will seek their forgiveness later. Florence must come first.”
“At least you can keep a cool head,” Piero said wistfully, by way of capitulation.
By then a maidservant appeared with wine and goblets, leading a parade of servants with platters of fowl, hare and venison, cheeses and sweetmeats, and every delicacy imaginable. Piero finally sat and ate with us, but he remained troubled, and made no attempt to join our more lighthearted conversation. I ate, too, but like Piero, I was
filled with worry, and my gaze remained fastened on Giuliano.
That night, I waited alone in Lorenzo’s bedchamber while my husband conferred with his brothers on how to approach the Signoria. I was exhausted beyond words, having lain awake the previous night, but I still could not sleep. Added to my sorrow over my father was the fact that I missed Zalumma terribly, and was half mad trying to figure out what punishment he would inflict on her for conspiring with me. I was worried, too, about what would happen when Giuliano went with his brother to the Signoria; I had already decided to convince him not to go—Florence be damned—or to let me go with him. I was childishly frightened that once I let him go, I might never see him again.
I lay tucked in bed, wide-eyed. The lamp was still lit, as well as the hearth, and the light cast wavering shadows on the walls and the painting of the Battle of San Romano. I stared for a long time at the besieged captain, just as Lorenzo certainly must have for many years.
The fire was warm—the Medici servants did not skimp on wood—and I began to perspire beneath the velvet and fur covers. I rose and went over to open the window.
Outside, the sky was clouded, hiding every star; the cold air smelled of rain. I put out my hand, and when I brought it back, it was damp with drizzle.
“Ecce ego adducam aquas super terram,” I whispered, without realizing I was going to do so. Behold, I bring a flood of waters upon the Earth.
XLV
Giuliano came to me in the hours before dawn. The lamp still burned, and its light revealed the fine lines about his eyes—eyes which might have belonged to a man ten years his senior. I did not speak to him then of politics, or his plans for speaking to the Signoria, or my desire that he not go. Instead, I took him in my arms and made love to him. He deserved and needed no less.
It was the ninth of November. Morning brought with it such gloom that Giuliano and I slept quite late. I woke with the voice of the dying Lorenzo in my mind:
Ask Leonardo . . . The third man . . . I failed you . . . Leonardo, now, he and the girl . . .
And then I experienced a spasm of fear, remembering what had passed with my father; and worse, remembering that Giuliano had promised to accompany his brother to meet with the Signoria that day. After a disoriented instant, I realized I had been roused by the tolling of church bells calling the faithful to Sunday Mass. I had never heard such a loud chorus: I was accustomed to the bells at Santo Spirito, but now, in the midst of the city, I heard the songs of San Marco, San Lorenzo, Santa Maria del Fiore, all of them close by.
Beside me, sprawled on his stomach, with one arm flung above his head, the other tucked by his side, Giuliano slept, deaf to the chimes outside his window.
I slipped quietly from the bed and retrieved my silvery camicia, this time folded and placed carefully on a chair. I shivered as I donned it. The fire had subsided into warm ash. Careful not to wake Giuliano, I lifted a fur throw from the bed and wrapped it around me.
I opened the door leading to the antechamber, thinking to go out into the corridor beyond to call for a servant; a rush of warmth greeted me. A healthy blaze crackled in the hearth, and just outside the door, sprawled in a chair, sat a man of about thirty years. He was the tallest man I had ever seen—almost a giant, muscular and thick of bone. A sheathed sword, its hilt gleaming with orange light, hung on his hip. A large leather shield lay propped against the wall beside him.
His massive hands held a compact book, open at its center, and as I opened the door he snapped it shut guiltily. Like most merchant’s daughters in Florence, I knew my letters well enough to recognize Dante’s Paradiso. He put the book beside him on the floor and rose to direct a disarming smile at me. I had to tilt my head back to look up at him.
“Good morning, Madonna Lisa.” He spoke in the deepest bass. “I trust you slept well. Shall I call for a servant? Someone to freshen the fire?”
“I just need Laura, please, and a basin of hot water. My husband is still sleeping, so if you could do this as quietly as possible. . . .”
“Of course.” He bowed and I watched a moment as he went to the door leading out to the corridor. Outside, two more armed men rose as he instructed them in a low voice.
I went back to the bedchamber to find that Giuliano had already awakened. I greeted him happily, with enthusiastic kisses, as if I had never been frightened witless by the presence of the guards.
. . .
We attended Mass in the family chapel with Michelangelo and a few close Medici associates. Afterward we ate a late, leisurely lunch with Piero, Giovanni, and Michelangelo—again, with armed men posted just outside the door. On our way to the family dining hall, Giuliano explained that normally, the brothers took their meals with friends and advisors, but today they preferred privacy. I couldn’t help thinking that safety was a more appropriate word than privacy, since the corridors were filled with guards.
Giovanni was politely distant and seemingly unconcerned about his elder brother’s upcoming encounter with the Signoria; if he still nursed plans for annulling Giuliano’s marriage, he kept them to himself. Michelangelo directed his gaze at his food, only occasionally lifting it to glance shyly at me or the others. I had not realized before how literal Giuliano had been when he said Lorenzo had raised Michelangelo as his own son. Indeed, the brothers treated him as an equal.
Piero wore a constant frown and kept rubbing his neck as if it ached; he radiated extreme tension. Giuliano was controlled and pleasant, his focus on calming both me and Piero. The conversation was cursory until Giuliano cheerfully said:
“Fortune is with us. Antonio Loreno is proposto today.” I gathered Loreno was a friend—a good thing, since the proposto was the only Lord Prior who could propose a measure for discussion. For a day, he held the keys to the Signoria’s bell tower, which summoned all Florence to the piazza.
“Loreno?” Piero glanced up from his plate with faint hope.
Giuliano nodded. “He’ll make sure we get in so the Lord Priors can hear you out.” He paused. “What do you think is the best time to go? Late afternoon, perhaps? Vespers? At least then they won’t have the excuse of being absorbed with business or eating supper.”
Piero considered this, then seized upon the notion as if it were his own. “Yes.” He gave a firm nod. “We’ll go at vespers. I want you with me. And about twenty armed men. And . . . Dovizi.”
Giuliano rolled his eyes and sighed in frustration. “Whom do you intend to listen to? Me or him? Have you forgotten everything I told you last night? Everything he’s advised has made you look bad in the eyes of the people. I tell you, he is no longer our friend.”
“I’m listening to you,” Piero answered flatly. “But I want Dovizi there. For appearances’ sake.”
Giuliano said nothing, but I could tell from his suddenly unreadable expression that he was displeased.
Unprompted, Michelangelo broke the uncomfortable silence with a most inappropriate, timidly uttered announcement. “I am leaving for Venice tomorrow.”
None of the brothers had any response to this news.
The day passed too swiftly. Giuliano had business matters to attend to and a meeting with a bank agent—although I suspected the agent informed him more of political matters than financial. Laura brushed out my hair, then coiled it at the nape of my neck and tucked it in one of Madonna Alfonsina’s fine gold hairnets. “After all,” she said, “you are a married woman, and it would not do to let your hair hang down like a maiden’s.”
She then led me on a tour of the kitchens and the interior of the house, including the living quarters of Piero’s wife, Alfonsina, and their children. Afterward, she showed me the library, with its tall shelves of beautifully carved wood that held countless leather-bound tomes and parchment scrolls.
I chose a copy of Petrarch—his Canzoniere, containing more than three hundred sonnets. Most of the other volumes were in Greek (of which I knew nothing) or Latin (in which I possessed uncertain skill). I took the little book back to Lorenzo’s bedchamber and?
??smiling kindly at the Goliath of a guard who attended me—settled in the chair beside the freshly fed fire to read.
I had thought Petrarch a safe choice. He wrote in Tuscan, which would require little of my wavering concentration, and his love poetry would remind me of my reason for joy: Giuliano. Yet as I carefully turned the pages, I found nothing but torment. Poem after poem contained not the beauty of passion, but only the sorrow and torment it caused. Here was poor Petrarch, mourning the death of Laura, the object of his never-requited love:
. . . the lightning of her angelic smile, whose ray
To Earth could all of paradise convey
A little dust is now.
And yet I live—and that I live, bewail . . .
I scoffed at the tears that welled in my eyes and wiped them away, scolding myself; I had never been one to weep at poetry. Yet another sentence left me troubled:
But then my spirits are chilled, when at your departure
I see my fatal stars turn their sweet aspect from me.
My fatal stars. I remembered something I hadn’t thought about for a long time: the encounter with the astrologer and my stinging words to my mother, who had only been trying to spare me worry. In my mind, I could hear the astrologer’s voice: In your stars I saw an act of violence, one which is your past and your future.
I thought of my mother dying at Savonarola’s hands and was seized by the abrupt, unreasoning fear that Giuliano—my future—was to be his next victim.
“Stop,” I told myself aloud, then looked guiltily toward the door to see if my giant on the other side had heard me. There came no voice, no movement; I gave my head a little shake to clear it, then frowned and continued reading. I was determined to find something happy, something bright—a good omen to counter the ill.
I flipped through the pages again, and found, in Petrarch’s fluid Tuscan, the verse