I saw ghastly silhouettes, heard ghastly sounds:
A peasant was speared through his stomach and lifted off his feet by a soldier’s lance; a merchant dropped to his knees as a mace shattered his skull. A fallen guard screamed hoarsely as a farmer skewered him with a pitchfork. Another rioter stooped down to seize his dropped torch and set the body ablaze.
Uccello’s painting could never capture the smells, the noise, the swiftness and confusion. He had shown war as pageantry; I witnessed it as madness.
Beneath me—echoing through the house—came furious banging, the sound of metal and flesh hammering wood. Some of the rioters had made it to the door.
Laura had not come; I knew then that she never would. I made the decision to leave, but as I began to turn from the window, frantic motion in the nearest alleyway captured my attention.
The fast-moving riders held torches and lamps to light their way in the gathering dark. On their heels followed a furious, roaring crowd. I was seized by the hope that this was Giuliano. I leaned farther out the window. As the group neared the battle in front of the palazzo, I recognized Giovanni. Not until he was almost directly beneath me could I make out his desperate cries.
“Renounce . . . Piero . . . Popolo e libertà!”
And the angry citizens who had chased him thus far, the citizens who pelted him and his guards with stones, shouted quite rightfully: Traitor! Traitor!
I ran from the window. I lifted my skirts high and ran down the stairs, through the corridors, into the courtyard, through the loggia, and out into the garden. There were no weapons to be found there now—only Giovanni, exhausted, gasping, striding in the direction of the palazzo with two soldiers in tow.
“Did you see him?” I called. The noise outside the walls was dreadful.
Giovanni was all business; the earlier kindness I had seen in him had vanished, replaced by a cold determination. He passed me without a glance, without slowing, and when I ran after him, he offered up curtly: “I couldn’t get to the piazza.”
“You didn’t see him, then? See Giuliano?”
“Piero is here.” He gestured behind us.
I rushed to the wooden fence and opened a latched gate; I stepped through and found myself in the large unpaved area just outside the stables. It smelled of dung and hay and hot, lathered horses. Perhaps thirty or forty mounts, reined in by their riders, stamped nervously in place; men called to each other, discussing strategies for venturing out again while incurring the fewest casualties. I scanned their faces, but did not see the one I wanted.
“Giuliano!” I demanded. “Where is Giuliano?”
Most of the men, caught up in the turmoil of war, ignored me; a few eyed me curiously, but did not reply.
A firm hand clamped itself on my shoulder. I whirled about to see Piero, sweating and grim-faced, his eyes a bit wild.
“Where is Giuliano?” I repeated.
“It didn’t go well,” he said, numb of failure. “Damn Loreno—he betrayed us; he wouldn’t let me enter through the main gate. I couldn’t accept such an insult: ‘Enter alone, through the side, and put down your arms.’ What am I, a servant? I lost my temper, told them all to go to Hell, and Loreno, that son of a whore, surrendered the key to the bell tower to my enemies—”
I seized his arms. “Where is Giuliano!”
He recoiled from me. “Giuliano is still at the piazza, trying to quiet the crowd.” At the fury on my face, he added in a rush, “It was his idea; I didn’t want to leave him. He knows if things get bad to meet me at the San Gallo gate. . . .”
I turned away, disgusted. As I walked toward the stable, I began to form a plan.
“Leave with us!” Piero called after me. “They’re fetching my things now. . . . Are you packed?”
I ignored him. There was a long line of stalls, as far as I could see, and almost every one of them empty. An elderly man was arguing with a pair of soldiers; I shouted louder than any of them. “A horse! I need a horse, at once!”
“Here now,” said the older man, who was no doubt master of the stables. His tone started out imperious; I think in the excitement he mistook me for one of the chambermaids, but a second glance at my dress changed his demeanor. “Forgive me, Madonna—you are Giuliano’s new wife, yes?” He had no doubt arranged the carriage that brought me to this palazzo. “You have need of a mount? Does Ser Piero know of this? I thought he had judged a carriage more defensible, and able to carry your belongings—”
“He has changed his mind,” I said. “I have no belongings. He said I must have a horse now.” My stare challenged him.
A group of six armed men entered. “Are the wagons filled?” one of them asked the stablemaster. “Ser Piero wants plenty of hay and water for the long ride.”
The old man lifted a hand at them, then turned to me. “See here, Madonna, I have only so many horses . . .” He turned to the soldiers. “And only so much hay and water . . .”
Furious and shaking, I turned my back to him and walked away, brushing past the soldiers without seeing them. I walked past stall after stall as the stablemaster argued with the men. Stall after empty stall.
But one—at the far end—contained a mare, perhaps the mount the stablemaster was saving for his own escape. She was already saddled, with the bit in her mouth, and when I moved toward her, she snorted. Her coat was gray, save for a spot of black on her muzzle. As I opened the gate and stepped inside the stall, she took a step back, bowing her head and regarding me with eyes that were worried and dark, with the whites showing.
“Here now,” I said, unintentionally echoing the stablemaster. “If anyone is frightened, it’s I.” I set a tentative hand upon her soft, twitching muzzle; her quick breath was warm on my skin.
“Can I mount you?” I asked. The prospect made me nervous. I was used to traveling in carriages; my father believed women were poorly suited to ride. In my case, perhaps, he was right. It was a difficult business. We were both anxious, and I too short; I had to stand on an overturned bucket before I could swing awkwardly up into the saddle. My long skirt, with its train, made the venture even more difficult. Once up, I tucked my gown round my legs as best I could, and let the overdress furl out around me.
The mare was used to a firmer hand than mine, but I gave her her head, knowing she would take the shortest way out of the stables; luckily, her preferred route did not lead us past the stablemaster.
Once we were out in the yard, I continued to let her lead, since she knew the way out to the Via Larga.
Armed guards milled about in front of the bolted gate topped with deadly sharp spikes and lined with iron bars thick as my arm. Through the bars, I could see the black shapes of soldiers standing in the flickering play of firelight and shadow. The men moved little; not yet engaged in battle, they were the rear guards, the last line of protection against the mob.
On my side, one soldier stood directly next to the bolt.
I rode up to him and leaned down. “You there. Open the gate.”
He looked up at me; even the dim light could not hide the fact that he thought me mad. “Madonna, they’ll tear you to pieces.”
“Everyone’s confused out there. No one will notice where I’ve come from; no one knows who I am. I’m not armed; who will attack me?”
He shook his head. “It isn’t safe for a lady.”
I felt around in the pocket of my overdress—pushing the heavy sheathed dagger aside—and pulled out one of the medallions without looking to see which it was. It caught just enough torchlight to shine. “Here. It’s worth more than a florin. Perhaps a lot more.”
He took it, frowned at it, then realized what it was. He glanced guiltily about him, then without another word, quietly slid the bolt and pushed the gate open—only a crack, since the press of bodies outside kept it from swinging very far. The mare and I sidled out, barely squeezing through; the rough iron skinned my bared shins and snagged the fine threads of my gown and overdress.
The instant I cleared it, the gat
e clanged shut behind me; the bolt slid locked with grim finality.
I found myself amid a group of perhaps forty men guarding the gate. They stood shoulder to shoulder; as the mare picked her way past them, their sweat-soaked bodies pressed against me.
“Mother of God!” one swore.
Another cried, “Where in Hell’s name did she come from?”
Their unsheathed swords caught on my train, shredded my skirts, nicked my skin—and the mare’s flank, too, for she whinnied in complaint. But I guided her firmly, relentlessly, toward the front line.
There, men fought in the light of torches hung from the palazzo walls. The guards cast looming shadows on the rebellious citizens; the black outlines of their upraised swords extended far beyond reality, appearing to pierce men standing a good distance away.
I urged my reluctant mount beyond safety, into the fray. The air was cold but foul, redolent of smoke and burning rancid fat. The cacophony was maddening: The Signoria’s cow still tolled, horses screamed, and men cursed, while others shouted Messer Iacopo’s rallying cry.
But I could hear no countering Palle! Palle!
Bodies danced about so quickly, in such uncertain light, that it was difficult to judge friend from foe. There were no colored banners here, no neatly arrayed forces with clearly marked enemies and orderly rows of lances; there was certainly no hero leading the charge. A sword swiped the air just behind me, barely missing my exposed leg; I felt the rush of air stirred by the blade.
My mount and I surged forward; our place was quickly filled by a peasant.
I could not see the soldier behind me dealing the blows, but I saw their result. The blade came down and bit into the man’s flesh between his neck and shoulder with a thud. The peasant screamed, so shrill and wild it was horrible to hear. Blood spilled from the wound and spread, dark and swift, down the front of his robe until it merged with the shadows. He fell to his knees shrieking, the sword still buried in him; the unseen soldier struggled mightily to free it. At last it came out with a sucking sound, then came down again, this time on the peasant’s head, with such force that—for the blink of an eye—a spray of blood, a fatal red halo, hung suspended in a beam of light.
The man fell forward, grazing my mare’s hooves.
I turned my head to glance behind me and met the gaze of the murderer: a Medici soldier, barely Giuliano’s age, his eyes filled with an odd, unfocused terror. He did not notice that I was a finely dressed woman, without a weapon, or that I had come from the direction of the palazzo. He seemed only to know that he should heft his sword again and bring it down. And I was now in his path.
I ducked my head and goaded the mare into a gallop. We tore through the crowd; my knees and elbows banged against flesh and bone, metal and wood.
Soon I broke free and made my way east down the Via Larga, passing the loggia and the palazzo’s front entrance, where only a few years before Lorenzo had escorted me over the threshold. Medici guards still fought in small scattered groups, but the great entry doors had been abandoned, and a group of rioters were attempting to batter their way in with a heavy wooden beam. I rode through the alleyway Giovanni had taken to elude the crowd. From there, I made my way past the church of San Lorenzo down to the Baptistery of San Giovanni and the Piazza del Duomo. Small groups roamed the streets—a group of three riders, a pair of monks, a poor father and mother, running with squalling children in their arms.
Only when I reached the Duomo did the growing crowds force me to slow. Abruptly, I was completely encircled by men, two of them holding flaming branches. They lifted them higher to get a better look at me.
They were giovani, street ruffians.
“Pretty lady,” one called snidely. “Pretty lady, to be out riding with her skirts pulled up to her waist! Look, such delicate ankles!”
I scowled at them, impatient, and glanced about me. There were many people within earshot, true, but the tolling of the Signoria’s bell was much louder here, and everyone was shouting and running toward the piazza. There was no guarantee they would notice the cries of a solitary woman.
I did not want to cry out—not yet.
“Let me pass,” I snarled, and drew the dagger from my overdress; it came out fully sheathed.
The giovani laughed scornfully; they sounded like barking dogs.
“Look here!” one cried. “Why, Lisa di Antonio Gherardini has teeth!”
He was sharp chinned and scrawny, with wispy blond curls that thinned to bare flesh at his crown.
“Raffaele!” I lowered the dagger, relieved. It was the butcher’s son. “Raffaele, thank God, I need to pass—”
“I need to pass,” Raffaele echoed, in a mocking singsong. One of his mates giggled. “Look on her, boys. She’s one of them. Married Giuliano de’ Medici not two days ago.”
“A merchant’s daughter?” someone asked. “You lie!”
“God’s own truth,” Raffaele said firmly. His words, and the look in his eye, made me draw the dagger from its sheath. “What happened, Monna Lisa? Has your Giuli already forsaken you?”
I clenched the dagger. “I will pass. . . .”
Raffaele smiled wickedly. “Let’s see you try.”
Something whizzed past me in the darkness; my mare shrieked and reared. I held on desperately, but a second pebble stung my wrist like fire. I let go a wordless cry and dropped my weapon.
I felt another pebble, then another. The world heaved. I lost my reins, my sense of orientation, and went tumbling—against horseflesh, against cold air, against hard flagstone.
I lay on my side, sickened from pain, terrified because I could not draw a breath. Firelight flared overhead; I squinted as it spun slowly, along with the rest of my surroundings. Soon it was eclipsed by Raffaele’s face, half obliterated by shadow, half leering.
“Aren’t we the sheltered princess?” he said bitterly. “You don’t know how to stay on a horse or hold a weapon. Here.” The dagger appeared before my eyes. “Here is how to grip a knife.” A pause; the blade turned so that the tip, not the flat, pointed at me. “And here is how to use it. . . .”
Air. I was frightened less by the dagger and more by my inability to breathe; my ribs, my chest, would not move. The world darkened a bit more, grew indistinct.
I heard a different voice, plaintive: “Can’t we have some fun with her first?”
Another: “Out here, in public?”
“No one cares! Look, they aren’t even watching!”
Raffaele now, disgusted: “And her, freshly done by a Medici?”
The dagger, a blur of silver, moved until I felt the tip rest against my throat; if I swallowed, it would cut me. I could see Raffaele’s hand and the black leather hilt.
Then hand and dagger disappeared as light faded to darkness.
XLVIII
Have I died? I wondered. But no—my pain had resolved into a fierce headache and agony in my shoulder.
All at once, my chest gave a lurching heave, and I sucked in air as frantically as a drowning man.
Thus preoccupied, I noticed little more than blurry shadows, caught only an occasional intelligible word above the clatter of horses’ hooves, the tolling of the bell, and the noise of the crowd.
Above me, men on horseback bore torches—in my disorientation, there seemed to be hundreds of them, elongated black giants bearing flames that sparkled like huge orange diamonds.
One of the riders spoke; his voice bore the dignity of high office. “What are you doing with that lady?”
Beside me, Raffaele replied timidly: “She is the enemy of the people . . . the bride of Giuliano . . . a spy.”
The mounted man made a brief reply. I caught only “. . . della Signoria . . . protect . . .”
I was lifted. The stabbing pain from my injuries made me cry out.
“Hush, Madonna. We don’t mean to harm you.”
I was slung over a horse, my stomach pressed against the leather; my head and legs dangled against the horse’s flanks. A man nestled into
the saddle behind me, pushing against my waist and hip; the reins brushed against my back.
We rode. The weight of my hair caused it to work its way free of Alfonsina’s golden net, which fell, a treasure for some lucky soul to find. My face bounced against hot lathered horseflesh until my lip cracked; I tasted salt and blood. I saw only dark stone, heard the bell and the shouting. Both grew louder—the bell at last so loud and insistent, my skull throbbed with each peal; we were in the Piazza della Signoria. I tried to straighten, to lift my head, thinking, in my confusion, to call out Giuliano’s name. But the rider pushed me firmly down.
As I crossed the piazza, excitement traveled swift as a lightning bolt through the crowd. Their shouts were high-pitched, wild.
“Look—there he goes, the bastard!”
“Up there! The third window! See him swing!”
“Abaso le palle! Death to the Medici!”
I thrashed like a fish on the hook, my hair spilling forward, covering my eyes; I clawed at it, trying to see from my upside-down vantage, but it was no use. I could make out only shadowy figures, pressed close together.
I panicked as I thought of Francesco de’ Pazzi, hanging naked from a high window with the teeth of Archbishop Salviati’s corpse buried in his shoulder. I thought of my father saying, Eighty men in five days . . . heaved out the windows of the Palazzo della Signoria.
I hung limp. “Giuliano,” I whispered, knowing that, in such an uproar, no one would ever hear me. “Giuliano,” I repeated, and began to weep.
They put me in a cell in the Bargello, the prison adjoining the palazzo. Mine was a small, dirty room, windowless, with stained floors and three walls, the corners silvery with spiderwebs. The fourth wall consisted of stone up to my waist, then thick, rough iron bars that ran up to the ceiling; the door was made of iron. Some straw had been scattered on the floor and in the center of the room rested a large wooden bucket that served as a communal privy. The room itself admitted no light, but depended on the sconced torch in the corridor outside.
There were three of us there: me, Laura, and a lady thrice my age, stunningly dressed in aubergine silks and velvets. I believe she was one of the Tornabuoni—the noble family to which Lorenzo’s mother had belonged.