I, Mona Lisa

  Leonardo. Leonardo saw him; my uncle died in his arms.

  Leonardo saw him: the man who killed my real father, Giuliano. The man the dying Lorenzo had called “the third man.”

  For my mother’s sake, for my own, I wanted revenge.

  To Leonardo da Vinci, at the Court of Ludovico Sforza, the Duke of Milan:

  Ser Leonardo,

  I am writing you because I have recently learned a certain fact—about myself, specifically in terms of my mother’s relationship with Lorenzo de’ Medici’s murdered brother, Giuliano the elder. I feel, because of your actions the evening we were in the Medici courtyard, that you have long been aware of said fact.

  Forgive my boldness, but I feel I can trust you as a friend. Giuliano had told me that you were present in the Duomo the day of the assassination, and that you are privy to information—specifically, regarding the identity of a particular man who was also in the cathedral that day. It is my understanding that this man has never been found.

  He is now of especial interest to me. Please, Ser Leonardo, could you tell me all that you know about him? If you are able to describe him—or even to sketch him from your recollection—I would be very grateful.

  If he still breathes, I am determined to find him. I have little else to live for.

  May God keep you well,

  Lisa di Antonio Gherardini

  Via Maggio

  Santo Spirito, Florence

  LII

  I wrote the letter at dawn. And from the instant I handed it to Zalumma, I impatiently awaited a reply and hoped desperately that my letter would not be confiscated because it made reference to the Medici.

  That same morning, I forced myself to consider a very unpleasant fact: Francesco and my father had set the wedding for June. My husband-to-be insisted that I should have a proper wedding dress of his design, and that Zalumma and I have some time to restock my new cassone, my wedding chest, with new clothes and linens we embroidered ourselves. My old cassone had been destroyed in the fire, along with its contents.

  Besides, Francesco wanted to give me a full, traditional wedding, as if I were a virgin bride—as if Giuliano had never existed, as if I had never ridden away from my father’s house to be with him. Summer was the favored season for weddings, since the weather was best for the slow bridal procession through the city, particularly as the girls were accompanied by their families on foot.

  But there was no denying that by the time I sat upon a bride’s white horse in June, I would be seven months pregnant. Francesco would know I had lied to him about remaining a virgin. Worse, he would know the baby was Giuliano’s; when a widow remarried, her children were often unwelcome in her new husband’s home. And I could not bear the thought of being separated from Giuliano’s child.

  I knew of only one solution: to convince Francesco the child belonged to him. And there was only one terrible way to accomplish that.

  A day passed before my opportunity came.

  A traditional family gathering was held at my father’s house to discuss the details of my wedding gown. Francesco’s aged father, Ser Massimo—a grim, quiet man—and his widowed sister, a colorless ghost named Caterina, attended. My groom’s three brothers all lived in the countryside, too far to travel on such short notice, though they assured Francesco they would come to the city in June. There were even fewer members in my family, for my father’s siblings all lived in Chianti and could not attend, and my mother had lost two sisters at birth and two older sisters to plague. That left only my uncle Lauro and his wife, Giovanna Maria. They brought with them two older boys, a nursemaid, and three howling little children. Giovanna Maria was again pregnant. She was moonfaced and bloated; Lauro looked haggard and exasperated, with the beginnings of a receding hairline.

  I had requested the event take place later in the day—at supper, since most of my retching occurred at morning and midday. By evening, I rallied somewhat, and though I could eat little and found the smell of certain foods unsettling, I was less likely to empty my stomach in the presence of guests.

  But I was no less likely to cry. The thought of preparing for another wedding barely a month after losing Giuliano ravaged me. I spent the entire morning and day weeping. When my new relatives arrived at dusk, I graced them with an empty smile and red, swollen eyes.

  My father understood. He had entirely recovered by that time and, thanks to Francesco’s intervention and recommendation, had revived his business by, ironically, selling woolen goods to members of the returned Pazzi family.

  Stalwart and serious, he wound his arm around mine and stood beside me as we greeted our guests. At the supper table, he sat next to me, as my mother would have, and answered questions directed at me when I was too overwhelmed to think of replies. When I rose once and hurried into the kitchen—after Francesco’s father asked what flowers should comprise the garland he would place upon the street—my father followed. And when he saw me dabbing at tears, he put his arms about me and kissed my hair, which made me cry in earnest. He thought I wept only for my dead husband; he did not realize that I also wept for myself, for the terrible thing I was about to do.

  I had insisted that no sage be used in the dishes, and managed to eat a bit, and drink a little wine when the toasts came. By the time the meal ended and the plates were cleared, I was hoarse from shouting replies at Francesco’s deaf father.

  At that point, the discussion about the gown began. Francesco presented a sketch of his idea: a high-waisted gown with a square bodice. The sleeves lacked the customary bell shape; they were narrow, closely fitted, with the emphasis on the camicia being pulled through several slits and ostentatiously puffed. The neckline was quite low, so that a great deal of the camicia showed there as well.

  This surprised me. My husband-to-be was supposedly a staunch piagnone, yet he had just presented me with a design of the latest Spanish fashion, fresh from the decadent Borgia papal court.

  Sitting on my other side, Francesco laid a bundle of fabric swatches on the table. On the top of the pile lay a gleaming silvery damask and a gossamer red and yellow cangiante, “with, if you like, garnets and pearls for the headdress.”

  None of the colors or gems suited me. “Ah!” he said. “She is reticent! This will never do, then.” And he folded the cloth and immediately set it aside.

  This irritated his father. “It is not hers to choose.”

  “Father,” Caterina said sharply. “Francesco is here to listen to everyone’s opinion.”

  Giovanna spoke up. “Something fresh, like spring blossom, or the delicate flowers of early summer?” she said. “Pinks and whites. Velvets and satin, with seed pearls.”

  “She has olive skin,” Caterina countered. “Pale pinks will make her look sallow.”

  My father took my hand beneath the table and squeezed it. He behaved now toward Francesco with the same odd reserve he had shown Pico after my mother had died. “The design is lovely,” he said. “I know that Lisa likes it, too. Over the years, I have noticed that the colors that flatter her most are blues and greens and purples, the more vibrant, the better. And sapphires . . .” His voice faltered only a moment, then regained its strength. “Sapphires were her mother’s favorite, and hers. They suit her. And diamonds.”

  “Thank you,” Francesco said. “Thank you, Ser Antonio. Then Lisa must have sapphires and diamonds. And deep, rich blues to go with them, with perhaps a touch of purple.”

  “You need not please her,” Ser Massimo huffed, and would have said more, but his son silenced him with a finger.

  “I need not, but I will,” Francesco replied firmly. “I had only hoped for a modest bride, with a fair enough face. But I had never dared hope to win one both modest and brilliantly beautiful. Any woman so lovely must feel lovely in her wedding dress. I owe her no less.”

  I stared down at the table; perhaps others judged this response as demure.

  “A pretty speech,” his sister Caterina said. Only in retrospect did I hear the faint sarcasm in her
tone.

  “You are so lucky, Lisa!” Giovanna Maria exclaimed, with a pointed look at her husband Lauro. “So lucky to have a man who flatters you so, who cares for your opinion.”

  The event was agonizing, but at last it ended, and only my father and Francesco remained at the table, which held only the candelabrum and our goblets. The time to begin my deception was fast arriving. I raised my goblet to my lips, then set it down quickly when I noticed the trembling of my hand.

  My father and Francesco were speaking quietly, leaning forward on either side of me, so that I was less of a barrier. Francesco had his sketch spread before him and was pointing to the gown’s skirt. “Not so heavy a fabric, I think now,” he said. The general consensus had been velvet for the skirt—but on reflection, Francesco decided the choice had been prompted by the fact that this particular December night was exceptionally cold. “June can be warm. Lisa, what do you think?”

  My voice sounded astonishingly cool to my ears. “I think,” I said, “that my father is tired and should retire for the evening.”

  “Lisa,” my father admonished mildly. “Ser Francesco is still discussing the gown. And he has a right to enjoy his wine.”

  “I agree. He should continue to enjoy his wine. And you should retire.”

  Francesco turned his face sharply toward me and lifted a black brow.

  My father blinked and drew in a soft breath. For a moment he studied me intently. “I . . . am tired,” he said at last. The statement was altogether believable. He sat with his arms folded on the table, his elbows bracing him as he slumped forward beneath an invisible weight. The firelight caught the gold in his hair, but there was now silver there, too. His gaze guarded secrets; I knew one of them.

  He stood up and put a hand on Francesco’s shoulder. “God be with you.” He uttered the words like a warning. Then he leaned down and kissed my cheek sadly.

  I gripped the stem of my goblet and listened to his steps as he left the room, crossed the great hall, and ascended the stairs.

  The sound had not yet faded when Francesco spoke. “I brought a gift for you.” His hand worked its way beneath the pile of fabrics and drew out a small square of red satin, tied with ribbon. “Would you like to see it?”

  I nodded. I expected him to pass it to me, to let me open it, but instead he pulled the ribbon and drew out something bright from the shining satin.

  Francesco’s eyes were shining, too, with a light intense and strange. He held my gift up to the glowing candles: an emerald pendant. The chain rested over the fingers of his upturned hand as the gem revolved slowly, the gold glittering. His eyes were tensed, his lips parted. “You were so eager to have your father leave. Was there a reason you wanted to be alone with me?”

  “Perhaps there was.” I kept my voice soft; he might have thought it intentionally alluring, but had I spoken louder, it would have shook. I ventured a small smile to keep my lip from curling.

  “Were you ever with him?” Francesco asked. His gaze pierced me. “Your father said you were there less than a day.”

  I stared down at my goblet and shook my head. It was the first of many bold lies.

  My answer pleased and excited him. “Look up at me,” he said; he dangled the jewel in front of me. “Do you want it?”

  “What?”

  “The necklace.” He leaned forward, his breath upon my face; his voice grew hard, flat, dangerous. “Tell me you want it.”

  My mouth fell open. I stammered. “I . . . I want it.”

  “What will you do for it?” The words lashed like a whip.

  I submerged my anger and stared at him. I thought, I will get up and tell you to leave. I will call for the servants. I will tell you never to set foot in this house again. I thought, If I disappoint him, he will leave, and the world will know I carry Giuliano’s child. If I disappoint him, he will turn my father back over to the Signoria for questioning.

  “Anything you wish,” I whispered.

  “Say it louder. Like you mean it. Look me in the eye.”

  I looked him in the eye. I repeated the words.

  He rose quickly, went to the doors, and pulled them shut. In another few strides, he stood next to me and pulled my chair away from the table with a sharp movement. Then he moved in front of me and bent over to swing the necklace in front of me.

  He was on fire, his chest heaving, his eyes bright and feral. “On your knees,” he said. “Beg for it.”

  I burned with hate. I looked down at the floor and considered what I was willing to do to protect Giuliano’s child. Our child. What I was willing to do to protect my father. I slid from the chair onto my knees.

  “Give it to me. Please.”

  “So.” He was flushed, trembling, exhilarated. “This is your price, then. This is your price.” He tossed the necklace aside carelessly; it landed on the carpet in front of the hearth.

  He yanked me to my feet. I expected him to kiss me, but he wanted nothing to do with my face. He set me upon the dining table and swept away the goblets. One fell and shattered on the stone floor.

  He pushed me down against the hard oak; my legs hung down and the toes of my slippers brushed against the floor. Instinctively, I pressed my palms to my thighs, holding down my skirts, but he moved between my legs and pulled the fabric up with such force that my camicia, of fine French lawn, ripped with a stark sound.

  Frenzied, he pulled down his black leggings with one hand and pushed his underblouse away; he wore no farsetto beneath his tunic. My struggling only fueled his ardor; at this realization, I forced myself to lie back, limp, submissive, even when he pulled my arms over my head and held my wrists with crushing force.

  His manner was loveless, animalistic. He entered me so roughly that I cried out in pain.

  I left myself then. I was no longer in my body, but in the light and shadows that played upon the ceiling. I was in the smell of candles burning menacingly close to my head, in the warmth emanating from the hearth.

  I became a fortress; he was a beam trying to shatter me. In the end, I held. Giuliano and our child remained safe on the other side.

  I came to myself with the sensation of hot liquid flowing into me, out of me. I gasped as he pulled away as quickly as he had entered. I put my hand between my legs and realized that I had been wounded.

  Slowly, I righted myself and settled unsteadily onto my feet. Still breathing hard, he stood efficiently tucking his underblouse back into his leggings, adjusting his tunic, his belt. He saw me staring at him and smiled. He was cheerful, brisk, his tone playful.

  “Lisa, Lisa. What a fine Jezebel you make. Go and fetch your payment.”

  My face hardened; I turned it from him.

  “Go,” he said, with a hint of danger. “Or shall I summon the servants now to come fetch the goblets? Better yet, shall I call for your father and tell him what you have done?”

  Silent, closed, I walked slowly to the necklace and picked it up from the floor. The gem was warm from the fire. It was deeply colored, glittering evergreen.

  I had never seen anything so ugly.

  He walked over and clasped it around my neck. Once the transaction was accomplished, he transformed. He was gentle, solicitous.

  “Here, then,” he said kindly. “Before you call for the servants”—he nodded at the shards of glass on the floor—“let me help. It is my fault that your hair and gown are in disarray.”

  I let him touch me; he tucked errant locks back into my silk hairnet, smoothed my skirts. “I am so sorry your lovely camicia is torn. I shall have it replaced at once with one even finer.”

  I called for the kitchen maid in a voice that shook. As she swept up the glass, Francesco joked about his own clumsiness. I said nothing.

  When we were alone again, I would not walk him to the door. I did not respond when he bowed and softly wished me a good night.

  I went upstairs to my room and pulled off my clothes with Zalumma’s help. The camicia I threw in a corner. I was glad it was torn; I would have
thrown it out anyway. It stank of Francesco.

  Zalumma had brought a basin and cloth so that I could wash myself; at the sight, I began to cry. She held me and stroked my back, the way my mother had when I was a child.

  Zalumma did not let me throw away the stained camicia. Instead, she pricked her finger and squeezed drops of blood onto its lap, front and back, bright scarlet against dazzling white. She folded it carefully, wrapped it in a square of cloth, tied it, and had it delivered to Francesco’s bottega in town.

  LIII

  Francesco called again two days later, ostensibly to discuss progress on the gown and to arrange a fitting. This time it was he who hinted that my father should leave us alone.

  I did not protest; I had known it would happen. I had already discussed this with Zalumma, who had agreed that, for the child’s sake, I had no choice but to comply. The more often I offered myself to Francesco, the more convinced he would be that the child was indeed his.

  This time he brought me earrings, of diamonds and opals that spilled down the sides of my neck like tears.

  Francesco soon gave up finding pretexts for his visits and became a regular at our supper table. I collected a good deal of jewelry, though the gifts grew increasingly modest. My father knew to leave the dinner table early without being prompted. We did not speak to each other of Francesco. We suffered separately, in our own lonely spheres.

  . . .

  After two weeks, immediately following another brutal encounter with Francesco, I mentioned casually to him that I had missed my monthly course.

  He snorted like a man who had a great deal of experience with such things, but he had been sated and so was not ungentle. “It’s too soon to know, Lisa. You shouldn’t worry. Nerves are no doubt the cause. You’ll see.”

  I let another week pass. And then I had Cook prepare my favorite dish: quail with sage and onions. I sat beside Francesco at dinner, and when my plate arrived, I leaned over the little bird, with its crisp golden skin, and inhaled deeply.