Early that morning, I sent Zalumma on foot to see my father at his workshop and let him know that I wanted to see him alone. She returned less than two hours later to say that my father felt unwell, that he was going home directly, and hoped I would visit him there.
He was of course not unwell; and as Zalumma—with Matteo balanced on her knee—and I sat in the carriage on the way to my father’s house, she stared unflinching at me until at last I said, “My father is involved.”
There seemed no point in trying to evade the truth. I had already told her the contents of the first letter I had discovered in Francesco’s study; she knew my husband was involved with Savonarola, knew that he was somehow involved in Pico’s death. She had found me asleep that morning by Matteo’s crib and was not stupid. Ever since I had sent her to speak to my father, she had been waiting for me to explain what was going on.
My words did not seem to surprise her. “With Francesco?”
I nodded.
Her expression hardened. “Then why are you going to him?” The distrust in her tone was plain. I looked out the window and did not answer.
My father was waiting for me in the great room where he had greeted Giuliano the day he came to ask for my hand, the same room where my mother had met with the astrologer. It was just past midday, and the curtains had been drawn back to admit the sun; my father sat in a ribbon of harsh light. He rose when I entered. There were no servants attending him, and I sent Zalumma off to another room to mind Matteo.
His face was pinched with concern. I don’t know precisely how Zalumma worded my request, or what my father had expected. He certainly did not anticipate what I said.
The instant Zalumma closed the door behind her, I drew myself up straight and did not even bother with a greeting. “I know that you and Francesco are involved in manipulating Savonarola.” I sounded amazingly calm. “I know about Pico.”
His face went slack; his lips parted. He had been moving forward to embrace me; now he took a step back and sat down again on his chair. “Dear Jesus,” he whispered. He ran a hand over his face and peered up at me, stricken. “Who—who told you this? Zalumma?”
“Zalumma knows nothing.”
“Then one of Francesco’s servants?”
I shook my head. “I know you go to Savonarola. I know you’re supposed to tell him to preach against the Medici, but not against Pope Alexander. But you are not doing a very good job.”
“Who? Who tells you this?” And when I remained silent, his expression became one of bald panic. “You’re a spy. My daughter, a spy for the Medici . . .” It was not an accusation; he put his head in his hands, terrified by the thought.
“I’m no one’s spy,” I said. “I haven’t communicated with Piero since Giuliano died. I know only what I just told you. I came by the information accidentally.”
He groaned; I thought he would weep.
“I know . . . I know you have done this only to protect me,” I said. “I’m not here to accuse you. I’m here because I want to help.”
He reached for my hand and squeezed it. “I am so sorry,” he said. “So sorry you had to learn about this. I still . . . Fra Girolamo is a sincere man. A good man. He wants to do God’s work. I truly believed in him. I had such hope . . . but he is surrounded by evil men. And he is too easily swayed. I once had his confidence, his trust, but I am no longer so sure now.”
I held on to his hand tightly. “It doesn’t matter. What matters is that you’ve displeased your masters. You’re in danger. We have to leave. You and Matteo and I—we have to leave Florence. There’s no reason to stay here any longer.”
“You’ve never been safe.” My father looked up, hollow-eyed.
“I know. But now you aren’t safe, either.” I sank to my knees beside him, still holding his hand.
“Don’t you think I thought of leaving? Years ago—after your mother died, I thought I would take you to my brother Giovanni in the country, that you and I would be safe there. They found out. They sent a thug to my brother’s house to threaten him with a knife; they did the same to me. They watch us. Even now, when I take you out to the carriage, Claudio will study your face. If you are upset, he’ll tell Francesco everything, everything.” He drew in a sharp, pained breath. “There are things I can’t tell you, do you understand? Things you can’t know, because Claudio, because Francesco, will see it in your eyes. Because you’ll behave rashly and endanger us all. Endanger Matteo.”
I hesitated. “I don’t think Francesco would truly permit anyone to harm Matteo.” My husband showed genuine fondness for the boy; I had to believe it in order to remain sane.
“Look at him,” my father said, and at first I did not know of whom he spoke. “He is still a baby, but even I can see his true father in his face!”
The words pierced me; I grew very still. “And when you look at me, whose face do you see?”
He looked on me with pain and love. “I see a face far more handsome than mine. . . .” He drew my hand to his lips and kissed it; then he stood and drew me up with him. “I don’t care if they threaten me, but you and the baby—I will find a way. They have spies everywhere, all over Florence, in Milan, in Rome . . . but I will find us a safe place, somewhere. You can say nothing of this; you can speak to no one. We will talk again when it is safe.” He thought for a moment, then asked, “Did anyone see Zalumma come to speak to me?”
I shook my head. “Claudio was at home. We told everyone she was going to the apothecary’s for me.” It seemed a reasonable alibi; the apothecary’s shop was on the same street as my father’s.
He nodded, digesting this. “Good. Then tell them that Zalumma passed by and learned I was ill and had gone home—and you came to see me. Make sure Zalumma says exactly the same. And now you are happy because you have seen me and learned it wasn’t serious.”
He gave me a sudden, fierce hug. I held him tightly. I was not his blood, but he was my father more than any man.
Then he pulled away and forced his expression and tone to lighten. “Now smile. Smile and be happy for Matteo’s sake, for mine. Smile and be cheerful when Claudio looks at you and when you go home, because there is no one in that house you can trust.”
I nodded; I kissed his cheek, then called for Zalumma. When she came, shooing Matteo along, I told her we had only to remain with Francesco a little while longer—and in the meantime, we should appear happy.
And so we went out to the carriage, Zalumma and I, with Matteo tottering precariously beside us. I smiled up at Claudio, baring my teeth.
That day I had no choice but to leave a book on my night table where Isabella would see it. As much as I dreaded seeing Salai, the information I had learned was too important to ignore: Our enemies were losing their influence over the Pope and the friar—and, more important, they were considering taking action against the Bigi.
But I had no intention of relating the entire truth. That night I lay awake, silently reciting the letter to myself, omitting all reference to Antonio, to the daughter, to the grandchild. There would be no harm done; Leonardo and Piero would still learn everything of import.
And Salai, careless lad, would never know the difference.
In the morning, my thoughts clouded and dull, I informed Zalumma I would need Claudio to drive me to Santissima Annunziata. She asked me nothing, but her dark, serious manner indicated she suspected why I was going.
It was the first week in May. In the carriage, I scowled, squinting at the sunlight, and leaned heavily against the door frame until we arrived at the church.
Salai appeared in the door of the chapel; I followed him at a safe distance down the corridor, up a twisting staircase, and waited with him as he tapped on the wooden panel in the wall, which slid aside to permit us entry.
I had determined to make my recitation quickly, to spend no time at all in conversation, but to plead exhaustion and then hurry home.
But Salai broke with our custom, which was for him to sit immediately at Leonardo’s little t
able—cleared of painter’s supplies and outfitted with a vial of ink, a quill, and paper—and serve as scribe while I dictated what I had learned the previous night.
Instead, he gestured at my low-backed chair, smiling and a bit excited. “If you would, Monna Lisa. . . . He will come to you right away.”
He. I drew in a startled breath and looked about me. My portrait was again on the easel; beside it stood the little table, covered now with new brushes, small dishes of tin, a crushed pellet of cinabrese for painting faces, a dish of terre verte, and a dish of a warm brown.
I lifted a hand to my collarbone. Nothing is different, I told myself. Nothing is changed. Leonardo is here, and you are glad to see him. And you will smile, and you will recite exactly what you planned. And then you will sit for him.
In less than a minute, Leonardo stood smiling in front of me. He looked refreshed; his face had seen a good deal of sun. His hair was longer, sweeping his shoulders, and he had regrown his beard; it was short, carefully trimmed, almost entirely silver.
I smiled back. The gesture was slightly forced, but certainly more genuine than it had been for Claudio.
“Madonna Lisa,” he said, standing over me, and took my hands. “It is wonderful to see you again! I trust you are well?”
“Very, yes. You look well yourself; Milan must agree with you. Have you been in Florence long?”
“Not at all. And how is your family? Matteo?”
“Everyone is fine. Matteo just keeps growing and growing. He’s running now. He wears us all out.” I gave a little laugh, hoping that Leonardo would assume my exhaustion was the result of motherhood.
He let go my hands and took a step back, assessing me. “Good. All good. Salai says you have something to report today. Shall we get it over with quickly, then?” He folded his arms. Unlike Salai, who wrote everything down, Leonardo simply listened to my recitations.
“All right, then.” I cleared my throat; I felt a slight surge of heat on my face and realized, to my utter disgust, that I had blushed. “I’m sorry,” I said, with a sheepish little smile. “I didn’t sleep well last night and I’m rather tired, but . . . I’ll do my best.”
“Of course,” he said. Watching.
I drew in a determined breath and began. The first seven sentences of the letter came easily; I could see it in my mind, in the dark, thick handwriting, just as it had appeared on the page. And then, without intending to, I began: “And now you would see it all undone? Or shall I give you the benefit of the doubt—”
I broke off, absolutely panicked. I knew how the phrase should be finished: and credit Antonio with this? But I dared not say my father’s name; yet I was obliged to complete the thought. “I’m sorry,” I said again, then continued, “and credit our friend with this?” At that point, in order to make the letter seem all of a piece, I recited all the lines that referred to my father, taking care to replace his name with the phrase our friend. And I exerted my full concentration so that I would not stumble when I omitted the line or make use of the daughter and grandchild.
When I was finished, I looked to Leonardo. He reacted not at all; he simply stood gazing at me, his face composed and neutral, his eyes intense.
The long silence left me dizzied; I lowered my gaze and was sickened to realize my cheeks were reddening again.
At last, his voice soft and free of reproach, he spoke. “You are a poorer spy than I gave you credit for, Lisa. You can’t hide the fact that you are lying.”
“I’m not!” I said, but I couldn’t look at him.
He sighed; his tone was resigned, sad. “Very well. I’ll put it another way: You are hiding the truth. I think you know who ‘our friend’ is. Perhaps I should ask you to recite that particular line for me again and again . . . until you finally tell it to me as it was written.”
I was furious with myself, ashamed. Through my own stupidity, I had betrayed the man who most needed my trust. “I’ve told you what you need to know of the letter. You can’t—you think you know everything, but you don’t.”
He remained calm, sad. “Madonna . . . you won’t be telling me something I don’t already know. I understand that you want to protect him, but it’s too late for that.”
I closed my eyes. When I opened them again, I said, “You must promise me that no one will hurt him. That no harm will come to him. . . . If I thought that you, that Piero, was a danger to him, I—”
“Lisa,” he said. His tone was sharp. “You are trying to protect someone who isn’t worthy of your protection.” He turned his face toward the window. “I had hoped this moment would never arrive, that you would be spared. I see now, of course, that it was only a matter of time.”
“If you hurt him, I won’t help you.” My voice shook.
“Salai!” he called, so loudly that I started, thinking at first that he was shouting at me. “Salai!”
In a moment, Salai appeared in the doorway, grinning; at the sight of us, his good humor evaporated.
“Watch her,” Leonardo commanded. He left the room. After a moment, I could hear him shuffling about in the next chamber, searching for something.
When he returned, he held a folio in his hand; he dismissed Salai with a curt nod. Then he took the folio over to the long table against the far wall, and opened it, and began going through the drawings—a few done in charcoal, some in ink, most in meltingly delicate red-brown chalk—until he found the one he sought.
He laid his forefinger on it firmly, accusatorily.
I moved to stand beside him; I looked down at the drawing.
“You were right,” he said. “I made a sketch immediately after the event and kept it for a very long time. This is one I made recently, in Milan. After you asked me, I realized the time might come for you to see it.”
It was a fully rendered drawing of a man’s head, with a hint of the neck and shoulders. He was in the act of turning to look over his shoulder far, far behind him. He was draped in a cowl, which hid his hair, his ears, and left most of his face in shadow. Only the tip of his nose, chin, and mouth were visible.
The man’s lips were parted, one corner drawn lower as his face turned; in my mind, I could hear his gasp. Although the eyes were hidden in blackness, his terror, his spent anger, his dawning regret were conveyed surely in the one brilliant, horrified downward turn of the lower lip, in the straining muscles of his neck.
I looked at the man. I felt I knew him, but I had never seen him before. “This is the penitent,” I said. “The man you saw in the Duomo.”
“Yes. Do you recognize him?”
I hesitated and at last said, “No.”
He cleared a space upon the table, took the drawing from the portfolio, and set it down. “I did not learn what I am about to show you until recently.” He took up a piece of crumbling red chalk and beckoned for me to stand close beside him.
And he began to draw with the same natural ease that another man might use to walk or breathe. He made light, staccato strokes over the jaw first, and the chin; it took me a moment to realize he was drawing hair, a beard. As he did, the penitent’s jaw softened; the upper lip disappeared beneath a full mustache. He drew a pair of lines, and the corners of the man’s mouth were suddenly braced by age.
Slowly, beneath his hand, appeared a man I knew, a man I had seen every day of my life.
I turned away. I closed my eyes because I did not want to see more.
“You recognize him now.” Leonardo’s voice was very soft and unhappy.
I nodded, blind.
“His involvement was not born of innocence, Lisa. He was part of the conspiracy from the beginning. He joined not out of piety, but out of jealousy, out of hate. He does not merit anyone’s protection. He destroyed Anna Lucrezia. Destroyed her.”
I turned my back on him, on the drawing. I took a step away.
“Did you go to him, Lisa? Did you say anything to him? Did you speak to him of me, of Piero?”
I went to my chair and sat. I clasped my hands and leaned fo
rward, elbows on my knees. I wanted to be sick. I had worn my knife that day, hungry for the moment I would meet the third man.
Leonardo remained next to the table, the drawing, but he faced me. “Please answer. We are dealing with men who do not shrink from murder. Did you go to him? Did you say anything to him, to anyone?”
“No,” I said.
I had told Leonardo half the truth—that I had said nothing about him or about Francesco’s letters. Perhaps it was the half truth that showed on my face, in my aspect, for Leonardo asked me no further questions. But even he, for all his charm, could not convince me to sit for him that day, nor could he interest me in conversing about all that had happened since we last had met. I returned home early.
Francesco was late returning from his bottega. He did not stop at the nursery to greet me and Matteo; he went into his chambers and did not venture out until summoned to supper.
My father was also late in arriving for the meal, and he, too, did not come to the nursery first, as was his custom. I arrived at the table to find Francesco stone-faced, defeated, gripped by cold, powerless rage. He uttered my name and gave a curt nod in greeting, but his features never stirred.
My father did his best to smile—but given what I had learned from Leonardo, I found it difficult to meet his eyes. Once the food was served, he inquired after Matteo’s health, after mine; I answered with awkward reserve. After those pleasantries were dispensed with, he began to speak a bit about politics, as he and Francesco so often did, after a fashion that I might understand and be educated.
“Fra Girolamo is working on an apologia, The Triumph of the Cross. There are those who claim that he is a heretic, a rebel against the Church, but this work will show just how orthodox his beliefs are. He is writing it expressly for His Holiness, in answer to charges brought by his critics.”
I glanced sidewise at Francesco, who addressed his minestra and revealed no trace of an opinion on the matter. “Well,” I said tentatively, “he has certainly preached strenuously against Rome.”
“He preaches against sin,” my father countered gently. “Not against the papacy. His writings will show his absolute respect for the latter.”