I, Mona Lisa

  I did not care if I made Francesco proud; I averted my face, closed my eyes. But I opened them again immediately, startled by the warm spray and the collective gasp of the crowd. I caught a sidewise glimpse of Bernardo’s kneeling body falling to one side, of blood spurting in a thick upward arc from its headless neck, of a guard moving forward to retrieve something red and round from the straw.

  And suddenly I remembered. Remembered a day years before, in the church at San Marco, when my mother, her gaze fixed and terrible, had stared up at Savonarola in the pulpit. And she had cried out:

  Flames shall consume him until his limbs drop, one by one, into Hell! Five headless men shall cast him down!

  Five headless men.

  I stepped backward, treading on the slippered foot of a Lord Prior. Francesco caught my arm and held me steady. “Nerves,” he whispered to the offended man. “Forgive her; it is only nerves. She is young and unused to such things; she will be fine.”

  Guards came and took the corpse away; Tornabuoni was pushed forward, forced to murmur words of forgiveness, to kneel, to die. Two more followed. Giovanni Cambi was last. He collapsed from fear and had to be dragged to the block; he died screaming.

  In the end, the straw was sodden. The smell of fresh wood was eclipsed by the tang of blood and iron.

  By the time Francesco and I rode home, the darkness had not yet begun to ease. We sat in silence until Francesco abruptly spoke.

  “This is what becomes of Medici supporters.” He was watching me curiously. “This is what becomes of spies.”

  Perhaps my pallor seemed suspicious; perhaps he spoke simply out of a desire to relish his political victory. In any case, I did not answer. I was thinking of my mother’s words. And I was thinking of my father, and what would happen to him when the prophet was cast down.

  LXV

  As the weather cooled, the plague’s grip on the city eased. My father returned to his house, Francesco took up with his prostitutes again, and I went to the marketplace and church as often as I could. One morning I placed the book on my night table, even though I had found no new letter in Francesco’s desk, and the next I day went to Santissima Annunziata.

  Leonardo was well, to my relief. He had even worked on the painting. The bold outlines and shadows of my features had been softened by the application of light cinabrese, a translucent curtain of flesh. I was beginning to look human.

  But when I told him of my father’s warning that the Bigi would pay with their blood—of my anguish that I had not been able to come and warn him—he said, “You bear no guilt. We knew of the danger, well before your father spoke of it to you. If there is any fault, it is mine. I was unable—I could not—bring influence to bear in time. And the horror of it was, even had we been able to arrange a rescue . . .” He could not bring himself to continue.

  “Even if they could have been rescued—they should not have been,” I finished.

  “Yes,” he murmured. “That is the horror of it. It is better that they have died.” It was true; the executions had outraged everyone in Florence, even most of the piagnoni, who felt that the friar should have extended the same forgiveness he had freely dispensed in those days shortly after Piero was banished. Isabella, Elena, even the devout Agrippina, who had never dared risk my husband’s disapproval, now criticized Fra Girolamo openly.

  “My mother said—” I began, and stopped, confused as to how to express my thought without sounding insane. “Years ago, my mother told me . . . that Savonarola would be brought down. By five headless men.”

  “Your mother? Your mother spoke to you years ago of Savonarola?”

  “I know it sounds very strange. But . . . I believe what she said was true. I think that this will cause Savonarola to be defeated. I think that he might even die.”

  He grew motionless, intensely interested. “Did she ever say anything else about Fra Girolamo?”

  “I believe she was speaking about him. She said, ‘Flames shall consume him until his limbs drop, one by one, into Hell! Five headless men shall cast him down!’”

  What he said next astounded me. “He will die by fire, then. And these executions shall be his undoing. We will expect it, prepare for it.”

  “You believe me,” I said.

  “I believe your mother.”

  I stared at him for so long that he lowered his gaze and said, with unexpected tenderness, “I told you that I had seen your mother once when she was pregnant with you.”

  “Yes.”

  “She told me she was carrying a daughter. She told me I would paint your portrait.” He hesitated. “I gave her the medallion, then, of Giuliano murdered. I asked her to give it to you, as a keepsake.”

  I wanted suddenly to cry. I reached for his hand.

  . . .

  The Signoria tried desperately to win back the people’s love for Savonarola. It commissioned a medal to honor Fra Girolamo, with his alarming profile stamped on one side and on the other the image of a bodiless hand wielding a sword beneath the legend Ecco gladius Domini super terram cito et velociter. Worse, they encouraged him to defy the papal command that he should not preach. And so Francesco announced that he and I would go together to hear the prophet speak. My father was unwell and chose to remain at home.

  The Lord Priors had decided that the most appropriate place for Savonarola’s return to the pulpit should be the Duomo, in order to accommodate the anticipated crowd; but when Francesco and I entered the cathedral, I was startled to discover it less than half full. Not everyone, it seemed, was eager to risk the possibility of excommunication by a wrathful Pope.

  Francesco’s decision to attend the sermon provoked my curiosity. After the execution of the five Bigi, he had grown guarded where the subject of Savonarola was concerned. He no longer crowed about the successes of the piagnoni or spoke glowingly of the prophet, and when Agrippina let slip a critical remark about the friar, he said not a word. But our attendance at this defiant sermon was a show of the most fervent support. Or, more likely, a show of Francesco’s desire to monitor his mouthpiece and public reaction to him.

  There was no weeping that day in the Duomo, no emotion in the air; the citizens were sober-eyed and cautious, and when Savonarola ascended to the lectern, they fell expectantly silent.

  Fra Girolamo’s appearance was disturbing. He had been fasting during his months of silence and was even more haggard than before, his eyes dark, glittering holes in a face of yellowed ivory. He gripped the sides of the podium and stared out at the crowd; he exuded a vibrant misery, a desperation so profound he was compelled to share it or go mad. His breathing came so hard and furious that I could see the heaving of his chest from where I sat.

  When he at last spoke, I was startled: I had forgotten how shrill and grating his voice was.

  He began with his tone low, basely humble, as he recited the text. “Lord, how my tormentors are increased. How many are they that rise up against me.”

  He bowed his head and, for a full minute, was too moved to speak. At last, he said, “I am merely a tool of the Lord. I seek no fame, no glory; I have begged God that I might live the simple life of a monk and take the vow of silence, never to darken the pulpit again. Those of you who have criticized me, who have said that I should have intervened in Florence’s politics of late: Do you not see that I held myself back out of humility, not cruelty? It was not I who wielded the axe, not I. . . .” He squeezed his eyes shut. “O Lord, let me close my eyes and lay me down! Let me enjoy a silent season! But—God does not hear me. He will not let me rest!”

  And the friar took a gulp of air that produced a ragged sob. “God will not let me rest. It is His will that I speak—speak against the princes of this world, without fear of retaliation.”

  Beside me, Francesco tensed.

  “Do I disrespect the papacy?” Fra Girolamo asked. “No! It is God’s own institution. Did not Jesus say, ‘On this rock I shall build my Church’? And indeed, all good Christians must honor the Pope and abide by the Church??
?s laws.

  “But a prophet—or a pope—is merely an instrument of God, not an idol to be worshiped. And a prophet who lets his tongue be stilled can no longer be an instrument. . . .

  “Just as a pope who flouts the laws of God is a broken tool, a worthless instrument. If his heart is filled with wickedness, if his ears will not hear, how can God use him? He cannot! And so good Christians must discriminate between God’s laws and man’s.

  “Alexander is a broken tool, and his excommunication of me heretical. You who have come today recognize this in your hearts. Those who have stayed away for fear of the Pope are cowards, and the Lord shall deal with them.”

  I glanced over at my husband. Francesco’s eyes were cold, staring straight ahead. The Duomo was unusually silent and Savonarola’s words echoed off the high vault of the cupola.

  The preacher sighed and shook his head ruefully. “I try to speak well of His Holiness, but when I come here—to God’s holy place—I am obliged to speak the truth. I must confess what God Himself has told me.

  “‘Girolamo,’ He said, ‘if you are banned on Earth, then you will be blessed a thousandfold in Heaven.’”

  The prophet lifted his arms to the ceiling and smiled up as if listening to God; and when God had finished speaking, the friar cried in answer: “O Lord! If I should ever seek absolution from this excommunication, send me straight to the bowels of Hell!”

  I heard a rush of air in the cathedral. It came from the listeners, each letting go an outraged gasp. Francesco was among them.

  Then the friar humbly bowed his head. When he looked back up at his congregation, he spoke in a reasonable, gentle voice. “But how shall I address my critics, who say I do not speak for God? I tell you now, the Lord in His infinite wisdom shall soon give a sign to silence them forever. I have no desire to tempt God—but if compelled, I will give Florence her miracle.”

  Francesco was intense and distracted during the walk back to the carriage. He was so absorbed by his thoughts that when I spoke to him, he glanced up at me and for an instant seemed not to recognize me.

  “Fra Girolamo needs a miracle,” I said, with cautious respect. “Let us hope God provides one soon.”

  My husband gave me a searching look, but did not reply.

  Damn Ascanio Sforza and his brother Ludovico! And damn the prophet’s letter to the princes! One of Ludovico’s agents procured it, and Cardinal Ascanio delivered it directly into the eager hands of the Pope. Our control of the Signoria cannot last. Even the piagnoni are divided now. If the friar continues as you say, a papal interdict of Florence is unavoidable.

  I have tried to deal with His Holiness as with Pico. But Alexander is too canny, too well guarded. There is no hope we can replace him with one more sympathetic to our aims.

  The prophet’s time is waning too quickly, and my own has not yet come. I can no longer rely on papal troops; I have not enough friends in the Signoria. But I will not surrender my hopes! There is still a way. Give the prophet his miracle.

  If that fails, then we must find a way, quickly, to be palatable to the Signoria and the people. If Savonarola is cast in the role of devil, then I must be presented as a savior. Consider this, and give me your thoughts.

  In the studio at Santissima Annunziata, I stared at the portrait on the easel. The paint was still drying—a coating of the palest shell pink, which brought a gentle bloom to my cheeks and lips—so I dared not touch it, though my finger hovered, yearning, over a spot in the hollow of my neck.

  “There is a bit of blue there,” I said. And green; the merest hint of a vein lurking beneath the skin. I followed the line with my finger; I felt that if I could set it down on the panel, I would feel my own pulse. “It looks as though I’m alive.”

  Leonardo smiled. “Have you not noticed it before? At times, I think I can see it beating. Your skin is quite translucent there.”

  “Of course not. I have never stared in the mirror that long.”

  “A pity,” he said, without a trace of mockery. “It seems that those who possess the greatest beauty appreciate it the least.”

  He spoke so honestly that I was embarrassed; I changed the subject at once. “I will sit now.”

  And, as always, before I sat for him, I recited the letter. He listened, frowning slightly, and when I finished, he said, “They have grown desperate. If Savonarola does not get his miracle, they will feed him to the wolves and try another strategy. He will never give up.”

  “And he—whoever he is—wants to seize control of Florence.” I paused. “Who is he? I already know that he is one of the Pazzi, but I want to understand why he craves power.”

  Leonardo did not answer immediately.

  I pressed. “How can it hurt for me to know these things? If I’m captured, I’m already likely to be killed because I know of these letters. After all, I know that this man wanted to kill the Pope; I know that Ascanio Sforza and his brother Ludovico are involved.”

  He studied me a moment, then let go a small sigh. We both knew that I was right. “His name is Salvatore. He is the illegitimate son of Francesco de’ Pazzi,” he answered. “He was perhaps ten years old at the time of Giuliano’s murder, when many of his family were executed by Lorenzo and the rest were exiled. They lost everything: their possessions, their lands. . . . He and his mother fled to Rome.

  “Most of the Pazzi are good, honorable people; they had been horribly wronged by Lorenzo, and there was a good deal of bitterness. But they simply wanted to return to Florence, to their ancestral home.

  “In the case of Salvatore, however—his mother instilled him with intense hatred and bitterness from an early age. He was very precocious and ambitious; he decided, early on, to take Florence for the Pazzi, out of revenge.”

  “It all repeats,” I said. “Lorenzo took his revenge, and now the Pazzi want theirs.”

  “Not all of the Pazzi. Just Salvatore. He took advantage of the family’s position as papal bankers in order to ingratiate himself with the Pope.”

  I leaned forward, perplexed. “Then why . . . why would he get involved with Savonarola?”

  Leonardo took the chair across from mine. “That,” he said, “is a very long story. It began with Giovanni Pico. As a young man, he was a womanizer and a fair philosopher. The Pope was eager to excommunicate him—and was even considering burning him—for his rather un-Christian syncretism.

  “It was Lorenzo de’ Medici who used diplomacy to save him in 1490, well before the Medicis’ relationship with the papacy soured. Pico, however, had a short memory. He took a Pazzi mistress, who turned him against Lorenzo. When Giuliano died and Lorenzo took his horrible vengeance on the Pazzi, Pico began looking for ways to influence the people against the Medici, to bring the Pazzi back.

  “When Pico went to hear Savonarola speak in Ferrara, he saw a very charismatic man who disapproved of the wealthy and corrupt. He saw an opportunity for swaying the people against Lorenzo. And Fra Girolamo is an enormously gullible, impetuous man. Pico guessed correctly that he would be able to convince Savonarola to preach against the Medici, and make the friar believe it was his own idea.”

  I interrupted. “Does Savonarola know about the Pazzi? About this Salvatore?”

  He shook his head. “Not at all. Savonarola listens to your father, and to Fra Domenico. But that is another part of the story.

  “As for Pico . . . through his mistress, he knew of Francesco de’ Pazzi’s son Salvatore. And when the Pazzi were expelled from Florence, Pico exchanged letters with Salvatore. He fueled the boy’s rage with tales of the Medicis’ excesses, of their pilfering from public funds. By the time Salvatore was a youth, he wanted to wrest Florence from the Medici. And so he consulted Pico as to how the city might be won.

  “Pico suggested the use of Savonarola to sway public opinion—and came up with the notion of using slow-acting poison on Lorenzo. Pico was intimate enough with the Medici to know that Piero had never nurtured his father’s political connections, and so would be weak and easily
removed. The original plan was to kill Lorenzo, oust Piero, and install Salvatore as the new ruler of Florence.

  “Unfortunately—or fortunately, as you prefer—Lorenzo died before Salvatore was able to muster enough troops, or enough support in the Signoria.

  “But Salvatore had managed to find one stalwart supporter in the government: a Pazzi advocate, one Francesco del Giocondo. And he put Francesco in touch with Giovanni Pico. Together, they concocted a plan to turn Florence against the Medici. I’m sure it worked far better than they ever dreamt it would.

  “After a time, though, Pico’s guilt over Lorenzo’s murder overcame him. He actually began to take Savonarola’s words to heart, to repent. This made him dangerous and liable to confess. For that, he was killed.”

  “By my father,” I said miserably.

  “By Antonio di Gherardini,” he corrected, not unkindly. “Antonio had his own reasons for supporting the Pazzi. He never meant to become entrapped in a political scheme.”

  I looked down at my hands. Out of habit they rested one on top of the other, the way Leonardo preferred to paint them. “And Francesco married me so that he could control my father.”

  Leonardo’s reply was quick in coming. “Don’t underestimate yourself, Lisa. You are a beautiful woman. Your husband knows it; I saw how he behaved in your presence at the christening.”

  I shrugged off the flattery. “What of the ‘prophet’s letter’? How did it ruin things for them?”

  He smiled faintly. “Savonarola is a very difficult man to contain. In a moment of self-aggrandizement, he wrote to the princes of Europe—to Charles of France, Federico of Spain, and Emperor Maximilian, among others—urging them to unite and depose the Pope. He said that Alexander was not a Christian and did not believe in God.”

  I gaped. “He is mad.”

  “Most likely.”

  “And you must have been involved,” I said. “Someone gave the letter to Duke Ludovico, who then gave it to his brother, Cardinal Sforza, who then gave it to the Pope.”