I, Mona Lisa (31 page)

My stomach fluttered; I could imagine her reaction. “And the others?”

“You know that Ser Piero has gone to Sarzana. . . .” When I nodded, she continued. “You need have no worry there; he is sympathetic. But there is His Holiness, Ser Giovanni, the Cardinal. He has gone to Mass and business meetings. He is not privy to anything; I do not think Ser Giuliano intends to tell him unless it is necessary.”

She lifted a fine hairbrush—one that I assumed belonged to my soon-to-be sister-in-law. “Shall we just brush it out, then?”

I nodded. Had I attempted any elaborate style that morning, my father or the servants would have noticed—and so I wore it as I always did, falling loose onto my shoulders, as befitted an unmarried girl. She then fastened in place the brocade cap I had brought. For a final touch, I donned my mother’s necklace of seed pearls, with a large aquamarine pendant.

It was difficult, touching it, not to think of my mother, of how she had married foolishly, how unhappily she had lived and died.

“Ah!” Laura put a gentle hand upon my elbow. “You should not be sad at such a time! Madonna, you are marrying a man with the noblest heart and the best brain in all Tuscany. These are difficult times, but so long as you are with Ser Giuliano, you need never fear.

“Here. This is what your husband will see, when you go to him. A more beautiful sight cannot be found.” She handed me an exquisite mirror of heavy engraved gold inset with diamonds.

I handed the mirror back after a swift, unsatisfied glimpse, and the ridiculous thought that the colors of my gown clashed with Giuliano’s gold and crimson.

Thinking we were finished, I made a move for the door. At once Laura said, “Ah, but you are not complete!” And she went to a closet and drew forth a long veil—gossamer white, embroidered with unicorns and mythical gardens in thread of gold. She placed it reverently upon my head, covering my face; the world grew indistinct and glittering.

“Madonna Clarice wore it when she married Ser Lorenzo,” she said, “and Alfonsina when she married Piero. Giuliano made sure that the priest blessed it again, just for you.” She smiled. “Now you are ready.”

She led me down to the ground floor, to the Medici’s private chapel. I had expected someone to be waiting there, in front of the door, but the corridor was empty. At the sight, I grew sick with worry.

Panicked, I turned to Laura. “Zalumma,” I said. “My slave . . .
she should have arrived by now with my things. Giuliano was to have sent a carriage for her.”

“Shall I inquire after her for you, Madonna?”

“Please,” I said. I had made my decision, and would follow through. But Zalumma’s absence troubled me deeply; I had counted on her to attend me at my wedding, just as she had attended my mother at hers.

Laura left to investigate the matter. When she returned a few moments later, I knew from her expression that the news was not what I wanted to hear. “There is no word, Madonna. The carriage has not returned.”

I put fingertips to my temple, bracing it. “I cannot wait for her.”

“Then let me serve as your attendant,” Laura said, her tone soothing and reasonable. “No one in the household is kinder to me than Ser Giuliano; it would be a great honor to assist his bride.”

I drew a breath and nodded. The situation demanded that the wedding take place as swiftly as possible, before we were discovered.

Laura opened the door to the chapel to reveal Giuliano, waiting with the priest in front of the altar. Next to them both stood the sculptor Michelangelo—a surprise, since rumor had it that he had fallen out with Piero and had left for Venice the previous month. His presence filled me with trepidation. Bad enough that Pico should be accepted into the bosom of the Medici. Now there was yet another of Savonarola’s chosen, here at my own wedding.

My unease disappeared with a single glance at my waiting bridegroom. Giuliano glanced up at me with joy, longing, and fright. Even the priest’s hands, which bore a small book, trembled. Faced by their terror, my own faded.

In the wake of this perverse calm, I walked toward the three men—with Laura holding my train—and allowed myself to drink in the glory of the chapel. In the chancel, above the altar, was a fresco of the Christ child being adored by the Madonna and angels, most delicately wrought. On the perpendicular wall, to my left, was a fresco rendered in a more colorful and robust style, of the Magi processing toward the Child.

The magus nearest me was young, dressed in Florentine fashion and borne by a white horse caparisoned in red and gold. Following him on horseback were faces I recognized: the old Piero de’ Medici and his young sons Lorenzo—distinctly homely, even in his idealized youth—and the handsome Giuliano. Lorenzo gazed in the direction of the Holy Child, but his brother faced the viewer, staring at an indistinct point in the far distance, his expression uncharacteristically solemn.

It gave me no comfort to recognize, in a corner of the wall, the fetching visage of Giovanni Pico.

Although it was almost noon, the interior of the chapel was gloomy. Several candles burned, their light flickering off the prodigious amount of pure gold leaf applied to the walls, and highlighting the amazing colors: the pinks and corals, turquoises and greens of angels’ wings and birds, the reds and golds of raiment, the dazzling whites and blues of sky, the deep greens of hills and trees.

“Madonna, stop!” The servant Laura paused; drawn away from the fresco, I glanced about, confused. Not until the priest gestured did I look down at my feet and see the garland of dried roses and wildflowers strewn across the chapel floor.

Giuliano knelt and broke the garland in two with a deliberate gesture.

I could not have been more thoroughly won. He rose, took my hand, and drew me to stand beside him at the altar.

Despite his nerves and youth, Giuliano was in command of himself; he turned to Michelangelo with the assuredness of a man who has borne much responsibility in his life. “The ring,” he said. He might not have been able to provide the gown, a great cathedral filled with people, or my father’s blessing, but he had endeavored to give me those things he could.

Michelangelo palmed the item to Giuliano. There was an easiness between those two conspirators that made me think they had been close friends, almost brothers, for some time, devoted to the same causes, holding the same secrets. And that, again, troubled me.

Giuliano took my hand and slipped the ring onto my finger. The
band adhered to the city ordinance governing wedding rings, being of unadorned gold, and thin. It was also perilously loose, so he closed my fist over it to hold it in place, then whispered into my ear, “Your hands are even finer than I thought; we shall have it properly fitted.”

He nodded to the priest, and the ceremony commenced.

I remember nothing of the words, save that Giuliano gave the priest his answer in a strong voice, while I had to clear my throat and repeat myself in order to be heard. We knelt at the wooden altar where Cosimo, Piero, Lorenzo, and the elder Giuliano had prayed. I prayed, too, not just for happiness with my new husband, but for his safety and that of his family.

Then it was over, and I was wed—under strange and uncertain circumstances, married in the eyes of God, at least, if not in those of my father or Florence.

O
ur small wedding party moved to the antechamber of Lorenzo’s apartments where, three years earlier,
il Magnifico
had encouraged me to touch Cleopatra’s cup. That jewel of antiquity was gone now, as were almost all of the displays of coins, gems, and golden statuettes. Only one case of cameos and intaglios remained; paintings still covered the walls, and wine had been poured for us into goblets carved from semiprecious stones inlaid with gold.

In a corner of the room, two musicians played lutes; a table, festooned with flowers, held platters of figs and cheeses, almonds and pretty pastries. Though Laura prepared me a plate, I could not eat, but I drank wine undiluted for the first time in my life.

I asked Laura again to find out whether Zalumma had come. She left me at a most subdued celebration, which consisted of my husband, Michelangelo, and me; the priest had already left.

Awkwardly, after a prompting elbow administered by Giuliano, Michelangelo raised his goblet—from which he had not yet drunk—and said, “To the bride and groom; may God grant you a hundred healthy sons.”

For a fleeting moment, the sculptor smiled shyly at me. He drank a small sip and set his goblet down. I drank, too—a great swallow. The wine, astringent on my tongue, warmed me as it went down.

“I take my leave of the happy couple,” Michelangelo said, then bowed and made his exit, clearly eager to be free of his social obligation.

The instant he was gone, I turned to Giuliano. “I am fearful of him.”

“Of Micheletto? You are joking!” My new husband smiled; he had regained control of his nerves and was doing his best to appear relaxed. “We were raised as brothers!”

“That is precisely why I am worried,” I said. “It increases the danger to you. You know my father makes—has made—me attend Fra Girolamo’s sermons. And I have seen the sculptor present at almost every one. He is one of the
piagnoni.
”

Giuliano lowered his gaze; his expression became thoughtful. “One of the
piagnoni,
” he said, in an inscrutable tone. “Let me ask you this: If you were threatened by the
piagnoni,
how could you best protect yourself from them?”

“With guards,” I answered. I had drunk more wine than was my custom, and anxiety had rendered me incapable of clear thought.

The corner of Giuliano’s mouth quirked. “Well, yes, there are always guards. But isn’t it better to know what your enemies are planning? And perhaps to find ways to sway them in your favor?”

“So, then,” I began, with the intention of saying carelessly,
Michelangelo is your spy.
But a knock came at the door before I could utter the words.

I had hoped it was Laura, with news that Zalumma had come—but instead it was a manservant, his brow furrowed.

“Forgive the intrusion, Ser Giuliano.” His well-modulated, polished voice was just loud enough to be audible. “There is a visitor. Your presence is required at once. . . .”

My husband frowned. “Who? I gave instructions that we—”

“The lady’s father, sir.”

“My father?” I barely got the words out before terror rendered me speechless.

Giuliano gave the servant a nod and put a comforting arm around my shoulder. “It’s all right, Lisa. I expected this, and am ready to speak with him. I’ll reassure him, and when he is calm, I will send for you.” And he quietly ordered the servant to stay with me until Laura reappeared, and to inform her to wait with me. Then he kissed me gently upon the cheek and left.

There was nothing to do but pace nervously inside the strange but familiar chamber; I took a final sip of wine from my beautiful chalcedony goblet, then set it down. No measure of spirits could ease my fear. I felt anger, too—anger that my fate was not my own to declare, but rather something to be discussed and decided by men.

I walked back and forth, my hem whispering against the inlaid marble floor. I cannot say how many times I had crossed back and forth inside the long chamber by the time the door opened again.

Laura stepped over the threshold. Her expression was guarded—and after the manservant relayed Giuliano’s command to her, it became even more so. The manservant left, and Laura stayed; the instant we were alone, I demanded of her: “Zalumma has not come, has she?”

She gazed up at me with reluctance. “No. Our driver was sent back without her. Forgive me for not telling you sooner, Madonna. I learned this before the ceremony—but it would have been cruel to have upset you beforehand.”

The news struck me with force. I loved Giuliano and would not leave him—but I could not imagine what life would be like if my father forbade Zalumma to come to me. She had attended my birth, and was my truest link to my mother.

The better part of an hour passed. I refused offers of food and drink as I sat on a chair with Laura standing over me, murmuring comforting words.

I did not hear them: I was addressing myself silently, sternly. I had my husband’s feelings to think of now. For Giuliano’s sake, I would be poised and calm and gracious, no matter what followed.

My determined thoughts were interrupted by a loud clattering sound; something had struck the window’s wooden shutters, which were closed, although the slats were open. Laura rushed over and opened the shutters, then recoiled at another loud thud—the sound of something striking the outside wall just below us.

I rose and sidled next to her in order to peer down.

His hair still damp from the baths, my father bent down in the middle of the Via Larga, ready to grasp another stone. He had climbed out of his wagon and dropped the reins. The horse, confused, took a few paces forward, then a few back; the driver of the carriage behind his cursed loudly.

“Here, you! Make way! Make way! You can’t just leave your wagon there!”

My father seemed neither to see nor hear him. As he reached for the stone, one of the palazzo guards shouted, “Move on! Move on, or I shall have to arrest you!”

Several passersby—a Lord Prior on horseback, a servant with a basket full of bread, a filthy woman in tattered clothes, herding equally filthy, barefoot children—had already stopped to gape at the scene. It was midday Saturday, and the broad street was filled with carriages, pedestrians, and riders.

“Then arrest me,” my father cried, “and let the world know that the Medici think they can steal anything they want—even a poor man’s daughter!” Even at this distance, I could see his utter hysteria on his face, in his posture; he had rushed here without his mantle or cap. He clutched the rock and rose, ready to hurl it. The guard advanced and menacingly raised his sword.

Two floors above them, I leaned out of the window. “Stop, both of you!”

The guard and my father froze and stared up at me; so, too, did the gathering crowd. My father lowered his arm; the guard, his weapon.