Painting Mona Lisa aka I, Mona Lisa

He helped Baroncelli to his feet; enraged, Baroncelli pulled away from him and staggered up the wooden steps alone.

On the scaffolding, the executioner, a young, slender man whose face was hidden beneath a mask, stood between Baroncelli and the waiting noose. “Before God,” the executioner said to Baroncelli, “I beg your forgiveness for the act I am sworn to commit.”

The inside of Baroncelli’s lips and cheeks cleaved to his teeth; his tongue was so dry, it left behind a layer of skin as he articulated the words. Yet his tone sounded astonishingly calm. “I forgive you.”

The executioner released a small sound of relief; perhaps there had been other doomed men more eager to let their blood stain his hands. He caught Baroncelli’s elbow and guided him to a particular spot on the platform, near the noose. “Here.” His voice was oddly gentle. And he produced from within his cloak a white linen scarf.

In the instant before he was blindfolded, Baroncelli scanned the crowd. Near the front was Giovanna, with the children. She was too distant for Baroncelli to be sure, but it seemed to him that she had been weeping.

Lorenzo de’ Medici was nowhere to be seen-but Baroncelli had no doubt that he was watching. Watching from a hidden balcony, or a window; perhaps from inside the Palazzo della Signoria itself.

Below, at the foot of the scaffolding, stood the Comforter, his expression serene and oddly satisfied. In an instant of epiphany, Baroncelli realized that he, Francesco de’ Pazzi, Messer Iacopo, Archbishop Salviati-all of them-had been fools, their small ambitions used to serve part of a larger scheme, one that filled him with almost as much dread as the prospect of his imminent death.

The executioner tied the scarf over Baroncelli’s eyes, then guided the noose over his chin and tightened it around his neck.

In the instant before the platform beneath him dropped, Baroncelli whispered two words, directed at himself.

“Here, traitor.”

X

The instant that Baroncelli’s body ceased its twitching, a young artist near the front of the crowd set to work. The corpse would hang in the piazza for days, until its decomposition caused it to drop from the rope. But the artist could not wait; he wanted to capture the image while it still possessed an echo of life. Besides, young hooligans, giovani, would soon amuse themselves by casting stones at it, and the imminent rain would cause it to bloat.

He sketched on paper pressed against a board of poplar, to give him a firm surface to work against. He had cut back the plume from his quill pen, for he used it so continually that any barbs there irritated his long fingers; he had carved the nib himself to a fine, sharp point, and he dipped it regularly, mindlessly, into a vial of brown iron gall ink securely fastened to his belt. Since one could not properly draw constrained by gloves, his bare hands ached from the cold, but he dismissed the observation as unworthy of his time. In the same manner, he dismissed the sorrow that threatened to overwhelm him-for the sight of Baroncelli evoked profoundly painful memories-and focused instead on the subject before him.

Despite all attempts to mask their true feelings, all men and women nonetheless revealed them through subtle signs in expression, posture, and voice. Baroncelli’s regret was blatant. Even in death, his eyes were downcast, as if contemplating Hell. His head was bowed, and the corners of his thin lips were pulled downward by guilt. Here was a man overwhelmed by self-loathing.

The artist struggled not to yield to his hatred, though he had very personal reasons for despising Baroncelli. But hate was against his principles, so-like his aching fingers and heart-he ignored it and continued with his work. He also found killing unethical-even the execution of a murderer such as Baroncelli.

As was his habit, he jotted notes on the page to remind himself of the colors and textures involved, for there was an excellent chance the sketch might become a painting. He wrote from right to left, the letters a mirror image of conventional script. Years before, when he had been a student in Andrea Verrochio’s workshop, other artists had accused him of unwarranted secrecy, for when he showed them his sketches, they could make no sense of his notes. But he wrote as he did because it came most naturally to him; the privacy conferred was a coincidental benefit.

Small tan cap. The quill scratched against the paper. Black serge jerkin, lined woolen singlet, blue cloak lined with fox fur, velvet collar stippled red and black, Bernardo Bandino Baroncelli, black leggings. Baroncelli had kicked off his slippers during his death throes; he was shown with bare feet.

The artist frowned at Baroncelli’s patronymic. He was self-taught, still struggling to overcome his rustic Vinci dialect, and spelling bedeviled him. No matter. Lorenzo de’ Medici, il Magnifico, was interested in the image, not the words.

He did a quick, small rendering at the bottom of the page, showing Baroncelli’s head at an angle that revealed more of the gloom-stricken features. Satisfied with his work, he then set to his real task of scanning the faces in the crowd. Those near the front-the nobility and more prosperous merchants-were just beginning to leave, hushed and somber. The populo minuto, the poor and struggling, remained behind to entertain themselves by hurling epithets and rocks at the corpse.

The artist carefully watched as many men as possible as they left the piazza. There were two reasons for this: The ostensible one was that he was a student of faces. Those who knew of him were used to his intent stares.

The darker reason was the result of an encounter between himself and Lorenzo de’ Medici. He was looking for a particular face-one he had seen twenty months earlier, for only the briefest of instants. Even with his talent for recalling physiognomies, his memory was clouded-yet his heart was equally determined to succeed. This time, he was resolved not to let emotion get the better of him.

“Leonardo!”

The sound of his own name startled the artist; he jerked involuntarily and, out of reflex, capped the vial of ink, lest it spill.

An old friend from Verrocchio’s workshop had been on his way out of the piazza, and moved toward him.

“Sandro,” Leonardo said, when his friend at last stood before him. “You look like a lord prior.”

Sandro Botticelli grinned. At thirty-four, he was several years Leonardo’s senior, in the prime of his life and career. He was indeed dressed grandly, in a scarlet fur-trimmed cloak; a black velvet cap covered most of his golden hair, cut chin-length, shorter than the current fashion. Like Leonardo, he was clean-shaven. His green eyes were heavy-lidded, filled with the insolence that had always marked his manner. Even so, Leonardo liked him; he was possessed of great talent and a good heart. Over the past year, Sandro had received several fat commissions from the Medici and Tornabuoni, including the massive painting Primavera, soon to be a wedding gift from Lorenzo to his cousin.

Sandro eyed Leonardo’s sketch with sly humor. “So. Trying to steal my job, I see.”

He was referring to the recently painted mural on a facade near the Palazzo della Signoria, partially visible behind the scaffolding now that the crowd was beginning to thin. He had received a commission from Lorenzo in those terrible days following Giuliano’s death: to depict each of the executed Pazzi conspirators as they dangled from the rope. The life-sized images duly inspired the terror they were meant to provoke. There was Francesco de’ Pazzi, entirely naked, his wounded thigh encrusted with blood; there, too, was Salviati in his archbishop’s robes. The two dead men were shown facing the viewer-effective, though not an accurate depiction of fact. Like Botticelli, Leonardo had been in the Piazza della Signoria at the moment Francesco-dragged from his bed-had been pushed from the uppermost arched window of the palazzo, hung from the building itself for all to see. A moment later, Salviati had followed and, at the instant of his death, had turned toward his fellow conspirator and-whether in a violent, involuntary spasm or in a final moment of rage-had sunk his teeth deep into Francesco de’ Pazzi’s shoulder. It was a bizarre image, one so troubling that even Leonardo, overwhelmed by emotion, failed to record it in his notebook. Paintings of other executed men, including Messer Iacopo, were partially completed, but one murderer was altogether missing: Baroncelli. Botticelli had probably taken notes himself this morning, intending to finish the mural. But at the sight of Leonardo’s sketch, he shrugged.