Painting Mona Lisa aka I, Mona Lisa

Lorenzo’s gaze was penetrating. “All this you have ascertained from a man’s movements, a man who was draped in a robe?”

Leonardo stared back unflinching. He judged all men the same; the powerful did not intimidate him. “I would not have come if I had not.”

“Then you shall be my agent.” Lorenzo’s eyes narrowed with hatred and determination. “You shall help me find this man.”

So it was over the past year that Leonardo had been summoned several times to the Palazzo della Signoria’s basement jail, to carefully examine the lips and chins and postures of unfortunate men. None of them matched those of the penitent in the cathedral.

The night before Baroncelli’s execution, Lorenzo, now called il Magnifico, had sent two guards to bring Leonardo to the palazzo on the Via Larga.

Lorenzo had changed little physically-save for the pale scar on his neck. If his unseen wound had similarly healed, this day had torn it open, rendered it fresh and raw.

Leonardo, too, struggled beneath the burdens of sadness and guilt. Had he not been so stricken, he might have permitted himself to delight in il Magnifico’s unique features, especially his nose. The bridge rose briefly just beneath the eyebrows, then flattened and abruptly disappeared, as if God had taken his thumb and squashed it down. Yet it rose again, rebellious and astonishing in its length, and sloped precipitously to the left. Its shape rendered his voice harshly nasal and produced another odd effect as well: In the years Leonardo had known him, Lorenzo had never once stood in his famed garden and lifted a flower to inhale its scent. He had never once complimented a woman on her perfume, nor taken note of any odor, agreeable or disagreeable; indeed, he seemed caught off guard when anyone else did. Only one conclusion was possible: Lorenzo had no sense of smell.

That evening, il Magnifico wore a woolen tunic of deep rich blue; white ermine edged the collar and cuffs. He was an unhappy victor this night, but he seemed more troubled than gloating. “Perhaps you have already deduced why I have called for you,” he said.

“Yes. I am to go to the piazza tomorrow to look for the third man.” Leonardo hesitated; he, too, was troubled. “I need your assurance first.”

“Ask and I will give it. I have Baroncelli now; I cannot rest until the third assassin is found.”

“Baroncelli is to die, and rumor has it that he was tortured mercilessly.”

Lorenzo interrupted swiftly. “And with good reason. He was my best hope to find the last conspirator. But he insisted he did not know the man; if he did, he will take the secret to Hell with him.”

The bitterness in il Magnifico’s tone gave Leonardo pause. “Ser Lorenzo, if I find this third assassin, I cannot in good conscience turn him over to be killed.”

Lorenzo recoiled as if he had been struck full in the face; his pitch rose with indignance. “You would let an accomplice to my brother’s murder go free?”

“No.” Leonardo’s own voice trembled faintly. “I esteemed your brother more highly than any other.”

“I know,” Lorenzo replied softly, in a way that said he did know the full truth of the matter. “That is why I also know that, of all men, you are my greatest ally.”

Gathering himself, Leonardo bowed his head, then lifted it again. “I would want to see such a man brought to justice-to be deprived of his freedom, condemned to work for the good of others, to be forced to spend the remainder of his life contemplating his crime.”

Lorenzo’s upper lip was invisible; his lower stretched so taut over his jutting lower teeth that the tips of them showed. “Such idealism is admirable.” He paused. “I am a reasonable man-and like you, an honest one. If I agree that this accomplice, should you find him, will not be killed but instead imprisoned, will you go to the piazza to find him?”

“I will,” Leonardo promised. “And if I fail tomorrow, I will not stop searching until he is found.”

Lorenzo nodded, satisfied. He looked away, toward a Flemish painting of bewitching delicacy on his wall. “You should know that this man-” He stopped himself, then started again. “This goes far deeper than the murder of my brother, Leonardo. They mean to destroy us.”

“To destroy you and your family?”

Lorenzo faced him again. “You. Me. Botticelli. Verrocchio. Perugino. Ghirlandaio. All that Florence represents.” Leonardo opened his mouth to ask, Who? Who means to do this?, but il Magnifico lifted a hand to silence him. “Go to the piazza tomorrow. Find the third man. I mean to question him personally.”

It was agreed that Lorenzo would pay Leonardo a token sum for a “commission”-the sketch of Bernardo Baroncelli hanged, with the possibility that such a sketch might become a portrait. Thus Leonardo could honestly answer that he was in the Piazza della Signoria because Lorenzo de’ Medici wanted a drawing; he was a very bad liar, and prevarication did not suit him.

As he stood in the square on the cold December morning of Baroncelli’s death, staring intently at the face of each man who passed, he puzzled over il Magnifico’s words.

They mean to destroy us…

PART TWO

Lisa

XI

I will always remember the day my mother told me the story of Giuliano de’ Medici’s murder.

It was a December day thirteen and a half years after the event; I was twelve. For the first time in my life, I stood inside the great Duomo, my head thrown back as I marveled at the magnificence of Brunelleschi’s cupola while my mother, her hands folded in prayer, whispered the gruesome tale to me.

Midweek after morning Mass, the cathedral was nearly deserted, save for a sobbing widow on her knees just beyond the entry, and a priest replacing the tapers on the altar’s candelabra. We had stopped directly in front of the high altar, where the events of the assassination had taken place. I loved tales of adventure, and tried to picture a young Lorenzo de’ Medici, his sword drawn, leaping into the choir and running past the priests to safety.

I turned to look at my mother, Lucrezia, and tugged at her embroidered brocade sleeve. She was dark-haired, dark-eyed, with skin so flawless it provoked my jealousy; she, however, seemed unaware of her amazing appearance. She complained of the adamant straightness of her locks, of the olive cast to her complexion. Never mind that she was fine-boned, with lovely hands, feet, and teeth. I was mature for my years, already larger than she, with coarse dull brown waves and troubled skin.

“What happened after Lorenzo escaped?” I hissed. “What became of Giuliano?”

My mother’s eyes had filled with tears. She was, as my father often said, easily provoked to deep emotion. “He died of his terrible wounds. Florence went mad; everyone wanted blood. And the executions of the conspirators…” She shuddered at the memory, unable to bring herself to finish the thought.

Zalumma, who stood on her other side, leaned forward to scowl a warning at me.

“Didn’t anyone try to help Giuliano?” I asked. “Or was he already dead? I would have at least gone to see if he was still alive.”

“Hush,” Zalumma warned me. “Can’t you see she is becoming upset?”

This was indeed cause for concern. My mother was not well, and agitation worsened her condition.

“She was the one who told the story,” I countered. “I did not ask for it.”

“Quiet!” Zalumma ordered. I was stubborn, but she was more so. She took my mother’s elbow and, in a