Painting Mona Lisa aka I, Mona Lisa

frowned at him and asked, “Is it true, then, what they say? That you go to market to buy caged birds and set them free?”

My philosopher grinned charmingly; the standing man with the quail answered for him. “I have accompanied him several times on such missions,” he said, then popped the roasted leg into his mouth and drew out the bone, stripped of flesh. Chewing, he added, his voice muffled: “He has done so since he was a stripling.”

The old man stared in disbelief at the philosopher. “So you eat no meat?”

My man said simply, with neither judgment nor apology, “I do not, sir. Have not, for the course of my adulthood.”

The old man recoiled. “Outrageous notion! How is it, then, that you have survived?”

“Through wit alone, and barely then, dear Marsilo. That, and soup, bread, cheese, fruits, and fine wine.” He raised his goblet and took a sip.

“But surely this will shorten your life!” Marsilo persisted, truly alarmed. “Man must have meat to be strong!”

My philosopher set his goblet upon the table and leaned forward engagingly. “Shall we wrestle to determine the truth of the matter? Perhaps not you, Marsilo, given your venerable condition, but our Sandro here will gladly take your place.” He glanced up at the quaileater’s ample belly. “He has clearly eaten the lion’s portion of Florence’s meat-indeed, he has taken a portion just now. Sandro! Off with your mantle! Let us set to it and decide this empirically!”

The old man laughed at such foolishness; Sandro said, with mock boredom, “It would be an unfair contest. You have ridden all night from Milan to come see Lorenzo, and are tired. I have too much pity to take advantage of an old friend-who would lose the fight even were he well rested.”

There came a pause; Lorenzo stepped into it, with me on his arm. “Gentlemen.”

They turned. All but the beautiful philosopher seemed startled to find me, a mere girl, in their company.

“Here is a young lady you must meet.” Lorenzo took a step back from me, breaking our link, and gestured at me as though I were a prize. “This is Madonna Lisa di Antonio Gherardini, daughter of the wool merchant.”

The consumer of quail set down his plate, put a hand to his breast, and bowed grandly. “Sandro Botticelli, a humble painter. I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Madonna.”

“And this is my dear friend Marsilo Ficino,” Lorenzo said, gesturing at the elderly gentleman, who by virtue of his age and infirmity did not rise; Ficino greeted me with a disinterested nod. “Our Marsilo is head of the Florentine Academy as well as the famed translator of the Corpus Hermeticum, and so is greatly respected by us all.”

“An honor, sirs,” I said to both men, and curtsied, hoping that the great Botticelli would not detect the quaver in my voice. He had created his greatest masterpieces by then: Primavera, of course, and The Birth of Venus, both of which graced the walls of Lorenzo’s villa at Castello.

“This young lad”-Lorenzo lowered his voice and smiled faintly at the dark-haired, scowling youth who could scarcely bring himself to look at us-“is the talented Michelangelo, who resides with us. Perhaps you have heard of him.”

“I have,” I said, emboldened perhaps by the young man’s extreme shyness. “I attend the church of Santo Spirito, where his handsome wooden crucifix is displayed. I have always admired it.”

Michelangelo lowered his face and blinked-perhaps a response, perhaps not, but I took it as one, and the others seemed to judge it normal.

My philosopher rose. He was slender, straight, and tall-his body, like his face, was perfectly proportioned. At first sight of me, he had recoiled slightly, as if troubled; as his unease faded, it was replaced by an odd and tender melancholy. “I am called Leonardo,” he said softly, “from the little town of Vinci.”

XXIII

I stifled a surprised gasp. I remembered when my mother and I had stared together at the last portrait on the wall in the Piazza della Signoria, that of the murderer Bernardo Baroncelli-the painting done with a surer, more elegant hand. Here was its creator.

“Sir,” I said, my voice catching, “I am honored to meet such a great artist.” In the corner of my eye, I saw Botticelli jab Leonardo with an elbow in a display of mock jealousy.

He took my hand and studied me so intently that I flushed; there was more than an artist’s admiration in his gaze. I saw deep appreciation, mixed with an affection I had not earned. “And I am honored, Madonna, to meet a living work of art.” He bent down and brushed the back of my hand with his lips; his beard was as soft as child’s hair.

Please, I repeated silently. Let him be the one.

“I thought you were bound to Milan now,” I said, wondering why he was present.

“It is true, the Duke of Milan is my patron,” he replied amiably as he let go my hand. “Though I owe my career entirely to the graciousness of il Magnifico.”

“Quite the genius, our Leonardo,” Botticelli interjected dryly. “In Milan, he paints, he sculpts, he sketches plans for magnificent palazzi, he directs the construction of dams, he plays the lute and sings…” He faced his old friend. “Tell me, is there anything you do not do for the Duke?”

The tone of the question was markedly sly; old Ficino let go the beginnings of a snigger, then drew himself up short as if suddenly remembering Lorenzo’s and my presence. Lorenzo directed a veiled warning glance at the two men.

“That is the extent of it,” Leonardo responded mildly. “Although I do have plans for altering the course of the sun.”

Laughter followed-issuing from all save Michelangelo, who huddled more closely to his goblet, as though frightened by the noise.

“If anyone could do it, you could,” Ficino quipped.

“Good Leonardo,” Lorenzo said, with an abrupt switch to seriousness. “It is my wish to give Madonna Lisa a tour of the courtyard-but I require a moment of rest, and the time has come for me to partake of one of the noxious potions my physician has prescribed. Would you be so kind?”

“I can think of nothing more delightful.” The artist proffered me his arm.

I took it, unnerved but not about to show it. Was this a sign that il Magnifico considered him a likely candidate for my husband? The prospect of life with this charming, talented, famed stranger-even in faraway Milan, in the court of Duke Ludovico Sforza-seemed agreeable, even if I was too young.

“I shall retire for a moment, then.” Lorenzo took his leave with a short, stiff bow.

“It is most unfair,” Botticelli said, watching him go, “that only one of us should have the pleasure of accompanying you.”

Leonardo and I took our leave. He directed me toward a pair of far doors; servants on either side opened them as we approached.

As we passed over the threshold, Leonardo said, “You must not be nervous, Lisa. I perceive you are a woman of intelligence and sensitivity; you are among your peers, not your betters.”

“You are kind to say so, sir, but I have no talent. I can only admire the beauty others create.”

“An eye for beauty is itself a gift. Ser Lorenzo possesses such talent.”

The air outside was chill, but there were several large torches and a small bonfire contained by a circle of heaped stones.

“Madonna, may I offer you my mantle?” He turned his perfect face toward mine; the light from the setting sun imbued his skin with a coral hue.

I looked at the proffered piece of cloth; it was of thin dark wool, worn and patched. I smiled. “I am quite warm, thank you.”

“Let me give you a brief tour, then.” He steered me toward the bonfire. Beside it, on a high pedestal, was the bronze statue of a naked young man, his hair long and curling beneath a straw shepherd’s hat, his body soft and rounded as a woman’s. He stood with a fist braced coquettishly against one hip; the other hand grasped the hilt of