Painting Mona Lisa aka I, Mona Lisa

a sword, its sharp tip resting on the ground. At his feet lay the grotesque, severed head of a giant.

I walked up to it; the firelight gleamed on the dark metal. “Is this David?” I asked. “He looks like a girl!” I put my hand to my mouth, immediately embarrassed by my thoughtless remark. Who was I to so rudely judge a masterpiece?

“Yes,” my guide murmured, a bit distracted. I glanced at him to find he had been scrutinizing me the entire while, as if he had never before set eyes upon a woman. “David, by the great Donatello.” After a long and unself- conscious pause, he came to himself and said, “He is always here; in fact, he has guarded this courtyard since Lorenzo was a boy. But other things have been brought here for your enjoyment.”

For my enjoyment? I pondered this, then decided Leonardo was indulging in flattery.

We moved next to a pair of busts, each set upon its own pedestal, and each so worn that I could not determine the stone. “These look quite old.”

“They are indeed, Madonna. These are the heads of Caesar Augustus and the general Agrippa, created in the times of ancient Rome.”

I reached out a finger to touch the one called Augustus. It was commonplace to cross the Ponte Vecchio, created so long ago by Roman laborers-but to see a work of art, created from the face of a man more than a thousand years dead, filled me with awe. My guide let go of my arm and let me inspect the works.

“Lorenzo is fond of antiquities,” he said. “This house contains the greatest collection of art, both modern and ancient, in the world.”

I moved to another bust, this one also of white stone, of an older man with a round, bulbous nose and a full beard, though not so impressive as Leonardo’s. “And who is this?”

“Plato.”

This, too, I had to touch gently, to feel the cold stone beneath my fingertips and imagine the living, breathing man it represented. There was another statue, as well-a contemporary one-of Hercules, muscular and robust, the purported founder of Florence. At some point, I was so distracted I set down my goblet and forgot it altogether.

Despite my excitement, I was growing chilled and on the verge of asking that we go back inside, when my gaze lit upon another bust-life-sized, of terra-cotta-in a corner of the courtyard. This was a modern man, handsome and strong-featured, in the prime of life. His eyes were large and open wide, and the hint of a smile played on his lips, as if he had just caught sight of a dear friend. I liked him immediately.

“He looks familiar.” I frowned with the effort to recall precisely where I had seen him.

“You have never met,” Leonardo countered; though he tried to keep his tone light, I detected a hint of dark emotion. “He died before you were born. This is Giuliano de’ Medici, Lorenzo’s murdered brother.”

“He looks so alive.”

“He was,” my guide answered, and at last I heard grief.

“You knew him, then.”

“I did. I came to know him well during the time I was a familiar of the Medici household. A more good-hearted soul was never born.”

“I can see it, in the statue.” I turned to face Leonardo. “Who was the artist?”

“My master Verrocchio began the piece when Giuliano was still alive. I completed it-after his death.” He paused to reflect on a distant sorrow, then forced it away. With practiced movements, he reached for a pad and quill, both attached to the belt hidden beneath his mantle; his tone became animated. “Madonna, will you do me a kindness? Will you permit me to do a quick sketch of you, here, looking at the bust?”

I was taken aback, overwhelmed by the notion that the great artist from Vinci would deign to sketch me, the insignificant daughter of a wool merchant; I could find no words. Leonardo did not notice.

“Stand there, Lisa. Could you move to your right? Just… there. Yes. Now, look up at me, and relax your face. Think of Augustus and Agrippa, and how you felt when you touched them. Here, close your eyes, take a breath, and let it go slowly. Now, don’t see me at all. See, instead, Giuliano, and remember how you felt when you first laid eyes on him.”

I tried to do as instructed, though my nerves would not let me forget the face of Leonardo-his eyes passionate and intense as they glanced swiftly up and down, from me to the sketchpad. The quill scratched loudly against paper.

At one moment, he hesitated, the pen poised in his hand: No longer the artist, but only the man, he looked on me with yearning tinged with sadness. Then he gathered himself firmly and grew businesslike once more; the scratching grew more rapid.

The sun had finally set, leaving everything gray and fading swiftly to dark; the torches glowed brighter.

“Breathe,” the artist urged, and I realized with a start that I had not been doing so.

It was difficult, but I found within myself the strength to relax, to soften, to let go of the fear. I thought of Giuliano’s smile and how he had no doubt looked so kindly upon the artist who had asked him to sit.

And when I had at last forgotten myself, my gaze wandered beyond Leonardo’s shoulder, to the window of the great chamber where the festivities awaited us. The heavy tapestry covering it had been pulled aside, and a man stood staring at us, backlit by the room’s brilliance.

Though his face was in shadow, I recognized the watcher from his stooped posture and pained demeanor: It was Lorenzo de’ Medici.

XXIV

The artist and I returned shortly afterward to the party. Leonardo only had time to create what he called a cartoon-a quick rendering in ink of my basic features. I felt somewhat disappointed; in my naivete, I had expected him to present me with a completed portrait in a matter of minutes. Yet it unquestionably resembled me, though it failed to capture the grandeur of my gown, or my fine cap.

Il Magnifico now approached us from the opposite side of the room, accompanied by a boy perhaps a year or two my senior, and a young man of perhaps twenty. Despite his frailty and his cane, Lorenzo moved with sudden speed, and when he met me, he took my hand in his and squeezed it with a warmth that startled me.

“Lisa, my dear,” he said. “I trust you enjoyed the few displays out on the courtyard?”

“Very much, yes.”

“They are nothing compared to what you shall now see.” He turned to the youths beside him. “But first, let me introduce you to my sons. This is my eldest, Piero.”

With an insolent boredom that far outweighed Botticelli’s, Piero sighed slightly as he bowed. Tall and broad shouldered, he had inher ited his late mother’s arrogance and ill temper, and none of his father’s wit or charm. Everyone in Florence knew that he was Lorenzo’s chosen successor, and everyone rued it.

“And this is my youngest, Giuliano.” His tone warmed subtly.

The lad was well named. He favored his father little, for he had even features, a straight nose and teeth, and the same sort of wide, inquisitive eyes as his deceased uncle. Yet like his father, he had a gracious poise. “Madonna Lisa,” he said. “An uncommon pleasure.” Like Leonardo, he bowed low and kissed my hand. When he straightened, he held my gaze and my hand so long that I lowered my face and looked away, embarrassed.

I fancied Lorenzo shot his youngest a warning glance before continuing. “My middle boy, Giovanni, was unable to attend the celebration.” He paused. “Boys, go and see that our dear Leonardo is well fed and cared for after his long journey. As for you, young Madonna…” He waited until the others had wandered away before continuing. “I should be most honored if you would consent to an examination of the art in my personal chambers.”

There was no suggestion of lechery in his tone; it was a chivalrous offer. Yet I was thoroughly perplexed. I was not well-bred enough to be marriageable to his youngest son (Piero was already married to an Orsini, Madonna Alfonsina), and so did not understand the purpose of the introduction, other than satisfying a sense of courtesy. And