if I were here to be sized up by potential grooms-especially, as I hoped, Leonardo-why was I to be led away from the group?
Perhaps the shrewd
“Sir, I should be thrilled,” I answered honestly. He clasped my hands firmly in his crippled ones, as though I were his own daughter; whatever had happened during his absence from the group had stirred his emotions, and he was trying mightily to hide them from me.
I took his arm again and we walked from the chamber, back through the corridors lined with paintings and sculpture, then up a flight of stairs. This pained and winded him, but he set his jaw and kept a slow, measured pace; he tucked his cane beneath his arm and leaned heavily upon the railing while I clutched his opposite arm tightly, offering what support I could.
At last we arrived at the top, and he let go a long sigh and stood a moment, gathering his strength. “You must indulge me.” His words came out as soft gasps. “I have had little opportunity of late to exercise my limbs. But with each effort, they become stronger.”
“Of course,” I murmured, and so we waited until his breath came more easily. He led me then to a great wooden door-guarded, as always, by a servant who opened it when we approached.
“This is my study,” he said as we entered.
How shall I describe such a room? It was not remarkable in construction; it was of modest size, with four walls and a low ceiling-certainly not as impressive in scope as my own family’s great chamber. Yet no matter where my focus settled-on a wall, on the inlaid marble floor, on shelves and pedestals-it lit upon a gem, a glittering antiquity, an exquisite creation by one of the world’s great artists.
I was dizzy at the sight of so much beauty gathered in a single place. We moved past a pair of earthenware vases the height of my shoulders, painted with beautiful Eastern designs. Lorenzo acknowledged them with a casual nod. “A gift,” he said, “from the Sultan Qa’it-Baj.” He pointed to the wall. “A portrait of my old friend Galeazzo Maria Sforza-Duke of Milan-before he died and Ludovico assumed his place. And there, a painting by Uccello, and del Pollaiuolo, one of my favorites.” These were names known to every educated Florentine, though few had the good fortune to set eyes upon their works. “And there is a nice one by Fra Angelico.”
Fra Angelico: This was the famed Dominican monk who had painted glorious murals on the walls of San Marco’s convent-even in the brothers’ cells-at the behest of Cosimo de’ Medici. As I gazed upon the painting, I could not help but wonder whether Savonarola approved of such unnecessary adornment. Saint Sebastian, our protector from plague, was shown in his death agony; his placid eyes gazed heavenward even as he slumped, bound to a tree, his body and even his brow cruelly pierced by arrows.
Before I could begin to absorb such wonders, Lorenzo called for my attention again. He led me to a long table which contained “a fraction of my collection of coins and stones.” A wall lamp had been hung just above it, so that the light glinted off the shining metal and gems and rendered them dazzling. There were perhaps two hundred items displayed. I had never imagined there was such wealth in all the world, much less in Florence alone.
“These are from the times of the Caesars.” He gestured at a row of dull, worn coins, many of which were irregular in shape. “Others come from Constantinople and the Orient. Here.” He clumsily lifted a ruby half the size of his fist and proffered it to me, then laughed at my unwillingness to take it. “It’s all right, child; it has no teeth. Hold it to the light, like so, and look for irregularities-cracks or tiny bubbles in the stone. You will find none.”
I did as instructed-trying not to tremble at the fact that I held in my fingers more wealth than my family possessed-and gazed through it at the lamp, now bathed in crimson. “It’s beautiful.”
He nodded, pleased, as I returned it to him. “We have many medallions, too, designed by our best artists. Here is one made many years ago by our own Leonardo. It is quite rare; few were cast.” He replaced the ruby almost carelessly, then reached with greater reverence for a gold coin; a faint melancholy settled over him.
I took the medallion and read the inscription: PUBLIC MOURNING. There was Giuliano, vainly lifting his hands against the blades wielded by his assassins. At the same time I appreciated its beauty, I inwardly shuddered at Zalumma’s tale of Messer Iacopo’s corpse.
“Please,” he said. “Take it, as a gift.”
“I have one,” I said-and was immediately embarrassed by my thoughtless response to such an unthinkably generous offer. “My mother gave it to me.”
He had been studying me quite intently; at my words, his gaze sharpened further, then gradually softened. “Of course,” he said. “I had forgotten that I presented some of these to friends.”
Instead, he gave me a different medallion, one which featured a picture of his grandfather Cosimo and the Medici crest. This was by a different artist, one skilled though lacking the delicacy of Leonardo’s hand; even so, I was simply amazed and perplexed by
He seemed to grow tired after that, but he persisted in showing me another collection, one of cameos of chalcedony ranging from the palest white to the darkest gray, and another of brilliant red and orange carnelians. Most of those were intaglios, beautifully carved into the stone, some inlaid with gold by the famous Ghiberti.
There was also a display of goblets carved from precious stones, set with gems, and adorned with silver and gold; but he was near the end of his strength by then, and so he singled nothing out from among them. Instead, he led me to a pedestal where a single shallow dish-slightly larger than the one from which I took my supper-was displayed.
“This also is chalcedony, though the cup itself is reddish brown,” he said, his voice a hoarse whisper. On top of the darker background was a milky cameo of several figures from ancient times. “It is my single greatest treasure. This is Osiris, holding the cornucopia, and here is his wife, Isis, seated. Their son Horus plows the Earth.” He paused, and pride crept into his tone. “This cup was used by the kings and queens of Egypt in their rituals. Cleopatra herself drank from it. When Octavian defeated her, it was lost for a time, then it resurfaced in Constantinople. From there, it traveled to the court of King Alfonso of Naples. At last it came to Rome, where I acquired it.” He read my poorly restrained eagerness and smiled. “Go ahead. Touch it.”
I did so, marveling at its perfection despite its age; its condition was so pristine that I had assumed, before Lorenzo’s comments, that it was another Florentine creation. The edges were cold and perfectly smooth. I glanced back at Ser Lorenzo with a smile and realized that he was studying, with great fondness and enjoyment, not the cup, but me.
My rapture was interrupted by the sound of footfall. I turned and saw Giovanni Pico, bearing in his hand a goblet filled with dark liquid. He was as surprised to see me as I him. Caught off guard, I recoiled. He smiled politely; I could not.
“Why, it is Antonio Gherardini’s daughter,” he remarked. I doubt he remembered my name. “How are you, my dear?”
Lorenzo faced him with great weariness. “So, Giovanni, you know our Madonna Lisa.”
“I am a close friend of Antonio’s.” Pico acknowledged me with a nod. It was impolite, but I said nothing; I had not seen Count Pico since the day of my mother’s funeral. While he had come often to visit my father afterward, I had refused to receive him and stayed in my room. Despite his courteous demeanor now, he surely knew I hated him.
Pico’s expression was studied, but he could not entirely hide his curiosity as to my presence; although he was part of the Medici household, he was apparently neither a part of this evening’s celebration nor privy to its cause. “I have been looking for you, Lorenzo,” he scolded amiably. “You are late in taking the physician’s draught.” He smiled knowingly at me. “Our host is often too busy attending to the needs of others to give enough thought to his own care.”
Lorenzo grimaced mildly. “Ser Giovanni has been one of our most cherished household guests for many years. We do not agree on certain subjects… but we remain friends.”
“I shall convert you yet,” Pico replied with good humor. Yet there was a sense of unease in the air, as if their alliance were forged now of convenience and a desire to keep an eye on what the other was doing. “Forgive me for interrupting your conversation. Please, Madonna Lisa, Ser Lorenzo, continue. I shall wait patiently until you are finished. But mind, dear Lorenzo, that you do not forget your health.”
Lorenzo noted my curious glance regarding the draught; after all, he had left Leonardo and me alone in the courtyard with the comment that he was going inside to take it. “I was… detained by other business,” he
