Painting Mona Lisa aka I, Mona Lisa

murmured, for my ears alone.

“You have been most gracious, Ser Lorenzo,” I said, thinking only of escape, for the proximity of Pico left me unnerved; the memory of my mother’s death was still too fresh. “But I believe you would benefit by a period of rest. With your permission, I should like to take my leave.”

Perhaps he heard the distress in my voice-or perhaps he was exhausted-for he did not protest. “Leave the draught,” he told Pico. “Go and see that Ser Antonio’s carriage is ready, and tell him his daughter will meet him there. You will find him in the chapel. Then go see Piero and send him to me.”

I felt great relief the instant Pico left. Once he did, il Magnifico said, “The presence of Ser Giovanni upsets you.”

I stared down at the gleaming marble floor. “He was present when my mother died.”

“Yes. I recall him mentioning it.” He gathered his thoughts. “There is nothing more bitter than losing those we most love. An early death, a wrongful one, provokes the worst sort of grief. It turns the heart easily toward hatred.” He lowered his gaze. “I lashed out vengefully when my brother died. It has come to haunt me now.” He paused to stare at the place where Pico had stood. “Ser Giovanni is a man given to great extremes. A more educated man does not exist, yet his heart belongs to the friar Girolamo now. The world has lost one of its greatest philosophers. Have you heard of his theory of syncretism?”

I shook my head.

“It proposes that all philosophies and religions hold the kernel of truth-and all contain errors. Our Giovanni said that each should be examined, to determine common truths and dismiss the fallacies.” He smiled wryly. “For that, the Pope suggested he be burned. He came here two years ago, to enjoy my protection. And now he supports a man who would see me brought down.”

His face clouded suddenly; he let go a sigh that seemed to issue from his very bones. “Child, I must be discourteous and ask to sit in your presence. This evening has drained me more than I expected.”

I helped him to a chair. This time he relied heavily upon my arm, no longer able to maintain the pretense that he was mostly recovered. He sat down with a small groan beneath the picture of the dying Saint Sebastian and leaned against the wall. He closed his eyes; in the shadow of the torchlight, he looked twice his age. Frightened, I asked, “Shall I bring you the draught?”

He smiled thinly, then opened his eyes and gazed on me with affection. “No. But will you hold an old man’s hand, my dear, to comfort me until Piero comes?”

“Of course.” I moved to stand beside him and bent down a bit to clasp his hand; it was cold and so thin one could easily feel the twisted bones.

We remained this way in easy silence until il Magnifico asked softly, “If I summon you, Lisa, will you come again?”

“Of course,” I repeated, though I could not imagine what might provoke him to do so.

“Our Leonardo was quite taken with you,” he said. “I confess, I saw him sketch you in the courtyard. I shall commission him to paint your portrait when he is able to leave his duties in Milan for a time. Would that be agreeable to you?”

I was stunned beyond speech. My first thought was of my father: Such an honor would greatly increase his prestige and enhance his business, yet I doubted that would outweigh his fanatical devotion to Savonarola’s teachings. It would solidify his relationship to the Medici in a way that was sure to garner the disapproval of his new associates.

But now was not the time to voice such doubts. When I could speak, I said, “It would be more than agreeable, maestro. I am thrilled by the thought.”

“Good,” he replied, and gave a short, determined nod. “It is done.”

We spoke no further until the door opened again, and Lorenzo’s son entered.

“Giuliano,” he said. His tone betrayed his irritation. “I sent for your brother. Where is Piero?”

“Indisposed,” Giuliano answered swiftly. His face was flushed, as though he had run in response to the summons; at the sight of me, his expression brightened slightly. “Are you feeling unwell, Father?” He glanced about the room and caught sight of the untouched draught. “You are late in taking the physician’s prescription. Let me bring it to you.”

Lorenzo let go my hand and waved his son’s words away. “My youngest,” he said to me with unmistakable fondness, “is as quick to indulge my wishes as my eldest is to ignore them.”

Giuliano smiled; something in the gesture reminded me of the terra-cotta bust in the courtyard.

“I regret that I cannot accompany you back to your father,” Lorenzo continued, “but Giuliano is a responsible young man. I give you my guarantee that he will see you safely there.” He reached for my hand once more and squeezed it with remarkable force for one so infirm. “God be with you, my dear.”

“And with you, sir. Thank you for your kindness in inviting me to your home. And for the commission of the portrait…” We released our grip upon each other reluctantly. I felt an odd sadness as I took young Giuliano’s arm and left his father, a frail and ugly man surrounded by the wealth and beauty of the centuries.

XXV

In the corridor, Giuliano and I walked past more sculptures and portraits and delicate porcelain vases half my height, all lit by tapers held in elegantly wrought candelabra of bronze, silver, and gold. We did so in awkward silence; I rested my hand stiffly upon his forearm, while he stared straight ahead and moved with a natural dignity more suited to one a decade his senior. Like his sire, he was dressed in dark, somber colors and a simple fitted tunic of my father’s finest wool.

“I am sorry, Madonna Lisa, that my father’s illness interrupted your visit with him.”

“Please don’t apologize,” I answered. “I’m sorry that Ser Lorenzo is still unwell.”

In the wavering light, Giuliano’s shadowed expression grew solemn. “Father makes light of it to his visitors, but he has been so sick the past few months we all thought he would die. He is still very weak; the doctors told him not to invite any guests, but he was determined to see his friends again. He especially wanted to see Leonardo. And-he did not tell me, but I assume that he wished to meet you for the purpose of a future marriage arrangement?”

“Yes,” I said. The mention of the artist from Vinci-who had made special effort to come for this gathering- stirred my hopes. “But it is terrible about your father. What ails him?”

“His heart.” Giuliano gave a frustrated shrug. “At least, that is what the doctors say, but I think they know far less than they admit. He has always suffered from gout-sometimes so bad that he shrieks in agony if even bed linen brushes his skin. And his bones ache. But lately, he has been plagued by a dozen different complaints, none of which his physician seems able to relieve. He is weak; he cannot eat; he is restless and in pain…” He shook his head and stopped in mid-stride. “I have been so worried for him. He is forty-three, but he seems like an old man. When I was little, he was so strong, running with us children, playing as if he were one of us. He used to lift me up on his horse and I would ride with him…” His voice broke; he fell silent in order to gather himself.

“I am so sorry.” I had just lost my mother; I understood well the fear that now gripped this boy. “But he is improved from before, is he not?”

“Yes…” He nodded rapidly without meeting my gaze.

“Then certainly he will continue to get better. You must have hope.”

He came to himself suddenly. “Forgive me, Madonna! You are our guest, and here am I complaining to you. I should not trouble you with such concerns…”

“But I wish to know such things. Ser Lorenzo was so kind to me; he was showing me his collection, even though he was so tired.”

Giuliano smiled wistfully. “That is like my father. He loves to collect beautiful things, but they bring him no real pleasure unless he can share them with others and watch them take delight in them. I have heard people say that he can be cruel when it comes to business or politics, but I have seen only good in him.” He paused; his tone lightened. “Did you enjoy the tour, Madonna?”

“Very much.”

“I know my father would want to finish sharing his collection with you. May I ask him whether you could return to view more of it? Perhaps we could arrange for you to visit our villa at Castello; there are many amazing paintings