Painting Mona Lisa aka I, Mona Lisa

you feel.”

I answered without pause or thought. “I want nothing more fervently.”

His smile dazzled. “And your feelings?…”

“Are the same as yours. But,” I added softly, “my father would never permit it. He is one of the piagnoni.”

His enthusiasm was limitless. “We could negotiate with him. If we required no dowry… If we paid him sufficiently so that he need not work… I have met Ser Antonio. He has always been most respectful, and seems to be a reasonable man.” He fell silent, reflecting. “Father is too ill to consider this… but I will take this up with my elder brother, Piero. I can reason with him. By the time Father recovers, the engagement will have been announced. He has always indulged me, and this time will be no different.”

He spoke with such wild optimism that I found myself convinced. “Is it possible?”

“More than possible,” he said. “It is done: I shall see to it. I will not be dissuaded. I will speak to Piero tonight, and hound him in the morning, if need be. And I will bring a report of my success to you tomorrow. Where shall we meet, and when?”

“Here.” I could think of no better place for subterfuge. “And at the same time.”

“Tomorrow evening, then.” Abruptly, he leaned forward and kissed me full on the lips; startled, I recoiled slightly-but I would be a liar if I did not admit that I quickly returned his ardor.

That was, of course, the impetus for our respective escorts to pounce and separate us. Giuliano was herded toward a waiting carriage, while Zalumma led me back to the church.

I whispered to Zalumma. “Am I foolish, or is it possible?”

Her hand was on my shoulder, guiding me; her gaze was focused on the near-distant crowd. “Nothing is impossible,” she said.

This time, I did not have to feign my unsteady step.

XXX

I slept not at all that night-knowing that Giuliano, too, probably lay awake in his bed on the other side of the Arno. I surrendered all heartbreak over learning that Leonardo favored men; I told myself that his admiring gaze had been that of an artist assessing a potential subject, and nothing more. Friend, he had written, and that was precisely what he had meant.

But Giuliano… handsome, intelligent, appreciative of the arts, and young, like me… I could dream of no better husband. And the love he bore for me provoked my own. Yet I could imagine no earthly bribe-gold, jewels, property-that would convince my father to give me to a Medici.

I prayed that night to God for Ser Lorenzo to recover and give Giuliano permission to marry me, for Him to soften my father’s heart and make such a union possible. I prayed, too, that the portrait il Magnifico had commissioned would become reality.

Just before dawn, when the darkness was barely beginning to ease to gray, I was seized by an unpleasant revelation: The stranger who had nodded at me in the sanctuary was the same man who had been standing behind me, and helped me to my feet, at San Marco the day my mother had died.

…

That morning, my father was pleased to hear that I would again attend Mass at San Lorenzo. I was tired from want of sleep, and my nerves allowed me to eat little that day; my obvious pallor would, I hoped, provide me with the excuse I needed to again slip outside the sanctuary, to the garden.

It was the sixth of April. I remember the date clearly, given what was to follow.

The morning had been clear, but sunset found the sky eclipsed by blackening clouds; the wind bore the smell of coming rain. Had I not been so desperate to see Giuliano, or my father so desperate to hear the teachings of the prophet, we might well have stayed at home to avoid the imminent deluge.

Outside San Lorenzo, the ranks of the faithful had swelled to a number even greater than that of the previous evening; the prospect of ill weather had done nothing to discourage them.

Once again, I was forced to set eyes upon Count Pico, who greeted us with his usual unctuous courtesy, and upon Fra Domenico, who held our place near the pulpit, then disappeared. Given my nerves, I remember little of the ceremony or the sermon; but Fra Girolamo’s opening words were delivered so forcefully I will never forget them.

“Ecco gladius Domine super terram cito et velociter!” he shouted, with such vehemence that many of his listeners gasped. “Behold the sword of the Lord, sure and swift over the Earth!”

The worshipers fell abruptly silent. The only sound in the great cathedral was that of Savonarola’s hoarse, ecstatic proclamations.

God had spoken to him, Fra Girolamo claimed. He had attempted the previous night to pen a sermon about Lazarus the risen, but the proper words eluded him-until God Himself spoke them aloud to his prophet.

God’s patience had been tried; no more would He hold back His hand. Judgment was coming, judgment was here, and nothing now could stop it. Only the faithful would be spared. He spoke so convincingly that I had to struggle not to be frightened.

The air was warm and close. I closed my eyes and swayed, then felt the sudden conviction that I had to break free of the crowd or else be violently sick, there in the sanctuary. I caught Zalumma’s arm with fierce desperation. She had been waiting for my signal, but at the sight of my honest distress grew alarmed.

“She is sick,” she told my father, but he was once again utterly beguiled by the prophet and did not hear. And so Zalumma pushed me through the barricade of bodies outside, into the cool air.

The words of Savonarola’s sermon were whispered from person to person until they found their way outside, onto the church steps, where a peasant shouted them for those gathered there.

Repent ye, O Florence! Mothers, wail for your children!

The black, roiling clouds made early evening as dark as night. A cold wind off the Arno brought with it a brackish smell. The freedom and air revived me somewhat, though I was still anxious to hear Giuliano’s report.

We made our way to the church garden; I pushed open the gate. Inside, there was darkness, and against it the blacker shapes of trees whose branches writhed with each fresh gust of wind, setting blossoms asail.

But Giuliano was not there.

Not yet there, I told myself firmly and, raising my voice above the wind, said to Zalumma, “We will wait.”

I stood, my gaze fixed firmly on the open gate as I tried to conjure Giuliano and his guard from the shadows. Zalumma shared no such hope; her face was turned toward the starless sky, her attention on the coming storm. In the distance, a man’s voice floated on the breeze.

These are the words of God Himself. I am an unworthy messenger; I know not why God has chosen me. Ignore my frailties, O Florence, and focus your hearts instead on the voice of He Who warns you now.

We waited as long as we dared. I would have stayed longer, but Zalumma patted my shoulder. “It’s time. Your father will become suspicious.”

I silently resisted until she took my elbow and propelled me toward the gate. I walked back toward the church, my throat and chest aching with contained emotion. Despite the ominous weather, the crowd on the steps and in the piazza had not thinned; many had lit torches, their winding ranks a great, glittering snake.

Neither Zalumma nor I had the strength to push our way back inside; her insistence that they should let a noblewoman pass was greeted with scornful laughter.

I turned, thinking to go back to the garden, but Zalumma gripped my arm. “Stay,” she urged. “Do you hear? They have stopped repeating his sermon. Mass is almost over; your father will be out soon.” She added, in a lower voice, “If he had been able to come, he would have been waiting for you.”

I turned my face away, then started at the nearby rumble of thunder. Murmurs came from the crowd; an old