Painting Mona Lisa aka I, Mona Lisa

have cast us from Your presence. Hasten the punishment, and the scourge, that we may more quickly be united with You!” He spoke of an ark that the penitent could enter to be protected from the fury that was coming. And he ended each speech with the phrase “Cito! Cito! Quickly! Quickly!” urging the faithful to seek refuge before it was too late.

But with the passing of another year, the spring of 1494 brought-for me, at least-new hope. Long after I had surrendered my dream of seeing Giuliano again, Zalumma dropped another letter bearing the waxen Medici seal into my lap.

My most beloved Lisa,

Perhaps now you will believe that I am a man of my word. I did not give up, and here is the result: My brother Piero has at last given me permission to ask for your hand. My heart rejoices; this Earth has become for me no less than Heaven.

I hope that my long silence did not make you doubt the depth of my feelings for you, and I pray God that your own feelings have not changed toward me. I must in good faith warn you: We Medici have heard the grumblings against us, and the unfair accusations against Piero. Public sentiment has turned; and if your father and you accept my proposal, be aware that you might well be marrying into a family whose influence is waning. Piero remains confident that all will be well, but I fear a different outcome. He has received a letter from Charles’s ambassadors demanding that the French army be given free passage through Tuscany, as well as arms and soldiers. Piero feels he can give no clear answer; he is bound through family ties to support Naples, and Pope Alexander has issued a bull proclaiming Alfonso of Calabria king of that southern realm. His Holiness has also threatened to withhold our brother Giovanni’s benefices as Cardinal should Piero fail to protect Naples from Charles’s advance.

Yet every member of the Signoria is required by law to take an oath never to raise arms against France, and Florence has always relied heavily on her trade. And so my eldest brother finds himself in an impossible situation. It does not help matters that his advisors give him conflicting advice. Show the people that all is well, one man tells him, and so my brother kicks a football in the public streets, plays a game in full view of the citizens, to give the impression that life goes on as normal. What is the result? Ne’erdo-well, the people call him, and Zuccone, pumpkin-head.

I cannot help but think that he is the victim of a concerted effort to discredit and bring down our house.

Ponder this before you write me, love, and give me your answer. Let me know whether your feelings toward me have changed. And if you give me word: I shall come! Once I have received permission to call on your father, I will inform you of the day and hour.

I count the moments until I see you again. My happiness now resides in your hands.

Whether yea or nay, I remain

Yours forever,

Giuliano

I dropped the letter into my lap and raised my hands to my burning cheeks. Zalumma was, of course, standing over me, eager to learn what the letter contained.

I stared up at her, my face slack, my tone dull with the deepest amazement. “He is coming here to ask for my hand,” I said.

We looked, both wide-eyed, upon each other for one long moment, then seized each other’s shoulders and giggled like children.

XXXVI

I responded immediately to Giuliano. So great was my hope that I refused to remember my father’s railing against the Medici, or his threat to marry me to a godlier man. Instead, I clung to Giuliano’s promise that he would find a way to strike an agreement. He was after all il Magnifico’s son, skilled at diplomacy and the art of compromise. I trusted him to achieve the impossible. And because I was dangerously unskilled at diplomacy-especially when it came to my father-I held my tongue and said nothing to him of Giuliano’s intent.

Lent arrived. On the first Friday of the season, Savonarola took the pulpit. He preached that a “new Cyrus” was preparing to cross the Alps-not the Persian king of ancient times, but obviously Charles, who would be forced to do so on his southern march into Italy.

If the people had watched Fra Girolamo with awe before, they now looked upon him as a demigod, for he had- in their minds-predicted two years earlier what came to be known as “the trouble with France.”

“God is his guide,” Savonarola proclaimed of this new Cyrus. “Fortresses will fall before him, and no army will be able to resist him. And he who leads Florence will behave as a drunken man, doing the opposite of what should be done.” Having criticized Piero, the preacher targeted the Borgia pope: “Because of you, O Church, this storm has arisen!” Again, he spoke of the Ark, where the righteous could take refuge from the coming deluge ending his sermon again with the cry “Cito! Cito! Quickly! Quickly!”

During this time, King Charles moved his court from Paris southward to Lyons-uncomfortably close to Tuscany. Every Florentine citizen grew anxious; those who had formerly scoffed at Fra Girolamo now began to listen.

A few weeks before Easter, upon a morning gray and overcast with clouds, Zalumma and I arrived home quite early from market; a light drizzle hung in the air and had settled on my face and hair. My father had announced earlier that he would forgo not only meat for Lent but fish as well, and since we were all obliged to join him in his piety, I had no need to stop at either the butcher’s or the fishmonger’s.

As our carriage pulled round to the back of our palazzo, I spied there a second vehicle-one bearing the Medici coat of arms on its door. It had not been there long; the handsome white horses were still breathing heavily from their trip across the Arno. The driver, sitting at his post, smiled amiably in greeting.

“God have mercy on us!” Zalumma uttered.

I climbed down and gave our own driver instructions to take the food round to the kitchen. I was at once furious at my father; he had obviously arranged a meeting with my suitor at a time when I would be absent. At the same time, I was surprised that he had even agreed to speak with Giuliano. It rekindled my hope that my intended could convince not only his brother, but my father as well.

My anger turned to terror as I took stock of my appearance. To quiet my father, I had taken to wearing very plain, dark clothes, and even maintained the outdated tradition of wearing topaz, a gem reputed to cool the flames of Eros and help virgins keep their chastity. That day, I had chosen a high-necked gown of dark brown wool, which went nicely with the topaz necklace: I looked the part of a devoted piagnona. My veil of black gossamer had failed to protect my hair from the dampness, and a mutiny of frizzy locks peeked out from beneath.

I seized Zalumma’s hand. “You must find a way to hear their conversation! Go!”

She needed no further prompting, but set off almost running, while I walked more slowly, with what little decorum I could muster, into the house.

The door to the great room stood open, further proof that my arrival had not been expected.

I heard my father’s calm and earnest tone, which relieved me at once; I had expected it to be hostile. As I passed by the open door, he glanced up.

Had I been gifted with more self-control, I might have continued on, but I stopped to gaze at Giuliano. Out of respect for my father, he had dressed conservatively in unadorned blue wool, and a mantle of a blue so dark it was almost black. I had not set eyes on him for months, since the morning of his father’s funeral. He had grown and matured a great deal since then. He was taller, his face leaner and more angular, his shoulders and back broader. I was relieved to see that my father had received him properly, summoning wine and food for his guest.