Painting Mona Lisa aka I, Mona Lisa

more stood on the steps and in the piazza outside; the only sound, as Savonarola surveyed the assembly, was the distant rumble of thunder.

After his months of solitude and fasting, Fra Girolamo was ghastly pale, his cheekbones shockingly prominent. On this day, there was no confidence in his wide eyes, no righteousness, only agitation and sorrow; his jutting lower lip trembled as if he struggled to hold back tears. His shoulders slumped, and his hands gripped the edges of the lectern desperately, as though he labored beneath an unbearable weight.

Whatever words he was about to pronounce were, for him, a dreadful burden. He ran bony fingers through his unkempt black curls, then clutched them tightly and released a groan.

The long silence afterward was piercing. The prophet had last told us the story of Noah, had last urged us to enter God’s Ark to find protection against the coming deluge. What would he say now?

Finally he opened his mouth, and cried, in a voice as heartrending as it was shrill: “Ecce ego adducam aquas super terram. Behold, I bring a flood of waters upon the Earth!”

Screams echoed through the vast sanctuary. In front of us, at our sides, men and women swooned and slid from their seats to the floor. Zalumma reached for my hand and squeezed it hard, hurting me, as if to shock me back to myself, as if to say, Do not become caught up in this. Do not become part of this madness.

To my right, my father and Pico began to weep-my father silently, Pico in great, wrenching sobs. They were not alone; soon the air was filled with wailing and piteous cries to God.

Even the prophet could no longer contain himself. He covered his homely face with his hands and wept, his body convulsed by grief.

Several moments passed before Fra Girolamo and his listeners were able to compose themselves; what he said afterward I do not recall. I only know that, for the first time, I considered that Florence as I knew it might disappear-and with it, Giuliano.

XXXVIII

That night, when I at last could sleep, I dreamed that I stood in the basilica of San Marco, near the altar where Cosimo was buried. The building was so crowded, the people so frenzied to hear the prophet, that bodies pressed, hot and sweating, against me-hard, harder, until I could scarcely draw a single breath.

In the midst of this desperate unpleasantness, I became aware that the great bulk leaning against my left side belonged to Fra Domenico. I tried to recoil with disgust and hatred, but faceless forms pushed against me, pinned my limbs, held me fast.

“Let him go!” I cried, without realizing I was going to cry out, nor understanding my own words until after they were uttered-for it was then that I caught sight of my Giuliano, slung over the portly monk’s wide back, his head hanging halfway to Domenico’s knees, his face hidden.

Overwhelmed by the crush of bodies, by terror, I shouted again at Fra Domenico: “Let him go!”

But the portly monk seemed deaf as well as mute. He stared straight ahead, toward the pulpit, while Giuliano- still suspended upside down, his hair hanging down, his cheeks flushed-turned his face toward me.

“It all repeats, Lisa, don’t you see?”He smiled reassuringly. “It all repeats.”

I woke, panicked, with Zalumma standing over me making clucking sounds. Apparently, I had cried out in my sleep.

From that moment on, I felt like Paul of Damascus: The scales had fallen from my eyes, and I could no longer pretend that I did not see. The situation with Giuliano and his family was highly precarious. Florence teetered on the precipice of change, and I could not wait for safer circumstances to present themselves. They might never come.

The instant dawn presented me with sufficient light, I wrote another letter, this one consisting of two sentences.

Give me a place and a time-or not, if you will not have me. Either way, I am coming to you soon.

This time I would tell not even Zalumma what it said.

A week passed. My father, who delighted in telling me about Piero de’ Medici’s failures, had fresh news to relay: One of Charles’s envoys had arrived in our city, and had demanded of the Signoria that the French king be given free passage through Florence. He required an answer at once, as the King would soon be arriving.

The Signoria had none, as the members were obliged first to obtain Piero’s si or no; and Piero, still caught between conflicting advice, could not give an immediate reply.

The outraged envoy left-and within a day, all Florentine merchants were banished from France. Shops on the Via Maggio, which relied heavily on French business, shut down at once.

“People cannot feed their families,” my father said. Indeed, since his own business had suffered, we were obliged to live on more meager rations; we had long since given up meat. His workers-the shearers, the combers and carders, the spinners and dyers-were going hungry.

And it was all Piero de’ Medici’s fault. To prevent a rebellion, he had doubled the number of guards who stood watch over the seat of the government, the Palazzo della Signoria, as well as those who protected his own house.

I listened patiently to my father’s railing; I heard the grumbling of the household servants and remained unmoved.

Even Zalumma looked pointedly at me and said, “It is not safe, these days, to be friends with the Medici.”

I did not care. My plan was in place, and the time to implement it would soon arrive.

XXXIX

Near October’s end, Piero-at last ignoring his advisors-rode north for three days, accompanied by only a few friends. His destination was the fortress of Sarzana, where King Charles camped with his army. Inspired by the late Lorenzo, who had once gone alone to King Ferrante and with his singular charm averted war with Naples, Piero hoped his brave gesture would similarly save Florence from Rapallo’s fate.

With Piero gone, the Signoria felt free to voice its opposition even more openly. Seven emissaries followed Piero north, with the idea of overtaking him and eyeing his every move. They had been instructed to tell King Charles that, no matter what Piero might say, Florence welcomed the French.

By the fourth of November, every citizen knew that Piero had, without coaxing, handed over the fortresses of Sarzana, Pietrasanta, and Sarzanella to Charles. My father was furious. “A hundred years!” he stormed, and struck the supper table with his fist, making the dishes clatter. “A hundred years it took us to conquer those lands, and he has lost them in a day!”

The Signoria was just as angry. At the same meal, I learned that the priors had decided to send a small group of envoys to Pisa, to meet Charles there. Piero would not be among them-but Fra Girolamo Savonarola would.

Such news left me dizzy with anxiety, but my determination never wavered, nor did my plans change.

On the eighth of November, I set off alone in the carriage, leaving Zalumma behind on the agreed-upon pretext that she was unwell. My father, like all good Florentine men on a Saturday morning, had gone to the public baths.

The driver took me over the Arno on the ancient Ponte Vecchio. Some of the botteghe were closed because of the French embargo, but some shops still proudly displayed their wares despite the prospect of imminent invasion, and the bridge was crowded with riders on horseback, pedestrians, and carriages like mine.

At last we arrived at the market-not as crowded as it might have been, but still bustling, each of its four