marrying a man with the noblest heart and the best brain in all Tuscany. These are difficult times, but so long as you are with Ser Giuliano, you need never fear.
“Here. This is what your husband will see, when you go to him. A more beautiful sight cannot be found.” She handed me an exquisite mirror of heavy engraved gold inset with diamonds.
I handed the mirror back after a swift, unsatisfied glimpse, and the ridiculous thought that the colors of my gown clashed with Giuliano’s gold and crimson.
Thinking we were finished, I made a move for the door. At once Laura said, “Ah, but you are not complete!” And she went to a closet and drew forth a long veil-gossamer white, embroidered with unicorns and mythical gardens in thread of gold. She placed it reverently upon my head, covering my face; the world grew indistinct and glittering.
“Madonna Clarice wore it when she married Ser Lorenzo,” she said, “and Alfonsina when she married Piero. Giuliano made sure that the priest blessed it again, just for you.” She smiled. “Now you are ready.”
She led me down to the ground floor, to the Medici’s private chapel. I had expected someone to be waiting there, in front of the door, but the corridor was empty. At the sight, I grew sick with worry.
Panicked, I turned to Laura. “Zalumma,” I said. “My slave… she should have arrived by now with my things. Giuliano was to have sent a carriage for her.”
“Shall I inquire after her for you, Madonna?”
“Please,” I said. I had made my decision, and would follow through. But Zalumma’s absence troubled me deeply; I had counted on her to attend me at my wedding, just as she had attended my mother at hers.
Laura left to investigate the matter. When she returned a few moments later, I knew from her expression that the news was not what I wanted to hear. “There is no word, Madonna. The carriage has not returned.”
I put fingertips to my temple, bracing it. “I cannot wait for her.”
“Then let me serve as your attendant,” Laura said, her tone soothing and reasonable. “No one in the household is kinder to me than Ser Giuliano; it would be a great honor to assist his bride.”
I drew a breath and nodded. The situation demanded that the wedding take place as swiftly as possible, before we were discovered.
Laura opened the door to the chapel to reveal Giuliano, waiting with the priest in front of the altar. Next to them both stood the sculptor Michelangelo-a surprise, since rumor had it that he had fallen out with Piero and had left for Venice the previous month. His presence filled me with trepidation. Bad enough that Pico should be accepted into the bosom of the Medici. Now there was yet another of Savonarola’s chosen, here at my own wedding.
My unease disappeared with a single glance at my waiting bridegroom. Giuliano glanced up at me with joy, longing, and fright. Even the priest’s hands, which bore a small book, trembled. Faced by their terror, my own faded.
In the wake of this perverse calm, I walked toward the three men-with Laura holding my train-and allowed myself to drink in the glory of the chapel. In the chancel, above the altar, was a fresco of the Christ child being adored by the Madonna and angels, most delicately wrought. On the perpendicular wall, to my left, was a fresco rendered in a more colorful and robust style, of the Magi processing toward the Child.
The magus nearest me was young, dressed in Florentine fashion and borne by a white horse caparisoned in red and gold. Following him on horseback were faces I recognized: the old Piero de’ Medici and his young sons Lorenzo-distinctly homely, even in his idealized youth-and the handsome Giuliano. Lorenzo gazed in the direction of the Holy Child, but his brother faced the viewer, staring at an indistinct point in the far distance, his expression uncharacteristically solemn.
It gave me no comfort to recognize, in a corner of the wall, the fetching visage of Giovanni Pico.
Although it was almost noon, the interior of the chapel was gloomy. Several candles burned, their light flickering off the prodigious amount of pure gold leaf applied to the walls, and highlighting the amazing colors: the pinks and corals, turquoises and greens of angels’ wings and birds, the reds and golds of raiment, the dazzling whites and blues of sky, the deep greens of hills and trees.
“Madonna, stop!” The servant Laura paused; drawn away from the fresco, I glanced about, confused. Not until the priest gestured did I look down at my feet and see the garland of dried roses and wildflowers strewn across the chapel floor.
Giuliano knelt and broke the garland in two with a deliberate gesture.
I could not have been more thoroughly won. He rose, took my hand, and drew me to stand beside him at the altar.
Despite his nerves and youth, Giuliano was in command of himself; he turned to Michelangelo with the assuredness of a man who has borne much responsibility in his life. “The ring,” he said. He might not have been able to provide the gown, a great cathedral filled with people, or my father’s blessing, but he had endeavored to give me those things he could.
Michelangelo palmed the item to Giuliano. There was an easiness between those two conspirators that made me think they had been close friends, almost brothers, for some time, devoted to the same causes, holding the same secrets. And that, again, troubled me.
Giuliano took my hand and slipped the ring onto my finger. The band adhered to the city ordinance governing wedding rings, being of unadorned gold, and thin. It was also perilously loose, so he closed my fist over it to hold it in place, then whispered into my ear, “Your hands are even finer than I thought; we shall have it properly fitted.”
He nodded to the priest, and the ceremony commenced.
I remember nothing of the words, save that Giuliano gave the priest his answer in a strong voice, while I had to clear my throat and repeat myself in order to be heard. We knelt at the wooden altar where Cosimo, Piero, Lorenzo, and the elder Giuliano had prayed. I prayed, too, not just for happiness with my new husband, but for his safety and that of his family.
Then it was over, and I was wed-under strange and uncertain circumstances, married in the eyes of God, at least, if not in those of my father or Florence.
XLI
In a corner of the room, two musicians played lutes; a table, festooned with flowers, held platters of figs and cheeses, almonds and pretty pastries. Though Laura prepared me a plate, I could not eat, but I drank wine undiluted for the first time in my life.
I asked Laura again to find out whether Zalumma had come. She left me at a most subdued celebration, which consisted of my husband, Michelangelo, and me; the priest had already left.
Awkwardly, after a prompting elbow administered by Giuliano, Michelangelo raised his goblet-from which he had not yet drunk-and said, “To the bride and groom; may God grant you a hundred healthy sons.”
For a fleeting moment, the sculptor smiled shyly at me. He drank a small sip and set his goblet down. I drank, too-a great swallow. The wine, astringent on my tongue, warmed me as it went down.
“I take my leave of the happy couple,” Michelangelo said, then bowed and made his exit, clearly eager to be free of his social obligation.
The instant he was gone, I turned to Giuliano. “I am fearful of him.”
“Of Micheletto? You are joking!” My new husband smiled; he had regained control of his nerves and was doing his best to appear relaxed. “We were raised as brothers!”
“That is precisely why I am worried,” I said. “It increases the danger to you. You know my father makes-has made-me attend Fra Girolamo’s sermons. And I have seen the sculptor present at almost every one. He is one of the
Giuliano lowered his gaze; his expression became thoughtful. “One of the
