Painting Mona Lisa aka I, Mona Lisa

perceives them. They don’t know how to be… humble about their position. And Piero… he gets conflicting advice from his counselors, and becomes so confused that he does nothing at all.

“I told him to go to Sarzana-the way Father went to King Ferrante in the hope of preventing a war. But I wanted to go with him. ‘Don’t listen to your advisors,’ I told him. ‘Let me guide you.’ But he wanted to prove he could do it himself, without my help. It’s-well, Father never kept it secret that I was his favorite. He always told Piero that when he finally became the leader of the family, he shouldn’t do anything without consulting me. And Piero’s always been jealous of that. I don’t blame him, but…” He shook his head. “It was a mistake, handing over Sarzana and the other two citadels. I know Piero; he doesn’t know who to listen to, so he listened to no one and acted out of sheer nerves. So now the Signoria is furious, and they’re sending Fra Girolamo to talk to the French king. It’s all a mess. I just hope Piero will listen to me about how best to straighten it out.”

His frustration was clear; he had Lorenzo’s quick mind combined with his namesake uncle’s sweetness. An accident of birth had stolen from him the position for which he was naturally gifted-and because of it, everything might be lost. “So the piagnoni,” I said, trying to lead him back. “Does Savonarola have political aims? Does he want Florence for himself… and maybe Milan, too?”

He frowned at me. “It’s more complicated than that. I have agents working on it…”

Of which Leonardo was one. “How complicated? I have time-”

We were interrupted by a knock at the bedchamber door, and a male voice. “Ser Giuliano?”

“Yes?”

“Your brother has returned from Sarzana. He is waiting for you in the dining hall.”

“Tell him I’ll be there shortly.”

I had already leapt from the bed and was pulling on my camicia. Giuliano looked at me, then at his leggings and farsetto, lying in a heap near the hearth, then at me again. “Send Laura and my valet,” he called. “We need help dressing.”

XLIV

Once we were dressed, Giuliano led me downstairs through the vast, quiet palazzo; our steps echoed against the shining marble. The corridors seemed emptier than I remembered: Much of the art had been spirited away.

“Perhaps I shouldn’t go,” I hissed, my arm linked with his. “Piero will want to discuss political matters.” In fact, I was nervous about the prospect of meeting him. Despite Giuliano’s reassurances, I was not at all certain that the eldest Medici brother had agreed to our marriage with enthusiasm. I had already had a painful encounter with my father and was in no mood for another with Piero.

Giuliano seemed to read my thoughts. “It’s true, my brother would not hear of my marrying you-at first. But I persisted. I convinced him it made great political sense. After all, the people were grumbling about the fact that Piero was the son of an Orsini woman, and had also married one. I told him, ‘You’ve already made a strong alliance with the noble Orsinis-and Giovanni is a cardinal, which makes the Pope and Church our allies. It’s time for us now to tie ourselves to the people, to show that we don’t consider ourselves royalty, as they say.’ He finally listened. And while Alfonsina and Giovanni disagree-well, I have no doubt your charm will win them over.”

We stopped at last in front of a tall door of carved and polished dark wood. Giuliano pushed it open, then gestured for me to enter.

Warmth and light greeted me. On the opposite wall, a huge fire blazed in a massive hearth; on the long dining table, a candelabrum bearing more than a dozen burning tapers exuded the smell of heated wax. Every wall was frescoed with pastoral scenes-of Bacchus and his grapes, of nymphs and satyrs cavorting while Pan played his pipes.

Two men occupied the room. The first paced in front of the fire, arms gesticulating wildly. He was dressed like a prince, in a tunic of sapphire velvet with purple satin trim. A great amethyst hung from his thick gold necklace, and the diamonds on his fingers glittered with reflected firelight. His shoulders were broad, his waist narrow, and his leggings revealed powerful thighs and well-muscled calves. One could easily imagine him out in Florence’s streets, kicking a ball.

“How dare they insult me so!” he raved bitterly. “How dare they, when I have just saved the city! I deserve a hero’s welcome, and instead-” He glanced up, scowling, at our interruption.

The second man sat at the table. His manner was impassive as he meticulously carved the meat from the bones of a roasted pheasant. He wore a scarlet cardinal’s gown, a red silk cap, and a ruby ring; as we entered, he half turned in his chair to get a better look at us. He was thick fingered, thick lipped, with a large, broad head and an even broader chest. He set down his fork and knife and rose. “Giuliano! Who is this?” He was surprised but not impolite. His voice was deep and arrestingly handsome, despite his plain face and small, suspicious eyes. At the sight of me, he rose.

“Who is this?” Piero demanded, echoing his brother. He stepped into the candelabrum’s light, revealing a face very like his mother’s, his lips thin, his chin weak.

“Piero, you remember. This is my wife, Madonna Lisa di Antonio Gherardini. Lisa, this is my brother Piero di Lorenzo de’ Medici.”

My husband’s answer left Giovanni aghast. “Antonio the wool merchant? Is this your idea of a joke?”

“Do not insult my wife,” Giuliano replied, his tone menacing. “The Gherardini are a good family. Piero gave us permission to marry some time ago.”

Piero dismissively waved a hand. “I gave you permission. But now is hardly the time to meet the young lady, when we are set upon from all sides…” He bowed cursorily to me. “Forgive us, Madonna; we have urgent and private matters to discuss. Giuliano, you can introduce us to your intended later.”

“She’s not going anywhere, brother. She is family. The priest married us this morning.”

Piero let go a faint gasp. Giovanni dropped back into his seat and put a hand upon his barrel of a chest. The latter was first to speak, in that melodious voice which, despite its owner’s agitation, was pleasurable to hear. “You’ll have to get it annulled. You can’t waste Medici seed on a commoner.”

I flushed, angry enough to forget my nervousness.

Giuliano spoke, his tone heated. “She is no commoner. She is my wife and she is staying here, under her husband’s roof. The marriage has been consummated, and I will not tolerate talk of an annulment again.” He turned to Piero. “As for our conversation-she already knows everything, so she will stay. You are both going to give her a kiss and welcome her into the family.”

Giovanni rose and gave me a curious look as he stepped toward me and took my hands; his own were soft and fleshy. With abrupt offhanded charm, he smiled and said, “I will give you a kiss because you are so beautiful, Lisa.” Then he lifted a brow and, with a swift glance at Giuliano, added, “But I can easily make arrangements…”

“I will not hear it,” Giuliano warned.

“Well, then,” Giovanni said, with resigned diplomacy. “Sit beside me, Madonna Lisa. You sit, too, Giuliano. This is your wedding feast, then, is it? After so much consummation, a feast is in order. Let me ring for the servants.” He rose and pulled on a nearby chain that hung from an opening in the wall, then returned to his chair and gestured for us to take ours.

Piero was too agitated to offer his hands or a kiss. He remained on the opposite side of the table as Giuliano and I sat beside the Cardinal.

“Greetings will have to wait. I’ve just come from the Signoria.” Piero spread his hands in exasperation, as if to say, I have given them everything… what more do they want? “I have saved Florence- saved her at the small cost of a few fortresses and some ducats-”

“How many?” Giovanni demanded.

Piero’s voice lowered abruptly. “Two hundred thousand.”

Giuliano did not react but merely gazed steadily at his eldest brother; clearly, he already knew this fact.

Giovanni set down his goblet with such force that wine spilled over the rim onto the table. “Christ in Heaven!” Giovanni swore. “What were you thinking? No wonder the Signoria won’t talk to you! No wonder they’ve sent this fellow full of Doomsday nonsense-this Savonarola-to Pisa.”

Piero turned on him defensively. “Savonarola? To Pisa? Now they mock me openly!”