Painting Mona Lisa aka I, Mona Lisa

Giuliano sounded weary, frustrated. “Didn’t you read the letter I sent you?”

Once again, Piero’s eyes darted to the side. “You have no idea how busy I was, how beset… I can’t be blamed for missing a detail.”

“You never read it at all,” Giuliano said calmly. “If you had, you would have known that the Signoria was upset about the fortresses and the money. The French are laughing at us, brother. They hardly expected to gain Sarzana, much less Sarzanella and Pietrasanta and a mountain of gold. The Signoria is rightly furious. My letter asked you to come here directly so that we might plan a strategy to approach them.”

Piero sagged, deflated; the nuances of diplomacy and negotation were beyond him, yet he maintained a weak defiance. “Little brother,” he said, in a low tone, “I had to go by myself. I have to do this by myself; otherwise, who would respect me? I am not Father…”

“None of us are,” Giuliano answered gently. “But the three of us together can equal him.” This he said out of apparent generosity, for Giovanni had returned to dismantling his pheasant and listened with an observer’s detachment.

The speakers paused then as a servant entered. Giovanni directed him to bring wine, and food “for our two lovers here.” Once the man departed, the conversation resumed.

By that time, Piero had reclaimed his indignation. “I did stop in front of our palazzo when I first came into town-I’m not a total idiot. There was a crowd waiting outside in the loggia, eager to hear my report. I told them the good news, that everything had been made right with Charles. I did exactly what you had suggested: I ordered sweetmeats thrown to the people and wine served, just as Father did when he returned from negotiating with King Ferrante. But no one was in the mood to celebrate, apparently. They drank my wine and ate my food, all the while staring silently at me, as if I’d done something wrong.

“So I went on to the Palazzo della Signoria.” It was the custom for the highest members of Florence’s government to inhabit the palazzo during their tenure; they took their meals there and even slept there. “Do you know what they did? They turned me away! Sent a servant to the door to say, ‘Come back tomorrow-they are eating supper.’ I showed him with a gesture what I thought of that!” He snorted. “I’m not a complete fool. I know about the people’s grumbling. I’ve taken no chances. I made arrangements with Paolo. Eight hundred Orsini soldiers-five hundred on horseback, three on foot-are camped at the San Gallo gate right now awaiting my signal, in case there’s trouble.”

“Who told you to do that?” Giuliano pressed his hands to his face in disbelief and aggravation, then just as swiftly removed them.

“Dovizi.”

Ser Piero Dovizi was Piero’s closest advisor.

“I’m going to repeat this again: You can’t trust Dovizi! I don’t think he has our best interests at heart anymore.” Giuliano made a noise of frustration. “Don’t you see how it appears? The Signoria and the people are already angry that you acted without approval. Now you’ve brought an army with you. What’s to keep them from thinking that you intend to seize complete power?”

“I would never do such a thing!”

“They don’t know that. Our enemies take every opportunity to fuel rumor. We have to be extremely cautious, to think of the repercussions our actions might have. Any peasant, any citizen, who lives near the Porta San Gallo is going to see an army there. They know the French are coming-and here are Orsini soldiers waiting. What will they think?” Giuliano shook his head. “Do you know what Savonarola preached? Last week, after everyone learned that the French had sacked Fivizzano and spilled much innocent blood there?”

I thought immediately of Michelangelo sitting quietly in the great crowd at San Lorenzo, listening and remembering carefully all that was said.

“He told the crowd he had predicted Charles’s coming two years ago, when he said that the sword of God would swoop down from the heavens and smite all of Florence’s sinners. Smite us, in other words, and anyone who doesn’t agree with Fra Girolamo. Don’t you see that Savonarola is playing to their fears, making them worry that Florence and France will go to war? And that’s precisely what they’ll think when they see the Orsini camped at the gate. Why won’t you consult with me before you do these things?”

Piero bowed his head, then looked toward the fire; his face relaxed and drained of arrogance and outrage. “I’ve tried to be what Father wanted me to be. But no matter how hard I try, I fail. I did as you said: I tried to negotiate free passage with King Charles-and now Alfonsina is furious with me, won’t even speak to me. I have the feeling she’s going to stay at Poggio a Caiano forever. I had to lie to Paolo Orsini to get his troops; he doesn’t know of my intention to let Charles pass. And the Pope will hate us when he learns of it. What must I do?”

“Control your temper, for one thing,” Giuliano said matter-offactly. “No more obscene gestures. Let’s talk tonight about a plan for approaching the Lord Priors tomorrow, and then we’ll go together to the Palazzo della Signoria. As for Alfonsina, the Orsini, and the Pope-we will seek their forgiveness later. Florence must come first.”

“At least you can keep a cool head,” Piero said wistfully, by way of capitulation.

By then a maidservant appeared with wine and goblets, leading a parade of servants with platters of fowl, hare and venison, cheeses and sweetmeats, and every delicacy imaginable. Piero finally sat and ate with us, but he remained troubled, and made no attempt to join our more lighthearted conversation. I ate, too, but like Piero, I was filled with worry, and my gaze remained fastened on Giuliano.

That night, I waited alone in Lorenzo’s bedchamber while my husband conferred with his brothers on how to approach the Signoria. I was exhausted beyond words, having lain awake the previous night, but I still could not sleep. Added to my sorrow over my father was the fact that I missed Zalumma terribly, and was half mad trying to figure out what punishment he would inflict on her for conspiring with me. I was worried, too, about what would happen when Giuliano went with his brother to the Signoria; I had already decided to convince him not to go- Florence be damned-or to let me go with him. I was childishly frightened that once I let him go, I might never see him again.

I lay tucked in bed, wide-eyed. The lamp was still lit, as well as the hearth, and the light cast wavering shadows on the walls and the painting of the Battle of San Romano. I stared for a long time at the besieged captain, just as Lorenzo certainly must have for many years.

The fire was warm-the Medici servants did not skimp on wood-and I began to perspire beneath the velvet and fur covers. I rose and went over to open the window.

Outside, the sky was clouded, hiding every star; the cold air smelled of rain. I put out my hand, and when I brought it back, it was damp with drizzle.

“Ecce ego adducam aquas super terram,” I whispered, without realizing I was going to do so. Behold, I bring a flood of waters upon the Earth.

XLV

Giuliano came to me in the hours before dawn. The lamp still burned, and its light revealed the fine lines about his eyes-eyes which might have belonged to a man ten years his senior. I did not speak to him then of politics, or his plans for speaking to the Signoria, or my desire that he not go. Instead, I took him in my arms and made love to him. He deserved and needed no less.

It was the ninth of November. Morning brought with it such gloom that Giuliano and I slept quite late. I woke with the voice of the dying Lorenzo in my mind:

Ask Leonardo… The third man… I failed you… Leonardo, now, he and the girl…

And then I experienced a spasm of fear, remembering what had passed with my father; and worse, remembering that Giuliano had promised to accompany his brother to meet with the Signoria that day. After a disoriented instant, I realized I had been roused by the tolling of church bells calling the faithful to Sunday Mass. I had never heard such a loud chorus: I was accustomed to the bells at Santo Spirito, but now, in the midst of the city, I heard the songs of San Marco, San Lorenzo, Santa Maria del Fiore, all of them close by.

Beside me, sprawled on his stomach, with one arm flung above his head, the other tucked by his side, Giuliano