Painting Mona Lisa aka I, Mona Lisa

fallen enemy, Holofernes. Her other hand bore a large sword, hefted above her head, ready to render the blow that would finish the gory task of hacking Holofernes’ head from his body.

And stacked neatly upon the flagstone, next to the walls, were piles and piles of weapons and armor: shields, helmets, maces, long swords, daggers, and lances reminiscent of Uccello’s masterpiece.

The sight evoked a thrill: All this time, the Medici had been preparing for a war.

I lifted my gaze to a small group of soldiers who stood nearby, conversing idly with one another; they stopped to stare back at me with curious, unfriendly expressions.

Perhaps, I told myself, this was simply Piero’s doing-the result of his unease and mistrust, like the Orsini troops who awaited him by the San Gallo city gate. Perhaps Giuliano had never approved this, or thought it necessary.

Nevertheless, I went over to one of the mounds of knives and carefully teased out a sheathed dagger-the smallest one there. The men did not like it; one of them made a move as if to come over and stop me, but the others held him back. I was now, after all, one of the Medici.

I unsheathed the dagger and held it to the fading sunlight. It was pure steel, double-edged, with a razor-sharp tip. My breath was coming hard as I slid it back into the leather, then nestled it into the inside pocket of my overdress.

The guard who had followed me from the house was waiting beneath the archway. I gave him a challenging stare, knowing that he had watched me take the weapon; he said nothing.

I let him follow me to the library. No more Petrarch; I wanted something unemotional, dry and demanding, to force my thoughts away from all unpleasantness. This time I chose a Latin primer. If everything went as planned-if the Signoria and Piero could be reconciled-I wanted to improve my education in the classics, as I would be entertaining many scholars. I wanted never to cause my husband any embarrassment by seeming like an unlettered peasant, and I was already worrying about how to impress my new sister-in-law.

I returned to my room and closed the door, which greatly relieved my guardians. I slipped my overdress off and laid it over the chair, then sat down by the fire. The book was meant as a child’s introduction to Latin; I opened the book and read:

Video, vides, videt, videmus, videtis, vident…

I see, you see, he sees, and so on. Had I been calm, I would have flown through the pages, but my thoughts were so scattered that I stared at the words stupidly. In order to concentrate at all, I read them aloud.

I droned on for only a few minutes when I was interrupted by a sound outside my window-the low, melancholy tolling of a bell, the one popularly known as the “cow” because it struck the same pitch as cattle lowing.

It was the bell that summoned all Florentine citizens to the Piazza della Signoria.

XLVII

I dropped the book, ran to the window, and flung open the shutters. It was still light outside and I peered down the street, straining toward the Piazza della Signoria. The clanging increased in tempo; I watched as servants wandered out of the grand palazzi down the street to stare, as pedestrians below stopped and turned their faces in the direction of the piazza, transfixed. Beneath me, a small army of men hurried out of the main and side entrances of our building, shields held at chest level, unsheathed swords clenched in their fists.

I clung fiercely to reason. The citizens had been summoned; I could not assume it was to cheer Piero’s downfall. It might well be to cheer his triumph.

I leaned out of my window for an eternity-like my neighbors, awaiting a sign. Painful moments passed before it came: softly, from the east and south, a distant, unintelligible rumble at first. Then a single voice, high and clear, rode upon the wind.

Popolo e liberta! Popolo e liberta!

I thought at once of Messer Iacopo astride his horse in the great piazza, trying in vain to rally the people to his cause. Only now it was my husband and his brother in that same piazza-and their efforts had been just as vain.

I thought of Messer Iacopo’s corpse, bloated and blue-white, exhumed from its grave and dragged through the city streets.

Beyond my window, servants ran back into palazzi, slamming doors; pedestrians scattered, running toward the sound or fleeing it.

I pushed myself away and quickly donned my overdress. I had brought nothing else with me, and so had nothing else to take-but instinct stopped me at the door. I pulled open the drawer to the desk, found Leonardo’s folded letter, and cast it upon the fire.

Go to Giovanni, my husband had said.

I rushed out into the antechamber to find the guards had gone. I ran into the corridor and there saw Michelangelo running toward me. His shyness was gone, replaced by urgency; this time, he met my gaze directly. We stopped just short of colliding; his breath came ragged, like mine.

“Where is Giuliano? Has he returned?” I asked.

He spoke at the same instant I did. “Madonna, you must flee! Go quickly to Giovanni!”

“Giuliano-”

“I have not seen him. I don’t think he has returned. But I know he would want you to go with his brother.”

He took my elbow and steered me down the stairs, across the courtyard, up another flight of stairs. He pushed me faster than I could run; twice, I stumbled over my skirts.

When we reached our destination, Michelangelo flung open the door. Giovanni, his movements deliberate and calm, was instructing a pair of servants on where his packed trunks should be taken. Only when he glanced up did I see the nervousness in his eyes, but his voice was steady.

“What is it?” He seemed irritated, almost hostile, at the interruption.

“You must take care of Madonna Lisa,” Michelangelo answered brusquely, with clear dislike. “You promised your brother. My destination will not be a safe one for her.”

“Oh. Yes.” With a flick of his fingers, Giovanni dismissed the servants, red-faced beneath the weight of their burdens. “Of course.”

Michelangelo turned to me. “I pray God we meet again, under better circumstances.” Then he was gone, his rapid steps ringing in the corridor.

Giovanni’s scarlet robe and red velvet cap were immaculate; he was freshly shaven and groomed, as though he had prepared himself for a high-ranking visitor. He was too distracted, perhaps too frightened, to dissemble. He stared at me without kindness. I was a nuisance, a mistake.

“Go and ready yourself for travel,” he said. “I will send Laura to help you.”

I did not believe him for an instant. I motioned to my clothing. “I have nothing to take. This is all I brought with me.” Which was true, except for the mousy brown dress my father had insisted I wear; I was all too glad to leave that behind.

“Then go to your quarters.” The Cardinal studied me, then said, “Look, this is nothing more than a few Lord Priors trying to incite a riot. With luck, my brothers”-he hesitated just before he said the last two words; I knew he had almost said Giuliano-“will be able to calm everyone down. In the meantime, I’m riding out to help them.” He let go a sigh, as if resigned to showing mercy. “Don’t worry; I won’t leave you here.”

“Thank you,” I said.

“Go. I’ll call for Laura to sit with you.”

I crossed the palazzo and returned to Lorenzo’s bedchamber. I could not resist staring out the open window, which had filled the room with cold air, despite the fire. Outside, dusk had fallen; in its failing light, torches flickered in the distance. They came from the west, the direction of San Marco, down the Via Larga. Those holding them aloft cried out, again and again:

Palle! Palle! Palle!

I stared at the shadowy forms materializing from the gloom. Most were on horseback, a few on foot; these were the wealthy, with their servants, probably friends and family from the palazzi lining the Via Larga, a Medici