Painting Mona Lisa aka I, Mona Lisa

Once we were out in the yard, I continued to let her lead, since she knew the way out to the Via Larga.

Armed guards milled about in front of the bolted gate topped with deadly sharp spikes and lined with iron bars thick as my arm. Through the bars, I could see the black shapes of soldiers standing in the flickering play of firelight and shadow. The men moved little; not yet engaged in battle, they were the rear guards, the last line of protection against the mob.

On my side, one soldier stood directly next to the bolt.

I rode up to him and leaned down. “You there. Open the gate.”

He looked up at me; even the dim light could not hide the fact that he thought me mad. “Madonna, they’ll tear you to pieces.”

“Everyone’s confused out there. No one will notice where I’ve come from; no one knows who I am. I’m not armed; who will attack me?”

He shook his head. “It isn’t safe for a lady.”

I felt around in the pocket of my overdress-pushing the heavy sheathed dagger aside-and pulled out one of the medallions without looking to see which it was. It caught just enough torchlight to shine. “Here. It’s worth more than a florin. Perhaps a lot more.”

He took it, frowned at it, then realized what it was. He glanced guiltily about him, then without another word, quietly slid the bolt and pushed the gate open-only a crack, since the press of bodies outside kept it from swinging very far. The mare and I sidled out, barely squeezing through; the rough iron skinned my bared shins and snagged the fine threads of my gown and overdress.

The instant I cleared it, the gate clanged shut behind me; the bolt slid locked with grim finality.

I found myself amid a group of perhaps forty men guarding the gate. They stood shoulder to shoulder; as the mare picked her way past them, their sweat-soaked bodies pressed against me.

“Mother of God!” one swore.

Another cried, “Where in Hell’s name did she come from?”

Their unsheathed swords caught on my train, shredded my skirts, nicked my skin-and the mare’s flank, too, for she whinnied in complaint. But I guided her firmly, relentlessly, toward the front line.

There, men fought in the light of torches hung from the palazzo walls. The guards cast looming shadows on the rebellious citizens; the black outlines of their upraised swords extended far beyond reality, appearing to pierce men standing a good distance away.

I urged my reluctant mount beyond safety, into the fray. The air was cold but foul, redolent of smoke and burning rancid fat. The cacophony was maddening: The Signoria’s cow still tolled, horses screamed, and men cursed, while others shouted Messer Iacopo’s rallying cry.

But I could hear no countering Palle! Palle!

Bodies danced about so quickly, in such uncertain light, that it was difficult to judge friend from foe. There were no colored banners here, no neatly arrayed forces with clearly marked enemies and orderly rows of lances; there was certainly no hero leading the charge. A sword swiped the air just behind me, barely missing my exposed leg; I felt the rush of air stirred by the blade.

My mount and I surged forward; our place was quickly filled by a peasant.

I could not see the soldier behind me dealing the blows, but I saw their result. The blade came down and bit into the man’s flesh between his neck and shoulder with a thud. The peasant screamed, so shrill and wild it was horrible to hear. Blood spilled from the wound and spread, dark and swift, down the front of his robe until it merged with the shadows. He fell to his knees shrieking, the sword still buried in him; the unseen soldier struggled mightily to free it. At last it came out with a sucking sound, then came down again, this time on the peasant’s head, with such force that-for the blink of an eye-a spray of blood, a fatal red halo, hung suspended in a beam of light.

The man fell forward, grazing my mare’s hooves.

I turned my head to glance behind me and met the gaze of the murderer: a Medici soldier, barely Giuliano’s age, his eyes filled with an odd, unfocused terror. He did not notice that I was a finely dressed woman, without a weapon, or that I had come from the direction of the palazzo. He seemed only to know that he should heft his sword again and bring it down. And I was now in his path.

I ducked my head and goaded the mare into a gallop. We tore through the crowd; my knees and elbows banged against flesh and bone, metal and wood.

Soon I broke free and made my way east down the Via Larga, passing the loggia and the palazzo’s front entrance, where only a few years before Lorenzo had escorted me over the threshold. Medici guards still fought in small scattered groups, but the great entry doors had been abandoned, and a group of rioters were attempting to batter their way in with a heavy wooden beam. I rode through the alleyway Giovanni had taken to elude the crowd. From there, I made my way past the church of San Lorenzo down to the Baptistery of San Giovanni and the Piazza del Duomo. Small groups roamed the streets-a group of three riders, a pair of monks, a poor father and mother, running with squalling children in their arms.

Only when I reached the Duomo did the growing crowds force me to slow. Abruptly, I was completely encircled by men, two of them holding flaming branches. They lifted them higher to get a better look at me.

They were giovani, street ruffians.

“Pretty lady,” one called snidely. “Pretty lady, to be out riding with her skirts pulled up to her waist! Look, such delicate ankles!”

I scowled at them, impatient, and glanced about me. There were many people within earshot, true, but the tolling of the Signoria’s bell was much louder here, and everyone was shouting and running toward the piazza. There was no guarantee they would notice the cries of a solitary woman.

I did not want to cry out-not yet.

“Let me pass,” I snarled, and drew the dagger from my overdress; it came out fully sheathed.

The giovani laughed scornfully; they sounded like barking dogs.

“Look here!” one cried. “Why, Lisa di Antonio Gherardini has teeth!”

He was sharp chinned and scrawny, with wispy blond curls that thinned to bare flesh at his crown.

“Raffaele!” I lowered the dagger, relieved. It was the butcher’s son. “Raffaele, thank God, I need to pass-”

“I need to pass,” Raffaele echoed, in a mocking singsong. One of his mates giggled. “Look on her, boys. She’s one of them. Married Giuliano de’ Medici not two days ago.”

“A merchant’s daughter?” someone asked. “You lie!”

“God’s own truth,” Raffaele said firmly. His words, and the look in his eye, made me draw the dagger from its sheath. “What happened, Monna Lisa? Has your Giuli already forsaken you?”

I clenched the dagger. “I will pass…”

Raffaele smiled wickedly. “Let’s see you try.”

Something whizzed past me in the darkness; my mare shrieked and reared. I held on desperately, but a second pebble stung my wrist like fire. I let go a wordless cry and dropped my weapon.

I felt another pebble, then another. The world heaved. I lost my reins, my sense of orientation, and went tumbling-against horseflesh, against cold air, against hard flagstone.

I lay on my side, sickened from pain, terrified because I could not draw a breath. Firelight flared overhead; I squinted as it spun slowly, along with the rest of my surroundings. Soon it was eclipsed by Raffaele’s face, half obliterated by shadow, half leering.

“Aren’t we the sheltered princess?” he said bitterly. “You don’t know how to stay on a horse or hold a weapon. Here.” The dagger appeared before my eyes. “Here is how to grip a knife.” A pause; the blade turned so that the tip, not the flat, pointed at me. “And here is how to use it…”

Air. I was frightened less by the dagger and more by my inability to breathe; my ribs, my chest, would not move. The world darkened a bit more, grew indistinct.

I heard a different voice, plaintive: “Can’t we have some fun with her first?”

Another: “Out here, in public?”

“No one cares! Look, they aren’t even watching!”

Raffaele now, disgusted: “And her, freshly done by a Medici?”

The dagger, a blur of silver, moved until I felt the tip rest against my throat; if I swallowed, it would cut me. I could see Raffaele’s hand and the black leather hilt.

Then hand and dagger disappeared as light faded to darkness.