XLVIII
All at once, my chest gave a lurching heave, and I sucked in air as frantically as a drowning man.
Thus preoccupied, I noticed little more than blurry shadows, caught only an occasional intelligible word above the clatter of horses’ hooves, the tolling of the bell, and the noise of the crowd.
Above me, men on horseback bore torches-in my disorientation, there seemed to be hundreds of them, elongated black giants bearing flames that sparkled like huge orange diamonds.
One of the riders spoke; his voice bore the dignity of high office. “What are you doing with that lady?”
Beside me, Raffaele replied timidly: “She is the enemy of the people… the bride of Giuliano… a spy.”
The mounted man made a brief reply. I caught only “… della Signoria… protect…”
I was lifted. The stabbing pain from my injuries made me cry out.
“Hush, Madonna. We don’t mean to harm you.”
I was slung over a horse, my stomach pressed against the leather; my head and legs dangled against the horse’s flanks. A man nestled into the saddle behind me, pushing against my waist and hip; the reins brushed against my back.
We rode. The weight of my hair caused it to work its way free of Alfonsina’s golden net, which fell, a treasure for some lucky soul to find. My face bounced against hot lathered horseflesh until my lip cracked; I tasted salt and blood. I saw only dark stone, heard the bell and the shouting. Both grew louder-the bell at last so loud and insistent, my skull throbbed with each peal; we were in the Piazza della Signoria. I tried to straighten, to lift my head, thinking, in my confusion, to call out Giuliano’s name. But the rider pushed me firmly down.
As I crossed the piazza, excitement traveled swift as a lightning bolt through the crowd. Their shouts were high-pitched, wild.
“Look-there he goes, the bastard!”
“Up there! The third window! See him swing!”
“
I thrashed like a fish on the hook, my hair spilling forward, covering my eyes; I clawed at it, trying to see from my upside-down vantage, but it was no use. I could make out only shadowy figures, pressed close together.
I panicked as I thought of Francesco de’ Pazzi, hanging naked from a high window with the teeth of Archbishop Salviati’s corpse buried in his shoulder. I thought of my father saying,
I hung limp. “Giuliano,” I whispered, knowing that, in such an uproar, no one would ever hear me. “Giuliano,” I repeated, and began to weep.
They put me in a cell in the Bargello, the prison adjoining the palazzo. Mine was a small, dirty room, windowless, with stained floors and three walls, the corners silvery with spiderwebs. The fourth wall consisted of stone up to my waist, then thick, rough iron bars that ran up to the ceiling; the door was made of iron. Some straw had been scattered on the floor and in the center of the room rested a large wooden bucket that served as a communal privy. The room itself admitted no light, but depended on the sconced torch in the corridor outside.
There were three of us there: me, Laura, and a lady thrice my age, stunningly dressed in aubergine silks and velvets. I believe she was one of the Tornabuoni-the noble family to which Lorenzo’s mother had belonged.
When the guard brought me in-groaning with pain-I pretended not to recognize Laura. Even for hours after the man had left, we did not look at each other.
We were ignored the first night. The gendarme who brought me in disappeared. After a time, the bell- deafeningly close, in the campanile next door-finally ceased ringing. I was grateful for only a short time. Afterward, hour upon hour, we heard the crowd outside suddenly hush… and then, after a brief silence, cheer raucously.
I imagined I could hear the song of the rope as it snapped taut.
The Tornabuoni woman, white and delicate as a pearl, twisted a kerchief in her hands and wept continuously. Ignoring the spiders, I lay propped in a corner, my bruised legs spread out in front of me, covered by my tattered skirts. Laura sat beside me, chest pressed to her knees, one arm coiled about them. When the crowd had briefly fallen silent, I asked, in a low voice, “Giuliano…?”
Her answer was anguished. “I don’t know, Madonna; I don’t know…”
Another shout went up, and we both cringed.
In the morning they took Laura, and never brought her back.
I told myself they never executed women in enlightened Florence unless they were the vilest murderers… or traitors. Surely they had let Laura go, or at worst banished her.
I drew comfort from the fact that the crowds no longer roared outside. The quiet had to mean that the killing had stopped.
Rising unsteadily to my feet, I sucked in my breath at the pain in my stiff shoulder. The slightest movement stabbed. My limbs were numb from cold; the stone walls and floor were like ice. But I was far more distraught by the fact that I had lost my wedding ring and the remaining gold medallion.
I passed the Tornabuoni woman to stand at the rusting iron door. She had ceased crying and now stood swaying on her feet, having been upright most of the night; her eyes were two bruises in the whiteness of her face, stark against her deep purple gown. I glanced at her and in return got a look full of hopelessness and rage; I turned quickly away.
I listened for the guard. While Laura had been with me, I had not wanted to utter Giuliano’s name lest I incriminate her, but now it was on the tip of my tongue. When the jailer finally appeared, I called out softly.
“What news? What news of Giuliano de’ Medici?”
He did not answer at once, but came and stood in front of the door. He fingered through the jangling keys, muttering to himself, until he decided on one, then tried it. It didn’t work, and so he fished out a similar one, dark and dull from disuse; it clanged and grated in the lock, but at last the door swung open with a lingering screech.
“Giuliano de’ Medici.” He sneered. “If you have any news of that scoundrel, best sing out when your time comes.”
He took no notice at all. “Madonna Carlotta,” he said, not unkindly. “Will you accompany me? It’s a simple matter. The Lord Priors want to ask you a few questions. They mean you no harm.”
Her gaze, her tone, was pure viciousness. “No harm… they have already caused me the greatest possible harm!”
“I can summon other men to help me,” he offered simply.
They stared at each other a moment; then the old woman walked out and stood beside him. The door was slammed behind them and locked.
I did not care. I did not care.
I hugged myself, not even feeling my injured shoulder. Such things were said only of the living. Giuliano was gone, and they did not know where.
…
I returned to my corner and settled into it as comfortably as I could, propping myself so that the cold wall numbed the pain in my shoulder. I heard church bells, but I dozed a bit and could not remember how many chimes had sounded.
When I woke, I made a decision: I would admit to having married Giuliano. Such a crime would not necessarily mean my death-even Lorenzo, in his vengefulness, had spared the Pazzi women-but more likely my exile, which would free me to find my husband.
