Painting Mona Lisa aka I, Mona Lisa

I thought of how I should phrase my confession to the priors. I would speak eloquently of Giuliano’s concern for Florence; I would point out how he had married me, a merchant’s daughter-proof of his sense of commonality with less wealthy citizens.

Finally I heard the jailer’s step, and the jangle of keys, and forced myself awkwardly to my feet. Despite my sense of determination and my fine plan, my hands shook, and my tongue adhered to the dry inside of my cheek.

Beside the nearing jailer walked Zalumma, her eyes wild and wide. When her gaze found me, her mouth opened with a gasp of relief, of joy-of horror. I suppose I looked a sight.

The jailer led her up to the bars of my cell, then took a step back. I reached for her, but the space between the bars was wide enough to admit only my fingers.

“No touching!” the jailer growled.

I dropped my hand. The sight of her made me let go a sob so loud and wrenching it startled even me. Once I began, I felt I could not stop.

“Ah, no.” She reached tenderly toward me; the jailer’s scowl made her pull away. “No, no. This can’t help matters…” Even as she said it, tears slid down one side of her perfect, straight nose.

I struggled to compose myself. “I’m all right. They’ll just want to ask a few questions. And since I know nothing, it’ll go quickly.”

She glanced away, her eyes unreadable, then looked back at me. “You must be brave.”

I stiffened.

“He’s in the jail here, with the men. They set fire to the house last night, but the servants managed to put it out, finally-a lot was saved. But…” She ducked her head; I saw her swallow tears.

“My God! Giuliano-only tell me-is he unhurt? Tell me he is unhurt!”

She looked up at me, her expression odd. “I know nothing of Giuliano. The gonfaloniere came last night and arrested your father.”

XLIX

No.” I took a step backward.

“The gonfaloniere and his men searched the palazzo. Tore the rooms apart. They found your letters from Giuliano-”

“No.”

“-and with the fact that Lorenzo was your father’s best customer for so many years-they have charged him with being a spy for the Medici.” She dropped her gaze. Her voice shook. “They have tortured him.”

In my selfishness, I had thought only of myself and Giuliano. I had known my marriage would break my father’s heart, but I had deemed it worth the price. Now my stubbornness had cost him far more.

“Oh God,” I groaned. “Tell them-tell them to question me. Tell them he knows nothing of the Medici, and I know everything. The crowd-” I struggled to my feet, suddenly inspired, and lurched at the bars in an effort to catch the jailer’s jaded gaze. “The crowd in the Via Larga, on Saturday after I was married! They saw my father shout at me, in the middle of the street. I called to him from the Palazzo Medici, from the window. He begged me to come home; he disapproved of my marriage, of the Medici- Ask Giovanni Pico! My father is loyal to Savonarola. Ask-ask the servant, Laura! She can tell them!”

“I will tell them,” Zalumma promised, but her tone was sorrowful; the jailer had moved between us and nodded for her to leave. “I will tell them!” she called, as she made her way down the corridor.

I spent the next few hours alone in my cell, without even the jailer’s presence to distract me from the fact that I was the most monstrous of daughters. How could I have behaved differently? How could I have protected my father? I waited, miserable, straining for the sound of footfall, of men’s voices, of the metallic ring of keys.

At last they came, and I rushed to the door of my cell and worried the iron bars with my fingers.

The jailer accompanied a man dressed in rich, somber blue to mark his importance; a Lord Prior or perhaps a Buonomo, one of twelve elected to advise the Signoria. He was tall and thin, very serious in his manner, perhaps forty; his hair showed quite a bit of gray, but his brows were thick, very black, and drawn tightly together. His nose was long and narrow, and his chin sharp.

As I stared at him, he soberly regarded me. I realized I had seen him before, in church, when Savonarola was preaching; when my mother’s fit had knocked me to the floor, he had lifted me to my feet, and cleared the way for us.

“Madonna Lisa?” he inquired politely. “Di Antonio Gherardini?”

I nodded, cautious.

“I am Francesco del Giocondo.” He gave a small bow. “We have not been introduced, but perhaps you will remember me.”

I had heard the name. He and his family were silk merchants and, like my father, quite wealthy. “I remember you,” I said. “You were there in San Lorenzo when my mother died.”

“I was very sorry to hear of that,” he said, as if we were making conversation at a dinner party.

“Why have you come?”

His eyes were pale blue-the color of ice reflecting sky-each with a dark circle at the outer edge, and they narrowed slightly as they focused on me. The neck of his tunic was edged in white ermine, which brought out the sallowness of his complexion. “To speak to you about Ser Antonio,” he said.

“He is innocent of all charges,” I said swiftly. “He did not know I was planning to go to Giuliano; he only delivered wool to the Medici; everyone knows how devoted he is to Fra Girolamo’s teachings… Have you seen their servant, Laura?”

He raised a hand for silence. “Madonna Lisa. You need not convince me. I am quite certain of Ser Antonio’s innocence.”

I sagged against the bars. “Then has he been freed?”

“Not yet.” He let go a contrived sigh. “His situation is quite serious: Certain Lord Priors believe he is overly connected to the Medici. A sort of madness has seized everyone, unfortunately even those highest in our government. Last night, the priors-quite against my advice-hung Ser Lorenzo’s accountant out a window of this very building. It seems that the gentleman had assisted Lorenzo in swindling the city out of the major portion of its dowry fund. And I understand you have discovered for yourself how the people are determined to destroy anything, anyone, that reminds them of the name Medici. The gonfaloniere’s men are doing their best to control them, but…” He gave another sigh. “Many palazzi were vandalized, even set afire. All along the Via Larga, and other places, as well.”

“My father is close to Giovanni Pico,” I said, angry that my voice shook. “He can verify that my father is no friend of the Medici.”

“Pico?” he murmured. His gaze flickered before returning to me. “He was an associate of Lorenzo’s, was he not? Alas, he suffers desperately from a wasting ailment. Too sick, I am told, to leave his bed, even to speak; he is not expected to survive much longer.”

“Laura, then, the servant who shared my cell. She saw-”

“You cannot ask the Lord Priors to take the word of a Medici servant.”

“What must I do? What can I do? My father is entirely innocent.”

“I have some influence,” he said, with maddening calm. “Over Corsini and Cerpellone, those who are most hostile to Piero. I could speak to them on your father’s behalf.”

“Will you?” I grasped the bars, eager, even as a distant, quiet thought puzzled me: Why has he not done so already?

He cleared his throat delicately. “That depends entirely on you.”

I let go of the iron bars and took a step back. I stared at him until the long silence obliged him to speak.

He was a cold man. Only a cold man could have said what he did without blushing.

“I am a widower,” he said. “I have been too long without a wife. I have been waiting for God to direct me to the right woman, one of fine character, from a good family. A young, strong woman who can bear me sons.”