Painting Mona Lisa aka I, Mona Lisa

about Piero’s disastrous attempt on the city.

“I hear,” my father said neutrally, “that the newly elected Signoria is all Arrabbiati. Fra Girolamo must be sorely frustrated.”

Francesco did not directly meet his gaze, but murmured, “You know better than I.” And then he pulled himself out of his quiet mood and said, more loudly, “It doesn’t matter. The Signoria always ebbs and flows. For two months, we suffer with the Arrabbiati. Who knows? The next group might all be piagnoni. At any rate, the Signoria won’t be able to cause too much trouble. We succeeded just recently in creating a Council of Eight, thanks to our recent threat.”

My gaze flickered down to the dish of food in front of me. I knew he meant Piero; perhaps he did not say my brother-in-law’s name aloud for fear of offending me.

“Eight?” my father asked conversationally.

“Eight men, elected to police the city against the threat. They will keep a special eye on Bernardo del Nero and his Bigi party. And they will take stern measures to stop all espionage. All letters going to and from Florence will be intercepted and read. The Medici supporters will find familiar avenues closed to them.”

I addressed myself to the piece of roasted hare in front of me. Grain was still dear, and Agrippina-crippled now, with a permanent limp after that terrible day at the Piazza del Grano-relied heavily on local hunters to fill our larder. I picked the flesh from the bones, but ate none of it.

“What does Fra Girolamo say of this?” my father ventured. I was surprised he asked the question. He went daily to hear the friar preach; he sometimes spoke to him after the sermons. Surely he would have known.

Francesco’s tone was terse. “Actually, it was his suggestion.”

We finished the meal in silence. Francesco’s usual bland smile did not appear once.

That night, I left Zalumma to go down to Francesco’s study. I was glad for the fact that my husband had not visited my room again after his one effort to impregnate me; apparently, his distaste for sanctioned intimacy was great.

It was late spring, and the weather was pleasant; the windows were all open, and the air was alive with the smell of roses and the clicking of insects. Yet I could take no pleasure in the night’s beauty; I was sleepless over the prospect that Piero might never succeed in taking the city, that I might grow old and die with Francesco in a city ruled by a madman.

I entered my husband’s study-dark, save for the lamp that flickered in the next room-and unlocked the desk quickly, expecting to find nothing and to return quietly to my own bed.

But there, in the drawer, was a letter I had not yet seen, with a freshly broken seal. I frowned; I would have preferred to find none. I was in no mood to discuss Piero’s failure with Salai. But I was obliged to take it and to steal into my husband’s bedchamber-since there was no fire in the study-and hold it to the lamp.

It seems our prophet still vehemently denounces Rome from the pulpit. His Holiness is displeased, and there is little more I can do at this point to assuage him. Our entire operation falters! At whose feet shall I lay this monstrous failure? Giving the prophet free rein against the Medici alone was my intent-how could you misunderstand? You know I have worked for years to gain papal access, papal trust… and now you would see it all undone? Or shall I give you the benefit of the doubt and credit Antonio with this? If he truly has the prophet’s ear, he must be forceful. Exhort him to use all his powers of persuasion. If he fails-because the prophet no longer trusts him, or because he has lost his resolve-it is your decision as to whether to dispose of his services altogether, or make use of the daughter and grandchild. I defer to your preference in this matter, as you are hardly a disinterested party. If Antonio quails, rely again, as you did so long ago, on Domenico, who has proven he can do whatever needs to be done.

If Pope Alexander does in fact act against the friar, we have little choice but to resort to extreme measures. Perhaps Bernardo del Nero and his Bigi shall need to serve as examples to the people.

“Antonio,” I whispered. I reached out and steadied myself against the night table. I stared at the letter, read it again and again.

I had honestly thought Francesco had married me because I was beautiful.

If Antonio quails, rely again, as you did so long ago, on Domenico-

I thought of my father, miserable and wasting. I remembered that terrible moment so long ago in San Marco’s sacristy when Fra Domenico had stood over my mother’s body. When he had caught my father’s eye, then looked pointedly at me.

A threat.

And my father had knelt. Choking on his fury, but he had knelt.

I remembered him begging later for me to go with him, to listen to Savonarola preach. When I had refused, he had wept. Just as he had wept the day of my marriage to Giuliano, when he had told me frantically that he could not keep me safe.

I remembered my father’s cooling friendship with Pico after my mother died. I thought of Pico’s death, and my father’s current unhappy friendship with my husband.

– make use of the daughter and grandchild-

I could not cry. I was too horrified, too hurt, too frightened.

I pushed myself upright; breathing hard, I stared at each separate word, emblazoning it on my memory. When I was done, I went back to my husband’s study, replaced the letter in the desk, and locked it.

Then I stole up to my chambers, found the knife, and slipped it inside my belt. Once armed, I crossed the corridor to the nursery. Matteo was asleep in his crib. I did not wake him, but sat on the floor beside him until I heard Francesco return, until I heard him settle into his bed, until the house fell quiet again, until the sun rose at last and it was dawn.

LXIII

Early that morning, I sent Zalumma on foot to see my father at his workshop and let him know that I wanted to see him alone. She returned less than two hours later to say that my father felt unwell, that he was going home directly, and hoped I would visit him there.

He was of course not unwell; and as Zalumma-with Matteo balanced on her knee-and I sat in the carriage on the way to my father’s house, she stared unflinching at me until at last I said, “My father is involved.”

There seemed no point in trying to evade the truth. I had already told her the contents of the first letter I had discovered in Francesco’s study; she knew my husband was involved with Savonarola, knew that he was somehow involved in Pico’s death. She had found me asleep that morning by Matteo’s crib and was not stupid. Ever since I had sent her to speak to my father, she had been waiting for me to explain what was going on.

My words did not seem to surprise her. “With Francesco?”

I nodded.

Her expression hardened. “Then why are you going to him?” The distrust in her tone was plain. I looked out the window and did not answer.

My father was waiting for me in the great room where he had greeted Giuliano the day he came to ask for my hand, the same room where my mother had met with the astrologer. It was just past midday, and the curtains had been drawn back to admit the sun; my father sat in a ribbon of harsh light. He rose when I entered. There were no servants attending him, and I sent Zalumma off to another room to mind Matteo.

His face was pinched with concern. I don’t know precisely how Zalumma worded my request, or what my father had expected. He certainly did not anticipate what I said.

The instant Zalumma closed the door behind her, I drew myself up straight and did not even bother with a greeting. “I know that you and Francesco are involved in manipulating Savonarola.” I sounded amazingly calm. “I know about Pico.”

His face went slack; his lips parted. He had been moving forward to embrace me; now he took a step back and sat down again on his chair. “Dear Jesus,” he whispered. He ran a hand over his face and peered up at me,