Painting Mona Lisa aka I, Mona Lisa

immediately, he surrendered, and the three of us ate in silence.

After a few moments, Francesco surprised me by speaking-suddenly, with cool bitterness. “Let the prophet write what he will. There are some who believe he has little chance of placating His Holiness.”

My father looked up sharply from his food; in the face of Francesco’s icy gaze, he soon looked down again.

Supper ended without another word. My father took his leave immediately afterward-a fact for which I was glad, as I was far too troubled by my new knowledge to be comfortable with him. Francesco returned to his room. I went up to the nursery and played with Matteo in an effort to cheer myself, to blot out the image of my father plunging his blade into Giuliano’s back.

It was not until I had put my son to bed and returned to my chamber that I understood Francesco’s anger. Before I could reach for the door, it opened before me, and Zalumma seized my arm and pulled me inside. She closed the door quickly behind us, then leaned against it, her eyes bright, her manner excited but furtive.

“Did you hear? Did you hear, Madonna? Isabella just told me-the news is spreading quickly tonight!”

“Hear what?”

“Savonarola. The Pope has done it at last: He has excommunicated him!”

LXIV

Summer brought with it a second, fiercer outbreak of la moria, the Death. Florence was hard hit: Stretchers were seen everywhere, carrying to the hospitals those pedestrians who had collapsed en route to their homes, their shops, their churches.

My visits to Santissima Annunziata came to a halt. Even if I had wanted to venture out onto the plague-ridden streets, I had no news to share with Leonardo, since I no longer had access to my husband’s letters. Fearful of contagion, Francesco had given up his nightly prowling and stayed in his chambers, often sitting in the study; he went out only to his nearby shop, and more rarely, when the most important business called, to the Palazzo della Signoria. Yet despite la moria, he received more visitors than ever: Lord Priors, Buonomi, and other men who were never introduced to me, about whom I never asked. Savonarola was in political danger, and Francesco was desperate to save him.

To avoid the danger of traveling back and forth over the Arno, my father came to stay with us for a time. After Francesco’s visitors departed, he often called my father into his study, and the two men would speak together at length. I did not try to spy on these meetings, but there were times I could hear their low voices, the pitch and timbre of their conversations. Francesco always sounded argumentative, imperious; my father sounded simply unhappy.

After an oddly early and lengthy visit from one Lord Prior, Francesco and my father came down in the morning to eat. I was at the table, with Matteo squirming in my lap; I had never before brought him downstairs to eat, but he was almost two years old, and I dreamt of teaching him to eat with a spoon. When the two men arrived, Matteo was happily pounding the utensil against the surface of Francesco’s fine, polished table. I expected my husband to be displeased, to speak sharply, since he had been in foul temper of late. But Francesco, for the first time in days, smiled.

My father stood beside him, grim and cautious.

“Wonderful news!” Francesco exclaimed, raising his voice just enough to be heard over Matteo’s drumming; he was in far too good a mood for the noise to irritate him. “We have just captured a Medici spy!”

I tried to draw a breath and failed; I sat up straight, barely averting my head in time to avoid Matteo’s wildly flailing arm. “A spy?”

My father seemed to sense my sudden fear; he pulled out a chair and sat beside me. “Lamberto dell’Antello. You’ve heard of him: He was one of Piero’s friends,” he said quietly, next to my ear. “He even went with Piero to Rome. He was discovered trying to get into Florence with a letter…”

Francesco stood smiling across from us; I put a restraining hand on Matteo’s wrist and ignored him when he complained. “Yes, Lamberto dell’Antello. He was captured yesterday, and is being interrogated now. This will be the end of the Bigi. Lamberto is talking, giving names.” He moved toward the kitchen. “Where is Agrippina? I need some food, and quickly. I must leave for the Palazzo della Signoria this morning. They’re holding him at the Bargello prison.”

“Do you think it’s safe to go out?” I asked out of concern for appearances’ sake, not for Francesco.

“It doesn’t matter if it is or isn’t-this is far too important to miss!” He disappeared into the kitchen. “Agrippina!”

In the instant he was gone, my father studied me searchingly. I tried my best to appear mildly interested in the news about Lamberto, mildly and pleasantly distracted by my wriggling child. I tried, but I suspected my father saw my fear.

I know I saw his.

Once Francesco had eaten and left in the carriage, my father and I took Matteo out to run in the gardens behind the palazzo. The garden was green and lush, the mist rising from the lion fountain soft and cool. I strolled beside my father, letting my son run slightly ahead of us, calling out to him not to trample the boxwood, not to touch the thorny rosebushes. I might as well have told him not to be a little boy.

I was still angry at my father. I knew he would never cause me harm, but each time I looked on him, I saw the penitent. Even so, I worried for his sake. “I am afraid,” I told him. “The excommunication-Francesco will say that you’ve failed him.”

He gave a little shrug to make light of it. “Don’t worry about me. I have spoken with Fra Girolamo-I, and others. He is finally convinced that he must make amends. He knows he has been foolish-that he has failed to control his tongue and that he speaks like one possessed in the pulpit. But he will write his apologia. And he has already sent private letters to His Holiness, begging for forgiveness. Alexander will be soothed.”

“And if he isn’t?”

My father stared ahead at his sturdy grandson. “Then Florence will be placed under papal interdict. No Christian city will be allowed to do business with us unless we turn over Savonarola for punishment. But that won’t happen.” He reached for my hand to comfort me.

I did not mean to pull away, but could not stop myself. His eyes filled with hurt.

“You have been angry with me. I don’t blame you, for all I’ve done-terrible things. Things I pray God will forgive, though I long ago gave up any hope of Heaven.”

“I’m not angry,” I said. “I want only one thing: for us to leave Florence with Matteo. I can’t bear it here any longer. It’s growing too dangerous.”

“It’s true,” he admitted sadly. “But right now, it’s impossible. When they found Lamberto dell’Antello, the Lord Priors became crazed. Every one of them is a piagnone now and out for blood. They’ve closed all nine gates of the city: No one can come in, no one can go out; every letter is intercepted, read by the Council of Eight. They are questioning everyone, looking for Medici spies. Were it not for my usefulness to Francesco, they would question us.” His voice grew hoarse. “They will destroy the Bigi- every man who looked kindly on Lorenzo or his sons. And they will have Bernardo del Nero’s head.”

“No,” I whispered. Bernardo del Nero was one of Florence’s most revered citizens, a longtime intimate of Lorenzo de’ Medici. He was a strong, clearheaded seventy-five years of age, childless and widowed, and so he had devoted his life to the government of the city. He had served with distinction as gonfaloniere, and was irreproachably honest. So well liked was he that even the Signoria respected and tolerated his political position as head of the Bigi. “They wouldn’t dare hurt him! No citizen would stand for it.”

But I was even more worried for Leonardo, who was effectively trapped within the city, unable to communicate with the outside.

My father was shaking his head. “They will have to stand for it. The appearance of Lamberto dell’Antello has filled every piagnone’s heart with fear. After the food riots in the Piazza del Grano, the Signoria is desperate to stifle any more cries of ‘palle, palle.’”

“But when Piero was ousted,” I said, “Savonarola called for mercy for all the friends of the Medici. He insisted that everyone be forgiven and pardoned.”