“I . . .” Guilt surged through me. I remembered those horrible days when I had sacrificed myself to Francesco for Matteo’s sake, when I had permitted myself to be called a whore. “My father had been arrested. Francesco offered to save him, if . . .”
I could not finish. He nodded to indicate I did not need to. “Then I must ask you whether you are still loyal to Giuliano. To the Medici.”
I suddenly understood. He had had no way to know that I had been forced into marriage with Francesco; he had no way of knowing whether I was privy to Francesco’s political schemes, whether I approved.
“I would never betray Giuliano! I loved him. . . .” I cupped a hand against my cheek.
He stood unmoving in front of the easel, the stick of charcoal frozen above the drawing. “Do you not love him still?”
“Yes,” I said. Tears welled in my eyes and overflowed; I did nothing to stop them. “Of course, yes. When he died, I wanted to die. I would have, by my own hand, had I not carried his child. . . .” I panicked at my unintended admission. “You must tell no one—not even Salai! If Francesco ever knew, he would take him from me—”
“Giuliano . . . dead.” Very slowly, he set the charcoal down on the little table, without looking at it. “Few people have heard this. Most believe he is still alive.”
“No. Francesco told me. His body was found in the Arno. . . . The Lord Priors took it and secretly buried it outside the city walls. They were afraid because of what happened to Messer Iacopo.”
He digested this. “I see. This explains a great deal.” For a long, uncomfortable moment—a moment in which I struggled to regain my composure, to suppress all the grief I had never been allowed to express fully—he was silent. Then he said, very carefully, “So you are still loyal to the Medici. And you would not shrink from helping Piero to recapture Florence? And you can guard your tongue?”
“Yes, to both questions. I would do anything—so long as it brings my son Matteo no harm.” I wiped away my tears and looked up at him. His gaze was troubled, but the barrier between us was beginning to crumble.
He had not known, I realized. He had not known that I knew Giuliano was dead. Perhaps he had thought me capable of betraying him, of marrying Francesco when I thought my first husband might still be alive. Yet he had still been cordial; he had even asked me to sit.
“Believe me when I say that I understand your concerns about your child. I would never ask you to do anything that directly endangered him.” He paused. “I was rather surprised when I received your letter,” he said, his tone soft in deference to my weeping. “I . . . had reason to think you had perished the night the Medici brothers fled Florence. I did not, you see, know your handwriting. So I did not respond. Later, I learned you had married Francesco del Giocondo—”
“I read the letter Salai dropped,” I interrupted. “The one written to my husband. I . . . had no idea he was somehow involved with Savonarola until that night. I don’t even know who sent him the letter.” I studied him. He still watched me with peculiar intensity; he wanted to believe me, but something held him back.
“It is true,” he said, more to himself than me. “When you saw Salai at the christening, you could have told your husband that Salai took the letter from his desk. But it seems you have not.”
“Of course not. What do you want me to do? You brought me here for a reason.”
“Piero de’ Medici wishes to speak to you,” he said.
I gaped at him, thunderstruck. “Piero? Piero is here?”
“He intends to retake the city. And he needs your help. Will he have it?”
“Of course.”
He stepped away from the easel and moved over to me. “Good. Go to the Duomo in three days’ time, at midday precisely. He will meet you in the north sacristy.”
I considered this. “A woman alone, in the sacristy . . . The priests’ suspicion will be aroused. If I was seen waiting there—”
“The priests know what to do. Tell them Gian Giacomo sends you. They will take you to a secret passage accessible only from the sacristy.”
“Why did Piero not simply tell you to relay his message to me? Why would he risk meeting with me?”
“I am merely an agent, Madonna. I do not presume to understand him.”
He rose and called for Salai, then dismissed me with a bow. Salai tied the cloth around my eyes once more, and I was taken back to Santissima Annunziata in the same manner I had left.
Zalumma was waiting for me in my chambers. I knew better than to try to disguise my unease; she could smell the encounter with Leonardo on me as surely as if it had been attar of roses. But I had already decided to share no details, for her sake. Before I could speak, she said, very quietly so that no one standing in the hall could hear: “I know that you have gone to meet someone, and that this has something to do with the letter the intruder found. It is not my place to ask questions. But I am here. In whatever way I can help, I will. Instruct me as you wish.”
I took her hands and kissed her as if she were my sister and not my slave. But I said nothing of Leonardo or Piero; such names could cost her her head.
And they could cost me mine. I went to the nursery and sat a long time with Matteo in my arms, ran my hand over the tender, vulnerable skin of his crown, over the wisps of impossibly fine hair. I kissed his soft cheek and smelled milk and soap.
Three days passed quickly.
Claudio lifted a brow at my unusual request to be driven to the Duomo. I did so casually, as if it were a whim, as if it had not been years since my first and last visit there.
Just before noon, as the bells chimed deafeningly, I crossed beneath the massive, impossible cupola and knelt a short distance away from the high altar, carved from dark wood and limned with gold.
I mouthed prayers along with the others, fumbling for words I had known since childhood; I knelt and stood and crossed myself at the appointed times. Attendance was sparse, as most worshipers now favored San Marco and her famous prior, or San Lorenzo, where he often preached.
The instant the ritual ended, I rose and went quickly to the cathedral’s north end, where the main sacristy lay—the room where the young Lorenzo had sought safety the morning of his brother’s murder. The doors were engraved bronze, very tall, and so heavy that when I went to open them, they scarcely moved.
Just as I made my second attempt, I heard steps behind me and turned. Two priests—one young, one gray-headed and worn—approached the sacristy bearing the gold chalice and the crystal decanter of water for the wine.
“Here now,” the older one said. “Do you seek the counsel of a priest, Madonna?” His tone held a note of reserve; it was odd for a woman to loiter near the sacristy, but as I was clearly wellborn, he was polite.
I had to clear my throat before the words would leave me. “Gian Giacomo directed me to come here.”
“Who?” He frowned, mildly suspicious.
“Gian Giacomo,” I repeated. “He said you would understand.” He shook his head, and shared a swift, uneasy glance with his companion. “I’m sorry, Madonna. I don’t. Why would someone send you here?”
“Gian Giacomo,” I said, louder. “Perhaps there is another priest who can help me. . . .”
Now both priests were frowning. “We know no one by that name,” the older priest said firmly. “I’m sorry, Madonna, but we have tasks to attend to.” With his free hand, he pushed open the heavy door to admit his fellow, then entered himself and let it close on me.
I paced there a moment, hoping that another priest might come by. Had no one gotten the message? Had Piero been captured? Surely Leonardo had no reason to draw me into a trap. . . .
The priests emerged from the sacristy to find me still there. “Go home!” the younger commanded, exasperated. “Go home to your husband!”
“This is unseemly, Madonna,” the elder said. “Why have you come here asking about a man? Where is your escort?”
It occurred to me then that it might be assumed Gian Giacomo
was the name of my lover, whom I intended to meet for a tryst. In these days of Savonarola’s reign, an accusation of adultery would be as dangerous as my true mission; I apologized and hurried from the church.
I rode home, unnerved and angry. Leonardo had just made a fool of me, and I had no idea why.
LVIII
Once home, I went straight to the nursery and sat with Matteo in my arms. I did not want to see Zalumma, to face her silent scrutiny when I was angry and liable to talk. I ordered the wet nurse to leave and rocked my son. When Matteo reached up and pulled a tendril of my hair—so hard that it caused real pain—I permitted myself to cry a bit.
I had not realized until then just how badly I had wanted to do something that would permit me to honor Giuliano’s memory. Since his death, I had been forced to keep silent about him, to behave as though my marriage to him had never occurred. Now, my hopes had been turned into an ugly joke.
I had been alone with my son for almost an hour when Zalumma arrived quietly and stood by the door. “I thought you might be hungry,” she said softly.
I shook my head. She turned to leave, then stopped and glanced beyond the door to make certain no one stood out in the hallway.
“Someone left a letter,” she said quickly. “On the table by your bed. Elena or Isabella is bound to notice it soon.”
I handed Matteo to her without a word, went to my room, and closed the door behind me.
The paper was pristine white, with neatly trimmed edges, and, as I knew even before I unfolded it, completely blank.
The morning had been cold, and a feeble fire still burned in the hearth. I walked over to it and held the paper low, close to the flames, and crouched so that I could read the pale brown letters as they emerged:
Forgive me. God will explain tomorrow, when you go at noon to pray.
I threw the paper onto the fire and watched as it burned.
I said nothing to Zalumma. The next day at noon I went to the chapel at Santissima Annunziata to pray.
This time, when the Devil-cum-monk named Salai approached me, I glared at him. Once in the wagon, he tied the cloth around my eyes and whispered, “This time, it truly is only for your protection, Monna.” I did not speak. When the blindfold was at last loosed and I sat looking into Leonardo’s face, I did not smile.
His voice and manner were hushed and sympathetic. “I am sorry, Madonna Lisa,” he said. Lean and tall in his loose monk’s robes, he stood in front of the paper-covered window. The stubble was missing; he had shaved recently, and his sculpted cheek bore the red nick of the razor. The easel was empty; the wooden slate with the drawing now lay, covered with a layer of black soot, on the long table. “It was a cruel trick, but our situation is uncommonly dangerous.”
“You lied to me. Piero was not at the Duomo.” I faced him with cold fury.
“No. No, he was not.” He walked over to stand an arm’s length in front of me; in his pale eyes, I saw honest sympathy. “Believe me, I did not relish being so unkind. But I had to test you.”
“Why? Why would you not trust me?”
“Because you are married to a great enemy of the Medici. And because, though I have known you for a long time, I do not know you well. And . . . there is also the fact that I cannot trust my own judgment concerning you. I am not . . . a disinterested party.”
I made a sound of disgust. “Please. Don’t think you can fool me by pretending you have feelings for me. I know you can never love me—that way. I know what you were charged with. I know about you and Salai.”
His eyes widened abruptly, then narrowed again, bright with fury. “You know—” He caught himself; I watched his fists clench, then slowly uncurl. “You are speaking of Saltarelli.” His voice was coiled.
“Who?”
“Iacopo Saltarelli. When I was twenty-four, I was accused of sodomy—a simple word you seem to have trouble saying. Since you are so interested in specifics, let me give them to you. I was arrested by the Officers of the Night and taken to the Bargello, where I learned that I had been implicated in an anonymous denuncia. It was alleged that I and two other men—Bartolomeo de’ Pasquino, a goldsmith, and Lionardo de’ Tornabuoni—had engaged in various sexual activities with Iacopo Saltarelli. Saltarelli was all of seventeen. He was licentious, to be sure, and probably earned the charges—but he was also apprentice to his brother, an enormously successful goldsmith on the Via Vaccarechia. Pasquino also owned a bottega on the same street, and I frequented both shops because I was often hired by them as a painter.
“I’m sure you’ve heard of unsuccessful business owners getting rid of their rivals by a well-timed denuncia?”
“I’ve heard that it’s done,” I said, not kindly.
“According to shop owners on the street, my denuncia was written by one Paolo Sogliano. He happened to be the painter for and assistant to a goldsmith on the Via Vaccarechia named Antonio del Pollaiuolo. The charges were dropped for lack of evidence, although many possible witnesses were questioned. And a few years afterward, Sogliano was out on the street.”
“There was no truth to it, then.” I looked down at my hands.
“There was no truth to it. I ask you to consider how you would have felt in my situation. How you would have felt, being taken from your bed at night to the jail for questioning. How you would have felt, telling your father. How you would have felt, having to rely on your connections with Lorenzo de’ Medici—asking him for help—so that you could be freed and go sleep in your own bed instead of in prison. Dante says that sodomites are doomed to wander forever in a fiery desert. I tell you, there can be no worse desert than the inside of a cell in the Bargello.” The anger left his tone; the next words came out hesitant, shy. “That does not mean I have never fallen in love with a man. Nor does it mean I have not fallen in love with a woman.”
I kept looking down at my hands. I thought of what it had been like for a young man to tell his father he had been arrested for such a crime. I thought of his father’s fury, and I flushed.
“As for Salai . . .” Indignance welled up in him again; the words lashed the air. “He is a boy, you may have noticed. Oh, he is your age, to be sure, though he might as well be ten years your junior; you can see for yourself that he has the maturity of a child. He is not yet old enough to know what he wants. And I am a grown man, and his guardian. To hint that there is anything more to our relationship—outside of a great deal of irritation on my part—is reprehensible.”
When I could finally speak, I said, “I apologize for my terrible words. I know what the Bargello is like. They took me there the night Giuliano died. My father was there, too. We were freed only because of Francesco.”
His face softened at once.
“Did you really believe I would bring Francesco with me?” I asked, but my tone held no heat. “To arrest Piero? To arrest you?”
He shook his head. “I did not honestly think you would. I judged you to be trustworthy. As I said, I had to test my own judgment. I have . . .” A glimmer of pain crossed his features. “My swiftness to indulge my instincts and feelings has led to great tragedy. I could not permit such a thing to happen again.” He stepped over to me and took my hands. “What I did was hurtful, but necessary. And I apologize with all my heart. Will you forgive me, Madonna Lisa, and accept me again as your friend?”
Your friend, he had said, but the emotion in his eyes spoke of something deeper. Before I fell in love with Giuliano, I might easily have given my heart to this man; now I was too damaged even to consider it. Gently, I extricated my hands. “You know I loved Giuliano.”
I expected the words to sting slightly, to quell the affection in his eyes. They did not. “I do not doubt it,” he said cheerfully, and gazed expectantly at me.
“I forgive you,” I said, and meant it. “But before today, I had only my son. Now I have this, too. Do you understand? So don’t deny me usefulness.”
“I won’t,” he said softly. “You can be of great use to us.”
“Pie
ro is not here, in Florence?”
“No, Madonna. And if your husband thought that he was, he would certainly have tried to arrange for his murder.”
I refused to let the words frighten me. “So what shall I do?” I asked. “To be of help?”
“First,” he said, “you can tell me what you remember of the letter Salai was reading when you encountered him in Ser Francesco’s study.”
I told him. Told him that my husband had been ordered to collect the names of all the Bigi and to encourage Fra Girolamo to preach against Rome. Salai, it seemed, was a poor reader with a poorer memory. I would make a far better informant.
I was to search Francesco’s desk on a nightly basis, if possible, and, if I discovered anything of import, was to signal my discovery by setting a certain book from my library on my night table. I did not ask why: It was obvious to me. Isabella, who had provided Salai with entry into the study, also cleaned my bedchamber each morning and lit the fire each night. I doubted she had full knowledge of what she was involved in, or that Salai told her; she probably thought it was no more than one Buonomo spying on another.
The day after I gave the signal with the book, I was to go at sext to Santissima Annunziata, ostensibly to pray.
I was possessed of two hearts: One was heavy with grief at memories stirred by talk of the Medici; the other was light, relieved at last to be able to work toward the removal of Savonarola, the fall of Francesco from power, the second advent of Piero.
“There is a second thing you can do to be of help,” Leonardo told me. He led me over to the long table littered with a painter’s detritus. The gessoed poplar panel lay flat atop it, covered with the charcoal cartone of me. The corners of the paper were weighed down against the panel with four smooth stones; the entire drawing had been sprinkled with glittering pulverized charcoal.
I, Mona Lisa Page 36
