We had many paintings in the house with pagan themes—one in Francesco’s study portrayed a nude Venus—yet he had chosen this innocuous one, perhaps to suggest to the public that this was the most sinful item we could find.
And he had taken it out of its wrought silver frame.
I took it without comment, and we rode in silence—Francesco was still in ill sorts—to the Piazza della Signoria.
It was a starless, moonless night, thanks to the clouded sky, but I could see the glow as we approached the crowded piazza. As our carriage rolled in front of the Signoria’s palace, I saw torches everywhere: torches next to the high platform where the prophet and his army of white-robed fanciulli sat; torches flanking either side of the entry to the Palazzo della Signoria; torches in the hands of the onlookers; torches flanking, on all four sides, the great Bonfire of the Vanities. Every window in the palazzo, every upper-floor window of the surrounding buildings, glowed with candlelight as people gazed down to watch the spectacle in the square.
Francesco and I climbed from the carriage and joined the crowd standing before the pyre. My husband was an important man in the government; those who recognized him made way so that we could join the innermost circle.
The bonfire was a massive wooden structure—almost the height and breadth and depth of a two-story bottega, or a humble merchant’s house—consisting of eight tiers hammered together like a great makeshift open staircase, so that the children could easily make their way from the bottom level to the top. At its apex stood a straw-stuffed effigy of fat King Carnival, with a painted canvas head. His face was not that of the benevolent monarch I had seen in Carnivals past, but rather that of a gruesome demon, with fangs protruding from his mouth and blood-red eyes.
Crowded together upon the freshly constructed, unpainted wooden tiers were all the vanities collected by the friar’s little soldiers in the preceding months: golden necklaces, heaps of pearls, piles of embroidered velvet and satin and cangiante silk scarves, gilded hand mirrors, silver hairbrushes and combs, spun gold hairnets, fringed tapestries, carpets from Persia, vases and ceramics, statues, and paintings. Statues of Zeus, Mars, Apollo, Eros, Athena, Hera, Artemis, Venus, and Hercules, symbol of Florence’s strength. Painting after painting, on wood and canvas and stone; sketches on paper in silverpoint, red chalk, pencil, and ink. The crimes contained therein were all the same: pagan themes and nudity. I felt as I had upon first entering Lorenzo’s study: awed by the sheer magnitude of so much beauty, so much wealth.
Trumpets sounded; lutes began to play. Francesco nudged me, nodded at the painting in my hands.
I stepped up to the bonfire alongside other prominent citizens eager to make a public display of piety. The tiers were crowded with items, the raw planks soaked with turpentine; I averted my face from the fumes and wedged Nannina’s portrait in sideways between a pair of tall, heavy candlesticks whose cast-bronze bases were nude women with upstretched arms.
As I turned away, I brushed against a moving body and glanced up to see a bulky older man in a high-necked gown of black; the sight of him gave me pause. He was in his sixth decade of life, with red-rimmed eyes set in a pale, bloated face; a wattle of flesh hung beneath his prominent chin.
Sandro, I heard Leonardo say, and at once, I envisioned this man several years younger, holding the leg of a roasted quail to his lips, grinning and quipping archly: Alas, sweet bird . . .
Sandro was not smiling now; the glittering torchlight in his haggard eyes reflected infinite misery.
He looked at me and did not know me; his attention was consumed by the painting he clutched in his arms. It bore the image of a woman—slender, with elongated limbs and skin of incandescent pearl. She was naked save for a lock of amber hair that flowed down over one breast. One arm reached for an unfinished sky.
He stared down at it, tenderly, grieving—and then with a spasm of determination thrust it from himself, onto the nearest tier, atop a large urn, where it rested precariously.
I watched him disappear into the crowd, then went back to my husband.
As the bell in the tower of the palazzo began to chime, four leaders of the fanciulli came down from the platform and took up waiting torches. Wads of straw and tinder had been stuffed beneath the bonfire at four locations: two front and back near the center, two near either end.
Trumpets blared, lutes sang, cymbals crashed; as the crowd fell silent, the white-clad boys gathered beside the prophet and lifted their young, sweet voices in a hymn.
The straw went up quickly, black tendrils writhing in a bright blaze. The planks caught fire more slowly, emitting a pungent, resinous smell; the vanities smoldered, emitting narrow streams of black smoke.
For two hours, I stood beside Francesco and watched as the pyre burned, watched as Botticelli’s pearl goddess darkened and melted away. At first, I stamped my feet to ward off the cold, but as the upper tiers charred and collapsed, the fire surged upward with a gasp. I loosened my mantello; my cheeks grew so hot I pressed my ungloved hands against them for relief.
In the end, the heat forced us back. Francesco touched my elbow, but I remained frozen for a moment, staring up at the roiling flames, orange-red against the pinkening sky. The vanities lay dark and writhing at their heart.
I was sweating when we returned to our carriage. As we rode home, the wind stirred; red cinders sailed through the air and swarmed like glittering fireflies on the façades of buildings.
“There will likely be fires tonight,” Francesco said.
I did not answer. I sat with my face against the window and watched the ash float down, pale and silent as snow.
LXII
An attack from Piero is imminent. Word is that he plans to approach from the north; Siena again seems likely. Prepare for this—but do not be too overly alarmed. He has only the Orsini and mercenaries, perhaps thirteen hundred men all told. Not enough.
When he does fail, use the opportunity to make the new council public. The Arrabbiati have grown too noisy, as have Bernardo del Nero and his Bigi. The council must bring them down.
Inside the hidden studio at Santissima Annunziata, I recited the letter to Salai. He wrote it down as I dictated—clumsily, with maddening slowness, asking me several times to repeat what I had said. When I moved to take the pen myself, he pulled away.
“No, Monna! Your hand might be recognized.”
When he had at last finished and rose to escort me out, I stood my ground. “Do you think—do you think there is a chance Piero will succeed? That he will be able to retake Florence?”
Salai’s expression turned wry; with mock exasperation, he ran a hand through his short black curls. “I care nothing for politics and know even less about military affairs. But I do know that if anyone wants to dethrone this lunatic preacher and his fire-wielding brats, I’ll take up arms and join them.”
“Do you know how to use a knife?” I asked, and he grinned.
“I was born with one in my hand.”
Awkwardly—taking care I did not cut myself—I drew Zalumma’s double-bladed knife from the sheath tucked into my bodice.
Salai made a face. “So like a girl. If you don’t cut yourself to ribbons first, your opponent will be doubled over laughing by the time you get your weapon out.”
“Don’t make fun of me. Show me how to use it.”
“Leonardo would never approve, you know.” He was teasing; his eyes still smiled. “I’ve never been able to convince him even to pick one up. He’s worse than a woman about such things.”
“Leonardo isn’t here.”
“An excellent point.” He laughed. “First, don’t keep it in your bodice. That’s sloppy and slows you down. See, you have to reach up to get hold of it. You want to keep it in your belt, near your waist.”
“But I don’t always wear a belt.”
“You will if you want to carry a knife. A nice wide one—isn’t that the fashion? Just tuck it underneath. But please, don’t hold it like you’re going to eat with it.”
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I blinked down at the weapon in my hand.
“With your permission,” he said. He came to stand behind me, at my right shoulder, and put his hand over mine. My grip on the knife was tight, stiff; he jiggled my wrist until my grip loosened a bit. “Now,” he ordered, “you’re holding it overhanded, with the tip pointing down. Do the exact opposite: underhanded, with the tip pointing up. But just slightly up. Here.”
He turned my hand over and guided the tip up; his breath was warm on my ear. He smelled of wine and linseed oil. I glanced back at him and realized, for the first time, that despite his immaturity, he really was a young man, my age, and good-looking; his body was hard and strong. When my gaze caught his, he grinned flirtatiously. I flushed, embarrassed by the flash of heat between us, and looked away. But I now understood how Isabella had been taken in.
“That’s right,” he said softly. “It’s good that it’s double-edged; less for you to worry about. Now, show me how you attack. Go ahead, kill someone.”
I took a step forward and stuck the knife out in front of me. Salai snickered.
“That’s all well and good, if they’re holding completely still and you want to give them a nick and let them run away. Here.”
He moved up beside me and, in a flash, produced from the depths of his robe a long, slender knife. Before I could flinch in surprise, he took a step forward and thrust the knife out low in front of him; then, with a savage gesture, he hoisted it straight up in the air.
“You see?” He turned toward me, the knife still raised. “Get them low, in the gut; that’s their most vulnerable spot. And it’s easy for a weak girl to penetrate. The heart, the lungs—too much bone there, too much effort. Just aim for the gut, almost down to the groin, and then—to make sure they don’t have a chance to give you any more trouble—bring it up hard. All the way up until the ribs stop you. Tears up the vitals. That’s all you have to do to kill a man. They’ll bleed to death, almost as fast as if you slit their throat.” He smiled and tucked his own knife away. “Now, you do it.”
The words were not entirely out of his mouth when I surged forward, so fast that he started. I kept the tip slightly up. I remembered to thrust low, to pull up, straight and hard and brutal.
Salai clicked his tongue in astonished approval. “And you, supposedly a noblewoman, from a good family? You’re a quick study, Monna Lisa. You handle it as if you’d been born on the streets.”
I went out alone on the balcony that evening after supper. I held the weapon in my hand, tip slightly up, and I practiced. I lunged on one foot, I jabbed forward with the knife; I jerked it up and listened to the blade whistle through the air.
Again and again I lunged. I wielded the knife. I wounded and killed. I thrust repeatedly at the bowels of the Pazzi, at the bowels of the third man.
Piero never came. A fortnight after I delivered the message to Salai, Zalumma came to my chambers wearing an expression of abject defeat. The news was spreading all over the city. Piero and his men had come from Siena and headed as far south as San Gaggio. But the sky had opened up en route, and a violent rain had forced the army to seek shelter and wait out the storm, with the result that they lost the cover of night. The delay allowed word of them to reach the Florentine troops stationed in Pisa, to the north. Piero was forced to retreat in order to avoid being overpowered.
Savonarola’s followers said, of course, that God had spoken. The rest of us were downcast and afraid to speak.
And I was bitter. Bitter because I knew we would never know the full truth of it, thanks to my husband and the Pazzi. By day, I held my child in my arms; at night, I cradled the knife.
Given the failure of the Medici invasion, I had expected Francesco to be in good spirits—indeed, I expected him to gloat. But the following evening at supper, he was in a noticeably preoccupied mood and said nothing whatsoever 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
I, Mona Lisa Page 40
