Finally, the appointed day arrived, and in a fit of showmanship I had Chiara dress me in the same gown I had worn when posing for the portrait. I also had her put up my hair in an elaborate braided style; I could not recall the exact details of how Sandro had painted my hair in the portrait, but Chiara’s finished product would be an echo of it, certainly. I would look as though I had just stepped from the canvas itself.
Today, as always, everyone would be looking at me, but today I was ready for them. I would be artwork made flesh; would show everyone the masterful resemblance Sandro had created.
Even Marco looked slightly taken aback when he saw me. “Simonetta,” he said, as he came to escort me down to the carriage. “You look … beyond words. An artist could have no worthier muse, in truth.”
I smiled serenely at him. “You are too kind, husband,” I said, placing my hand on his arm. “Shall we go?”
As we made the familiar journey to the Medici palazzo, I considered seriously why I was so eagerly anticipating this evening. I craved it. Never had I been possessed of the type of vanity that would allow me to revel in a room full of people looking at a portrait of me. It was not that; no, I was proud of the painting, almost as proud as if I myself had created it.
And why should that be? Nothing of skill or talent had been required from me; all that was needed was to sit still as Sandro worked. No, the truth had lain somewhere in my words to Marco the day we had received our invitation. I was proud of Sandro, proud of what he had accomplished with the portrait, and eager for everyone to see it and marvel at his skill and give him the praise he so richly deserved.
Marco was right—somehow, Sandro was my painter, and I wanted the rest of the world to respect his talent—and him—as I did. I had tried not to think about it, to avoid it, but it was true.
And, of course, I had been looking forward to seeing him all week. That could not be denied, not even to myself. Perhaps least of all to myself.
I miss the company of my friend, that is all, I told myself. I am allowed to enjoy the company of others than my husband.
“Are you ready?” Marco asked, jolting me from my reverie, and I looked up to see that we had arrived. “You have been quite lost in your thoughts.”
I pushed aside my musings and smiled at him. “I have been, indeed,” I said. “My apologies, husband. I am ready.”
We went inside and were led up to a receiving room on one of the upper floors that I had never been in before. The ceiling was carved with elaborate gilded moldings, and rich, vibrant tapestries hung on the walls. Gilt chairs lined the perimeter of the room, and to my left tall, elegant windows let in the autumn light.
“There she is! Signora Simonetta Vespucci, our own Maestro Botticelli’s great muse!” Giuliano de’ Medici said, immediately coming toward us. He swept me a deep bow and kissed my hand. “Your beauty shall now be preserved throughout the ages, as it should be.” He gestured to the back of the room, where my portrait was displayed upon an easel for all to see. “I have written you a poem in honor of this occasion, that I may make my own small artistic offering to your beauty,” he went on. “Shall I read it to you?”
“Honestly, Giuliano,” Lorenzo said, approaching us. “Let Simonetta come in and gather herself first, I pray you.” He offered me his arm, and I took it, my hand slipping from Marco’s grasp as I did so. “The portrait is as beautiful as its subject,” he said, leading me toward the easel. “Sandro has outdone himself, truly, yet how could he do otherwise, with you as a model?”
As we approached, Marco behind us, I felt rather than saw Sandro’s gaze on me, and turned to see him off to one side of the room, accepting congratulations—and no doubt commissions—from other members of the Medici circle. Among them, I noticed, was Lucrezia Donati Ardenghelli and her husband. “You must paint my likeness, Maestro Botticelli,” she purred, laying a hand on his arm. “Mustn’t he, marito?” she asked of her husband.
“Whatever you want, my dear,” Signor Ardenghelli said tolerantly.
Jealousy, hot and thick, exploded within me and dripped down my insides, giving the feeling that my innards were coated in hot wax. How dare she? Look at her preening in front of him. Who did she think she was? And would Sandro truly paint her?
Of course, I told myself, startled slightly at my own reaction. He would paint whoever gave him a commission, and I must wish that he received many of them, that he might flourish and prosper.
I took a deep, steadying breath and turned my attention back to my portrait. It was even more beautiful than I remembered. I had forgotten certain details: the brilliant texture of my hair and gown, the vividness of the pendant about my neck, which had been a wedding gift from Lorenzo and Clarice.
I turned to Marco, who had come up on my other side. “What say you, marito?” I asked him.
“It is masterful, as you said,” he replied, smiling down at me. “A perfect likeness.”
I was happy that he liked it, happy that he saw all its merit. “I am so glad you think so,” I said. “It is a true testament to the talent of its creator, is it not?” I glanced in Sandro’s direction to be sure he had heard my words, and the smile he threw my way gave me every assurance that he had.
“Indeed, it is,” Lorenzo said. “And so we must persuade you to sit for him again soon.”
“I would like nothing better,” I said. I could not resist glancing at Sandro again, and his smile had grown even brighter. He beamed.
Before the evening was over, I resolved, I would try to steal him away for a private word. It would not be long enough, I knew. It could never be long enough.
In the meantime, Lorenzo was steering me to a table filled with refreshments. I quite lost track of Marco. “Wine?” Lorenzo asked. I nodded, and he handed me a goblet. “I shall take some as well. Come, amici,” he said, turning to address the room at large, and everyone ceased in their conversations and looked to him—to us. “A toast! To our brilliant Maestro Botticelli, and to his muse—la bella Simonetta!”
The gathered company echoed him, raising their glasses in my direction. “To Maestro Botticelli, and la bella Simonetta! To la bella Simonetta!”
“Now,” Lorenzo said, once the toast had been drunk, “I see that my copy of Plato’s Republic has been returned to my library. Pray tell me, Simonetta, what were your thoughts on it?”
Truly, I would never tire of this wonderful Florence of mine.
19
Though we knew winter could not be far to seek, November favored us with some lovely mild weather. Bored and listless now that my sessions with Sandro were at an end, I insisted upon accompanying Chiara to the Mercato Vecchio one day, if only to leave the house and stretch my legs. She agreed after a bit of persuasion and so, dressed in a simple wool gown and cloak and leaving my jewels and adornments at home, I joined her in the streets of Florence.
We made our way through the busy, dirty streets, pressing close against walls of stone and stucco in the narrow alleyways as carts and wagons passed us by. Chiara knew the way well, of course, yet I allowed myself to pretend that she was not with me, that I must find my own way. I kept my eyes on the great dome of Santa Maria del Fiore when it appeared between the buildings, as I knew the Mercato Vecchio was not far from the Piazza del Duomo, and that I must continue in that direction. I imagined that everyone in Florence must navigate by the great cathedral, at least until they learned their way.
Soon, due more to Chiara than to my fancied attempts, we arrived at the bustling Mercato Vecchio, which, I remembered hearing—from either Marco or Sandro—had been the site of the forum in the days of the pagan Romans. The great open piazza—one of the larger ones in Florence—was crowded with wooden stalls arranged in tight rows, lengths of coarse cloth stretched between the wooden poles to offer some protection to the merchandise from sun and weather. The stalls sold everything from fresh fruits and vegetables from the countryside to recently slaughtered meat to live animals to bolts of cloth. I looked about keenly for a stall that sold
books, but did not see one. Not such a loss, perhaps, I consoled myself, for I do have Lorenzo de’ Medici’s entire library at my disposal.
We were pressed close by our fellow shoppers in the narrow aisles between stalls, and the noise was incredible: people talking, shouting, laughing, arguing; merchants hawking their wares and buyers bargaining and haggling over prices. I took it all in, quite glad that Chiara was with me to do the actual shopping; every last thing distracted me, and so I was not much use.
Vaguely I realized that the people around us were staring, but I paid it no heed. I could see from Chiara’s nervous glances that she had taken note as well, but she, too, was well used to such attention when in public with me and she did not remark upon it, either. “If you see anything you would like me to bring back for the kitchens, Madonna, just say the word,” she said.
I smiled; perhaps I had misinterpreted her nervousness and she was simply uncomfortable at having the lady of the house accompany her to market. “The kitchen girl does a fine enough job keeping us fed,” I said. “You need not worry about that, today. I am happy to simply be out.”
Chiara nodded, and I trailed happily behind her as she looked for herbs to mix into remedies, and a bit of ribbon to mend a gown of mine.
As we looked over the ribbon and cloth spread across a wooden board at one stall, I was certain I heard my name. “Che?” I asked, glancing at Chiara beside me. “I did not hear you, Chiara.”
She looked puzzled. “I did not say anything, Madonna.”
“Oh. I thought you had said my name.” Yet even as I spoke I realized that Chiara would never address me by my Christian name in public—she scarcely did so in private.
Just as I thought that I had imagined it, or misheard, it came again. Simonetta. I turned around, scanning the crowd of people around me for a familiar face—someone I had met at the Medici palazzo, perhaps. Yet it was only then that I realized there was a crowd around me, and not the usual market crowd: men and women alike openly gawked at me, and I heard my name being whispered among them: Simonetta. Simonetta Vespucci. La bella Simonetta.
I placed a hand on Chiara’s arm; fortunately, she had just completed her purchase. “Come, let us go,” I said, a bit nervous now.
She glanced up and saw everyone gathered around us, and nodded quickly. We pushed our way through the crowd, which, thankfully, parted to let us pass.
In an unspoken agreement, Chiara and I made our way to the end of the aisle to leave the market. I tugged off my silk gloves, growing warm from our hurried walking.
We had nearly reached the edge of the piazza when I heard a scuffle break out behind us. Chiara turned before I did, and I heard her draw in her breath sharply. “Oh, for the love of all the saints,” she huffed, a bit scornfully.
I turned to see two young men—richly dressed young men, at that—shouting at each other. I looked closer and saw that each was holding on for dear life to a bit of blue silk. In fact, it looked just like …
I looked down and saw that I held only one of my gloves in my hand. I must have dropped the other without noticing it.
“She meant for me to pick it up, I am sure of it!” the fair-haired young man declared.
The other man, who had flowing brown hair beneath his feathered cap, scoffed. “And why would la bella Simonetta give her favor to a dolt like you? You flatter yourself far too much, you—”
He broke off with a squawk as the other man reached out and knocked the cap clean off his head. “How dare you, you cur,” the brown-haired man hissed, releasing my glove and taking a swing at his opponent.
I could not believe my eyes, especially not as they began to engage in fisticuffs in earnest over my dropped glove. Part of me wanted to walk away and not trouble myself further, but the rest of me was upset at the thought of any injury occurring on my behalf—even if these grown men were behaving like fools. Briskly, I headed for them. “Madonna!” Chiara called after me to no avail.
As they saw me draw nearer, they ceased their brawling and tried to straighten their clothing, now very much askew. “Madonna,” the fair-haired man said. “You approach like a very goddess.”
“Your beauty would make the Virgin herself jealous,” the other man interjected, not to be outdone. I heard gasps from the crowd around us at the blasphemy.
I stretched out my hand and let my other glove fall to the ground at their feet. “There,” I said. “Now you shall have no more need for violence.” I turned my back on them and strode away. “Come, Chiara. Let us go.”
* * *
Of course, by the next day the story was all over Florence, with each of the young men—I never did learn either of their names—claiming to be the hand-selected chevalier of la bella Simonetta. If Marco heard the tale—and I cannot imagine that he did not—he said nothing of it to me.
I wondered, fleetingly, if Sandro had heard the story, and what he made of it if he had.
20
I sat somberly beside Marco in the church pew, both of us dressed in our most understated clothing—dark, sober colors; of fine cloth but boasting no beading nor lace nor any other kind of adornment. The rather simple church of San Lorenzo rang with the sounds of muffled weeping, carrying over and above the priest’s intoning of the Requiem Mass.
One of those weeping was Clarice, though she tried to hide it, tried to appear dignified as she must, now that she was the first lady of Florence—though part of me doubted that, even as a widow, Lucrezia dei Tornabuoni would simply step aside. She sat on Lorenzo’s other side, still and controlled as a statue, though I would wager that there were tears on her face as well, if I could but see it.
The fall and early winter days had seen a further decline in the health of Lorenzo and Giuliano’s father, Piero. He had not been truly healthy in many years, so I gathered—I had only met him myself the one time, as his health often had not permitted his attendance at social gatherings—yet in November it had become apparent that he had passed the point of no return. In December, as Christendom prepared for the coming of the Savior, he died.
The funeral was a small affair—even if everyone else treated them like royalty, the Medici must not be seen to think of themselves that way, not in republican Florence. The coffin had made its unobtrusive way through the streets to San Lorenzo, the Medici family church, for the funeral Mass and burial in the tomb that Lorenzo and Giuliano would be commissioning for their father.
Clarice had been most distraught upon her father-in-law’s passing; she had been most fond of him, and he had always been kind to her. I had gone to visit her after we’d been told of the news, and I had held her hand tightly and let her cry and reminisce.
The only bright spot amid her grief—and Lorenzo’s as well, I imagined—was the fact that she was expecting their first child, which would arrive in the summer. She had told me the news during that same visit when she had wept for her father-in-law.
“The Lord giveth, and the Lord taketh away, so Scripture says,” she cried, full of both sorrow and happiness.
I tried not to scan the gathered mourners for Sandro, but I could not help myself. However, I did not see him.
Once the Mass ended, we rose from the pews and waited to give our condolences to the family members one more time. “It is very sad, to be sure,” Marco whispered to me as we waited. “Piero was a kind soul, and always treated me well, from the time I was a boy. And he loved his family and his city like no other.” He paused for a moment before lowering his voice further. “And yet even so, I cannot help but feel that Florence is in better hands with Lorenzo. He is a more capable leader than his father by far, and will bring the city fully into this new age.”
“Hush,” I said. “Do you want someone to overhear you? The poor man is not even buried yet.”
“I mean no disrespect, Simonetta,” Marco said. “I merely speak the truth, and you know it.”
I did, yet it seemed wrong to admit it—or to speak of it at all—in this time and place. From the first time I had met Mar
co, he had spoken of the wondrous things that Lorenzo de’ Medici would achieve in Florence and, by extension, in Italy as a whole. He had not mentioned Piero at all in those early days when he had told me of his home, and since coming here I could see why. Lorenzo had taken over much of the governmental work for his ailing father, and all the improvements in the city’s culture, and in its relations with other city-states, were attributed to the charming and politically savvy Lorenzo, and rightfully so.
Yet now he was alone at the helm of the ship of state in Florence. I observed him, standing by one of the great columns that lined the nave and receiving the condolences and well wishes of what seemed to be everyone of note in Florence. Tears glittered in his eyes, yet he held his head high and had a kind and grateful word for everyone who approached him. Even now, even in his grief for the death of his beloved father, he was the consummate politician, and it was a mantle he would never be able to shed so long as he lived.
I was watching the dawn of a new age.
PART II
VENUS
Florence, September 1474–April 1475
21
I had flung open the window of the bedroom to let in the fresh September air. Now I could hear bits of song floating into my dressing room; a chorus of men singing.
“La bella Simonetta, come to the window, please! La bella Simonetta, let us see your fair face, please!”
Chiara, who was pinning up my hair, rolled her eyes at me in the mirror. “This is the third time this week.”
I sighed. “I know. If ever I should meet the composer of that song—if indeed he can be called a composer—I think I shall slap him.”
Chiara giggled. “Slap him twice, the second time on my behalf.”
I laughed. “I certainly shall.”
She slid the last pin into my hair. “There you are, Madonna,” she said. “That should do. Now best go let your admirers catch a glimpse, so that we may have some peace and quiet around here.”
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