“I don’t think that display had anything to do with his heart.”
“Perhaps Giuliano is simply poor at conveying his affections.”
“I suppose we all are,” I agreed, not wanting to bash his apparent friend too much.
“Words are the most difficult way to express oneself,” Sandro replied. “That is why I paint. Although Giuliano is correct about one thing…”
“What’s that?”
“You would make a fantastic Venus. A Venus Pudica of course.”
“Pudica?”
“The modest Venus. Pure and chaste.”
Chapter 14
Sandro apparently mistook my rejection of Giuliano’s affections as chastity. Although I hadn’t exactly been a trollop in my heyday, having had only three sexual partners during my life, I certainly wasn’t ‘pure’ and ‘chaste.’ I had, in fact, allowed several impure thoughts about Sandro to cross my mind since I’d first met him in the flesh. My lustful impulses caused me a certain amount of guilt since I’d been lucky enough in my life to have that one true love. And while I’d always loved Sandro simultaneously from afar, he was hardly a threat to my relationship with Wilbur in the twenty-first century. He was merely a face staring out from a frame—a series of painstakingly placed brush strokes left in his self-portrait. I felt greedy for wanting anything from Sandro other than his well-known platonic admiration of the woman whose body I now inhabited.
With no further reaction to Giuliano’s intrusion, Sandro was soon completely engrossed in his drawing once again. He was so hard to read. It seemed as though he was doing nothing more than providing Giuliano with Simonetta’s likeness in the form of a goddess—a portrait of the woman he wished to conquer.
Sandro quickly finished the sketch and, clearly hastened by Giuliano’s insistence, asked, “Shall we go to supper?”
Even though my new stomach had been growling for hours, and I was to have the privilege of engaging in conversation with such a lively, intelligent, and historically significant group, I wanted to avoid the likes of Giuliano. Though, skipping dinner was not a choice that was mine to make, as I felt Sandro’s reputation would be on the line if we didn’t do as Giuliano insisted. If there was one thing I felt down to my borrowed bones to be true, it was that Sandro played a part in my reason for existing in this world. Fortunately, we arrived late to the table, and had to sit at the opposite end from Giuliano and Lorenzo.
There was an additional guest to my left, one I had not seen earlier. I felt bold enough to introduce myself. The fear of being discovered as a fraud had waned since it seemed no matter how much I behaved like my prior self, only Leonardo was to notice.
“I’m Simonetta Vespucci,” I said, turning towards to the gray haired, dignified-looking man. “Have we met before?”
“No, I do not believe so, kind lady, although I have heard your name many times. I am Tommaso Soderini, uncle of Lorenzo and Giuliano.”
“Tommaso was very influential to my receiving the commission of Fortitude from the Mercanzia,” Sandro chimed in.
“Yes, and his finished work exceeded even my expectations,” Tommaso replied. “Simonetta, this is my wife, Dianora.” He gestured to the lady on the other side of him, who nodded politely before returning to a conversation with Poliziano. “I have been trying to convince Sandro to take a wife of his own, but have so far been unsuccessful,” Tommaso said, with a grin.
“I want to tell you what happened to me not so many nights ago,” Sandro interjected. “I dreamt I had taken a wife, and was so disturbed by the notion that I woke up and, so as not to fall asleep again and dream of it once more, I got up and wandered the streets of Florence like a madman!”
Tommaso laughed in response to Sandro’s tale. “Monna Simonetta, I even offered to arrange for Sandro to use the Church of Miniato al Monte for the marriage ceremony! I suppose some are just not fit ground for planting vines.”
“Marriage does not suit everyone,” I replied, knowing it was true for me. “Sandro’s paintings are his vines, and they will outlast all of us.”
“Have you ever been to the Miniato al Monte?” Sandro asked, likely trying to change the subject.
“No. Actually, I haven’t.” Again, this was the truth. It was the one and only place in modern day Florence I hadn’t visited. Whether Simonetta had been there or not, I couldn’t say.
“Tommaso knows the Miniato is one of my favorite places.”
“Then you should take me there,” I insisted, but received only a shy, non-confirming smile from Sandro in return.
As we talked, grapes were offered to the guests by a regent of servants, all dressed in the Medici colors of yellow and red. Wine flowed freely as we were then served succulent, sweet roast beef, followed by multicolored salad and a selection of delectable puff pastry desserts. It was all much more elaborate and tasty than I had anticipated for this age.
I scanned the table and noticed that some of the guests were eating with their hands, while others had brought their own forks. Only a knife was provided. Tommaso just stabbed his meat with the knife to bring it to his mouth. Sandro pulled out some sort of fabric silverware cozy, and removed a solitary, ornate fork.
“A gift from Lorenzo, of course,” Sandro explained.
“I seem to have forgotten mine,” I cringed.
“I have no desire for such a thing!” Tommaso’s wife, Dianora, interjected with revulsion. “They are the devil’s instruments.”
Tommaso rolled his eyes.
“Worry not,” Sandro whispered. He handed his fork to me, and after I’d taken a bite, he gestured for me to return the fork, and we shared it for the meal. I noticed others at the noble table were doing the same, but not Tommaso, who was clearly browbeaten out of it.
This was probably one of the reasons so many ended up with the plague.
As the fork volley continued—a bite for Sandro, a nibble for me—I kept glancing over to Leonardo, who ate quietly across the table seated next to Verrocchio, returning a curious gaze to me. I hoped he wouldn’t tell anyone of our brief, unbelievable conversation.
The loud room silenced when Giuliano stood and announced with a raised goblet, “To the joust!”
“To the joust!” the crowd cheered back, holding up their goblets.
“And, to the unparalleled one!” Giuliano shouted once again. “The one with whom no other beauty can compare!” Suddenly, all eyes were upon me, with hands clapping boisterously—including those of Sandro.
I didn’t understand how everyone could applaud Giuliano’s obviously adulterous intentions. I suppose since he was a Medici, he could do whatever he pleased and everyone would be forced to cheer.
Poliziano then stood up and spouted words he had written for Giuliano: “Here, filled with wonder, he gazes upon the features of the nymph. It seems to him that from her lovely face and eyes, a new sweetness showers into his heart.”
My mind went back to how Guiliano had spoken to me in such a menacing way. His words conjured nothing resembling “sweetness in his heart.” My thoughts must have been clearly displayed on my face, as Poliziano turned his words into scorn towards me. “He sees his lady, harsh and unbending in aspect, fiercely tie Cupid to the green trunk of Minerva’s happy tree; over her white gown she wears armor which protects her chaste bosom with its Gorgon breastplate; and she seems to pluck all the feathers from his wings, and she breaks the bow and arrows of the wretch.”
Everyone laughed and clapped in amusement. Poliziano had turned me into a Cupid-killer for spurning Giuliano’s lusty affections. I felt the blood rush into my face, and had a sudden fear that at midnight, I’d turn into a pumpkin, or worse, a pile of ash. I didn’t wish to spend my final hours being singled out that way.
Chapter 15
“Will you take me now?” I whispered anxiously in Sandro’s ear. I couldn’t bear another minute at the Medici supper table. By the look of surprise on Sandro‘s face, it was clear that my out-of-context question could be misconstrued as inappropr
iate.
“Take you?” he asked cautiously.
“I’m sorry. To the Miniato al Monte.”
“Ahh.” He nodded.
I couldn’t think of a better way to end my one day back in the world of the living—if that was, in fact, all the time I had—than to experience the only place in Florence I’d never been before, in the company of Sandro Botticelli.
“I do believe an expedition is called for,” Sandro replied, after contemplating for a moment. “I should like to sketch the way your gown would blow in the wind.”
Sandro grabbed a wine cask and goblet and with no further hesitation, stood from the table, and silently motioned for me to follow like a high-schooler escaping detention. The rest of the diners started making their way back to the courtyard to watch Leonardo play the lyre, engrossed in their own conversation and paying no mind to us.
“We’ll have to ditch the retinue,” I explained. “Antonella will be furious if she sees me trying to leave without them.”
“Are you certain you do not wish them to carry you? It is quite a long walk.”
“I love to walk.”
Especially on these fantastic willowy legs.
“Is there a back exit?” I asked.
“This is the Palazzo Medici! Of course there is a back exit! As I am sure there are also side exits, underground outlets, and tunnels,” he smirked.
Sandro took my hand and lead me up the stairs past the armory room where I’d posed earlier in the evening. We traversed magnificent hallway after hallway before reaching a series of chambers, which in turn lead to a vast library on the far end of the palazzo. As we entered, I spotted manuscripts by Boccaccio, Petrarch, and Dante, translations of Plato and Hermes—shelf after shelf lined with bound pages of wonder. I always felt you could determine much about a person by what books graced their shelves. I desperately wanted to caress the pages in one of Lorenzo’s treasures, but restrained myself as Sandro pulled on the farthest bookcase to reveal a small door behind it. I followed him down a flight of narrow, unlit stairs that lead to another low framed door.
“How did you know this was here?” I asked.
“Lorenzo showed me. When he was younger, men tried to ambush his father. After that attack, his father always wanted to be prepared to escape. Michelozzo had this in mind when he designed the palace, although, most every Florentine palazzo has an alternate exit.”
“Even mine?”
“Yes, even yours. I found it when I was commissioned to paint the frescoes in your bedchamber.”
“That was you! I knew it!”
“But how did you know?”
“You’re my favorite artist,” I admitted, sincerely.
“And now, you are my favorite model,” he replied, with a bit of a flirtatious smile that sent tingles from the top of my sculpted head to the tips of my pedicured toenails.
Sandro pushed through the door with graceful ease, stooping to get under the tiny frame. I felt badly for leaving Antonella, but knew her presence, and that of the retinue, would make for a very different kind of time.
We emerged in a dark alley and turned right, crouching past the Palazzo Medici under the moonlight. I lost my bearings for a moment as we continued down a wide residential street, lined with three-story, stone homes, until I saw Brunelleschi’s monumental dome emerging through the misty darkness before me.
“Is that…the baptistery?” I asked, rushing towards the smaller of the two buildings before waiting for an answer.
The Baptistery of Saint John appeared contradictorily ancient compared to the restored version I was used to visiting. The black soot that ran down its octagonal walls made it look tarnished and worn. I went straight for the east doors to see Ghiberti’s Gates of Paradise in all their glory—while still in their intended place. I ran my fingers along one of the ten gold biblical scenes gilded into the closed doors. Never would I have been able to touch the artistic treasures in modern times, as they are housed behind glass inside the Museo dell’Opera del Duomo.
“I was baptized here,” Sandro casually mentioned, as he made his way next to me.
“Really?”
“Yes. All Florentines are.”
Just behind me was the massive Duomo of Florence, the Santa Maria del Fiore, or Saint Mary of the Flower, topped by Brunelleschi’s monstrous dome. I marveled at the detail of the enormous green, white and pink marble façade as we stood in front of the massive cathedral. Even though I’d seen the church hundreds of times in my future, I was amazed that it was largely unchanged.
As we continued past the Palazzo Pazzi and the Bargello, I felt as though my hour was drawing near and I should broach the subject of Mariano.
“I spent the afternoon with your father,” I blurted.
“My father?” he asked, appearing quite confused. “Whatever for?”
“I can’t explain it, but I feel it’s my responsibility to repair your relationship with him.”
“Oh? What damage is there to repair?”
“You don’t think your relationship is a bit…strained?” I asked in amazement.
“No. My father does not understand my ways, and I do not agree with his, but there is no discord because of it.”
“Really? So you just agree to disagree?”
“Something of that nature.”
“And you think it’s mutual? That your father feels the same way?”
“I suppose I never considered it,” Sandro shrugged.
Mariano had suffered hundreds of years of guilt because he thought he had caused permanent damage to his son, all while Sandro had remained completely oblivious and unaffected. I now understood my purpose in this world was merely to discover this truth and report it back to Mariano, so he may be in peace. I felt sorry for Mariano for having punished himself all those years, but relieved that I could finally alleviate his suffering.
“Now, may I ask you a question?” Sandro queried.
“Of course,” I replied, hoping I’d know the answer.
“Why did you wish to leave the Palazzo Medici with such haste?”
“I guess that display with Giuliano and Poliziano made me uncomfortable.”
“Interesting. I would have thought the game would please you.”
“Game?”
“Giuliano is a young nobleman coming of age; he must render his courtly love to an unattainable woman.”
“Like a rite of passage?”
“Yes, and who could be more unattainable than the exquisite Simonetta Vespucci? He has chosen to direct his hopeless love towards you because of your beauty and station. You are already married, and therefore, are unattainable, but can still inspire Giuliano to win the joust.”
“So I’m supposed to reject him?”
“Outwardly, yes. That is why Poliziano has said that you are armored by your chastity against his love.”
I thought modern day rich people were weird. What I wouldn’t give for a Wikipedia explanation of this nonsense.
“But I didn’t get the impression that Giuliano expects our ‘love’ to remain unconsummated.”
“I believe you are correct…that he would hope for more. It is your choice, of course.”
“Well, I should hope so!” I exclaimed. My pro-feminist nerves raged with fervor. Although I was a bit surprised that a woman of the fifteenth century would have an option. “Do I really have a choice?”
“Honestly, I do not know,” he finally conceded. “Giuliano is a determined man.”
I tried not to think about Giuliano and his intentions, as we made our way towards the river, passing through the Piazza della Signoria under the tower of the Palazzo Vecchio. I noticed that the David of Michelangelo was absent from the piazza, as was the yet-to-be-built Uffizi Gallery—the future home of Sandro’s Birth of Venus. I felt sad for a moment knowing that my most treasured man-made thing on Earth did not yet exist, but I knew if I was somehow able to hang around long enough, I would play a large part in its creation.
We approached a
long stone bridge with arches and multi-story buildings on each support. The buildings were not crowded together, as they are on the Ponte Vecchio, but absent between each span.
“Is this the Ponte alle Grazie?” It was the right location, but I questioned because the modern, plain bridge in no way resembled the quaint version I was viewing.
“Very good!” Sandro replied with exuberance. “It is named after the tabernacle of the Virgin and Child on the north side. It is the only bridge to have survived the flood of 1333, and so is the oldest in Florence. The buildings alongside it are inhabited by nuns who live in total isolation.”
I loved to hear Sandro talk, even about lonely nuns. I spotted an image of the Virgin Mary in relief on the side of the last building and absently reached to touch my Miraculous Medal once again. Even though I wasn’t a God-fearing woman, I’d always treasured that gift from Sister Constance, and had worn it my entire life.
After crossing the bridge and leaving the heart of the city behind, I noticed the vast hills ahead of us, devoid of any buildings, were instead filled with fields of wildflowers. Blood red irises dotted the highland, making it clear why they had become the symbol of Florence. The blossoms extended as far as the eye could see in the darkness, illuminated by the torch Sandro carried.
We walked for quite some time along the left bank of the Arno, the night being so much darker than any I could remember. The air was still and warm as I took in the scent of flowers, and bread baked earlier in the day, still lingering in the air. The tanners and other workers who had lined the banks of the river were gone for the night, and it seemed that Florence belonged only to us.
I offered to help Sandro, since he was still lugging the wine cask and goblet, along with his sketching supplies and a torch, but he insisted on carrying everything himself. We breached the city wall, through the gate of San Niccolo, where the guards recognized Sandro and let him pass without question. He then walked up the hill at a hurried pace, and I was surprised at how little effort it took to keep up with him. My new teenage frame and long legs were a far cry from the age-worn body I’d once left behind.
What Remains of the Fair Simonetta Page 7
