What Remains of the Fair Simonetta

by Laura T. Emery

  Marco just huffed in reply. Still in interrogation mode, he pointed an accusatory finger Leonardo’s way. “What business does this boy have here?”

  “We would like to use Antonella as a model in the bottega of Verrocchio,” Leonardo defended.

  “We’re negotiating the terms,” I chimed in.

  “Who is Antonella?” Marco scoffed.

  “Seriously? She’s my attendant.”

  Just then, Antonella emerged in her finest dress—which was actually one of my gowns—with her hair out of the skullcap and flowing in a sea of brown curls. She spotted Marco and immediately made a U-turn back into my bedchamber. She tripped slightly on the way, since my gown was a bit too long for her.

  “Should it not be I who negotiates the terms of a servant in my own house?” Marco demanded.

  “We were awaiting the advent of your presence, Signor Vespucci,” Leonardo interjected. “The convent of San Bartolomeo of Monte Oliveto is in need of an Annunciation as their altarpiece, and my master, Andrea Verrocchio, wished to give the Vespucci family the honor of commissioning it.”

  “I was told Verrocchio refuses to continue with his craft.”

  “It would be I, not Andrea, who would undertake this commission.”

  “You are the reason he is afraid to paint?

  “Andrea has no fear of painting, Signor. He has simply chosen to sculpt in its stead.”

  “Oh, is that his tale?” Marco fixated intently on Leonardo. “I can envision no benefit from this commission for the Vespucci,” he scoffed.

  “The Medici are much impressed with those who commission the arts,” Leonardo responded quickly.

  Marco hesitated for a moment, before nodding curtly. “Very well, then. It is agreed. I will collect my father to notarize the contract. Your presence is no longer needed, Simonetta,” Marco grunted, and abruptly exited the room.

  “I guess I’m excused,” I said sarcastically. “He’s such a bastard.”

  “No, he is of legitimate birth, unlike myself.”

  “Sorry, I meant he’s an asshole. Oh, never mind. How did you know that would work?”

  “Marco is as transparent as the glass of your windows. He is aware that the Medici control who is appointed to official office. He offers you to Giuliano in the hopes of gaining a seat on the Council of the Signoria.”

  Chapter 25

  As we left the palazzo in the morning, Marco made no move to stop me, despite the obvious fact that if Antonella was with Leonardo at the workshop of Verrocchio, then I was surely spending the day alone with Sandro. Marco’s angry, showboating display with Leonardo was obviously just a pretense that he kept his wife in line. Marco knew Leonardo was a regular visitor to the Medici’s, and would probably report such behavior to them.

  We first crossed the river to the Oltrarno district to drop Antonella off at the workshop of Verrocchio. Andrea was already busily directing the bustling crew of apprentices and journeymen, Leonardo clearly his favorite.

  Antonella could hardly contain her excitement, having spent the entire morning preparing herself, rather than attending to me in her usual unrestrained manner. I offered to help her, looking forward to slapping and pinching her as retribution, but she declined. It took me ages to get myself ready, however, in the absence of modern appliances and cosmetics.

  “I have received another commission,” Sandro announced enthusiastically once we left Antonella in the care of Leonardo. “I have even been promised an apprentice.”

  “That’s great! Who’s the commission for?”

  “The Vespucci, as a matter of fact. I received word last night from a courier. They have set me up in a contest against Domenico Ghirlandaio. He and I have somewhat of a friendly rivalry. It will be my chance to make my name known.”

  “Which Vespucci?” I wondered aloud.

  “The courier did not say. I had hoped, Simonetta, that you had a hand in it.”

  “I would do almost anything to help you, Sandro, but I didn’t do this.” I was about to suggest that Sandro not take the commission, as it was clearly orchestrated by Marco in an attempt to manipulate both the Medici and Filipepi, when Sandro spoke again.

  “I should have known it was not you since they asked me to fresco Saint Augustine in the choir of the Ognissanti. You could hardly model for such an endeavor.”

  That was precisely the point.

  It would keep Sandro busy and away from me. But I couldn’t prevent him from painting the Saint Augustine, as I knew that painting had some significance in this whole time-warp scenario involving Mariano, Simonetta, Sandro and even me. I had lived with that painting for eleven years, staring at the face of Mariano without realizing it. I had seen it more times than I’d even seen Sandro’s Birth of Venus, which had spawned my love for him so many years before. I was more convinced than ever that I must discover the meaning of the painting.

  Sandro lead me back across the bridge, but then turned left in the opposite direction of his studiolo. He asked that I pull the hood from my gown over my head as we walked, so as not to attract the usual attention that Simonetta’s presence on the streets commanded.

  “Where are we going?” I asked.

  “Outside the Porta al Prato, there is a place as dear to me as the Miniato al Monte. We shall go there today instead of remaining in the studiolo. I must refine the details of the meadow and I should need to see the way your hair flutters in the wind as well.”

  The Porta al Prato.

  It reminded me of the strange words in Sandro’s painting that I’d seen in my dream-state:

  Where is Brother Martino?

  He fled.

  And where did he go?

  He is outside the Porta al Prato.

  As we turned onto the Borgo Ognissanti and followed it towards the city gate, I wondered if we might find the mysterious Brother Martino somewhere out there. We approached the crenellated wall that surrounded Florence, a beautiful piecemealed conglomeration of irregularly sized brown and gray stones draped with vines.

  “This is the sixth ring of walls since the Romans founded Florence in 60 B.C.,” Sandro explained. “Florence has grown so much since its creation, the wall has been moved five times to accommodate her size.”

  I nodded my dubious acknowledgement. This Florence seemed miniature compared with the city I knew; a city without the need for fortification. Once we passed the guards at the gate of Prato, there were no buildings as there are in modern day, only lush grass dotted with flowers of purple and yellow, intermingled with patches of Florence’s famous red irises as far as the eye could see. I now understood the name Porta al Prato for the first time, meaning “leading to the lawn.”

  We veered to the left and within minutes were tiptoeing through the vast meadow. It was amazing that I was to be alone with Sandro in such a wondrous place, so close in proximity, and yet so far removed from the clutter of the city, without another soul in sight.

  No Brother Martino out here.

  Sandro laid down a blanket next to a lone olive tree which had strangely invaded the meadow, then he unpacked his supplies amongst the tall grass.

  “When he was my master, Fra Filippo came here frequently, and brought me along on occasion. He does not like coming to Florence, so being outside the Prato gate made him feel he was just a bit closer to his home with Lucrezia and his children, in the city of Prato.”

  As Sandro opened a bottle of wine, our rendezvous felt more like a date than a modeling session. Something was different about him as he undressed me under the cloudless sky. Instead of casting his eyes downward, he looked into mine as he pulled the pins from my hair, expressing again his desire to watch my golden tresses “flutter in the wind.” For a moment, I thought of nothing but Antonella’s face when she realized she’d need to attend my hair later, the strong breeze being only slightly less intense than a ride in a convertible Corvette. But Sandro had thought of everything and had brought a hairbrush with him.

  He sketched for only a short time,
before asking out of the blue, “Are you content with Marco?”

  I wanted to scream No! Take me now, and save me from my arranged marriage!

  “I’m happy with or without him,” I replied calmly. “Are you asking if I’m in love with him?”

  “I suppose I am.”

  “Marco and I don’t have a typical marriage.”

  Whatever that is.

  “He plans to offer me to Giuliano to secure a seat on the Counsel of the Signoria, all while he carries on an affair with Luciana.”

  “The Moorish servant in your house?”

  “That’s the one.”

  “Her jealousy is explained, then.”

  “Shouldn’t it be me who’s jealous of her? She’s sleeping with my husband after all.”

  “She cannot compare to you, and she is well aware,” he replied. “Though, I find it so odd he would choose her over you. The whole of Italy would bow at your feet for just a morsel of your affection.”

  “I don’t mind. I don’t particularly like him. And we’ve never consummated our marriage, anyway,” I announced flippantly.

  “Really?”

  “No, I suppose it would impress Giuliano more if I were presented to him as a virgin.”

  “I suppose it would,” Sandro replied as he hung his head.

  “I don’t intend to give Guiliano what he wants.”

  “How can you refuse him? What will happen to you?”

  “I really don’t care,” I replied. I had only a short while to live in this body, and I had no intention of having my time manipulated and controlled, even if I were changing history.

  Especially, if I were changing history.

  “Besides, it’s you that I want,” I claimed, boldly.

  Sandro gazed at me curiously with those same searching eyes that stared out from the Adoration of the Magi. “How can that be? What spell could you possibly be under? You could have any nobleman.”

  Sandro was so humble yet brave, assertive yet polite and gently affectionate, but most of all he was wickedly talented beyond compare. I suddenly felt compelled to move towards him. As I did, he dropped the charcoal that he still held in his hand, even though he had not sketched in several minutes. I thought I saw him tremor slightly as I moved closer, but still couldn’t stop myself.

  “I must sit,” he said, as the blood left his face, appearing as though he might faint. He made his way over to the blanket. “I have thought of nothing else since we kissed day before last. I have puzzled over what possessed you to lower yourself to a man such as me with nothing to offer. I had concluded that you were simply attempting to inspire me to create.”

  “You have everything to offer, Sandro! You’re an intelligent, handsome, creative genius. Money and bloodline may be everything in this world that you...we live in, but it’s meaningless to me.” I sat down beside him and caressed his charcoal-covered hand. “What made you bring me out here?”

  “I have the desire to share everything with you. I see far beyond your outward beauty, to a place I feel others cannot see. You have the knowledge and curiosity of a man, but with a woman’s humor and spirit. When we are together, I feel as though our union is possible; as though Marco, and even Giuliano are irrelevant; that destiny would have you not only as my muse, but as my lover and companion. Although at other times, I am aware that I am deceiving myself, knowing you have the power to make all the men in Florence feel as though you love them as well.”

  He might have continued forever, as the words glorifying me seemed to spill out of him like water.

  Is it possible that he’s enamored with the essence of me, as well as Simonetta?

  I could hold back no longer, and reached my hand around the nape of his neck and drew him to me, his dark hair sliding through my fingers once again.

  He closed his eyes before our lips met in such a sweet and innocent way, I almost felt as though I was taking advantage of one so young and pure. I traced the curves of his lips with my finger before kissing him once again. His eyes reopened and gazed into mine as he caressed my cheek and my hair. Gravity pulled us from our sitting position down onto the blanket under the tree, where he continued to caress my face and strands of my loose locks, kissing my lips and cheeks and forehead without words.

  As he stroked my hair, his hand accidently grazed my breast, which was barely covered by my diaphanous shift. His hand quickly retreated, but I reached for it and placed it gently on my bosom.

  “I cannot,” he whispered, and withdrew his hand again. “Even though I would wish for the fantasies of my mind to be true, the reality is that Marco is your husband. And Giuliano has commissioned me to paint you to express his courtly love. Though, perhaps it is I who is meant to feel the sting of love from the unattainable Simonetta, so that I might channel that passion into my painting of you.”

  “Perhaps,” I sighed, disappointed. I couldn’t bring myself to force my affections upon him when I knew the torment he would face for so many different reasons.

  “Is it just as wrong that I lay here with you, wanting you as my lover?” I asked.

  “No. I suppose I will do the same.”

  That was the last thing I remembered before waking up with a start to find Sandro still dozing. I had somehow slept in peace, without the images of the Ognissanti haunting my dreams. It was the first time since my reemergence to the land of the living that my mind had completely rested. As he slept, I looked at Sandro in disbelief, the man of my dreams, dreaming next to me.

  Chapter 26

  I ran my fingers through Sandro’s hair as he slept, harboring an intense desire to linger in that moment forever. But I knew I couldn’t. Antonella was responsible for my timely return to the palazzo, and in our short duration together I had developed a sense of responsibility for her as well. Sandro stirred as if he sensed my urgency, and his eyes quickly opened and fixed upon me.

  “Simonetta?” He sat up and rubbed a soft hand across my face. “I am sorry I fell asleep. I was awake late last eve working on the banner.”

  “It’s all right. I dozed off too.”

  “I have had the strangest dream.” He scratched his head through his tousled hair.

  “What was it about?” I yawned and stretched.

  “I was in the Ognissanti, working on the Saint Augustine… and my father was expressing his disapproval.”

  “Are you sure it was a dream?” I joked.

  “His disapproval of my feelings for you.”

  “Oh, I see.”

  I can’t imagine why his father would disapprove of his son having feelings for a married woman who is also promised to a royal member of the Medici family.

  “Does that bother you?”

  “Only because I know his disapproval would be warranted if he were able to know my feelings first hand,” he sighed and stood up, quickly gathering his supplies. “I must get back to my studiolo and complete my work. Giuliano is to visit in the morn and expects to see his banner nearly finished.”

  I wanted to press my lips against his one last time before we left the fairy tale meadow; to have one more small memory to cling on to—but he wasn’t on the same page. During my first life I’d developed a fear of letting any moment go without fully experiencing it; that any one could be my last. It was a fear that I’d never have that same moment again, and my life would be over before I did and said all the things I wanted. No one else could really understand my foreboding, and I had to accept the fact that everyone else fully expected to have a tomorrow. I didn’t have that luxury.

  Sandro was right back to business. Instead of kissing me, he methodically helped me dress, then surprisingly re-braided and pinned my hair.

  “There is something about your hair,” he mused. “It is such a miraculous hue. Do all the women of Genoa have hair the color of straw?”

  “No.” I chuckled, having no idea, except an entire city of blondes seemed unlikely.

  “Alberti, who designed the facades of the Palazzo Rucellai and the Santa Maria Nove
lla, also wrote a Treatise on Painting in which he described seven movements of hair. He was especially pleased when a lock of it turned in spirals, as if wishing to knot itself, waving in the air like flames, twining around itself like a serpent, while part rises here, part there.”

  “Antonella would disagree,” I laughed.

  “Are you aware that many Florentines have the notion you were not born as an infant, but rather walked out of the ocean as Venus herself? Many love you from afar because they feel you are perfect and otherworldly; however, I cherish the fact that you are not. It is your imperfections that attract me.”

  I wanted to cry, and scream, and curl into a fetal position at the insanity of the situation.

  Why does life have to be so difficult? Why couldn’t I be with Sandro?

  Simonetta’s parents arranged a marriage at the age of fifteen, and she had no choice in the matter. She was just a pawn, a piece of property sold in order to solidify the relationship between Florence and Genoa to join the noble families. For a moment I thought it might be easier to be dead again than deal with the anguish of not being able to be with Sandro, which was clearly what we both wanted. And to make matters even worse, those in the inner circle of the Medici world were perfectly fine with my being given to Giuliano, but not to Sandro. Because what could be gained from a simple painter? Only a painting, which could just as easily be purchased. If Sandro didn’t do what they demanded, then he and his family may or may not be allowed to survive. And while I was in my mental tirade, why did I have to freaking die again?

  We walked quickly to retrieve Antonella from the shop of Verrocchio as Sandro could tell from the direction of the sun that the hour was upon us. When we arrived, Antonella was almost unrecognizable, with her brown curls falling down her back, and her body draped in robes of red and green that hung loosely over a white gathered tunic. She knelt on her left knee, while her right arm was raised in the air, her hand forming the sign of the trinity. Leonardo studied his drawing intently, his dark hair tucked behind his ears.