Only Antonella noticed our arrival, and jumped up with a sigh of relief. “Please, my lady, bring me back to my life of servitude! I can kneel here no longer! He barely glances in my direction!”
Sandro just chuckled and took a seat next to her, while I walked around the easel to admire Leonardo’s work as he was refining the detail of Antonella’s sleeve. I noticed there were a multitude of other sketches piled on the tray of the easel. Dying or not, it was still a marvel that I was privileged enough to watch both Botticelli and Da Vinci create. I stood there for several minutes before Leonardo finally lifted his head up from his drawing.
“She said you’ve hardly even looked at her,” I whispered.
“I have no need. I observed her on the bygone day, as she perused the silk and gold of the Mercato Nuovo. I elapsed the entire day scrutinizing her features and have already drawn her from memory. But I felt compelled to continue with the farce.”
“You have a photographic memory.”
“What is the meaning of photographic?”
Here we go again.
“No time to explain,” I said, as I looked at Sandro. “You do realize that’s a little weird, right?”
“I often trail those I wish to study.”
“Yeah, in my day we call that stalking.” I grinned. “Wait. That was before you asked her to model, wasn’t it?” I suddenly felt a little less guilty for pulling Antonella into our scheme, since he’d planned to use her anyway.
“Yes, it was. And I wish you, Monna Simonetta, to model for Mother Mary. Although, I have no genuine need for you to pose either,” he said matter-of-factly, as he pulled a sketch of my new form from his easel tray.
“I’m not even gonna ask when you did that.”
“The ruse would afford us a duration to converse about other matters…,” he whispered conspiratorially.
It would,” I agreed.
As if he really had to convince me.
It would also give me an excuse to escape the palazzo for a few more days.
“I shall arrange an encounter with your charismatic spouse to legitimize a transaction,” Leonardo said, sarcastically.
“Yeah, have fun with that.”
Chapter 27
Sandro and I said our farewells while Antonella changed back into her servant’s dress. When we departed, Antonella didn’t say a word to Leonardo. Instead she stormed out of Verrocchio’s bottega.
“Are you aware he is painting me as the angel?” Antonella scoffed, when Sandro and I managed to catch up with her.
“No, that’s great. You have such an angelic face,” I said.
Your attitude, not so much.
“The angel Gabriel,” Antonella clarified.
“Oh.” Both Sandro and I tried to muffle our chuckles. “It’s still a great honor. Leonardo will be quite famous one day. You’ll see.”
Or maybe you won’t.
The people of Florence would never completely appreciate Leonardo’s worth in his lifetime, and I never would’ve recognized Antonella in the finished product. It was more the essence of her than any kind of real likeness.
As we crossed the bridge to return home, my small entourage was met by a tall, scrawny, adolescent boy with disheveled, black hair, only slightly tamed by a blue, leather cap. He flailed wildly as he ran towards us. “Sandro!” he cried.
“Filippino!” Sandro shouted as he ran to meet the boy. I knew at once it was Filippino Lippi, or “little Filippo,” son of Fra Filippo Lippi.
Filippino bent over to catch his breath, clearly having run a long way.
Sandro fired off questions in rapid succession. “Whatever are you doing here? Where is your father? Is he finished with the frescoes in Spoleto?”
“My father has died, Sandro.”
“Died?” Sandro asked, clearly horrified.
“Believed to be poisoned,” Filippino blurted.
Sandro clutched his face and sunk to the ground, unable to speak, but it didn’t stop Filippino from continuing. “We were working on the frescoes with Fra Diamante in the Spoleto cathedral when he suddenly became ill.”
Not knowing what else to do, I crouched down with Sandro and held him against me to comfort him. I also experienced my own grief, as my second favorite painter had died without my having met him.
“Why are you not with your mother in Prato?” Sandro asked Filippino.
“She has sent me to you, godfather. I am now under your care as your apprentice.”
A strange coincidence that Sandro was promised an apprentice by a Vespucci and one suddenly appears.
Overcome by grief, Sandro sobbed, but Filippino rambled on nonetheless. “Poliziano is writing an epitaph to commemorate him. And Lorenzo is in Spoleto now, speaking with the Magistrate about bringing my father to be buried in Florence.”
“Lorenzo knew and did not tell me?” Sandro puzzled.
“It has all happened so quickly,” Filippino replied.
“Who do you believe poisoned him?”
“It is difficult to say. My mother’s family never forgave him.”
Sandro looked to me and explained, “Filippo abducted Lucrezia from the convent and had children with her but never married her.”
“Then there was the other woman in Spoleto,” Filippino added. “You know my father, Sandro. His whole life was a series of wine, women, gambling, and scandal. It could have been anyone.”
Sandro looked up, clearly shocked by Filippino’s apathy at his own father’s death. “Filippo was like a father to me. He understood me when my own father did not.”
I saw just the hint of a tear well up in each of Filippino’s eyes. “It is easy to be understanding when one is always intoxicated, Sandro,” Filippino replied, wiping his eyes angrily. “Speaking of your father, Mariano did not appear pleased when I arrived at your door and explained I was to be in your care.”
“I suppose I never mentioned our arrangement to him, since it did not seem like a real possibility,” Sandro said, as he wiped his eyes. “Filippo asked me to be your master, if anything should happen to him, but I never…” Sandro’s sobbing interrupted his words. When he caught his breath he suddenly looked up, “We must go to a chapel and pray for Filippo’s soul.”
“I agree, we should Sandro, but I am afraid there is more news. Your father expressed that when I find you, I am also to tell you your uncle Jacopo is very ill and needs medicine. Mariano thought you would have the money to pay for it.” Filippino put a hand on Sandro’s shoulder. “I am sorry to tell you all of this at once.”
“What is the matter with him?” Sandro asked, now distracted from the other issues at hand.
“He has had a cough and a fever for three days.”
“Consumption?” Sandro asked. I turned suddenly upon hearing that word.
“The doctor has assured your father it is not consumption, but the common malaise. Mariano wants you to pick up medicine from your apothecary at the Santa Maria Novella.”
Sandro nodded as we rose back to our feet.
“Do you mind if I come along with you?” I asked, aware that my knowledge of modern medicine could potentially aid his uncle’s situation.
Antonella looked at me as though she might disagree, but was quickly silenced by the pleading look on my face.
“I am sure it would raise my uncle’s spirits to be visited by the Fair Simonetta,” Sandro agreed.
Filippino hadn’t acknowledged me until that moment, as I’d been crouching down with Sandro, my head mostly covered by my hood. Upon seeing me for the first time, he did the you’re-so-hot double-take.
“Signora Vespucci! Sandro has written much to me about his muse.” Sandro was obviously mortified by this, as I caught him elbowing the young Filippino out of the corner of my eye. This reinforced what Sandro had said in his studiolo, about Simonetta being his inspiration from afar, since we had only met a few days prior.
Filippino suddenly kneeled before me and kissed my hand profusely. “It is with great pleasure that I m
ake your acquaintance, La Bella!” Just then, a family crossing the bridge stopped to stare.
“Filippino, my first lesson as guardian begins now. Get up and do not do that again. You are drawing unnecessary attention to Monna Simonetta!” Sandro suddenly turned and walked back across the bridge rapidly and silently. I could tell Sandro was torn by so many different emotions or else he never would’ve snapped at Filippino like that.
“Sandro, the apothecary is in the other direction!” Filippino called.
“First, we pray for Filippo’s soul,” Sandro insisted.
Filippino shrugged, and we all trailed behind Sandro. Filippino stared and smiled at me almost pitifully as we walked.
We were soon at the doors of the Santa Maria del Carmine. The treasure I knew Sandro sought was well hidden by the unimpressive façade. We made our way through the nave to the Brancacci Chapel, and Sandro was down on his knees before I could even take in the sight. I was the last to follow suit, as bowing before God was such a foreign action to me. I closed my eyes for a moment to pay my respects to the great painter, and felt a kinship to the man who had now joined me in the Post-Mortem Club.
When I opened my eyes again, I absorbed Masaccio’s beautiful frescoes situated on my left. They appeared three-dimensional, as if you could stroke the wrinkles of Saint Peter’s wise face. But the vibrant greens, oranges, and blues were sadly dulled by soot. As my eyes wandered to the right and around the chapel, I could see where Masaccio had left his frescos unfinished due to his untimely death.
Sandro caught me absorbing the magnitude of the place that had inspired so many great men to paint, and Filippino had joined my awe.
“Filippo and I studied here often,” Sandro said quietly.
“I will complete the frescoes!” Filippino interrupted. “But I must cleanse them first!”
“No, you must learn to paint first, Filippino,” Sandro huffed.
Antonella and I looked at each other and smiled. Sandro shook his head and covered his face with his hands in disapproval. He was clearly not in the mood for Filippino’s misplaced enthusiasm.
Our stay in the Brancacci Chapel was brief as we still had to retrieve his uncle Jacopo’s medicine. While Sandro and Filippino went to see the apothecary in the Santa Maria Novella, I searched out the Zanobi altar in the De Lama chapel with Antonella to see Sandro’s Adoration of the Magi. In my lifetime, I’d only seen it after it had been removed to the Uffizi Gallery, which for me was so many years ago. I pointed out members of the Medici family alive and dead, and realized how well Sandro had captured the likeness of Giuliano. Despite his flaws, Giuliano was a handsome man. Sandro had also painted himself with stunning precision, except for his hair, which he painted the same radiant gold color as his cloak.
He really did love blondes.
I lost myself in his image for only a moment before Antonella distracted me, tapping her foot in agitation, rather than enjoying Sandro’s masterpiece along with me.
“I know you’re worried, Antonella, but I’ll take the blame for being late to the palazzo.”
“It will be fine, I suppose. Your husband does not know who I am, anyway.” Antonella smiled.
Antonella and I found the office of the apothecary on the other side of the church grounds. Jars of all shapes and sizes lined the shelves of the dismal room, with a grimy monk serving as the sales representative. Sandro negotiated for the medicine along with some pigments from the apothecary’s strange collection of jars.
Once Sandro completed his purchase, we rushed over to the house of Jacopo Filipepi, only a block away on the Via del Moro. The house was modest on the outside, but the interior painted a different picture. As we were let in by a young servant girl, it was clear that Jacopo had done better for himself than Mariano. Ornate furniture was sprinkled throughout the vestibule, and velvet walls lined the curved marble staircase. I insisted Antonella and Filippino wait downstairs, and both readily agreed without hesitation upon hearing the noises of sickness going on above.
“You should not go either,” Antonella fretted. She was right, of course. If I wanted to live, sick people were to be avoided. But Jacopo obviously meant a great deal to Sandro and I was sure I could help.
“It’ll be fine, Antonella. I’ve been around sickness before.” And I had, although acute cases of fulminant tuberculosis were much rarer in the twenty-first century. I wasn’t a hundred-percent confident in the diagnostic skills of his Renaissance physician, but he had most likely seen consumption enough times to rule it out in Jacopo.
We didn’t need directions to his uncle’s bedchamber, as his coughing lead the way. Before we entered, I made a pit stop to the dining area, and grabbed some cloth napkins from the table. I placed one napkin over my face, and tied it once behind my ears, and another time at the base of my neck, creating a makeshift mask. I did the same for Sandro, and he didn’t protest. The young servant girl just stared in wonder.
Jacopo Filipepi lay flat on the large bed, struggling for breath between hacking coughs. He didn’t have the telltale signs of TB: extreme emaciation, continuous sweating or bloody sputum, but he still looked so sickly and pale that I could see no relation to Mariano in his sunken eyes. Despite his ill appearance, Jacopo still smiled as we entered.
“My favorite nephew,” he wheezed.
“Uncle, you look awful!”
“I feel awful,” Jacopo replied. “Have you brought me a young lady to help me improve?” Jacopo laughed, then coughed uncontrollably for a solid minute.
“I’m Simonetta Vespucci. Pleased to meet you.”
“Yes, if I could see better, I might have guessed La Bella Simonetta was behind that mask.”
“May I help you?” I asked. The nurse in me couldn’t handle him lying flat on his back, gasping for air.
“Anyway you like,” the sassy Jacopo replied.
“To get more comfortable,” I laughed.
Possessed by my mission, I helped myself to the rest of his house. The upstairs had many rooms, and I searched them all gathering pillows along the way. When I returned, I propped Jacopo up, and put the pillows behind him, allowing the air to fill his lungs, and I kept reminding myself of the three-foot rule.
You have to be within three feet of a person infected with TB in order to catch it. But wait…was that the current version, or the quattrocento version? Had the bacteria mutated over the centuries?
I turned my face from him and kept him at arms distance, just in case.
“You have too many blankets on,” I said, as I removed the top two quilts.
“But I’m so cold.”
“Yes, but you’re holding in the fever. You’re chilling because your body is trying to compensate.”
I asked the silent servant girl to wash him down with a cool cloth, but she just stared at me as if she didn’t understand my words. So again I raided his house for the necessary supplies, and ran a cold cloth over his face myself.
It frustrated me, knowing that some IV fluids, antibiotics, and a few Albuterol breathing treatments would have him back on his feet. Yet, because I could provide none of those things he suffered tremendously.
Sandro poured some tobacco syrup from the apothecary into a cup and gave it to Jacopo. I raised my hand to my throat and almost gagged, conjuring the taste of a viscous, liquid cigarette. Although, I couldn’t imagine what harm it could do—other than assault his palate and raise his heart rate a tad—so I didn’t intervene.
I searched the room for some water, but found none. I gave up on the obviously foreign servant girl, and instead I asked Sandro where it could be found.
Jacopo raised a cautionary hand. “No, the doctor does not want me to consume fluids before the blood-letting,” he interjected.
Oh, dear God.
“Signor Filipepi, I know a bit about medicine myself, and I believe you should drink as you appear very dehydrated.” This was made more than clear by his sunken eyes and tenting skin.
“Dehydrated? Like a prune?”
“Yes, and you shouldn’t let him drain your blood either. That will only make your situation worse. You’ll have fewer cells to carry the oxygen.”
Jacopo laughed and patted me on the head with a weak hand. I was creeped out about his germs crawling on my head, so I moved backward. “I am sure that you have made a wonderful model for my Sandro’s banner, but I think that you should stick to that.”
If he were a modern man and he had told me just to stand there and look pretty, I probably would’ve punched him in the face, but his naïve sincerity allowed me to suppress my instincts and leave the matter alone.
I made Jacopo as comfortable as possible, but at the end of our visit, I left his house with a sick feeling that I could have done more. Who would believe that a teenage noblewoman had more knowledge than the doctor?
Only Leonardo would.
Chapter 28
The hour was late by the time we arrived home. Antonella eased the front door open ever so slowly to avoid waking any of the household. After I took the time to quietly close the door behind us, I noticed Marco lurking at the top of the stairs. I quickly stepped in front of Antonella to protect her from his wrath, and mentally sifted through the handful of excuses I used to give my first husband when I needed a break.
I had to work overtime. No. The car broke down. Double-no. I meant to call you but my cell phone died. Shit.
Finally, I surrendered to the futility of composing a spur of the moment Renaissance-appropriate excuse, and decided to go with the truth, preparing myself for another tongue-lashing.
“I trust the banner is coming along well, Simonetta?” Marco queried in a suspiciously polite tone.
“Marco, I know it’s late,” I rambled, “But Signore Filipepi’s master has died, and his uncle is very sick, and…”
“Yes, I know, but you have not answered my question, darling,” Marco replied, smugly.
“You know?” I suddenly got chills crawling up my back. “About which thing?”
“Both.” He was creeping me out more and more by the minute. “The banner?” he inquired again.
What Remains of the Fair Simonetta Page 14
