“Um...yeah, it’s nearly done.”
“So, Giuliano should be pleased?”
“I can’t imagine why he wouldn’t be,” I snapped, not really giving a damn who was pleased or wasn’t.
“Then, the painter should not need your company again, is that correct?”
Ahh, that’s where we’re going with this line of questioning.
“I should need to model at least once more.” I knew it wasn’t true. We had done almost nothing towards completing the painting that day, but I couldn’t bear the thought of my encounters with Sandro coming to an end. “Did you commission Signore Filipepi for another painting?” I asked.
“No, you have Father to thank for that,” Marco replied with an irritating grin. “Buonanotte, my dear.” He turned away from us and walked towards his chamber, no doubt to a naked Luciana.
When we made it into my bedchamber, I insisted that Antonella draw me the hottest bath she could without scalding my skin off. After she heated the water in the fireplace, I helped Antonella lather every millimeter of my flesh and hair. For once I was grateful for Antonella‘s rough treatment, feeling my body couldn’t be scrubbed hard enough to remove Jacopo’s cooties.
When we finally turned in for the night, I again had the same dream: wandering the Ognissanti, staring at the face of Mariano in Sandro’s fresco of Saint Augustine, that smirking coyote bastard strutting around, invading my personal dream space.
In the morning Antonella dressed me in a lavish, satiny, baby blue number with white arm tippets dangling from the sleeves. If I’d worn a matching hennin hat and veil, I would’ve looked like someone straight out of a Disney princess film. I didn’t question the outfit as I was anxious for the arrival of Sandro, worried for his wellbeing after the last night’s events. I stood by the window, and waited and waited for him to arrive. He never came. I realized we hadn’t really clarified our plans with the confusion of the prior evening. Or perhaps the stress of Filippo Lippi’s death, the inheritance of Filippo’s son, and the illness of his uncle had overwhelmed him.
“I’m going to find him,” I said to Antonella, as I made my way to the door of my bedchamber.
“This is not a good time, Netta. You are expected…”
“God, Antonella!” I threw my arms in the air in exasperation. “I don’t care! I’m sick of hearing what’s expected of me! I’m going to his house.”
As I opened the door, I noticed much commotion within the halls of the Palazzo Vespucci. It seemed all the residents were milling around and dressing for some event. I hadn’t even met some of the men, women, and children scurrying around. I didn’t care enough to ask Antonella what their deal was; instead I took advantage of the distraction to sneak out of the palazzo.
I ran down the stairs and out the front door, the blood rushing to my face. I didn’t notice at first that Antonella had dutifully followed me. “I’m sorry,” I said, as she made her way to my side.
“What concern draws you to the painter, Netta? Is it merely for his well being?” Antonella asked.
“I do want to make sure he’s all right, but it’s more than that.” After some thought, I decided to be honest. “I feel that I’ve always loved him before we even met. We have an unusual connection and unbelievable chemistry.”
“Chemistry?”
“That invisible force that makes you tingle all over when someone is near. It compels you to want to touch them all the time, even when you shouldn’t. Your heart beats faster, your knees become weak, and your mind grows dizzy with anticipation.”
“I have chemistry with Amerigo,” Antonella sighed.
“I thought you might. So you understand?”
“Yes, I understand, Netta. But what is there to do? You are married to Marco and promised to Giuliano.”
“What can you do Antonella? You know Amerigo can’t marry you, yet you spend night after night with him. Why do you do that?”
“I suppose I desire to spend as much time with him as possible until his wife is chosen.”
I decided it wasn’t the time to mention that he’d sail around the world and marry a Spaniard.
“You don’t have to be married to a man to love him.” I told this to myself as well as to her. “I want to spend whatever time I can with Sandro before it’s too late.”
“Too late?”
“My time with him will come to an end, just as yours with Amerigo will, but that doesn’t mean our love for them has to end. And right now, I feel that Sandro needs me.”
We walked around the corner, and I knocked on Mariano’s door. After a moment, it was answered by Filippino.
“Good morn, La Bella!” Filippino greeted enthusiastically, his hair more disheveled than before. He knelt down again, despite Sandro’s previous chastisement, and slobbered on my hand before greeting Antonella.
Then another, gruffer voice rang out. “A single day in the house and you are already greeting the guests?” barked Mariano. But the moment his eyes laid upon me, his angry face softened.
“Signora Vespucci,” he said with a bow, showing me unusual reverence.
“How is your brother?” I asked Mariano.
“I am on my way to see him now. Thank you for inquiring.” As he passed through the threshold, Mariano brushed against me and whispered, “I have missed you at the tavern.”
It occurred to me that I’d become so entranced by Sandro, I had forgotten my mission.
Repair the relationship between Mariano and Sandro.
Though at the moment, it seemed as though there were bigger hides to tan. The point was moot anyway, since before I could reply, Mariano was well down the Via della Vigna Nuova.
“Where is Sandro?” I asked of Filippino.
“Up in the studiolo. Gone mad. He was up all night, completing the banner.”
I pushed past Filippino and ran up the stairs, leaving Antonella behind. I rushed in and shut the door, taking Sandro by surprise.
“Simonetta! What are you doing here?” Sandro asked from his kneeling position over the banner, confusion displayed on his face.
“When you didn’t come for me this morning, I thought something might be wrong.”
“This morn?” he repeated, bewildered, as he took in his surroundings. “I did not even noticed the candles had burnt out.”
I touched one of his extinguished wicks, now stone cold. “Probably a few hours ago,” I laughed.
“I am glad you are here.” He stood up and laced his arm inside of mine to escort me the few steps to his masterpiece. “Look! It is complete!”
My likeness, painted on the blue taffeta, had a fierce countenance. I was dressed in the white shift with a gold, knee length vest draped over it. The shift was billowing in the wind along with my ample hair, which was only slightly restrained by a burnished metal helmet. The locks of my golden tresses were decorated with jewels that appeared to gleam in the painted sunlight. My feet, covered in blue laced buskins like those from Ancient Greece, rode upon the flames of burning olive boughs. I held a leveled sword in my right hand and a shield in my left. My eyes gazed up to the sun in the upper right hand corner of the banner, while at the bottom, Cupid was tied with a gold cord to a tree stump; his bow and arrows broken at his feet.
I looked closely at Cupid’s face. “Is that…Giuliano?” I asked.
“I was hoping it would not be quite so obvious,” Sandro laughed. “I got the idea from Poliziano, the night we supped at the Medici’s. Do you remember the words he spoke?”
I shook my head. I only recalled how uncomfortable the whole scene had made me.
“I returned to Angelo and asked if I may copy his words.” Sandro pulled a small, crumpled piece of paper from his pocket and read. “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.
”
I studied the banner intently, absorbing the meaning in his brushstrokes, wondering whether Giuliano would be upset with the visual display of me blatantly overpowering him.
“Did you see? I placed the Gorgon on the shield as well as the breastplate,” Sandro remarked.
“Gorgon?” I asked quizzically.
“They are of Greek mythological origin. The ancient Greeks believed the Gorgons had hair of live snakes and could turn you to stone if you looked directly at them.”
“Oh, like Medusa.”
“Yes, very good. Medusa is one of the three sisters, along with Stheno and Euryale.”
“Aren’t you afraid that Giuliano will be upset about being portrayed this way?”
“His rite of passage into divine love requires that he give his heart to an unattainable woman, feel the rejection but never forget his love, then channel that love towards a nobler end. The fact that carnal love, rather than divine love is Giuliano’s wish, is a matter of which only a few are aware, therefore my painting fits the outward cause.”
“It’s beautiful, Sandro.” I dared think it was more beautiful than his Birth of Venus, which had been, before that day, my favorite man-made creation in the world.
“Did I hear my name?” a voice called from the other side of the door. “Your new apprentice was kind enough to let me in. A pity about his father.” Giuliano, with his tall, muscular frame, sculpted cheekbones, and dazzling eyes, waltzed into Sandro’s studiolo as if claiming ownership of the place. “Simonetta! You have saved me a journey to your palazzo. I have a gift for you!” He smiled, as his long eyelashes batted at me.
“What is it?” I asked, uncomfortable with the whole situation. Sandro looked away, and busied himself hanging the banner with clothespins for viewing.
“It is the gown you will wear to the joust day after next. My attendant carries it for you.”
I will wear?
I didn’t hate him yet this morning—until he said that.
Giuliano turned his attention to the banner. “Sandro! You have done well! This banner will make the Medici shine above all others in the tournament!”
I cringed inside, knowing the beautiful masterpiece wouldn’t survive the centuries. It would hang in the Medici palace for some time, and be chronicled by Giorgio Vasari in his Lives of the Artists, before disappearing forever.
Giuliano seemed oblivious to his own image being portrayed as the bound Cupid. “I shall take it now, so it can be sewn to the banner pole,” Giuliano announced.
“But, it is not quite dry,” Sandro agonized.
“I shall have my attendant see to its drying.” Giuliano carelessly yanked the banner from its hanging place. I could see the pain on Sandro’s face at having to part with it.
Giuliano noticed Filippino peeking into the studiolo. “Filippino, my lad! I know of something that might lift your spirits after your terrible loss.”
“What?” Filippino asked, as he joined us in the studiolo.
“Would you like to compete in the joust? We should need one more rider.”
“Me?” Filippino asked.
“Giuliano, he is but fourteen years of age,” Sandro argued.
“Yes, but he is a tall lad. No one will know the difference once he is clad in armor.” Giuliano turned from Sandro to Filippino. “Come to the palazzo on Via Larga. We will provide you with a horse and trappings, and fit you with armor.”
“I shall go right now!” Filippino bristled with excitement, as he ran out the front door.
“Does he even know how to joust?” I wondered aloud.
“I am unsure,” Sandro replied with obvious concern.
“I guess that’ll make it easier for you to win, then,” I said sarcastically to Giuliano.
“I will give the boy a few pointers once I escort you back to the palazzo, Simonetta,” Giuliano insisted. The anger that shown on his face, controlled in his voice.
Sandro looked at me and nodded to indicate that I should go with Giuliano. I could see the fear in Sandro’s eyes, knowing that a Medici was not an enemy he wished to have.
Had the age of my brain matched that of my body, I would surely have been head over heels for Giuliano. He was devastatingly handsome, polite and chivalrous, when he wasn’t being arrogant and misogynistic. He seemed content to embrace my subservient role of a woman in the Renaissance. Giuliano lived inside the box, rather than tearing down its walls and breaking free of it, like Sandro did.
Giuliano, Antonella and I, strolled back to the Palazzo Vespucci with Giuliano’s stiff attendant lugging my bulky new dress. The attendant also held the reins of a beautiful chestnut stallion that carried the large banner on its saddle. There were an unusual number of people milling down the Borgo in the direction of the Ognissanti, and Giuliano made sure he put on a good show for the crowd.
At my door, Giuliano bowed and kissed my hand, then knelt on one knee to present me with the white mass of fabric. Once Antonella took it from him, he removed the banner from the horse and passed it off to the now empty-handed attendant. Giuliano leapt onto the stallion, then trotted off, yelling, “I win for you, Simonetta!” loudly enough to ensure onlookers milling down the street could hear, while leaving his attendant and the banner in the dust.
Chapter 29
When Antonella opened the door to the palazzo, we were nearly bowled over by a stampede of Vespucci. The entirety of the house emerged, including Marco, Piero, Amerigo, and his father, Nastagio. The nobility, dressed in velvet, silk, gold brocade, and all manner of fine clothing, were followed by Luciana and the nameless retinue clothed in their matching brown and white attire. Without words, Marco looped his arm inside mine, and strutted me regally down the street, trailing after his father in the Vespucci procession. As we paraded down the Borgo as a five-deep, six-wide mob, all I wanted to do was push Marco off me and run back to Sandro.
As I was shuffled towards the Ognissanti, the throng of Vespucci, swaggered like peacocks as they “humbly” greeted the neighborhood of lowly churchgoers. Sandro, Mariano, and even Filippino were at the outer edges of the crowd. I could barely speak as denizens of the district approached me en masse, bowing, and kissing, and invading my three-foot consumption-prevention perimeter. My growing claustrophobia made the church itself seem to pulsate and breathe, the dynamic building using the crowd to push me in to its vortex to the afterlife; the heaving façade sucking and dragging me in to my otherworldly home as if to say, your time here is over.
A mournful psalm from the grand pipe organ filtered out through the high walls. To me it sounded like Chopin’s Funeral March. As we neared the heavy wooden entry doors, I could see past the narthex, and well into the church’s nave. The golden high altar was crowned with Giotto’s eerie Madonna looking down on me, and I pondered for a moment on how much Sister Constance loved that painting. For just a split second, I swore the coyote was traipsing across the altar. I squinted and shook my head at the sight of the trickster, and just as fast, he vanished.
That’s when the Abbess stepped out from one of the south chapels. I blinked again, hoping to make her disappear as well, but she remained. The Abbess stared past the crowd, directly at me, burning holes in my borrowed flesh, seemingly aware of my corporeal thievery. Even though the Miraculous Medal had been given to Simonetta before I arrived to invade her body, I knew this was the woman who’d given it to her. In her, I recognized the eyes of Sister Constance of the twenty-first century. She didn’t look exactly the same, but those piercing orbs framed by rugose lids gave her away. I could see into her soul and perceived her to be one and the same shriveled being, and I knew she peered into my soul as well.
I was weak. Instead of facing my fate head on as I had the strength to do only a few days prior, I panicked. I didn’t want to go back. I wanted to live. I wanted to love. I wanted to do all the things I had told Antonella she couldn’t do. I wanted to be with Sandro for all time. Not in the urn-inhabiting, ashy way I’d been, but in the flesh, warm and naked and f
ree from all deathly restraint.
“No.” I shook my head and muttered to myself, “I’ll take the consumption. I can’t go back now.” The nun still beckoned me in.
I stopped in my tracks, and tried to do an about-face. I refused to confront my fate. Simonetta’s death had to be prevented. I couldn’t go back to being a spirit—a bystander to history.
“What is wrong with you, woman? Move along!” Marco barked, as he shoved me into the throng which carried me helplessly towards the threshold. As I was about to cross it, the people, and the church, and the world crushed in on me. Then everything suddenly went black. The crowd and commotion were gone. It was just me and the damn coyote strolling on the high altar. He stopped to look up at me, and grinned his evil grin: the creature known for disobeying normal rules and conventional behavior. Even a non-Christian being would think twice about trampling across an altar in a beautiful church.
“You have me back!” I screamed, but he just trotted on. “What else do you want?” He gave no reply. But then again, he never did.
The figure of the nun appeared in front of the altar, but instead of a habit she was barely covered in a large scarf, loosely draped across her wrinkled body. In her right hand she held a javelin, and she leaned upon a bundle of javelins that were tied together on her left. I knew I was in a dream-state and she didn’t belong. “What are you doing here?” I asked.
“I have always been here,” she replied. “And so have you.”
Then the strangest sensation overcame me. It was a dizzying motion like floating through the air. I could feel it, physically, like a bird soaring. Blurred streaks of gray and brown stone rushed by me, then patches of blue sky and clouds, and then faces. So many faces.
“Make way!” someone yelled.
Four men cornered the litter that carried me, the nameless retinue that had escorted me to the Palazzo Medici, so many nights ago. I wanted to formally introduce myself, as I’d virtually ignored them, but knew it wasn’t the time.
“What happened?” I asked.
“You swooned, Signora,” the kind-faced man to my left, replied.
What Remains of the Fair Simonetta Page 15
