What Remains of the Fair Simonetta

by Laura T. Emery

  “Her name is Antonella,” I insisted, but Marco was already well en route to the exit.

  Chapter 32

  As soon as Marco closed my door, Antonella opened hers and burst in with a hairbrush in hand. She scooped the velvet chair from the floor and quickly pushed me into it.

  “I thought he would never leave!” Antonella put an unusual amount of haste and force into her hair torture, even for her. “I know you care for the painter, but this is a dangerous game you play, Simonetta.”

  Before I could respond, Luciana barged in without knocking.

  I could really use a locksmith in this place.

  “This gown has been delivered by a courier of Giuliano de Medici,” she grumbled, as she tossed it onto my bed in a heap. “He said you are to wear it to the ball, and your hair should be down upon your back.”

  “It is a pity you will not be attending, Luciana,” Antonella retorted, snidely. In response, Luciana launched a pearl tiara with a sandal chaser, then left the room in a snit.

  Antonella picked up the “gown,” if you could call it that. It was fashioned from sheer, lustrous, white fabric with transparent, billowy sleeves; the bodice garnished with a crisscross pattern of fine gold embroidery. If not for the sewn-in slip, the gown would’ve concealed almost nothing at all.

  Antonella attempted to wrestle the gown over my stiff petticoat, before fighting to make it work with the shift underneath, but to no avail. The featherweight, waist-less frock insisted on flowing on its own. It was exquisite, just not what I would’ve expected or chosen to wear in public.

  “I must restrain some of your hair,” Antonella said, as she resumed her painful brushing.

  “You heard Luciana. Giuliano insists it be down on my back. Besides, if I’m gonna wear this slip of fabric that barely even qualifies as a dress, then what difference does it make how unseemly my hair is?”

  “Very well,” Antonella relented, flashing a sinister grin. “I know just what to do!”

  I watched in the mirror as she fashioned two locks from the nape of my neck into braids, each of which she decorated with pearls, before tying them together on my chest to form a faux necklace. At the knot of the braids, she hung the gaudy brooch Giuliano had given to Simonetta before I snatched her body. Still another braid she used to restrain the back of my hair into a lengthy pony tail, while the front she spun with a hot poker into tight curls. Finally, she crowned me with the pearl tiara.

  “Another fine configuration of hair,” I praised.

  “I shall call it the Vespucci,” she laughed. “No, for you it is more of a Vespaio, since you love to stir up the wasps of Florence.” I thought my doo was attractive in an outlandish sort of way, but not at all like a wasp’s nest. The whole ensemble seemed more proper for a red carpet event in Hollywood, than a Renaissance ball. But what did I know?

  Sometime later, Marco arrived at my bedchamber door, looking especially handsome in a royal blue tunic with matching hose, and his dark hair slicked back to show off his attractive face.

  “You look beautiful,” Marco gushed, as he examined me from top to bottom.

  “Thank you.” I nodded. “You look great, yourself.”

  I decided to play the part of dutiful wife to my dapper, if caveman-like husband, so when he offered his arm, I took it. As we embarked on an evening alone, we left attendants and elders behind.

  I opted to embrace the situation, and allowed the retinue to carry me alongside Marco in the decorative litter, up the short distance to the piazza in front of the Ognissanti. I purposely avoided casting my eyes in the direction of the church, but I could nonetheless feel that nun’s stare boring into me.

  I was familiar with the palace in modern times, but had never been inside, since it is used as the seat of the Honorary Consulate of France. It is famously nicknamed “the Palace of the Puzzles,” because of the conflicting opinions regarding the original architect.

  “Who designed the Palazzo Lenzi?” I asked Marco as we approached; thrilled at the prospect of knowing something that no one in the future could confirm.

  “Michelozzo,” he replied.

  “Ahh,” I nodded, with a smile. “The same architect who designed the Palazzo Medici and Chapel of the Crucifix in the Miniato al Monte.”

  “You impress me. I did not know you had an interest in such things.”

  “There’s a lot you don’t know about me,” I grinned, as I was led out of the litter by the gloved hand of a member of the retinue.

  It seemed we were fashionably late to the ball as a sizeable crowd was already milling around, and a large number of horses were tied in front of the palazzo.

  “You missed the flag races earlier,” Marco said flatly. “While you were ill. Many inquired about your health.”

  All eyes were on me, and fingers pointing in the direction of my barely clothed form, as a porter led us past the gray stone façade, through a massive gate and into a sprawling garden that bordered the river.

  Delicately manicured shrubs shaped like cones and orbs dotted the expansive lawn. Walkways diagonally crisscrossed the grass area, which had four sculpted fountains, and cypress and orange trees at its edges. Servants lit torches, illuminating the Arno River on the left side of this patch of heaven.

  Within moments of entering the breathtaking garden, two smiling women ran towards me. Each wore a dress similar to mine with the same lustrous, transparent material trimmed with fine gold embroidery. The woman with chestnut hair had a dress that was off one shoulder, while the strawberry blonde wore a sleeveless gown. Like me, both lacked the usual stuffy Renaissance updo.

  “Our third Grace has arrived!” the chestnut-haired woman exclaimed; her locks twisted and braided into a flowing ponytail.

  “We shall be taking her now,” the strawberry blonde proclaimed to Marco, her hair completely loose with a solitary pearl crowning her head.

  The women each grabbed one of my hands and ran me across the garden and up the stairs to an erected stage, giggling all the way. When we reached the stage floor, they introduced themselves. “I am Eleonora of Aragon,” the chestnut-haired woman announced as she curtsied. “But tonight I am Thalia, the Grace of Blossom.”

  “And I am Euphrosyne, Grace of Delight, otherwise known as Albiera Albizzi,” she giggled and flipped her strawberry blonde hair.

  “And tonight, you are not Simonetta Vespucci, but Aglaia, Grace of Beauty,” said Eleonora. “We are to dance as the three Graces, created to fill the world with pleasant moments and goodwill.”

  “I’m pleased to meet both of you,” I said, while I curtsied.

  And I really was.

  I hadn’t met such jovial women since arriving in this world. “Wait. Did you say dance?”

  “Yes. Giuliano de Medici, known tonight as Apollo, has arranged this fabulous ball with many of us playing parts from classical mythology. I think it a fabulous way to spend one of my last days of freedom before marrying that decrepit old Duke, do you not?”

  I hadn’t made it past the dancing part. I was already amazed that I’d managed to stay upright in this world on Simonetta’s gazelle legs, let alone dance on them. It had never been my forte.

  A blonde woman climbed the stage, wearing a light, floral patterned frock with her head and neck wreathed in blossoms. “I am to be Flora, but I am not certain what I am supposed to do as such.”

  “Flora is the goddess of nature and spring. You should toss flowers all about,” Eleonora replied glibly, as she picked some orange blossoms from the trees surrounding the stage, and helped “Flora” contain them in the skirt of her dress. “But tonight we are goddesses, so you may do what you like.”

  “If I am to do what I like, I would capture the attention of Apollo!” she laughed. “But unfortunately, his heart lies with the Fair Simonetta.”

  “Don’t worry about me. He’s all yours!” I said, as my eyes homed in on the arrogant Giuliano, dressed in only a draping, white toga with laurel leaves framing his head. “Have we met?” I
asked the faux Flora.

  “I do not believe so. I am Fioretta Gorini.” She curtsied astonishingly low to the floor. “It is impossible that you are not smitten with him. Look at all those muscles, and that stunningly beautiful face,” she sighed.

  Still glancing around, I spotted Sandro at the outskirts of the crowd, shyly draped in nothing but a crimson toga of sorts hanging over one shoulder, a sheathed sword at his side, and a bronze pointed half-helmet on his head. His toned legs and smooth chest were mostly bare, and his feet covered in some high top buskins. What had already promised to be a magical night just got significantly better. “Actually I’m smitten with him,” I said, pointing to Sandro, just as he looked up at me and smiled. This gathering felt like a trip to Vegas; girl’s night out with a definite vibe of what happens at the ball, stays at the ball. Hopefully, I hadn’t just offered an off-with-her-head confession.

  “Ahh, Mercury is the lady’s choice, is he?” Albiera noted, as she combed the crowd with her eyes. “Aha! Over there. I will take Zephyrus.”

  “The man in blue?” I laughed. Marco was standing alone, looking somber, now embellished with a blue mantle and wings. Giuliano had transformed him into the god of the west wind, best known for raping Chloris, nymph of spring.

  “Yes, he would be the one.”

  “You can have that one too!” I chuckled. “Although he’s taken, and not by me.”

  All the women laughed together, and an Orphic hymn commenced. Leonardo had taken a seat next to the stage where he played the lyre, while Poliziano sang lyrics of love, nymphs, and meadows.

  Lorenzo and a beautiful woman—who was definitely not his flat-faced, angry wife Clarice—came to the center of the stage dressed as Aphrodite and Eros.

  “Who is that woman?” I asked Fioretta in a whisper.

  “That is Lucrezia Donati,” Fioretta informed me. “Two years ago, before your arrival in Florence, Lorenzo held a joust in her honor, proclaiming his courtly love, just as Giuliano now does for you.

  “Interesting,” I said to myself, realizing this whole charade with Giuliano might not end with the joust.

  “Here we go!” Albiera clutched my hand and pulled me into a Grace-chain with Eleonora, surrounding Lorenzo and Lucrezia. It started out as gleeful prancing, but as we let go of each other’s hands, the two other women spun and danced around the couple. It felt awkward at first, but soon Simonetta’s feet overcame my inhibitions, and I danced freely and joyfully, ignoring the now staring crowd of ball-goers and becoming lost in the music. Fioretta fervently threw her orange blossoms from the stage.

  The moment he saw me, Giuliano pranced up and grabbed me around the waist; his face close to mine, as he pulled me in and twirled me around. We danced in perfect unison to steps I’d certainly never executed before. Simonetta’s body overruled my brain and I unconsciously let her lead me. I smiled broadly, as we chasséd, spun, and whisked our way about the stage. At the song’s finale, Giuliano dipped me, and when he raised me back up I pulled him towards Fioretta, placing his hand in hers. A look of nervous shock came over her young face and she went limp; the remaining flowers in her skirt falling to the floor. But Giuliano didn’t miss a step, and immediately wrapped his arm around Fioretta, and danced her around the stage.

  Giuliano now dispatched, I returned to the other Graces, and together we skipped and hopped around Lorenzo and Lucrezia for a while longer before Eleonora pulled us down into the now rollicking crowd of gods, goddesses, nymphs, and muses. Eleonora kicked off her sandals, so Albiera and I followed suit. We weaved in and out of the crowd, collecting people to add to our human chain, eventually forming a long snake of dancers in the grass, weaving in and out of the Candyland-like shrub sculptures.

  By this time, Marco had disappeared into the crowd, but Sandro still stood lonesome on the sidelines. In the spirit of this anything goes atmosphere, I grabbed Sandro’s hand and yanked him into our orgy of festivities.

  The chain soon disbanded into smaller groups and pairs of merrymakers. We Graces formed a ring around Sandro, our linked arms moving up and down with the music.

  “It is Mercury, god of poetry,” Eleonora said to Sandro, causing him to smile shyly.

  “Except this Mercury writes his poetry with brushstrokes on panel,” I clarified.

  “I shall enjoy painting you three as the Graces,” Sandro replied as we continued to roam around him.

  “And I will be your lady Venus. You shall paint me riding from the waves.” I demanded. I had no idea where those words came from.

  “I will,” Sandro pledged, without lowering his gaze. “I promise.”

  Eleonora winked at me as she and Albiera trotted off to flirt with the other deities, leaving me to dance alone with Sandro. I glanced around to locate Marco and Giuliano in order to gauge how much trouble I was likely getting myself into. Marco was engrossed in a serious conversation with Lorenzo, and Giuliano was nowhere to be seen, so I decided to make use of my newfound dancing ability. I took Sandro’s hand, and moved easily with him in some sort of Renaissance-style waltz, circling and weaving through the entirety of the garden. So as not to advertise my infatuation with Sandro, I smiled and greeted everyone, with a charm that was not my own. Then Sandro held both my hands and spun me, causing me to throw my head back in delight, my long pony tail whipping through the wind.

  Caught up in our own private celebration, we drifted away from the congregation, and found ourselves on the south side of the garden behind the palazzo. Our eyes met under the veil of shadow created by the large building. Overpowered by the mood, our lips migrated together. This time it wasn’t me who initiated it, but rather some force outside of ourselves pulling us together, despite all the odds against us. Entranced by the magic of the evening, I lost myself in the warmth of his lips and his soft breath, until we heard some rustling and moaning emanating from close by. Sandro and I crept a few steps along the outer wall of the palace to discover the source of the commotion, and when I focused my eyes, I almost laughed out loud. Giuliano was sucking face with our faux Flora, Fioretta, pressed up against the side of the Palazzo Lenzi. We scurried away before they had a chance to come up for air.

  “I guess that solves that problem,” I said to Sandro when we resumed our dancing.

  “I wish it could be that simple,” Sandro sighed. “Fioretta is not of noble birth, and is obviously quite attainable. Giuliano has made a public display of courting you. His expectations will remain intact, despite any other entanglements.” I didn’t want negativity to ruin this evening, and pushed any thought of Giuliano’s expectations from my mind.

  As the current song came to a close, Sandro and I agreed to separate and mingle so as not to draw attention. I took hold of any and every other man, dancing and charming my way through the crowd, sampling goblets of wine along the way. I danced with Lorenzo, Leonardo, Poliziano, and even Giuliano once he finally returned to the ball. I resisted the temptation to divulge what I’d witnessed, and realized that being admired by many men wasn’t the worse thing in the world. After all, the evening was not about my mission with Mariano, conspiring with Leonardo, Lorenzo’s politics, or Poliziano’s poem—but pure unadulterated fun.

  Across the garden, Eleonora appeared to be having the time of her life at her bachelorette party of sorts. She and Albiera kidnapped poor Sandro and dragged him up to the stage to dance around him. I considered reuniting with my fellow Graces, but noticed Marco at the edge of the crowd, brooding.

  Hoping to appease him, I approached Marco and curtsied, “The Lady wishes to dance with the god of the western wind.” Even if dancing and charming were not my fortes before this night, I had longstanding talents for manipulation and persuasion, and figured it couldn’t hurt to get along with Marco.

  Marco cocked his head, and squinted his green eyes. “Are you certain?”

  “Just because I don’t wanna crank out kids, doesn’t mean we can’t enjoy each other’s company, does it?” The wine had obviously gone to my head, returning me t
o my less-than-charming self, so I pulled him into the throng before he responded.

  Marco danced stiffly, with a look of paranoia, as if I might bite or sashay him to death. It took several minutes for him to loosen up, and even longer for a subtle smile to cross his face, but eventually it came. Just as I felt Marco truly start to defrost, we were interrupted by a short, round, pug-faced woman in a yellowish-green draping gown. “I wish to dance with my spouse,” she declared in a shrill voice. Marco’s eyes grew into small planets.

  “You must be Chloris,” I laughed. They were husband and wife after Zephyrus abducted and raped her, but this Chloris didn’t seem to object. “Be my guest.”

  I took the opportunity to rescue Sandro from the Eleonora and Albiera flirt-fest. It didn’t take much prodding for the two Graces to go in search of a new victim.

  “Come to me on the morrow,” Sandro said, as if dismissing me. “I shall start the Saint Augustine.”

  “At the Ognissanti?”

  Shit. I can’t go there.

  “But the night is still—” I argued.

  “Please come to me, Simonetta,” Sandro interrupted. “I shall work late into the evening, but it appears you must now attend to your husband.”

  I followed Sandro’s gaze to where Marco cut through the crowd with a swift gait, the pug-faced Chloris in hot pursuit. Marco’s once neatly combed hair was disheveled, his mantle sideways with one wing of Zephyrus now higher than the other, and he sported red kiss prints across his cheeks. He glanced dismissively at Sandro before locking eyes with me.

  “Our time here is at an end, Simonetta. We must leave before that woman catches up to me.”

  “What on earth did she do to you?” I asked, while chuckling at the serious look on his face. I received only a stern gaze in reply. “If you want to go, I’m sure I could find another escort home.”

  I had to give it a shot.

  “I think not,” he replied, staring daggers at Sandro, as he grabbed me forcefully by the arm. And with that, the party was over.