What Remains of the Fair Simonetta

by Laura T. Emery

  Leonardo bowed politely. “Monna Simonetta.”

  Carlo was apparently not inclined to leave me alone with the young Leonardo as he quickly made himself comfortable in one of the elegant sitting room chairs.

  I smiled and nodded demurely. “Thank you for visiting, Signor da Vinci. That will be all, Carlo,” I dismissed him with a flick of my wrist, finally getting used to the whole noblewoman thing, just as it was coming to an end.

  “But, Signora—”

  “That will be all!” I yelled in no uncertain terms.

  Carlo jumped up at my hostile tone, and exited the room, turning back once or twice, clearly conflicted in his decision to obey me. As soon as he left, I closed the door behind him and turned to Antonella. “I’m sorry Antonella, I have to ask you to leave as well. I need to speak with Leonardo alone.” She simply nodded in agreement, and vacated the sitting room without question.

  A shocking first for her.

  “In what location have you been dwelling, Simonetta?” Leonardo blurted. “Piero has disseminated the message that you have been infirmed, but you have the appearance of vigor.”

  “I haven’t been ill, but I will be soon.” I let out a psychosomatic cough or two. “April 26th is just around the corner.” I felt the crush of time envelop me and I had no fun bucket list planned this time around. I had already done so much, and a tropical vacation seemed out of the question.

  “But you have tempted Fate thus far. Do you not think She is inclined to let you thrive?”

  “No, I think not, Leo.” I sighed. “I’ve had a personal conversation with her.”

  Leonardo fell silent.

  “I need you to do something for me.”

  “Anything you wish.” Leonardo stood from his chair across the room and took a seat next to mine.

  “Sandro will create a painting, something of a mythological nature. He’ll be convinced by a fiery preacher named Savonarola to burn it in a bonfire, and the modern world will never enjoy the pleasure of seeing it or even know its subject.” I took a deep breath before continuing. “Can you stop him?”

  “Stop him? I am unsure. I have borne witness to those who converse about the preacher from Ferrara. But how will Sandro be persuaded to commit such an atrocity? It is not in his humor to ravage his own creations.”

  “Historians don’t know why for sure. Either because he’ll believe Savonarola is sent from God and his art is a sin, or because he’ll fear punishment if he doesn’t. Most of Florence, including Sandro’s own brother, will blindly follow this man.”

  “How am I to ascertain which piece will be destroyed?”

  “Good question. I don’t know.” I rubbed my temples in exasperation “I only know which ones it isn’t. It won’t be the one portraying the arrival of Venus from the ocean, or Camilla with a centaur, or an allegory of spring with the Three Graces, which will all be painted for Lorenzo’s cousin, Lorenzo Pierfrancesco.”

  “Sandro will portray all of these subjects?” Leonardo rubbed his chin, clearly impressed.

  “Yes, but…wait! It won’t be something he paints for a patron, but one he creates solely for himself.”

  “I will try my best,” he agonized.

  “Something must be done before you go to France,” I thought aloud. In my desperation to save Sandro’s unknown painting, I just blurted it out.

  “I am going to France?”

  Shit. Yes. And Milan, Mantua, Rome. But which one was first?

  “I don’t want say anything that will influence your decisions, Leonardo.” But then I thought maybe I could save him some unneeded heartbreak. “The citizens of Florence will never in your lifetime appreciate you for the genius that you are. But others will, especially the King of France.”

  “The King?” He took a moment to absorb this astounding fact, then switched gears back to Sandro. “I shall do whatever it takes, Simonetta. I will even abduct his creation if I must to avert such a catastrophe.”

  Overwhelmed with gratitude, I threw my arms around Leonardo warmly. He shrank back from my affection, which was uncharacteristic of the brother-sister-type relationship we’d shared, but I refused to let go. When he’d had enough of my stifling embrace, he politely wormed his way out from under my arms, and went on his way.

  Chapter 48

  Word of my illness spread quickly throughout Florence. It took a few days for the disease to set in, but when it finally did, it took a firm grasp on my health. The malady did not have the lingering slowness of tuberculosis as expected. It was something different. Something fierce and unyielding. The unknown illness came on with a vengeance, tainting every cell in my body.

  The days passed as I lay in bed, alone with my sickness. Antonella attempted to dote on me, but I politely refused her attention, begging her not to come close. The last thing I wanted was to kill her with my germs while in the process of facing my own fate.

  Marco showed unusual concern for my health, visiting me as much as he had Luciana, and showing off his new skill of pouring water into a goblet for me. I made polite conversation as much as my coughing and shortness of breath would allow, asking him to cover his face when he sat next to me. I felt sorry for him for having first lost Luciana, and now the only other person who understood his plight.

  So as not to draw suspicion, I allowed visits from the physician that Lorenzo sent over. I took the “medicines” he provided, and when it came time to let my blood, I didn’t argue.

  With his constant rambling and odorous breath, the doctor explained that since the time of Hippocrates it has been known that illness is an imbalance of the four humors: sanguine, phlegm, black bile, and yellow bile—sanguine, or blood, being the most dominant.

  The whole process wasn’t as easy as it would’ve been with modern phlebotomy, though I felt no pain as he placed Hirudo medicinalis leeches on my chest and neck. He described in detail how the slithery creatures injected their own anesthetic to prevent me from feeling their suckers boring into my skin.

  When my condition did not improve, the physician moved on to venesection, pulling a long box from his pocket which contained a lancet with a decorative ivory handle. He removed the tool from its case and used it to open my antecubital vein. I looked the other way in horror as the precious blood slowly ran from my elbow into a bowl.

  After the grisly treatment, he felt my condition had improved since my flushed skin had turned dusky pale and my restlessness had been subdued.

  When the doctor stopped his efforts for the night, Piero surprised me with a visit. Barely able to raise my head from the pillow, I didn’t care whether he used precautions when he sat next to me. I was too weak to protest, even when he leaned in closely.

  “You are doing this on purpose!” he seethed with murderous eyes. “I thought I had gained a precious gem adding you to the family, but you have done nothing but disappoint.”

  I squeezed my eyes shut, foolishly hoping to close out his scornful words, but he grabbed me by the shoulders and shook me. “Wake up you fool. How will it look if the Priorate of Florence has let its flower die?”

  I held my breath, willing the end to come, to be free of this monster, but his venom continued. “Florence respects me because I have you in my possession, the greatest beauty the city-state has ever seen.” Just then, I felt a strong slap across my face. “You must live!”

  His tactic worked. The pain of his blow induced an intense fury to rush in and possess me. I opened my eyes, raised my head, and said the one thing I knew would get to him.

  “No.”

  Chapter 49

  The world went black. I felt myself spinning through time and space, suddenly aware of everything. All that Simonetta had experienced was now a part of me: her childhood in Genoa, the painful feeling of loss from her step-brother’s murder, the fear of being brought to Florence to marry so young, the love she felt for Sandro, which indeed rivaled my own. I now understood the connection we had all along, her life-force interwoven into mine. Every thought and desire
I had in my first life was influenced by her, and everything I experienced in the Renaissance, was shared by Simonetta.

  The silent, yearning presence in the Ognissanti had never been Sandro, but Simonetta all along. It was enough for him to have known and loved her, to have painted her face again and again throughout his life. Sandro died a contented and fulfilled man at a ripe old age. It was Simonetta who had unfinished business.

  Surrounded with all the warmth of my new revelations, I welcomed the darkness and allowed it to envelop me, ready to face my future in the Ognissanti; even looking forward to going home to my familiar world, with Sandro’s words painted in his Saint Augustine to remind me of the love we shared. I was ready to go back to Mariano because we now had much more to reminisce about and bond over.

  But it was not meant to be.

  I blinked my sore eyes open and found myself in a dark candlelit room, with a small crowd hovering over me: Marco, Piero, Amerigo, the foul-breathed physician, and a tearful Antonella.

  “Do…you…know…where…you…are?” Marco asked, as if I were deaf and neurologically challenged.

  I took in my surroundings. “Of course. I’m in my bedchamber.” I sat up without effort or hesitation.

  “Do you know the year?” Amerigo asked, clearly recalling my confusion when I was knocked out in his bedroom.

  “Fourteen hundred seventy-six,” The answer came easily since I’d clearly not made it back to the twenty-first century yet. “But wait. What’s the date?”

  “You have been unconscious for two days, Netta,” Antonella answered. “It is the twenty-sixth day of April.

  April 26th.

  It was the day of Simonetta’s death, but somehow I felt much better. Miraculously better. I reached down and felt my Miraculous Medal charm still draped around my leech-marked neck.

  Did it save me?

  I felt dehydrated, weak, had a throbbing ache in my head, and a burning pain in my right calf, but I didn’t feel on the verge of death. Not by a long shot.

  I stood from the bed to gaze out the window over Florence, to make sure the situation was still real, but my willowy legs buckled, and my five observers lunged to catch me.

  “You must rest,” Antonella insisted, as she and Amerigo helped me back into bed.

  “Yes, you’re right,” I agreed, confused that I was still amongst the living. It wasn’t supposed to be this way.

  “Leave us now,” Antonella ordered with a wave at the four hovering faces. “I shall need to bathe Simonetta and provide her with a clean shift.”

  “Yes.” Piero took Marco by the arm. “Since her dire condition has passed, I should like to spread the news of Simonetta’s recovery.”

  And I’ll bet you take all the credit for yourself, you bastard.

  As soon as the door closed behind them, Antonella propped a chair against it. She stripped me down hurriedly, almost tearing my nose off as she yanked the unclean shift over my throbbing head. “Sandro has been desperate to see you, but I could not let him in with the Vespucci and the physician constantly moving in and out of your chamber.”

  Sandro.

  Chills ran through me at the thought of seeing him in the flesh again. I lay quietly and endured the pain as Antonella sponge-bathed me in a particularly aggressive manner, since I knew her hurry was for his benefit and mine. She brushed my hair in her usual violent way, but I didn’t care what I looked like. I just wanted to see Sandro with all the knowledge I now had of Simonetta’s memories and regret. She had given herself to Giuliano as expected of her, instead of to Sandro, whom she desperately desired. And she never gave Sandro the slightest hint of how much she loved him, since it would’ve been improper to do so. She knew I wouldn’t care what was proper and what wasn’t. I longed to see his face and tell him again for the both of us.

  Antonella fluffed the pillows behind me, draping my ample hair around my shoulders, before she left the room and returned with Sandro. He practically leapt onto the bed, and threw his arms around me as Antonella showed herself out.

  “I thought for sure I had lost you,” he whispered in my ear, then locked his eyes with mine. He appeared disheveled and tired, the worry showing in his hazel eyes. “I have postponed the journey to Rome for a few weeks. You will have time to build your strength. I sent word that my father needed me here for the moment. And the most incredible thing has happened, Simonetta—along with your recovery, of course. My father told me how talented he thinks I am. My father, of all people, said that they are calling me a young Apelles. Can you believe it? It meant more to me than praise from the Medici, or the Vespucci, or even Pope Sixtus.”

  “That is…incredible.”

  Maybe I got through to Mariano after all.

  An unexpected understanding of every intimate detail of Sandro’s life came over me. Even of the years after Simonetta’s death. How he continued to love her, and how his love was enough to inspire him for the rest of his life. How he had her body moved inside the Ognissanti and asked to be buried at her feet.

  Even in the midst of Savonarola’s reign, when every single commission he received was of a fiery religious intensity, Sandro painted his Calumny of Apelles for himself, featuring Simonetta as Venus once again.

  And it was saved from the fire.

  Vasari had it wrong in his chronicles: Sandro didn’t die as a penniless old wretch, but moved to a villa outside of Florence with his brother, Simone, and lived out his days in peace. He spent years working on his illustrations for Dante’s Divinia Commedia, including a pen and ink drawing for the twenty-eighth canto of Paradiso, which he signed in microscopic letters, Sandro di Mariano.

  “I cannot wait to share this journey with you, Simonetta. There is a whole world for us to discover together…”

  I wanted to believe him, and for a moment I was sucked in by the romance of it, aching for it to be true.

  “So many new experiences will be ours…”

  His words were muffled into a loquacious fantasy, when the young version of Constantia appeared behind him in the same dull, silvery, otherworldly aura I’d seen around the door to her cell in the Ognissanti. Her very presence snapped me into reality.

  “We have to take Antonella with us,” I insisted.

  “Of course,” Sandro replied easily.

  “No matter what happens, she has to be with one of us…at all times…”

  “Certainly…” He now bore a twisted look of confusion.

  “I can’t bear the thought of leaving her here with Piero and Marco.”

  Sandro took both my hands into his. “I assure you, Simonetta, we will not leave her.”

  Constantia silently gazed at me as she caressed her own Miraculous Medal.

  “Sandro. I want you to tell me the truth. We’re not going to Rome, are we?”

  “I do not want you to worry—”

  “I’ll follow you anywhere. I just want to know.”

  Sandro sighed. “It is true, we cannot go to Rome. But we shall have an adventure of a lifetime wherever we go. We can flee to France, or even Spain. I am a skilled goldsmith and know all there is to know about tanning from my father.”

  “But Sandro, you must paint.”

  “I concede that there are no words to describe how I feel about painting, but I would rather give it up, than lose you.”

  Sandro looked to me for reassurance in his decision, but I gazed past him to Constantia, who uttered her ominous words again, “You know what you must do.”

  “We’ll figure it out,” I said calmly, kissing Sandro on the cheek and holding him tightly. “I want you to know, Sandro Botticelli, that I love you more than anything in this world.” I untied the medal from my neck. “I want you to keep this until we leave. To remind you of how much I love you.” I folded his hand around the Miraculous Medal with mine as I tried to hold back the tears that welled in my eyes. “Now you’d better go before someone comes in here.” He reluctantly let go of my hand and made his way through Antonella’s chamber.

&nbs
p; No sooner had he closed the door than a searing pain tore through my chest. It forced me to clutch my throat as the air struggled to find its way into my lungs. The anxiety of hypoxia caused me to leap out of bed, gasping, but still in my weakened state, I stumbled and fell to the floor. I landed in front of the looking glass—that highly ornamented metal and glass gift from Giuliano. The very glass from which I first made acquaintance with Simonetta’s beautiful face as my own. But now it showed me only the purplish hue of vasocongestion flush into her face.

  Constantia’s words were now echoing from all directions, “You are needed at home, Anastasia.”

  As she took my cold, pale hand into hers, I rolled onto my back, while the Cupids and nymphs danced above me in the velvet and gold ceiling, then slowly faded away.

  Chapter 50

  Not a shred of darkness pervaded even the remotest corner of my Ognissanti home. Instead, infinite light poured into the church from every direction. I no longer felt the cold, suffering, or pain of only moments prior. Nothing but the luminous ambience and a feeling of pure joy enshrouded me. I watched as Mariano and Simonetta were swept up from the church; taken wholly into the ineffable light. I knew it to be the same light that Saint Jerome had experienced more than a thousand years before, when he could not even describe the magnificence of its beatitude. From atop Sandro’s grave, I bore witness to Mariano’s greatest desire fulfilled. Both he and Simonetta were finally at peace.

  When the church turned dark again, I remained alone in my ghostly Ognissanti home, but I was not afraid. I had faith in Constantia’s last words to me. That I was needed. But for what, I did not yet know.

  Afterword

  While completing my prerequisites for nursing school, I enrolled in an art history class and discovered the wonders of the Renaissance, and of Sandro Botticelli. Particularly fascinated with the Birth of Venus and the story behind it, I wrote a ten page paper on the meaning behind this exquisite masterpiece while still in college.

  After many trips to Florence, and a good deal of research on the artist, it was The Fair Simonetta, the odd painting of Botticelli’s housed in the Galleria Palatina that inspired this sequel. In every other portrayal by Botticelli as well as other artists, Simonetta Vespucci is painted in an idealized manner, wearing regal clothing and many jewels. But in Botticelli’s The Fair Simonetta, Florence’s greatest beauty is seen wearing a drab brown and white house dress with her mousy hair mostly tucked under a cloth, and the only jewelry she wears is a thin, black cord around her neck. I wanted to tell the story behind the anomaloy in that painting, one of the few that were actually completed before her death in 1476.