The Man Who Seduced The Mona Lisa

“Sir, please,” said Tristano in a tremulous voice, “like every good Christian I need to know the truth…” and, holding his beating heart with the strength of courage, added: “The life of the saints and above all that of Saint Augustine teach us to seek the truth, the same truth that you now hide from me.”

The prelate turned abruptly and, addressing him looking both stern but almost pleased at the adolescent's reaction, replied:

“I reply to you as Ambrogio da Milan did to the one who unworthily loves to quote: ‘No Augustine, it is not man who finds the truth, he must let the truth find him.’ And like the then young Ippona, your path towards the truth has just begun.”

Even before anyone dared to say another word, he looked at the one who had accompanied him and peremptorily concluded:

“Now you can leave.”

Tristano, dumb and dazed, was made to leave and, after a few days, refreshed and dressed according to the canons of that century-old family, by Mons Ursinorum he was transferred to the Curia following the cardinal's nephew.

Giovan Battista, despite the young man's persistent protests, never gave him any valid explanations for those mysterious misgivings (perhaps he did not know or perhaps was forced to keep silent)… but he constrained himself to fulfilling the task entrusted to him by his uncle, he started immediately by sending the orphan for the best diplomatic training, …having already had the chance to ascertain that the boy was in no way inclined to the mystical and religious life.

The latter, in the intimacy of the nights, occasionally thought of the words of that first meeting with Cardinal Latino, powerless before the many because they besieged his mind: why could he not or should he not know? Why and by whom was he to be protected? Why would his humble mother have known and confided an arcane secret to an illustrious prelate concerning him? Why was that secret so dangerous to himself and even to the entire Church?

At other times he thought of the places and people of his childhood but, now definitively entrusted to that new illustrious protector by his only relative in life, he could not miss the chance to try his hand at what he had emphatically heard of from the stories of the Dominican fathers; he therefore concentrated on his studies and soon adapted to Roman ecclesiastical circles, to the sumptuous rooms at the Curia, to the huge monuments, to the majestic palaces, to the lavish banquets…

… tempora tempore, it was as if that type of life had always been familiar to him. Not a day passed when he did not have new experiences; not a day passed when he did not appropriate new knowledge for his cultural baggage; not a day passed when he did not get to know new people: princes and valets, artists and courtiers, engineers and musicians, heroes and missionaries, parasites and pusillanimous, prelates and prostitutes. A gymnasium of continuous and inexhaustible life…

Getting to know as many people as possible, from all walks of life, from all backgrounds, from every culture, from every creed, from every lineage, he entered their world, found useful information, analyzed every detail, scrutinized every human soul, … it was also the foundation of his profession. And it apparently led him to be friends with everyone. In reality, of the priceless multitude of men and women he met in his life, the diplomat could count on only a very few and true friends, three he met during those years and each of them guarded an intimate secret:

Jacopo, a Benedictine monk, fine alchemist, studied botany, concoctions, potions, and perfumes but was also the creator of excellent liqueurs and digestives. With Tristano he shared a passion for the patristic classics and the philosophical search for truth. At a very young age he had killed his teacher with an alembic, an old helpless pedophile who had repeatedly abused his pupils. The corpse, dissolved in acid, was never found.

Veronica, raised by her mother in a Venetian brothel had, at a very early age, learned the art of seduction that she had practiced in Rome for some years; her house for trysts was frequented daily by painters, men of letters, soldiers, wealthy merchants, bankers, counts, marquises and, above all, high-ranking prelates. She no longer had any family in the world, except for a twin sister who she had never known, whose mysterious existence only Tristano knew about.

Ludovico, son and assistant to the personal tailor of the Orsini family, extremely refined, creative, extravagant, extroverted, expert in the use of many different fabrics, textiles and accessories, always informed on the news and trends from the Italian and European states. His secret? … he was sexually attracted to men more than women and, although he had never dared to show it, he had an admiration and a particular affection for Tristano, which sometimes transcended the level of friendship.

As soon as he could, freed of the burdens of the Curia, between one mission and the next, the beardless diplomat happily met with his friends… After each mission, as soon as he returned to Rome, he visited them, to tell them about the adventurous dynamics lived and to bring them a souvenir.

In the summer of 1477 Cardinal Orsini became seriously ill; he immediately called his protégé who was then at the abbey of Santa Maria di Farfa. Tristano went at lightning speed but when he arrived in Rome the palace was already in mourning. On the main floor, the hall up to the bed was crowded with mourning princes and whispering notables: the high cardinal was inauspiciously dead and with him the possibility of knowing from his voice the arcane mystery that enveloped the young bureaucrat’s past.

Unfortunately, the cardinal had left nothing that concerned him. Nor did the prelate's will mention the secret he had spoken of three years earlier.

In the days following his death, Tristano fiercely and meticulously investigated the holy life of Latino, rummaging through the palace library… but nothing, he could not find anything, no relevant clue… except a single page that had been torn from an old travel diary. The document concerned an important mission of Cardinal Orsini to Barletta in AD MCDLIX. The cardinal's manuscripts were almost all written and preserved with such a maniacal perfection that the lack of a sheet, however badly cut, would have been filled and arranged promptly, if not by Latino himself, by his attentive librarians, and for a moment this attracted Tristano's suspicions; unfortunately there was nothing else that could open a trail nor a hypothesis worthy of study. He therefore decided to halt all research and return to the Curia, where he could continue his diplomatic work under the auspices of Giovanni Battista Orsini, who in the meantime had received the highly coveted appointment as apostolic protonotary.

In his first diplomatic assignments outside the confines of the Papal State, Tristano was joined by the pontifical nuncio Fra Roberto da Lecce, but soon his rare skills of diligence, prudence e discretion convinced Giovanni Battista and his advisers to entrust him with increasingly critical and delicate issues for which he necessarily enjoyed a certain independence and autonomy.

One of these was within the intricate context of the Ferrara War. Not only were the lords of the peninsula involved, for various reasons and at different levels, but also within the Church state the situation became more complicated each day and required excellent chess masters who were able to play at least two games simultaneously: one external and one, perhaps the more dangerous for the Holy See, internal; in fact two factions had been created in Rome: the Orsini and the Della Rovere, in support of the pope, against the Colonna princes, supported by the Savelli.

In short, life for our young diplomat was not at all easy: the ally reassuring and full of praise of the previous dinner could well become, overnight, the bitter and deplorable enemy of the next morning, the pawn to be removed from the chessboard to avoid stall or to give room to castling, the piece to be exchanged to launch the final attack…

Already, after the summer of that 1482, the tone of papal politics had become clear. The Holy See had decided to end the war and Tristano had, therefore, been sent to the Gonzaga court precisely to demonstrate Rome's changed will towards Ferrara and Mantua. At the same time, enjoying the utmost welcome from the proprietors and having free access to the refined rooms the palace, the handsome twenty-two year old certainly could not remain insensitive to the calls of the young courtesans who paraded before him on those cold winter evenings.

III

Alessandra Lippi

The meeting with Pietro Di Giovanni and the rest stop in Prato

At the first glimmer of the Mantuan sun, Tristano, abandoning his very young lover in the arms of Morpheus, had just returned to his room; where he attempted to indulge in well-deserved sleep, when an insistent voice under his window brought him back to reality:

“Excellence… Excellence… My Lord…”

A soldier with a small parchment in his hand urgently requested his attention.

The letter clearly had a papal seal and ordered Tristano to return to Rome as quickly as possible.

Thus, without even waiting for news from the battlefield, the pontifical officer had to leave the Virgilian city with his escort, but not before quickly penning two necessary messages: one for the Marquis Federico, apologizing for his sudden departure and the confirmations of reassurance for the newfound support of the Holy Father towards him and the Duke of Ferrara; the other for his Beatrice, thanking her for having generously shared that night and wishing her to meet that needy love that her promised one could never give her.

He rode without stopping throughout the day, pausing only in Bologna to refresh the horses, before crossing the Emilian Apennines towards Florence.

The following day, crossing a compact and silent beech forest, a shot from a crossbow swiftly crossed the path of the young pontifical trustee, raising a mixed flock of thrushes and frozen blackcaps. While instinctively Tristano and his men slowed and put their hands to their weapons, on the same trajectory, a worn out bay bleeding from the withers, madly cut across their path. It was ridden badly by a man and a young woman who held on to him around his hips. Immediately after, another four riders and then two more, evidently in pursuit of the former.

Impulsively the bold ambassador decided to join the hunt in the dense thicket of deciduous trees, forcing two of the escort to do the same.

However, as soon as the woods opened up on a slightly inclined clearing, the three slowed and, hiding in the underbrush, tried to understand what was happening while keeping at a safe distance.

The brown nag had slumped to the ground; the two youngsters, had been thrown, they tried in vain to barricade themselves into a small semi-abandoned hut, now joined and hunted by the pursuers; two of these had dismounted from their horses swords drawn, while the other four surrounded the hovel.

While the one he protected was trying to open that battered door with all his strength, the young man, unus sed leo, was preparing to face the two smirking thugs with a bident. Despite the evident numerical inferiority, the man managed to parry the lunge on the right and hitting the first assailant with a kick to the lower abdomen, he turned towards the second to his left, dodging the blow and skewering his side. Thus obtaining a sword, he glanced quickly at the woman, meanwhile surrounded by the rest of the brutes, and resumed scuffling with the first thug; with a few blows he managed to disarm him and hold him, despite his size, by pinning his shoulders to the ground. At the same time, however, his companion's desperate cry for help drew his attention; turning to the woman, he threw his sword javelin-like into the chest of the brute who had pounced on him, in turn he received a crossbow bolt on the shoulder from the last rider who had remained in the saddle; he could do nothing when two others came up behind him and ensnared him with a metal mesh similar to that used in hunting, he was knocked to the ground and his limbs were immediately tied with a belt.

“No, Pietro…” shouted the desperate young woman bursting into tears, “Leave him! It's me you want”.

“Stop,” shouted what seemed to be the boss. “Don't finish it right away,” and pointing at the poor young woman, he continued: “First let's have some fun.”

“Bastards,” cried the one on the ground, trying in vain to wriggle free, “Thugs, cowards, sons of a bitch!”

The beast grasped the terrified girl by the hair and tearing her clothes off forced her against the shed wall, he held her arms, and while two others tied her legs with a rope, he began to take off his breeches while putting a rag in her mouth to block her screams.

At that point, Tristano, not being able to remain impassive in the face of such repulsive violence, finally decided to intervene: he came out into the open with his men and burst onto the scene as he heroically pounced on that heinous pack of lusting hyenas. The rapists, although reduced in number, still held the upper hand and were not to be subdued: the tension increased again. While, however, when one of the thugs pulled up his breeches, Tristano recognized the Medici lily on the frieze of the hood and even before the crossbowman began to stretch the bow against one of his own, he raised his fist to the sky, ordered them:

“Stop, I order you in the name of Sire Lorenzo de' Medici “; and he stretched his arm forward and then on the right and left again, against each of the four henchmen. “I have twenty-five men behind me ready to arrest you and hand you over to the jail of my friend Lorenzo,” he added.

The largest, then, recognizing the insignia of his lord on the ring and therefore fearing serious repercussions to his detriment, immediately ordered his men to drop their weapons; he also tried to justify what had happened but Tristano stopped him immediately:

“Go, go, felons.”

The four, undoubtedly ranting, mounted their horses and disappeared into the beech forest.

The papal soldiers, still incredulous as to the way the young official had solved the matter, quickly freed the two young people and, dressing their wounds as best they could, loaded them onto the back of a horse.

So he resumed his journey as the sun began to set on their right.

In the evening he arrived in Prato, where Tristano knew someone who perhaps could take care of the two wretches, allowing him to continue the ride to Rome quickly.

Near the Cathedral square, two girls had just given a piece of bread to a poor, cold beggar and were preparing to return home. Tristano suddenly jumped from his horse and pointing at the two young people exclaimed:

“Alessandra!”

The slimmer of the two turned abruptly, looked for a moment at the one who had dared to call out her name at that late hour and, receiving confirmation by seeing how much that sound had just aroused in her casket of memories, replied:

“Tristano”

In an instant she was running towards him and without convention or inhibition, as between young people who had already shared more than a little, she threw her arms around his neck, gently closing her eyes and resting her head on the chest of the unexpected stranger.

Alessandra was the lovely daughter of Madonna Lucrezia Buti and the late Florentine painter Filippo Lippi. Her mother, formerly Sister Lucrezia, had been a nun at the monastery of Santa Caterina, constrained by the family, forced to be a nun. Her father, chaplain of the convent at the same monastery in Prato, was already recognized as one of the best painters of his time and, therefore, ecclesiastical hierarchies and the wealthiest families commissioned him to paint very important works, especially having a biblical and hagiographic subject. It was during one of these works that the two had met. The attraction was inevitable and irrepressible… she very beautiful and sensual, he very charismatic and sensitive: the two religious people fell madly in love. The sinful relationship within the sacred walls of the convent lasted for some time, during which Sister Lucrezia willingly lent herself as a model for some paintings by Fra' Filippo, until the latter, on the occasion of the procession of the Holy Belt, decided to kidnap his beloved and start a new life with her as concubine, regardless of the sensation, scandal and general disapproval. Obviously the Church strongly opposed the bond between the two, labeling it as lustful and even diabolical; only years later, thanks to the intercession of Lippi's protector, Cosimo de' Medici, with the Holy Father, the two were finally reformed and obtained the dissolution of the vows. So a few years later the beautiful Alessandra was born.

Tristano had known and visited the uninhibited girl during his stays as an adolescent in Florence at the house of the Medici and had immediately been impressed and attracted, even before the appearance of her gentle features, open-mindedness, extroversion and her intellectual independence, characteristics that she had certainly inherited from both parents, of which she intrinsically embodied the modus cogitandi et operandi.

Now, after almost five years, he saw her again. She was even more beautiful, even more a woman.

The two entered the house, while the rest of the company waited outside.

There was just enough time to tell the owner of the house what had happened a few hours earlier and the two friends went back outside, inviting the others to make themselves comfortable in the house. Despite the late hour, Alessandra sent for a doctor, arranged the rooms for the guests and assured Tristano generously that she would take care of them, together with her mother, until the wounded had recovered completely.

Thus, while a sincere glass of wine accompanied the convivial tales of the welcome guest and accentuated the blush on the cheeks of the graceful landlady, Ipno and his Oneiroi slowly descended on the city of Prato.

The following day, immediately after the morning praises, the young envoy, duly thanking for the hospitality, resumed his journey to Rome with his escort, where his protector was eagerly awaiting him… and with this last another compelling mission to accomplish.

It was therefore necessary to make up for a few hours of travel, possibly avoiding other unexpected occurrences.

No more than a hundred feet outside the inhabited area, on the dusty road to Florence, the three papal knights had just begun to increase their speed when they were joined by a man on horseback with a showy bandage between his arm and shoulder.

“Sir… Sir, please. Stop…”

The breathless man was the same one Tristano had just saved and had a short while before entrusted, together with his woman, to the care of the Lippi house. The papal officer had to stop again.

“Please, my lord, listen to me,” continued the imploring supplicant, “What you have done and demonstrated is more noble than any coat of arms that adorns your breast and any crown that dominates your family coat of arms.”

Then, getting off his horse, he prostrated himself before the diplomat:

“Allow me to show you my eternal gratitude and offer you my services only as a partial restoration of the unquenchable debt that I contracted when Your Excellency stole me and even more my woman from the murderous ferocity of those brutes. This entire night I could not help but think about what happened and decided, if you accept, I offer you, without asking for anything in return, my humble sword and I swear my loyalty to you as long as you permit me to serve you.”

Tristano, for the high office he held, was certainly not short of protection and frankly until then he had always managed on his own… but he saw in the eyes of that man, who almost implored him, a particular light and a sense of sincere gratitude, loyalty, disinterest, something out of the ordinary. So much so that, without the humble person being able to add anything else, he asked:

“What's your name, brave man?”

“Pietro Di Giovanni, my lord,” he replied, raising his head.

“Get up Pietro. Given the delay that I am augmenting because of you, alas, your protection against the wrath of my lord will not be sufficient… I have no blazons or coats of arms to display, but I appreciate your gratitude and accept your services. But now, if you care so much, before I think any more about it, get on your horse and let's move on without further delay.”

And so the group resumed their race towards the Eternal City.

IV

The Magnificent’s ring

Giuliano de' Medici and Simonetta Vespucci

Pietro, a mature man, uncouth, scruffy in appearance but not that rough, was very skilled with the sword (with what he had inherited from his father he had attended the Bolognese school of Lippo Bartolomeo Dardi); he was endowed with an excellent technique and, although no longer young, he was physically well prepared; he did not like to call himself a mercenary, but, like many others, he had hitherto earned a living in the pay of one or other noble, taking part in the many battles and brawls that in those years animated the entire peninsula.

During the journey, at a time they had slowed their pace, the swordsman came up beside Tristano and, being careful never to let the muzzle of his horse go in front of that of his new lord, he dared ask:

“Will you allow me, a question Your Excellency?”

“Of course Pietro, ask me,” replied the distinguished official, turning his head a few degrees towards his daring assistant.

“How did you get that ring, sir? Is it really the Magnificent’s ring?”

Tristano was silent for a few moments giving a half smile but then, certain that he could trust this man, whom he had known for a few days but who he valued already, let go of his reserve and began his story:

“Seven years have passed since Cardinal Orsini took me with him to Florence for the first time, following a medical delegation that had been created specifically to provide assistance to His Most Reverend Excellency, Rinaldo Orsini, archbishop of Florence, he had been ill for two weeks with no sign of remission. Once I arrived in the city, while the physicus with his apprentices – among whom was my friend Jacopo – were immediately sent to the diocese to be at the bedside of the suffering prelate, the cardinal took me with him to Madonna Clarice, his granddaughter and wife of Lorenzo de' Medici, the Magnificent.

I still remember the sweet and maternal gaze with which Donna Clarice welcomed me, holding out her hand. She introduced me to her family and friends and immediately put every comfort in the edifice at my disposal. Every evening the banquets were attended by writers, humanists, artists, superfine courtiers and… most of all by beautiful women.

The most beautiful of all, the one who still today is unable to match and oust from the throne of my ideal, was Simonetta Cattaneo Vespucci.

The evening I saw her for the first time, she was wearing a brocade lined in red velvet, which left a generous neckline clearly visible, preciously bordered by a black gamurra, which clung perfectly to her turgid breast and fell to her feet holding the soft form of that admired and desired body. She let most of her blond curls fall lose on her shoulders, while only a small part was expertly gathered in a long braid enriched with cords and very small pearls. A few rebellious locks framed that harmonious, fresh, radiant, ethereal face. Her eyes were large and melancholy, very sensual, at least as far as could be seen from the faint smile on her velvety, parted red lips, highlighted by the a small dimple on her chin, the same red color as the day.

If I had not had the disastrous news of her death shortly after, I would still believe she was a goddess embodied in a perfect feminine shell.

Everyone held that she had only one flaw: she already had a husband… rightly jealous. At only sixteen she had married the banker Marco Vespucci, in Genoa in the presence of the doge and all the aristocracy of the maritime republic.

She was very much loved by society (and at the same time envied); in those years she had become the favorite muse of many writers and artists, among them the painter Sandro Botticelli, a longtime friend of the Medici family, who had fallen in love with her platonically and painted her portraits everywhere: even on the banner that he had made for the carousel of that year, epically won by Giuliano de' Medici, portrayed her ethereal face.