Painting Mona Lisa

‘When you lived in the mountains?’

‘Yes, when I lived in the mountains. I had a brother. Closer to me than a brother; he was my twin.’ She smiled with affection at the memory. ‘Headstrong and full of mischief he was, always making our mother wring her hands. And I was always helping him.’ The faint, wry smile faded at once. ‘One day he climbed a very tall tree. He wanted to reach the sky, he said. I followed him up as far as I could, but he climbed so high that I grew frightened, and stopped. He crawled out onto a limb …’ There was the slightest catch in her voice; she paused, then resumed calmly. ‘Too far. And he fell.’

I straightened in my chair, aghast. ‘Did he die?’

‘We thought he would; he had cracked his head and it bled terribly, all over my apron. When he was better and could walk, we went outside to play. But before we went too far, he fell, and began to shake, just as your mother does. Afterwards, he could not speak for a while, and slept. Then he was better again until the next time.’

‘Just like Mother.’ I paused. ‘Did the fits … did they ever … did he …?’

‘Did the fits kill him? No. I don’t know what became of him after we were separated.’ Zalumma eyed me, trying to judge whether I had grasped the point of her tale. ‘My brother never had fits before he hurt his head. His fits came after his injury. His fits came because of his injury.’

‘So … Mother has struck her head?’

Zalumma averted her gaze a bit – perhaps she was only telling a story, calculated to soothe me – but she nodded. ‘I believe so. Now … Do you think God pushed a little boy from a tree to punish him for his sins? Or do you think he was so craven that the Devil possessed him, and caused him to leap?’

‘No, of course not.’

‘There are people who would disagree with you. But I knew my brother’s heart, and I know your mother’s; and I know that God would never be so cruel, nor allow the Devil to rest in such sweet souls.’

The instant Zalumma said it, my doubts about the matter vanished. Despite what Evangelia or the priest said, my mother was not a host to demons. She attended Mass daily at our private chapel; she prayed constantly and had a shrine to the Virgin of the Flower – the lily, symbol of resurrection and of Florence – in her room. She was generous to the poor and never spoke ill of anyone. To my mind, she was as holy as any saint. The revelation gave me great relief.

But one thing still troubled me.

There is murder here, and thoughts of murder. Plots within plots once more.

I could not forget what the astrologer had told me two years earlier: that I was surrounded by deceit, doomed to finish a bloody deed others had begun.

It all repeats.

‘The strange things Mother cries out,’ I said. ‘Did your brother do that, too?’

Zalumma’s fine porcelain features reflected hesitation; at last she yielded to the truth. ‘No. She spoke of those things before the fits came, since she was a girl. She … she sees and knows things that are hidden from the rest of us. Many of the things she has said have come to pass. I think God has touched her, given her a gift.’

Murder, and thoughts of murder. This time, I did not want to believe what Zalumma said, and so I decided that, in this case, she was being superstitious. ‘Thank you,’ I told her. ‘I will remember what you have said.’

She smiled and leaned down to put an arm around my shoulder. ‘No more vigil; it’s my turn now. Go and get something to eat.’

I looked past her at my mother, uncertain. I still felt responsible for what had happened that morning.

‘Go,’ Zalumma said, in a tone that allowed no argument. ‘I’ll sit with her now.’

So I rose and left them – but I did not go in search of the cook. Instead, I went downstairs with the intent of going to pray. I wandered outside into the rear courtyard and garden. Just beyond them, in a small separate structure, lay our chapel. The night was bitter cold, the sky clouded and moonless, but I carried a lamp so that I would not stumble over my skirts or a stepping-stone.

I opened the chapel’s heavy wooden door and slipped inside. The interior was dark and gloomy, lit only by the votives flickering in front of the small paintings of our family’s patron saints: the woolly John the Baptist in honour of Florence; the Virgin of the Lily, my mother’s favourite; Santa Maria del Fiore, for whom the Duomo was named; and my father’s namesake, St. Anthony, who bore the Christ-child in his arms.

Most private Florentine families’ chapels were decorated with large murals, often portraying members as saints or Madonnas. Ours lacked such embellishment, save for the paintings of the three saints. Our grandest adornment was suspended over the altar: a large wooden statue of the crucified Christ, his expression as haunted and mournful as that of the aged, repentant Magdalen in the Duomo’s Baptistery.

As I entered, I heard a soft, low moaning. And as I lifted the lamp towards the noise, I saw a dark figure kneeling at the altar railing. My father was praying earnestly, his forehead pressed hard against the knuckles of his tightly folded hands.

I knelt beside him. He turned towards me; the lamplight glittered off the unshed tears in his amber eyes, eyes full of misery and remorse.

‘Daughter, forgive me,’ he said.

‘No,’ I countered. ‘It is you who must forgive me. I hit you – a horrible thing for a child to do to her father.’

‘And I struck you, without cause. You were only thinking to protect your mother. And that was my intent, yet I find myself doing the opposite. I am older, and should be wiser.’ He looked up at the image of the suffering Christ and groaned. ‘After all these years, I should have learned to control myself …’

I wished to coax him from his self-reproach, so I rested a hand on his arm and said lightly, ‘So. I inherited my ill temper from you, then.’

He sighed and ran the pad of his thumb tenderly over the contours of my cheek. ‘Poor child. This is no fault of yours.’

Still kneeling, we embraced. At that instant, the forgotten medallion chose to slip from my belt. It struck the inlaid marble flooring, rolled in a perfect circle, then fell flat on its side.

Its appearance embarrassed me. Curious, my father reached for the coin, lifted it, and examined it. He narrowed his eyes and drew back his head slightly, as if threatened by a slap. After a long pause, he spoke.

‘You see,’ he said, his voice low and soft. ‘This is what comes of anger. Dreadful acts of violence.’

‘Yes,’ I echoed, eager to end the conversation, to return to the warmer feeling of conciliation. ‘Mother told me about the killing in the Duomo. It was a terrible thing.’

‘It was. There is no excuse for murder, regardless of the provocation. Such violence is heinous, an abomination before God.’ The piece of gold, still held aloft, caught the feeble light and glinted. ‘Did she tell you the other side of it?’

I tried and failed to understand; I thought at first he referred to the coin. ‘The other side?’

‘Lorenzo. His love for his murdered brother drove him to madness in the days after.’ He closed his eyes, remembering. ‘Eighty men in five days. A few of them were guilty, most simply unfortunate enough to have the wrong relatives. They were tortured mercilessly, drawn and quartered, their hacked, bloodied bodies heaved out the windows of the Palazzo della Signoria. And what they did to poor Messer Iacopo’s corpse …’ He shuddered, too horrified by the thought to pursue it further. ‘All in vain, for even a river of blood could not revive Giuliano.’ He opened his eyes and stared hard at me. ‘There is a vengeful streak in you, child. Mark my words: no good can come of revenge. Pray God delivers you of it.’ He pressed the cold coin into my palm. ‘Remember what I have said each time you look on this.’

I lowered my gaze and accepted the chastisement meekly, even as my hand closed swiftly over my treasure. ‘I will.’

To my relief, he at last rose; I followed suit.

‘Have you eaten?’ I asked.

He shook his head.

‘Then let us find Cook.’

On the way out, my father picked up my lamp and sighed. ‘God help us, Daughter. God help us not to give in to our anger again.’

‘Amen,’ I said.

XIV

Before Zalumma retired that night, I sought her out and coaxed her into my little room. I closed the door behind us, then jumped upon my cot and wrapped my arms around my knees.

More of Zalumma’s wild, wiry tendrils had escaped from her braids and they glinted in the light of the single candle in her hand, which lit her face with a delightfully eerie, wavering glow – perfect for the gruesome tale I wished to hear.

‘Tell me about Messer Iacopo,’ I coaxed. ‘Father said they desecrated his body. I know they executed him, but I want to hear the details.’

Zalumma resisted. Normally, she enjoyed sharing such things, but this was one subject that clearly disturbed her. ‘It’s a terrible story to tell a child.’

‘All the adults know about it; and if you won’t tell me, I’ll just ask Mother.’

‘No,’ she said, so sharply her breath nearly extinguished the flame. ‘Don’t you dare bother her with that.’ Scowling, she set the candle down on my night table. ‘What do you want to know?’

‘What they did to Messer Iacopo’s body … and why. He didn’t stab Giuliano … so why did they kill him?’

She sat on the edge of my bed and sighed. ‘There’s more than one answer to those questions. Old Iacopo de’ Pazzi was the patriarch of the Pazzi clan. He was a learned man, and esteemed by everyone. He didn’t start the plot to kill the Medici brothers; I think he got talked into it once it was clear the others were going to go ahead with or without him.

‘Your mother has told you that when they murdered Giuliano, they rang the bells in the campanile next to the Duomo?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well, that was the signal for Messer Iacopo to ride his horse into the Piazza della Signoria and shout “Popolo e liberta!", rallying the people to rise up against the Medici. He had hired almost a hundred Perugian soldiers to help him storm the Palazzo della Signoria; he thought the citizens would help him. But it didn’t go as he planned. The Lord Priors dropped stones on him from the palazzo windows, and the people turned on him, crying, “Palle! Palle!"’

‘So, when he was captured, they hung him from a window of the palazzo – the same one as Francesco de’ Pazzi and Archbishop Salviati. Because of his noble rank and the people’s respect for him, he was first allowed to confess his sins and receive the final sacrament. Later, he was buried in his family tomb at Santa Croce.

‘But a rumour started. People whispered that before he died, Iacopo had commended his soul to the Devil. The monks at Santa Croce grew frightened and exhumed the body to rebury it outside the city walls, in unconsecrated ground. Then, some giovani dug up the body when Messer Iacopo was three weeks dead.

‘He had been buried with the noose still round his neck, and so the giovani dragged his corpse by its rope all over the city.’ She closed her eyes and shook her head, remembering. ‘They mocked him for days as if his body were a puppet. They took him to his palazzo and banged his head against the door, pretending that he was demanding entry. I …’ She faltered and opened her eyes, but did not see me.

‘I saw him, and the giovani as I walked back from market one day. They had propped the corpse against a fountain, and were speaking to it. “Good day, Messer Iacopo!", “Please pass, Messer Iacopo.” And, “How is your family today, Messer Iacopo?”

‘And then they pelted the cadaver with stones. It made an awful sound – dull thuds; it had been raining for four days while he was buried in the earth, and he was very bloated. He had been wearing a beautiful purple tunic the day he was hung – I had been in the crowd. The tunic had rotted, covered now with a greenish black slime, and his face and hands were white as the belly of a fish. His mouth gaped open, and his tongue, all swollen, thrust outward. He had one eye shut and one open, covered with a grey film, and that one eye seemed to look right at me. It felt like he was pleading for help from beyond the grave.

‘I prayed for his soul, then, even though everyone was afraid of saying a kind word about the Pazzi. The giovani played with his body for a few more days; then they grew tired of it, and threw it in the Arno. It was seen floating to the sea as far away as Pisa.’ She paused, then looked directly at me. ‘You must understand: Lorenzo has done many good things for the city. But he kept the people’s hatred of the Pazzi alive. I have no doubt at least one of the giovani pocketed a florin or two, dropped into his palm by Lorenzo himself. His vengeance knew no bounds, and for that, God will someday make him pay.’

The next day, by way of apology, my father took me with him in his carriage to deliver his very best wools to the Medici palazzo. We rode inside the great iron gates. As always, I remained in the carriage while servants tethered the horses and my father went in the side entry, accompanied by Medici servants laden down with his wares.

He was inside longer than usual – almost three-quarters of an hour. I grew restless, having memorized the building’s façade, and exhausted my imagination as to what lay behind it.

At last the guards at the side entry parted and my father emerged. But instead of returning to our coach, he stepped to one side and waited. A cadre of guards sporting long swords followed him out the door. An instant later, a single man emerged, leaning heavily on the muscular arm of another; one of his feet was unslippered, wrapped to just above the ankle in the softest combed wool used for newborns’ blankets.

He was sallow and slightly stooped, blinking in the bright sun. He looked to my father, who directed his attention to our wagon.

I leaned forwards on the seat, mesmerized. The man – homely, with a huge crooked nose and badly misaligned lower jaw – squinted in my direction. After a word to his companion, he drew closer, wincing with each step, scarcely able to bear any weight on the stricken foot. Yet he persisted until he stood no more than the length of two men from me. Even then, he had to crane his neck to see me.

We stared unabashed at each other for a long moment. He appraised me intently, his eyes filled with cloaked emotion I could not interpret. The air between us seemed atremble, as though lightning had just struck: he knew me, though we had never met.

Then the man gave my father a nod, and retreated back inside his fortress. My father entered the carriage and sat beside me without a word, as if nothing unusual had taken place. As for me, I uttered not a word; I was stricken speechless.

I had just had my first encounter with Lorenzo de’ Medici.

XV

The new year brought ice-covered streets and bitter cold. Despite the weather, my father abandoned our parish of Santo Spirito and began crossing the Arno to attend Mass daily at the cathedral of San Marco, known as the church of the Medici. Old Cosimo had lavished money on its reconstruction and maintained a private cell there, which he had visited more frequently as he neared death.

The new prior, one Fra Girolamo Savonarola, had taken to preaching there. Fra Girolamo, as the people called him, had come to Florence from Ferrara less than two years earlier. An intimate of Lorenzo Medici, Count Giovanni Pico, had been much impressed by Savonarola’s teachings, and so had begged Lorenzo, as the unofficial head of San Marco, to send for the friar. Lorenzo complied.

But once Fra Girolamo gained control of the Dominican monastery, he turned on his host. No matter that Medici money had rescued San Marco from oblivion; Fra Girolamo railed against Lorenzo – not by name, but by implication. The parades organized by the Medici were pronounced sinful; the pagan antiquities assiduously collected by Lorenzo – blasphemous; the wealth and political control enjoyed by him and his family – an affront to God, the only rightful wielder of temporal power. For those reasons, Fra Girolamo broke with the custom followed by all of San Marco’s new priors: He refused to pay his respects to the convent’s benefactor, Lorenzo.

Such behaviour appealed to the enemies of the Medici and to the envious poor. But my father was entranced by Savonarola’s prophesies of the soon-to-come Apocalypse.

Like many in Florence, my father was a sincere man who strove to understand and appease God. Being educated, he was also aware of an important astrological event that had occurred several years earlier – the conjunction of Jupiter and Saturn. All agreed this marked a monumental event. Some said it augured the arrival of the Antichrist (widely believed to be the Turkish sultan Mehmet, who had stolen Constantinople and now threatened all Christendom), others that it predicted a spiritual cleansing within the Church.

Savonarola believed it foretold both. My father returned one morning breathless after Mass; Fra Girolamo had admitted during the sermon that God had spoken directly to him. ‘He said that the Church would first be scourged, then purified and revived,’ my father said, his face aglow with a peculiar light. ‘We are living at the end of time.’

He was determined to take me with him the following Sunday to hear the friar speak. And he begged my mother to accompany us. ‘He is touched by God, Lucrezia. I swear to you, if only you would listen with your own ears, your life would be forever changed. He is a holy man, and if we convinced him to pray for you …’

Normally my mother would never have refused her husband, but in this case, she held firm. It was too cold for her to venture out, and crowds tended to excite her overmuch. If she went to Mass, it would be at our own church of Santo Spirito, only a short walk away – where God would hear her prayers just as surely as he heard Fra Girolamo’s. ‘Besides,’ she pointed out, ‘you can always listen to him, then come and tell me directly what he has said.’

My father was disappointed and, I think, irritated, though he kept it from my mother. And he remained convinced that, if my mother would only go and listen to Fra Girolamo, her condition would improve magically.

The day after my parents’ disagreement on this subject, a visitor came to our palazzo: Count Giovanni Pico of Mirandolo, the very man who had convinced Lorenzo de’ Medici to bring Savonarola to Florence.

Count Pico was an intelligent, sensitive man, a scholar of the classics and the Hebrew Cabala. He was handsome as well, with golden hair and clear grey eyes. My parents received him cordially – he was, after all, part of the Medici’s inner circle … and knew Savonarola. I was allowed to sit in on the adults’ conversation while Zalumma hovered, directing other servants and making sure Count Pico’s goblet was full of our best wine. We gathered in the great chamber where my mother had met with the astrologer; Pico sat beside my father, directly across from my mother and me. Outside, the sky was obscured by lead-coloured clouds that threatened rain; the air was cold and bone-achingly damp – a typical Florentine winter’s day. But the fire in the hearth filled the room with heat and an orange light that painted my mother’s face with a becoming glow, and glinted off the shining gold of Pico’s hair.

What struck me most about Ser Giovanni, as he wished to be called, was his warmth and utter lack of pretension. He spoke to my parents – and most strikingly, to me – as if we were his equals, as if he was beholden to us for our kindness in welcoming him.

I assumed he had come for purely social reasons. As an intimate of Lorenzo de’ Medici, Ser Giovanni had encountered my father several times when he had come to sell his wools. Fittingly, the conversation began in earnest with a discussion of il Magnifico‘s health. It had been poor of late; like his father, Piero il Gottoso, Lorenzo suffered terribly from gout. His pain had recently become so extreme that he had been unable to leave his bed or receive visitors.

‘I pray for him.’ Ser Giovanni sighed. ‘It is hard to witness his agony. But I believe he will rally. He takes strength from his three sons, especially the youngest, Giuliano, who spends what time he can spare away from his studies at his father’s side. It is inspiring to see such devotion in one so young.’

‘I hear Lorenzo is still determined to win a cardinal’s hat for his second boy,’ my father said, with the faintest hint of disapproval. He kept stroking his bearded chin with the pad of his thumb and his knuckle, a habit he usually indulged only when nervous.

‘Giovanni, yes.’ Pico flashed a brief, wan smile. ‘My namesake.’

I had seen both boys. Giuliano was fair of face and form, but Giovanni looked like an overstuffed sausage with spindly legs. The eldest brother, Piero, took after his mother, and was being groomed as Lorenzo’s successor – though rumour said he was a dullard, entirely unfit.

Pico hesitated before continuing; his mien was that of a man being pulled in two directions. ‘Yes, Lorenzo is quite attached to the idea … though, of course, Giovanni is far too young to be considered. It would require a … bending of canon law.’

‘Lorenzo is quite talented at bending things,’ my father said off-handedly. Even I had overheard enough of this particular topic to know of the outrage it had incited in most Florentines; Lorenzo had lobbied to raise taxes in order to pay for Giovanni’s cardinalship. My father’s mood grew abruptly jocular. ‘Tell Madonna Lucrezia what he said about his boys.’

‘Ah.’ Pico lowered his face slightly as his lips curved gently upwards. ‘You must understand that he does not say it to them directly, of course. He dotes on them too much to show them any unkindness.’ At last, he gazed straight into my mother’s eyes. ‘Just as you so obviously do on your daughter, Madonna.’

I did not understand why my mother flushed. She had been uncharacteristically quiet up to this point, though she was clearly taken, as we all were, with the charming Count.

Pico appeared to take no note of her discomfort. ‘Lorenzo always says: “My eldest is foolish, the next clever, and the youngest, good.’”

My mother’s smile was taut; she gave a nod, then said, ‘I am glad young Giuliano is a comfort to his father. I am sorry to hear of Ser Lorenzo’s illness.’

Pico sighed again, this time in mild frustration. ‘It is hard to witness, Madonna. Especially since – I am sure your husband has spoken of this – I am a follower of the teachings of Fra Girolamo.’

‘Savonarola,’ my mother said softly, her posture stiffening at the mention of the name. Suddenly, I understood her reticence.

Messer Giovanni continued speaking as if he had not heard. ‘I have begged Lorenzo several times to send for Fra Girolamo – but il Magnifico still rankles at having been rebuffed by San Marco’s new prior. I truly believe, Madonna Lucrezia, that, were Fra Girolamo permitted to lay hands upon Lorenzo and pray for him, he would be healed at once.’

My mother averted her face; Pico’s tone grew more impassioned.

‘Oh, sweet Madonna, do not turn from the truth. I have seen Fra Girolamo work miracles. In my life, I have met no man more devoted to God or more sincere. Forgive me for being so blunt in your presence, but we have all seen priests who consort with women, who over-indulge in food and wine and all manner of worldly corruption. Fra Girolamo’s prayers are powerful because his ways are pure. He lives in poverty; he fasts; he expiates his sin with the whip. When he is not preaching or ministering to the poor, he is on his knees in prayer. And God speaks to him, Madonna. God gives him visions.’

As he spoke, Ser Giovanni’s countenance grew incandescent; his eyes seemed brighter than the fire. He leaned forwards and took my mother’s hand in his with great tenderness and a concern that held no trace of impropriety. My father moved towards her as well, until he was balanced precariously on the edge of his chair. Clearly, he had brought Pico here expressly for this purpose.