“Hey!” I said, and swatted at him as though he were an angry bee.
It didn’t seem to bother him. When he was done he merely pinched my chin with his hand and turned my head to the right and left. He seemed to be looking for flaws. I’m sure he found plenty.
At last he let me go. Party sounds wafted downstairs. “There’s beauty enough in the great hall. Why do you have to pick on me?” I asked.
He wrinkled his nose in disgust. “Above stairs? There is an abundance of beauty. Beautiful gowns, beautiful music, beautiful table settings.” He examined the jeweled goblet. “But none of it really nourishes.”
“Bene, as long as you’re here, make yourself useful,” I said, and handed him a clean plate. Then another. He dried each and made no sign of leaving.
“I think your nonna must be the most beautiful woman in the world,” he said.
I put down the dish I had been cleaning. I had never heard her described this way. Even those grateful to her for healing and feeding them often called her a witch. But I thought of the crooked shadow she cast, and suddenly the air was suffused with sweetness, as though someone had just torn into the flesh of an orange.
“I think so too. Her care — it cripples her, but it also makes her beautiful.”
Signor Botticelli nodded in agreement. “I wish I were painting her instead of your sister.”
I stared at him.
“Close your mouth, Flora. It is unbecoming,” Botticelli said, taking a long drink of his wine. “Your sister is lovely, but for art something more is needed, which I finally found. It wasn’t an easy task. Everyone should start calling me maestro.”
With that, he drained his goblet and reached for mine. I let him have it. His face was growing florid with drink.
Maestro indeed. Whenever I walked past him and my sister the easel was always covered. To my eyes all he did was arrange hair and bunches of grapes, then later drink our wine from our goblets and call our guests boring.
“What did you do?” I asked. “Wipe her face?”
“No, no,” he said, sitting down and propping his dirty boots on the oak table. He was apparently done drying dishes. He unbuckled his girdle and hissed out a very strong but contented sigh. “It was something she did. It happened the other morning when the sun was shining and you and the guard were practicing in the courtyard. I had her seated with a doll on her lap meant to represent the baby Jesus. I was thinking of painting her as the Madonna enthroned. But then someone cried out from below and she turned her head.”
“Probably Giuseppe,” I said, remembering. “I trod on his foot.”
“Don’t interrupt,” he said. “Allora, I saw her stare at the captain of your guard with a look so full of longing and sadness. . . . It was that touch of sadness that made her beautiful. Your sister may lead a charmed life now, but she will not be charmed forever, and she knows it.”
I stared at him again but was careful to keep my mouth closed this time. Domenica? My Domenica sad about anything? The one beautiful enough to have both a lover and a husband? The one blessed with parental approval?
Perhaps there was something in his words. Of late her smile had grown more forced and she spoke faster when she wanted something. Perhaps Signor Botticelli was right, that this was the happiest Domenica would ever be, and, conscious of this, she had quickened with anxiety.
Emilio came out of the pantry, his eyes shooting arrows at our guest. “What are you doing here, eh?”
“I came in search of more little barrels,” Botticelli said, raising his goblet in a mock salute. “How do you think I got my nickname?”
Emilio’s eyes went to our guest’s ungirdled stomach, which was substantial. His eyes darted to me. Botticelli. Little Barrel. Why would a person choose to call himself that? Either it was because of his build — a little barrel of a man — or he drank a lot of little barrels of wine. Emilio now was in the unpleasant position of calling Signor Botticelli fat or calling him a drunkard.
“More wine, Signor Botticelli?” I asked, reaching for his empty goblet.
“Signorina Flora, you are a goddess among women,” he answered with a wink.
I took a candle with me and went into the pantry. In the dim light I kept bonking my head on haunches and sprigs of things that were strung from the ceiling. At last I stumbled into the wine barrel and dipped the goblet in it. When I came out my head was covered in slivers of prosciutto and dried rosemary.
Standing in the dark on the threshold, I caught a flake of conversation between Emilio and the artist.
“Why does she labor down here? Why is she not above stairs with her sister, wearing pearls and playing the mandolin?” Signor Botticelli was asking. “She is a Pazzi just as much as the other.”
I shrank back into the darkness, taut with fear. It was as though someone were about to shoot an arrow at me. No. Not this. Don’t tell him this. It’s not a pretty story.
“. . . like an unwanted batch of kittens. Can you imagine?” Emilio was saying.
“These noblemen are not like you and me,” Signor Botticelli replied. “What a brood. Still, I like to think if you or I already had eleven children we would love the twelfth just as much.”
Emilio replied: “Signora Cenesta tried to tell Signora Maddelena that Flora’s head was normal, that babies who had spent a long time in the birth canal often looked like that and that hers would be less egg-shaped with time.
“But Signora Maddelena still could not be persuaded to nurse Flora or even look at her. They say that Signora Cenesta had to pull Flora out of Signora Maddelena with a tool they use to shoe horses. Perhaps when she looked at Flora she saw her own pain.”
“You’re conjecturing now,” Signor Botticelli said, wagging a finger. “But perhaps you are close to the truth. You’re probably too young to remember, but twenty years ago Signora Cenesta was formidable. She dined above stairs every night and men came from far and wide to listen to her counsel. And now what’s left of her? A shabby old woman who makes poultices and stirs the soup.”
“Mind your tongue, signore,” Emilio said. “She’s been kind to me.”
“She’s been kind to the whole city,” Botticelli said. “Yet the fact remains that she is a shadow of what she once was.”
“What are you suggesting?”
“I’m saying that perhaps Signora Maddelena only threatened to drown Flora like a sack of kittens because she saw that someone wanted her more than she did.”
“You think that Signora Cenesta gave up her position as head of the house in exchange for raising Flora.”
There was silence for a few minutes; the clatter of plates being stacked in a cupboard.
“Flora says she was supposed to go into the convent, but she’s fourteen years old and still here. You think that is Signora Cenesta’s doing?” Emilio said.
“At one time that woman had the ear of kings,” Botticelli said. “Keeping Flora by her side would be nothing for someone as cunning as she.”
I didn’t like hearing Nonna called cunning, but then again, I didn’t like to hear any of it. I’d heard the story dozens of times before. The message was always the same: I was an ugly baby and would bring my family no fortune through marriage. I was no use to anyone.
Now I heard Emilio sigh softly. “What a family, eh? A bunch of cretini.”
“No, Emilio. It will not do. You cannot keep Flora and Signora Cenesta and cut out the others because they are unpleasant. They are part of the tableau as well.”
I’d heard enough. I came out of the pantry and shoved Signor Botticelli’s goblet at him. It slopped over onto the table and his pristine linen tunic.
With a glare at Emilio, I lifted my skirts and tromped up the back stairs, the soft wood worn into troughs by years of my heavy footfalls carrying things to and from the kitchen.
As I walked I felt split in two. The firelight and Emilio’s plain speech combined with his soft voice made my tragedy seem like just another story — one that happened to someone else, some
one who grew up and was turned into a laurel bush or who fired golden apples into the sun.
But there was another part of me that couldn’t stop shaking. I’d heard the story dozens of times before, but it always ended with Mamma not wanting me. (“And why should she?” Domenica would end. “She already had me.”) Until tonight I’d never heard the part about Mamma using me to bargain her way into mistress of the house. Was it a lie? I didn’t think so. This much I knew: that when my nonno first died, Mamma should have taken over her position as mistress of the house immediately. But she didn’t. Instead the house was ruled by Nonna, who, like Lucrezia de Medici, had grown too formidable. Something then must have happened to make Mamma and Nonna trade places. I never thought it was me. I always thought it was business transacted outside my realm.
And yet Emilio was right. There was much truth in Mamma’s neglect. As Signor Botticelli said, it was a conjecture, but a good one.
Before tonight I’d been torn about the nature of the tragedy of my life. I could never decide if it were because I wasn’t beautiful, or because as a plain girl, I could never bring my family fortune.
But now I understood my real tragedy, which was that Nonna loved me too much.
True, without her I might have ended up in the bottom of the Arno. But then again, maybe not. Without Nonna, Mamma might have accepted me eventually. I might never have had to become Flora. I might have remained Lorenza Pazzi, noblewoman, garlanded with parental approval, soft and luxurious as the finest velvet brocade. I would have walked through the house like Domenica, my tread so light it wore down nothing.
But it was not to be. Instead I was forced to look for other ways to be of service to my family. As I fell asleep — the outline of my diamonds pressing themselves against my cheek — I didn’t yet know how I would get away. I only knew that Nonna was wrong: standing tall was not enough. If I stayed here I would never turn divine. I had to be more like the other heroes — the Greek ones — who sought their monsters. I had grown weary of the ones in my own home.
Chapter Ten
The next morning I accosted Andrea on his way to the library. He was walking down the Madonna gallery with his nose in a book. How could he walk and read at the same time? I feared he would trip over that bust of Dante.
“Fratello mio,” I greeted him.
He looked up and smiled indulgently. “Flora,” he said. “When are you coming to the bank? We’ve had a new shipment of tapestries and table settings to inventory.”
Tapestries and table settings. Some debauched prince had defaulted on his loan.
“Whenever you need me,” I said. “But listen, I have a question for you.”
From the great hall came sounds of Signor Botticelli arranging Domenica and ordering around his minions. I drew my brother out to the balcony and lowered my voice.
“What would be the best way to get to Venice?”
“You’re not planning on going, are you, Flora?” he asked with a laugh. “You would get robbed and left for dead before you got to Fiesole.”
I tried to laugh myself but could not. “No, not me. I was thinking of someone more like Emilio.”
Andrea’s face took a serious turn. “He’s not planning on leaving, surely? He’s so trustworthy. We need more like him.”
“Not that I know of. Come now, Andrea, surely you can see I’m just curious. What would it take? How much money?”
Andrea seemed to relax. I was engaging in an intellectual enterprise, spinning thoughts from thin air. His second favorite thing in the world after dropping things from great heights. “Not money, Flora. In fact you’d have to guard your money well. If I were a youth traveling alone I would ride hard and keep to the main roads and pray no one knew I possessed any wealth. And even then I would carry a weapon and not be afraid to use it. No road on the peninsula is safe.”
I patted his knee. “Grazie, Andrea. Since I cannot leave this place I must travel as I can.”
I stood up to go back in.
“Flora,” Andrea called to me, his face suddenly wrinkled with worry. “Are you sure you want to know how one person could travel? Not two?”
I knew what Andrea was asking. He wanted to know if Emilio and I were planning on running off together. “I am sure, Andrea. I have no plans to leave. With or without Emilio.”
“It’s just that . . .” He stood up now. The door behind me back into the gallery was half open. He closed it with a soft click. “I am not blind, Flora. I know you could never be happy as a nun. I also know that, for whatever reason, our mamma has no plans to find you a husband.” He leaned in close. “If you really needed to know how two people could slip off to Venice, I might be able to help you. But not now.”
“When, then?”
“Ideally? Never. I would miss you too much. But there is a strong wind blowing from the south. One that may change our fortunes.”
I was surprised. In Florence, winds most often blew from the north. But Rome was to the south. Andrea was talking about the pope.
“Easter is next week,” he continued. “Our mother has it in her mind to have a great feast the night before and has invited the Medici. She hopes to unveil Signor Botticelli’s masterpiece at that time.”
“A feast? The night before Easter? That woman is crazy.”
Andrea just shrugged. “If it works, there may be no need for you to leave. Else there may be every need. I tell you, I do not care for Riorio’s counsel. He is too practiced for my taste.”
“I promise you, I shall take no action before Easter.”
“Bene,” Andrea said, and I moved to open the door.
He closed it again. There was some problem bothering him more than usual, one he turned over and over in his mouth like a grain of sand. “There is one more thing. Heed carefully what Captain Umberto has to teach you. We should all be preparing as you are.”
Andrea’s hand was still on the door, keeping it shut. He needed some reassurance from me. A reassurance I had yet to give him.
“Fratello mio, you worry for nothing. I swear to you we will grow old together, dropping weights from the roof just to see how fast they fall.”
He released the door and opened it a crack, only mildly satisfied. “That is my fondest wish, Flora. All the same, I fear our fortunes are what are falling. Fast.”
I left Andrea and went downstairs to find Emilio. He was standing in the entranceway to the palazzo under the dolphin coat of arms in a formal pose. His had his formal tunic on, his mazzochio firmly in place. I couldn’t help but notice that he had changed since he first came here. Today he only looked slightly ridiculous as a guard. At least his cap stayed on straight.
“What are you doing here? I thought we’d play lookout.”
“Nonna just got word. Captain Umberto and the others return today. No one has sickened since the death of Cesare, so the doors to their billet were unlocked and our men are able to come and go as they see fit.”
“Bene,” I said. “Then I will stand with you.”
Emilio and I stationed ourselves in front of the palazzo, our spears crossed, the way we’d seen the others do. People on the street nodded as they walked past. “Ciao, Flora! Ciao, Emilio! Lovely weather we’re having.”
“Stop smiling and waving,” Emilio groused. “We’re supposed to look imposing.”
I did my best, but the idea of being imposing sent me into a burst of the giggles. As far as I was concerned, standing around with a spear was no different than looking out for pirates. Then Nonna came out with two raisin puddings for us, and I stopped doing even that.
“How goes the watch this morning, ragazzi?” she asked. She too thought we were playing.
Emilio threw up his hands. “This one will never be a soldier,” he said, pointing to me.
“Even soldiers have to eat,” Nonna said, and poured him a mug of water.
It was at that moment, with our guard relaxed, that the men came back. There were seventeen in all: twelve of ours, five of Riorio’s.
; I hoped our troops hadn’t grown too chummy with Count Riorio’s men. I still hated them for destroying my garden (even though one of them conveniently obliged me by dying for it).
But when they came sauntering down the street, I realized that whatever had happened as they were locked in, it was not what I imagined.
To begin with, they held themselves apart from one another. Riorio’s men walked on the opposite side of the street. Captain Umberto and the rest were careful to keep themselves between Riorio’s men and the palazzo at all times. The mood was strained; Riorio’s men spat and muttered the whole way.
All seventeen were pale and emitted an unholy scent. Three days with no way to empty chamber pots? No wonder.
Then I noticed that one of ours, Piero, was even paler than the rest. When he drew near I saw him stumble. Captain Umberto offered him an arm, and as he did, I noticed there was a filthy, bloody bandage wrapping his left hand.
Madonna. What happened to this poor soul?
Nonna acted quickly. She unwrapped the bandage. His hand was caked with blood. I stood with her and poured water from my mug over the blood to see the extent of the wound. It looked as though someone had speared him through the palm. “Take that one to the kitchen,” she said to Giovanni. “Tell Graziella to give him all the wine he can drink. The next hour will not be fun, but he’ll live.”
Despite the warning, Piero seemed relieved to be under Nonna’s capable care. “Grazie, Signora Cenesta,” he said, as the two scurried past.
Riorio’s men huddled to the right of the entrance. The worst one, the one who dug at his nose with his blade, took out his dagger now and threw it at an imaginary target in the ground.
At that moment I realized that while I didn’t know all that had passed in the billet these three days, I knew enough.
Nonna took a good whiff of the air. It was foul. The stench clung to the men’s hair and clothes.
She threw a purse to Captain Umberto and told him to get his men to a bathhouse. “And don’t just rinse your faces and necks. Get your whole selves into the water. I’ll send Graziella with clean linen.”
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