I, Mona Lisa

by Jeanne Kalogridis

  This was to prevent him from being torn apart before he could be properly executed. He had heard the tales of his fellow conspirators’ gruesome fates: how the Perugian mercenaries hired by the Pazzi had been pushed from the high tower of the Palazzo della Signoria, how they had fallen into the waiting crowd below, who had hacked them to pieces with knives and shovels.

  Even old Iacopo de’ Pazzi, who during his life had been respected, had not escaped Florence’s wrath. Upon the sound of Giotto’s chiming campanile, he had climbed upon his horse and tried to rally the citizens with the cry Popolo e libertà! The phrase was a rallying cry to overthrow the current government—in this case, the Medici.

  But the populace had answered with the cry Palle! Palle! Palle!

  Despite his sin, he had been granted a proper burial after his execution—with the noose still round his neck. But the city had been so filled with hatred in those wild days, he had not been at rest long before the Signoria decided it would be best to rebury his body outside the city walls, in unhallowed ground.

  Francesco de’ Pazzi and the rest had swiftly met justice; only Guglielmo de’ Pazzi had been spared, because of Bianca de’ Medici’s desperate pleading with her brother Lorenzo.

  Of the true conspirators, Baroncelli alone had escaped—by hiding in the Duomo’s campanile, its air still aquiver from the ringing of the bell. When his way was clear, he had fled on horseback—without a word to his family—due east, to Senigallia on the coast. From there, he had sailed to exotic Constantinople. King Ferrante and Baroncelli’s Neapolitan relatives had sent funds enough to sustain a dissolute life. Baroncelli made mistresses of the slave girls he had purchased, immersing himself in pleasure, trying to submerge all memory of the murders he had committed.

  Yet his dreams were haunted by the image of Giuliano, frozen at the instant he had glanced up at the shining blade. The young man’s dark curls were tousled, his innocent eyes wide, his expression unself-conscious and slightly dazed by the sudden appearance of Death.

  Baroncelli had had more than a year to contemplate the question, Would removing the Medici and replacing them with Iacopo and Francesco de’ Pazzi have bettered the city? Lorenzo was levelheaded, cautious; Francesco hot-tempered, swift to act. He would quickly have descended to the level of a tyrant. Lorenzo was wise enough to nurture the people’s love, as evidenced by the size of the crowd now gathered in the plaza; Francesco would have been too arrogant to care.

  Lorenzo was, most of all, persistent. In the end, even Constantinople was not beyond his reach. Once his agents had located Baroncelli, Lorenzo had sent an emissary laden with gold and jewels to the sultan. Thus was Baroncelli’s fate sealed.

  All criminals were hanged outside the city gates, then hastily stuffed into unhallowed ground. Baroncelli would be buried in a hole with them—but given the gravity of his misdeed, his execution was to take place in Florence’s most public arena.

  Now, as the little cart rattled past the crowd toward the scaffolding, Baroncelli let go a loud groan. Fear gripped him with an anguish far worse than any physical pain; he felt unbearably cold, searingly hot, felt a dizzying sense of sinking. He thought he would faint, yet unconsciousness, cruelly, would not come.

  “Courage, signore,” the nero said. “God rides with you.”

  His nero, his Comforter, walked alongside the cart. He was a Florentine citizen named Lauro, and a lay member of the Compagnia di Santa Maria della Croce, also known as the Compagnia de’ Neri—the Company of the Black Ones—because its members all wore black robes and hoods. The company’s purpose was to give comfort and mercy to those in need—including those anguished souls condemned to die.

  Lauro had remained with him from the moment he had arrived in Florence. He had seen to it that Baroncelli received fair treatment, was allowed proper clothing and food, that he was permitted to send letters to loved ones (Giovanna never responded to his plea to see her). Lauro had listened kindly to Baroncelli’s tearful admissions of regret, and remained in the cell to pray for him. The Comforter had beseeched the Virgin, Christ, God, and Saint John, patron of Florence, to give Baroncelli comfort, to grant him forgiveness, to allow his soul into Purgatory and thence to Heaven.

  Baroncelli did not join him in prayer; God, he felt, would take it as a personal affront.

  Now, the black-hooded Comforter walked beside him, speaking loudly—a psalm, a hymn, or prayer, all floating on the air as white vapor—but given the noise made by the crowd, Baroncelli could not make out the words. A single phrase thrummed in his ears and pulsed to the beating of his heart.

  Palle Palle Palle

  The cart rolled to a stop in front of the steps leading up to the gallows. The Comforter slid an arm under Baroncelli’s bound one and helped him awkwardly onto the cold flagstone. The weight of terror dropped the shivering Baroncelli to his knees; the Comforter knelt beside him and whispered in his ear.

  “Do not be afraid. Your soul will ascend directly to Heaven. Of all men, you need no forgiveness; what you did was God’s own work, and no crime. There are many of us who call you hero, brother. You have taken the first step in purging Florence from great evil.”

  Baroncelli’s voice shook so he could scarce understand his own words. “From Lorenzo?”

  “From debauchery. From paganism. From the pursuit of profane art.”

  Teeth chattering, Baroncelli glared at him. “If you—if others—believe this, then why have you not rescued me before now? Save me!”

  “We dare not make ourselves known. There is much to be done before Florence, before Italy, before the world, is ready for us.”

  “You are mad,” Baroncelli breathed.

  The Comforter smiled. “We are fools for God.”

  He helped Baroncelli to his feet; enraged, Baroncelli pulled away from him and staggered up the wooden steps alone.

  On the scaffolding, the executioner, a young, slender man whose face was hidden beneath a mask, stood between Baroncelli and the waiting noose. “Before God,” the executioner said to Baroncelli, “I beg your forgiveness for the act I am sworn to commit.”

  The inside of Baroncelli’s lips and cheeks cleaved to his teeth; his tongue was so dry, it left behind a layer of skin as he articulated the words. Yet his tone sounded astonishingly calm. “I forgive you.”

  The executioner released a small sound of relief; perhaps there had been other doomed men more eager to let their blood stain his hands. He caught Baroncelli’s elbow and guided him to a particular spot on the platform, near the noose. “Here.” His voice was oddly gentle. And he produced from within his cloak a white linen scarf.

  In the instant before he was blindfolded, Baroncelli scanned the crowd. Near the front was Giovanna, with the children. She was too distant for Baroncelli to be sure, but it seemed to him that she had been weeping.

  Lorenzo de’ Medici was nowhere to be seen—but Baroncelli had no doubt that he was watching. Watching from a hidden balcony, or a window; perhaps from inside the Palazzo della Signoria itself.

  Below, at the foot of the scaffolding, stood the Comforter, his expression serene and oddly satisfied. In an instant of epiphany, Baroncelli realized that he, Francesco de’ Pazzi, Messer Iacopo, Archbishop Salviati—all of them—had been fools, their small ambitions used to serve part of a larger scheme, one that filled him with almost as much dread as the prospect of his imminent death.

  The executioner tied the scarf over Baroncelli’s eyes, then guided the noose over his chin and tightened it around his neck.

  In the instant before the platform beneath him dropped, Baroncelli whispered two words, directed at himself.

  “Here, traitor.”

  X

  The instant that Baroncelli’s body ceased its twitching, a young artist near the front of the crowd set to work. The corpse would hang in the piazza for days, until its decomposition caused it to drop from the rope. But the artist could not wait; he wanted to capture the image while it still possessed an echo of life. Besides, young hool
igans, giovani, would soon amuse themselves by casting stones at it, and the imminent rain would cause it to bloat.

  He sketched on paper pressed against a board of poplar, to give him a firm surface to work against. He had cut back the plume from his quill pen, for he used it so continually that any barbs there irritated his long fingers; he had carved the nib himself to a fine, sharp point, and he dipped it regularly, mindlessly, into a vial of brown iron gall ink securely fastened to his belt. Since one could not properly draw constrained by gloves, his bare hands ached from the cold, but he dismissed the observation as unworthy of his time. In the same manner, he dismissed the sorrow that threatened to overwhelm him—for the sight of Baroncelli evoked profoundly painful memories—and focused instead on the subject before him.

  Despite all attempts to mask their true feelings, all men and women nonetheless revealed them through subtle signs in expression, posture, and voice. Baroncelli’s regret was blatant. Even in death, his eyes were downcast, as if contemplating Hell. His head was bowed, and the corners of his thin lips were pulled downward by guilt. Here was a man overwhelmed by self-loathing.

  The artist struggled not to yield to his hatred, though he had very personal reasons for despising Baroncelli. But hate was against his principles, so—like his aching fingers and heart—he ignored it and continued with his work. He also found killing unethical—even the execution of a murderer such as Baroncelli.

  As was his habit, he jotted notes on the page to remind himself of the colors and textures involved, for there was an excellent chance the sketch might become a painting. He wrote from right to left, the letters a mirror image of conventional script. Years before, when he had been a student in Andrea Verrochio’s workshop, other artists had accused him of unwarranted secrecy, for when he showed them his sketches, they could make no sense of his notes. But he wrote as he did because it came most naturally to him; the privacy conferred was a coincidental benefit.

  Small tan cap. The quill scratched against the paper. Black serge jerkin, lined woolen singlet, blue cloak lined with fox fur, velvet collar stippled red and black, Bernardo Bandino Baroncelli, black leggings. Baroncelli had kicked off his slippers during his death throes; he was shown with bare feet.

  The artist frowned at Baroncelli’s patronymic. He was self-taught, still struggling to overcome his rustic Vinci dialect, and spelling bedeviled him. No matter. Lorenzo de’ Medici, il Magnifico, was interested in the image, not the words.

  He did a quick, small rendering at the bottom of the page, showing Baroncelli’s head at an angle that revealed more of the gloom-stricken features. Satisfied with his work, he then set to his real task of scanning the faces in the crowd. Those near the front—the nobility and more prosperous merchants—were just beginning to leave, hushed and somber. The populo minuto, the poor and struggling, remained behind to entertain themselves by hurling epithets and rocks at the corpse.

  The artist carefully watched as many men as possible as they left the piazza. There were two reasons for this: The ostensible one was that he was a student of faces. Those who knew of him were used to his intent stares.

  The darker reason was the result of an encounter between himself and Lorenzo de’ Medici. He was looking for a particular face—one he had seen twenty months earlier, for only the briefest of instants. Even with his talent for recalling physiognomies, his memory was clouded—yet his heart was equally determined to succeed. This time, he was resolved not to let emotion get the better of him.

  “Leonardo!”

  The sound of his own name startled the artist; he jerked involuntarily and, out of reflex, capped the vial of ink, lest it spill.

  An old friend from Verrocchio’s workshop had been on his way out of the piazza, and moved toward him.

  “Sandro,” Leonardo said, when his friend at last stood before him. “You look like a lord prior.”

  Sandro Botticelli grinned. At thirty-four, he was several years Leonardo’s senior, in the prime of his life and career. He was indeed dressed grandly, in a scarlet fur-trimmed cloak; a black velvet cap covered most of his golden hair, cut chin-length, shorter than the current fashion. Like Leonardo, he was clean-shaven. His green eyes were heavy-lidded, filled with the insolence that had always marked his manner. Even so, Leonardo liked him; he was possessed of great talent and a good heart. Over the past year, Sandro had received several fat commissions from the Medici and Tornabuoni, including the massive painting Primavera, soon to be a wedding gift from Lorenzo to his cousin.

  Sandro eyed Leonardo’s sketch with sly humor. “So. Trying to steal my job, I see.”

  He was referring to the recently painted mural on a façade near the Palazzo della Signoria, partially visible behind the scaffolding now that the crowd was beginning to thin. He had received a commission from Lorenzo in those terrible days following Giuliano’s death: to depict each of the executed Pazzi conspirators as they dangled from the rope. The life-sized images duly inspired the terror they were meant to provoke. There was Francesco de’ Pazzi, entirely naked, his wounded thigh encrusted with blood; there, too, was Salviati in his archbishop’s robes. The two dead men were shown facing the viewer—effective, though not an accurate depiction of fact. Like Botticelli, Leonardo had been in the Piazza della Signoria at the moment Francesco—dragged from his bed—had been pushed from the uppermost arched window of the palazzo, hung from the building itself for all to see. A moment later, Salviati had followed and, at the instant of his death, had turned toward his fellow conspirator and—whether in a violent, involuntary spasm or in a final moment of rage—had sunk his teeth deep into Francesco de’ Pazzi’s shoulder. It was a bizarre image, one so troubling that even Leonardo, overwhelmed by emotion, failed to record it in his notebook. Paintings of other executed men, including Messer Iacopo, were partially completed, but one murderer was altogether missing: Baroncelli. Botticelli had probably taken notes himself this morning, intending to finish the mural. But at the sight of Leonardo’s sketch, he shrugged.

  “No matter,” he said breezily. “Being rich enough to dress like a lord prior, I can certainly let a pauper like yourself finish up the task. I have far greater things to accomplish.”

  Leonardo, dressed in a knee-length artisan’s tunic of cheap used linen and a dull gray wool mantle, slipped his sketch under one arm and bowed, low and sweeping, in an exaggerated show of gratitude.

  “You are too kind, my lord.” He rose. “Now go. You are a hired hack, and I am a true artist, with much to accomplish before the rains come.”

  He and Sandro parted with smiles and a brief embrace, and Leonardo returned at once to studying the crowd. He was always happy to see Sandro, but the interruption annoyed him. Too much was at stake; he reached absently into the pouch on his belt and fingered a gold medallion the size of a large florin. On the front, in bas relief, was the title PUBLIC MOURNING. Beneath, Baroncelli raised his long knife above his head while Giuliano looked up at the blade with surprise. Behind Baroncelli stood Francesco de’ Pazzi, his dagger at the ready. Leonardo had provided the sketch, rendering the scene with as much accuracy as possible, although for the viewer’s sake, Giuliano was depicted as facing Baroncelli. Verrocchio had made the cast from Leonardo’s drawing.

  Two days after the murder, Leonardo had dispatched a letter to Lorenzo de’ Medici.

  My lord Lorenzo, I need to speak privately with you concerning a matter of the utmost importance.

  No reply was forthcoming: Lorenzo, overcome with grief, hid in the Medici palazzo, which had become a fortress surrounded by scores of armed men. He received no visitors; letters requesting his opinion or his favor piled up unanswered.

  After a week without a reply, Leonardo borrowed a gold florin and went to the door of the Medici stronghold. He bribed one of the guards there to deliver a second letter straightaway, while he stood waiting in the loggia, watching the hard rain pound the cobblestone streets.

  My lord Lorenzo, I come neither seeking favor nor speaking of business. I
have critical information concerning the death of your brother, for your ears alone.

  Several minutes later he was admitted after being thoroughly checked for weapons—ridiculous, since he had never owned one or had any idea of how to wield one.

  Pale and lifeless in an unadorned tunic of black, Lorenzo, his neck still bandaged, received Leonardo in his study, surrounded by artwork of astonishing beauty. He gazed up at Leonardo with eyes clouded by guilt and grief—yet even these could not hide his interest in hearing what the artist had to say.

  On the morning of the twenty-sixth of April, Leonardo had stood several rows from the altar in the Cathedral of Santa Maria del Fiore. He’d had questions for Lorenzo about a joint commission he and his former teacher Andrea Verrocchio had received to sculpt a bust of Giuliano, and hoped to catch il Magnifico after the service. Leonardo attended Mass only when he had business to conduct; he found the natural world far more awe-inspiring than a man-made cathedral. He was on very good terms with the Medici. Over the past few years, he had stayed for months at a time in Lorenzo’s house as one of the many artists in the family’s employ.

  To Leonardo’s surprise that morning in the Duomo, Giuliano had arrived, late, disheveled, and escorted by Francesco de’ Pazzi and his employee.

  Leonardo found men and women equally beautiful, equally worthy of his love, but he lived an unrequited life by choice. An artist could not allow the storms of love to interrupt his work. He avoided women most of all, for the demands of a wife and children would make his studies—of art, of the world and its inhabitants—impossible. He did not want to become as his master Verrocchio was—wasting his talent, taking on any work, whether it be the construction of masks for Carnival or the gilding of a lady’s slippers, to feed his hungry family. There was never any time to experiment, to observe, to improve his skills.

  Ser Antonio, Leonardo’s grandfather, had first explained this concept to him. Antonio had loved his grandson deeply, ignoring the fact that he was the illegitimate get of a servant girl. As Leonardo grew, only his grandfather noted the boy’s talent, and had given him a book of paper and charcoal. When Leonardo was seven years old, he had been sitting in the cool grass with a silverpoint stylus and a rough panel of wood, studying how the wind rippled through the leaves of an olive orchard. Ser Antonio—ever busy, straight-shouldered and sharp-eyed despite his eighty-eight years—had paused to stand beside him, and look with him at the glittering trees.