Immortal

by Traci L. Slatton

  “Let’s go in!” she suggested, wriggling from my arm and pushing open the door that the goldsmith Lorenzo Ghiberti had sculpted, having won the commission in a contest that young Cosimo had suggested to his father. She darted into the building with me following. The place was empty and quiet and she sat down on a bench, breathing hard.

  “Giuliano de’ Medici is dead, he was covered with gore,” she said. “But Lorenzo was running, so he must still live. He’ll rally the Milanese and drum up support. The Medici will stay in power despite today’s deeds.”

  “That’s likely,” I agreed breathlessly, unable to take my eyes off her, even to look at the gorgeous mosaic of the Last Judgment encrusting the ceiling or the intricate geometric designs of the tessellated floor. For once there was a woman more compelling than the art of a Master! I stood and Maddalena sat, knitting her small slender hands together in her lap. Her head was poised at a thoughtful angle on her long neck, and I could see the blue vein pulsing at her throat. Outside the whole world could have been ending in fire and earthquake and thunder and the horsemen of the Apocalypse raining down death, but it wouldn’t have mattered. For me there was only this moment in Maddalena’s presence. It was the holiest moment of my life. Something wondrous that had gestated for over a century was born. It was fitting that it should occur in the Baptistery. My flesh tingled, and the air between us palpitated, filled with unseen brilliance and a thousand dreams waking into real life.

  “It’s incredible! So frightening and unreal, a nightmare! Blood spilt at High Mass, a desecration of the great cathedral! Florence will never be the same. I wonder who could have instigated this, and to what end,” she said, her husky voice starting with terror and finishing with a speculative note.

  “The Pazzi, the Pope, the King of Naples. For money, power, vengeance. The Medici have many enemies. Lorenzo has not ruled our city with Cosimo’s talent for keeping friends close and enemies closer,” I answered without thinking. I couldn’t believe we were discussing politics when all I wanted to do was sit down beside her and touch her beautiful skin.

  “Volterra must be included among his enemies, though my hometown would never dare to attack, after the sacking he gave us.” She nodded, then smiled shyly at me, and my heart skittered up into my throat and my knees buckled. “We seem to meet when there is blood about, signore. Fortunately, this time, it’s not mine. And I’m dressed. I’m happy to see you looking well, also. You haven’t changed at all in the years since you rescued me from the condottiere!”

  “What are you doing in Florence?” I asked.

  “I moved here six months ago,” she said, looking away. Then Ghiberti’s door was flung open.

  “Maddalena? Carissima, I was worried about you when I lost you in the crowd,” cried a well-dressed older man who scooted into the pew and wrapped his arms around Maddalena, kissing her forehead. He had white hair and a neat gray beard. She rested her head against him for a moment, then laid a gentle hand on the man’s chest, and I would have given every soldi in my bank account and ten decades of my life to be the fabric of that man’s farsetto and have her hand caressing me.

  “Rinaldo, this gentleman is an old acquaintance of mine, Signore Luca Bastardo. He saved me just now when I fell. I would have been trampled to death. Signore, this is Rinaldo Rucellai, my husband.” She smiled at him, and I had never felt so shocked in my whole preternaturally long life. I’d finally found her, The One from my vision—there was no denying the thunderbolt that had shattered my soul—and she was married to someone else. She was the culmination of every yearning I’d ever felt. How could she have a husband? Had the good God offered me a choice between love and death that the evil God would never let come to fruition because of the inner sense of alienation I could never quite escape?

  “Signore Bastardo, I owe you a debt of gratitude for saving my wife!” Rucellai cried, springing up to pump my hand with both of his. “You must come for dinner! I insist, signore, that I repay you for your kindness toward my wife!”

  “That would be lovely.” Maddalena stood beside her husband, who encircled her waist with his arm. I felt an army of agonies in the security she showed, belonging to someone else.

  “Are you hurt, signore?” asked Maddalena, with concern in her voice.

  “Scusi?” I grunted.

  “You wear a terrible expression of pain, have you been hurt in the fray?” asked Rucellai. I shook my head, and Rucellai gripped my shoulder. “There will be terrible consequences from this dirty business today, and I must now offer my services to Lorenzo de’ Medici. But you will come for dinner, perhaps in two weeks’ time?”

  They took their leave. I sat down in the Baptistery. Bells throughout the city gonged, and the pealing was picked up by bells on the outskirts and even far into the contado: Florence was at arms. I heard the commotion through the walls of the Baptistery, people stamping and crying out in terror, troops marching, mounted condottieri trotting through the streets. After a while, I heard two different shouts thrown back and forth in the streets: “People and liberty!” which was the traditional cry to overthrow a despot, and “Palle! Palle!” which referred to the Medici insignia, and was a cry of support for the Medici. It meant nothing to me. I was fixed on two preeminent facts: I had found Maddalena; she had a husband.

  I went home, finally, bent over against the gusting wind, chilled to the bone in the gray light of a sun obscured by ominous gray clouds inflating to fill the sky. I avoided the men running through the streets with drawn swords. Some of the men carried bloody, dripping heads on the ends of lances and swords; Perugian soldiers had been found and killed in the Palazzo della Signoria. I made it home unmolested and stormed upstairs to my workshop. Unhinged, I grabbed an empty vial and threw it against the plastered wall. The tinkling sound and glittery fall of shards felt good to me, so I picked up a jar with sea salt in it and heaved it. It shattered with a deep, satisfying crunch and spray of crystals. I howled. I moved around the workshop, picking up objects of glass or pottery and throwing them as hard as I could against the wall. There was a flask of purple wine that made a stain like blood on the floor. Finally I stopped, panting, in the middle of the room, an island amidst a sea of jagged pieces.

  “It will cost you many florins to replace everything,” said Leonardo, who stood at the door with his arms crossed over his chest. I had no idea how long he’d been watching me.

  “Screw the money!”

  “Now, there are words I never thought to hear you say,” commented Leonardo. “I’m fine, thank you for asking. I made my way to safety after we were separated in the crowd. Yes, I had heard rumors that something drastic was planned for today. No, I didn’t warn Lorenzo de’ Medici. He hasn’t been kind to you of late.”

  I didn’t want to hear about Florence’s politics or Leonardo’s choices. I had a bigger problem. “A woman.” I pounded my fist against my forehead. “I met a woman today! Met her again. I met her as a girl.”

  “A woman, eh? You see why I stick with men. Women are bad for your health.” Leonardo stroked his beard and smiled. I bared my teeth and growled. His auburn eyebrows climbed up his forehead as he made a placating motion with his hands. “Easy, easy, professore! Come and drink some nice wine with me, we’ll send a servant in here to clean the mess.”

  “Wine won’t make me feel better!” I cried, faced with two conflicting certainties: that I had been irretrievably struck to the heart by Maddalena, and that it was impossible to be with her. She would not betray her husband. I knew that she was loyal, because I had felt her essence in the moment that I’d held her upright at the Baptistery. I’d perceived her loyalty then as I’d perceived her intelligence, her courage, her sweetness, her humor, her kindness. I knew her utterly when I looked into her eyes. No woman had ever seemed so beautiful to me. It burned me and froze me and tore me apart and condensed me around my desire, simultaneously.

  “You’ll have her.” He shrugged. “You’re the handsomest man in Florence, after me. You have any
woman you want. You succeeded with my mother, and she wouldn’t do anything to anger Papa, who had no intention of letting her go despite his string of wives.”

  “She’s married.”

  “So?”

  “She’s not the kind to betray her husband!” I said in despair.

  “That does complicate matters,” Leonardo agreed. He put his strong arm around my shoulders, firmly, so he could direct my steps. “Come, Luca mio, let me pour you some wine. You’ll do yourself harm if you stay in here. Come with me upstairs to the open loggia, we’ll sit in the night and listen to men fighting for control of Florence. You’ll tell me about this remarkable woman. I can listen as long as you wish; I’ll stay here, in the room you keep for me. I don’t want to be out on the streets on this bloody night. Tell me, what’s her name?”

  “Maddalena Rucellai,” I answered, letting myself be led out of the workshop.

  Leonardo made a tsking sound. “You have a fine eye. I know the lady. She is astonishingly lovely. She’s a Volterran, the new bride of Rinaldo Rucellai. He’s a cousin to the father of the man who married Lorenzo de’ Medici’s sister Nannina. Rinaldo’s first wife died a few years ago. I heard he saw Maddalena on a visit to Volterra on Lorenzo’s business and was instantly smitten, had to have her. It’s a good match for her; he’s quite wealthy and has no children, comes from a respected old family. Many of the Volterran girls haven’t been able to find husbands, either because they were despoiled or because their fathers were killed or their families were impoverished in the sacking and there’s no money for a dowry.”

  “Maybe Rucellai won’t survive the night,” I said coolly. “Maybe I can hasten him on his journey to meet his first wife in heaven. Where’s my short sword?”

  “Luca, I won’t allow you to do anything stupid,” Leonardo said firmly. “But I can tell you where she lives.”

  THE NEXT MORNING I waited outside of Rinaldo Rucellai’s palazzo for Maddalena to come out. Florence seethed with turmoil over the murder of Giuliano de’ Medici and the attempt on Lorenzo’s life. Every man was embroiled one way or another. Lorenzo would be furious and implacable, doling out death for months. I didn’t care. I only wanted to see Maddalena.

  After an hour she came out attended by a maidservant. I smiled; a small thing like rioting and murder in the streets wouldn’t keep her indoors. After all, when she was a child who was still bleeding from being raped, she had left safety to rescue other children. She had courage. Her husband’s palazzo was located close to the Mercato Vecchio, and she set off in that direction. I followed from far enough back that she and her maid wouldn’t know I was there.

  On the outskirts of the market a street urchin ran up to her with his hand outstretched. He knew her, because he cried, “Maddalena! Maddalena!” The round maid gave her a purse, and Maddalena dug for a coin. She handed it to the ragged boy, who called out thanks and ran off. I watched as the scene was repeated a few more times. Maddalena finally stepped into the rectangular square of the market, and her plump maid paused and knelt to fix her shoe. This was my opportunity. I hastened to the woman’s side.

  “Signore Rucellai has urgent need for you at the palazzo,” I told her. “Immediately!”

  “But the signora.” She gestured after Maddalena.

  “I’ll tell her you’ve been sent for by her husband,” I said. She looked dubious. I shrugged. “If you’d prefer to explain to Signore Rucellai why you disobeyed him…” She shook her head and waddled back in the direction in which she’d come. I strode after Maddalena. The market was thronged today, people coming not to buy goods so much as to gossip. When I caught up with her, she was giving a coin to yet another urchin. I stood quietly beside her, watching. My heart flopped like a hooked fish on the riverbank. I didn’t know if I could speak with the dryness in my mouth. She patted the dirt-stained boy on his head.

  “You’re very generous, Maddalena,” I said, only a little hoarsely.

  “Signore Bastardo, I didn’t see you,” she said. She looked down at the blue brocade purse that was lumpy with coins, and then blushed and laughed. “Florentines are so practical with money, you must think me silly. These are just dinari, but I like to have coins on hand for the beggars, especially the children. After all, that could have been me. If it weren’t for the restitution monies and some kind neighbors, I could have been a beggar on the street, with my father dead and my home destroyed. I’ve been lucky. So I feel that I should help these unfortunate souls. My husband is very kind and indulges me by keeping this purse filled for when I go out to the market.”

  I asked, “Is Signore Rucellai with you?”

  “Oh, no, he’s gone to the aid of Lorenzo de’ Medici,” she said, looking around. In a puzzled tone, she added, “My maid was with me, but she’s disappeared.”

  “The crowds here are thick today, maybe she’s lost sight of you,” I said. “It could be dangerous after yesterday’s events. Why don’t I accompany you?”

  “I couldn’t impose on you,” she said, blushing faintly and looking away.

  “It’s no trouble,” I said firmly, gesturing for her to walk on.

  “I suppose it’s better not to be alone today,” she said, stealing a glance at me. She moved forward and I took the opportunity to lean in toward her hair and smell her lilac scent. We walked through the hordes of chattering people, passed by a row of vendors with bright spring flowers from the contado. Today the vendors were less interested in selling their wares than in jabbering together: what would happen to Florence? Maddalena turned to me.

  “So, Signore Bastardo—”

  “Call me Luca,” I said, knowing it wasn’t appropriate and not caring. She half-smiled and her thick lashes dropped to hide her eyes. Today she wore an indigo velvet cottardita embroidered with silver threads and encrusted with a design of pearls along the bodice. Over it she’d thrown on a white wool mantello. The effect was rich and striking with her fair skin, her variegated hair with its lush mix of brown, red, gold, plum, and black tones, and her eyes that were as complicated as agates.

  “I suppose we are old friends. You saw me at my worst! So, then, Luca, you look very well, exactly as I remember you. It’s wonderful to see my memories of you weren’t childish fantasies, after all.” She laughed shortly, her cheeks coloring again.

  “What kind of fantasies did you have of me? Good ones?” I gave her a suggestive smile.

  “That’s not what I meant!” She reddened from the perfectly shaped widow’s peak on her scalp to her delicate collarbones.

  “I know what you meant. I just wanted to see what other meanings there could be.”

  “Suggestion is the bastard child of wicked intentions.”

  “Relatives, both,” I said, punning on my surname.

  “Please, signore, I am not like your sophisticated Florentine women. I find this conversation unbecoming!” She took a deep breath. “I, ah, I never asked you back then, what do you do in Florence? That night in Volterra, you fought like a condottiere, but you were so skilled at treating injured people, I assumed you were a physico of some kind.”

  “I’ve been a doctor and a soldier. Now I’m pursuing the art of alchemy.”

  “Alchemy, how interesting.” She brightened. “We were at dinner at the Medici palazzo just two weeks ago and I listened to Marsilio Ficino speak on that topic. He’s a fascinating man, so learned and mystical. I want to learn alchemy. Astrology, too. I’m not as educated as your clever Florentine women, and I’m eager to catch up. I find I enjoy learning. I have a hearty appetite for it. My husband has been so kind as to offer to hire a tutor for me.”

  You deserve kindness, I thought, and was torn between feeling grateful to Rucellai for his generosity and envious that he was the one able to show it to her. Aloud, I said, “Even in Florence, few women study alchemy or astrology.”

  “I would like to,” she said, giving me a thoughtful look. “Perhaps you could teach me.”

  I was almost overwhelmed by my longing to touch her and did
n’t trust myself to say something reasonable about teaching her. Instead, I asked, “What are you shopping for? If you don’t know who to buy from, I can show you the best purveyors.”

  “My husband has been most solicitous in taking me around Florence and introducing me to shopkeepers.” She made a gesture with her fine-boned hand. “Besides, I really came today to hear what people are saying. The Rucellai are deeply involved in the political life of Florence. I like to keep abreast of events so I’ll have something to say to my new relatives over dinner.”

  “I’m sure your husband appreciates your diligence,” I said, and couldn’t keep the sharpness from my tone. Maddalena’s head snapped up as she looked at me. Her brows knitted.

  “Have I offended you?” she asked, a look of concern spreading over her lovely face.

  I shook my head. Then, because I couldn’t help myself, I said, “I thought you were going to wait until I came back to Volterra for you.”

  “Wait?” She looked startled. “You mean that last conversation we had, as you were mounting your horse—what was his name, Ginori—and leaving Volterra?”

  “You asked me to come back for you. I said I would.”

  She colored, laughed once, and placed her hand on her throat. “Signore, I could not take to heart your kind words to a wounded young girl!”

  “But you should have,” I said mordantly, and she looked away.

  “Maddalena, Maddalena! What are you doing out?” cried a familiar voice. Rushing toward us with his sword drawn was Rinaldo Rucellai, flanked by two other sword-carrying men whom I recognized as friends of Lorenzo’s, another Rucellai cousin and a Donati.

  “Carissima, you should not be outdoors when people are rioting,” Rucellai said anxiously, after kissing his wife’s forehead. He went on breathlessly, “There is a Volterran implicated in the conspiracy; the man who nicked Lorenzo in the neck is a Volterran. You should stay inside lest people associate you with him and take vengeance! I don’t want you killed in the streets of Florence. I would go mad with sorrow at the loss of you!”