DEDICATION
For my muses:
Megan and Peter
CONTENTS
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Epilogue
Afterword
Acknowledgments
Bibliography
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About the Author
Books by L. M. Elliott
Credits
Copyright
About the Publisher
Prologue
I beg your pardon, I am a mountain tiger.
THAT’S THE ONLY LINE OF MY POETRY LEFT. A SINGLE SCRAP to reveal what I thought of myself. Oh, there are a dozen sonnets written about me—praising my neck, my skin, my hands, my virtue. Two were penned by Lorenzo de’ Medici himself—Lorenzo the Magnificent, the de facto prince of Florence, the city where a riotous blossoming of new thought and art pollinated a springlike rebirth across Europe. I was the chosen Platonic love of one of his greatest political allies.
I beg your pardon, I am a mountain tiger.
One line. And, of course, Leonardo’s portrait. The portrait that now hangs in Washington, DC’s National Gallery of Art—the only Leonardo da Vinci in all of the Americas.
Ever since that portrait was rescued from a palace cellar and recognized as a work by the young Leonardo, art historians have asked: Why is Ginevra de’ Benci not smiling? As if I denigrate Leonardo’s genius by not grinning with gratitude. She is ill, some say. She’s shy, suggest others. She was heartbroken by the departure of that charming ambassador from Venice. She could not have been very nice, a few have even pronounced—poor Leonardo to deal with such a formidable-looking young woman for his very first portrait. Can the spiky juniper bush behind her be a symbol of her prickly personality that the ever-so-clever Leonardo put there as a sarcastic joke?
They should see how I smile at them now, at such speculations. Indeed, Leonardo did enjoy word games. The backdrop of juniper, ginepro, is a pun on my name. But perhaps my expression was suggested by Leonardo to be a protest of my circumstances. Perhaps I influenced him to create the image of a mysterious but strong female, which became his hallmark. Or perhaps my reserve was something as simple as knowing that had I smiled out at my viewer, people of my day would have denounced me as provocative, dangerous even.
The fact that Leonardo painted me facing forward, in a three-quarter pose, my gaze outward and steady, engaging the viewer, was daring enough. He and I shattered the Italian quattrocento tradition of portraying women in profile, looking away modestly at nothing, bejeweled and elaborately coiffed, advertisements of a family’s wealth to be assessed as one might a piece of silver. Instead, Leonardo risked painting me as a real person, with individual thoughts and personality that peek out at you in my gaze—the eyes being the windows to our souls, after all. He believed a portrait should reveal the subject’s “motions of the mind,” even if that subject was a mere woman.
Such a revolutionary concept it was! We Florentine ladies were not supposed to stand for long at windows, for fear our thoughts might wander beyond our domestic duties and, God forbid, invite improper imaginings of men passing by. A rulebook at my convent school claimed that if we exchanged a long glance with a man, we could inflame his carnal appetites. The poor man might fall helplessly into sin and be cut adrift from God, like Adam cast out of the Garden of Eden because of Eve’s foolishness.
This attitude was held dear at the very same time well-read men like Lorenzo de’ Medici were convinced that a woman’s graceful, physical beauty was actually evidence of her having deep inner virtues. As such a woman could be a muse of spirituality that saved a man’s soul. Lorenzo and his followers proclaimed a man grew closer to God by gazing upon such a woman—even a married one—and devoting himself to her in a nonphysical love affair.
Yes, a time of marvelous contradictions!
Such paradoxes allowed a woman glory—if she could find and walk the silken-thread line that divided women into either saint or temptress in the minds of men. If she could recognize and survive the politics involved. And if she was strong enough to also create an inner, poetic world that no one could sully or destroy.
I beg your pardon, I am a mountain tiger.
You see? As if a tiger would beg anyone’s pardon.
I had to learn to walk in such contradictions. At sixteen years of age, I emerged from Le Murate’s convent school, where I had been sent “to learn the virtues,” chaste, practiced in modest deportment, groomed to achieve an advantageous marriage for my family. But thanks to a rare intellectual abbess, my eyes had also been opened to the power of thought and art, philosophy and poetry. That was the element of me that would most attract the attention, the imaginings (Platonic and not) of powerful men and the beautiful Leonardo. And would bring me love.
I beg your pardon, I am a mountain tiger.
Come, look in my eyes. Under Leonardo’s brush, a thinking, feeling soul glimmers there behind a carefully composed expression of quietude—like a tiger partially veiled by the forest. Can you see it, waiting silently, watching for a chance to spring forth with a roar?
Leonardo did.
But I get ahead of myself. Leonardo would have hated that. He believed in a systematic study of a thing, layer by layer, to discover what lay below and created the surface we could see. And so, let us begin my story—the story of the great Leonardo da Vinci and his mountain tiger.
It all started with a joust.
1
Piazza di Santa Croce, Florence
January 1475
“QUICK! SHIELD YOUR EYES!” SIMONETTA VESPUCCI CRIED.
Gasping, I raised my hands against a blast of dagger-sharp splinters spewing from the jousting field.
Giuliano de’ Medici and his opponent had just raced toward each other, to deafening cheers from the crowd, their lances aimed straight for each other, their horses thundering and snorting toward collision. With a horrifying crash, Giuliano’s lance shattered on his opponent’s shield, pelting the front row of the stands where I sat with wood fragments.
The rider was hurled off his horse. He lay sprawled on his back in the white sand that filled the Piazza di Santa Croce for the joust. Rushing in, his men-at-arms helped him stand and walked him off the lists. The rider’s armor had saved him. His exquisite horse, however, writhed on the ground. A huge shard of the Medici-blue lance was embedded in his flank.
Whinnying in agony, the horse kicked out wildly. The crowd hushed as men circled the beautiful animal, trying to decide what to do. Giuliano retreated to a corner of the piazza to await his next round, his own horse prancing in fretful impatience and agitation.
“Poor thing,” Simonetta said of the injured horse. “Do you think it will die?” She reached to clasp my hand as we watched.
“Ouch!” My red gloves were spiked with a few azure-colored needles thrown from the shattered lances.
“Oh, my dear!” Simonetta began plucking out the tiny spears. “Thanks be to Mother Mary, your hands saved you. Many knights have died from lance splinters piercing their eyes.”
She leaned toward me and whispered. “Even so, jousting is an exquisite sport, don’t you think? So exhilarating to see these men ride at such a pace.” She giggled like the girl she was, before shrouding herself again in womanly reserve. “But at such a price.” She shook her head as she pulled the last shard from the soft velvet.
I tried not to wince as Simonetta gently peeled off the glove to inspect my hand. She pressed her handkerchief to my palm to stop the tiny ooze of blood from the pinpricks.
“You will ruin that lovely lace with bloodstains,” I warned. Such intricate handiwork was imported from Venice and was expensive.
“Your beautiful hands are far more important,” she replied. “I have heard them praised by Lorenzo the Magnifico for their delicacy, and for the needlework and poetry they create. We must make sure they do not become infected.”
I was a bit vain about my hands, I have to admit. My fingers were long and slender, and I rubbed lemon juice into my skin to keep it fair. So I smiled to hear the compliment, especially since it came from the city’s most important citizen-statesman.
Simonetta smiled back. The way her face lit up reminded me why all of Florence was totally besotted with her. With thick golden curls, a long neck, creamy skin, and huge amber eyes, Simonetta Cattaneo Vespucci was gorgeous. Officially, the Medici had organized this joust to celebrate Florence’s new diplomatic alliance with Venice and Milan. But Simonetta was its crowned “Queen of Beauty” and its focal point in many ways. The honor was no surprise as Simonetta was also the publicly celebrated Platonic love of the younger Medici brother, the handsome Giuliano, Florence’s favorite rider in the joust.
Her image had been the first thing seen that morning as Giuliano and twenty-one other combatants paraded through Florence’s streets to Santa Croce. Leading the procession, Giuliano was accompanied by nine trumpeters and two men-at-arms, carrying pennants of fringed blue silk, decorated with the Medici coat of arms. All their tunic skirts were of matching blue silk brocade, their silver-threaded sleeves embroidered with olive branches and flames. As dazzling as his entourage’s costuming was, though, spectators couldn’t help but stare at the enormous banner Giuliano carried.
On it, Simonetta was depicted as Pallas, the Greek goddess of wisdom and war, over a motto in gold lettering: La sans par, “the unparalleled one.” The great Botticelli had painted her holding a jousting lance and shield, in a golden tunic and breastplate, looking up to the sky. Beside her, ignored, Cupid was tied to an olive tree.
The banner’s message was clear. As Pallas, Simonetta was not distracted or beguiled by Cupid’s earthly romances. Follow her gaze and her example to make it to heaven. When Simonetta climbed the grand dais stairs to take her throne, she had received as many cheers as the city’s beloved Giuliano would when he rode into the lists to the fanfare of herald-trumpets.
How marvelous to be considered so beautiful, so good and true, that an artist such as Sandro Botticelli would want to paint you, I thought. Jealous, I pulled my hand away and spoke sharply. “It’s fine.”
The slightest of frowns creased Simonetta’s brow. “We must be friends, Ginevra de’ Benci Niccolini. I have so few since moving here from Piombino to marry Marco. We are, after all, cousins by marriage. And”—she paused—“I think we will have much to talk about.” She giggled again, this time pulling my gaze with hers toward a handsome, debonair stranger sitting next to the great Lorenzo. The man bowed his head in salutation to us as we did. “He has been appreciating you for the last hour.”
I felt my face flush. “Who is he?”
“Bernardo Bembo, the new Venetian ambassador.”
I was about to turn to look at the diplomat more carefully—something Le Murate’s sisters would have chided me harshly for—when a man’s voice from behind stopped me.
“Observe! Here comes the Six Hundred.”
Men around him laughed.
Again I flushed, mortified. The man was talking about my oldest brother, Giovanni. And not in a flattering way.
Walking onto the field, Giovanni approached the thrashing horse. He circled it slowly, while the other men who’d tried fruitlessly to calm it stepped back. As usual, my brother was dressed to the hilt, wearing a lavish emerald-green-and-gold taffeta tunic, his soled hose scarlet, his fur-lined beret threaded with silver and gold.
“Do you think he has enough florins on his back?” The man behind me kept up his sarcasm.
My brother’s love of expensive clothes and fine horses had become the city’s gauge for all things ostentatious. Giovanni had purchased a magnificent horse from the Barbary Coast of North Africa for a staggering six hundred florins (an amount that equaled the annual income of ten skilled artisans combined). He raced it in the annual palio for St. John’s Feast. He also loved to parade about town on the horse. I could hardly blame him. The horse was an incredibly fluid mover and a joy to ride.
But “Here comes the Six Hundred” had become a Florentine slang term for a braggart. A republic city-state of merchants, guildsmen, artisans, and bankers, Florence did not approve of showy everyday displays of wealth, despite its citizens’ love of pageantry and spectacles like this joust.
I fumed.
Simonetta put her hand atop mine and patted it to keep me from turning round to glare at my brother’s attackers. I wondered if he would cease if he knew who I was. But Florentine men were used to speaking their mind no matter what.
“Well, he is a Benci,” another voice said. “His grandfather was Cosimo’s best friend and the Medici bank manager. The Benci family earned its wealth. You have to give them that.”
It was a typical Florentine assessment of politics and connections, the stuff of many street-corner conversations in a city run by the merchant class. I still wanted to kiss whoever said it. A commoner who made himself a fortune, Cosimo had been much admired in Florence for his generous patronage of artists and for funding the completion of the cathedral’s dome. The Duomo had become one of the wonders of Christendom. The respect afforded Cosimo spilled onto my grandfather.
But my brother’s critic didn’t skip a beat. “Certainly old Benci earned his keep by stuffing the election purse with Medici supporters to ensure that Cosimo stayed in power—the same as any common whore making her way by bending the ethics of good men.”
Simonetta’s hand closed tightly on mine. She squeezed hard, warning me to remain rooted in ladylike silence.
Instead, I laughed out loud at the insult. I couldn’t help it. I was plagued with an impetuous temper that had always landed me in terrible trouble with the nuns. But this time, I swear the influence of Pallas’s mythical intellect saved me. For once, I knew the right thing to say at the right moment.
Leaning toward Simonetta, I said in a loud, staged voice, “Look, Simonetta. My dear, dear brother approaches that poor, suffering, valiant horse.” I drew out the adjectives with feminine empathy. “If anyone can save that beauteous steed, it will be my brother. He is a great scholar of ancient texts. He owns the manuscript written by a legendary Calabrian physic to animals, Liber de Medicina Veterinaria.” The Latin rolled easily off my tongue.
I glanced back at the snide man and his companions, knowing that Florence’s obsession with rediscovered ancient Greek and Latin writings granted respect and status to those who possessed them. I recognized the man as a Pazzi—a member of the aristocratic banking family that was the chief rival and a bitter critic of the Medici. I nodded at him, politely, of course. “Through studying that rare, important text, my brother knows everything about tending horses. If the beast is curable, my brother will know how to do it,” I said.
With that, all persons within earshot fell silent. If nothing else, they anticipated an interesting display of equestrian husbandry and the value of ancient education. Florentines did so love publicly enacted drama.
Settling back in my seat, I pulled my cloak closer about me against the January chill and buried my nose in the collar’s ermine—mostly to hide a self-satisfied smile. I dared to p
eep over the soft fur at Simonetta to see her reaction.
Her amber eyes sparkled in amusement. “You will go far indeed in this city, Ginevra.”
Luckily, my brother proved me right. He moved closer and closer to the convulsing horse, dodging its kicks to stand next to its head. Giovanni knelt. The horse stilled and let my brother touch its muzzle. The crowd was transfixed.
Cautiously, Giovanni lowered his face to breathe into the horse’s nostrils, just as horses greet each other. Then he stroked the horse’s neck, whispering into its ear. He took hold of the shard of wood with one hand, while the other stayed on the horse’s neck. He looked up and nodded, signaling the grooms standing by that he was ready for their help. Quickly, they laid hands on the horse to keep him still. Giovanni yanked the spear out of its side before it realized what was happening.
The crowd cheered. The horse struggled to its feet and let a groom stanch the wound with clean linen. Then, limping, it peacefully followed Giovanni off the course.
“I’ll be damned,” muttered the Pazzi man behind me. But it didn’t take him long to continue his jabs at my brother. “Now I am sure the Six Hundred will exploit the situation and try to buy that horse away from the defeated rider.”
“In truth, that will be a good negotiation for the rider,” his companion said. He lowered his voice a bit, since his gossip could be interpreted to be anti-Medici. “He was strong-armed by Lorenzo to compete in today’s joust. He told me he was forced into spending enormous sums to properly outfit himself to the Medici satisfaction. He purchased fifty-two pounds of pure gold and a hundred seventy pounds of silver for his armor, his horse’s decorations, and livery for his followers.”
The men around him whistled.
“So he will be glad for some reimbursement.”
I imagined the nods of approval from the gaggle of merchants and money changers behind me.
“But it’s not as if that horse will ever be able to joust or race again, not with that wound to its back leg,” the Pazzi attacker said, changing tack. “Only a fool would want to buy it. A fool like the Six Hundred.”
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