The Most Beautiful Woman in Florence

by Alyssa Palombo

  29

  Sandro and I agreed that we would continue work on the painting, when I was feeling well enough and when his schedule allowed. I came but half a week later, after that day when our intimacy was deepened by tears and laughter. With me posing in his original, desired position, he executed two sketches of what the finished painting would look like, albeit without color.

  This time, posing when I was finally fully aware of my feelings for him, I felt as though the air in the room around us had changed, grown more alive. I wondered if he could see it on my face, read it in my eyes, as he studied me so closely, as he drew me into being on a blank piece of parchment. Wearing not a scrap of clothing, I ached for him to touch me, craved his hands on my body, burned for him to help me down from my pedestal and lead me up the stairs to his bed. As I studied him and, in turn, let him study me, I imagined what it would be like to lie with him, to have him make love to me, to make love to him, to have him inside me and to move with him. Could he see all this on my face, as well? Could he see the lust etched in each soft curve of my body, see how my very being yearned for him?

  Perhaps it was just as well. The Church would censure and punish me for such thoughts, for my lust, for committing adultery in my mind. Yet, sin or no, I had somehow ceased to feel guilt for such desires. And were not such thoughts, such longings, perfect for a pagan goddess? Should not Venus be painted with desire in her very form, with lust for this new world into which she was being born?

  When we were finished for the day, he gave me one of the sketches for my own. I gasped when I saw it. He had only told me bits and pieces of his vision up to that point, and when I saw the whole together, even without color, I was astounded at the scope, at the grandeur, at how it retained a simple, primal beauty even so.

  Venus—I—was in the center, standing in a great clamshell that bore her to shore from the waves that had conceived and given birth to her. The winds—personified—blew her in to shore, flowers tumbling about her in their wake, the breeze catching her hair and making it dance. A maid waited at the shore with a robe to cover her, both the robe and the maid’s dress fluttering in the wind.

  What most astounded me, perhaps, was how Sandro had been able to capture motion, even in so simple a sketch. The whole tableau looked as though it was moving before my eyes, as though this bit of parchment was a window into some other active, living, breathing world.

  “What do you think?” Sandro asked nervously, and I realized that I had not spoken for some time as I took it all in.

  I looked up at him, vaguely aware that there were tears in my eyes. “Oh, Sandro, it is beautiful beyond words,” I said. “More so than I had dared to dream.”

  He smiled, and I could hear his relieved sigh, nearly silent though it was. “I am glad you think so,” he said. “I do not think I could carry on with it if you did not.” He chuckled. “And that is just a simple drawing. Wait until the painting is finished. If I can capture it in just the way I intend, that is…”

  “Why, it shall rob me of all speech, of all reason,” I said. “It shall be too incredible to take in.”

  His eyes bored into me as he brought one hand up to my cheek, and for a moment, I thought he was going to lean in and kiss me. “Then I will know that I have succeeded. When its beholders react in precisely that way,” he said, releasing me.

  * * *

  After that day, we were not able to meet again for some time. He had other works to attend to—most notably his commission for the great church of Santa Maria Novella—and the shift to cold, damp winter weather brought with it a return of my cough, though thankfully nothing so severe as my last attack of illness. Nevertheless, Marco was so concerned that he begged me to remain in bed, which I did only to appease him. In reality, other than coughing, I felt quite fine, but knew that it would not be worth the trouble it would surely bring me to push the issue of my returning to Sandro’s workshop. So I obeyed Marco’s wishes, for the time being.

  Yet even once I was recovered again to the point where Marco could no longer keep me in bed, Sandro was much occupied with another project that had most of the city’s finest artists and craftsmen busy as well. The Medici family was planning a magnificent joust to be held in the Piazza Santa Croce at the end of January, in celebration of a recently signed and sealed treaty with the Republic of Venice and the duchy of Milan. As Florence’s Signoria—and the Medici bank—had recently gotten into a spot of trouble with Pope Sixtus in Rome over the appointment of the new archbishop of Pisa, having the fabulously wealthy Venice and the militaristic Milan as allies was indeed something worth celebrating for all Florentines. As such, artists were needed to paint flags and banners and decorations for the event, and craftsmen were needed to build lists and viewing galleries.

  December and most of January passed without my seeing Sandro once, even as he consumed most of my thoughts. Yet though this caused me to grind my teeth in frustration and impatience, somehow it was different from when we had been separated for long periods before. I knew, now, that it was not because he did not wish to see me; it was not because he did not wish me to continue posing for him. It was circumstance keeping us apart, and nothing more; I was at last confident in that knowledge.

  At times I took the sketch he had given me out of the locked drawer where I kept it—I could not bring myself to burn it, or even give it back to Sandro for safekeeping, though I did not want to contemplate what would happen should Marco discover it—and studied it, marveling at it anew. Much as I wished the painting might be done quickly so that I could see the finished product, I knew that once it was, I would no longer have a reason to spend time with Sandro. And so I came to see that these delays were perhaps for the best—for me, at least.

  30

  The day of the joust dawned bright and clear, if cold—“What are they thinking, really, holding a joust in January?” I grumbled to myself as Chiara dressed me in my warmest fur-trimmed gown and bundled me into my thickest cloak. Marco had already left; he would be riding as a part of Giuliano’s entourage. The joust was very much Giuliano’s affair: Lorenzo had intended for it to be a means of formally debuting his younger brother before the Florentine people, as he had with a joust of his own some years ago. The fact that the Florentine people already knew Giuliano, and loved him well, seemed scarcely to matter.

  Giuliano had—or so Marco told me—been seeing to every detail of the day, from the decorations to the costumes to the banners to the feast being served at the Medici palazzo afterward for the members of Florentine high society. He did love to be the center of attention—yet he understood, as his brother did, the many ways in which spectacle could win the hearts of the common people.

  I frowned at my reflection in the mirror as a thought struck me. I had not even heard Marco leave this morning—he had not woken me so that I might give him a favor, which would have been customary, even though he himself was not jousting. Perhaps he had forgotten, or perhaps I might still give him a ribbon or some such thing at the field.

  “Is something amiss, Madonna?” Chiara asked me.

  I shook off my thoughts. Surely it was nothing. “No, everything is fine, Chiara,” I said. “Are you ready to go? Will you be warm enough? Good; then let us be off.”

  Chiara and I made our way to Piazza Santa Croce; once there, she went off to join the crowds of common people, while I was escorted by one of the liveried Medici servants—a veritable legion of them had been hired for this day—to my privileged spot in the stands beside Clarice.

  “Thank goodness you are here,” Clarice said once I took my seat beside her. “Finally I shall have someone to talk to.”

  I stifled a laugh as I noted Lorenzo and his mother standing a few paces away from us, peering out at the field. Even as I beheld them, Lucrezia dei Tornabuoni called over one of the servants and began giving him instructions of some kind.

  At the far end of the piazza stood the familiar church of Santa Croce. The Franciscan basilica stood tall and proud, dominati
ng the square with its marble façade adorned with a simple rectangular pattern in marble, and its brown brick campanile and the small spires on the façade pointed the way to heaven.

  The rest of the piazza, however, had been completely transformed. I could see fully the work that had gone into transforming the piazza from its usual plain, dirty self into something out of a chivalrous tale of old. Banners and pennants flew from flagpoles installed on the top of each building in the piazza, and I was astonished to see tapestries in all colors—some even glittering with gold thread—draped over the fronts of the structures. Indeed, the yellow and brown façades of the buildings could barely be seen. And everywhere—from the banners to the livery of the servants—the crest of Florence and the crest of the Medici family could be seen. And while the church itself had been spared any sort of decoration, the conversion of the square as a whole to a scene for spectacle had given it the air of an old fairy castle.

  Clarice gave a much put-upon sigh. “It really is quite gaudy and overwrought, is it not?” she said.

  “Oh, no,” I said excitedly. “I think it is all quite wonderful. It is just like a scene out of a fairy tale!”

  Clarice laughed. “You are ever the innocent, Simonetta. I admire that in you.”

  I was not quite certain how to reply—she had phrased it as a compliment, but I was not certain that it was meant as one—so I changed the subject. “Is Lorenzo saddened to not be riding today?” I asked.

  Clarice waved a hand carelessly. “Oh, no. He is much too exalted for such sport nowadays, and quite frankly, Giuliano has always been the better horseman, and the better athlete. He is content not to be cast in the shade by his younger brother, methinks.”

  Just then Lorenzo and Lucrezia returned, a servant carrying goblets of mulled wine in their wake. “Madonna Simonetta, always a pleasure,” Lorenzo said, sweeping me a bow. “For the ladies, please,” he said, indicating that the man should serve us first. Once Clarice, Lucrezia, and myself each had a glass, Lorenzo took one and settled into his cushioned chair. “Everything looks to be in readiness,” he told us. “Giuliano has outdone himself. This shall be a spectacular day, indeed.”

  “It all looks wonderful,” I said enthusiastically. “Why, I hardly recognized la piazza.”

  Lorenzo grinned. “Giuliano will be pleased to hear it,” he said, “for that was his intent.”

  Shortly thereafter, trumpets blared from somewhere not too far off, and a hush fell over the crowd. We all listened, straining to hear the heralds coming closer, to hear the thunder of hoofbeats. The rumbling drew nearer until a veritable cavalcade of mounted knights came streaming into the piazza from the street opposite the church, the clanking of their armor and the clomping of their horses’ hooves drowned out by the cheering and screaming that greeted their entrance.

  At the head of this procession was, of course, Giuliano de’ Medici. His armor gleamed so in the winter sunlight that it had to be new; on his shield was an image of the head of Medusa, set in pearls, very clearly casting its bearer in the role of the heroic Perseus.

  Yet it was the banner he carried that made me gasp aloud.

  It flew and snapped behind him as he rode and made a circle of the piazza, fluttering so that it was not immediately easy to see the image that it bore. But after squinting at it, a strange, uncomfortable feeling hatched in my stomach. There was no mistaking it.

  It was an image of me, in the guise of Pallas Athena, wearing a warrior’s helmet over my long, freely streaming blond hair, and with the owl of wisdom perched on my outstretched arm. A pile of books lay stacked at my feet.

  Nor, I realized, was there any mistaking the artist. None other than Sandro Botticelli had painted this image. I knew his style, would know it wherever it might appear in the world.

  I stared at it, open-mouthed, my face slowly turning crimson as I felt the eyes of nearly every person present—or so it seemed—move from Giuliano to me.

  Why was he doing this? What was he hoping to achieve? And why, why had Sandro not warned me, so that at the very least I did not look the fool? For I surely looked the world’s greatest fool at that moment. Any other woman in Florence—in all of Italy, no doubt—would have been ecstatic to be singled out for such an honor. Yet I only could gape at the banner and its bearer in shock, wondering what it all meant.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I caught sight of Sandro, standing at the far end of the same gallery on which I sat. He was watching Giuliano ride around the piazza, but instead of looking on his work with pride, he wore a scowl blacker than any expression I had ever seen on his face.

  I was taken aback. I stared at him for a moment longer, and just as I was about to turn away he turned his head and caught my eye. The anger in his gaze melted away and was replaced with sorrow. His lips parted as though he meant to speak to me, to call out to me across the crowd, but I looked away, my mind a tumult of confusion.

  His round of the piazza complete, Giuliano and his company came to a stop before the gallery where I sat. After saluting his brother, Giuliano removed his helmet and bowed deeply to me from his saddle. “Signora Simonetta Vespucci,” he declared, his voice ringing out loud enough for all to hear. “I ride this day in your honor, and dedicate my joust to you, the most beautiful woman in Florence!”

  His words elicited a cheer from the crowd gathered within the piazza’s confines.

  “I beg you, mia dolce, bellissima donna, to give me your favor, that I might ride with it this day,” he said.

  I remained frozen in my seat for a moment, my eyes seeking Marco among Giuliano’s entourage. I found him quickly enough, just a few paces from his friend’s side, mounted on a beautiful gray stallion. He was resplendent in yellow hose and a doublet of many bright colors, with an elaborately worked brocade pattern—a match to that worn by his brothers-in-arms. He was avoiding my eyes, studiously looking down at the ground, as though there was some action taking place in the dust from which he could not bear to look away.

  One piece of the puzzle, at least, fell into place. Marco had not asked for my favor this morning because he must have known what Giuliano was planning. He must have known and did not wish to cast a pall over his friend’s day, even when said friend was professing his devotion to Marco’s own wife.

  Surely if Marco was offended, he would not have gone along with Giuliano’s plan? Surely he would have stopped his friend from carrying it out?

  Yet what could any of us do when a Medici had his mind set on something, truly?

  I heard Clarice’s words from years ago echo in my mind. Dear Simonetta, your role in such games is to simply be adored, and to enjoy yourself.

  It is all a game, I reminded myself, rising from my seat and pulling a ribbon from my sleeve. It is all a game, and I must continue to play it as I have ever since arriving in Florence. It is a game, nothing more.

  “Take this, good signore, as a sign of my favor on your gallant deeds today,” I said, projecting my voice so that the audience could hear. I leaned down and handed Giuliano the ribbon. “And may God protect you in the lists, and guide your lance and give you victory.”

  Giuliano smiled and bowed his head again, tucking my ribbon beneath his breastplate. Around us the crowd cheered, louder, it seemed, than they had when the company had made its entrance. With the show of chivalry over, the men rode off to the edges of the field to prepare for the jousting to begin.

  “Well done, Simonetta,” Lorenzo said, leaning across his wife to speak to me. “My brother is right—Florentines love a good spectacle more than anything else.”

  “Indeed,” I said, feeling suddenly light-headed and out of breath.

  “Goodness, Simonetta,” Clarice said, and she could not entirely hide the note of jealousy in her voice. “Did you know what Giuliano was planning?”

  “I did not,” I said. “I am as astonished as you are.”

  Clarice gave an unladylike snort. “Well, I cannot say I am astonished, in truth. We all knew Giuliano would make some g
rand declaration of his love for you sooner or later.” She peered at me. “And what of Marco? Did he know of this, do you suppose?”

  I remembered Marco’s downcast gaze, as though looking away was the only way that he could endure what was happening before him. But nothing in his posture, in his reaction, had suggested any surprise.

  “I do not know,” I said, my voice coming out harder than I had intended. “You would need to ask Marco.”

  31

  Giuliano won the day on the jousting field, to no one’s surprise. I had to concede that—limited though my knowledge of jousting was—he was perhaps legitimately the best athlete on the field, as Clarice had alluded to. It made sense, after all—even among the other wealthy families of Florence, whose sons could have afforded to devote so much time to sport and leisure? It seemed likely that Giuliano would have won the day no matter what, though I did detect that some of his opponents did not tilt to the extent of their abilities. The one exception, I could see, was the young man representing the Pazzi clan—another Florentine banking family, and the bitterest rivals of the Medici, both in business and in government. Yet though Giuliano did not unseat him, he managed to win the match nonetheless, three lances to two.

  I had not witnessed a joust since I was a girl in Genoa, and I had quite forgotten the suspense and excitement that accompanied watching two young men racing at each other from opposite ends of the field. I rooted for Giuliano, of course: even had I not given him my favor, he was the only participant whom I knew well. But as the day wore on and Giuliano continued to triumph over all who came against him, I began to grow weary of the spectacle—and of the cold, which had not abated as much as I had hoped.

  Therefore I was glad when it all came to an end—though I was forced to again take the stage and crown Giuliano, as the victor, with a wreath woven of laurels. He beamed up at me, and then climbed up beside his brother to accept the adulation of the crowd. He motioned for me to stand beside him, which I did, and he reached down and squeezed my hand in his.