“But how can you say that, after what you just told me about the gangs?” I’m hurrying to keep up, speaking between pants. “Florence is dangerous.”
“Death in the street is awful. Horrifying. But whose fault is it? My brother has nothing to do with urchins on the street.”
“Not directly, no.”
“What does that mean?” His eyes flash anger.
“Surely the leadership of Florence affects everyone,” I say, mouthing the very words I’ve heard Papà say so often these past months, though he was talking about finances, not street violence. “If the leaders flag, well, there’s danger for everyone.”
“That self-righteous monk is more of a danger than my brother could ever be. So what if he predicted my father’s death? Everyone knew my father had been ill a long time. So what if he predicted the death of Pope Innocent VIII a few months later? The Pope was ancient. Savonarola has no direct line of communication with the Lord. He just wants people to think he does, so they will fear him, so he can control them.” Giuliano races as he talks. Uccio’s hoofs clip-clop behind us on the cobblestones.
“Please slow down. Do you realize you have a penchant for running as you speak?”
“And do you realize you throw at me the very arguments Savonarola wants you to? You give in to the apparent. If you’re not careful, you’ll be his puppet, too.” Giuliano pulls me over against the wall of a building, so we’re out of the way of passing carts and people. His glowering brow is a dark scar that cuts across his forehead. “Savonarola is a charlatan.”
I press my lips together. “I’ve never seen you angry before.”
“I’ve never heard you speak nonsense before!”
I want to turn around and run back to Aunt Nanina’s. But what a crazy thought. If I really want to know this boy, this man, I have to stand up and talk frankly to him. Mamma did it; Caterina does it. I say the most terrible thing I’ve heard: “Did your father really steal money from a fund meant to pay the dowry of orphaned women? Did your brother do the same? Is that how Piero paid for Contessina’s wedding?”
Giuliano’s fingers play above his upper lip for a moment. “Listen, Lisa. All the festivals for the masses, all the entertaining in the streets, the feasts, everything—that costs money. And the people of Florence expect such largesse. My father gave it to them. So Piero has to.”
Giuliano walks to the other side of me, then back again. He seems like a wild animal caught in a small cage. I think of the lioness in the Medici palace pacing in front of us more than two years ago. I don’t want to put Giuliano in a cage like this. But I also think of Mamma. “My mother was an orphan, Giuliano,” I say steadily. “Piero must repay the funds he stole.”
“How?” His face contorts and his hands rise to the heavens. “How can Piero possibly pay it back?”
I imagine gold flowing down the Arno, lost in the sea. “And so the banks really do stand on the edge of ruin?”
Giuliano makes just the slightest heart-weary tsk. He looks around at the passersby. “Please, may I take your hand?” His voice is hardly more than a whisper.
It’s so strange for him to ask this gingerly when but half an hour ago he ordered me to wait while he argued with Savonarola. I offer my hand boldly. “Please take it.”
He leads me down a side street. Uccio clatters happily past us, nosing the gutter that runs along one side. I’m instantly jittery. We mustn’t be seen. A noble girl cannot be alone with a man outside of the public thoroughfares.
Giuliano stops and stands me with my back to the wall of a home and paces in front of me again. “All right,” he says at last but still quietly, still gently, though I sense a tremendous force held at bay beneath the words. “Let’s have it. Please. Do me the service of telling all your misgivings about me. Down to the most vile ones.” He takes a deep breath and looks into my eyes. The sadness in his is bottomless. “Please. Let us clear the air and see if we both still breathe.”
“My misgivings aren’t about you.” I know that’s true the moment I say it. “I have never known you to be anything but honest and worthy.”
Giuliano hesitates. “My brother lacks self-restraint.” He grits his teeth at this admission. “But he is my brother. I love him.” He takes my hands and turns them upward, cradling them in his own. He looks at them as if for answers. “Please, do not be fooled. There is a difference between stupid self-indulgence and real evil. Savonarola wants to control people’s minds. If there ever was a true tyrant to fear it is Savonarola, not my brother.” His thumbs move lightly on my palms, then stop and dig in forcefully.
Quick and unexpected delight. My cheeks flash hot. I flinch.
“Forgive me.” He lets loose my hands. “I didn’t mean to be impudent.” He blinks and turns toward the street we came from, clasping his hands behind his back. “Shall we continue our walk?”
I want to say no. I want us to stay here. I want back that delight that began so frighteningly sharp. “By all means.”
We go slowly now.
Uccio seems to catch the new air of decorum between us. He prances just a couple of meters ahead, as though leading a formal procession.
We cross a street and turn a corner at the same steady pace.
“I have been raised to put loyalty first,” says Giuliano at last. His tone is reflective, almost as though he’s speaking to himself. “I’m in the fifth generation of Medici to govern this city.” His voice trembles just the slightest.
“Loyalty is a virtue,” I say.
“It is essential that I defend my immediate family to anyone outside it.”
“I understand,” I say.
“You are not in my immediate family.” He pauses. “Not yet.”
Pinpricks fly up my arms, my neck, my temples. They make my ears ring.
“I cannot speak as openly with you now as I will later. But I have listened to you today. Your words make me admit things to myself that I hate admitting.” He pauses and sucks his top lip in under his bottom lip. “Monna Lisa, I promise you, I will never steal from anyone. I have ideas for a business venture. With this venture, I can live independently from Piero. I’ll take care of you. There are villas to choose from in the Arno River valley. We can have the one in Fiesole, if you like. It’s my favorite.”
He looks sideways at me.
I am staring at him. At this beautiful man who smells faintly of apricot preserves and has a voice with modulations that play my every bone. This miracle of a man. Only moments ago he seemed lost to me, and now he has turned the tables. No, not turned, he has spun them. Like a top. I, too, am reeling.
“When we were little, we went to our villa in Fiesole all summer. It may not give you all the joys of Villa Vignamaggio—joys I see you value so highly. One of which you shared with me that evening we spun silk—a moment I return to often in my thoughts. Always with gratitude.” Giuliano swallows, and that Adam’s apple jumps again. “But this villa has other joys to offer. I remember it fondly. Poliziano tutored us there. Everyone says Giovanni is the brains of our family. But Piero wrote verse in Latin that was good. I remember a poem he wrote in praise of a pony—a nonexistent pony that he wanted Father to buy him.” He lifts both shoulders in a shrug that seems so defenseless, I’m charmed. “He wasn’t always a lout, Lisa.”
“How did you avoid becoming one?” I ask sincerely.
He laughs heartily. “Lord, do I love your directness, Monna Lisa. You allow me to be a better person.”
No one has ever said something so wonderful to me. “I can cook,” I say in a burst.
“We’ll have enough money to pay servants, Lisa.”
“No, no. Listen to me. I cannot wait to cook for you. I’ve been practicing for years. I thought I was paying homage to my mother’s spirit. And I was. But now I know I was practicing for you, too. I’ll make you meals so fine, you’ll hum your heart out.”
Giuliano blinks. Then he smiles and shakes his head. “If you cook them, I’ll stand on the table and sing.” His hand ta
kes mine and squeezes as he pulls me inside a private garden through the servants’ gate.
We’re alone again. I’m not jittery this time, though. I’m flushed.
His hand moves to my cheek, touching ever so lightly. His eyes flicker a question. His lips come close. And he stops. I can practically taste apricot now. It becomes my favorite fruit. I will eat apricot preserves every morning for the rest of my life.
He moves just the slightest bit closer. His arms circle me and press me upward till I am standing on tiptoe. The heat from his cheeks caresses mine. His face comes closer. His eyelashes are thick and black as night. Closer. Until I am aching inside. The infinitesimal span between us holds all the dangers and all the promises of life. And I am ready for them. Yes, Giuliano. I tilt my chin upward and my lips meet his midway.
CHAPTER Sixteen
GIULIANO PLAYS KICK BALL WELL, but nothing like Piero. Piero is a brute on the field. He attacks with vicious blows to belly and chest and has twice this morning rolled in a tangle of arms and legs with members of the opposing team, shouting obscenities to continue the scuffle. But he’s also a natural athlete. He swiftly skirts around players coming right at him and aims the ball with alarming precision. He’s made three of his team’s five goals so far. I watch the game half-stupefied at the agility of this regrettable man.
The woman beside me leans closer. “Watching Piero, eh? Don’t be too impressed. That scumbag does nothing but play ball all day. When he ain’t killing someone, that is. All that Medici family, all their friends, all of them is scum really—the richer, the scummier.”
I close my arms into my sides and try to shrink away. What a thoroughly awful woman.
And to say that about Piero. The man may be a lout, but he surely hasn’t killed anyone. I put that woman out of my head.
Still, I can believe Piero fritters his day away on kick ball. He’s astoundingly good, totally decisive. Giuliano, on the other hand, is tentative; he plays at the sides of the action, always checking, always questioning. These strengths of his in talking and reasoning are weaknesses in athletics. A warm sense of satisfaction fills me. A rational, trustworthy man will make a much better husband than a gifted athlete would.
We have talked, Giuliano and I, laying out as many details as we could in the brief walk here. Tonight, during my party, he will talk with Papà. They will negotiate the dowry informally, because Giuliano will accept whatever Papà offers. Papà won’t have to pay anything like the fifteen hundred large gold florins that most fathers of our particular standing give. And Giuliano doesn’t need more property, so Papà can keep his holdings. Papà should be delighted—the announcement can be made before the guests go home.
With each word from Giuliano’s mouth, my heart is more his. He even came up with the idea of asking Leonardo da Vinci to paint my wedding chest, since it was Leonardo who brought us together in the first place. What could be more perfect?
I never imagined that it was possible to be this happy. Giuliano’s proposal was like a gift straight from God. The rightness of it is solid as marble.
I scratch Uccio behind the ears and watch the game and gloat at myself—at how timid I was about facing my own hopes. But now I can let all my feelings run free. Like streams in spring, they flood the land of my soul. The only breath of sadness I feel is that Mamma won’t dance at our wedding. But she’ll be there in my heart.
It is a pity that Giuliano is the baby of the Medici family instead of the oldest brother. Giuliano would be a leader who could maintain Florence’s history. Just as he said, we’re the center of the civilized world. Look at literature—at the great poets Dante Alighieri and Francesco Petrarca, and the bawdy storywriter Giovanni Boccaccio. All three penned in our language, proving it is just as good as Latin or Greek. That’s what Caterina says. Indeed, there are more presses producing books in Florentine Italian than in any other modern language in the entire world.
And fine arts, ha! All people have to do to recognize Florence’s superiority is keep their eyes open as they walk through the streets. No cathedral dome anywhere can be more beautiful than the one Brunelleschi built. No sculptures more fabulous than Donatello’s. No doors more awe-inspiring than the bronze ones Ghiberti cast for the baptistery, the ones I pause before in admiration every time I pass. The grandeur of the spirit of Florence peeks out even from the corner eaves of buildings in the graceful ceramics of the magnificent della Robbia brothers.
We citizens of the Republic of Florence are heirs to the most remarkable heritage ever. Florence will not go down in ruin, no matter how dissipated a life Piero leads.
But Giuliano is not the oldest brother; he is in charge only of himself. He’ll start a business. He hasn’t told me what, but I trust him. Like Leonardo trusted him, when Giuliano was but a boy of seven. He merits trust. He isn’t anything like his father. He won’t have a mistress, like Lorenzo did, a mistress girls whisper about, saying she was the true cause of his premature death. Giuliano will love me and only me, always. And I will feel the same about him. We will make a good life together.
No, I have never dreamed of a city life. But I remember now the excitement I used to feel as a child when I came to town for festivals. The city has different charms from the country. And I will have a chance to understand so many of those charms better. I will learn to really appreciate art, not just gawk at it. Maybe I’ll even read books for pleasure. Caterina can help me acquire some. But, how silly I am: the Medici library holds every text worth having. We can take what we want to our new home.
Our home. Together. The sun warms the air gently as a dream, and I grow complacent on fat plans.
A man behind me shouts, and quickly people are shouting everywhere. A player lies on the field with another standing over him kicking savagely. Neither is Giuliano, thank heavens. The aggressor is a particularly talented player, better even than Piero. The crowd eggs him on. Blood splatters. Still the crowd calls for more. These matches started as military exercises, and their history lives on in their brutality. I know this—it’s why Mamma and I never went before—yet I can hardly believe this thirst for violence. My innards churn. I close my eyes. Something gets resolved, for the game goes on.
The men near me set to whispering. I’m so close, I can’t help but overhear. They complain because Piero de’ Medici has aligned himself with King Alfonso of Naples, and Naples is in a giant dispute with King Charles VIII of France. Immediately, my eyes fly open, every nerve ajangle. Papà fears France terribly. He spoke recently of how the French army was on the move, already tramping through the north of Italy. I bow my head, so it’s not obvious that I’m eavesdropping.
“We’re risking war.”
“And with the slime of the earth. The French army cuts off heads and burns homes to the ground.”
“And rapes any woman in sight—even girls.”
Papà never spoke about these things.
“The Neapolitans are worse. They treat their own people in the shabbiest way.”
“They’re a disgrace. Everyone hates the Neapolitans.”
“Besides, business with France is important.”
“If Piero doesn’t shape up and see that the real power lies with France, we’ll all be paupers.”
“I’ve already lost my home to the bank. I’ll never get back on my feet if Florence doesn’t make amends with France.”
I chew on my knuckles. Giuliano’s business will be ruined before it’s begun. No. They have to be wrong. Florence cannot be ruined. I back away.
The kick ball game dragged on too long, but finally now it ends and the jousting is about to begin. Giuliano said he’d walk me back to Aunt Nanina’s afterward, but I don’t want to wait. It’s already close to midday. And I can’t stay near these stupid naysayers any longer. I skirt around the edge of the crowd till I catch Giuliano’s eye. Then I wave and leave before he can even think about coming over to protest. The streets are brimming with traffic now—there’s no chance that I’ll face anything like what happe
ned this morning with that gang of boys.
I run back to Aunt Nanina’s, Uccio trotting beside me. Mindful of Giuliano’s warnings, I avoid the Ponte Vecchio, the bridge that’s always filled with beggars and prostitutes. Besides, the reek there from the butchers’ shops turns my stomach. I go out of my way to take the Ponte alle Grazie. I run over the bridge, all the way, all the way.
“Oh, Elisabetta! There you are.” Caterina hurries to the entrance hall the second I arrive. She stands behind me as I close the door. “I’m sorry to say I have disappointing news.”
“Tell me.” And my heart already races. I knew something awful would happen—my party is doomed.
“Francesco got called away on a business matter, so he won’t be with us this afternoon. But don’t worry. He’s sure to be back for the party. He wanted me to reassure you of that.”
“Is that all?” I actually feel wobbly from relief. “How funny of him. Little Bartolomeo wouldn’t enjoy a party anyway.”
“Oh, your little boy is here. He’s out back with a servant, chasing the peacocks. He already ate, with Antonio and Aunt Nanina. Because of the party preparations, we’re just being casual for the midday meal, staying out of the way of the cooks. I haven’t eaten yet, though. I thought I’d wait for you and we could share a quick cold dish.”
“That sounds perfect.”
She hugs me, then leads the way.
Her goodwill wraps around me, like swaddling around a baby. It was so sweet of her to wait to eat till I got home. I am overcome with gratitude at this small act of kindness. Caterina would clearly be a wonderful mother. Oh, I hope hope hope she becomes with child. I hope she gives Papà a son.
We eat, then Caterina ushers me up the stairs. “Aunt Nanina’s servant girls have been decorating the dance hall since yesterday. You’ll be amazed. And you wouldn’t believe the amount of fish and cheese and sweetmeats that arrived this morning.”
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