Carlo escorted Antonella and me down the stairs, where the litter awaited, now covered in white roses. We climbed into it while still in the palazzo, to avoid being crushed by the paparazzi-like crowd outside. Carlo, along with the three other members of the retinue, carried us while another twenty men, clad in the Vespucci livery, surrounded the litter. I felt claustrophobic from the cheering sea of people during the seemingly endless walk to the Piazza Santa Croce.
An elaborate arena had been constructed, with fresh dirt packed over the stone of the piazza, and “lists” defining the borders of the battlefield. A grandstand in front of the church was peopled with the VIPs of Florence, with a large, gold throne ringside at its center. The Basilica of Santa Croce, the future Temple of Glories—so called because it would one day house the graves of Michelangelo, Machiavelli, and Galileo, to name a few—was still in its humble beginnings. The glorious façade which would be designed in the 1800s by Nicolas Matas, was at this time just bare Florentine limestone.
As the now swollen retinue escorted me to my throne, I was thankful to have used the chamber pot before I left the palazzo, as the crushing mass of humanity resembled that of New Years Eve in Times Square.
The crowd roared as I took my seat, with Antonella on my right side, Lorenzo to my left, and the who’s-who of Florence behind me. It was standing room only for the non-noble citizens of the city, but it seemed as though the entire population made it to the event. Spectators hung from every window, and huddled on every rooftop of the three-story buildings that lined the north and south edges of the piazza.
Shortly after we took our seats, a trumpet sounded, then a stout man wearing a red velvet tunic with a matching cap announced via a medieval megaphone, “I, Il Capitani di Parte Guelfa, declare on this twenty-ninth day of January, in the fourteen-hundred and seventy-fifth year of our Lord, that the joust celebrating the creation of a defensive league between Florence, Milan, and Venice, begins!”
Lorenzo tried to narrate the events to me, but the cheering crowd became deafening as the riders took the arena one by one, starting with Piero Vespucci. With head high and chest out, Piero rode out on a black palfrey, draped in the trappings of Vespucci red with blue trim dotted in gold wasps. Eleven other riders followed, geared up in shining armor, and each proceeded by a standard of fringed Alexandrian taffeta. Filippino was among them, riding a common horse, or “rouncy” as Lorenzo described it. The banners, while created by a variety of artists, had certain uniformity to them as they were all set in a flowery meadow. But none was as beautiful as Giuliano’s.
Giuliano’s presence was made known via two men at arms, several pages, and nine trumpeters on horseback, each of whom carried a fringed pennant bearing the Medici coat of arms. The tunics and hoods of the trumpeters were decorated with tinsel feathers, and their sleeves painted with olive branches. I had never seen such magnificent pageantry, and I’d been to Medieval Times and every Cirque du Soleil show in Vegas.
A lone rider in full armor, whose horse was covered with trappings of taffeta painted with olive boughs and flames, entered the arena. He carried a large blue pole which featured Sandro’s masterpiece, flowing in the wind. The banner’s sheer beauty rendered the crowd silent in awe. Tears came to my eyes, and I hoped that Sandro was there when the announcer named the painter Botticelli, “The Cherished Child of the Gods.”
I swatted at Antonella when she tried to dab my eyes again and snatched the handkerchief from her. It felt better to let the grief flow, as the grand banner was followed by Giuliano himself. He circled the arena on his dapple-gray horse, introduced as “Orso,” specially loaned from the Duke of Urbino. The majestic animal wore full equine armor and trappings of purple velvet. Lorenzo explained that Giuliano’s outfit cost more than a thousand florins and was made of silver, gold, and precious gems. The sleeves of his over-the-top surcoat were garnished with pearls embroidered into Gothic letters that spelled La Sans Pareille, presumably a dedication to me, The Unparalleled One, as Giuliano had called me. His ornate helmet, made by the hands of Verrocchio, was carried by a page. It was engraved with the head of Medusa and had a statuette of a lady at its crest.
Behind Giuliano followed a troop of horsemen, retainers, a trumpeter, two drummers, and three pipers—everything short of a partridge in a pear tree.
Giuliano halted Orso, dismounted in a single bound, and bowed to me as the crowd went wild. He stared for an uncomfortable moment, as if waiting for me to do something. Antonella reached for the handkerchief I held, but I fought her for it. I was tired of her doting, and wanted to wipe my own damn eyes. Giuliano waited patiently, as Antonella ripped and tugged at the square of fabric.
“Let me have it!” Antonella whispered through clenched teeth.
“What for?” I demanded, refusing to yield.
“It is the lady’s favor for the knight, you half-wit!”
“Oh. Oops,” I released the wet, boogery linen so she could gift it to Giuliano.
He turned the soiled handkerchief over in his gloved hands with a look of disgust, before waving it in the air triumphantly, then tying it to his breastplate. “I win for you, Simonetta!” Giuliano shouted. “The Queen of Beauty!” Then he scooped up the helmet from the page’s hands, and slid it over his head in one swift motion.
The group contributing to the pomp of the occasion, but not the combat, left the arena in an organized succession until only the thirteen competitors remained. I had imagined this as an all-day event, two jousters at a time battling in one-on-one combat until only Giuliano prevailed. The reality was more of a mêlée of equine anarchy. When the horn sounded, the thirteen jousters from the many Italian city-states rode and plunged in a chaotic frenzy.
I knew Sandro would be horrified to see his godson, Filippino, attacked with large, pointy objects, wielded by grown men well-trained in mortal combat. I scanned the crowd for Sandro, to catch a glimpse of his soulful eyes, but could see nothing but a deluge of nameless faces. I was happy when Lorenzo explained to me that the joust was more for entertainment purposes than the Roman gladiator games of old. All competitors, though bloodied and bruised, were expected to survive the challenge.
Filippino was eliminated early in the games. I sobbed when Piero’s lance splintered on Filippino’s breastplate, spraying like the seeds of a dandelion, and sending him flying to the ground in a cloud of dust. Thankfully, he was agile enough to escape the stampede of hooves galloping all around him as he limped, defeated, out of the arena. A squire took the reins of his rouncy, and both the horse and his plate armor were confiscated, leaving Filippino stripped down to his chainmail. These items would be given to the ultimate winner, which I found ironic since the horse, trappings, and armor belonged to Giuliano in the first place.
Giuliano weaved through the mayhem on his dapple-gray charger, allowing the competition to eliminate one another without him even having to tarnish his lance. It was difficult to keep track of the many competitors who were ousted within a short duration; some seemed to gallop willingly towards their own defeat. Before long, Giuliano was left alone in the lists with only a Venetian knight, a Milanese condottiere, and my dearest father-in-law, Piero, to keep him company.
I silently cheered, as the Venetian knight strode towards Giuliano with his leveled lance. But just as it appeared he was about to make contact, someone from below the stands pulled on the right bottom of my bushy dress. I kicked at the annoying intruder, as I was now fully engrossed in the spectacle.
Should the Venetian win, surely he’d expect only a platonic exchange from me as his prize.
However, Giuliano swerved at the last second, averting the strike with graceful ease, then spun around and charged quickly back, knocking the Venetian from his horse with one swift motion, thereby proving himself a skilled athlete. Giuliano lifted his visor just long enough to reveal his smiling eyes to the crowd.
I felt the tug again, and turned to my right to look down at the intruder under the grandstand, with adrenaline racing throug
h my veins. I poised my heel, ready to strike another blow at whatever drunkard wanted a piece of me, but I quickly recognized the heavy-lidded hazel eyes peering at me from below. “Sandro?”
“Yes, Simonetta. It is I,” Sandro replied. Antonella gasped when he reached from under the wood slats of the bleachers, and gently took my hand into his. “I know what I said to you last night, but since you fled from me, I have been unable to paint, or sleep, or think of anything else. I am in love with you, Simonetta.”
My heart melted, and the tears—which had never really abated—now flowed freely. But I was afraid to speak since I was still in the company of the Medici and their supporters, surrounding me on all sides: Lorenzo and family to my left, his uncle Tommaso Soderini to Antonella’s right, Angelo Poliziano only a few rows behind, and many others I recognized, but could not name, in between. As I glanced around, all eyes were riveted on the events transpiring on the field, and before I could utter a reply to Sandro, the Medici and their supporters stood and roared at the action. Giuliano had just unhorsed the Milanese condottiere, leaving only himself and Piero active in the joust.
Longingly, I gazed back at Sandro with my tearful eyes, knowing no matter who won the joust at that point, I’d be given to Giuliano to seal Piero’s rank as the Priorate of Florence.
“I know it is an extraordinary thing I ask,” Sandro whispered again, “but do not give yourself to Giuliano. I cannot bear it.” Sandro released my hand, “Please, Simonetta, find a way,” he said, as he moved quickly away from me. I watched as a blur of men in Vespucci livery pursued him under the stands.
Antonella looked at me with sympathetic eyes, before turning back to the arena. An intermission was called by the Capitani di Parte Guelfa, and Giuliano and Piero were making their way for the recess.
“I must leave you for a time,” Antonella said, as a parade of trumpeters took the arena for a Renaissance half-time show.
“But—.”
“Have no fear, Simonetta. I shall return.” She held a hand over her mouth feigning as though she might vomit, causing the nobility to lean back as she quickly climbed over them and out of sight. I stood up to follow her, so I could find Sandro and run away from my fate, but Lorenzo grabbed hold of my arm, and pulled me back to my seat.
“You shall miss the entertainment,” Lorenzo scolded matter-of-factly.
“My attendant is ill,” I replied, and turned to flee again, but Antonella’s empty seat was now filled by Carlo.
“I cannot allow you to leave, Signora,” Carlo said flatly, his normally kind face expressionless. “Piero’s orders.”
The tears came again, so I ripped a handkerchief from Carlo’s pocket, and blew my nose loudly, just to spite him. I had declared war in my own girlish way, and was determined not to let Piero win the joust or anything else.
The parade wrapped up with trumpeters, drummers, flag spinners, and jesters. Giuliano and Piero re-entered the arena, where they each took a corner. Both horses pounded their hooves to the ground in anticipation.
“Yaaah!” Piero cried, as he smacked his horse on its haunches, causing him to lurch forward. Giuliano charged from his corner only a moment later, but when they met in the middle, neither struck a blow as they passed each other by. This happened several more times, allowing me a moment to ponder.
Sandro loved Simonetta. The legend was true.
No matter what my fate, I was in her body, and therefore, Sandro loved me. A smile crossed over my face. I caught Lorenzo staring at me, so I smirked defiantly back at him. Sandro loved me and nothing that he, or Piero, or Giuliano could do would take that away.
I watched the rest of the battle patiently, as the sun began to fade. The dance between Piero and Giuliano went on for over an hour. Points were gained for a “strike to the helm” here, or a “coronal splinter” there, but neither prevailed over the other.
When I could take it no more, I stood on top of my throne and bellowed, “Win for me, Giuliano!” I just wanted the game to end, and Piero to lose.
My victory cry seemed to have an impact, as immediately thereafter, Giuliano turned his horse and charged at the unprepared Piero, sending him crashing to the ground, shrouded in a cloud of splinters. Giuliano’s win provoking a standing ovation.
Chapter 37
In the midst of the mayhem that followed Giuliano’s triumphant strike, I tried to elude Carlo by rushing the crowd that poured between the lists. I made it only a few steps before I saw Antonella emerging from the horde.
“She’s with me!” I called, as the retinues of the Vespucci and Medici moved in to hold the eager crowd at bay. Antonella reached my side, just as a magnificent horse-drawn carriage pressed through the crowd and halted in front of us.
Two alabaster horses with braided manes were at the helm of the sculpted white carriage, which was trimmed with gold; the palle of the Medici coat of arms emblazoned on the delicate door. Lorenzo approached me, and with a wave of his arm, announced, “A chariot for the Queen of Beauty.”
I remained still, searching the crowd that formed on all sides for a weak spot through which to escape.
“Get in,” Antonella insisted with a slight shove.
“I need to get out of here,” I muttered.
Antonella leaned towards me. “Trust me. Get in,” she whispered. “But curtsey first.”
I knew if I didn’t behave as expected, Antonella would most likely pay the price, so I curtsied graciously to Lorenzo, before climbing into the ornate carriage with Antonella.
“To the palazzo on the Via Larga,” Lorenzo instructed the driver before smacking one of the matching white horses on the behind.
The retinues had moved ahead to clear the crowd for our passage. I sunk down into the luxurious red velvet, mentally preparing myself for what lay ahead—Giuliano expecting his prize.
The carriage moved slowly through the piazza, before turning right onto a road known in modern times as the Via Giuseppi Verdi. I was relieved when Antonella pulled the shades of the carriage, concealing us from the gawking crowd.
“I must take your gown off,” Antonella demanded.
“What? Already?”
“Yes.” She grabbed my shoulders, and turned me away from her so she could unlace the back of my dress.
“What am I gonna wear?”
“You shall have to wear my gown,” a muffled voice said from behind me. But it wasn’t Antonella’s voice. It was that of a stowaway.
Turning to look behind me, I saw movement under the lining of velvet that covered a storage area to the rear of the carriage. Lifting the cloth, I found Fioretta Gorini, tucked neatly into the carriage’s trunk.
“I shall take your place at the Palazzo Medici,” Fioretta exclaimed, as she unpretzeled herself, and climbed into the seat with Antonella and me. Her blonde hair, which had flown freely when I met her as Flora at the ball, was now fashioned into a rushed version of my own complicated updo.
I smiled and threw my arms around both of them, sobbing. “But how will we pull it off? Don’t you think Giuliano will notice the difference?”
“I have a veil.” Fioretta raised it up in display. “By the time Giuliano discovers our deception, he will be well past caring. Trust me.”
“But Antonella, if it doesn’t go well, what will they do to you?”
“Nothing compared to what will be done to your spirit, Netta, if I allow you to be taken against your will. My life is dedicated to being your servant, and this is how I choose to serve you.”
Overwhelmed with gratitude, I hugged them both tightly.
“We must hurry,” Antonella pressed, as she gently loosened my grip, and helped Fioretta remove her yellow, fan-collared gown, complete with a crazy bustle and train.
Antonella dressed me, as I simultaneously ripped the jewels from my hair at record speed, while bumping along the streets of Florence. I lifted the curtain to peer out the window as I felt the carriage turn onto the Via Sant’Adigio. “The Palazzo Medici is only a few blocks away!” I
panicked.
Fioretta helped herself into my gown, clearly more capable than I at the task. While I laced up the back for her, Antonella bejeweled her hair, and strategically placed the veil so that Fioretta could see out, but others would not be able to see in.
As the carriage pulled into the stables of the Palazzo Medici, I leapt into the trunk, and curled myself into a tight ball, while Antonella threw the velvet cover over me.
Under the veil of fabric and darkness, Fioretta exited the carriage with Antonella. I heard the muffled murmuring of voices trail off into the distance and felt confident that our rouse had worked—at least for the moment.
The painfully long time I waited in the trunk to ensure I wouldn’t be discovered, ended with claustrophobia getting the best of me, and I threw open the lid and took a long gulp of fresh air. I slithered out of the carriage and past an oblivious equerry, who was brushing and whispering sweet nothings to the prized, dapple-gray charger called Orso.
The gate to the stable creaked, and the equerry snapped briefly out of his love affair with the horse while I swung it closed behind me, unseen. I dashed from pillar to pillar in the courtyard, hiding behind each, before peeking around and racing to the next like a spy in an action film. At the last pillar, I waited for a moment as Giuliano passed with the fake Simonetta on his arm, Antonella trailing dutifully behind them.
As they crossed the courtyard, I caught Antonella’s eye and she nodded, before purposely stumbling and falling to the stone floor in a heap. With the diversion successfully created, I passed through the open palazzo door, and into the night.
Chapter 38
I took side streets to Sandro’s house, ducking in and out of alleyways so as not to be seen. Merrymakers still clogged every major passage, so when I had no other option but to take a major thoroughfare, I covered my face with the only thing I had—the handkerchief I five-fingered from Carlo. I did my best to blend in with the many emotional courtiers wandering around, spouting on about how proud they were of Giuliano’s win, and pained at the loss of his affection for themselves. In their minds, Florence’s Golden Boy only had eyes for one woman. Only Antonella and I knew he’d use his hands on someone else.
What Remains of the Fair Simonetta Page 20