The Medici palazzo was situated in the Via Larga, a stone’s throw from the great cathedral, baptistery, and campanile in the Piazza del Duomo. The palazzo had been constructed, so Marco told me en route, by the great Cosimo de’ Medici, father of Piero and grandfather of Lorenzo and Giuliano. “One of the greatest men this city has ever known,” he told me, his eyes shining with pride in his homeland. “It is quite the building, as you will see. Many have tried to emulate and even surpass it, though none, in my opinion, have succeeded.”
I only smiled encouragingly as he went on. Marco did not seem to notice that I was too nervous to reply.
I longed to turn my head to peer out of the carriage windows at the houses, shops, churches, and streets as we passed. I was so curious about this city of which I had heard so much, and taking in my new surroundings would have been a good way to keep my mind off of the importance of the evening ahead. But it would have been rude to so blatantly ignore Marco, even though he was doing nothing to put me at ease with his accounting of the accomplishments of Cosimo de’ Medici, and even those of Lorenzo himself, just back from a very successful diplomatic visit to Milan, where he had apparently been very well received by Duke Galeazzo Maria Sforza himself.
And now, home in Florence, this supposedly great Lorenzo shall receive a simple noble girl from Genoa, I thought, my heart doubling its pace.
Thankfully, before too long, the carriage rolled to a stop, and Marco hopped out in order to help me down. “Here we are,” he said cheerfully.
The building I beheld upon stepping out of the carriage was more like a fortress than anything else. Taking up the entire block on which it sat, it was a massive rectangular configuration of sandy-colored stone, allowing it to fit in nicely with the brown and yellow buildings and reddish-tiled roofs that covered Florence. Two neat rows of arched windows marched in orderly fashion across the top half of the façade, marking the second and third floors. At ground level were two massive doorways cut into the stone.
All in all, the exterior was intimidating, exuding force and power without being particularly beautiful or elegant. Perhaps these Medici—whom I had been told are not royalty, even though Marco spoke of them with all the awe and honor that I imagined one would accord to royalty—must be careful not to appear too ostentatious, as though they are setting themselves up too grandly. Perhaps it was fine for others to speak of them as royalty in this republican Florence, so long as they did not seem to see themselves that way.
As we approached the center door, Chiara following behind us, it swung open to reveal a servant standing behind it. “Welcome, signore, signorina,” the man said, stepping aside to allow us in. “It is Signor Vespucci, is it not?”
“Si,” Marco replied, “and my betrothed, Simonetta Cattaneo.”
The servant nodded, though I noticed him sneaking another glance at me. “Very good. The party is just through the courtyard in the gardens, signore.”
“Grazie,” Marco said, taking my hand and placing it on his arm. “I know the way.”
The servant bowed, withdrawing and gesturing for Chiara to follow him, no doubt to the kitchens.
We stepped into a small but elegant courtyard, ringed with arches supported by simple, smooth columns topped with elaborately carved capitals. Above us, windows of the interior rooms of the palazzo looked down upon the courtyard. Directly across from the entrance, above the center arch, was a large stone carving of what I had learned to recognize as the Medici crest: a coat of arms with six balls arranged upon it.
In the very center of the courtyard, upon a pedestal, stood a magnificent statue in bronze of David. He wore a wide-brimmed shepherd’s hat but was otherwise naked, and carried a great sword in his right hand, with his left hand resting confidently on his hip. As well it should: at the shepherd boy’s sandaled feet rested the head of Goliath.
I drew away from Marco and stepped closer to the statue, intent on examining it further. Unfamiliar though I was with the male nude—real or rendered in art—I could still appreciate the detail, the lifelike quality of each line and curve of muscle and flesh. So lifelike was this David that I half expected him to step down from the pedestal and begin to converse with us.
Marco came to stand next to me. “Magnificent, isn’t it?” he said softly.
“I have never seen anything like it before,” I breathed.
“Nor will you, I shouldn’t think,” Marco said. “It was sculpted by the great Donatello.” He turned to look at me significantly. “David is one of the symbols of Florence, of course.”
“Is he?” I asked. “Well, this is a most worthy representation—more than worthy.”
Marco smiled at my appreciation. “Come,” he said, taking my hand again. “Let me introduce you to the family. Then you shall be able to discuss art to your heart’s content.”
We moved past the statue of David and stepped through an archway at the opposite end of the courtyard, emerging into a lovely garden ringed by the stone walls of the palazzo. Straight stone paths cut through the carefully tended grass, with small trees and flowers planted along the walkways, and more statues interspersed among the plant life. At either end of the garden was a fountain, sending streams of water bubbling peacefully into the basin below. On the grass in the center of the garden a long table draped in a gauzy tablecloth had been placed, with perhaps twenty chairs arranged around it. Some of those chairs were occupied, while other guests wandered about the garden.
So captivated was I by my surroundings that I did not immediately notice that the attention of every individual in the garden was fixed on me. Once I did, I began to blush. So much for appearing the consummate sophisticate.
“Marco, you scamp!” a voice rang out. An exceedingly handsome dark-haired young man—of about my age, I thought—came toward us. “This cannot be your betrothed!”
Marco laughed. “Indeed she is,” he said. He brought me forward slightly. “May I present my affianced bride, Simonetta Cattaneo of Genoa. Simonetta, meet Giuliano de’ Medici.”
So this was the younger Medici brother. “An honor, signore,” I said.
He took my hand and kissed it, bowing low over it. “The honor and pleasure are all mine, signorina,” he said. His eyes roved appreciatively up my person, settling on my face, as though he was transfixed. “You have no idea.”
A laugh sounded behind him. “Trust Giuliano to monopolize the most beautiful woman in any company,” another man said, coming forward. “Signorina Cattaneo, I must apologize for my younger brother, and assure you that not all Florentines have such appalling manners.” He, too, took my hand and kissed it. “Lorenzo de’ Medici, at your service.”
When he straightened up again, I got my first good look at this Lorenzo, the bright light of Florence. It was apparent that his brother had gotten all the good looks in the family, for Lorenzo himself could certainly not be described as handsome—indeed, one would not, perhaps, be wrong to describe him as ugly. His features, surrounded by almost black hair that came nearly to his shoulders, were too strong, too forceful: his chin jutted forward sharply, and his nose was large and almost somewhat flattened, as though it had been broken in a fight. His eyes were dark and deep, set beneath thick black brows. Yet even so, he radiated warmth and charm, and his eyes sparkled with intelligence and conviviality. For all Giuliano’s almost godlike handsomeness, I knew that Lorenzo was the brother whom I would rather think well of me.
“I am honored to make your acquaintance,” I said, favoring him with a smile.
For a moment his face, too, took on the same transfixed look as his brother’s had. Then he chuckled and shook his head. “I do not even want to know what black arts you practiced in order to get such a beauty as your bride, Marco,” Lorenzo said, turning to my betrothed and greeting him with a friendly embrace. “But, mind you, run straight to your confessor.”
At first I was shocked to hear such a joke, but when all those around me laughed, Marco included, I pushed my discomfort aside. This Florence was a new world; if I wanted to belong here, I would have to listen and observe and acclimate. I must embrace it.
“Come, Signorina Simonetta,” Lorenzo said, offering me his arm. “Allow me to introduce you to the rest of the party.”
He led me the rest of the way into the garden. Behind us, Marco had been drawn into easy, jovial conversation by Giuliano, and for a moment I felt adrift without him, alone among strangers. Yet this, too, I cast aside. If I was to make my home here, then I must make friends of my own. I stood a bit straighter, head back, as Lorenzo began to make introductions.
“My new bride,” he said, gesturing forward a petite, pale woman with fawn-colored hair and wide eyes. “Clarice Orsini de’ Medici.”
The name Orsini seemed familiar. If I recalled my lessons with Padre Valerio correctly, the Orsini were one of the leading noble families of Rome. The Medici had brokered an advantageous match for their heir, indeed. “Signora,” I said graciously. “It is a pleasure. And I must thank you for your kind invitation.”
“Of course,” she said in a soft voice. “I shall be glad to meet more women amongst my husband’s circle.”
“And my esteemed mother,” Lorenzo continued, walking me around the table. “Lucrezia Tornabuoni de’ Medici.”
Lucrezia, the formidable Medici matriarch, surprised me somewhat. She was quite tall, with her brown hair—a few shades darker than Clarice’s—pinned up modestly. Her face, however, was serene and inviting, much like paintings of the Madonna I had seen. Yet I knew that she was as able a politician and businesswoman as her husband—perhaps more so, some said. I also remembered a remark made in passing by Marco’s father that the Medici matriarch was an accomplished poet, and had penned many lovely devotional verses. “It is my honor, signora,” I said. “I have heard many wonderful things about you.”
She laughed, and the sound was bold, somewhat belying her gentle appearance. “I thank you for saying so,” she said. “My, but what a beauty you are! I have scarce seen your like all over Italy. Though I expect that I am not the first to tell you so. Signor Vespucci is a lucky man indeed.”
My jaw felt a bit tight from smiling so much, from appreciating the same compliment over and over again, no matter how sincerely it was meant. “I thank you for saying so, signora,” I said. “You are very kind.”
The introductions continued, a few scholars and writers as well as other friends of Lorenzo’s and Giuliano’s. I knew that I would never remember so many names, nor which names went with which faces. But perhaps that is one of the advantages of beauty, I realized, my lips curving into what no doubt seemed to be a mysterious smile. A new sense of boldness flooded through me. These men would be falling all over themselves to remind me of their names, and with pleasure, so long as I engaged in conversation with them for a brief moment. I had been told all my life—subtly and not so subtly—that beauty was a weapon, a tool, a source of power—sometimes the only one available to a woman. Yet it was not until that first evening among the Medici that I began to consider—rather innocently—how I might use it as such.
At some point, Marco had reclaimed his place at my side. “Signorina Cattaneo was very taken with the statue of David in the courtyard,” he told Lorenzo. “She is a lover of art as well.”
“Ah!” Lorenzo said, turning to regard me with renewed interest. “And do you prefer sculpture or paintings, signorina?”
I flushed slightly at having his undivided attention. “In truth, signore, I favor poetry,” I confessed. “But I have never seen such artwork as here in Florence—the fresco in the great Duomo, and now your statue.”
“Then it is my fondest hope that Florence shall continue to oblige in your desire to see, and to learn,” Lorenzo said. “Indeed, I shall contribute to your education further right now, if I may.”
“Please,” I said eagerly.
He motioned for me to take his arm again and led me to a statue in the center of the garden. “Yet another by the great Donatello,” he said as we stopped before it. “Commissioned, as was the sculpture of David, by my grandfather Cosimo.” He fell silent, presumably giving me time to study the work, for which I was grateful.
This statue, too, was in bronze, though it seemed to me that it must have been gilded with gold, so brightly did it gleam in the light of the setting sun. It depicted the biblical heroine Judith, her sword raised high above her head as she pulled back the head of the drunken Holofernes with her other hand, baring his throat for her to strike. A look of grim determination was carved onto her face, and it was as if one could see in her eyes both her distaste for the bloody task ahead of her and her resolve to see it through anyway, to save her people no matter the cost.
“It … She is glorious,” I said finally, knowing that Lorenzo was waiting to hear my thoughts. “She is … so brave, and yet so sad at the same time.”
Lorenzo cocked his head, studying the statue again. “I confess I have never thought of it quite that way before, although now I do think I see what you mean,” he said. “Perhaps it takes a woman to notice it. You see her cares and worries and struggles as a man may not.”
“Perhaps,” I said. “Is it not amazing how two people can stand side by side and look at the same work and see two different things?”
Lorenzo smiled. “You have just articulated my very favorite thing about art, signorina—be it statuary, painting, or poetry.”
He fell silent again, giving me another moment in which to study the statue. This time, I noticed two small panels propped up at the base of the statue. Each was a small painting depicting the story of Judith. In the first, she was walking through a landscape that looked very like the Tuscan countryside, a curved sword in her hand. She glanced back over her shoulder, as though about to speak to her maid, who carried the head of Holofernes. Judith’s dress looked much like one my mother owned, and her long blond hair was artfully styled and pinned about her head, just like a sophisticated Florentine lady. I felt myself smiling as I beheld her: her expression was troubled, upset by the assassination she had carried out; yet, unlike in Donatello’s statue, there was relief there, too, and hope. Hope that the future would bring better things, hope that the bloody deed she had committed would not be in vain.
The second panel was much more gruesome. It depicted Holofernes’ generals and guards finding his beheaded corpse within his tent. The viewer’s eye was immediately drawn to the lifeless body in the bottom center of the small panel and, more specifically, to the blood that oozed from his neck, now relieved of its head. The body was contorted in such a painful way that one could feel the agony of his last moments. No doubt the reactions of most viewers would mimic the shock and horror on the painted faces of those discovering the body.
“Ah,” Lorenzo said, noting where my attention had landed. “I am glad you noticed the panels. They are a recent commission by my father, as a gift for my mother. They have only just been completed, and so she and I thought to show them off beside their companion statue, if you will.”
“Who is the artist?” I asked, my eyes slipping back to Judith’s face.
“His name is Sandro Botticelli,” Lorenzo said. “A recent discovery; in fact, it was one of your betrothed’s Vespucci cousins who recommended him to me. A very promising young artist, as no doubt you can see.” He chuckled. “Though I doubt he will thank me for placing his work next to that of a master like Donatello.”
“His work can stand the comparison, though, I think,” I said.
Lorenzo turned to look at me, quite seriously. “Do you think so, signorina?”
Inwardly, I cursed myself for feeling the need to voice my ignorant, uneducated opinion. “I am only a novice in appreciating such things, as I said,” I excused myself.
“No, no,” Lorenzo said. “Please, signorina. I welcome your thoughts most gladly.”
I hesitated for a moment before speaking again. There is nothing for it now, I told myself. I may as well be bold, and hope that Lorenzo is as fond of opinionated women as he seems to be. “Donatello’s statue draws the eye first, of course,” I began. “It shines so in the light; how can it not? And I can certainly see why Donatello was a master, for this work is surely a masterpiece. And yet, even so…” I allowed my eyes to drift back to the painter Botticelli’s panels. “Donatello’s Judith is fearsome, distant, even though one can see the emotion in her eyes. She is magnificent and glorious, but intimidating for all that.” I pointed to Botticelli’s Judith. “Here, she is … different. More lifelike. I feel as though I could know her, as though I might pass her in the street. As though she could be me. Signor Botticelli has managed to capture such detail and feeling in only a small space. It is wonderful.” I smiled, a bit sheepishly. “As I say, I know not much of art. I only know what it makes me feel.”
“That is all one needs to know, Signorina Simonetta, truly,” Lorenzo said, his voice soft. “Thank you for sharing your thoughts with me. They were most illuminating. You have given me much to consider.”
I felt a flush of pride at his words, at his sincere tone. What a strange, wonderful place this Florence was.
“You must give your compliments to the artist himself, as well,” Lorenzo added. “I know he will be pleased to hear your reaction.”
I felt myself flush again as I peered around the garden. “Is he here?”
“Not yet,” Lorenzo said, “though I expect him at any time. He has been a guest of ours often, of late.”
I cast a glance at the entryway to the garden, as though willing this Signor Botticelli to appear. Having seen his work, having been so captivated by it, I found myself both eager and nervous to meet the man himself. An unexpected warmth found its way into my heart as my gaze made its way back to his paintings once more. Who was this man, able to bring such life to his art?
“But how rude of me,” Lorenzo said. “Here I have pressed you for your opinion, and sought to impress you with my family’s treasures, and I have not even offered you a refreshment.” He glanced over his shoulder and, summoned by this merest of glances, a servant appeared. “Signore?” the man said, bowing.
“A glass of wine for Signorina Simonetta, if you would,” Lorenzo said. “If that is agreeable, signorina?”
“Very much so,” I said, smiling up at him.
His eyes widened slightly as they took in my face, then he chuckled and shook his head. “The men of Florence had best guard themselves now that you are here,” he said. “That smile of yours is quite the weapon.”
I preened slightly under Lorenzo’s attentions, even though a part of me preferred it when he was praising my artistic insights. That praise, at least, I felt I had earned.
The servant returned almost immediately, bearing a crystal goblet of the dry red wine that was the pride of Tuscany. I took a sip, unsurprised at finding it to be of very high quality. “Grazie,” I said to Lorenzo.
“My pleasure,” he said. “I should return you to your betrothed, I think. No doubt he does not relish being parted from you for any length of time, and who could blame him?”
He led me back to the rest of the party, who was gathered near the table. I took my place at Marco’s side, causing him to turn and smile at me. “I see you are making friends,” he murmured in my ear. “I knew you would be quite popular.”
“Lorenzo is wonderful,” I said, keeping my voice low. “Just as you said.”
He squeezed my hand. “I could not lie to you, my Simonetta,” he said. “You see, it is all just as I have said. The Florence I have brought you to is in good hands.”
“Indeed,” I said. “And I think Lorenzo de’ Medici shall leave Florence a great deal more beautiful than he found it.”
* * *
Marco and I sipped our wine, which was continually refilled by the Medici servants, and mingled happily with the other guests. Giuliano regaled me with tales of Marco as a boy, including a time that Giuliano had written a love note for a girl and asked Marco to give it to her after Mass—which my affianced husband did, only to pretend that it was from himself. “He has ever been a rascal, this man of yours,” Giuliano teased. “Of course, it worked out perfectly for me in the end, as within the hearing of everyone the lady declared that swine could write finer verse!”
I laughed aloud along with Marco. “Ah, well, such were my just rewards for so dishonorable a trick,” Marco said, wiping away tears of mirth.
“Indeed,” Giuliano said. “Tell me, Signorina Simonetta, did he need to turn to tricks to win you?”
“He did not,” I said, looking fondly up at Marco. “He was just his most charming self.”
“I can be charming as well, my lady,” Giuliano said, dramatically dropping to one knee before me. “And my skill at poetry has greatly improved, I swear to you!”
As we all laughed together, Lorenzo appeared at my elbow again. “Pardon my intrusion,” he said, “but, Signorina Simonetta, there is one more person whom I should like you to meet, if you are willing.”
“Of course,” I said. “Do excuse me, Marco, Signor Giuliano.”
I stepped away from the mirthful pair to where someone else—a striking blond man—waited. “Signorina Simonetta, let me present you to Sandro Botticelli,” Lorenzo said. “Sandro, this is Simonetta Cattaneo, the betrothed of our dear friend Marco Vespucci.”
So this, then, was the artist whose work I had been admiring. He bowed over my hand briefly, then straightened and allowed his light eyes to flick back to my face. “You are very beautiful, Madonna Simonetta,” he said. Yet the words were not delivered in the honeyed tones of compliments to which I had become accustomed in my brief sixteen years; rather, this artist Botticelli spoke as one simply stating a fact, as though he must acknowledge what so many others had already acknowledged.
My answering smile was uncertain. “So I have been told, signore,” I said. I found myself studying him—his face, his eyes, his hands, as though by doing so I could discover how he managed to create such marvelous works. “It is a true pleasure to make your acquaintance. Signor Lorenzo was kind enough to share with me your two panels of the story of Judith. I was quite taken with them.”
“Were you?” he said, sounding surprised. “I must thank you for saying so. Judith is a most worthy heroine, and so I could only hope I might do her justice.”
“You did that and more,” I said. “You show her not only as a heroine, but as a real woman, too. I felt that I might step into the panel and begin to converse with her.”
“Then I have achieved my aim.” He paused as he continued to contemplate my face, yet not with the avaricious desire with which men usually studied it; nor with the envious, calculating gaze of most women. Rather, he considered my face as though he would unlock its secrets; as though he would solve the puzzle of how I was so beautiful. “I should like to paint you,” he said finally.
My face grew warm. I felt all of the courtly worldliness I had worked so hard at cultivating since entering this palazzo beginning to dissolve, when faced with this strange, handsome man and the odd, forward things he was saying. Outrageous flattery I was quite used to; this bluntness, this plain acknowledgment of my beauty and, furthermore, what purpose it may serve was very new, and very much beyond me. I struggled to find words with which to respond.
Thankfully, Lorenzo came to my aid. “Why, Sandro,” he said, laughing, “the lady has only recently arrived in Florence, and only just arrived amongst this company. Let us not overwhelm her entirely just yet.” He lifted my hand, which had been resting on his arm, and kissed it, his eyes meeting mine. “Though I must agree that you would make a most exceptional subject for a portrait, Madonna.”
I glanced quickly toward where Clarice Orsini de’ Medici stood, to see if she had noticed her husband’s impromptu kiss and, more importantly, the look in his eyes as he turned to me. But she was deep in conversation with her mother-in-law—or, rather, it looked as though Lucrezia was in conversation with her, and it was all Clarice could do to follow along with the rapid stream of words.
I exhaled slightly, relieved. It would not do to make an enemy of a woman whom I hoped might become a friend and confidant. Back in Genoa, I often did not see my friends again once they married, especially once they saw how their husbands looked at me. But perhaps here in cosmopolitan Florence—where I would soon have a husband of my own—things might be different.
“I thank you, Signor Lorenzo,” I said. “You are most kind.” Without thinking, I turned my body slightly to bestow a smile on the artist, who was still watching us closely. “And you have taken a most worthy painter under your patronage, I think. He is always looking for a chance to create art.”
“Indeed,” Sandro Botticelli said, before his patron could answer. “For what else gives meaning to life but art?”
“What, indeed?” I responded. “And do you include the works of the great poets in your definition of art, signore?”
“Signorina Simonetta is much enamored with poetry,” Lorenzo interjected.
“I should be a fool not to,” he replied. “What words are more beautiful than those of Dante? I can only wish to communicate so much through my brush as he does in a single stanza.”
“I believe the priests would have something to say about this discussion,” Lorenzo said, interest sparking in his eyes. “They would no doubt say that the Lord God gives all meaning to life, and the life best lived is the one which dedicates itself to worshipping and glorifying Him.”
“And does not art, in its many forms, do just that?” I asked.
“Indeed it does,” Lorenzo replied. “Yet Sandro, here, would speak of art as the highest aim in and of itself, without the glorification of God.”
“That all artists glorify God in their work need not be said,” Botticelli replied. “For it is from Him that all our talent comes. Yet do you not find art for its own sake to be worthy as well, Lorenzo?”
Botticelli’s casual use of his patron’s Christian name surprised me; the two men were obviously much closer than I had first realized. Yet they were, after all, of an age, and perhaps had more in common than their stations would suggest. “You know I agree with you, and then some,” Lorenzo said, smiling.
I felt myself relaxing more than I had since arriving—since coming to Florence, in truth. Relaxed enough, in fact, that my tongue felt much looser than usual—perhaps I had the wine to thank for that as well. “I notice, Signor Botticelli,” I said, looking at him, “that you are not surprised that I should have a knowledge of poetical writings, as so many men are when I speak of such things.”
His blue gaze held mine, firm and unyielding. Here, I realized, was a man who had no doubt of his abilities nor of his place in the world. “It follows that where God has created so beautiful a face and form, He would have created an equally beautiful mind,” Botticelli said.
I blushed. With this sort of compliment I had no experience and therefore no response.
“Well said, Sandro,” Lorenzo said. “We shall make a courtier of you yet.”
At that moment, Giuliano de’ Medici appeared at his brother’s elbow. “Now I find you are monopolizing the most beautiful woman present, brother,” he said, grinning impishly. “Beware of making your new bride jealous!”
I blushed again, yet all three men laughed, so I did my best to join in. “Lay the blame for stealing away Signorina Simonetta at the feet of Sandro,” Lorenzo said. “I believe he is already mapping out a canvas for her in his mind even now.”
The two brothers laughed, but this time Botticelli did not join in. Rather, his eyes held mine again for a moment longer, and then he nodded briefly, so small a movement that I was almost not certain as to whether I had actually seen it.
But I had. And though I knew not then what secret accord I was entering into with the painter, I nodded ever so slightly in response.
* * *
Dinner was served shortly thereafter at the table in the garden. As his father was indisposed, Lorenzo sat at the head of the table, with his mother, as the lady of the house, opposite him. Clarice sat at her husband’s right hand, and I was shown to the seat immediately to his left, with Marco right beside me.
“Do sit by me, Signorina Simonetta,” he said. “You and Marco are our guests of honor, after all.”
I gave what I hoped was a gracious smile at the honor and took the chair he indicated. Giuliano sat across from Marco, and with us thus placed the rest of the company found their seats.
As the pasta was served, Lorenzo engaged Marco in a lively discussion of Florentine politics, and soon the majority of those at the table had joined in, especially Lucrezia dei Tornabuoni. As I knew not of the issues of which they spoke, nor had I met any of the dignitaries to whom they referred, I kept silent and listened, hoping to learn as much as I could of my new home so that one day I might join in such discussions. Lucrezia, I noticed with surprise and admiration, more than held her own, and was listened to attentively by the men present, especially her eldest son. The mothers, daughters, and wives of Genoese noblemen were expected to stay silent when political matters were discussed, and they always did, at least in my experience. Yet I smiled as I listened to the discourse and to Lucrezia in particular. She certainly lived up to her reputation, as did this Florence of which I had heard so much.
One other guest, I noticed, who did not contribute much to the discussion was Sandro Botticelli. He was seated closer to Lucrezia’s end of the table, and on the opposite side from myself. He spoke rarely, and several times I noticed him watching me. His gaze held the same intensity I had noticed earlier: as though I were a mystery for him to solve, as though he sought to see past my face and my skin and my hair to what lay underneath. As though he sought to see my mind, my soul.
Once I caught him studying me, and held his gaze in a challenge. Yet rather than look away, as would have been polite and seemly, he boldly met my eyes, as if he had been waiting for this moment all along. After several heartbeats, it was I who blushed and looked away.
My other admirer—though he at times took his attention from me long enough to join in the conversation—was Giuliano de’ Medici. Out of the corner of my eye I would catch him stealing appreciative glances at me, though never was he so bold as Signor Botticelli—indeed, no one else at the table but I likely noticed.
I was used to such attention, but tonight, in this new and unfamiliar place and among new and unfamiliar people, it set me on edge more than usual. I sought Marco’s hand beneath the table and took it in mine for a moment, and he squeezed my fingers, smiling his handsome smile at me. Instantly I felt better, more sure of myself.
The main course was wild boar—abundant in the Tuscan hills, so Marco informed me—seasoned with spices from the Indies, imported via Venice. On my first bite, I had to stifle a most uncouth exclamation of delight. My family had always dined well in Genoa, of course, but I had never tasted anything quite like this before—rich and flavorful and spicy. I forced myself to take small, ladylike bites, even as I became aware of just how hungry I was—I had not eaten since breaking my fast that morning, and staying poised as I met so many new and important people had left me quite famished. A lady never shovels food in her mouth like a peasant, my mother’s voice admonished me in my head.
As the dessert was being served—a flaky, cream-filled pastry, along with a much sweeter white wine—Lorenzo sat back in his chair and beamed at Marco and me. “I am so glad you are able to be our guests tonight,” he said. “I hope that as you settle into married life, we may see much more of you.”
“We would be honored, as we are by your invitation here tonight,” Marco said.
“Tell me,” Lorenzo said, leaning forward in his chair again, gently spinning the stem of his delicate crystal wineglass between his thumb and forefinger, “have the arrangements been made for your wedding yet?”
“Not as yet,” Marco said. “Our parents are in the process of doing so.”
“Why, then,” Lorenzo said, “we must host your wedding. Do you not agree, Mother?” he asked Lucrezia.
“A lovely idea,” she agreed.
“Yes,” Lorenzo said, becoming more excited the more he thought about it. “Yes, you can be married here at the chapel in the palazzo, and then perhaps a country reception at Villa Careggi? If that is agreeable to you both, of course, as well as your families.”
I could scarcely believe my ears. “Truly, signore?” I asked.
He smiled at me. “Please, do call me Lorenzo.”
“You do us too much honor,” Marco said, taking my hand. “We would be delighted, and I am sure our parents will be equally so.”
“It is settled, then!” Lorenzo said. “Consult with your parents, and then you shall name the date.” He lifted his wineglass. “To the bride-and-groom-to-be, Marco Vespucci and Simonetta Cattaneo!”
The rest of the party lifted their glasses to toast as well. “To Marco and Simonetta!” they cried as one, and drank.
Clarice Orsini de’ Medici had a somewhat pinched, sour look on her face as she drank the toast. I thought how her husband had, before all those present, consulted his mother about his plan, but not his wife. I felt a stab of pity for her. It could not be easy to be married to such a man as Lorenzo de’ Medici, nor to be under the thumb of such a mother-in-law as Lucrezia dei Tornabuoni. For all the prestige that Clarice’s own name garnered, she did not rule in Florence and never would.
Yet I was too happy, in that moment, to pay her much mind. I smiled at Marco as he squeezed my hand, his cheeks flushed with wine and excitement. Our lives in Florence were off to a much grander start than I could ever have anticipated.
* * *
As the dishes were cleared away and we rose from the dining table, Lorenzo again turned to Marco and me. “Perhaps you would like to see the chapel where you are to be married?” he asked. “I hope it will meet with your approval and that you do not change your minds upon seeing it.”
I laughed. “I think that nothing could dissuade us from accepting your kind and generous offer, but I would very much like to see it.”
“Indeed,” Marco said.
Lorenzo led us out of the garden, back through the courtyard and past the statue of David, and up a staircase located to the right of the main entrance. We climbed two flights and then followed him down a short corridor, at the end of which was a door on the left-hand side.
“Here we are,” Lorenzo said, opening the door and motioning for the two of us to precede him inside. I could not help but gasp as we entered.
It was a very small room, but such was the artwork that adorned its walls that it seemed quite grand indeed. Covering three of the walls was a series of paintings depicting the procession of the Magi, in glorious, vivid colors.
Lorenzo smiled at my reaction. “Beautiful, no?” he gestured to the frescoes. “My great-grandfather, Piero, commissioned the frescoes from Benozzo Gozzoli.”
“They are incredible,” I said, moving toward the wall across from me to more closely inspect the work. The detail was astonishing; each face with its own individual expression, each color gleaming brightly down at the viewer. And such a large work: there were scores of people, of animals, all processing through the familiar Tuscan countryside toward the Christ child.
“It never ceases to astound me what man is capable of,” I murmured, walking along the wall, following the steps of the Wise Men. “To conceive of such beauty, let alone to capture it for eternity…”
I trailed off, and paused to look back at the two men, still standing near the door. Both of them were staring at me with an expression of naked adoration. I turned my gaze back to the frescoes, uncomfortable.
“Your intended is a most intelligent and perceptive woman,” Lorenzo said to Marco, though I could feel that his eyes were still on me. “She is a true child of this renascimento.”
“Indeed,” Marco murmured. “This is a beautiful place for a marriage ceremony. I can think of none better. I shall never be able to thank you enough, Lorenzo.”
Lorenzo waved his words aside. “It is quite enough for me to be able to make you and your bride happy.”
I paused before the altar and genuflected. Then I took a step closer, that I might better see the painting that hung over it. It depicted the Virgin, blond and delicately featured in her robe of blue, kneeling beside the Christ Child. The Holy Child lay on a lush green forest floor, with a copse of trees surrounding them, and angels watched over the Virgin’s worship.
“Ah,” Lorenzo said, moving toward me. “The altarpiece is entitled Adoration in the Forest, by Fra Filippo Lippi. It was commissioned by my esteemed late grandfather, Cosimo.” He chuckled. “Grandfather had quite the job in getting the work he paid for out of the monk, of course.”
“Why is that?” I asked, turning back to Lorenzo.
“Surely you’ve heard the stories of Fra Lippi.”
I shook my head.
He smiled. “It is perhaps not suitable conversation for a chapel. But Fra Lippi was a monk who absconded with his favorite model, a young nun named Lucrezia Buti. She quite distracted him from his labors, not to mention his vows.”
I gaped at him, shocked at such a tale, and shocked that Lorenzo would speak of it so casually.
He seemed not to notice my reaction, but instead stepped closer to the altar. “She later bore him a child,” he said. He pointed to the figure of the Blessed Mother in the painting. “And she can be seen there. He has immortalized her in many other paintings besides this one, so I am told.”
I quickly forced myself to recover. That monks with their nun mistresses should be so openly spoken of—that a monk should use his mistress as a model for the Virgin, no less—was something else I must accustom myself to about this Florence, it seemed. Was this what my father sought to warn me of, when we arrived in the city? I wondered. Yet since Lorenzo clearly thought nothing of the tale, nor did Marco seem at all scandalized, I knew I must master myself. I stepped closer to the portrait. “She is quite beautiful,” I said softly, studying the figure that Lorenzo had identified as Lucrezia Buti.
“Indeed,” Lorenzo said. “It is easy to see how she may have tempted Fra Lippi from his vows, no? Ah, but,” he said, taking notice of the deep blush that still clung to my cheeks, “I have offended you, Signorina Simonetta.”
“No, no,” I assured him. “I have just … never heard such a tale before, that is all.”
“Indeed,” Lorenzo said. “Sadly, Holy Mother Church is beset by such tales often enough. Celibacy is a difficult thing to ask of a man.” He turned to face Marco, who had come up behind us. “You shall have yourself a wife who is a pillar of virtue, amico mio,” he said jovially.
“Indeed,” Marco said, his eyes seeking mine. “She is beautiful in her soul as well.”
“That she is,” Lorenzo said. “Come. Let us rejoin the others.”
I followed the two men to the door of the chapel, but before I left I felt my eyes drawn back to the altarpiece again, and to the face of a woman so beautiful she had made a man forswear his vow to God. Was such beauty a gift or a curse?
And would the punishment from God that surely awaited this woman be worth what she had gained in return: being immortalized in such a work of art?
Still, I thought, in spite of myself, in a place I did not think I could ever share with anyone, it is a terribly romantic tale.