What Remains of the Fair Simonetta (16 page)

I searched the room for some water, but found none. I gave up on the obviously foreign servant girl, and instead I asked Sandro where it could be found.

Jacopo raised a cautionary hand. “No, the doctor does not want me to consume fluids before the blood-letting,” he interjected.

Oh, dear God.

“
Signor
Filipepi, I know a bit about medicine myself, and I believe you should drink as you appear very dehydrated.” This was made more than clear by his sunken eyes and tenting skin.

“Dehydrated? Like a prune?”

“Yes, and you shouldn’t let him drain your blood either. That will only make your situation worse. You’ll have fewer cells to carry the oxygen.”

Jacopo laughed and patted me on the head with a weak hand. I was creeped out about his germs crawling on my head, so I moved backward. “I am sure that you have made a wonderful model for my Sandro’s banner, but I think that you should stick to that.”

If he were a modern man and he had told me just to stand there and look pretty, I probably would’ve punched him in the face, but his naïve sincerity allowed me to suppress my instincts and leave the matter alone.

I made Jacopo as comfortable as possible, but at the end of our visit, I left his house with a sick feeling that I could have done more. Who would believe that a teenage noblewoman had more knowledge than the doctor?

Only Leonardo would.

Chapter 28

The hour was late by the time we arrived home. Antonella eased the front door open ever so slowly to avoid waking any of the household. After I took the time to quietly close the door behind us, I noticed Marco lurking at the top of the stairs. I quickly stepped in front of Antonella to protect her from his wrath, and mentally sifted through the handful of excuses I used to give my first husband when I needed a break.

I had to work overtime
. No.
The car broke down.
Double-no.
I meant to call you but my cell phone died.
Shit.

Finally, I surrendered to the futility of composing a spur of the moment Renaissance-appropriate excuse, and decided to go with the truth, preparing myself for another tongue-lashing.

“I trust the banner is coming along well, Simonetta?” Marco queried in a suspiciously polite tone.

“Marco, I know it’s late,” I rambled, “But
Signore
Filipepi’s master has died, and his uncle is very sick, and…”

“Yes, I know, but you have not answered my question, darling,” Marco replied, smugly.

“You know?” I suddenly got chills crawling up my back. “About which thing?”

“Both.” He was creeping me out more and more by the minute. “The banner?” he inquired again.

“Um...yeah, it’s nearly done.”

“So, Giuliano should be pleased?”

“I can’t imagine why he wouldn’t be,” I snapped, not really giving a damn who was pleased or wasn’t.

“Then, the painter should not need your company again, is that correct?”

Ahh, that’s where we’re going with this line of questioning.

“I should need to model at least once more.” I knew it wasn’t true. We had done almost nothing towards completing the painting that day, but I couldn’t bear the thought of my encounters with Sandro coming to an end. “Did you commission
Signore
Filipepi for another painting?” I asked.

“No, you have Father to thank for that,” Marco replied with an irritating grin. “
Buonanotte
, my dear.” He turned away from us and walked towards his chamber, no doubt to a naked Luciana.

When we made it into my bedchamber, I insisted that Antonella draw me the hottest bath she could without scalding my skin off. After she heated the water in the fireplace, I helped Antonella lather every millimeter of my flesh and hair. For once I was grateful for Antonella‘s rough treatment, feeling my body couldn’t be scrubbed hard enough to remove Jacopo’s cooties.

When we finally turned in for the night, I again had the same dream: wandering the Ognissanti, staring at the face of Mariano in Sandro’s fresco of
Saint Augustine
, that smirking coyote bastard strutting around, invading my personal dream space.

In the morning Antonella dressed me in a lavish, satiny, baby blue number with white arm tippets dangling from the sleeves. If I’d worn a matching hennin hat and veil, I would’ve looked like someone straight out of a Disney princess film. I didn’t question the outfit as I was anxious for the arrival of Sandro, worried for his wellbeing after the last night’s events. I stood by the window, and waited and waited for him to arrive. He never came. I realized we hadn’t really clarified our plans with the confusion of the prior evening. Or perhaps the stress of Filippo Lippi’s death, the inheritance of Filippo’s son, and the illness of his uncle had overwhelmed him.

“I’m going to find him,” I said to Antonella, as I made my way to the door of my bedchamber.

“This is not a good time, Netta. You are expected…”

“God, Antonella!” I threw my arms in the air in exasperation. “I don’t care! I’m sick of hearing what’s expected of me! I’m going to his house.”

As I opened the door, I noticed much commotion within the halls of the Palazzo Vespucci. It seemed all the residents were milling around and dressing for some event. I hadn’t even met some of the men, women, and children scurrying around. I didn’t care enough to ask Antonella what their deal was; instead I took advantage of the distraction to sneak out of the
palazzo
.

I ran down the stairs and out the front door, the blood rushing to my face. I didn’t notice at first that Antonella had dutifully followed me. “I’m sorry,” I said, as she made her way to my side.

“What concern draws you to the painter, Netta? Is it merely for his well being?” Antonella asked.

“I do want to make sure he’s all right, but it’s more than that.” After some thought, I decided to be honest. “I feel that I’ve always loved him before we even met. We have an unusual connection and unbelievable chemistry.”

“Chemistry?”

“That invisible force that makes you tingle all over when someone is near. It compels you to want to touch them all the time, even when you shouldn’t. Your heart beats faster, your knees become weak, and your mind grows dizzy with anticipation.”

“I have chemistry with Amerigo,” Antonella sighed.

“I thought you might. So you understand?”

“Yes, I understand, Netta. But what is there to do? You are married to Marco and promised to Giuliano.”

“What can
you
do Antonella? You know Amerigo can’t marry you, yet you spend night after night with him. Why do you do that?”

“I suppose I desire to spend as much time with him as possible until his wife is chosen.”

I decided it wasn’t the time to mention that he’d sail around the world and marry a Spaniard.

“You don’t have to be married to a man to love him.” I told this to myself as well as to her. “I want to spend whatever time I can with Sandro before it’s too late.”

“Too late?”

“My time with him will come to an end, just as yours with Amerigo will, but that doesn’t mean our love for them has to end. And right now, I feel that Sandro needs me.”

We walked around the corner, and I knocked on Mariano’s door. After a moment, it was answered by Filippino.

“Good morn,
La Bella
!” Filippino greeted enthusiastically, his hair more disheveled than before. He knelt down again, despite Sandro’s previous chastisement, and slobbered on my hand before greeting Antonella.

Then another, gruffer voice rang out. “A single day in the house and you are already greeting the guests?” barked Mariano. But the moment his eyes laid upon me, his angry face softened.

“
Signora
Vespucci,” he said with a bow, showing me unusual reverence.

“How is your brother?” I asked Mariano.

“I am on my way to see him now. Thank you for inquiring.” As he passed through the threshold, Mariano brushed against me and whispered, “I have missed you at the tavern.”

It occurred to me that I’d become so entranced by Sandro, I had forgotten my mission.

Repair the relationship between Mariano and Sandro.

Though at the moment, it seemed as though there were bigger hides to tan. The point was moot anyway, since before I could reply, Mariano was well down the Via della Vigna Nuova.

“Where is Sandro?” I asked of Filippino.

“Up in the
studiolo.
Gone mad. He was up all night, completing the banner.” 

I pushed past Filippino and ran up the stairs, leaving Antonella behind. I rushed in and shut the door, taking Sandro by surprise.

“Simonetta! What are you doing here?” Sandro asked from his kneeling position over the banner, confusion displayed on his face.

“When you didn’t come for me this morning, I thought something might be wrong.”

“This morn?” he repeated, bewildered, as he took in his surroundings. “I did not even noticed the candles had burnt out.”

I touched one of his extinguished wicks, now stone cold. “Probably a few hours ago,” I laughed.

“I am glad you are here.” He stood up and laced his arm inside of mine to escort me the few steps to his masterpiece. “Look! It is complete!”

My likeness, painted on the blue taffeta, had a fierce countenance. I was dressed in the white shift with a gold, knee length vest draped over it. The shift was billowing in the wind along with my ample hair, which was only slightly restrained by a burnished metal helmet. The locks of my golden tresses were decorated with jewels that appeared to gleam in the painted sunlight. My feet, covered in blue laced buskins like those from Ancient Greece, rode upon the flames of burning olive boughs. I held a leveled sword in my right hand and a shield in my left. My eyes gazed up to the sun in the upper right hand corner of the banner, while at the bottom, Cupid was tied with a gold cord to a tree stump; his bow and arrows broken at his feet.

I looked closely at Cupid’s face. “Is that…Giuliano?” I asked.

“I was hoping it would not be quite so obvious,” Sandro laughed. “I got the idea from Poliziano, the night we supped at the Medici’s. Do you remember the words he spoke?”

I shook my head. I only recalled how uncomfortable the whole scene had made me.

“I returned to Angelo and asked if I may copy his words.” Sandro pulled a small, crumpled piece of paper from his pocket and read. “He sees his lady, harsh and unbending in aspect, fiercely tie Cupid to the green trunk of Minerva’s happy tree; over her white gown she wears armor which protects her chaste bosom with its Gorgon breastplate; and she seems to pluck all the feathers from his wings, and she breaks the bow and arrows of the wretch.”

I studied the banner intently, absorbing the meaning in his brushstrokes, wondering whether Giuliano would be upset with the visual display of me blatantly overpowering him.

“Did you see? I placed the Gorgon on the shield as well as the breastplate,” Sandro remarked.

“Gorgon?” I asked quizzically.

“They are of Greek mythological origin. The ancient Greeks believed the Gorgons had hair of live snakes and could turn you to stone if you looked directly at them.”

“Oh, like Medusa.”

“Yes, very good. Medusa is one of the three sisters, along with Stheno and Euryale.”

“Aren’t you afraid that Giuliano will be upset about being portrayed this way?”

“His rite of passage into divine love requires that he give his heart to an unattainable woman, feel the rejection but never forget his love, then channel that love towards a nobler end. The fact that carnal love, rather than divine love is Giuliano’s wish, is a matter of which only a few are aware, therefore my painting fits the outward cause.”

“It’s beautiful, Sandro.” I dared think it was more beautiful than his
Birth of Venus
, which had been, before that day, my favorite man-made creation in the world.

“Did I hear my name?” a voice called from the other side of the door. “Your new apprentice was kind enough to let me in. A pity about his father.” Giuliano, with his tall, muscular frame, sculpted cheekbones, and dazzling eyes, waltzed into Sandro’s
studiolo
as if claiming ownership of the place. “Simonetta! You have saved me a journey to your
palazzo
. I have a gift for you!” He smiled, as his long eyelashes batted at me.

“What is it?” I asked, uncomfortable with the whole situation. Sandro looked away, and busied himself hanging the banner with clothespins for viewing.

“It is the gown you will wear to the joust day after next. My attendant carries it for you.”

I will wear
?

I didn’t hate him yet this morning—until he said that.

Giuliano turned his attention to the banner. “Sandro! You have done well! This banner will make the Medici shine above all others in the tournament!”

I cringed inside, knowing the beautiful masterpiece wouldn’t survive the centuries. It would hang in the Medici palace for some time, and be chronicled by Giorgio Vasari in his
Lives of the Artists
, before disappearing forever.

Giuliano seemed oblivious to his own image being portrayed as the bound Cupid. “I shall take it now, so it can be sewn to the banner pole,” Giuliano announced.

“But, it is not quite dry,” Sandro agonized.

“I shall have my attendant see to its drying.” Giuliano carelessly yanked the banner from its hanging place. I could see the pain on Sandro’s face at having to part with it.

Giuliano noticed Filippino peeking into the
studiolo
. “Filippino, my lad! I know of something that might lift your spirits after your terrible loss.”

“What?” Filippino asked, as he joined us in the
studiolo.

“Would you like to compete in the joust? We should need one more rider.”

“Me?” Filippino asked.

“Giuliano, he is but fourteen years of age,” Sandro argued.

“Yes, but he is a tall lad. No one will know the difference once he is clad in armor.” Giuliano turned from Sandro to Filippino. “Come to the
palazzo
on Via Larga. We will provide you with a horse and trappings, and fit you with armor.”

“I shall go right now!” Filippino bristled with excitement, as he ran out the front door.

“Does he even know how to joust?” I wondered aloud.