What Remains of the Fair Simonetta (23 page)

Chapter 39

I stood in the meadow in the
contrapposto
position at Sandro’s request, with nothing but my hands and long hair to cover my otherwise nude form—his focus now on my lips, neck, breasts, and long legs. As he lovingly sketched the way every hair blew in the breeze, my mind drifted to the prior night we had spent under the stars, wrapped naked in each other’s arms.

We delayed the inevitable as long as possible, but the morning begged the question,
what do we do now?
Though deep down, I knew the answer all along. I had to return to the Palazzo Vespucci and face my fate, if for no other reason than to ensure Antonella’s safety. And Sandro had to somehow smooth things over with the Medici and maintain their approval, or starve from a lack of future commissions. But we both agreed to find a way to be together. Somehow.

I meandered back to the
palazzo
in Fioretta’s grass stained, wrinkled dress, while Sandro followed several yards behind so no one would report we had been together. When I arrived on the Via Nuova, Mariano was pacing in the street outside my house. He laid an icy stare on Sandro when he caught sight of him at the end of the street, but quickly turned his attention back to me.

“Jacopo says he should have listened to you, Simonetta,” Mariano spouted.

“What?” I asked in confusion.

“My brother is in grave condition. Will you go to him? He has spoken of your comfort before the physician came.”

I hesitated for a moment, worried for Antonella, then quickly shook it off. “Of course,” I agreed. How could I refuse? And even though I feared for Antonella, I had no issue with delaying the inevitable ugly encounter with Marco and Piero a bit longer.

Sandro silently joined us as we rushed to the Santa Maria Novella district. Jacopo’s servant girl ushered us in, and led the three of us up to Jacopo’s room, where he lay gasping. His once pale skin was now dusky skin and mottled, and the death-rattle emanated from his chest.

“Prop him up!” I insisted, as I entered the room. “He can’t breathe!” The timid servant girl quickly complied, placing pillows behind his torso and head.

Jacopo could no longer speak, as the shortness of breath had obviously overwhelmed him. I looked to the side of his bed and spotted the red-streaked bowl the “doctor” must have used to drain the blood from his veins. My brain worked overtime, searching for some MacGyver move I could undertake with the items at hand, but there was no substitute for oxygen and blood. Before I could invent a solution, Jacopo stopped breathing entirely.

The situation was too dire to worry about precautions. I felt his carotid artery for a pulse, and found only a weak, bradycardic one—not enough to sustain his life. I tore the newly placed pillows out from behind him, grabbed a wooden serving tray from his nightstand, and crammed it under his back. I laced my fingers together and compressed his sternum a hundred times—maybe two—to circulate the last bit of oxygenated blood through his heart. Grasping for what I’d learned in my biennial training, I knew I’d have to do mouth-to-mouth, and wished when I had breached the time-warp, I’d brought a face shield.

Sandro held Jacopo’s hand, and I pushed aside my inevitable demise for a moment. I pinched his nose, lifted his jaw, and forced my vital air into his mouth. I had never breathed into a live being before, since sterile equipment had taken the human element out of airway resuscitation in a hospital setting. It felt exhilarating to exhale life into Jacopo’s lungs, and after only a few breaths, he sat up with a start.

“I have seen the light,” Jacopo announced with wonder. Then he coughed, and his eyes blinked open. “It is so grand.”

Everyone stood motionless as his eyes closed again, and he drifted back into a reclining position. Calm washed over his face as he took his last breath a second time. I felt his neck again. Now, there was no pulse whatsoever, and I realized the futility of continuing my effort. Even if I could make his heart beat once again, I couldn’t put him on a ventilator in the ICU with Dopamine and Amiodarone drips. Jacopo was doomed to die.

Mariano rushed to his side opposite Sandro, where he crossed Jacopo’s arms over his chest as the last bit of blood faded from under his pale skin.

“You brought him back to life for a moment,” Mariano gushed. “How did you do that?”

I decided not to answer. What could I possibly say? Mariano stared at me with enamored awe, before stroking the hair of his deceased brother.

“The light he found…I have never seen such a contented look on a man’s face,” Mariano continued. “You did that for him.”

“No I just…”

I just did what? CPR?

“I want to know what he felt. I want to see the light as Jacopo did.”

No Mariano, you really don’t,
I said to myself, having a
Poltergeist
flashback. But now it made sense to me: Mariano’s obsession in the Ognissanti with the light—the on
e
that never came.

I sat between the still-living Filipepi for a long while, silently caressing and comforting both father and son. The servant girl methodically cleaned and prepared Jacopo’s body for burial, as if death were an everyday occurrence in her life. Mariano couldn’t take his eyes off of his dead brother who bore a smiling post-mortem countenance.

Mariano stayed at Jacopo’s house while Sandro escorted me back to my
palazzo
. Overcome with grief, both of us forgot to hide our companionship, though the streets were mercifully empty after the prior night’s celebrations. I was never good at producing comforting words in situations such as these, so instead, I pulled Sandro into an alley and gave him a loving embrace, as he shed tears for his lost uncle, and I shed tears for Sandro’s pain.

Chapter 40

I was under house arrest from the moment I entered the
palazzo
. Antonella had spent an hour waiting for me in the alley so we made our entrance together, hoping nothing would appear amiss. But a downtrodden Marco, and a furious Piero were already looming in the entryway. Without a word, Piero grabbed me by the arm, dragged me up the stairs, and tossed me into my bedchamber before locking the door behind me while Marco did nothing to intervene. Piero completely disregarded Antonella, who just barely snuck into my chamber before he sealed me in.

“Are you all right?” Antonella asked, as she helped me up from the floor.

“Yes, I’m fine. Are
you
okay?” I shot back to Antonella, who was visibly shaken.

“Yes, perfectly. Giuliano dismissed me in the morn because he did not want Lorenzo to know you were not given to him. He did not appear cross, but instead, seemed pleased with our arrangement.”

“Really?” I puzzled. “That’s crazy.”

“He and Fioretta have been secret lovers since the ball, but Giuliano fears Lorenzo would not approve of the coupling because of Fioretta’s family’s political standing. Or lack thereof. I think he is quite smitten with her, actually. He promised in exchange for my silence, he would ensure the Priorate is given to Piero despite all that happened.”

“That’s awesome!” I cleared my throat after my modern exclamation, “But then why is Piero so angry with me?”

“I am uncertain. I shall go to Amerigo to see what I can discover.”

Antonella traipsed swiftly through her chamber into the dark, narrow stairway leading to Amerigo. I paced the room, wanting to escape this madhouse. I already yearned for Sandro, and was exhausted and stressed from the highs and lows of the last twenty-four hours. Thankfully, it was only a short while before Antonella reappeared and divulged what she had learned.

“Last night Piero discovered Luciana’s relationship with Marco when he went to Marco’s chamber to inquire on his spirits. Apparently, Piero felt some guilt for having given his son’s wife to Giuliano.”

“Doubtful,” I interjected.

“But when he entered Marco’s room, he found them in the act of coitus, just as you had.”

“Oh!” I laughed. “So what’s the big deal? Marco claims all noblemen take a lover.”

“Marco professed his
love
for Luciana to Piero.”

“Oh…yeah…” I cringed. “That may have been a teensy-weensy bit my fault,” I admitted.

“It did not go over well.”

“No, I imagine it didn’t. But I still don’t get why
I’m
getting locked up again.”

“The scene became quite heated, so in order for Luciana to defend herself, she told Piero you are enamored with the painter, and that you refuse to bed your husband.”

I sighed. “Yeah, that sounds like her.”

Bitch threw me under the carriage.

Antonella sat down on my bed and patted the spot beside her. “Since we have nothing but time to waste today, tell me of your night,” she urged with a smile.

I held back nothing. I told her every detail of what we did, and how I felt, so she’d know our deception was well worth the trouble. Then I told her about Jacopo, and how he suffered and died in front of Sandro and Mariano.

My story reminded me of how I’d attempted the kiss of life on Jacopo, and that I should take some precautions, though I didn’t really know how. He probably had a simple cold that turned into pneumonia, but it still killed him, nonetheless. The only things I could think to do were gargle with salt water, and have Antonella scrub me from head to toe.

Antonella pounded on the door in order to request water and salt in our confinement, and surprisingly Carlo allowed her to freely exit with little discussion. Apparently, s
he
wasn’t in the doghouse yet.

After doing my best to decontaminate, there really wasn’t much to occupy my time. Always somewhat of a hyper person, I found the incarceration of my cell excruciating. It was the first time I missed modern conveniences. I longed to send a quick text message to Sandro to tell him I love him.
Thanks for last night. LOL
, or some other acronym. With no television or internet, there were just the four frescoed walls that were a constant reminder of Sandro. I passed the time by reenacting our lovemaking in my mind a hundred times over, until I finally fell into a deep sleep.

My dreams were filled with dark images of Simonetta’s grave, the coyote, and Piero’s face as he threw me into my room. My first husband, Evan, even made an appearance. I had always felt imprisoned by him, but now my captivity was real rather than metaphoric.

When evening came, Antonella fetched us some supper, and we planned our temporary escape. My heart raced at the possibility of seeing Sandro again. I fantasized of him taking me back to the meadow, and how we might pull that off.

After the other members of the household retired for the night, I donned the servant’s dress, and we met up with Amerigo to make our way for the outside.

This isn’t so bad
.
I could still see Sandro every night if I was careful.

But when Amerigo turned the key in the padlock and removed it, the door still wouldn’t open. I pushed past him, and rattled the wooden door furiously.

“It is of no use, Simonetta,” Amerigo said. “It is locked from the outside.”

“Damn!” I cried, and kicked the solid wood life-ruiner. “I’m really a prisoner!”

“The only way out would be from my own bedchamber, through the
palazzo
itself. But I would not risk it,” Amerigo continued. “If you are seen by anyone, Piero will not allow you to return alive.”

I sat down on the stairs and sobbed like a spoiled child. I had been released of my obligation to the Medici, but this was much worse. Lorenzo only required that I have sex with his hot brother. Piero wanted me to rot in my chamber, and keep me from the one I loved. The only upside to the situation was that it would be difficult to contract tuberculosis alone in a room.

Amerigo and Antonella waited patiently for my tantrum to subside. When I finally stood and sauntered back to my chamber and flopped on the bed, Antonella laid down beside me while I cried more self-absorbed tears.

“You should go to Amerigo,” I finally said. “You’ve done enough for me.”

“Are you certain you will be all right?”

“What could happen to me in here?” I chuckled, trying to be brave.

“Very well. I shall see you in the morn.” Antonella slipped out of the bed, and left me to my misery.

Chapter 41

The days were long and painful. It’d been a week since our intimate night under the Tuscan sky outside the Porta al Prato and I ached for Sandro in a way I’d never experienced before.

On my second day of captivity, I remembered the quills, ink, and parchment I’d stashed in my nightstand. I thought about writing letters to Sandro, but who would deliver them? Antonella was allowed to leave our joined rooms only to gather provisions, and was not authorized to vacate the
palazzo
without Carlo and a pat-down.

I felt inspired to continue my biography of Sandro, but now also included what I’d learned about the other artists as well. I wrote about the Pollaiolo brothers and their fondness for human dissection, Verrocchio and his resolution to sculpt instead of paint, Ghirlandaio’s gift for accurate portraiture, and little tidbits about the deceased Filippo Lippi and his vivacious son, Filippino. I described how they were all inspired by Masaccio’s unfinished frescoes in the Brancacci Chapel, and how Filippino had a desire to complete them. I recorded fond words regarding the genius and personality of Leonardo. The prose flowed freely, and would momentarily take my mind off of Sandro and my desperate need of his warm touch.

I tucked myself into the hard bed on the seventh night since we made love, when I heard the door between Antonella’s chamber and mine creak open. She entered the room and tried to gently rouse me, but I was still awake.

Abruptly, I sprang up in fear when I saw the outline of a shadowy male figure behind her, but when he came closer, I recognized the soft dark curls of Sandro’s hair. I crawled to the edge of the bed, lunged for him, and held him tight.

“You’re here!” I couldn’t stop smiling and staring at his beautiful face, so amazed that I didn’t even notice Antonella leaving the room. Sandro held my hands, while I remained on my knees on the bed. “How did you get in?” I asked.

“After the initial shock of Uncle Jacopo’s death, I learned that he possessed a small fortune. Since he had no children and I was his favorite nephew, he left his estate to me. Enough to buy the
palazzo
next door.”

“Really?” I asked, excitedly. Apparently there was no probate or escrow in the Renaissance. One week after Jacopo’s death, Sandro became my neighbor.

“Yes, and my father could hardly argue against the move since it would save him eleven florins per year in rent to the Rucellai. It has a perfect spot for my
bottega,
which opens up to the street.” He let go of my hands to motion downward. “And best of all, the alternate exit happens to connect with yours.”

So overwhelmed with happiness, the only way I could respond was to jump to my feet and kiss him over and over again. It seemed as though it had been a century since my lips last pressed against his. Reaching under his tunic to feel the smooth, warm flesh of his stomach and chest, I went to rip the garment from his body in one swift motion, but the material of the stiff, high-necked tunic wouldn’t give. It seemed a heated, Renaissance quickie was logistically impossible, so instead I slowly crept behind him, kissing his neck as I made my way around.

I untied the back of his tunic and gently slid the fabric down his shoulders, kissing every inch of exposed flesh as I eased my way back around to his chest and up to his supple lips. The mischievous part of me wanted to tease him as he had done so many times to me. But his hands firmly grasped the fabric of my shift and yanked it over my head, casting it to the floor before he wrapped his arm around my waist and pulled me tightly against his body. Gone was the quivering mass of nerves that nearly paralyzed him a week before.

Sandro unfastened his own breeches, which dropped to the floor just as he grabbed hold of my hair and entered me against the wall fresco that danced with nymphs. I bit my lip as my body was overcome with ecstasy almost immediately, as if it had been waiting for his mere presence inside to release the pleasure within. The duration of our lovemaking was spent in silent, feverish rapture, muffling our pleasure so the sleeping household would not be awakened. Sandro stifled the moan of his own climax by burying his face in my neck and wild hair.

With my legs still wrapped around him, Sandro swept me onto the bed, where he made love to me again, slowly and completely. His clothes now entirely removed, we spent the next hours with both our flesh and our souls fully exposed to one another.

We stayed up the entire night, whispering, caressing, and making plans to repeat the experience time and again. He left me just before sunup, so he might catch an hour of sleep before he and Filippino opened the
bottega
in his new home.