Jeanne Kalogridis - Painting Mona Lisa

That night, I lay awake puzzling over why I did not know such important information. Certainly my parents had consulted an astrologer at my birth. I was, after all, a rare creature: an only child, the bearer of my family’s hopes.

The next morning I went to my mother’s room. She was abed, though it was late; her health was poor and the wedding festivities had exhausted her. Even so, she welcomed me warmly. I clasped her hand and settled on the edge of her bed.

‘I have been thinking,’ I began solemnly. ‘I know I am Gemini, born mid-June. But I am now old enough to know the full details of my horoscope. What is my moon, and what sign is ascendant for me?’

My mother hesitated. Clearly, she had expected a discussion of fabrics and fashion, not this. ‘I am not sure.’

‘But you must have kept a copy of my birth chart?’

Her face, which rarely met the sun, flushed. ‘You did not come easily into the world, Lisa. You were small and I was ill afterwards, your father was so concerned … We did not think to have it done.’

I was aghast. ‘But I must know these things, to make a proper match. Grandmother has said so.’

My mother sighed and leaned back against her pillows, her long dark braid falling over one shoulder and into her lap. ‘Lisa … people marry every day without worrying about their stars. Your father and I are such an example.’

I dared not respond to this. Instead I countered, ‘Have you had your chart cast since your birth?’

In reply, she glanced guiltily downwards. ‘It is no small expense.’

But I heard her resolve weakening, and pressed. ‘It is less costly and involved than a gown. And it is what I want as my birthday gift.’

She sat forwards and reached out; cupping my chin in her hand, she studied me fondly. ‘You should reconsider. You will soon be a woman. A gown is far more practical.’

‘I will only outgrow it; but I will never outgrow the use of such important information.’ As an only child, I was often indulged and well aware of the power I wielded. Deliberately pitiful, I said, ‘Please.’

Because it was not safe for my mother to venture out, we did not go to the astrologer’s residence, but instead summoned him to our palazzo.

If the astrologer was not a wealthy man, he certainly behaved as one. From a window in the corridor near my bedroom, I watched secretly as his gilded carriage arrived in the courtyard behind our house. Two elegantly-appointed servants attended him as he stepped down, clad in a farsetto, the close-fitting garment which some men wore in place of a tunic. The fabric was a violet velvet quilt, covered by a sleeveless brocade cloak in a darker shade of the same hue. I could not see his face well from that distance, but his body was thin and sunken-chested, his posture and movements imperious.

Zalumma, my mother’s slave, moved forwards to meet him. Zalumma was a well-dressed lady-in-waiting that day. She was devoted to my mother, whose gentleness inspired loyalty, and who treated her slave like a beloved companion. Zalumma was a Circassian, from the high mountains in the mysterious East; her people were highly prized for their physical beauty and Zalumma – tall as a man, with hair and eyebrows black as jet and a face whiter than marble – was no exception. Her tight ringlets were formed not by a hot poker but by God, and were the envy of every Florentine woman. She generally kept them hidden beneath a cap – perfectly round on the sides, and perfectly flat on top, which she said reminded her of her native dress – with a long scarf that ballooned from her hair’s volume. At times, she muttered to herself in her native tongue, which sounded like no language that I had ever heard; she called it Adyghabza.

Zalumma curtsied, then led the man into the house to meet my mother. She had been nervous that morning, no doubt because this astrologer was the most prestigious in town and had, when the Pope’s forecaster had taken ill, even been consulted by His Holiness. I was to remain out of view, for this first encounter was solely a business matter, and I would only be a distraction.

I left my room and stepped lightly to the top of the stairs to see if I could make out what was going on two floors below me. Though my hearing was keen, the stone walls were thick, and my mother had shut the door to the reception chamber. I could not even make out muffled voices.

The initial meeting did not last long. My mother opened the door and called for Zalumma; I heard her quick steps on the marble, then a man’s voice.

I retreated from the stairs and hurried back to window, with its view of the astrologer’s carriage.

Zalumma escorted him from the house – then, after glancing about, handed him a small object, perhaps a purse. He refused it at first, but Zalumma drew close and addressed him earnestly, urgently. After a moment of indecision, he pocketed the object, then climbed into his carriage and was driven away.

I assumed that she had paid him for a reading, though I was surprised that a man of such stature, whose demeanour reflected prideful arrogance, would read for a slave. Or perhaps it was as simple a thing as my mother forgetting to pay him.

As she walked back towards the house, Zalumma happened to glance up and meet my gaze. Flustered at being caught spying, I withdrew.

I expected Zalumma, who enjoyed teasing me about my misdeeds, to mention it later; but she remained altogether silent on the matter.

Three days later, the astrologer returned – this time without his attendants. Once again, I watched from the top floor window as he climbed from the carriage to be greeted by Zalumma. I was excited; Mother had agreed to call for me when the time was right. I decided that she wanted time to polish any negative news, and give it a rosier glow.

This time the horoscopist wore his wealth in the form of a brilliant yellow tunic of silk damask trimmed with brown marten fur. Before entering the house, he paused and spoke to Zalumma furtively; she put a hand to her mouth as if shocked by what he said. He asked her a question. She shook her head, then put a hand on his forearm, apparently demanding something from him. He handed her a scroll of papers, then pulled away, irritated, and strode into our palazzo. Agitated, she tucked the scroll into a pocket hidden in the folds of her skirt, then followed on his heels.

I left the window and stood listening at the top of the stairs, mystified by the encounter and impatient for my summons.

Less than a quarter hour later, I started violently when downstairs, a door was flung open with such force it slammed against the wall. I ran to the window: the astrologer was walking, unescorted, back to his carriage.

I lifted my skirts and dashed down the stairs full tilt, grateful that I encountered neither Zalumma nor my mother. Breathless, I arrived at the carriage just as the astrologer gave his driver the signal to leave.

I put my hand on the polished wooden door and looked up at the man sitting on the other side. ‘Please stop,’ I said.

He gestured for the driver to hold the horses back and scowled down at me, clearly in a foul mood; yet his gaze also held a curious compassion. ‘You would be the daughter, then.’