Jeanne Kalogridis - Painting Mona Lisa

I assumed he had come for purely social reasons. As an intimate of Lorenzo de’ Medici, Ser Giovanni had encountered my father several times when he had come to sell his wools. Fittingly, the conversation began in earnest with a discussion of il Magnifico ‘s health. It had been poor of late; like his father, Piero il Gottoso, Lorenzo suffered terribly from gout. His pain had recently become so extreme that he had been unable to leave his bed or receive visitors.

‘I pray for him.’ Ser Giovanni sighed. ‘It is hard to witness his agony. But I believe he will rally. He takes strength from his three sons, especially the youngest, Giuliano, who spends what time he can spare away from his studies at his father’s side. It is inspiring to see such devotion in one so young.’

‘I hear Lorenzo is still determined to win a cardinal’s hat for his second boy,’ my father said, with the faintest hint of disapproval. He kept stroking his bearded chin with the pad of his thumb and his knuckle, a habit he usually indulged only when nervous.

‘Giovanni, yes.’ Pico flashed a brief, wan smile. ‘My namesake.’

I had seen both boys. Giuliano was fair of face and form, but Giovanni looked like an overstuffed sausage with spindly legs. The eldest brother, Piero, took after his mother, and was being groomed as Lorenzo’s successor – though rumour said he was a dullard, entirely unfit.

Pico hesitated before continuing; his mien was that of a man being pulled in two directions. ‘Yes, Lorenzo is quite attached to the idea … though, of course, Giovanni is far too young to be considered. It would require a … bending of canon law.’

‘Lorenzo is quite talented at bending things,’ my father said off-handedly. Even I had overheard enough of this particular topic to know of the outrage it had incited in most Florentines; Lorenzo had lobbied to raise taxes in order to pay for Giovanni’s cardinalship. My father’s mood grew abruptly jocular. ‘Tell Madonna Lucrezia what he said about his boys.’

‘Ah.’ Pico lowered his face slightly as his lips curved gently upwards. ‘You must understand that he does not say it to them directly, of course. He dotes on them too much to show them any unkindness.’ At last, he gazed straight into my mother’s eyes. ‘Just as you so obviously do on your daughter, Madonna.’

I did not understand why my mother flushed. She had been uncharacteristically quiet up to this point, though she was clearly taken, as we all were, with the charming Count.

Pico appeared to take no note of her discomfort. ‘Lorenzo always says: “My eldest is foolish, the next clever, and the youngest, good.’”

My mother’s smile was taut; she gave a nod, then said, ‘I am glad young Giuliano is a comfort to his father. I am sorry to hear of Ser Lorenzo’s illness.’

Pico sighed again, this time in mild frustration. ‘It is hard to witness, Madonna. Especially since – I am sure your husband has spoken of this – I am a follower of the teachings of Fra Girolamo.’

‘Savonarola,’ my mother said softly, her posture stiffening at the mention of the name. Suddenly, I understood her reticence.

Messer Giovanni continued speaking as if he had not heard. ‘I have begged Lorenzo several times to send for Fra Girolamo – but il Magnifico still rankles at having been rebuffed by San Marco’s new prior. I truly believe, Madonna Lucrezia, that, were Fra Girolamo permitted to lay hands upon Lorenzo and pray for him, he would be healed at once.’

My mother averted her face; Pico’s tone grew more impassioned.

‘Oh, sweet Madonna, do not turn from the truth. I have seen Fra Girolamo work miracles. In my life, I have met no man more devoted to God or more sincere. Forgive me for being so blunt in your presence, but we have all seen priests who consort with women, who over-indulge in food and wine and all manner of worldly corruption. Fra Girolamo’s prayers are powerful because his ways are pure. He lives in poverty; he fasts; he expiates his sin with the whip. When he is not preaching or ministering to the poor, he is on his knees in prayer. And God speaks to him, Madonna. God gives him visions.’

As he spoke, Ser Giovanni’s countenance grew incandescent; his eyes seemed brighter than the fire. He leaned forwards and took my mother’s hand in his with great tenderness and a concern that held no trace of impropriety. My father moved towards her as well, until he was balanced precariously on the edge of his chair. Clearly, he had brought Pico here expressly for this purpose.

‘Forgive my boldness, but your husband has told me of your suffering, Madonna Lucrezia. I cannot bear to think of one so young and fair being denied a normal life – especially when I know, with infinite certainty, that Fra Girolamo’s prayers can cure you.’

My mother was mortified, furious; she could not meet Pico’s gaze. Yet despite the intensity of her emotions, her tone was controlled as she replied, ‘Other holy men have prayed to God on my behalf. I and my husband have prayed, and we are good Christians, yet God has not seen fit to heal me.’ At last, she brought herself to face Pico. ‘Yet, if you are so convinced of the efficacy of Fra Girolamo’s prayers, why do you not ask him to pray for me from afar?’

In his urgency, Messer Giovanni vacated his chair to bend on one knee before my mother in a posture of outright supplication; he lowered his voice so that I had to lean forwards myself in order to hear him over the crackling of the fire.

‘Madonna … you have certainly heard of the prophecy of the papa angelico?’

Everyone in France and Italy knew of the prophecy of the angelic pope – one elected not by a committee of cardinals but by God, who would come to cleanse the Church of its corruption and unite it shortly before Christ’s return.

My mother gave the most cursory of nods.

‘He is Fra Girolamo; in my heart, I am convinced. He is no ordinary man. Madonna, what harm can it do for you to come hear him once? I will arrange for him to meet you privately after Mass, this very Sunday if you are willing. Think of it: through Fra Girolamo’s hands, God will heal you. You need be a prisoner in this house no longer. Only come once, Madonna …’

She glanced over at my father. There was reproach in her gaze at first, for he had put her in the most awkward possible situation; yet that reproach melted away as she caught sight of his face.

There was nothing conniving in my father’s expression, nothing that smacked of satisfaction or victory. Like Pico’s, his face was aglow – not with reflected firelight or godly inspiration, but with the purest, most desperate love I had ever seen.

It was that, more than Pico’s persuasive charm, which made her yield; and when at last she answered the Count, she was gazing upon my father, with all the pain and love that had been hidden in her heart now visible in her expression. Her eyes shone with tears, which spilled onto her cheeks when she spoke.

‘Only once,’ she said – to my father, not to the kneeling Pico. ‘Only once.’

That Sunday the sky was blue, lit by a sun too feeble to soften the gripping cold. My thickest cloak, of scarlet wool lined with rabbit fur, was not enough to warm me; the air stung my eyes and made them water. In the carriage, my mother sat rigid and expressionless between me and Zalumma, her black hair and eyes a striking contrast to the white ermine cape wrapped about her emerald velvet gown. Across from us, my father glanced solicitously at his wife, eager to obtain a sign of affection, but she gazed past him, as if he were not present. Zalumma stared directly at my father and did not bother to hide the outrage she felt on behalf of her mistress.