Jeanne Kalogridis - Painting Mona Lisa aka I, Mona Lisa

Francesco was cool. “Isabella said she has had no time to go to Santissima Annunziata. She discovered the letter before she went to see her father; she has been nowhere since then, except to his house and to his funeral.”

They were drifting words which meant nothing to me at the time. They would make a difference later.

For the next few weeks, I was confined to my chamber. Different men stood guard in the corridor outside my door. Francesco told the servants that I had been discovered spying for the Medici, and that the Signoria had not yet decided whether to bring charges; out of kindness, they had permitted him to keep me under close watch at our palazzo.

On the first day they locked me in my room, I was alone for an hour and, despite crippling grief, I realized that I should hide my father’s stiletto before I was searched or undressed. I slid it deep into the feather layer of my mattress, on the far side by the wall; and when, that night, Elena came with a tray of food and the intention of unlacing my gown, I faced her without concern.

Elena’s ever-serene gaze and smile had vanished; she was troubled in my presence and could not meet my eyes.

I struggled very hard to speak coherently, without tears. “I want to wash her,” I said.

Elena set the tray down on the table near the hearth and glanced at me, then swiftly dropped her gaze to the floor. “What’s that, Madonna?”

“I would like to help wash Zalumma’s body. She was very dear to me. And…” My voice began to break. “I want to see her properly buried. If you would ask Francesco-he could send a guard with me. She helped birth me. Please… if you would ask him…”

Saddened, she bowed her head. “I will ask him, Madonna. He has no heart and will refuse, but I will ask.”

I sat in a chair in front of the cold hearth, closed my eyes, and pressed steepled hands to my lips, but I was too overwhelmed to pray. Elena moved beside me and gently, briefly, touched my forearm.

“I will do my best to convince him, Madonna.” She hesitated. “It is terrible, what they did to Zalumma… They say she was a spy, that she was dangerous, but I know better. I was not always with Ser Francesco’s household. I came with my mistress, Madonna Nannina. I loved her so, and when she died…” She shook her head. “I wanted to go to another house. I wish now I had. I am afraid of him.”

“And Matteo,” I said, anguished. “If I could know whether-”

Her expression lightened; she looked in my eyes then. “Your child is well. They haven’t hurt him-I suppose that is too heartless even for Ser Francesco to consider. They are keeping him downstairs, near the servants.”

The ache in my chest eased; I put a hand to it. Emboldened, I asked, “And Isabella?”

“Gone. Escaped-” She broke off and said no more, realizing that she might be endangering herself. She unlaced my gown and put it in the wardrobe, and I was left alone. Outside in the corridor, I heard the scrape of a chair against the floor, and a heavy body settling into it. Claudio, I supposed, or the soldier.

I was dazed that first night, overwhelmed. I had lost so many: my mother, Giuliano, my father… but Zalumma had always been there, caring for me. Zalumma, who would have known how to comfort me now that Matteo had been taken away. I told myself repeatedly that Salvatore might want to hurt Matteo, but Francesco would never allow it. But my hope for my child was a fine thread; if I clung to it tightly, it would break.

I would not go to my massive feather bed with the dagger hidden in it. Instead, I crawled onto Zalumma’s little cot and wept there until I fell asleep.

Francesco, of course, would not hear of my assisting with Zalumma’s burial or attending the service; he let the disposition of her corpse remain a cruel mystery.

Until my father and Zalumma died, until Matteo was taken from me, I had not realized how thoroughly hatred could usurp a heart. As my father Antonio had been at the thought of losing his wife to another, I was consumed. I dreamed of murder; I knew I could never rest until I saw my father’s dagger buried in Francesco’s chest, up to the hilt.

Your temper is hot , the astrologer had said, a furnace in which the sword of justice must be forged .

I cared nothing for justice. I wanted revenge.

During the long, solitary hours, I drew out the stiletto and felt it, cold and heavy, in my hand; I convinced myself that this had been the instrument of the elder Giuliano’s murder, that my father had kept it as a reminder of his guilt. It all repeats , my mother had whispered, and at last I understood. She had not meant that we would both fall in love with men named Giuliano, or bear children who were not the spawn of their ostensible fathers, or feel imprisoned by our husbands.

You are caught in a cycle of violence, of blood and deceit. What others have begun, you must finish .

I put my finger to the dagger’s tip, deadly fine and shining, and let it pierce me, silent and sharp. Blood rilled, a dark pearl, and I put my mouth to it before it dripped onto my skirts. It tasted like metal, like the blade; I wished it had been Francesco’s.

What was to repeat? How was I meant to finish it?

I recalled, as best I could, what my mother had told me of Giuliano’s death; I contemplated each separate step.

In the Duomo, the priest had lifted the wine-filled chalice, offering it to God for blessing; this was the signal for the assassins to strike.

In the adjacent campanile, the bell had begun to chime; this was the signal for Messer Iacopo to ride to the Piazza della Signoria, where he would proclaim the end of the Medicis’ reign, and be joined by mercenary soldiers who would help him seize the Palazzo della Signoria-in effect, the government.

Messer Iacopo’s plan was foiled because his hired soldiers had failed to join him, and because the people had remained loyal to the Medici.

In the Duomo, however, the plan was partially successful.

In the instant before the signal of the raised chalice was given, my father Antonio struck, wounding Giuliano in the back. Baroncelli’s blow followed; third came Francesco de’ Pazzi’s frenzied, brutal attack. But Lorenzo-on the other side of the church-proved too swift for his aspiring assassins. He suffered only a minor wound and fought off his attackers until he was able to escape to the north sacristy.

If Piero and Giuliano came, they would play the role of the two brothers. And I had no doubt that Francesco and Ser Salvatore would ensure that there were numerous assassins awaiting them in the cathedral. Salvatore clearly dreamed of taking Messer Iacopo’s role, and riding, this time victorious, into the Piazza della Signoria, to tell the crowd that he had just rescued Florence from the Medici.

But what was my role to be? I would not sit passively and wait to be killed; I knew my life was forfeit regardless of the plan’s outcome. And so was my son’s, unless I took measures to prevent it.

And then I realized: I would be the penitent, the one fueled by personal, not political rage. The one to strike the first blow.

I thought often of Leonardo. My tears in those days sprang from many wells; guilt over my betrayal of him was one of them. Isabella had disappeared from the palazzo, and Elena would say no more about her; I hoped that she had escaped and warned Salai and his master. I could only hope that they had left Santissima Annunziata long before Salvatore’s men arrived.

I thought of his last words to me. Giuliano de’ Medici was not your father. I am .

Lisa, I love you , he had said. His tone had reminded me of someone else’s, someone who had spoken long ago, but it was not until I pondered for some time that I remembered whose it was.