Jeanne Kalogridis - Painting Mona Lisa aka I, Mona Lisa

The Duomo’s interior was dim and cool. As I passed over its threshold, the edges of the present blurred and melted into the past. I could not judge where one ended and the other began.

We moved together down a side aisle: Salvatore on my far left, Francesco to my immediate left. On my right was the murderous young soldier. Our pace was brisk; I tried to see past my false husband, past Salvatore. I searched desperately for a beloved face-praying that I would see it, that I would not.

But I saw little as we swept relentlessly toward the altar. I gleaned only impressions: A sanctuary less than a third full. Beggars, black-wimpled nuns, merchants; a pair of monks hushing a group of restless urchins of varying ages. As we walked past other nobles to take our place-second row from the altar, on the side by the wooden choir-Francesco smiled and nodded to acquaintances. I followed his gaze and saw Lord Priors, six of them in various places surrounding us.

I wondered which were accomplices, and which victims.

At last we came to rest beneath the massive cupola. I stood between my husband and the unhappy soldier, and turned my head to my right at the sight of bodies moving toward us.

Matteo. Matteo walking on strong little legs, clinging to the hand of his stooped nursemaid. Stubborn boy; he would not let her carry him. As he neared, I let go a soft cry. Francesco gripped my arm, but with the other, I reached out to my son. Matteo saw me, and with a shattering smile, he called to me, and I to him.

The nursemaid seized him, pulled him off his feet, and carried him until she stood beside the soldier, our barrier. Matteo writhed, trying to worm his way to me, but she held him fast, and the soldier took a slight step forward so that I could not touch my child. I turned away, anguished.

“We thought it best,” Francesco said softly to me, “that a mother be able to see her son. To know where he is at every moment so that she is always reminded to act in his best interest.”

I looked at the soldier. I had thought he came to serve as my guard and my assassin alone. Now I looked at him waiting with his great knife beside my son; hatred so pressed on me I could scarcely stand.

I had come to the Duomo with one aim: to kill Francesco before the signal was given. Now I faltered. How could I save my child and still see my tormentor dead? I had only one blow. If I struck at the soldier, Francesco would surely strike at me-and Salvatore de’ Pazzi was within sword’s reach of Giuliano’s heir.

Your child is already dead , I told myself, just as you are . We had no salvation; I had only one chance-not at rescue, but revenge.

I put my hand-the one that had reached for Matteo-lightly on my waist, where the dagger lay hidden. And I marveled that I was willing to abandon my son in the interest of hate; how like my father Antonio I had become. But he had faced only one loss, I reasoned stubbornly. I had suffered many.

I fingered my belt and did not know what I should do.

Mass began. The priest and acolytes processed to the dark altar limned with gold and crowned with a carving of the dying Christ upon the cross. The swinging thurible bled frankincense-laden smoke into the shadowy dimness, further blurring shapes and the edges of time. The choir sang the Introit and Kyrie . Behind us, a scattering of giggling orphans pushed their way toward the front of the church, mixing in with the offended nobility. One of the monks followed, hissing reprimands. The smell of sour, filthy children wafted our way; Francesco disapprovingly lifted a kerchief to his nose.

Dominus vobiscum , God be with you all, the priest said.

Et cum spiritu tuo , Francesco replied.

As the priest’s assistant chanted the Epistle, I detected motion in the periphery of my vision. Something, someone dark and cowled, had sidled his way through the assembly to stand behind me. I imagined I heard his breath, felt it warm on my shoulder. I knew that he had come for me.

He will not strike yet , I told myself, though the urge to reach for my weapon was strong. He will not kill me until the signal .

Francesco glanced sidewise over his shoulder at the hooded assassin; approval flickered in his gaze. This was part of his plan. As he turned back, he caught me watching him and was pleased by my fright. He graced me with a cold, falsely benign smile.

The choir sang the Gradual: Arise, Lord, in Thine holy anger. Lift up Thineself against the rage of my adversaries .

Far to my left, a ripple passed through the row of priors and nobles and flowed to Salvatore de’ Pazzi. He turned to my husband and whispered. I strained to hear him.

“… have spotted Piero. But not…”

Francesco recoiled and unintentionally strained his neck, peering to his left at the crowd. “Where is Giuliano?”

I tensed, agonizingly aware of the assassin at my back, at the soldier standing beside my child. If Giuliano had failed to come, they might well kill us immediately. A pair of urchins behind us hooted at a joke; the monk hushed them.

I did not hear the Gospel. I heard the priest droning during the sermon but could not interpret his words. The fingers of my right hand hovered at the edge of my belt. Had the soldier or my assassin moved, I would have lashed out blindly.

Another tide of whispers washed Salvatore’s way. He murmured to Francesco and gestured with his chin at a distant point to his left. “He is here…”

He is here .

Here, somewhere near me, beyond my sight or voice, beyond my touch in the moment before I was to die. I did not cry at the knowledge, but I swayed beneath its weight. I looked down at the marble beneath my feet and prayed. Be safe and live. Be safe …

The priest chanted the Oremus , took the Host, and lifted it toward the crucified Christ in offering.

Offerimus tibi, Domine …

Salvatore rested his hand upon the hilt of his sword and leaned toward Francesco. His lips formed a word: Soon .

As he did so, my assassin leaned in instantly, smoothly, stepping upon my train so that I could not bolt, and pressed his lips to my ear.

“Monna Lisa,” he whispered. Had he not uttered those two words, I would have taken up the dagger. “When I signal, fall.”

I could not breathe. I parted my lips and took in air through my mouth and watched as the priest’s assistant moved to the altar and began to fill the chalice with wine. Francesco’s hand hovered at his hip.

The second assistant stepped forward with a decanter of water.

“Now,” Salai whispered, and pressed something hard and blunt against my back, beneath the ribs, to make it appear as though he were delivering a fatal thrust.

Wordless, I sank to the cool marble.

Beside me, Francesco cried out and dropped to his knees just as he drew his knife; it clattered beside him on the floor. I pushed myself up to sit. Salai’s army of street urchins streamed forward, surrounding the soldier. One knifed him in the back and pulled him down so that a second could slash his throat.

The world erupted in a chorus of shrieks. I clawed to my feet, screaming Matteo’s name, cursing my tangled skirts. The orphans had swarmed him and his nursemaid; I pulled my father’s stiletto free and lurched toward them. My son was nestled in the arms of one of the monks from the Ospedale degli Innocenti.

“Lisa!” he cried. “Lisa, come with us.”

The bells in the campanile began to ring. A frantic nobleman and his wife ran past, almost knocking me down. I stayed on my feet as a wave of other panicked worshipers followed. “Leonardo, take him!” I shouted. “I will follow, I will follow-only go !”

He turned reluctantly and ran. I held my ground despite the fleeing crowd, and turned back to Francesco.