Jeanne Kalogridis: Painting Mona Lisa aka I, Mona Lisa

Her goodness made Giuliano see his former life as repugnant. He abandoned all other women and sought the company of only Anna, yearned to please only her. Just the sight of her made him want to beg her forgiveness for his past carnal indulgences. He longed for her grace more than God’s.

And it seemed like a miracle when she at last confided her feelings: that God had created them for each other, and that it was His cruelest joke that she was already given to another man.

As passionate as Anna’s love for him was, her love of purity and decency was even greater. She belonged to another, whom she refused to betray. She admitted her feelings for Giuliano, but when he cornered her alone during Carnival at his brother’s house and begged for her, she rejected him. Duty , she had said. Responsibility . She had sounded like Lorenzo, who had always insisted his brother make an advantageous match and marry a woman who would add even more prestige to the family.

Giuliano, accustomed to having whatever he wanted, tried to bargain his way around it. He pleaded with her to at least come to him in private-simply to hear him out. She wavered, but then agreed. They had met once, in the ground-floor appartamento at the Medici palazzo. She had indulged in his embraces, his kiss, but would go no further. He had begged her to leave Florence, to go away with him, but she had refused.

“He knows.” Her voice had been anguished. “Do you understand? He knows, and I cannot bear to hurt him any longer.”

Giuliano was a determined man. Neither God nor societal convention gave him pause once he had made up his mind. For Anna, he was willing to give up the prospect of a respectable marriage; for Anna, he was willing to endure the censure of the Church, even excommunication and the prospect of damnation.

And so he had made a forceful argument: She should go with him to Rome, to stay in a family villa. The Medici had papal connections; he would procure for her an annulment. He would marry her. He would give her children.

She had been torn, had put her hands to her lips. He looked in her eyes and saw the misery there, but he also saw a flicker of hope.

“I don’t know; I don’t know,” she had said, and he had let her return to her husband to make her decision.

The next day, he had gone to Lorenzo.

He had wakened early and been unable to return to sleep. It was still dark-two hours before sunrise-but he was not surprised to see light emanating from his brother’s antechamber. Lorenzo sat at his desk with his cheek propped against his fist, scowling down at a letter he held close to the glowing lamp.

Normally Lorenzo would have looked up, would have forced away the frown to smile, to utter a greeting; that day, however, he seemed in uncommonly ill sorts. No greeting came; Lorenzo gave him a cursory glance, then looked back at the letter. Its contents were apparently the cause of his bad humor.

Lorenzo could be maddeningly stubborn at times, overly concerned with appearances, coldly calculating when it came to politics, and at times dictatorial concerning how Giuliano should comport himself and with whom he should allow himself to be seen. But he could also be enormously indulgent, generous, and sensitive to his younger brother’s wishes. Although Giuliano had never desired power, Lorenzo always shared information with him, always discussed with him the political ramifications of every civic event. It was clear that Lorenzo loved his brother deeply and would gladly have shared control of the city with him, had Giuliano ever shown an interest.

It had been hard enough for Lorenzo to lose his father and to be forced to assume power when so young. True, he had the talent for it, but Giuliano could see it wore on him. After nine years, the strain showed. Permanent creases had established themselves on his brow; shadows had formed beneath his eyes.

A part of Lorenzo reveled in the power and delighted in extending the family’s influence. The Medici Bank had branches in Rome, in Bruges, in most of the greater cities of Europe. Yet Lorenzo was often exhausted by the demands of playing the gran maestro . At times, he complained, “Not a soul in the city will marry without my blessing.” Quite true. And that very week, he had received a letter from a congregation in rural Tuscany, begging for his advice: The church fathers had approved the creation of a saint’s statue; two sculptors were vying for the commission. Would the great Lorenzo be so kind as to give his opinion? Such missives piled up in great stacks each day; Lorenzo rose before dawn and answered them in his own hand. He fretted over Florence as a father would over a wayward child, and spent every waking moment dedicated to furthering her prosperity and the Medici interests.

But he was keenly aware that no one loved him, save for the favors he could bestow. Only Giuliano adored his brother truly, for himself. Only Giuliano tried to make Lorenzo forget his responsibilities; only Giuliano could make him laugh. For that, Lorenzo loved him fiercely.

And it was the repercussions of that love Giuliano feared.

Now, staring at his distracted brother, Giuliano straightened and cleared his throat. “I am going,” he said, rather loudly, “to Rome.”

Lorenzo lifted his brows and his gaze, but the rest of him did not stir. “On pleasure, or on some business I should acquaint myself with?”

“I am going with a woman.”

Lorenzo sighed; his frown eased. “Enjoy yourself, then, and think of me suffering here.”

“I am going with Madonna Anna,” Giuliano said.

Lorenzo jerked his head sharply at the name. “You’re joking.” He said it lightly, but as he stared at Giuliano, his expression grew incredulous. “You must be joking.” His voice fell to a whisper. “This is foolishness… Giuliano, she is from a good family. And she is married .”

Giuliano did not quail. “I love her. I won’t be without her. I’ve asked her to go with me to Rome, to live.”

Lorenzo’s eyes widened; the letter slipped from his hand and fluttered to the floor, but he did not retrieve it. “Giuliano… Our hearts mislead us all, from time to time. You’re enthralled by an emotion; believe me, I understand. But it will ease. Give yourself a fortnight to re-think this idea.”

Lorenzo’s paternal, dismissive tone only strengthened Giuliano’s resolve. “I’ve already arranged the carriage and driver, and sent a message to the servants at the Roman villa to prepare for us. We must seek an annulment,” he said. “I don’t say this lightly. I want to marry Anna. I want her to bear my children.”

Lorenzo leaned back in his chair and stared intently at his brother, as if trying to judge whether he were an impostor. When he was satisfied that the words had been meant, Lorenzo let go a short, bitter laugh. “An annulment? Courtesy of our good friend Pope Sixtus, I suppose? He would prefer to see us banished from Italy.” He pushed himself away from his desk, rose, and reached for his brother; his tone softened. “This is a fantasy, Giuliano. I understand that she is a marvelous woman, but… she has been married for some years. Even if I could arrange for an annulment, it would create a scandal. Florence would never accept it.”

Lorenzo’s hand was almost on his shoulder; Giuliano shifted it back, away from the conciliatory touch. “I don’t care what Florence will or won’t accept. We’ll remain in Rome, if we have to.”

Lorenzo emitted a sharp sigh of frustration. “You’ll get no annulment from Sixtus. So give up your romantic ideals: If you can’t live without her, have her-but for God’s sake, do so discreetly.”

Giuliano flared. “How can you speak of her like that? You know Anna; you know she would never stoop to deception. And if I can’t have her, I won’t have any other woman. You can stop all your match-making efforts right now. If I can’t marry her-”