Jeanne Kalogridis - Painting Mona Lisa aka I, Mona Lisa

Cardinal Giovanni is of course arguing his brother’s case. He has the Pope’s ear-but so do I. His Holiness has written a brief, by the way, which shall soon be delivered to the Signoria. He has threatened King Charles with excommunication if he and his army do not leave Italy, and threatened Florence herself with the same if she continues to support Charles. He has also ordered the prophet to cease preaching .

Ignore this last, and trust in me. In fact, our prophet should now redouble his fervor, specifically against the Medici. I will ensure that His Holiness eases his stance. As for Charles-it would be best for the friar to begin to distance himself .

I have written Ludovico. We cannot trust him but may need to rely on him for men if Piero decides to make an attempt on the city in the near future .

I appreciate your invitation, but my coming to Florence would be premature. Let us see first what Piero plans .

Send my cousins my regards-how sweet it is to see them home again after so many years, and Messer Iacopo avenged. Florence has always been, and will ever remain, our home .

My cousins… Messer Iacopo avenged .

My memory traveled back through the years, to my mother standing in the Duomo, weeping as she spoke of her beloved Giuliano’s death. To the moment I stood staring up at the astrologer, as he sat in his carriage.

In your stars I saw an act of violence, one which is your past and your future… What others have begun, you must finish… .

T he one who writes the letters-he is one of the Pazzi,” I said.

Leonardo was master of his emotions. Yet as I spoke on that rainy autumnal day, two days after finding the letter, I could clearly see his unease.

Carefully posed, I sat on the chair while he bent over the easel. I had insisted on seeing the beginnings of the portrait before I settled down to sit for him. My features were outlined in black, the edges softened by layers of muddy verdaccio; pools of shadow had collected beneath my right jaw, in the hollow of my right cheek, beneath my right nostril. I stared out at the viewer with unsettlingly blank white eyes. My hair had been filled in with flat black. I was surprised to see that-although I always wore it coiled and pinned up, usually veiled-Leonardo had remembered exactly how it appeared years ago, when I wore it loose and flowing to the Palazzo Medici. It hung with just the right amount of waviness and the little hint of curl at the ends.

Five small tin dishes were set out on the little table today: one of oil to hold the brushes, one of the verdaccio , and three of varying shades of a grayish color called terre verte . These last colors he administered to the panel with a delicate, fluid motion, to create, as he said, “Shadows between shadows between shadows.” Dark colors were to come first, followed by the medium tones, then the lightest, layer upon layer upon layer.

I had recited from memory the text from Francesco’s mysterious correspondent. I was cold and shivering; my skirts were damp from rain, despite the black cloak Salai had wrapped around me. The room was dark, even at midday, though a lamp cast yellow light against the oiled paper covering the window. The hearth was lit, but even that could not dispel the chill or the gloom. Winter threatened.

Leonardo lifted his gaze and stroked his chin thoughtfully, as if his beard were still there. “It is dangerous,” he said at last, “for you to interpret what you have read.”

“Am I wrong?”

“The answer to your question is unimportant. What is important is your safety.”

“I don’t care,” I responded. “Piero is coming. He’s gathering an army. And when he is here, everything will change.”

“Perhaps he is coming. Perhaps not… Do you really think he would let the Pazzi become aware of his movements?” He lowered the hand which held the brush and looked intently at me.

He was going to say more, but I interrupted him. “This all began long ago, didn’t it? With Lorenzo?”

He blinked, and I saw the reticence, the disapproval, in that tiny gesture. “Lorenzo made a grave mistake, giving full vent to his hatred when his brother was murdered. It came to haunt him in his final years. Even after his death, it haunts his sons. The question is whether the cycle of violence can be halted.”

“You know who I am,” I said. “You told Lorenzo. You gave him a sign, that night at the Palazzo Medici, when you showed me the sculpture of Giuliano.”

He lifted a brow at that. “You are far too perceptive, Madonna.”

“Did… did my Giuliano know?”

“Not when you married him, but-” He caught himself. “You should take care that your emotions don’t reveal themselves to others.” He lifted his brush again, then said, very softly, as if to himself, “Sometimes I wish you had never discovered Salai that night.”

“I won’t be caught.”

“Perhaps not. I realize now you are as clever as your father. Too clever. Again, I urge you not to meditate overlong on your discoveries. Doing so may well lead to your detection, which could cost you your life. Do you understand?”

“I can hold my tongue,” I answered, a bit sharply. “I am, as you say, clever. I won’t be discovered. After all, I live with a man I despise-and he doesn’t know how I feel.”

“But I do. I saw it on your face, in your every gesture. Who is to say others have not noticed?”

I fell silent.

His tone eased. “Here. I am not helping matters by speaking glumly. And worse, I have caused you to lose your smile. I know that you are wise and will be discreet. Let us speak about something more cheerful. Your son, perhaps? I’m sure he must resemble you.”

His words had the intended effect; I remembered Matteo and softened at once. “He’s getting so big. He crawls,” I said proudly. “Faster, sometimes, than I can walk. And he looks like me. Dark-eyed, with great long lashes, and his grandmother’s full lips… And when I look at him I see his father, of course… his hair is softer and curlier, like his.”

He looked up from his easel, smiling faintly.

“Do you?” I asked suddenly.

“Do I what?”

“When you look at me, do you see my father? My real father?”

His expression darkened, grew unreadable. At last he replied, “I see him. But most of all, I see your mother. You have the same kind of sadness I saw in her when…”

“When? Did you ever see her outside of the Palazzo Medici?”

He blinked; his gaze lowered. He looked at the portrait, not at me, as he replied. “I saw her, some time after he died. At Santo Spirito.”

I leaned forward, intrigued. “What were you doing on the other side of the Arno?”

He shrugged. “I had commissions all over the city, at many churches. I was going to speak with the Dominican prior about an altarpiece for a chapel…”

“Was she praying? At Mass?”

“Leaving Mass. Her husband was not with her, but her maid-”

“Zalumma.”

“The one with the amazing hair? I so wanted to draw it… Yes, her maid was with her. She was pregnant with you.”

I was entranced. “How did she look?”

“Beautiful. And broken,” he said softly. “Broken, yet somehow hopeful. You gave her reason to continue, I think.”

I turned my face away, toward the papered window and the drab light.

“I am sorry,” Leonardo said, looking up at me again. “I did not mean to make you sad.”

I shrugged, still gazing at the window. “I can’t help wondering whether he let her go to Giuliano’s funeral.”

“He could not stop her,” he answered, with such sudden vehemence that I turned my head to stare at him.