Despite the gossip, it was impossible not to be in awe of the spectacle. Hours after the king had left the square to cries of Viva Francia! rising up like choral evensong behind him and was safely ensconced in the Medici Palace, Florence was still bursting with the arrival of the infantry and the cavalry. There were so many horses that the air was high with their dung, ground into the cobbles by the artillery guns they pulled behind them. But the most impressive of all were the archers and crossbow men: thousands upon thousands of armed peasants, such numbers that I worried that France might be a country now guarded only by its women until my husband told me that most of the army was not French at all but mercenaries hired for the campaign, expensively in the case of the Swiss Guard, much cheaper for the warriors from Scotland. And I was glad that these were not the men who would be billeted upon us, because I had never seen anything like them: giants from the North with great manes of straw hair and beards as red as my father’s dyes, so matted and filthy that one could only wonder that their bows did not get caught in them as they fired.
THE INVASION LASTED ELEVEN DAYS. THE TROOPS BILLETED UPON US were well enough behaved: two knights from the city of Toulouse with their servants and entourage. We dined with them the night after their arrival, laying out my husband’s best plate and cutlery—though they had no idea how to use the forks they were presented with—and they treated me with due deference, kissing my hand and commenting on my beauty, by which I knew they were either blind or liars, and since they could see their way to the wine flagon well enough I concluded the latter. I heard later from Erila that their servants had the similar table manners of pigs but that in other ways they kept their hands to themselves, instructions that must have been issued to the army as a whole, because nine months later there was no obvious epidemic of foundling French babies turned on the wheel at the Ospedale degli Innocenti, though we were later to discover another gift from their occasional courtship that was to cause us more grief than a few extra souls on earth.
Over dinner they spoke with passion about their great king and the glory of his campaign, but when they were better lubricated they confessed to a certain longing for home and weariness about how far their warmongering would take them. The final destination was the Holy Land, but you could see they had their eyes set more on the comforts of Naples, where they had heard the women were fair in their darkness and the riches theirs for the taking. As for the greatness of Florence—well, they were men of battle rather than art and while my husband’s statue gallery impressed them, they were more interested in where they could buy new cloth. (I learned later that there were those Florentines who made small fortunes from the invasion by swallowing their patriotism in favor of their pockets.) To be fair, one of the knights spoke with enthusiasm about the marvel of the cathedral and seemed interested when I told him he could find a gilt statue of Saint Louis, the patron saint of his home city, by our great Donatello above the door of the façade of Santa Croce. But whether he sought it out or not, I do not know. What I do know is that they ate and drank a great deal during those eleven days, because the cook kept records of the amounts consumed, since it had been agreed by the truce that the army would pay its own maintenance.
AT FIRST THE CITY PUT ON HER BEST FACE TO IMPRESS HER conquerors. A special performance of the Annunciation was staged at San Felice and my husband managed to get us places, a considerable feat, seeing as I could find no other Medici supporters in the congregation. I had been taken as a child to such an event once at the Carmine monastery, where I had a memory of gossamer clouds strung across the nave of the church and how, at a certain moment, a chorus of little boys had been revealed suspended among them, dressed as angels, one of them so patently terrified that when everyone else began to sing he howled so loudly that he had to be lowered down.
There were boy angels in San Felice this day too, but none of them cried. The church was transformed. A cupola like a second roof had been built and hung from the beams above the central nave, its interior painted the deepest blue with a hundred tiny lamps suspended inside so that you seemed to look up into the night sky with stars in the firmament. Around its base in the heavens stood twelve shining child angels on little plinths. But that was the least of it. For when the moment came for the Annunciation, a rotating second sphere was lowered carrying eight angels, older boys now, and then, from inside that, a further sphere encasing a final, older Angel Gabriel. As he descended he moved his wings to and fro, causing a myriad of lights to flicker around him, as if he brought the very stars of heaven down with him.
While I sat, more astonished even than Mary, my husband made me look up again and note how each sphere of angels could be read as an accentuated lesson in perspective: the biggest at the bottom moving to the smallest at the top. So in this way we could appreciate not only the glory of God but the perfection of the laws of nature and our artist’s mastery over them. He told me that this elaborate stage device had been the invention of none other than the renowned Brunelleschi, its secret handed down through the years since his death.
While there is no record of what the king of France thought of it all, I know we Florentines were mightily proud and impressed. Yet when I look back on it now I find it hard to distinguish between my joy at the spectacle and the quieter pleasure that came from my husband’s erudition and the way he taught me to look deeper into things I might otherwise have missed. When we headed back that night through the crowded streets, he guided me by the elbow so we moved like two sleek fishes through a tumbling sea. After we reached our house, we sat talking for a while of all we had witnessed and he accompanied me to my room, where he kissed me on the cheek and thanked me for my company before retiring to his study. As I lay in bed thinking back on all that I had seen, I could almost believe that my freedom had been worth whatever sacrifice I had made to get it. And that Cristoforo, whatever he might do in the future, had made an honest start to our bargain.
In the days that followed, the government was kept busy swapping compliments with the king and ratifying a treaty that made his occupation look like an invitation and gave him a great loan for his war chest, presumably in thanks for not sacking the city. While the officials were polite enough to one another, on the streets the atmosphere soured faster and a few would-be young warriors started to pitch stones at the invaders, who in turn gave sword blows back, and in this way a dozen or so Florentines were killed. Not exactly a massacre, or even glorious resistance, but a reminder at least of the spirit we had lost. Aware that his welcome was growing thin and advised by Savonarola that God would go with him if he went fast, Charles mobilized his army and they marched out at the end of November, with a good deal less ceremony and crowd to cheer them on their way—which could have had something to do with the fact that they left without paying their bills—our own good Toulouse noblemen included—liars to the end.
Two days later, my husband, who had slept in the house for the whole time, a gentleman, for his wife’s safety, left also.
Without him and our invaders, the palazzo suddenly felt cold and stern. The rooms were dark, the wood paneling stained with age, the tapestries moth-eaten, and the windows too small to let in much light. And because I was scared that my solitude might tumble me into a pit of self-pity, the next morning I woke Erila at dawn and together we set out to test the new freedom of my married life on the streets.
Twenty-one
THE BODY ON SANTA TRINITÀ BRIDGE SPOKE AS MUCH OF madness as blood lust. It was hanging from a post next to the small chapel, and by the time the monks discovered it the dogs were already halfway through their meal. Erila said the only mercy was that he would have been dead by the time his body was disemboweled, though it was hard to know that for sure, since even if he had screamed as his intestines unraveled, the gag in his mouth would have muted the worst of it. The scavengers must have arrived soon after the murderer left, because by the time we got there—the news reached the market soon after first light; all we had to do was follow the flow—what r
emained of his insides was already on the cobbles. The watchmen had beaten the dogs away by then, though the wildest of them were still loitering, heads down, bellies crouched to the ground, feigning disinterest, their paws twitching with energy. At one point as the crowd gathered, one of them streaked in from the side, snatching a piece of offal between his snapping jaws before a kick landed him, yowling but still attached to his prize, halfway across the bridge.
The watchmen were almost as rough with the crowd, but it was impossible to keep people away. Erila held us well to the back, her arm linked tightly with mine. While she found my curiosity alarming, that was more to do with the trouble it might get her into than any faintheartedness on her part; had she been there alone she would already have wormed her way to the front. As for me: well, of course the sight of that ravaged body turned my stomach—I had been so sheltered at my parents’ home I had never even seen a public execution—but I made myself get over it. I had not come this far in the pursuit of freedom to be sent whimpering home at the first sign of blood or violence. Anyway, despite the sweetness of my sex, I was indeed curious, if curious is the right word. . . .
“Don’t you see, Erila,” I said to her urgently, “this is now the fifth.”
“The fifth what?”
“The fifth body since the death of Lorenzo.”
“What d’you mean?” she said, clicking her tongue at me. “People die on the streets every day. You just have your head sunk too far into books to notice.”
“Not like this. Think about it: the girl in Santa Croce, the couple in Santo Spírito whose bodies were moved to Impruneta, and then the boy by the Baptistery three weeks ago. Each killed in or near a church and each mutilated in some awful way. There has to be a connection.”
She laughed. “How about sin? Two tarts, one client, a sodomite, and a pimp. Maybe they were all on their way to confession. At least whoever did this one saved the priests an earful.”
“What do you mean? Do you know him?”
“Everybody knows him. Why d’you think there’s such a crowd here? Marsilio Trancolo. Anything you want, Trancolo can get it for you. Or he could. Wine, dice, women, men, young boys—he had a stock of all of them ready, at the right price. Florence’s most prominent procurer. From what I heard he’s been working overtime for the last two weeks keeping the foreigners supplied. Well, he’ll be in good company in hell now, that’s for sure. Hey!” she yelled, taking a swipe at a man who had careered into us in his eagerness to get closer to the front. “Watch where you put your hands, scum.”
“Then move your black snatch out of the way,” he shouted, shoving her back. “Slut. We don’t need women of the Devil’s color on our streets. Watch your step or you’ll be next for his knife.”
“Not before your balls are hanging alongside the Medici crest,” she muttered, as she started to push me out through the back of the crowd.
“But Erila—”
“But nothing. I told you, this is no place for a lady.” She was angry now, so it was hard to tell her concern from fear. “If your mother found out she’d have me strung up on the post next to him.”
She maneuvered us off the bridge. The crowd thinned out along the river, then grew again as we crossed down into the Piazza della Signoria. In the days after the French left, the square had been heaving with citizens eager to vote in the new government, with Savonarola its ruler in all but name. Now his supporters were sitting grandly inside the Town Hall, formulating new laws by which they hoped to turn a godless city into a godly one. From the council chambers they would have a bird’s-eye view of Santa Trinità bridge. To have a lesson on the Devil’s punishment so close at hand would concentrate their minds wonderfully on the task before them.
OVER THE ENSUING DAYS, ERILA GREW IMPATIENT WITH MY HUNGER for the streets. “I can’t be out with you every minute of the day. I’ve work to do in the house. And so have you if you are to become its mistress.” Of course, she was still angry with me for keeping my own counsel about my wedding night and was taking it out on me in small but powerful ways. She was not the only one. The servants watched me strangely now. In the opening days of my marriage I had playacted the role of the wife, inquiring about the accounts and ordering around anyone who would listen. But my lack of confidence betrayed me, and a household that had run for years without a wife did not take kindly to my childish interventions. There were times when I could almost hear them laughing at me behind my back, as if they knew about the tawdry game being played out for the benefit of my husband’s reputation.
To keep despair at bay I retreated to the library. Tucked under the loggia on the top floor, away from damp and flooding, it was the only room in the house that offered any real comfort. There must have been close to a hundred volumes here, dating back in some cases to the beginning of the century. The most extraordinary was a copy of the first translations of Plato by Ficino commissioned by Lorenzo de’ Medici himself, not least because inside I found a notation in an exquisite hand.
To Cristoforo, whose love of learning is almost as great as his love of beauty.
The date was 1477, the year before my birth. As the signature was a work of art in itself, who else could it have been but Lorenzo himself? I sat staring at the ink. Had Lorenzo lived, he would have been almost the same age as my husband. My husband’s knowledge of his court was greater than I had realized. If he ever came home, what conversations we might have about it!
I read a few chapters of the text, entranced by its provenance, but I am ashamed to say that while even a few months before its wisdom would have dazzled me, now such volumes of philosophy had the air of old men about them: venerable but having lost the energy to influence a world that had moved on from them.
From books I turned to art. Surely Botticelli’s evocation of Dante would still inspire. But the great cabinet in which my husband kept the portfolio was locked and when I called his servant for the key he denied all knowledge of it. Was it my imagination, or did he smirk at me as he said it?
He brought me richer news an hour later.
“You have a visitor, madam.”
“Who is it?”
He shrugged. “A gentleman. He didn’t give a name. He is waiting downstairs.”
My father? My brother? The painter? The painter . . . I felt a flush rise in me and got up quickly. “Show him into the receiving room.”
He was standing by the window, staring across the narrow street to the tower opposite. We had not seen each other since the night before my wedding, and if thoughts of him had ever strayed into my mind since then I had snuffed them out as firmly as altar candles capped at the end of mass. But now, in his presence again, I felt myself almost trembling as he turned to me. He did not look well. He was grown thin again. His complexion, always pale, was like goat’s cheese, and there were heavy circles under his eyes. His hands were stained dark with paint and I saw he was holding a roll of drawings wrapped in muslin. My drawings. I found it hard to breathe.
“Welcome,” I said, arranging myself carefully on one of my husband’s hard wooden chairs. “Won’t you sit down?”
He made a small noise, which I took to be a refusal since he stayed standing. What was it that kept us so nervous in each other’s company, the one as gauche as the other? What had Erila said to me once about the dangers of innocence over knowledge? Surely I was innocent no longer. And when I thought of the innards of the eviscerated man in his nighttime sketches, I knew that in some way or another neither was he.
“You are married,” he said at last, his almost sulky shyness back as his shield.
“Yes, I am.”
“In which case I hope I do not disturb you.”
I shrugged. “What is there to disturb? My days are my own now.” But I could not keep my eyes off the roll in his hand. “How is the chapel? You have started?”
He nodded.
“And? It goes well?”
He mumbled something I did not hear properly, then: “I . . . I brought you these,” he sa
id, and thrust out the drawings awkwardly in front of him. As I put out my hand to take them I could feel it shaking slightly.
“You have looked at them?”
He nodded.
“And?”
“You understand I am no judge . . . but I think . . . I think that both your eye and your pen have truth about them.”
I felt a wild jump in my stomach, and though I know it is blasphemous to even think it, I felt for that moment as if I were Our Blessed Lady in the Annunciation, hearing news of such magnitude that it conjured up as much terror as joy. “Oh . . . you think so! . . . So you’ll help me?”
“I—”
“Oh, but don’t you see? I am married now. And my husband, who is solicitous for my well-being, would, I know, give permission for you to instruct me, show me techniques. Perhaps I might even assist you in the chapel. I—”
“No, no!” His alarm was as fierce as my excitement. “It’s not possible!”
“Why not? There are so many things you know, you—”
“No. You don’t understand!” His vehemence stopped me. “I cannot teach you anything.” And such was his horror that one might think I had propositioned him with some act of gross indecency.
“Is that cannot? Or will not?” I said coldly, looking directly at him.
“Cannot,” he muttered, then repeated it louder, each word broken, as if he were telling himself as well as me. “I cannot help you.”
I was finding it hard to breathe. To have had so much offered and then taken away. “I see. Well”—I rose to my feet, too proud to let him see the depth of my distress—“no doubt you have business to attend to.”
He loitered for a moment as if there was more to say, then turned and moved toward the door. But there he stopped. “I . . . there is something else.”