The servant returned almost immediately, bearing a crystal goblet of the dry red wine that was the pride of Tuscany. I took a sip, unsurprised at finding it to be of very high quality. “Grazie,” I said to Lorenzo.
“My pleasure,” he said. “I should return you to your betrothed, I think. No doubt he does not relish being parted from you for any length of time, and who could blame him?”
He led me back to the rest of the party, who was gathered near the table. I took my place at Marco’s side, causing him to turn and smile at me. “I see you are making friends,” he murmured in my ear. “I knew you would be quite popular.”
“Lorenzo is wonderful,” I said, keeping my voice low. “Just as you said.”
He squeezed my hand. “I could not lie to you, my Simonetta,” he said. “You see, it is all just as I have said. The Florence I have brought you to is in good hands.”
“Indeed,” I said. “And I think Lorenzo de’ Medici shall leave Florence a great deal more beautiful than he found it.”
*
Marco and I sipped our wine, which was continually refilled by the Medici servants, and mingled happily with the other guests. Giuliano regaled me with tales of Marco as a boy, including a time that Giuliano had written a love note for a girl and asked Marco to give it to her after Mass—which my affianced husband did, only to pretend that it was from himself. “He has ever been a rascal, this man of yours,” Giuliano teased. “Of course, it worked out perfectly for me in the end, as within the hearing of everyone the lady declared that swine could write finer verse!”
I laughed aloud along with Marco. “Ah, well, such were my just rewards for so dishonorable a trick,” Marco said, wiping away tears of mirth.
“Indeed,” Giuliano said. “Tell me, Signorina Simonetta, did he need to turn to tricks to win you?”
“He did not,” I said, looking fondly up at Marco. “He was just his most charming self.”
“I can be charming as well, my lady,” Giuliano said, dramatically dropping to one knee before me. “And my skill at poetry has greatly improved, I swear to you!”
As we all laughed together, Lorenzo appeared at my elbow again. “Pardon my intrusion,” he said, “but, Signorina Simonetta, there is one more person whom I should like you to meet, if you are willing.”
“Of course,” I said. “Do excuse me, Marco, Signor Giuliano.”
I stepped away from the mirthful pair to where someone else—a striking blond man—waited. “Signorina Simonetta, let me present you to Sandro Botticelli,” Lorenzo said. “Sandro, this is Simonetta Cattaneo, the betrothed of our dear friend Marco Vespucci.”
So this, then, was the artist whose work I had been admiring. He bowed over my hand briefly, then straightened and allowed his light eyes to flick back to my face. “You are very beautiful, Madonna Simonetta,” he said. Yet the words were not delivered in the honeyed tones of compliments to which I had become accustomed in my brief sixteen years; rather, this artist Botticelli spoke as one simply stating a fact, as though he must acknowledge what so many others had already acknowledged.
My answering smile was uncertain. “So I have been told, signore,” I said. I found myself studying him—his face, his eyes, his hands, as though by doing so I could discover how he managed to create such marvelous works. “It is a true pleasure to make your acquaintance. Signor Lorenzo was kind enough to share with me your two panels of the story of Judith. I was quite taken with them.”
“Were you?” he said, sounding surprised. “I must thank you for saying so. Judith is a most worthy heroine, and so I could only hope I might do her justice.”
“You did that and more,” I said. “You show her not only as a heroine, but as a real woman, too. I felt that I might step into the panel and begin to converse with her.”
“Then I have achieved my aim.” He paused as he continued to contemplate my face, yet not with the avaricious desire with which men usually studied it; nor with the envious, calculating gaze of most women. Rather, he considered my face as though he would unlock its secrets; as though he would solve the puzzle of how I was so beautiful. “I should like to paint you,” he said finally.
My face grew warm. I felt all of the courtly worldliness I had worked so hard at cultivating since entering this palazzo beginning to dissolve, when faced with this strange, handsome man and the odd, forward things he was saying. Outrageous flattery I was quite used to; this bluntness, this plain acknowledgment of my beauty and, furthermore, what purpose it may serve was very new, and very much beyond me. I struggled to find words with which to respond.
Thankfully, Lorenzo came to my aid. “Why, Sandro,” he said, laughing, “the lady has only recently arrived in Florence, and only just arrived amongst this company. Let us not overwhelm her entirely just yet.” He lifted my hand, which had been resting on his arm, and kissed it, his eyes meeting mine. “Though I must agree that you would make a most exceptional subject for a portrait, Madonna.”
I glanced quickly toward where Clarice Orsini de’ Medici stood, to see if she had noticed her husband’s impromptu kiss and, more importantly, the look in his eyes as he turned to me. But she was deep in conversation with her mother-in-law—or, rather, it looked as though Lucrezia was in conversation with her, and it was all Clarice could do to follow along with the rapid stream of words.
I exhaled slightly, relieved. It would not do to make an enemy of a woman whom I hoped might become a friend and confidant. Back in Genoa, I often did not see my friends again once they married, especially once they saw how their husbands looked at me. But perhaps here in cosmopolitan Florence—where I would soon have a husband of my own—things might be different.
“I thank you, Signor Lorenzo,” I said. “You are most kind.” Without thinking, I turned my body slightly to bestow a smile on the artist, who was still watching us closely. “And you have taken a most worthy painter under your patronage, I think. He is always looking for a chance to create art.”
“Indeed,” Sandro Botticelli said, before his patron could answer. “For what else gives meaning to life but art?”
“What, indeed?” I responded. “And do you include the works of the great poets in your definition of art, signore?”
“Signorina Simonetta is much enamored with poetry,” Lorenzo interjected.
“I should be a fool not to,” he replied. “What words are more beautiful than those of Dante? I can only wish to communicate so much through my brush as he does in a single stanza.”
“I believe the priests would have something to say about this discussion,” Lorenzo said, interest sparking in his eyes. “They would no doubt say that the Lord God gives all meaning to life, and the life best lived is the one which dedicates itself to worshipping and glorifying Him.”
“And does not art, in its many forms, do just that?” I asked.