“I am,” I said. “And I do love him now. As I understand love.”
Even as I spoke, though, I began to regret telling him such things, and having urged him to be so frank with me in the first place. Was it not unseemly for me to be discussing my husband and my marriage with another man? It was no sin that I could name, yet it felt wrong all the same. Guilt began to gnaw at the edges of my mind; for while I had said nothing that was not true, it felt somehow like a betrayal of Marco, like I had spoken of some secret of marriage that I should not have spoken about.
He did not speak again for a few paces, and when he did, his tone was slightly guarded. “Then I am happy for you, Madonna Simonetta. I want for you to be happy. Know that to be true.”
“Thank you.”
“And now, I think, we must return to Plato, for we have neglected him for far too long. What are your thoughts on his Republic, Madonna?” he asked.
I brightened at his question, glad to change the subject and excited by the turn the conversation had taken. “As I said, it is very interesting. I am intrigued by the argument of some of the philosophers with whom Socrates debates—you will forgive me for forgetting their names, I hope.”
He smiled. “You are forgiven, for I would be hard-pressed to recall them myself. Greek names have an odd sound to the Tuscan ear, methinks.”
“Indeed. I am intrigued by their argument that justice is only a result of the fear of punishment and censure, essentially. That any man—or woman—only behaves justly because they fear being caught out doing otherwise.”
“And do you think these philosophers are correct?” he asked.
“I like to think that they are not,” I said. “I know that there are some in this world about whom that is true, but I like to think there are those who will act on the side of right, of justice, no matter what. Even if there is no one to applaud their actions, or to condemn them for doing wrong.”
“I agree wholeheartedly,” Botticelli said. “The right or just course is not always the easiest, and we well know that there are those in this world who prefer the easy route, whatever it may be.”
“Indeed,” I said. I lowered my voice slightly, though there did not seem to be anyone near enough to overhear us. “And I can see why the Church would object to such writings. The idea that mankind only does good to avoid the fires of hell … well, that seems to be a very dangerous idea.”
“And yet it is true, is it not?” he said. “Priests preach sermons meant to fill us with fear of hellfire, so what else but fear can motivate us to do good? When our ears are filled with what awaits the alternative?”
“A priest would no doubt say that the reward of heaven should be the ultimate motivator,” I said, “though I do see your point. Holy Mother Church may have brought such a problem upon herself, then. Though I should think that the priests would not thank anyone for pointing such out to them.”
He chuckled. “I shouldn’t think so, no.”
“Anyway, that is quite as far as I have gotten with Signor Plato at the moment, I am afraid. I am trying to read slowly so that I may give each point my full consideration.” I smiled. “I cannot tear through it quite as quickly as I do my favorite poetry.”
“Ah, but is not poetry as worthy of our consideration as philosophy?” Botticelli asked, as we turned to walk along the Arno.
“I confess I have never thought about it as deeply as I am thinking about Plato’s words,” I said. “It is beautiful, of course, but I read it mostly as a diversion.”
“And would you not say that Dante was trying to teach us something with his Divina Commedia?”
I smiled ruefully. “I know that he was, yet in truth it is his love for Beatrice that most captivates me.”
The painter laughed. “You are a true romantic, Madonna Simonetta.”
“So I have discovered. I must strive to become more pragmatic, it seems.”
“No,” he said, his voice suddenly taking on a sharper tone. “Never seek to eliminate that romanticism, Simonetta. There are not enough such dreamers in this world.” He stopped, and I noticed, to my surprise, a blush colored his cheeks. “Forgive me. I should not address you by your Christian name alone.”
“Not in company, no,” I said, “for that would cause gossip. But when it is just us, you may call me Simonetta.”
“I could not presume so far.”
“I insist,” I said firmly.
Even as I spoke, I wondered at what I was doing. Were anyone to overhear the painter addressing me so familiarly, it would cause a scandal. God forbid Marco should ever hear such. Yet I could not remember the last time I had been so comfortable in anyone else’s company, and I did not want any formality standing between me and this man or our conversation. Or rather, I wanted there to be as little as was possible. And so I could not bring myself to care.
He smiled, and it was like the sun rising after a night of storms. “Very well. Then you must call me Sandro.”
I returned the smile, though my own must have paled in comparison.
We paused along the riverbank, having just passed the Ponte Vecchio and its collection of shops and storefronts, selling mostly costly gold items. Beyond it, on the other side of the river, green hills rose up above the city, above the buildings of Oltrarno, keeping watch over their domain.
It occurred to me at that moment that if I was a painter, if I had even the slightest notion of how to mix these colors, this would be the scene I would paint: the muddy brown of the Arno and the reddish tile of the roofs and the emerald of the hills and the fathomless blue of the sky, blue as the Virgin’s robe.
After a few moments, Maestro Botticelli turned away from the river. “I suppose it is time to return to the workshop,” he said. “I must paint some more before the light changes too much.”
“Very well,” I said. “Lead on, Sandro.” And as his name trespassed my lips, I felt that more than merely the light was about to change.
17
The next few weeks fell into a comfortable pattern. I came to Sandro’s workshop as often as he needed me, and took up my place in the chair by the window so that he could continue work on my portrait. No matter how I pleaded, he would not let me have a peek at it before it was done. “You must wait until it is finished, Simonetta,” he said to me one evening as we finished our session. “I would not be able to bear you judging the work when it is yet unfinished.”
“I am not used to a man refusing me anything,” I said, only half joking.
He made an odd motion then, as if to reach out and cup my face in his palms, but he checked himself. “It shall be a good experience for you, then,” he teased, his tone light, matching mine.
Marco, for his part, made no further comments about my visits to Sandro’s workshop, except to inquire how the portrait was coming along.
“Maestro Botticelli seems happy enough with its progress,” I said. “I have not seen it.”
“You have not?” he asked incredulously.