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Though we knew winter could not be far to seek, November favored us with some lovely mild weather. Bored and listless now that my sessions with Sandro were at an end, I insisted upon accompanying Chiara to the Mercato Vecchio one day, if only to leave the house and stretch my legs. She agreed after a bit of persuasion and so, dressed in a simple wool gown and cloak and leaving my jewels and adornments at home, I joined her in the streets of Florence.
We made our way through the busy, dirty streets, pressing close against walls of stone and stucco in the narrow alleyways as carts and wagons passed us by. Chiara knew the way well, of course, yet I allowed myself to pretend that she was not with me, that I must find my own way. I kept my eyes on the great dome of Santa Maria del Fiore when it appeared between the buildings, as I knew the Mercato Vecchio was not far from the Piazza del Duomo, and that I must continue in that direction. I imagined that everyone in Florence must navigate by the great cathedral, at least until they learned their way.
Soon, due more to Chiara than to my fancied attempts, we arrived at the bustling Mercato Vecchio, which, I remembered hearing—from either Marco or Sandro—had been the site of the forum in the days of the pagan Romans. The great open piazza—one of the larger ones in Florence—was crowded with wooden stalls arranged in tight rows, lengths of coarse cloth stretched between the wooden poles to offer some protection to the merchandise from sun and weather. The stalls sold everything from fresh fruits and vegetables from the countryside to recently slaughtered meat to live animals to bolts of cloth. I looked about keenly for a stall that sold books, but did not see one. Not such a loss, perhaps, I consoled myself, for I do have Lorenzo de’ Medici’s entire library at my disposal.
We were pressed close by our fellow shoppers in the narrow aisles between stalls, and the noise was incredible: people talking, shouting, laughing, arguing; merchants hawking their wares and buyers bargaining and haggling over prices. I took it all in, quite glad that Chiara was with me to do the actual shopping; every last thing distracted me, and so I was not much use.
Vaguely I realized that the people around us were staring, but I paid it no heed. I could see from Chiara’s nervous glances that she had taken note as well, but she, too, was well used to such attention when in public with me and she did not remark upon it, either. “If you see anything you would like me to bring back for the kitchens, Madonna, just say the word,” she said.
I smiled; perhaps I had misinterpreted her nervousness and she was simply uncomfortable at having the lady of the house accompany her to market. “The kitchen girl does a fine enough job keeping us fed,” I said. “You need not worry about that, today. I am happy to simply be out.”
Chiara nodded, and I trailed happily behind her as she looked for herbs to mix into remedies, and a bit of ribbon to mend a gown of mine.
As we looked over the ribbon and cloth spread across a wooden board at one stall, I was certain I heard my name. “Che?” I asked, glancing at Chiara beside me. “I did not hear you, Chiara.”
She looked puzzled. “I did not say anything, Madonna.”
“Oh. I thought you had said my name.” Yet even as I spoke I realized that Chiara would never address me by my Christian name in public—she scarcely did so in private.
Just as I thought that I had imagined it, or misheard, it came again. Simonetta. I turned around, scanning the crowd of people around me for a familiar face—someone I had met at the Medici palazzo, perhaps. Yet it was only then that I realized there was a crowd around me, and not the usual market crowd: men and women alike openly gawked at me, and I heard my name being whispered among them: Simonetta. Simonetta Vespucci. La bella Simonetta.
I placed a hand on Chiara’s arm; fortunately, she had just completed her purchase. “Come, let us go,” I said, a bit nervous now.
She glanced up and saw everyone gathered around us, and nodded quickly. We pushed our way through the crowd, which, thankfully, parted to let us pass.
In an unspoken agreement, Chiara and I made our way to the end of the aisle to leave the market. I tugged off my silk gloves, growing warm from our hurried walking.
We had nearly reached the edge of the piazza when I heard a scuffle break out behind us. Chiara turned before I did, and I heard her draw in her breath sharply. “Oh, for the love of all the saints,” she huffed, a bit scornfully.
I turned to see two young men—richly dressed young men, at that—shouting at each other. I looked closer and saw that each was holding on for dear life to a bit of blue silk. In fact, it looked just like …
I looked down and saw that I held only one of my gloves in my hand. I must have dropped the other without noticing it.
“She meant for me to pick it up, I am sure of it!” the fair-haired young man declared.
The other man, who had flowing brown hair beneath his feathered cap, scoffed. “And why would la bella Simonetta give her favor to a dolt like you? You flatter yourself far too much, you—”
He broke off with a squawk as the other man reached out and knocked the cap clean off his head. “How dare you, you cur,” the brown-haired man hissed, releasing my glove and taking a swing at his opponent.
I could not believe my eyes, especially not as they began to engage in fisticuffs in earnest over my dropped glove. Part of me wanted to walk away and not trouble myself further, but the rest of me was upset at the thought of any injury occurring on my behalf—even if these grown men were behaving like fools. Briskly, I headed for them. “Madonna!” Chiara called after me to no avail.
As they saw me draw nearer, they ceased their brawling and tried to straighten their clothing, now very much askew. “Madonna,” the fair-haired man said. “You approach like a very goddess.”
“Your beauty would make the Virgin herself jealous,” the other man interjected, not to be outdone. I heard gasps from the crowd around us at the blasphemy.
I stretched out my hand and let my other glove fall to the ground at their feet. “There,” I said. “Now you shall have no more need for violence.” I turned my back on them and strode away. “Come, Chiara. Let us go.”
*
Of course, by the next day the story was all over Florence, with each of the young men—I never did learn either of their names—claiming to be the hand-selected chevalier of la bella Simonetta. If Marco heard the tale—and I cannot imagine that he did not—he said nothing of it to me.
I wondered, fleetingly, if Sandro had heard the story, and what he made of it if he had.
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