I sat somberly beside Marco in the church pew, both of us dressed in our most understated clothing—dark, sober colors; of fine cloth but boasting no beading nor lace nor any other kind of adornment. The rather simple church of San Lorenzo rang with the sounds of muffled weeping, carrying over and above the priest’s intoning of the Requiem Mass.
One of those weeping was Clarice, though she tried to hide it, tried to appear dignified as she must, now that she was the first lady of Florence—though part of me doubted that, even as a widow, Lucrezia dei Tornabuoni would simply step aside. She sat on Lorenzo’s other side, still and controlled as a statue, though I would wager that there were tears on her face as well, if I could but see it.
The fall and early winter days had seen a further decline in the health of Lorenzo and Giuliano’s father, Piero. He had not been truly healthy in many years, so I gathered—I had only met him myself the one time, as his health often had not permitted his attendance at social gatherings—yet in November it had become apparent that he had passed the point of no return. In December, as Christendom prepared for the coming of the Savior, he died.
The funeral was a small affair—even if everyone else treated them like royalty, the Medici must not be seen to think of themselves that way, not in republican Florence. The coffin had made its unobtrusive way through the streets to San Lorenzo, the Medici family church, for the funeral Mass and burial in the tomb that Lorenzo and Giuliano would be commissioning for their father.
Clarice had been most distraught upon her father-in-law’s passing; she had been most fond of him, and he had always been kind to her. I had gone to visit her after we’d been told of the news, and I had held her hand tightly and let her cry and reminisce.
The only bright spot amid her grief—and Lorenzo’s as well, I imagined—was the fact that she was expecting their first child, which would arrive in the summer. She had told me the news during that same visit when she had wept for her father-in-law.
“The Lord giveth, and the Lord taketh away, so Scripture says,” she cried, full of both sorrow and happiness.
I tried not to scan the gathered mourners for Sandro, but I could not help myself. However, I did not see him.
Once the Mass ended, we rose from the pews and waited to give our condolences to the family members one more time. “It is very sad, to be sure,” Marco whispered to me as we waited. “Piero was a kind soul, and always treated me well, from the time I was a boy. And he loved his family and his city like no other.” He paused for a moment before lowering his voice further. “And yet even so, I cannot help but feel that Florence is in better hands with Lorenzo. He is a more capable leader than his father by far, and will bring the city fully into this new age.”
“Hush,” I said. “Do you want someone to overhear you? The poor man is not even buried yet.”
“I mean no disrespect, Simonetta,” Marco said. “I merely speak the truth, and you know it.”
I did, yet it seemed wrong to admit it—or to speak of it at all—in this time and place. From the first time I had met Marco, he had spoken of the wondrous things that Lorenzo de’ Medici would achieve in Florence and, by extension, in Italy as a whole. He had not mentioned Piero at all in those early days when he had told me of his home, and since coming here I could see why. Lorenzo had taken over much of the governmental work for his ailing father, and all the improvements in the city’s culture, and in its relations with other city-states, were attributed to the charming and politically savvy Lorenzo, and rightfully so.
Yet now he was alone at the helm of the ship of state in Florence. I observed him, standing by one of the great columns that lined the nave and receiving the condolences and well wishes of what seemed to be everyone of note in Florence. Tears glittered in his eyes, yet he held his head high and had a kind and grateful word for everyone who approached him. Even now, even in his grief for the death of his beloved father, he was the consummate politician, and it was a mantle he would never be able to shed so long as he lived.
I was watching the dawn of a new age.
PART II
VENUS
Florence, September 1474–April 1475
21
I had flung open the window of the bedroom to let in the fresh September air. Now I could hear bits of song floating into my dressing room; a chorus of men singing.
“La bella Simonetta, come to the window, please! La bella Simonetta, let us see your fair face, please!”
Chiara, who was pinning up my hair, rolled her eyes at me in the mirror. “This is the third time this week.”
I sighed. “I know. If ever I should meet the composer of that song—if indeed he can be called a composer—I think I shall slap him.”
Chiara giggled. “Slap him twice, the second time on my behalf.”
I laughed. “I certainly shall.”
She slid the last pin into my hair. “There you are, Madonna,” she said. “That should do. Now best go let your admirers catch a glimpse, so that we may have some peace and quiet around here.”
I smiled. “Marco and I are leaving for the Medici palazzo soon,” I teased. “It is nothing to me if there is peace and quiet here or not.”
Chiara groaned. “For my sake then, Madonna, that I might have peace and quiet while you are gone.”
“Very well, then.” I rose and went to the window, peering down. The men below cheered at the sight of me. “Here I am!” I called to them. “Now, away with you!” I blew them a kiss and closed the window.
“Now they shall be happy until their dying day, and tell their grandchildren on their knee that once, la bella Simonetta blew them a kiss,” Chiara said.
Now it was my turn to roll my eyes. “Honestly. It is all quite ridiculous. You would think none of these Florentine men had seen a woman before.”
Chiara smiled. “There is no help for it now, Madonna. You’ve become a legend.”
The sad truth was that she was right. I should have heeded the words of Lucrezia dei Tornabuoni and Clarice de’ Medici more closely on that day—almost five years ago now—when they had told me that I was the reigning beauty of Florence.
Their words had been accurate in more ways than I could have foreseen. Ever since that day in the market when the two young swains had fought over my glove, my popularity had only increased. Women continued to copy my dresses—the style and cut and fabric and color, everything. And the young men of the city began passing by the Vespucci house, hoping to catch a glimpse of me. Passing by soon turned to congregating on the street outside, waiting for me to emerge. Gifts would appear on the doorstep for me: flowers; poetry; glass beads; and sometimes finer items such as gloves, small paintings, books, and silver hairpins.
Soon they began to serenade me, pledging to me their eternal love and fealty, begging to be my lover, my cavalier. It had all been amusing enough at the beginning, but soon such antics had begun to wear on the patience of everyone in the house.