Heat seeped through my body. I not only could, but I wanted to.
I tossed and turned much of the night; Marco, in his alcohol-induced slumber, did not stir. At some point I fell into a troubled sleep and dreamed strange dreams, of which I could only remember fragments: canvases coming to life and colors whirling before my eyes and Sandro beckoning and myself running. Yet I could not tell if I was running away from something, or toward it.
23
The following day dragged by as I rattled about the house, alone. I wished Marco were there, that I might have some distraction from my thoughts and my endless, cyclical wonderings and questions and justifications and fears. But he was at the Medici bank with Lorenzo, as he was nearly every day. Whether they actually engaged in any banking business there or whether it was all politics and plotting I could not say. Even when I asked, Marco insisted he did not want to “bore” me with his work. Eventually I had stopped asking.
I read a little, and consulted with the family cook about the evening’s meal: fish and fresh greens, along with the tasteless Tuscan bread to which I had never managed to grow accustomed. I was looking forward to dining with Marco, having in a sense been apart from him for much of my illness.
Yet as the dinner hour neared, still there was no sign of Marco. The cook came into the sitting room where I waited, glancing up from my book to peek out the window every so often. “Beg pardon, Madonna,” she said, “but should I proceed with the meal? Even though the master is not yet home?”
“Yes,” I said, after only a moment of hesitation. “And have the table laid when everything is ready, as usual. No doubt he will be here soon.”
But time dragged by, the table was laid, the sun began to set, and still Marco did not appear.
“Everything is ready, Madonna, as it please you,” the kitchen maid said, tiptoeing into the sitting room.
I sighed and rose. “Very well. I still must eat, so I will do so.”
Yet despite my outward calm, I was worried. Marco had never not come home before. And without so much as a word! If he had been detained, no doubt he would have sent a messenger.
I ate alone in the dining room, trying to ignore the worry gnawing at my insides. Surely it was nothing. No doubt he had simply lost track of the time.
Yet as the night wore on, as I finished eating what little I could and the remnants of the meal had been cleared away, as I went upstairs and began to ready myself for bed, still there was no sign of Marco.
Perhaps I should send word to Lorenzo and Clarice, and ask if either of them has seen him, I thought as Chiara unpinned my hair. Perhaps Marco had an engagement this evening that he forgot to mention to me, and if so, Lorenzo may know.
I did not send a message, though. I did not wish to seem an anxious, overly worried wife. Surely there was some explanation.
At least, there had better be, I thought, feeling a bit of anger begin to creep in alongside the worry. God help him if this was merely some nonsense, some silly party or some such that he forgot to tell me about, when I’d been beside myself all evening. And all that food that went to waste as well; if he wasn’t going to be home, the least he could have done was told me so. I might have invited Clarice and the children for dinner, perhaps, and had some company and someone to eat the meal I had prepared.
Even so, I must have fallen asleep—no doubt exhausted from poor sleep the previous night—for the next thing I remember is being awoken by shouts from the street below.
I jerked upright in bed. Surely it was not some silly Florentine swains, come to pay me court at this hour of night, and wake the whole house in the process. Yet as I groped about on the bed next to me in the darkness, I found that Marco was not beside me. Still he had not come home.
Leaping from bed, I pulled on a dressing gown and went downstairs, where I could now hear a pounding on the door. Dear God, it must be to do with Marco. My heart wedged in my throat. Perhaps something has happened … should I wake his parents? But I could not stand not knowing any longer, so I went right to the door and opened it.
Before me stood my husband and Giuliano de’ Medici—though perhaps “stood” was too generous a word. Giuliano had his arm looped around Marco’s waist to help him stand, and Marco had an arm draped around his companion’s shoulders—though Giuliano was none too steady on his feet himself. He was swaying, eyes half closed, a sloppy, drunken grin on his face.
His eyes flickered twice and opened wider as he saw me standing before him. “Simonetta,” he said. He drove his shoulder into Marco. “Wake up, Vespucci. Is—your wife,” he slurred.
Marco’s eyes fluttered open. “Simonetta?” he asked, his voice thick with drink. “Can you—open the door?”
“I’ve opened it,” I said. “How do you think I came to be standing here?”
Rather than make them realize their folly, my words instead sent both men into a fit of laughter.
“Come inside,” I hissed, reaching out and grabbing Giuliano’s arm to pull him into the house. “You fools will wake the whole neighborhood.” He stumbled over the threshold, pulling my husband behind him. “You, Marco, might have a care to not wake your parents.”
Marco shrugged, and the simple gesture nearly sent him toppling over.
“Madonna? I heard voices—” I turned to see Chiara behind me, rubbing sleep from her eyes even as she took in the scene.
“Run and fetch my husband’s manservant,” I bade her, “and make up one of the extra bedrooms. I don’t suppose the gallant Giuliano will be able to make his own way home tonight.”
Silently, Chiara left to do as I bade her.
“Honestly, Marco,” I said, knowing he was in no condition to pay heed to my words, but unable to stop myself. “I have been beside myself all evening, worrying because you had not come home. And all this time you’ve been out carousing with him?” I gestured angrily at Giuliano. “You both should know better!”
“God’s thumbs, Marco,” Giuliano slurred, “but she is beautiful, Simonetta, isn’t she? If she wasn’t your wife, I’d take her right here in this hallway—”
I reached out and slapped him, causing him to stumble back a step, though otherwise he seemed to scarcely notice. Unfortunately, though, it did not stop his tongue.
“Tell me, amico,” Giuliano went on, draping an arm around Marco’s shoulders where he leaned against the wall, “is your wife as heavenly a fuck as she looks? Is she as good as—What’s her name, your favorite whore, that Frenchwoman—”
Yet what the Frenchwoman’s name was, I could not hear over the roaring in my ears, the echo—over and over again—of Giuliano’s words. Your favorite whore. Your favorite whore. Favorite. Whore.
Whore.