“Thank goodness you are here,” Clarice said once I took my seat beside her. “Finally I shall have someone to talk to.”
I stifled a laugh as I noted Lorenzo and his mother standing a few paces away from us, peering out at the field. Even as I beheld them, Lucrezia dei Tornabuoni called over one of the servants and began giving him instructions of some kind.
At the far end of the piazza stood the familiar church of Santa Croce. The Franciscan basilica stood tall and proud, dominating the square with its marble fa?ade adorned with a simple rectangular pattern in marble, and its brown brick campanile and the small spires on the fa?ade pointed the way to heaven.
The rest of the piazza, however, had been completely transformed. I could see fully the work that had gone into transforming the piazza from its usual plain, dirty self into something out of a chivalrous tale of old. Banners and pennants flew from flagpoles installed on the top of each building in the piazza, and I was astonished to see tapestries in all colors—some even glittering with gold thread—draped over the fronts of the structures. Indeed, the yellow and brown fa?ades of the buildings could barely be seen. And everywhere—from the banners to the livery of the servants—the crest of Florence and the crest of the Medici family could be seen. And while the church itself had been spared any sort of decoration, the conversion of the square as a whole to a scene for spectacle had given it the air of an old fairy castle.
Clarice gave a much put-upon sigh. “It really is quite gaudy and overwrought, is it not?” she said.
“Oh, no,” I said excitedly. “I think it is all quite wonderful. It is just like a scene out of a fairy tale!”
Clarice laughed. “You are ever the innocent, Simonetta. I admire that in you.”
I was not quite certain how to reply—she had phrased it as a compliment, but I was not certain that it was meant as one—so I changed the subject. “Is Lorenzo saddened to not be riding today?” I asked.
Clarice waved a hand carelessly. “Oh, no. He is much too exalted for such sport nowadays, and quite frankly, Giuliano has always been the better horseman, and the better athlete. He is content not to be cast in the shade by his younger brother, methinks.”
Just then Lorenzo and Lucrezia returned, a servant carrying goblets of mulled wine in their wake. “Madonna Simonetta, always a pleasure,” Lorenzo said, sweeping me a bow. “For the ladies, please,” he said, indicating that the man should serve us first. Once Clarice, Lucrezia, and myself each had a glass, Lorenzo took one and settled into his cushioned chair. “Everything looks to be in readiness,” he told us. “Giuliano has outdone himself. This shall be a spectacular day, indeed.”
“It all looks wonderful,” I said enthusiastically. “Why, I hardly recognized la piazza.”
Lorenzo grinned. “Giuliano will be pleased to hear it,” he said, “for that was his intent.”
Shortly thereafter, trumpets blared from somewhere not too far off, and a hush fell over the crowd. We all listened, straining to hear the heralds coming closer, to hear the thunder of hoofbeats. The rumbling drew nearer until a veritable cavalcade of mounted knights came streaming into the piazza from the street opposite the church, the clanking of their armor and the clomping of their horses’ hooves drowned out by the cheering and screaming that greeted their entrance.
At the head of this procession was, of course, Giuliano de’ Medici. His armor gleamed so in the winter sunlight that it had to be new; on his shield was an image of the head of Medusa, set in pearls, very clearly casting its bearer in the role of the heroic Perseus.
Yet it was the banner he carried that made me gasp aloud.
It flew and snapped behind him as he rode and made a circle of the piazza, fluttering so that it was not immediately easy to see the image that it bore. But after squinting at it, a strange, uncomfortable feeling hatched in my stomach. There was no mistaking it.
It was an image of me, in the guise of Pallas Athena, wearing a warrior’s helmet over my long, freely streaming blond hair, and with the owl of wisdom perched on my outstretched arm. A pile of books lay stacked at my feet.
Nor, I realized, was there any mistaking the artist. None other than Sandro Botticelli had painted this image. I knew his style, would know it wherever it might appear in the world.
I stared at it, open-mouthed, my face slowly turning crimson as I felt the eyes of nearly every person present—or so it seemed—move from Giuliano to me.
Why was he doing this? What was he hoping to achieve? And why, why had Sandro not warned me, so that at the very least I did not look the fool? For I surely looked the world’s greatest fool at that moment. Any other woman in Florence—in all of Italy, no doubt—would have been ecstatic to be singled out for such an honor. Yet I only could gape at the banner and its bearer in shock, wondering what it all meant.
Out of the corner of my eye, I caught sight of Sandro, standing at the far end of the same gallery on which I sat. He was watching Giuliano ride around the piazza, but instead of looking on his work with pride, he wore a scowl blacker than any expression I had ever seen on his face.
I was taken aback. I stared at him for a moment longer, and just as I was about to turn away he turned his head and caught my eye. The anger in his gaze melted away and was replaced with sorrow. His lips parted as though he meant to speak to me, to call out to me across the crowd, but I looked away, my mind a tumult of confusion.
His round of the piazza complete, Giuliano and his company came to a stop before the gallery where I sat. After saluting his brother, Giuliano removed his helmet and bowed deeply to me from his saddle. “Signora Simonetta Vespucci,” he declared, his voice ringing out loud enough for all to hear. “I ride this day in your honor, and dedicate my joust to you, the most beautiful woman in Florence!”
His words elicited a cheer from the crowd gathered within the piazza’s confines.
“I beg you, mia dolce, bellissima donna, to give me your favor, that I might ride with it this day,” he said.
I remained frozen in my seat for a moment, my eyes seeking Marco among Giuliano’s entourage. I found him quickly enough, just a few paces from his friend’s side, mounted on a beautiful gray stallion. He was resplendent in yellow hose and a doublet of many bright colors, with an elaborately worked brocade pattern—a match to that worn by his brothers-in-arms. He was avoiding my eyes, studiously looking down at the ground, as though there was some action taking place in the dust from which he could not bear to look away.
One piece of the puzzle, at least, fell into place. Marco had not asked for my favor this morning because he must have known what Giuliano was planning. He must have known and did not wish to cast a pall over his friend’s day, even when said friend was professing his devotion to Marco’s own wife.