“I … I must go,” I said. I was certain I looked a fright, but there was no help for it just then. “I must find Marco and have him take me home. I cannot bear to stay here any longer.”
Sandro nodded, but then he caught my arm. “Wait, Simonetta. First I … I must know that you forgive me. For my role in this whole plot. Believe me when I say I am the last person who wanted any part in it.”
“Of course,” I said quickly, glad to be able to speak the words—for his sake and my own. “You, I think I could forgive anything.”
And with that, I turned and left him, went back into the receiving room where a great number of guests still milled about.
I pushed my way through the crowd, craning my neck, trying to find Marco. When I did not see him, I left the room and made my way down the staircase to the courtyard, thinking that perhaps he was awaiting me there, but the courtyard was empty in the winter cold. I stepped past the statue of David and peered into the garden, only to find it empty as well, save for Judith with her sword forever raised, ready to strike down the evil in men. I might wish for such a sword, and for such courage, myself.
Feeling unspeakably weary by this time, I climbed the stairs again to the receiving room, still thronged with guests. Again, I did not see Marco. “Excuse me,” I said, cornering a passing servant. “I am looking for my husband, Signor Marco Vespucci. Have you seen him?”
“Signor Vespucci left some time ago, Madonna,” the man said, bowing.
“He … he left? You must be mistaken,” I said. “I am his wife. He cannot have left without me.”
The servant looked rather uncomfortable now. “I do not know why he may have done so, Madonna. All I know is that he ordered his horse to be brought ’round, and departed alone.”
My heart began to pound in my ears. No more than a whisper of a thought coiled across my mind, and it was easy enough to shove aside. I was wrong. I had to be. “Very well. Thank you,” I managed, and the man bowed and took his leave.
I did not know what to do. I would have to walk home, I supposed, now that Marco had taken the horse—or perhaps I might borrow one from Lorenzo? I looked about for him, or for Clarice or Lucrezia. But I spotted Sandro first. He must have come directly here after our encounter.
“Sandro!” I called out, heedless of who might overhear me using his Christian name.
He came toward me. “Did you find your husband?”
“He has left,” I said, almost shaking with rage. “He has left without me.”
Sandro swore. “Never mind that. I shall see you home.”
“We shall walk?”
He smiled. “Si, Simonetta. Just like our strolls along the Arno. Your home is not far, is it?”
“No.”
“Then let us go.” He hesitated. “You go downstairs first, I suppose, so that we are not seen to leave together.”
“Very well,” I said, supposing I had to concede to this small nod to propriety, especially after the self-righteous storm I had broken over Giuliano’s head just minutes ago. “Though should anyone inquire, I will be quick to tell them how my husband was so careless as to leave without his wife.”
I went downstairs and to the front door, which a servant opened for me. “Do you need a conveyance brought ’round, Madonna?” he asked.
“No,” I said, stepping outside. “I am just taking some air.”
He bowed and closed the door.
Moments later, Sandro stepped outside and offered me his arm. We moved away from the palazzo, walking toward my house in silence. I knew that I should treasure these uninterrupted moments alone with him, and at any other time I would have. Yet that day and night had been too strange, too upsetting, and too confusing for me to be able to do so. The only thought on my mind was how to contend with my husband when I got home. How to contend with what he may or may not have agreed to.
Sandro and I barely spoke during the entire walk to my home. When we reached the door, I turned to him. “Thank you,” I said. “Thank you for everything.”
He bowed and kissed my hand, his fingers clasping mine tightly. “Anything for you, carissima,” he said. “Anything.” With that, he turned and went back up the street the way we had come, leaving me to bask in the glow of that one word. Carissima. Dearest one.
32
When I stepped inside, the house was dark. “Marco?” I called out tentatively.
No answer.
I felt my way down the hall, where I thought I saw some light coming from the dining room. As I drew closer, I saw a faint, flickering candlelight seeping underneath the closed door and into the dark hallway. I opened the door and stepped inside.
I did not know what I expected, if anything, but it was certainly not the sight of Marco, sitting alone at the head of the table, with only a single branch of candles lit, barely illuminating the room from their position in the center of the table. Lying on its side near Marco was an empty bottle of wine; another was in his hand.
“Marco?” I asked, stepping into the room. “What is going on? Why in the name of all the saints did you leave me alone at that banquet?”
He slammed his wine bottle down on the table, hard enough that I was surprised it did not crack. “Ah, Simonetta,” he slurred. “What are you doing here?”
“I live here,” I said sharply. “Now answer my questions, if you please.”
He mumbled something that I could not make out.
“Che?” I asked, moving closer to him. “What did you say?”
“I said,” he mumbled, somewhat louder this time, “why aren’t you with Giuliano?”
The silence that fell over the room nearly deafened me. The roaring in my ears returned, until I realized that it was, in fact, my own heartbeat, pounding such that I thought it would explode from my chest in my anger.
“You knew,” I said. The words came out dull and flat, yet they echoed in the silent room all the same.
“’Course I did,” Marco said. “He asked me.”
“He … what?”
“He asked me,” Marco repeated. “Told me, more like, that he wanted my wife as his mistress.”
I could hardly speak for my horror. “And you … what did you say?”
Marco shrugged. “What could I say? I told him he could have his way.”
Red tinged the edges of my vision, nearly blinding me. Had I a knife or a dagger in my hand at that moment, I think I would have killed him, would have plunged it into his chest. “You told him he could have his way with me?” I screeched. I knew that I had probably just woken the servants, perhaps even Marco’s parents, but I had never cared less about such a thing.
Let Marco’s parents come to see what all the noise was about. Let them see the whoremonger their son had become.
“What could I say?” he asked again, louder this time.
“You could have said no!” I cried. “You could have told him to stay away from your wife, and you could have refused to agree to give me away as though I were chattel! As though I were a common prostitute!”