Lorenzo de’ Medici was, as I have described him here, a true patron of the arts and of learning, cultivating the careers of many artists and writers—Leonardo da Vinci and Michelangelo Buonarroti being the most notable among them. His political genius was perhaps unmatched in his age, and all these factors combined to give him the nickname of “Magnifico”—or Lorenzo the Magnificent. He reigned as the de facto ruler of republican Florence until his death in 1492, at the age of just 43. Like his father Piero, he was plagued by ill health in his later years, notably by gout, which ran in the Medici family.
Lorenzo’s eldest son, Piero, attempted to take the reins of power after his father’s death, but he lacked his father’s sharp intelligence and political savvy. Piero and the rest of the Medici family were soon driven from the city of Florence altogether for a time by the Dominican friar Savonarola, who had for years been preaching against the Medici family in particular, as well as against the sinful excesses, artwork, pagan learning, and decadence of Florence—in essence, against everything that made the Renaissance what it was. In the absence of the Medici family, he briefly ruled Florence as a theocracy, and famously hosted Bonfires of the Vanities, in which citizens were encouraged to throw their worldly goods on the flames: clothing, works of art, books, jewelry, and furniture were among the things Florentines burned at Savonarola’s behest. Sandro Botticelli himself burned at least one of his own paintings on such a bonfire. In true Florentine style, however, the people soon grew tired of living without their books and fine clothes and artwork, and Fra Savonarola was eventually ousted—with a little help from Pope Alexander VI, who had the friar burned at the stake for openly defying and preaching against the Vatican on more than one occasion.
Oddly enough, Giuliano de’ Medici died exactly two years to the day after Simonetta’s death—April 26, 1478. He was stabbed to death during Mass in the Duomo, as part of a plot that became known as the Pazzi conspiracy. The Pazzi were a rival Florentine banking family, and after a series of political and business-related slights at the hands of the Medici, they decided to eliminate their rivals once and for all—with the tacit blessing of Pope Sixtus IV, who had long been feuding with Lorenzo. The assassins succeeded in dispatching Giuliano, but were not able to kill his brother, who was their true target. Lorenzo escaped with only a few wounds thanks to his friends and supporters who managed to fend off the attackers, and in the days following ruthlessly punished those who were found to have any part in the plot.
The exact nature of Giuliano de’ Medici’s relationship with Simonetta Vespucci is unknown. Some sources say that she was his mistress; others that he was her lover only in the more chaste, courtly sense; and others simply concede that we will never know for certain. For my story, I made the choice that I thought made the most sense based on how I had written Simonetta as a character.
And writing about Simonetta was both a joy and challenge. Very little information is available about her; she is quite literally a footnote, or mentioned in only a sentence or two, in many books on the period or on the Medici family. At times this was very frustrating, as I could not confirm certain simple facts one hundred percent—where her wedding to Marco took place being one such example. However, this was also very liberating in many ways, as I could build her story around those few facts and events that I did know for certain—the joust where Giuliano carried a banner of her painted by Botticelli did actually take place, for instance—and fill in the blanks with my imagination. In those instances where I was presented with conflicting information I simply chose the version I liked best or that best suited the story. This book is, after all, a work of historical fiction, and with fiction comes many freedoms.
Sandro Botticelli, of course, went on to paint many of the great masterpieces of Western artwork, including, of course, The Birth of Venus and Primavera, which are no doubt his two best known works. He was also one of the artists commissioned for the paintings on the walls of the Sistine Chapel. The women in many of his paintings look alike, and so it is speculated that he went on painting Simonetta his whole life. That she is the woman pictured in The Birth of Venus is accepted as fact by many, though some art historians disagree and claim that this is nothing more than romantic nonsense. Obviously, I thought it made for a pretty good story.
All of the artwork described in this novel is real, except for the scandalous portrait of Lucrezia Donati that Botticelli was said to have painted for Lorenzo de’ Medici—that is a juicy rumor of my own invention (though Lucrezia Donati was in fact Lorenzo’s mistress). In the novel most of the artwork is in its original place as well—the Donatello statues of David and Judith did grace the Medici family’s courtyard and garden, respectively. Botticelli’s Adoration of the Magi was indeed commissioned for the church of Santa Maria Novella and was placed in a chapel near the entry there. Where I have taken liberties, though, is with the timeline of when some of Botticelli’s works were painted. The first painting for which Simonetta poses is Botticelli’s Portrait of a Lady (which is also widely believed to be of Simonetta Vespucci) and which was not, in reality, painted until sometime between 1478 and 1490—after Simonetta’s death. As well, The Birth of Venus was not completed until 1484, as I describe in the novel’s prologue. Whether Botticelli ever asked Simonetta to pose for the start of such a work during her lifetime is unknown, but I like to think that he did, and that she accepted.
Sandro Botticelli did in fact request to be buried at Simonetta’s feet, and on his death in 1510 his wish was granted. Many visit his burial place in the Church of the Ognissanti today and leave flowers, messages, and notes, without knowing that his great muse is buried just feet away.
When I originally had the idea to write about Simonetta Vespucci, it was going to be a story about her as Botticelli’s muse and Giuliano de’ Medici’s mistress. Yet some preliminary Googling led me to the above fact—that Botticelli had requested to be buried at her feet, and actually was—and immediately I knew that this was the story I had to tell: that of her relationship with Botticelli, whatever the truth of it may have been. That he is buried with her certainly suggests more than a simple artist?muse attachment, but we will never know the truth for sure. And that, of course, is where historical fiction comes in.