The entire process took most of the day, and the afternoon sun was slanting its light down the streets and alleys of Florence by the time we were finished. I was exhausted, despite not having done much of anything at all. Yet I had to keep my wits about me for the upcoming gathering.
Marco came for me right on time, and Chiara and I were waiting in the receiving room for him with my mother. He came in and swept us a bow as we rose to our feet. “Simonetta, mio cuore,” he said. “You are a vision. I did not believe you could possibly look more beautiful, but today you have managed it.”
I smiled. “I shall have to try something quite new for our wedding day, then.”
“It does not matter, for I will be just as in love with you no matter what,” he vowed. He offered me his arm. “Shall we, then?”
My mother trailed out behind us, offering me last-minute advice on etiquette and posture and “Do not blather on about your poetry in such company, Simonetta.” Again, it was all I could do not to roll my eyes. I had not come to Florence to not talk about poetry. “Si, Madre,” I called over my shoulder as Marco handed me into the carriage, with Chiara following behind me. And then we were off.
7
The Medici palazzo was situated in the Via Larga, a stone’s throw from the great cathedral, baptistery, and campanile in the Piazza del Duomo. The palazzo had been constructed, so Marco told me en route, by the great Cosimo de’ Medici, father of Piero and grandfather of Lorenzo and Giuliano. “One of the greatest men this city has ever known,” he told me, his eyes shining with pride in his homeland. “It is quite the building, as you will see. Many have tried to emulate and even surpass it, though none, in my opinion, have succeeded.”
I only smiled encouragingly as he went on. Marco did not seem to notice that I was too nervous to reply.
I longed to turn my head to peer out of the carriage windows at the houses, shops, churches, and streets as we passed. I was so curious about this city of which I had heard so much, and taking in my new surroundings would have been a good way to keep my mind off of the importance of the evening ahead. But it would have been rude to so blatantly ignore Marco, even though he was doing nothing to put me at ease with his accounting of the accomplishments of Cosimo de’ Medici, and even those of Lorenzo himself, just back from a very successful diplomatic visit to Milan, where he had apparently been very well received by Duke Galeazzo Maria Sforza himself.
And now, home in Florence, this supposedly great Lorenzo shall receive a simple noble girl from Genoa, I thought, my heart doubling its pace.
Thankfully, before too long, the carriage rolled to a stop, and Marco hopped out in order to help me down. “Here we are,” he said cheerfully.
The building I beheld upon stepping out of the carriage was more like a fortress than anything else. Taking up the entire block on which it sat, it was a massive rectangular configuration of sandy-colored stone, allowing it to fit in nicely with the brown and yellow buildings and reddish-tiled roofs that covered Florence. Two neat rows of arched windows marched in orderly fashion across the top half of the fa?ade, marking the second and third floors. At ground level were two massive doorways cut into the stone.
All in all, the exterior was intimidating, exuding force and power without being particularly beautiful or elegant. Perhaps these Medici—whom I had been told are not royalty, even though Marco spoke of them with all the awe and honor that I imagined one would accord to royalty—must be careful not to appear too ostentatious, as though they are setting themselves up too grandly. Perhaps it was fine for others to speak of them as royalty in this republican Florence, so long as they did not seem to see themselves that way.
As we approached the center door, Chiara following behind us, it swung open to reveal a servant standing behind it. “Welcome, signore, signorina,” the man said, stepping aside to allow us in. “It is Signor Vespucci, is it not?”
“Si,” Marco replied, “and my betrothed, Simonetta Cattaneo.”
The servant nodded, though I noticed him sneaking another glance at me. “Very good. The party is just through the courtyard in the gardens, signore.”
“Grazie,” Marco said, taking my hand and placing it on his arm. “I know the way.”
The servant bowed, withdrawing and gesturing for Chiara to follow him, no doubt to the kitchens.
We stepped into a small but elegant courtyard, ringed with arches supported by simple, smooth columns topped with elaborately carved capitals. Above us, windows of the interior rooms of the palazzo looked down upon the courtyard. Directly across from the entrance, above the center arch, was a large stone carving of what I had learned to recognize as the Medici crest: a coat of arms with six balls arranged upon it.
In the very center of the courtyard, upon a pedestal, stood a magnificent statue in bronze of David. He wore a wide-brimmed shepherd’s hat but was otherwise naked, and carried a great sword in his right hand, with his left hand resting confidently on his hip. As well it should: at the shepherd boy’s sandaled feet rested the head of Goliath.
I drew away from Marco and stepped closer to the statue, intent on examining it further. Unfamiliar though I was with the male nude—real or rendered in art—I could still appreciate the detail, the lifelike quality of each line and curve of muscle and flesh. So lifelike was this David that I half expected him to step down from the pedestal and begin to converse with us.
Marco came to stand next to me. “Magnificent, isn’t it?” he said softly.
“I have never seen anything like it before,” I breathed.
“Nor will you, I shouldn’t think,” Marco said. “It was sculpted by the great Donatello.” He turned to look at me significantly. “David is one of the symbols of Florence, of course.”
“Is he?” I asked. “Well, this is a most worthy representation—more than worthy.”
Marco smiled at my appreciation. “Come,” he said, taking my hand again. “Let me introduce you to the family. Then you shall be able to discuss art to your heart’s content.”
We moved past the statue of David and stepped through an archway at the opposite end of the courtyard, emerging into a lovely garden ringed by the stone walls of the palazzo. Straight stone paths cut through the carefully tended grass, with small trees and flowers planted along the walkways, and more statues interspersed among the plant life. At either end of the garden was a fountain, sending streams of water bubbling peacefully into the basin below. On the grass in the center of the garden a long table draped in a gauzy tablecloth had been placed, with perhaps twenty chairs arranged around it. Some of those chairs were occupied, while other guests wandered about the garden.
So captivated was I by my surroundings that I did not immediately notice that the attention of every individual in the garden was fixed on me. Once I did, I began to blush. So much for appearing the consummate sophisticate.