What Remains of the Fair Simonetta (17 page)

“I am unsure,” Sandro replied with obvious concern.

“I guess that’ll make it easier for you to win, then,” I said sarcastically to Giuliano.

“I will give the boy a few pointers once I escort you back to the
palazzo
, Simonetta,” Giuliano insisted. The anger that shown on his face, controlled in his voice.

Sandro looked at me and nodded to indicate that I should go with Giuliano. I could see the fear in Sandro’s eyes, knowing that a Medici was not an enemy he wished to have.

Had the age of my brain matched that of my body, I would surely have been head over heels for Giuliano. He was devastatingly handsome, polite and chivalrous, when he wasn’t being arrogant and misogynistic. He seemed content to embrace my subservient role of a woman in the Renaissance. Giuliano lived inside the box, rather than tearing down its walls and breaking free of it, like Sandro did.

Giuliano, Antonella and I, strolled back to the Palazzo Vespucci with Giuliano’s stiff attendant lugging my bulky new dress. The attendant also held the reins of a beautiful chestnut stallion that carried the large banner on its saddle. There were an unusual number of people milling down the Borgo in the direction of the Ognissanti, and Giuliano made sure he put on a good show for the crowd.

At my door, Giuliano bowed and kissed my hand, then knelt on one knee to present me with the white mass of fabric. Once Antonella took it from him, he removed the banner from the horse and passed it off to the now empty-handed attendant. Giuliano leapt onto the stallion, then trotted off, yelling, “I win for you, Simonetta!” loudly enough to ensure onlookers milling down the street could hear, while leaving his attendant and the banner in the dust.

Chapter 29

When Antonella opened the door to the
palazzo
, we were nearly bowled over by a stampede of Vespucci. The entirety of the house emerged, including Marco, Piero, Amerigo, and his father, Nastagio. The nobility, dressed in velvet, silk, gold brocade, and all manner of fine clothing, were followed by Luciana and the nameless retinue clothed in their matching brown and white attire. Without words, Marco looped his arm inside mine, and strutted me regally down the street, trailing after his father in the Vespucci procession. As we paraded down the Borgo as a five-deep, six-wide mob, all I wanted to do was push Marco off me and run back to Sandro.

As I was shuffled towards the Ognissanti, the throng of Vespucci, swaggered like peacocks as they “humbly” greeted the neighborhood of lowly churchgoers. Sandro, Mariano, and even Filippino were at the outer edges of the crowd. I could barely speak as denizens of the district approached me en masse, bowing, and kissing, and invading my three-foot consumption-prevention perimeter. My growing claustrophobia made the church itself seem to pulsate and breathe, the dynamic building using the crowd to push me in to its vortex to the afterlife; the heaving façade sucking and dragging me in to my otherworldly home as if to say, y
our time here is over.

A mournful psalm from the grand pipe organ filtered out through the high walls. To me it sounded like Chopin’s
Funeral March.
As we neared the heavy wooden entry doors, I could see past the narthex, and well into the church’s nave. The golden high altar was crowned with Giotto’s eerie
Madonna
looking down on me, and I pondered for a moment on how much Sister Constance loved that painting. For just a split second, I swore the coyote was traipsing across the altar. I squinted and shook my head at the sight of the trickster, and just as fast, he vanished.

That’s when the Abbess stepped out from one of the south chapels. I blinked again, hoping to make her disappear as well, but she remained. The Abbess stared past the crowd, directly at me, burning holes in my borrowed flesh, seemingly aware of my corporeal thievery. Even though the Miraculous Medal had been given to Simonetta before I arrived to invade her body, I knew this was the woman who’d given it to her. In her, I recognized the eyes of Sister Constance of the twenty-first century. She didn’t look exactly the same, but those piercing orbs framed by rugose lids gave her away. I could see into her soul and perceived her to be one and the same shriveled being, and I knew she peered into my soul as well.

I was weak. Instead of facing my fate head on as I had the strength to do only a few days prior, I panicked. I didn’t want to go back. I wanted to live. I wanted to love. I wanted to do all the things I had told Antonella she couldn’t do. I wanted to be with Sandro for all time. Not in the urn-inhabiting, ashy way I’d been, but in the flesh, warm and naked and free from all deathly restraint.

“No.” I shook my head and muttered to myself, “I’ll take the consumption. I can’t go back now.” The nun still beckoned me in.

I stopped in my tracks, and tried to do an about-face. I refused to confront my fate. Simonetta’s death had to be prevented. I couldn’t go back to being a spirit—a bystander to history.

“What is wrong with you, woman? Move along!” Marco barked, as he shoved me into the throng which carried me helplessly towards the threshold. As I was about to cross it, the people, and the church, and the world crushed in on me. Then everything suddenly went black. The crowd and commotion were gone. It was just me and the damn coyote strolling on the high altar. He stopped to look up at me, and grinned his evil grin: the creature known for disobeying normal rules and conventional behavior. Even a non-Christian being would think twice about trampling across an altar in a beautiful church.

“You have me back!” I screamed, but he just trotted on. “What else do you want?” He gave no reply. But then again, he never did.

The figure of the nun appeared in front of the altar, but instead of a habit she was barely covered in a large scarf, loosely draped across her wrinkled body. In her right hand she held a javelin, and she leaned upon a bundle of javelins that were tied together on her left. I knew I was in a dream-state and she didn’t belong. “What are you doing here?” I asked.

“I have always been here,” she replied. “And so have you.”

Then the strangest sensation overcame me. It was a dizzying motion like floating through the air. I could feel it,
physically,
like a bird soaring
.
Blurred streaks of gray and brown stone rushed by me, then patches of blue sky and clouds, and then faces. So many faces.

“Make way!” someone yelled.

Four men cornered the litter that carried me, the nameless retinue that had escorted me to the Palazzo Medici, so many nights ago. I wanted to formally introduce myself, as I’d virtually ignored them, but knew it wasn’t the time.

“What happened?” I asked.

“You swooned,
Signora,
” the kind-faced man to my left, replied.

“Was I inside or outside of the church?”
I had to know.

“Halfway between,
Monna
Simonetta. You collapsed in the threshold.”

“Where are you taking me?” I certainly didn’t want to go to some archaic
ospedale
, where they would give me some horrible syrup and drain my blood.

“Marco instructed us to take you back to the
palazzo
.”

I nodded in agreement. Before long, I was carried up to my bedchamber and placed gently on the bed. The all-male retinue was careful not to touch any inappropriate areas on my body.

“I will fetch your attendant,” the kind face man replied.

“I am right here!” Antonella called from behind them as she forced her way through. “Are you ailing?”

“I’m fine. Just not a fan of church services,” I laughed.

Antonella excused the retinue so that they might return to the Ognissanti, then she brought a cold washcloth to my forehead as I’d done for Jacopo the night before.

“I don’t have a fever, Antonella. I’m perfectly all right.”

“Still, I insist you rest.” She attempted to remove my fairy tale gown while I lie supine on the bed, but those damn dresses were hard enough to deal with while standing.

“Antonella, I can get up.” She wanted to protest, but I was already on my feet before she could.

“Why would you swoon like that, if not from fever?” she asked while she removed the blue, satiny dress.

“I had…a panic attack.”

“Ahh, you need the chamber pot?” She went to reach for it under the bed.

“Wait. What? No, no Antonella,” I put my hands up to stop her.

“Then you need an infusion of barley porridge, egg yolk, and cinnamon for the colic.”

“No. Not colic. My stomach is fine. I panicked. I got scared…of the church…and I didn’t want to go in.”

“You are frightened of the church? But your favorite nun is there,” she said sarcastically.

“Exactly!”

“You must rest,” Antonella insisted again with wide-eyed concern for my sanity.

“Okay, Antonella. I think I will. How long until the rest of the family gets home?”

“It is the Lord’s day, Netta. You know they will be socializing for the better part of it.”

“Why don’t you take a nap as well, then,” I suggested.

“Me?” Antonella questioned, but then yawned. “Yes, I am quite fatigued after our late night. Since no one is here to witness, I believe I will.” She walked into her adjacent room and closed the door behind her.

Suddenly, a chill of excitement ran through me. It was the same feeling I had when my first boyfriend left me alone in his house. And I did exactly what I did then.

I searched it.

Having no idea what I was looking for, I strolled through my sitting room and the dining area, relishing the opportunity to admire their splendor without anyone wondering why I studied the contents so intently. My hunt only intensified when I entered Marco’s bedchamber, but after rifling around for a while, I found nothing of any real significance. After that, I walked in and out of the multitude of rooms, admiring the décor, but with the same results; no tidbits to shed any light on this noble family.

Finally, I reached the last door of the hallway, which led into the most elaborate set of chambers in the
palazzo
. A large sitting room opened into a bedchamber, with gold paneled walls wrapped around a sculpted four post bed. The bed had a canopy and drapes of red velvet fringed with gold tassels; the ensemble crowned with something resembling a giant gold tiara. The cobalt blue mosaic flooring with gold wasps was partially covered by an extravagant Turkish rug. Beyond the bedchamber on one side resided a bathroom of sorts and a small chapel. What interested me the most dwelled on the other side: a library with a delicate bureau desk as its centerpiece. I thumbed through books on banking, notarization, and the laws of Florence, disappointed that no literature, philosophy or poetry were anywhere to be found.

I turned my attention to the desk. Two framed certificates adorned the top shelf—both in honor of Piero Vespucci. The first stated that Marco’s father served in office for the King of Naples, the second that he also held the post of Chief Magistrate, or
Podestà,
of Milan.

There were several small inkwells and even more quills tucked under the first shelf. Stacks of documents and letters were filed in slots. I took one pile at a time, careful not to disturb the order in which I found them. Once I moved past my enchantment with the beautiful calligraphy penned on the delicate parchment, I examined the papers more closely. There were several bank notes indicating many of Florence’s citizens were indebted to Piero, and a number of letters from dignitaries in Genoa, Milan, and Naples.

Then I found a deed, which read:

As dowry, in addition to monetary compensation for Simonetta Cattaneo of Genoa, betrothed to Marco Vespucci, son of Piero, I hereby grant this deed to the mineral rights of the Piombino Iron Mines on the island of Elba.

Signed,

Jacopo III d’Appiano

Even though I was quite familiar with the concept of dowries, it still shocked and infuriated me that Piero and Marco were actually paid handsomely to take Simonetta. I continued my search a little less delicately.

Had he sold me to Giuliano as well?
And who is Jacopo d’Appiano?

I opened the drawers of the bureau desk one by one, by now so angry, that I paid little attention to the contents. As I went to return the papers to the third drawer, I noticed something peeking out from under the velvet liner at the bottom: two documents addressed to Jacopo III, Lord of Piombino—not Piero Vespucci—were hidden there.

As I attempted to interpret the concealed documents, I was suddenly halted by a clatter at the front door.

Chapter 30

I quickly returned the documents to their hiding place, grabbed a quill and inkwell from Piero’s desk, and scurried across the
palazzo
before anyone could catch me snooping. By the time I reached my bedchamber, out of breath, I realized the
palazzo
remained empty; not a soul in sight. I heard the clatter again, but this time I could tell it was someone knocking at the front door. In the twenty-first century, I would’ve thought nothing of answering the caller myself, but here I had to let custom dictate my actions, so I waited to see if Antonella would arise. I even opened her door slightly, hoping the noise would awaken her, but she was fast asleep. I looked out the window to see who was calling, and my heart leapt to see Sandro waving at me.

In only my shift, I ran down the stairs, flung the front door open, and yanked Sandro into the
palazzo
before throwing my arms around him, figuring my unclothed body wouldn’t exactly be a shock to him. “How are you still standing? Are you all right?” I asked.

“Me?”

“Yes, you! Your master has died, you have to care for his son, your uncle is sick, and you’ve been up all night.”

Without being on crack.

“But, you have fainted, Simonetta. I saw it with my own eyes. I have risked being discovered to ensure you are well.”

I took both his hands into mine, and pulled him into my bedchamber. “Come in here in case someone returns to the house, so you won’t be seen.” As it happened, my chamber was the only place in the
palazzo
I felt I could call my own in this alternate world. I propped a velvet chair up against the doorknob before turning back to him. “I’m fine Sandro. I don’t know what happened.”

“Where is Antonella?” he asked.

“Asleep in the next room.” Using the chair to ward away intruders left no other place to sit but the bed. Surprisingly, Sandro sat down next to me.

“I start the Ognissanti fresco on the morrow, and I fear I will not see you alone again,” Sandro said, almost in tears. “I will paint you forever, even if they keep me from you. I know this commission in the Ognissanti is designed to separate us, and you must give yourself to Giuliano.”

“But I—.”

“Despite what you think, Simonetta, you have no choice,” Sandro said firmly.

“What if Giuliano doesn’t win the joust?”

Although, I knew he would. But maybe I could trip him? Give him a trick lance? Glue the visor of his armor shut?

“Giuliano is an excellent athlete and both he and Lorenzo have rewarded many Florentines for their participation, including Filippino and your father-in-law, Piero. They have even paid for their armor, horse and trappings. His win has been ensured. ”

“
There has to be a way out of it,” I muttered. Then I pondered what he had said. This could be the last time we were alone together.
Ever.
For a moment I no longer cared about the stupid joust or what would happen with Giuliano. I wasted no time kissing Sandro, doubling down on my previous infidelity. It occurred to me that I was always the aggressor, but each time he became more and more willing, soon allowing his lips to mold to mine. And once more we fell into a reclined position, but this time on my hard bed. We stared into each other’s eyes for less than a minute before Sandro drifted off into a deep sleep.

I wanted to strip him down and have my way with him, but he only reluctantly allowed my inappropriate advances when he was conscious. So it seemed we were doomed to remain somewhere between lovers and residents of the friendship-zone.

I lay next to him on the bed for a while, gazing lovingly at his gently snoring form. It was my only down time since awakening in this world and I wasn’t quite sure how to occupy myself. I was tempted to join him in slumber, knowing that resting next to him meant it would be a peaceful, dreamless sleep. But I had to listen for the Vespucci clan to return.

At some point Antonella opened her door and found me lying next to Sandro while he slept on the bed. She just nodded knowingly and returned to her chamber.

Then I remembered the stolen quill and inkwell from Piero’s chamber. I knew such items would never have been made available to a woman, and in my haste, I grabbed them as one might a precious treasure. From Sandro’s satchel I pilfered some paper.

I wanted to write to Sandro, something to let him know how much his paintings would one day mean to his father. To future generations. To me. Though before my pen even hit the paper, I thought better of it. I had such a clear mind when I was with Sandro, and even though he wasn’t conscious, the clarity remained. I wanted to write about my love for him, to hide it in some remote place that wouldn’t be found until years after Simonetta’s death.

But where?

Instead, I wrote about Sandro in the contemporary vernacular, not my corrupted modern version of Italian, but in Mariano’s Tuscan language of old, so it could be understood in this time. Chronicling all I had learned about him in our brief time, I wrote my personal biography of Sandro Botticelli while he slept by my side.