What Remains of the Fair Simonetta (8 page)

Chapter 15

“Will you take me now?” I whispered anxiously in Sandro’s ear. I couldn’t bear another minute at the Medici supper table. By the look of surprise on Sandro‘s face, it was clear that my out-of-context question could be misconstrued as inappropriate.

“Take you?” he asked cautiously.

“I’m sorry. To the Miniato al Monte.”

“Ahh.” He nodded.

I couldn’t think of a better way to end my one day back in the world of the living—if that was, in fact, all the time I had—than to experience the only place in Florence I’d never been before, in the company of Sandro Botticelli.

“I do believe an expedition is called for,” Sandro replied, after contemplating for a moment. “I should like to sketch the way your gown would blow in the wind.” 

Sandro grabbed a wine cask and goblet and with no further hesitation, stood from the table, and silently motioned for me to follow like a high-schooler escaping detention. The rest of the diners started making their way back to the courtyard to watch Leonardo play the lyre, engrossed in their own conversation and paying no mind to us.

“We’ll have to ditch the retinue,” I explained. “Antonella will be furious if she sees me trying to leave without them.”

“Are you certain you do not wish them to carry you? It is quite a long walk.”

“I love to walk.”

Especially on these fantastic willowy legs.

“Is there a back exit?” I asked.

“This is the Palazzo Medici! Of course there is a back exit! As I am sure there are also side exits, underground outlets, and tunnels,” he smirked.

Sandro took my hand and lead me up the stairs past the armory room where I’d posed earlier in the evening. We traversed magnificent hallway after hallway before reaching a series of chambers, which in turn lead to a vast library on the far end of the
palazzo
. As we entered, I spotted manuscripts by Boccaccio, Petrarch, and Dante, translations of Plato and Hermes—shelf after shelf lined with bound pages of wonder. I always felt you could determine much about a person by what books graced their shelves. I desperately wanted to caress the pages in one of Lorenzo’s treasures, but restrained myself as Sandro pulled on the farthest bookcase to reveal a small door behind it. I followed him down a flight of narrow, unlit stairs that lead to another low framed door.

“How did you know this was here?” I asked.

“Lorenzo showed me. When he was younger, men tried to ambush his father. After that attack, his father always wanted to be prepared to escape. Michelozzo had this in mind when he designed the palace, although, most every Florentine
palazzo
has an alternate exit.”

“Even mine?”

“Yes, even yours. I found it when I was commissioned to paint the frescoes in your bedchamber.”

“That was you! I knew it!”

“But how did you know?”

“You’re my favorite artist,” I admitted, sincerely.

“And now, you are my favorite model,” he replied, with a bit of a flirtatious smile that sent tingles from the top of my sculpted head to the tips of my pedicured toenails.

Sandro pushed through the door with graceful ease, stooping to get under the tiny frame. I felt badly for leaving Antonella, but knew her presence, and that of the retinue, would make for a very different kind of time.

We emerged in a dark alley and turned right, crouching past the Palazzo Medici under the moonlight. I lost my bearings for a moment as we continued down a wide residential street, lined with three-story, stone homes, until I saw Brunelleschi’s monumental dome emerging through the misty darkness before me.

“Is that…the baptistery?” I asked, rushing towards the smaller of the two buildings before waiting for an answer.

The Baptistery of Saint John appeared contradictorily ancient compared to the restored version I was used to visiting. The black soot that ran down its octagonal walls made it look tarnished and worn. I went straight for the east doors to see Ghiberti’s
Gates of Paradise
in all their glory—while still in their intended place. I ran my fingers along one of the ten gold biblical scenes gilded into the closed doors. Never would I have been able to touch the artistic treasures in modern times, as they are housed behind glass inside the
Museo dell’Opera del Duomo
.

“I was baptized here,” Sandro casually mentioned, as he made his way next to me.

“Really?”

“Yes. All Florentines are.”

Just behind me was the massive
Duomo
of Florence, the
Santa Maria del Fiore
, or Saint Mary of the Flower, topped by Brunelleschi’s monstrous dome. I marveled at the detail of the enormous green, white and pink marble façade as we stood in front of the massive cathedral. Even though I’d seen the church hundreds of times in my future, I was amazed that it was largely unchanged.

As we continued past the Palazzo Pazzi and the Bargello, I felt as though my hour was drawing near and I should broach the subject of Mariano.

“I spent the afternoon with your father,” I blurted.

“My father?” he asked, appearing quite confused. “Whatever for?”

“I can’t explain it, but I feel it’s my responsibility to repair your relationship with him.”

“Oh? What damage is there to repair?”

“You don’t think your relationship is a bit…strained?” I asked in amazement.

“No. My father does not understand my ways, and I do not agree with his, but there is no discord because of it.”

“Really? So you just agree to disagree?”

“Something of that nature.”

“And you think it’s mutual? That your father feels the same way?”

“I suppose I never considered it,” Sandro shrugged.

Mariano had suffered hundreds of years of guilt because he thought he had caused permanent damage to his son, all while Sandro had remained completely oblivious and unaffected. I now understood my purpose in this world was merely to discover this truth and report it back to Mariano, so he may be in peace. I felt sorry for Mariano for having punished himself all those years, but relieved that I could finally alleviate his suffering.

“Now, may I ask you a question?” Sandro queried.

“Of course,” I replied, hoping I’d know the answer.

“Why did you wish to leave the Palazzo Medici with such haste?”

“I guess that display with Giuliano and Poliziano made me uncomfortable.”

“Interesting. I would have thought the game would please you.”

“Game?”

“Giuliano is a young nobleman coming of age; he must render his courtly love to an unattainable woman.”

“Like a rite of passage?”

“Yes, and who could be more unattainable than the exquisite Simonetta Vespucci? He has chosen to direct his hopeless love towards you because of your beauty and station. You are already married, and therefore, are unattainable, but can still inspire Giuliano to win the joust.”

“So I’m
supposed
to reject him?”

“Outwardly, yes. That is why Poliziano has said that you are armored by your chastity against his love.”

I thought modern day rich people were weird. What I wouldn’t give for a Wikipedia explanation of this nonsense.

“But I didn’t get the impression that Giuliano  expects our ‘love’ to remain unconsummated.”

“I believe you are correct…that he would hope for more. It is your choice, of course.”

“Well, I should hope so!” I exclaimed. My pro-feminist nerves raged with fervor. Although I was a bit surprised that a woman of the fifteenth century would have an option. “Do I
really
have a choice?”

“Honestly, I do not know,” he finally conceded. “Giuliano is a determined man.”

I tried not to think about Giuliano and his intentions, as we made our way towards the river, passing through the Piazza della Signoria under the tower of the Palazzo Vecchio. I noticed that the
David
of Michelangelo was absent from the
piazza
, as was the yet-to-be-built Uffizi Gallery—the future home of Sandro’s
Birth of Venus.
I felt sad for a moment knowing that my most treasured man-made thing on Earth did not yet exist, but I knew if I was somehow able to hang around long enough, I would play a large part in its creation.

We approached a long stone bridge with arches and multi-story buildings on each support. The buildings were not crowded together, as they are on the Ponte Vecchio, but absent between each span.

“Is this the Ponte alle Grazie?” It was the right location, but I questioned because the modern, plain bridge in no way resembled the quaint version I was viewing.

“Very good!” Sandro replied with exuberance. “It is named after the tabernacle of the Virgin and Child on the north side. It is the only bridge to have survived the flood of 1333, and so is the oldest in Florence. The buildings alongside it are inhabited by nuns who live in total isolation.”

I loved to hear Sandro talk, even about lonely nuns. I spotted an image of the Virgin Mary in relief on the side of the last building and absently reached to touch my Miraculous Medal once again. Even though I wasn’t a God-fearing woman, I’d always treasured that gift from Sister Constance, and had worn it my entire life.

After crossing the bridge and leaving the heart of the city behind, I noticed the vast hills ahead of us, devoid of any buildings, were instead filled with fields of wildflowers. Blood red irises dotted the highland, making it clear why they had become the symbol of Florence. The blossoms extended as far as the eye could see in the darkness, illuminated by the torch Sandro carried.

We walked for quite some time along the left bank of the Arno, the night being so much darker than any I could remember. The air was still and warm as I took in the scent of flowers, and bread baked earlier in the day, still lingering in the air. The tanners and other workers who had lined the banks of the river were gone for the night, and it seemed that Florence belonged only to us.

I offered to help Sandro, since he was still lugging the wine cask and goblet, along with his sketching supplies and a torch, but he insisted on carrying everything himself. We breached the city wall, through the gate of San Niccolo, where the guards recognized Sandro and let him pass without question. He then walked up the hill at a hurried pace, and I was surprised at how little effort it took to keep up with him. My new teenage frame and long legs were a far cry from the age-worn body I’d once left behind.

My heart stopped for a moment as I realized we were approaching one of my most cherished spots in the universe; the place I would go in my head whenever things were going wrong. But when we reached the summit of the winding dirt road, the Piazzale Michelangelo was nowhere to be found.

I paused for a moment to conjure the image of modern times. The bronze replicas of Michelangelo’s most prominent sculptures that would surround a flowing fountain in the middle of a square and would always be filled with budding artists and musicians. The panoramic view from that spot, with the Duomo as the centerpiece of all the red rooftops of Florence, would be magnificent beyond compare. Seeing that image was really the beginning of my life the first time around. I was determined never to forget the intense happiness I felt when I’d first stood there. After that, whenever life got me down, I would mentally bring myself back to that place; to that perfect hour.

We continued up the hill, through the inky darkness, until we finally approached a long set of stairs with an iron gate at the summit. We climbed up and Sandro opened the gate, allowing us to pass through, only to be confronted by a second set of stairs that made their way through a small cemetery. At the top of those steps, the magnificent Basilica of San Miniato al Monte was illuminated by torches, giving it almost a glowing aura.

The façade had intricate designs of green and white marble, and atop a high window was a gold mosaic. I strained my eyes in the dark to make out the subject of the mélange of tiny tiles.

“Minias was an Armenian prince in the year 250,” Sandro began. “He left his home to become a Christian, and make a pilgrimage to Rome. On his way, he stopped for a while to live as a hermit in the cave on this hill. He was soon persecuted by the Roman Emperor Decius for his Christian beliefs. The Emperor ordered him to be thrown to the beasts in the amphitheatre that once stood in Florence near the Piazza della Signoria. There, a panther was released, but refused to devour him. The Emperor became so enraged, he instead had Minias beheaded, to ensure the task was done. At that point that Minias is said to have picked up his own head and placed it back on his shoulders, before crossing the Arno and walking up this hill of Mons Fiorentinus to his hermitage, so he might die in his cave. This church, representing Minias, was built shortly after the year 1000, and is the oldest in Florence.”

As I stared up at the mosaic imbedded in the façade, I thought about how bizarre it was that the church was so old then, and yet is still in existence in my time. It was also strange that it was one of the only places in Florence I’d never been.

My best friend in the twenty-first century Florence, Graziella, had married her husband, Michael, in the Miniato al Monte, and refused to ever go back after they were estranged. I had illogically avoided the place out of respect for her, but now as I looked at the marvel of the church, I was glad to have seen it first in this time—this realm. It was like saving the best for last.