Free I, Mona Lisa by Jeanne Kalogridis Page A

painting
Primavera
, soon to be a wedding gift from Lorenzo to his cousin.
    Sandro eyed Leonardo’s sketch with sly humor. “So. Trying to steal my job, I see.”
    He was referring to the recently painted mural on a façade near the Palazzo della Signoria, partially visible behind the scaffolding now that the crowd was beginning to thin. He had received a commission from Lorenzo in those terrible days following Giuliano’s death: to depict each of the executed Pazzi conspirators as they dangled from therope. The life-sized images duly inspired the terror they were meant to provoke. There was Francesco de’ Pazzi, entirely naked, his wounded thigh encrusted with blood; there, too, was Salviati in his archbishop’s robes. The two dead men were shown facing the viewer—effective, though not an accurate depiction of fact. Like Botticelli, Leonardo had been in the Piazza della Signoria at the moment Francesco—dragged from his bed—had been pushed from the uppermost arched window of the palazzo, hung from the building itself for all to see. A moment later, Salviati had followed and, at the instant of his death, had turned toward his fellow conspirator and—whether in a violent, involuntary spasm or in a final moment of rage—had sunk his teeth deep into Francesco de’ Pazzi’s shoulder. It was a bizarre image, one so troubling that even Leonardo, overwhelmed by emotion, failed to record it in his notebook. Paintings of other executed men, including Messer Iacopo, were partially completed, but one murderer was altogether missing: Baroncelli. Botticelli had probably taken notes himself this morning, intending to finish the mural. But at the sight of Leonardo’s sketch, he shrugged.
    “No matter,” he said breezily. “Being rich enough to dress like a lord prior, I can certainly let a pauper like yourself finish up the task. I have far greater things to accomplish.”
    Leonardo, dressed in a knee-length artisan’s tunic of cheap used linen and a dull gray wool mantle, slipped his sketch under one arm and bowed, low and sweeping, in an exaggerated show of gratitude.
    “You are too kind, my lord.” He rose. “Now go. You are a hired hack, and I am a true artist, with much to accomplish before the rains come.”
    He and Sandro parted with smiles and a brief embrace, and Leonardo returned at once to studying the crowd. He was always happy to see Sandro, but the interruption annoyed him. Too much was at stake; he reached absently into the pouch on his belt and fingered a gold medallion the size of a large florin. On the front, in bas relief, was the title PUBLIC MOURNING . Beneath, Baroncelli raised his long knife above his head while Giuliano looked up at the blade with surprise. Behind Baroncelli stood Francesco de’ Pazzi, his dagger atthe ready. Leonardo had provided the sketch, rendering the scene with as much accuracy as possible, although for the viewer’s sake, Giuliano was depicted as facing Baroncelli. Verrocchio had made the cast from Leonardo’s drawing.
    Two days after the murder, Leonardo had dispatched a letter to Lorenzo de’ Medici.
    My lord Lorenzo, I need to speak privately with you concerning a matter of the utmost importance
.
    No reply was forthcoming: Lorenzo, overcome with grief, hid in the Medici palazzo, which had become a fortress surrounded by scores of armed men. He received no visitors; letters requesting his opinion or his favor piled up unanswered.
    After a week without a reply, Leonardo borrowed a gold florin and went to the door of the Medici stronghold. He bribed one of the guards there to deliver a second letter straightaway, while he stood waiting in the loggia, watching the hard rain pound the cobblestone streets.
    My lord Lorenzo, I come neither seeking favor nor speaking of business. I have critical information concerning the death of your brother, for your ears alone.
    Several minutes later he was admitted after being thoroughly checked for weapons—ridiculous, since he had