The Dark Heart of Florence by Tasha Alexander (ebook reader screen TXT) 📕

small gatherings of artists, humanists, and scholars, not events intended to cement the family’s superiority over other members of the ruling class.

Which was precisely why I was so excited at the prospect of going. At long last, an evening of intellectual stimulation! I let Alfia dress me in a fine gown—the blue, as she desired—and did not complain as she coaxed my long hair into perfect loose curls. She oiled my eyelashes to make them appear darker and barked at me to bite my lips to give them color. I did as she asked, knowing no one I encountered that evening would take the slightest interest in my appearance.

The Palazzo Medici was only a ten-minute walk from our house, so I slipped wooden clogs over my cloth shoes and set off on Nonno’s arm. As I expected, we were not shown into the Medici’s formal dining room but rather a smaller chamber Lorenzo used for more intimate gatherings. Its arched ceiling made the room feel bigger than it was, and we gathered immediately around a heavy square table, making no nod to the ordinary rituals of society. One servant filled our cups with wine while another served soup with large chunks of meat seasoned with cinnamon.

We were not a large group. Aside from Nonno and me, il Magnifico had invited Marsilio Ficino, who headed the Platonic Academy in Florence and had become a priest; Giuliano da Sangallo, an architect and sculptor; and the artist Sandro Botticelli, whom Lorenzo’s mother had brought into the Medici household when her sons were young. I had met all of them many times before, but had not seen them in more than a year, and felt a prickle of nerves, wondering if I would be able to converse effortlessly with them as I used to.

“How you have grown,” Lorenzo said. “I fondly remember you as a ten-year-old, proud of your knowledge of Latin, reciting excerpts from one of Cicero’s speeches. Your grandfather taught you well.”

My education benefited greatly from Nonno. My parents, neither of them particularly interested in the details, were happy to let him arrange tutors for my brothers, and he insisted that I study with them as well. Time proved me to be the only sibling who showed either aptitude or interest for scholarship. Nonno began bringing me books to supplement my studies. He also worked with me himself, teaching me penmanship, so that my handwriting was nearly as beautiful as his own.

“You are very kind, sir,” I said, as the servants cleared our soup bowls.

“And now you are old enough that we rarely see you.” He shook his head. “It’s time you focus on other things.”

“Marriage and motherhood,” Signore Botticelli said. “Underwhelming and disappointing.”

“Not necessarily,” Lorenzo replied. “Don’t discourage her.”

“There’s no need to. Life will take care of that itself.” The artist swigged his wine and leaned back from the table so it was easier for the footman, who was serving the next course, to place a plate laden with pork in a pepper sauce in front of him.

“What are you reading now, child?” Father Ficino asked.

“I’ve studied Augustine and Aquinas and am now turning to Dante.”

“What a relief,” Botticelli said.

“I couldn’t agree more,” I said, my confidence returning. “I found Augustine and his pears infuriating.”

“The great Dante knew we are drawn to religion,” Father Ficino said. “Augustine may irritate you, but his ideas should not be dismissed. Better that you consider them, internalize them, and come up with your own way of expressing the saint’s thoughts. It might prove a useful exercise.”

“Let her indulge in Dante, Marsilio,” Signore da Sangallo said. “She can rewrite Augustine when her grandchildren are old enough to marry.”

A look of horror crossed my face. “I cannot contemplate reaching so advanced an age. What would it be? Nearly fifty?” The men laughed.

“I’m fast approaching just that,” Father Ficino said. “You will find, Mina, that age does not change you so much as you might expect. I feel no different now than I did as a youth of twenty.”

“I’m not sure whether that’s encouraging or terrifying,” I said.

The conversation continued as we ate, moving to the Platonic idea of love bringing us closer to God by enabling us to recognize divinity in each other’s souls and then to the difficulties posed by free will and then to more mundane things. Signore Botticelli asked for paper and pencil. I did not know what he was drawing until the party broke up and we stood to leave the room. As I walked through the door, he touched my arm and showed me his work. He had sketched my face.

“Someday,” he said, “I will use you as a model for one of the Three Graces. I have only to decide which you embody: Aglaea, Euphrosyne, or Thalia. I’m inclined to Aglaea, as no one who sees you could doubt that you shine.”

“Splendor and beauty, quite fitting,” Signore da Sangallo said, winking at me. We made our way down to the ground floor and entered Michelozzo’s Corinthian-column-lined cortile. I was feeling quite pleased with myself. Their attention was flattering, and I wanted to believe it sincere, even if I suspected it had to do more with pleasant memories of me as a child than it did my current appearance.

A man stood on the far side of the courtyard, near the palazzo’s main door, his hands clasped in front of his waist. Seeing Lorenzo, he straightened himself as we approached, but il Magnifico did not hail him. Instead, he stopped walking and turned to my grandfather.

“I have something for you, Teo,” he said, holding out a small velvet bag. “A mark of appreciation for all you’ve done for me. You have a keen eye when it comes to ancient beauty; it is a trait we share. When I found this, I knew you would hold it in the same esteem as I.”

“This is unexpected,” Nonno said. He gently removed an object from the bag. Lorenzo, whose collection of cameos was the envy of