I, Mona Lisa Read Online Free PDF Page A

him out. She wavered, but then agreed. They had met once, in the ground-floor
appartamento
at the Medici palazzo. She had indulged in his embraces, his kiss, but would go no further. He had begged her to leave Florence, to go away with him, but she had refused.
    “He knows.” Her voice had been anguished. “Do you understand? He knows, and I cannot bear to hurt him any longer.”
    Giuliano was a determined man. Neither God nor societal convention gave him pause once he had made up his mind. For Anna, he was willing to give up the prospect of a respectable marriage; for Anna, he was willing to endure the censure of the Church, even excommunication and the prospect of damnation.
    And so he had made a forceful argument: She should go with him to Rome, to stay in a family villa. The Medici had papal connections;he would procure for her an annulment. He would marry her. He would give her children.
    She had been torn, had put her hands to her lips. He looked in her eyes and saw the misery there, but he also saw a flicker of hope.
    “I don’t know; I don’t know,” she had said, and he had let her return to her husband to make her decision.
     
    The next day, he had gone to Lorenzo.
    He had wakened early and been unable to return to sleep. It was still dark—two hours before sunrise—but he was not surprised to see light emanating from his brother’s antechamber. Lorenzo sat at his desk with his cheek propped against his fist, scowling down at a letter he held close to the glowing lamp.
    Normally Lorenzo would have looked up, would have forced away the frown to smile, to utter a greeting; that day, however, he seemed in uncommonly ill sorts. No greeting came; Lorenzo gave him a cursory glance, then looked back at the letter. Its contents were apparently the cause of his bad humor.
    Lorenzo could be maddeningly stubborn at times, overly concerned with appearances, coldly calculating when it came to politics, and at times dictatorial concerning how Giuliano should comport himself and with whom he should allow himself to be seen. But he could also be enormously indulgent, generous, and sensitive to his younger brother’s wishes. Although Giuliano had never desired power, Lorenzo always shared information with him, always discussed with him the political ramifications of every civic event. It was clear that Lorenzo loved his brother deeply and would gladly have shared control of the city with him, had Giuliano ever shown an interest.
    It had been hard enough for Lorenzo to lose his father and to be forced to assume power when so young. True, he had the talent for it, but Giuliano could see it wore on him. After nine years, the strain showed. Permanent creases had established themselves on his brow; shadows had formed beneath his eyes.
    A part of Lorenzo reveled in the power and delighted in extending thefamily’s influence. The Medici Bank had branches in Rome, in Bruges, in most of the greater cities of Europe. Yet Lorenzo was often exhausted by the demands of playing the
gran maestro
. At times, he complained, “Not a soul in the city will marry without my blessing.” Quite true. And that very week, he had received a letter from a congregation in rural Tuscany, begging for his advice: The church fathers had approved the creation of a saint’s statue; two sculptors were vying for the commission. Would the great Lorenzo be so kind as to give his opinion? Such missives piled up in great stacks each day; Lorenzo rose before dawn and answered them in his own hand. He fretted over Florence as a father would over a wayward child, and spent every waking moment dedicated to furthering her prosperity and the Medici interests.
    But he was keenly aware that no one loved him, save for the favors he could bestow. Only Giuliano adored his brother truly, for himself. Only Giuliano tried to make Lorenzo forget his responsibilities; only Giuliano could make him laugh. For that, Lorenzo loved him fiercely.
    And it was the repercussions of