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seen it, Ambassador. This float was twenty feet tall and displayed a painting of the triumph of love. Atop it was a bleeding heart. We pulled it up underneath her window and set it aflame for her! It burned high and long.”
    Uncle Bartolomeo leaned back and clasped his hands behind his head, looking toward the ceiling. “She wept at the sight.” He seemed transfixed at the memory, and the dinner guests surrounding him were as well. He sighed. “What a beauteous, rare thing she was in those days.”
    I could not help myself. I leaned toward the ambassador to whisper, “It should be added, my lord, that this was the year Cosimo de’ Medici lay gravely ill and there was much conjecture about who would retain power in the city upon his death, the Medici or”—I paused—“the Strozzi.”
    â€œAhhhh.” Bembo smiled at me. “Clever.”
    Yes, very. Clever should be my uncle’s middle name. The goodwill that extravagant display built between the Strozzi and the Medici via one of its most loyal allies probably did much to ease tension between the dynastic families. But looking at his lit-up face, I wondered for the first time if Uncle Bartolomeo had actually loved the Strozzi girl, even though he had absolutely no chance of such a match for himself.
    â€œBut, but, Bartolomeo, you leave out the best part,” Lorenzo prompted gleefully.
    My uncle frowned slightly. “Your Grace?”
    â€œThe snowball fight!” Lorenzo looked round at each and every face of his assembled guests to make sure he had our rapt attention. “Here the Benci had gone to such lengths to host one of the most splendidly attired and outfitted armeggeria . Ever! And it even snowed—as if our Lord himself wanted to add to the glory of the night by sending snowflakes to sparkle in the torchlight. Perhaps God meant it as a symbol of the pure soul of the Strozzi girl and snow-white purity of Bartolomeo’s Platonic affections. But”—Lorenzo paused dramatically and extended his arm toward my uncle—“what does this man do?”
    We all shook our heads, not knowing. “I will tell you,”Lorenzo crowed. “Amid all that pageantry, Bartolomeo scoops up a handful of snow, packs it into a white cannonball, and hurls it at the maiden!”
    All the men burst into laughter and cheers, pounding their fists on the table in appreciation.
    â€œWell, she threw one back at me!” my uncle said.
    This only made everyone laugh harder.
    â€œAnd it was Luigi who actually hit her!”
    Another wave of laughter and applause.
    With wonderment, I turned to my husband, who was chuckling and nodding.
    â€œAnd were there other lances broken that night?” Pulci joined in the manly teasing.
    â€œHo-ho!” Lorenzo roared.
    At that, Lorenzo’s mother rose from her seat. The men managed to suppress their guffaws to purse-lipped amusement like young students caught in a prank. “Good sirs,” Lucrezia said graciously, “I think it time we ladies adjourn. Come, my dears. Let us to chapel to say evening prayers.”
    Bernardo Bembo caught my hand under the table as I started to stand.
    â€œYou must promise, La Bencina, to let me read that poem someday.” Then he let go and nodded formally. I curtsied, hoping the candlelight did not reveal my blush.
    As we exited, and Lucrezia closed the door on the dining room, it erupted inside with baritone laughter. She shook her head fondly as she said to us, “Boys. What’s to be done?”

7
    â€œHail Mary, full of grace. The Lord is with thee.
    Blessed art thou among women, and blessed is the fruit
    of thy womb, Jesus. . . .”
    I N THE CHAPEL, THE VOICE OF L ORENZO ’ S MOTHER ROSE AND fell, songlike. Gray head bowed, eyes closed, she appeared so peaceful. I watched her pray and wondered if it had been hard for her to achieve that level of faith and calm. Lucrezia Tornabuoni Medici was a