Read Online I, Mona Lisa by Jeanne Kalogridis - Free Book Online Page B

his knees; the Comforter knelt beside him and whispered in his ear.
    “Do not be afraid. Your soul will ascend directly to Heaven. Of all men, you need no forgiveness; what you did was God’s own work, and no crime. There are many of us who call you hero, brother. You have taken the first step in purging Florence from great evil.”
    Baroncelli’s voice shook so he could scarce understand his own words. “From Lorenzo?”
    “From debauchery. From paganism. From the pursuit of profane art.”
    Teeth chattering, Baroncelli glared at him. “If you—if others—believe this, then why have you not rescued me before now? Save me!”
    “We dare not make ourselves known. There is much to be done before Florence, before Italy, before the world, is ready for us.”
    “You are mad,” Baroncelli breathed.
    The Comforter smiled. “We are fools for God.”
    He helped Baroncelli to his feet; enraged, Baroncelli pulled away from him and staggered up the wooden steps alone.
    On the scaffolding, the executioner, a young, slender man whose face was hidden beneath a mask, stood between Baroncelli and the waiting noose. “Before God,” the executioner said to Baroncelli, “I beg your forgiveness for the act I am sworn to commit.”
    The inside of Baroncelli’s lips and cheeks cleaved to his teeth; his tongue was so dry, it left behind a layer of skin as he articulated the words. Yet his tone sounded astonishingly calm. “I forgive you.”
    The executioner released a small sound of relief; perhaps there had been other doomed men more eager to let their blood stain his hands. He caught Baroncelli’s elbow and guided him to a particular spot on the platform, near the noose. “Here.” His voice was oddly gentle. And he produced from within his cloak a white linen scarf.
    In the instant before he was blindfolded, Baroncelli scanned the crowd. Near the front was Giovanna, with the children. She was too distant for Baroncelli to be sure, but it seemed to him that she had been weeping.
    Lorenzo de’ Medici was nowhere to be seen—but Baroncelli had no doubt that he was watching. Watching from a hidden balcony, or a window; perhaps from inside the Palazzo della Signoria itself.
    Below, at the foot of the scaffolding, stood the Comforter, his expression serene and oddly satisfied. In an instant of epiphany, Baroncelli realized that he, Francesco de’ Pazzi, Messer Iacopo, Archbishop Salviati—all of them—had been fools, their small ambitions used to serve part of a larger scheme, one that filled him withalmost as much dread as the prospect of his imminent death.
    The executioner tied the scarf over Baroncelli’s eyes, then guided the noose over his chin and tightened it around his neck.
    In the instant before the platform beneath him dropped, Baroncelli whispered two words, directed at himself.
    “Here, traitor.”

 
     
     
     
     
     
X
     
     
    T he instant that Baroncelli’s body ceased its twitching, a young artist near the front of the crowd set to work. The corpse would hang in the piazza for days, until its decomposition caused it to drop from the rope. But the artist could not wait; he wanted to capture the image while it still possessed an echo of life. Besides, young hooligans,
giovani
, would soon amuse themselves by casting stones at it, and the imminent rain would cause it to bloat.
    He sketched on paper pressed against a board of poplar, to give him a firm surface to work against. He had cut back the plume from his quill pen, for he used it so continually that any barbs there irritated his long fingers; he had carved the nib himself to a fine, sharp point, and he dipped it regularly, mindlessly, into a vial of brown iron gall ink securely fastened to his belt. Since one could not properly draw constrained by gloves, his bare hands ached from the cold, but he dismissed the observation as unworthy of his time. In the same manner, he dismissed the sorrow that threatened to overwhelm him—for the sight of Baroncelli