“Marco, you scamp!” a voice rang out. An exceedingly handsome dark-haired young man—of about my age, I thought—came toward us. “This cannot be your betrothed!”
Marco laughed. “Indeed she is,” he said. He brought me forward slightly. “May I present my affianced bride, Simonetta Cattaneo of Genoa. Simonetta, meet Giuliano de’ Medici.”
So this was the younger Medici brother. “An honor, signore,” I said.
He took my hand and kissed it, bowing low over it. “The honor and pleasure are all mine, signorina,” he said. His eyes roved appreciatively up my person, settling on my face, as though he was transfixed. “You have no idea.”
A laugh sounded behind him. “Trust Giuliano to monopolize the most beautiful woman in any company,” another man said, coming forward. “Signorina Cattaneo, I must apologize for my younger brother, and assure you that not all Florentines have such appalling manners.” He, too, took my hand and kissed it. “Lorenzo de’ Medici, at your service.”
When he straightened up again, I got my first good look at this Lorenzo, the bright light of Florence. It was apparent that his brother had gotten all the good looks in the family, for Lorenzo himself could certainly not be described as handsome—indeed, one would not, perhaps, be wrong to describe him as ugly. His features, surrounded by almost black hair that came nearly to his shoulders, were too strong, too forceful: his chin jutted forward sharply, and his nose was large and almost somewhat flattened, as though it had been broken in a fight. His eyes were dark and deep, set beneath thick black brows. Yet even so, he radiated warmth and charm, and his eyes sparkled with intelligence and conviviality. For all Giuliano’s almost godlike handsomeness, I knew that Lorenzo was the brother whom I would rather think well of me.
“I am honored to make your acquaintance,” I said, favoring him with a smile.
For a moment his face, too, took on the same transfixed look as his brother’s had. Then he chuckled and shook his head. “I do not even want to know what black arts you practiced in order to get such a beauty as your bride, Marco,” Lorenzo said, turning to my betrothed and greeting him with a friendly embrace. “But, mind you, run straight to your confessor.”
At first I was shocked to hear such a joke, but when all those around me laughed, Marco included, I pushed my discomfort aside. This Florence was a new world; if I wanted to belong here, I would have to listen and observe and acclimate. I must embrace it.
“Come, Signorina Simonetta,” Lorenzo said, offering me his arm. “Allow me to introduce you to the rest of the party.”
He led me the rest of the way into the garden. Behind us, Marco had been drawn into easy, jovial conversation by Giuliano, and for a moment I felt adrift without him, alone among strangers. Yet this, too, I cast aside. If I was to make my home here, then I must make friends of my own. I stood a bit straighter, head back, as Lorenzo began to make introductions.
“My new bride,” he said, gesturing forward a petite, pale woman with fawn-colored hair and wide eyes. “Clarice Orsini de’ Medici.”
The name Orsini seemed familiar. If I recalled my lessons with Padre Valerio correctly, the Orsini were one of the leading noble families of Rome. The Medici had brokered an advantageous match for their heir, indeed. “Signora,” I said graciously. “It is a pleasure. And I must thank you for your kind invitation.”
“Of course,” she said in a soft voice. “I shall be glad to meet more women amongst my husband’s circle.”
“And my esteemed mother,” Lorenzo continued, walking me around the table. “Lucrezia Tornabuoni de’ Medici.”
Lucrezia, the formidable Medici matriarch, surprised me somewhat. She was quite tall, with her brown hair—a few shades darker than Clarice’s—pinned up modestly. Her face, however, was serene and inviting, much like paintings of the Madonna I had seen. Yet I knew that she was as able a politician and businesswoman as her husband—perhaps more so, some said. I also remembered a remark made in passing by Marco’s father that the Medici matriarch was an accomplished poet, and had penned many lovely devotional verses. “It is my honor, signora,” I said. “I have heard many wonderful things about you.”
She laughed, and the sound was bold, somewhat belying her gentle appearance. “I thank you for saying so,” she said. “My, but what a beauty you are! I have scarce seen your like all over Italy. Though I expect that I am not the first to tell you so. Signor Vespucci is a lucky man indeed.”
My jaw felt a bit tight from smiling so much, from appreciating the same compliment over and over again, no matter how sincerely it was meant. “I thank you for saying so, signora,” I said. “You are very kind.”
The introductions continued, a few scholars and writers as well as other friends of Lorenzo’s and Giuliano’s. I knew that I would never remember so many names, nor which names went with which faces. But perhaps that is one of the advantages of beauty, I realized, my lips curving into what no doubt seemed to be a mysterious smile. A new sense of boldness flooded through me. These men would be falling all over themselves to remind me of their names, and with pleasure, so long as I engaged in conversation with them for a brief moment. I had been told all my life—subtly and not so subtly—that beauty was a weapon, a tool, a source of power—sometimes the only one available to a woman. Yet it was not until that first evening among the Medici that I began to consider—rather innocently—how I might use it as such.
At some point, Marco had reclaimed his place at my side. “Signorina Cattaneo was very taken with the statue of David in the courtyard,” he told Lorenzo. “She is a lover of art as well.”
“Ah!” Lorenzo said, turning to regard me with renewed interest. “And do you prefer sculpture or paintings, signorina?”
I flushed slightly at having his undivided attention. “In truth, signore, I favor poetry,” I confessed. “But I have never seen such artwork as here in Florence—the fresco in the great Duomo, and now your statue.”
“Then it is my fondest hope that Florence shall continue to oblige in your desire to see, and to learn,” Lorenzo said. “Indeed, I shall contribute to your education further right now, if I may.”
“Please,” I said eagerly.