Marco and Romeo, beaming with manly pleasure, embraced each other like brothers.

Wordlessly, Mama and Mona Sophia retreated back into the dining room.

Marco went to retrieve his weapon. I watched from the study doorway as Romeo returned to the room and replaced his sword on the wall. I said nothing to Marco, panting as he pa.s.sed me and went in, and moved to place the sword back on its hooks.

Romeo stayed his hand. "It is yours, Marco."

"Mine?"

Romeo smiled, wiping the sweat from his brow with his sleeve. "That was an honorable fight. And you admire the weapon."

"It is too generous," Marco said, serious for once, and I thought deeply moved.

"Do you refuse my gift?"

"No! I accept it with all grat.i.tude, Romeo." Marco placed his first friendly arm around a Monticecco shoulder and beamed with pleasure.

Romeo fixed me in his gaze then, quietly triumphant.

Here, I thought, was a very determined man.

Chapter Eleven.

"My parents' marriage was arranged," I said. "Altogether traditional."

Romeo and I were finally, blissfully alone, lying side by side on our backs on a rug beneath an ancient grape arbor. Marco, our less-than-diligent chaperone, delighted with his gift, had taken the broadsword out of our sight to do battle with his shadow.

"She was very pretty, my mother. Simonetta Visconte brought a fine dowry to the Capelletti coffers, one that allowed Papa's business to grow, and his prospects as a Florentine merchant to soar. She provided him with three healthy sons and a daughter. What more reason did they need for their affections to grow?"

Romeo's eyes never left my face as I spoke.

"Then, in the year I was ten, Papa's silks came to the attention of Don Cosimo. Contessina had decided that all the beds in every one of their houses-both city and country-were ancient and musty and needed refurbishing. To his great delight Papa was awarded the commission. He went mad scouring the known world for the finest fabrics that existed-silks, brocades, velvets, damasks-and brought them before the pair of them, laying out the bolts with terrific pride.

"It was a textile spectacle the likes of which even the Medici had never before seen, and Contessina, modest and una.s.suming as she was, found herself reveling in the beauty of the wares. 'May I have this one for my bed, Cosimo, and that one for Lorenzo's? . . . And the villa at Careggi?' When all were chosen with care for each and every bedstead and canopy, Papa revealed the greatest surprise of all-the yardage was to be a gift, every inch of it. There would be no charge whatsoever. All that he required was the friendship and goodwill of the Medici from that day forward."

Romeo smiled. "A true Florentine businessman, your father. Everyone wishes for Don Cosimo as a patron."

"It was not the only reward," I said, remembering. "The next year Don Cosimo hosted the great Convocation in Florence-popes and emperors from the Eastern Church and from Rome, statesmen, authors, philosophers, scribes. . . ."

"And the Greeks," Romeo added.

"Yes, the Greeks. Of all of them, their influence was most profound. They spoke so lovingly of their great sage, Plato, and his ancient wisdom, that when all the men had gone home and most Florentines had forgotten the debates, Don Cosimo was still afire. That was when he sent his man as a scout who scoured the whole world for the great books lost to the Barbarian invasion. . . ."

"Poggio Bracciolini," Romeo said. "Those adventures made him a famous man."

"They did. He brought back the works of Hermes and Solon and Aristotle. But most of all Plato. Don Cosimo immersed himself in Plato. All his sons, Piero, Lorenzo and Carlo, he had tutored by Greek scholars."

"Where is this story leading?" asked Romeo, amused.

"Be patient," I gently scolded. "It comes to a fine conclusion."

"So," said Romeo, "the Medici sons were tutored by the Greeks."

"Yes. And then the boys were betrothed."

Romeo's brow furrowed.

"Piero to Lucrezia Tornabuoni," I said.

"Aha! And through Don Cosimo's patronage of your father, you and she met?"

"And became friends at once. We loved each other like sisters. But the Fates were not done with us yet. In his study of Plato, Don Cosimo learned that 'the Great Man of the Greeks' believed that highborn women should be provided the same education as men. They could enter the public sphere and even become leaders. They were guardians of children and therefore important in society and family both. If Lucrezia was to be the mother of his grandchildren, then Lucrezia must have the finest of educations."

The ending of my story was dawning on Romeo. He began to smile. "And so she decided that if she was to receive this splendid education, her friend-her sister-must receive it, too."

"Just so!"

Romeo shook his head admiringly. "You are quite a pair, you and Lucrezia. Plato would have had women like you in mind when he spoke so glowingly of the female gender."

"I have never told that story before," I said. "No one was a bit interested."

"It's just as well." Romeo became uncommonly shy when he said, "I don't want everyone to know you as well as I do."

"No one ever will." I took his hand. "You must tell me something of yourself now."

He shook his head modestly. "There is nothing much to know. At least not of me." He thought for a moment. "The great story of our family is that of my mother's and father's love."

"I want to hear!"

Romeo smiled, remembering, and paused to collect his thoughts for its reciting. Finally he began. "Their marriage, too, was arranged. Like so many couples, they had never met until their wedding day. She worried he'd be a toothless old widower who belched and farted all day long, and he that she would be overpious and frigid. But that was not the case.

"They were both sixteen. Sophia was exquisite, all peaches and cream and filled with a love of life and a soft, sweet nature. Roberto was a handsome, strapping youth owning an appreciation of everything beautiful, and h.o.r.n.y as a stallion."

I laughed at that and Romeo, encouraged, went on.

"The moment they clapped eyes on one another they were smitten. Hopelessly and pa.s.sionately in love, and grateful for their good fortune. But the wedding day was a long, drawn-out affair, with ceremony and contracts, benedictions, dancing, and feasting-endless feasting. The few moments they were allowed near to each other-when the rings were given, or partnering in a dance-their touch was like fire burning the skin. They spoke to each other with their eyes, silently mingling their souls and their minds . . . until they were pulled away to greet a family client, receive a gift, taste a delicacy.

"Finally, finally finally came the procession to my grandfather's house-this villa. They wished so desperately to be alone, but the revelers had followed them into their chamber and put them to bed. Everyone stood expectantly around them waiting, as tradition demanded, for copulation to begin. came the procession to my grandfather's house-this villa. They wished so desperately to be alone, but the revelers had followed them into their chamber and put them to bed. Everyone stood expectantly around them waiting, as tradition demanded, for copulation to begin.

"Then suddenly my father, eyes blazing, leapt from the bed and like a whirlwind, swinging his arms and shouting curses at them all, demanded 'privacy' for himself and his bride. Everyone was stunned, scandalized. But he didn't care. He herded them out, slammed the door, and locked it behind them. Mama says she laughed till she cried, unsure whether she had married a hero or a madman. My father went to the bed, gathered her in his arms, and proved to her, he likes to say, that he was both.

"So my parents were blessed with the rarest of all marriages-one of equal parts convenience and unbridled pa.s.sion. She-like your mother, Juliet-was fertile and provided the Monticecco line with many healthy sons and daughters. And so to my brothers and sisters and me it was proven from the earliest age that there was such a thing as marital bliss. We saw the joy that true love could bring to a man and a woman, and how children-even those of the wildest spirit-could feather the warm nest of family.

"Mama, Papa, and my sisters and brothers were at peace in our home, in our vineyard and orchard. I spent fragrant summers climbing the gnarled silver-leafed old men, beating the olives from their branches with sticks. I learned from my father and grandfather the wisdom of seasons, signs of a coming storm, the cycles of the moon for growing, the smell and feel of Tuscan earth between my fingers."

"What a sweet dream your life was," I said.

"Until the plague struck Florence." Romeo looked away. "It sought many sacrifices from our house. My mother's father. Both my brothers." He sighed. "Mama sickened, but blessedly did not die. Papa, fearing my death more than the loss of his last living son's presence, sent me to live with his brothers at their vineyard outside Verona, where the plague had not come.

"I cried like an infant at the parting, my last sight of Mama. Her skin was still scarred with shadows of the buboes. Papa wept, hugging me to him as though he did not mean to release me. Finally he pretended courage. Promised me I would return to his house, see my mother again. Then he placed me in a cart with a driver and sent us on our way to Verona. My last sight of the olive grove sent me into fits of such weeping that the driver scolded me, telling me to thank G.o.d I was alive, as were my parents, and that Florence was not so far from Verona, and that one day I would return.

"But my uncles Vittorio and Vincenzo, they were as kind and loving as the year is long, and were glad for a strong nephew at their vineyard. They doted on me. Treated me like their own son. Had they not taken so seriously my father's admonition to make a man of me, they would have spoiled me. They brought me a tutor who claimed my only pa.s.sion in learning was for writing, and writing only so I might send letters to my mother. He'd been wrong about that, of course. For I fervently studied the art of growing things, whether vines or crops of beans or wheat, or orchards of pears or olives.

"I railed against the prospect of going to university. A waste of time, I'd complained. In truth it had been more my desire to remain on the land, and misery at separation from my kin once again. I had grown to love my uncles dearly. 'You must become a man of the world,' they insisted. 'You must learn to keep ledgers, for even growing is a business, and what is a Florentine if not a good businessman?'

"So I went to Padua in the end and enjoyed it more than I had believed I would. I discovered poetry, and Dante, whose words were like living things to me, and whose verses of love brought memories of my mother and father, and promise of the woman whom I would one day marry and adore." He turned to face me again. "I feel like I've been talking for an hour."

"Very nearly," I teased, though I truly was in heaven, listening to his voice, the story of his family.

"You now," he said, turning on his side to face me. I found myself bemused. Never had someone attended my words and thoughts so closely.

"Do you remember three years ago, Signor Alberti's poetry compet.i.tion?" I asked Romeo. Leon Battista Alberti was one of the foremost influential men in all of Italy.

"I was in Padua," Romeo said, "but I heard of it, of course. All contestants were to write in the Tuscan language, not Latin, on the theme of friendship. Am I remembering correctly?"

"You are." I began to blush and smile. "I wrote a poem for it."

"But you were"-Romeo silently calculated-"fifteen years old!"

"And very full of myself. I had just discovered my knack for verse, and I loved my friend Lucrezia very much. So I wrote about her and our friendship."

"But the contest?"

"Well, some famous men had entered their poems-Altabianco, Dati. Of course I could not very well submit my own under my real name or s.e.x. The compet.i.tion itself was a very grand affair, held at the cathedral. Ten papal secretaries were sent all the way from Rome to judge it."

Romeo's eyes were wide and disbelieving. He shook his head in wonder.

I went on. "The crowd that came to watch the poets read their work out loud was huge and enthusiastic. It was not hard to convince my parents to take me, for all of Florence was there. It was less easy for me to 'get lost in the crowd' for a time before the contest began. I slipped to the front where contestants sat waiting for their turn at the podium and found the kindest-f aced man of all, and handed him a folio with my poem and a letter saying that my uncle, 'Giuliano Beatricci,' was too ill to attend, but would someone be so kind as to read his poem with the others.

"So it began with great pomposity, the poets all striving to capture 'the hidden thing' that was friendship. One evoked Prometheus to exemplify higher, purifying love. Another spoke of Circe and Medusa to prove that love, when fixed on the wrong object, can descend into the realm of beasts. I waited and waited, and still my poem was not read . . . until finally, when the last contestant had finished, Alberti himself arose and, holding my folio before him, announced that an amateur poet-Beatricci-had been too ill to attend and wished his work to be read. And with my heart beating so loudly I was certain my parents could hear it, I listened to my words spoken aloud to all of Florence."

Romeo laughed delightedly. "You astound me."

I laughed with him. "That day, I confess, I astonished myself."

"But did the judges not, in the end, disappoint Alberti and all the contestants with their decision? I seem to remember . . ."

"You remember well. They refused to award the crown to anyone. Said the modern poets and the Tuscan language fell short of the ancient poets and of Latin."

"What else would you expect of stuffy Roman judges?" he said.

"Well, Signor Alberti was mightily angered, but the poems were copied many times over and sent to princely libraries all over the world."

"So your poem of friendship now resides in princely libraries?"

I smiled a triumphant a.s.sertion.

"I, too, was influenced by Alberti," Romeo said. "When I was a boy, I attempted to replicate his most famous physical feat."

"Jumping from a standing start over the head of a man standing next to him?"

"The very one."

"And what happened?"

"I broke my leg."

We laughed again.

"But come, Romeo, there is more of Alberti in you than that."

"Perhaps." He thought for a long moment. "He believed in discipline and self-cultivation, and that any individual could accomplish any feat, however difficult it might be. I was reminded of him at my homecoming, here, last year. I had left as a boy and returned as a man. I was happy to resume my work in the orchard, and I pa.s.sed the nights by candlelight trying my hand at verse.

"But all was not well. My sisters had died having their babies. Mama had begun suffering in the grip of pain, more and more crippled with arthritis in her hands, and my grandfather's death unearthed a malignant family feud. Now, for the first time, the Monticecco had an enemy. And my once-peaceful father"-Romeo shook his head sadly-"had become a vandal." Romeo thought for a moment. "Maybe Alberti's spirit was in me when I sought peace between our families."

He stroked my cheek with the back of his hand. "And perhaps I learned my love of the senses from the man-though it never occurred to me before this moment. Alberti took great pleasure, he claimed, in seeing things that had 'a certain beauty.' He believed that a jewel or a flower or a lovely landscape could restore a sick man to health." He gazed at me searchingly. "I think if I were dying, the sight of you could bring me back to life."

The thought suddenly chilled me, and I dismissed it offhandedly. "I do not see you dying anytime soon," I said.

"Unless I were to die of love." He leaned down and sweetly pressed his lips against mine, but we were startled at a voice shouting from the end of the vineyard row.

"Juliet! Romeo! They are calling us to dinner!" It was Marco. "Come now," he ordered us, "and look calm and unruffled, or I'll impale you both on my new sword!"

Romeo helped me to my feet and called to Marco, "At your command, Captain!"

Chapter Twelve.

Dinner with the joined families was a delight. A table had been set beneath a broad-limbed walnut, settling dappled light on the white linen cloth we had brought the Monticecco as a gift. Roberto sat at the head with my father at his right hand, Sophia at the other end, my mother at hers. Romeo and I sat side by side across from Marco, who watched us, the jester with a new friend and a juicy secret.

Before the first course was brought out, we all sampled the Sangioveto, which was delicious-earthy, with a hint of spice. There was warm crusty bread that smelled of rosemary, great bowls of ripened olives, and in smaller ones whole heads of garlic baked soft and crushed, swimming in a sea of green oil.

Our mothers were tight as two beans in their pod.

Our fathers, while not yet fast friends, were loosened by wine, much goodwill surrounding them, and the perfection of a warm, leisurely afternoon. If Don Cosimo could see them now If Don Cosimo could see them now, I thought. What had begun by his stern orders was gently flowering into sincere camaraderie.

No detail was lost on me. Every smile, every smell, a walnut leaf that fluttered down to the bowl of oil as Romeo reached to dip his bread there. All of it I memorized. All of it would find its way into verse.