I see this fierce looking lady in the town square in central Verona.
She’s crowned, standing on a fountain there, and from behind it looks as if she’s staring down the clocktower with a pair of broken shackles hanging impotently from her wrists.
She looks a little different from this side. They’re not shackles in truth, but the ends of a scroll running between her hands. Maybe this changes the meaning.
I like to think it doesn’t.