The Medici Seal

by Theresa Breslin

  After we arrived in Averno, Felipe went to Florence to order and bring back more of the particular supplies that the Maestro required to do his work. He had hardly left when Graziano took to his bed, ill with a sickness in his stomach. That was when it fell to me to attend to a variety of things: the Maestro’s clothes, meals, and keeping his workplace tidy, so that he was not troubled with the daily minutiae of living.

  He was fastidious in his toilet, requiring a clean shirt and underclothes every morning, and I, following a practice of my grandmother, asked the castle laundry women to hang lavender beside his shirts as they dried.

  He noticed at once and made a comment: ‘Since you have taken over supervising my laundry, Matteo, my shirts smell of something better than washing soap.’

  It could hardly be counted as great praise, but I was ridiculously pleased. I made sure that his clothes were in good repair and his boots and shoes well polished. In the studio I kept his drawing implements in order, and laid out fresh supplies of paper each day. (He used an enormous amount of paper.) And I fetched and carried for him as needed. Thus I observed the workings of the castle and all that happened within it.

  The stable block was extended to make room for more horses. Storerooms were cleared out and fresh supplies of wheat, barley, bran, millet and chickpeas stacked away. Butts of wine, barrels of dried fruit, salted fish and preserved meat were rolled down into the cellars. Quantities of animal fodder, chaff, straw and hay piled high in the yards. Stone was transported from the quarries at Bisia, huge blocks trundling through the gate each day in bullock carts. Tiles, timber and other building materials were brought in on river barges and unloaded on the wharves below the town. The castle was being prepared for action – possibly to withstand a siege.

  For now, in the Romagna and further afield, wild tales were beginning to circulate – stories of double dealing by the condottieri, the mercenary military captains who had promised Cesare Borgia their loyalty and had brought their own troops to fight for him. It was said that these captains had become disillusioned by Cesare and fearful of his ever-increasing power, and that they were alarmed at how easily he turned on a person who had pledged him friendship. And the name of the town Urbino was the example they used.

  Earlier this year Duke Guidobaldo of Urbino had received and welcomed Cesare Borgia’s sister, Lucrezia, as she travelled on her way from Rome to Ferrara for her wedding. To show Lucrezia due honour Duke Guidobaldo had given over his magnificent palace of Montefeltro to Lucrezia and her retinue. He had hosted a ball in her honour and lavished many gifts upon her. But his generosity had not protected him from the ambition of Lucrezia’s brother, who later marched in and took his city.

  Afterwards Cesare Borgia proclaimed loudly that his actions were necessary: he had received evidence that the duke was plotting against him. No proof of this was ever shown. But everyone knew that the mountain stronghold of Urbino commanded the passes through the Romagna and Tuscany. Cesare needed to be sure that his armies could move freely as he wanted them, and that was the real reason he took the dukedom of Urbino for himself.

  This act shocked all Italy. The other lords and princelings believed that their positions were threatened, and that Cesare and his father, the Pope, had become tyrants who would not stop until they had brought the whole land under their own dominion.

  In Averno, kitchen gossip had it that the nobles wanted to fight back. Rumours told of a secret league, a conspiracy to bring down Il Valentino, involving the condottieri captains. But I had seen the Borgia’s swift justice so I did not take part in this careless talk. It was a time to be watchful and say little.

  The Maestro put his hand on my shoulder as we walked to the suite of rooms set aside for him.

  ‘Matteo, it is better that you do not discuss where this night visit has taken us.’ It was in his nature that he did not make me promise to keep silent. Once he had admitted a person to his circle of friends he put faith in them. I believe that he thought if he trusted someone then that was enough to make that person trustworthy. He was careful about his most personal thoughts and his private affections, and he kept his work secret with mirror writing and symbols known only to him. Yet he freely welcomed people into his household, sharing meals, jokes and stories with them.

  When we reached his rooms in the castle I set the lantern down and waited for permission to go and rest for a while. I slept in a little room just off his studio where he could call me if he needed me.

  ‘You are disturbed by our visit to the mortuary tonight?’ He set out pen and ink and fresh paper. Obviously he was going to continue working.

  ‘What you do is . . . strange,’ I said.

  ‘It’s not so uncommon a practice to do an anatomy of a body.’

  This was true. I had heard of corpses being used in this way by universities. Usually it was the dead bodies of criminals, executed for some transgression against the state. Sometimes sculptors were allowed to observe or even take part in these dissections in order to help them portray their bronze and marble statues as real flesh.

  ‘It will prove useful for many branches of science,’ my master went on. ‘But there are those who, through fear or ignorance, would make trouble about it.’

  ‘The mortuary monk,’ I replied, ‘Father Benedict. He might speak of what you were doing.’

  ‘A good point, Matteo. That order of hospitaller monks has no vow of silence in its ordinances.’ He thought for a moment. ‘But no. I do not think Father Benedict will tell anyone of our visit. My feeling is that he was very aware of how my work might be viewed by others of a more limited understanding.’

  ‘He frightened me.’

  My master looked at me with interest. ‘Why?’

  ‘He seemed to say that what you were doing was wrong.’

  ‘He didn’t go quite as far as to state that.’

  ‘What if he reports you to the authorities?’

  ‘I don’t think he will.’

  ‘He argued with you. Did you not think that he was very annoyed?’

  ‘Not at all.’

  ‘He threatened you.’

  ‘Not so,’ said my master. ‘Father Benedict was enjoying a challenging discussion. Didn’t you see how his eyes were enlivened as he deliberated on whether he should let me have access to those in his care?’

  While he was speaking the Maestro took a piece of charcoal and with a few lines drew quickly on the paper in front of him.

  I gasped.

  He had captured Father Benedict’s likeness in several little cartoons. His first sketch showed the monk standing at the head of the prostitute. The girl’s hair cascaded down each side of her face like rivulets of rain. Father Benedict’s hands offered his blessing as he leaned over her. Compassion showed in every line of the monk’s figure, in every shadow that was shown, and not shown.

  I looked at my master. I thought of when we first entered the mortuary room. How his mind must have been working: thinking on his scientific research, weighing up which body to choose, measuring his interest against the bodies available, and at the same time debating the ethics of the situation as the monk demurred. He’d led the monk in his evaluation of Art to the point where he had to concede that the Word of God was finely portrayed by an artist who utilized the study of anatomy to do it. My master had done all this, and argued lucidly with the monk, while memorizing every detail of his face.

  The Maestro drew again, this time only half a face, a nose, a brow, an eye, the mouth.

  ‘I know Father Benedict enjoyed the debate,’ he said. ‘You see, he had a habit of frowning when arguing. There was a little line that appeared at the bridge of his nose just at the point where it meets the brow.’ The Maestro reached out and touched the bridge of my nose lightly with the tip of his finger. ‘But it was not a bad-tempered scowl, more that his face showed the energy of his mind when he had to think to reply to me.’ My master tapped the paper. ‘It wasn’t there when he was on safer ground quoting Scripture.’


  ‘Because he has learned that by heart,’ I said.

  ‘Why yes, Matteo!’ The Maestro glanced up at me for fleeting second. ‘How perceptive of you to realize that.’

  His hand began to sketch again as he spoke.

  ‘What you say is true. And also the monk believes the verse, so maybe the mystery of the words is now lost to him, or—’ The Maestro broke off and said, half to himself, ‘No, perhaps better to say in this particular monk’s case, at any rate, that he has absorbed the Word so thoroughly that he could repeat it fluently without having to ponder on it.’

  I waited, not knowing if my master had finished, unable to comprehend completely the meaning of his speech.

  ‘Do you understand what I am saying, Matteo? He believes the Word. Has given himself over to it, and therefore it is part of him. He lives Christ’s Word, obeys the Lord’s teaching to feed those who are ill and unfortunate.’

  ‘Fortunate for those who are in need and have nowhere else to go,’ I replied. ‘Do you mean he no longer thinks of the meaning, that he just says the words?’

  ‘Why do you ask that?’

  ‘Because it does not have any true value if you do that. Anyone can recite a passage from Scripture.’

  He looked at me keenly. ‘Like what?’ he asked.

  My heart jumped. Was he testing me?

  His hand was still drawing, but I knew he expected an answer. His brain, I now appreciated, could deal intently with more than two things at the same time. I would have to recite some passage to him. It would show if I were Christian or not. But I was confident I could pass this test. My grandmother had liked to read aloud psalms and passages from the Bible, and I had an accurate memory for rich language.

  ‘Oh, any well-known piece,’ I replied carelessly.

  ‘Quote me now.’

  My mind stumbled. Then I recalled the mortuary monk and his reference to the Book of Genesis where Adam and Eve were banished from the Garden of Eden. I took this as a guide and said: ‘And when they heard the voice of the Lord God, Adam and his wife hid themselves from the face of the Lord God, amidst the trees of Paradise.

  ‘And the Lord God called Adam, and said to him, “Where art thou?”

  ‘And Adam said, “I heard Thy voice in Paradise; and I was afraid because I was naked, and I hid myself.”’

  ‘And you think nakedness is wrong?’ The Maestro kept on sketching with light strokes but I knew his mind was on our discourse.

  ‘I do not know,’ I replied. ‘“Naked we came into the world and naked we will go out of it.”’

  ‘You intrigue me, Matteo. A person who travels alone, yet thinks in the plural. A traveller who is not a traveller. A boy who is not a boy. Dressed like a peasant, you speak like a scholar.’

  ‘If I displease you then I will leave.’ I said this stiffly. I had no idea whether I had been insulted or not.

  He stopped drawing but he did not raise his head. There was a long silence in the room.

  ‘You do not displease me,’ he said finally. ‘Far from it. But it must be your decision whether you remain within my company.’

  Chapter Thirteen

  AS THE CASTLE of Averno prepared for war my master had less time for his excursions to the mortuary. Yet on the occasions when he did venture out he still chose me to accompany him, even when Felipe came back from Florence and Graziano had recovered from his bellyache. In their absence I had become his constant companion on his daytime trips too. They saw that I knew how to prepare for these excursions and began to leave many of the details involved to me. Thus they came more and more to depend on my presence.

  Felipe had returned with two pack mules bearing boxes and packages. In addition to paper, vellum and fresh brushes, he had brought a variety of materials, with some fur and leather skins for new clothes, hats and boots to be made for the da Vinci household members to see them through the winter.

  It did not occur to me that I would be included in this outfitting. So it was a great surprise to be summoned by the Master of the Wardrobe in the castle and told that I was to be measured for a suit of clothes and some footwear. Graziano and Felipe were in the wardrobe quarters when I arrived.

  In addition to being fond of food Graziano also liked to dress well and was holding an ermine fur draped around his neck.

  ‘Do you think that this makes me look like a great lord?’ he asked me as I came in.

  The fur only served to emphasize the rolls of fat around Graziano’s neck, which meant that he did indeed look like some of the great lords and princes I had seen in Ferrara and Venice. I nodded, standing back at the door, but Graziano took me by the arm and led me into the room and presented me to Giulio, the Master of the Wardrobe.

  This man, Giulio, was very fond of his own opinions and thought himself sophisticated above others. He looked me up and down as the tailor measured my arms and legs. ‘I’d advise his hair to be cut,’ he said.

  ‘What is wrong with my hair?’ I asked. My grandmother had always insisted I kept my hair long and I was used to having it that way.

  Giulio wrinkled his nose in distaste. ‘Apart from the fact that there’s altogether too much of it?’

  ‘In winter it is sensible to have longer hair.’

  ‘What has sense got to do with fashion or style?’

  Everyone laughed, including the Maestro, who had just entered the room.

  Giulio took a comb and flicked my tangle of hair back from my face.

  ‘Let me see what is actually under this horse’s mane and what colours and style of clothes might enhance this boy’s appearance.’

  I stood, still fearful that if I irritated him any more he might suggest my head be shaved in the manner of the stable boys when they were deloused each year.

  He bent close to me and said, ‘I see you have the mark of the midwife’s fingers on the back of your neck. Don’t worry – we will trim your hair to hang below your ears.’

  I felt my face burn red as I was prodded and inspected and tutted over.

  When I tried to protest Felipe looked at me sternly and told me that the master had ordered this.

  They talked as if I were not there, pondering the colour of my hose, the style of belt I should wear, and whether my boots must be fitted to above or below the knee. I felt like a doll such as a girl should play with, to dress and decide which clothes it would wear each day.

  ‘They say the French style of sleeve is now the most fashionable in Europe.’

  I looked up in surprise. It was my master’s voice that had made this comment. He was rummaging among the half-unpacked boxes and parcels, taking out bolts of cloth, brocades and velvets, and setting one colour against another. ‘I’d like Matteo to have a padded doublet. He must have clothes well enough for formal appearance. It may be that I want him to stand by my place while I’m at dinner.’

  ‘Too much padding on his torso will serve to emphasize his thin legs,’ Giulio demurred.

  ‘I had thought this moss-green hose would suit him?’

  ‘A dark colour certainly,’ Giulio agreed, ‘but if you put him in green, then, with those legs, he may be mistaken for a grasshopper.’

  There was laughter, and I began to feel an edge of irritation to add to my discomfort. I shifted from foot to foot.

  Graziano, seeing me standing there, said: ‘Why not let Matteo decide?’

  ‘I do not care what style is current,’ I said. ‘Clothes serve the purpose of cover and warmth.’

  ‘Oh no, Matteo,’ said the Maestro. ‘Clothes have more purpose than function.’

  I should not have been surprised that my master took an interest in these things. The effect of colour and cut was all part of the same attention he gave to everything.

  He looked at me. ‘Do you wonder, Matteo, if it’s such an important issue whether a cloak should have fur stitched on the edge or not?’

  ‘That is not so much a fashion consideration,’ I replied. ‘The fur of an animal, especially the stoat, is designed to deflect the
wind.’

  The Maestro was beside me at once. He held out an ermine skin. ‘Show me, Matteo.’

  I took the pelt and ran my fingers against the lie of the fur. ‘See how it springs back into place. The hair grows like that for a purpose, as its coat changes in winter to white ermine to conceal itself in the snow.’

  ‘Why?’

  I looked at him as he spoke. He must know the reason for this. I felt again that I was being tested.

  ‘Why?’ I repeated. ‘In order that it might live.’

  ‘Wouldn’t it live in any case?’

  ‘The stoat is prey for birds like kite and hawk. In winter they would see it easily. The fur changes colour the better to conceal the animal as it goes about its own business among snowfall.’

  ‘And how did this come about?’

  ‘By God’s hand of course,’ said Giulio. ‘The nature of things is by God’s design.’ He and the tailor exchanged looks.

  My master did not notice. But Felipe did.

  ‘What else for this boy?’ he interrupted. ‘Quickly now, Giulio, before Messer Leonardo decides to examine the detail in the knit of each sock.’

  Giulio smiled. Felipe had diverted his attention and altered it from mild suspicion to lightheartedness.

  ‘Let us look at the coloured cloth Felipe obtained from Florence,’ said Graziano, ‘and how these might suit the rest of the ensemble.’

  I watched as they rummaged through the fabrics and noticed then that my master himself sought to look comely and innovative. He paired colours that others would not think of, like burgundy with pink or violet and blue, suggesting gold slashes in a tunic of deep green.

  ‘And the boy’s hair must be cut,’ Giulio called out when we finally left.

  So I reported to the castle barber and had my hair cut. Then like a shorn sheep I went back to the Maestro’s rooms.

  ‘Why, Matteo, you do have eyes under that head of hair after all,’ said Graziano when he saw me.