Matteo, I believe you to be skilled in the art of herbs and medicines and I seek your advice on the best method of helping him.
I know that you will be occupied with your studies and have little time to spare from your activities, therefore I understand that you may be unable to reply to me at once.
Your loving sister and friend,
Elisabetta
I took the letter to my master and waited while he read it.
‘By your leave,’ I said when he had finished, ‘I would ask Messer della Torre if he has any advice on this matter.’
He did not reply but went to a shelf and pulled down a set of papers. He riffled through the pages until he found some drawings. ‘Here, Matteo. Study this sketch.’
I looked at the page he indicated.
‘Were you with me when I made that dissection? It was an old man of a hundred years or more, who died at the hospital of Santa Maria Nuova in Florence.’ The Maestro opened up a little notebook that was tied in with the papers. ‘I’ve written some of my observations here. His arteries had become thin and withered. It is evident that, like canals silting up, this must obstruct the flow.’
‘Like Umberto, the old man you dissected in the mortuary at Averno?’
‘Yes.’ He nodded. ‘And this seizure of Elisabetta’s uncle is an affliction that men suffer as they age,’ my master went on, ‘and if the blood flow is impeded then it must be that some of the functions of the body can also be impaired.’
The drawing he showed me was not a dissection I had been present at. It must have been performed when he had returned to Florence from Milan to settle the question of his inheritance. I noticed that his method of illustrating his dissections had progressed. There was more than one aspect of an organ, so that it could be viewed as if from all sides. Unconsciously I put my hand on my own arms. I could feel the tendons, the sinews, and even deeper than that. Under my skin were the layers he had drawn. His sketch was the result of many, many hours of anatomizing and the direct result of doing the dissections himself, rather than the usual custom of allowing a barber to make the incisions and have a doctor remove the organs.
‘You must look and see for yourself, Matteo,’ he explained. ‘Some of my examinations refute the text of perceived wisdom. If you do not question, then one mistake is carried forward unquestioned to the next scholar.’
‘Your observations can help us understand more fully why this happens.’
‘You always seek the “why”, don’t you, Matteo?’
My eyes caught his glance as he spoke and I fancied he looked at me with pride. But the moment was fleeting so I was not sure.
‘And yet why is this man afflicted on one side only?’ he murmured to himself. ‘Why is that the case?’
He made some notes on the margin of the paper, an instruction to himself: Ask about this.
‘What else could it be?’ he mused. ‘What else would give the symptoms Elisabetta has described in her letter. A seizure? We know other illnesses or conditions to present in this way. From antiquity there are examples: Julius Caesar had the falling sickness. But’ – he turned to me – ‘you have met this uncle of Elisabetta dell’Orte. Did he have any condition that you noted?’
I shook my head.
‘What was his age?’
‘About sixty, perhaps older. It is hard to tell. He was so weathered by working outdoors all his life.’
‘His mood?’
‘He was curt.’
‘Ill tempered?’
‘A little . . .’ I hesitated. I thought about how one acquires a reputation in life: one man for laziness, another for greed. Yet sometimes it is due to the ill will of others that a man has a particular mantle put across his shoulders. In truth I had seen no evidence of Elisabetta’s uncle being bad tempered. His face had softened whenever he looked at her. Perhaps she reminded him of his dead sister, Elisabetta’s mother. The man had a reputation for choler but now I tried to see him through the eyes of Elisabetta. He was lonely and old and worked hard and was impatient with those who did not.
‘I see you are pondering my question, Matteo,’ my master said. ‘And it is right that you do. Every piece of information is relevant to the healing of the body.’
‘You think perhaps his illness was progressing upon him and that might be the reason he was brusque? Could that not merely have been his humour?’
‘Yes and no,’ said my master. ‘All things have causes. So even his humour might have its cause in some disease of the body. Cesare Borgia, a carnal and lascivious man, suffered grievously from what they call the French disease. This not only gives boils and can lead to death but has, I believe, a detrimental effect on the brain and thus upon how a man acts, even to the point of fits of madness.’
He looked at me intently. ‘Bear that in mind, Matteo. You are of an age when you will begin to form romantic liaisons. Casual relationships are fraught with hazards of all kinds.’
I was embarrassed, but he did not notice. He had removed himself from the emotion of the moment and turned again to pore over his sketches. I realized that, even in extreme danger while working for Il Valentino, he had observed and noted Cesare Borgia’s looks and behaviour. But now his mind was focused on the drawings before him. There was a difference here in how he and I viewed events. Whereas I too analysed the reason for her uncle’s illness, I also saw Elisabetta running through the rain-soaked grass. The wind driving against her, the hem of her skirts soaked as, with Baldassare, she tried to drag the old man to shelter.
The Maestro left me, telling me to continue with my work and saying that we would deal with this matter later.
I found it difficult to concentrate. The passage from Petrarch I had found interesting no longer held my attention. My mind kept returning to Elisabetta’s letter. If only my grandmother were alive. She would have known the best remedies for Elisabetta’s uncle’s condition. I had seen her attend old people similarly afflicted. I recalled her at the big gypsy camp at Bologna, where the leader of one of the major bands had lost the power of his limbs and the sight of one eye. As soon as his family knew that we were in the area they had sent for my grandmother to come to attend to him, and she had pored over her recipe book, seeking ways to relieve his symptoms. My grandmother’s recipe book! It was still buried in the wooden box in the earth somewhere north of Bologna. I was sure I could find the place where it lay. But even if I could, it was too far for me to go now and dig it up to look for something to help Elisabetta. I was still wrestling with these thoughts and my studies when, an hour or so later, Felipe sought me out.
‘Matteo, the Maestro has spoken to me and given me instructions regarding you.’ Felipe handed me a parcel. ‘There are medicines from the university hospital pharmacy contained herein, with instructions as to their use.’
I looked at him in surprise. I had not had time to seek out Marcantonio della Torre to ask his advice.
Felipe went on speaking. ‘Your master has granted you leave from your studies to visit your friends, the dell’Orte family. I have spoken to the farrier in the town. He will provide you with directions so that you can find the road to their farm from here. Your master will pay the hire of a horse for you for several days, Matteo, so that you may take these medicines and visit Elisabetta and Paolo.’
I got to my feet at once. ‘I would like to thank you,’ I stammered.
‘Don’t thank me,’ said Felipe. ‘Thank your master on your return.’
I took the parcel from him.
‘Go on. Go on.’ Felipe flapped his hand at me. ‘A horse awaits you at the farrier. Be mindful on the road and travel safely.’
Chapter Fifty-Three
TO COME TO Kestra from Pavia I had to ride in a circle south of the city of Milan and take the road via the town of Lodi.
These roads were the ones less travelled by the military and therefore more pleasant. The land of Lombardy is somewhat different from that of Tuscany, but leaving Lodi and heading south into the valley of the rive
r Po the scenery is no less beautiful. My route was via a deep groove in the land with escarpments of rocks and small cliffs. I rode past a gorge where the water tumbled and roared. It had been in such a place, under a waterfall, that I had been drawn into the life I led now. I turned away from there, following the instructions of the farrier in Pavia, and arrived at a roadway which ascended to Elisabetta’s uncle’s farm from the south.
I could see at once that the hand of the owner was not upon the place. The grass already grew too high in the field, while the chickens ran wild in the yard.
No one came to meet me.
Elisabetta was inside attending to her uncle. Baldassare, the neighbouring farmer, was also there. Two chairs had been placed beside the bed in the sick room. And here Baldassare and Elisabetta sat together, taking turns to nurse the patient by day and night. The old man was a shrivelled form of himself. He reminded me of one of the grotesques that the Maestro drew. His brow was down, his lips twisted to one side, his face horribly contorted.
And yet Elisabetta nursed him as if he did not repel her. As I entered she laid her hand on his head.
‘Uncle,’ she said in a loud clear voice, ‘Matteo is here to see you.’
The old man did not stir on the bed.
Elisabetta propped a cushion behind him. ‘Assist me here, Baldassare, please, to help my uncle sit up.’
Her uncle moaned and groaned as they did this. Baldassare spoke to him encouragingly and his eyes seemed to clear a little. He fixed the good one upon me and tried to speak and a dribble of spittle coursed down his chin.
‘See?’ Elisabetta declared brightly. ‘He recognizes you, Matteo.’
‘Uncle’ – she leaned forward – ‘Matteo has brought medicines from the best doctors. From the friends of Leonardo da Vinci himself! Rest now and I will prepare an infusion for you.’
‘I have to tell you, Elisabetta,’ I said, as we left Baldassare to keep watch in her uncle’s room, ‘that the best we can do is make your uncle comfortable. Using herbs will help him but he has an affliction of the body that may not leave him.’
We walked out into the stable yard. ‘I suppose it was to be expected,’ she said. ‘He is old.’
I sensed that there was something else troubling her. ‘Where is Paolo?’ I asked.
‘In the taverns of Lodi.’
‘Ah.’ I waited a moment.
‘He spends too much time there with bad company. I am frightened for him.’
I began to reply, but we were interrupted by a visitor. A man of arrogant appearance had ridden into the yard and dismounted. He stared at the house and then made to enter the barn. I called on him to ask his business and his name.
‘I am Rinaldo Salviati. I heard the owner here was ill,’ he said, ‘and came to look over the buildings with a view to buy.’
‘There is nothing for sale here,’ Elisabetta said angrily.
‘But there may be soon, I hear.’ He came closer to us. ‘You must be the girl, the one known as Elisabetta.’ He leered at her. ‘I am unmarried. I could make an offer for you to be included in the purchase of the property.’
I clenched my fist and leaped at him.
I had never hit anyone before in a serious way. His nose exploded. There was a lot of blood and he howled, but I gained such a degree of satisfaction in seeing this that it frightened me. The seduction of power of one man over another.
He pulled himself onto his horse, jerked the rein and rode off down the road.
‘Well, Matteo,’ said Elisabetta. ‘As far as making a match in this district now, you have quite ruined my chances.’
‘If that was your best offer of marriage then they are well ruined.’
‘It was my only offer, Matteo. You know that the story of my misfortune at Perela is common knowledge, therefore, for me, any offer of marriage is to be considered.’
Her words struck home. Of course the story of Perela would be known! This man whom I had punched was perhaps the only one prepared to overlook that fact. ‘I am sorry—’ I began.
Then I saw that she was laughing.
‘I’d rather die in a dung heap than be wed to such as that,’ she said. ‘If I could have hit him myself I would have done so.’
I began to laugh with her. ‘I am surprised that you did not,’ I said.
‘It’s good to laugh,’ she said. ‘It’s so long since I have laughed.’
She grabbed my arm. ‘Let’s go berrying,’ she said.
‘At this time of year?’
‘Come with me.’
‘Your uncle,’ I said; ‘should we leave him?’
‘Baldassare has been my faithful companion over these last weeks. I trust him absolutely.’ She pushed me towards the side gate which led onto the meadowland. ‘Now, Matteo. Now.’
She took my hand. ‘Let’s run,’ she said.
We ran and ran and ran, until she could run no more.
‘I have a stitch in my side,’ she gasped.
I turned round. I wanted to kiss her then. Not because she was Elisabetta, but, because she was a woman, and she was beautiful, and flushed, and my blood was hot, and it was summer and warm and—
I seized her by the wrist and made her keep running with me.
We arrived by the river. A large willow overhung the water’s edge. We plunged inside, under the green tent of the branches to where it was cool, and there we fell upon the grass, out of breath.
We lay panting. For some reason that I could not fathom, tears started in my eyes. I put my hand across my face and steadied my breath for a few minutes. I rolled over on my side to look at her.
She was asleep.
Like a baby she slept. And she looked as her little brother, baby Dario, had once looked when he slept, his arms raised above his head.
In Florence and Milan I have seen many, many paintings of women – ladies with eyes downcast, naked women, comely girls and courtesans: the depiction by the best artists of the day of womanhood, from goddesses to virgins. But there is nothing to rival the actuality of being close to a girl asleep – the breathing, living being of a woman; the shadow of her lashes, her cheeks blushed with the faintest hue of pink, her mouth curved with lips parted a little. I looked at Elisabetta for a long time, then I went and sat by the river edge and trailed my fingers in the water.
When we returned Baldassare was in the yard. He was helping Paolo from his horse. Paolo lurched and stumbled as he dismounted.
‘My brother!’ he shouted with a wild wave of his hands.
‘Paolo.’ I put my arm out to steady him.
He looked into my face. ‘My brother, Matteo,’ he said.
His eyes were like hot coals in his head. ‘I had another brother once. But he died.’
‘I know,’ I replied softly.
‘I killed him.’
‘You did not.’
‘Yes. I did. My cowardice killed them all.’
‘No, no, Paolo,’ Elisabetta chided him. ‘There was no help for what happened at Perela.’
‘Indeed there was.’
‘No,’ she insisted. ‘There was nothing anyone could have done to save us.’
‘But I was a coward,’ he said. ‘I should have at least tried.’
Elisabetta shook her head but she did not say any more. She only looked across to Baldassare. He stepped forward, and sliding his arm under Paolo’s shoulder began to coax him towards the house to lie down. By their way of communicating with glances I saw that Baldassare had been here to help on previous occasions and I realized that Paolo was in the habit of returning home the worse for wear.
But Paolo broke free from Baldassare and came to me again before I mounted to depart on the long road back to Pavia. He thrust his face into mine and his eyes burned with a strange fire.
‘Soon,’ he said, and his words were clear and distinct. ‘Soon will be my time for revenge.’
Chapter Fifty-Four
I RETURNED TO Pavia by the same route I had come.
There were troo
p movements on the main roads leading north: marching men with supply wagons rolling behind. When I spotted a column in the distance I pulled my horse off the road and cut away west to avoid them, then rejoined the road at a later point. As I got nearer to Pavia messengers, mainly in French colours, passed me, travelling swiftly on horseback. Just outside the town a group of mercenaries were sitting by the roadside, their horses grazing nearby. They stood up when they saw me, and their rough-looking condottieri captain eyed me and my horse as I approached. He raised his hand and beckoned me to join them.
‘Ho! Over here!’ he shouted. He held up a wine goblet studded with jewels to show me. ‘Rich pickings if you ride with us. Gold! And women for the taking! A life of adventure for a fit young man like yourself with a fine steed. Come and join us!’
I returned his greeting briefly and shook my head. I was glad that I could already see the towers of the city and I urged on my horse.
Although it was supper time the streets of Pavia were crowded as I came in over the Ponte Coperto and along the riverside. I reached the university to find that many students had already given notice to quit their classes and were leaving, and that Felipe was packing up our things.
‘It would seem that the Pope has turned on the French,’ Felipe told me, ‘and has allied himself to the Venetians.’
‘The Venetians!’ I exclaimed. ‘I thought the Pope saw Venice as his enemy?’
‘Only when they were gobbling up the Romagna,’ said Felipe. ‘Venice has now agreed to withdraw from the towns the Pope claims are his.’
‘The French will feel betrayed,’ I said. ‘Do you think even Pope Julius would risk incurring the anger of King Louis?’
‘It would seem so.’ Felipe shrugged. ‘At any rate Pavia is very vulnerable. It’s on the main route north and south and, despite all its watchtowers, does not have enough fortifications to defend itself adequately. We are returning to Milan.’
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