The Medici Boy

by John L'Heureux

  At last it seemed he was dead. A guard stepped forward and hooked an iron collar about di Jacopo’s neck and attached it to the gibbet. This was a precaution to ensure that when the fire took the body it would not fall among the ashes before it was thoroughly burned. The iron collar would hold him upright, more or less, until what remained of him fell to pieces. As the collar was attached the hanging body twitched and the crowd gasped. Di Jacopo was not yet dead. Still, he was dead enough to proceed.

  There was the roll of drums and the guards lit their torches. Everyone tensed with anticipation. At four different corners the torches were touched to the straw and wood and at once the flames shot high about the platform. At last, after all this calling on Jesus and the high solemnity of the hanging, here was what they had come to see: the sodomite burning at the stake, justice done, and virtue restored to the Christian community of souls.

  A cheer went up from the crowd. “Death to all sodomites,” someone shouted and the cry was repeated amid much laughter and cheering.

  Off to the side I could see the little boy in red with his face buried in the guard’s tunic. He was weeping uncontrollably and the guard, pretending not to notice, nonetheless patted the boy’s back in a show of comfort.

  After its first flaring the fire burned slowly, but a sudden wind came up and turned the fire away from the body. The crowd groaned, but then the wind shifted and the straw at di Jacopo’s feet caught fire, and then his hair, and he stood chained to the pillar like a human torch.

  I turned away, sick at my stomach, and fought a passage through the crowd. I thought then, yes, the thing most feared in secret always comes to pass, though I did not know what that might mean for me.

  The body was a living flame. They laughed. They shouted. They heaped fresh wood upon the fire and stoked it well so he would burn and burn. I stood and watched. When the flesh of his face began to peel away, they threw stones to see if they could dislodge the head. But the head would not give way and so they let fly chunks of wood to make the arms fall off. Bit by bit the right arm gave way and fell into the fire. A cheer went up and they doubled their efforts until the left arm too gave way. It was a merry game.

  They shouted and they danced and they cheered until the body was ashes and they carted it off to the Arno.

  The joy of it all. The stink of it. It was a vision of hell.

  * * *

  DO YOU WONDER that I feared for Donatello?

  Attenzione! It is ill done to think that in the middle of my life—a married man with children—I suddenly became a sodomite. I did at certain times think it myself, because I loved him at those times more than I loved my wife and my sons and it hurts even now to say it. But here is the hard truth: I loved him with a cold, keen love. It was of the heart and head only. In time you yourself may judge with what honesty I speak.

  1430

  CHAPTER 15

  IT WAS ONE of those sweltering days in June when the young Agnolo—then in his sixteenth year—first entered the life of my master Donatello.

  The sky was a hard blue, the sunlight so relentless that it struck the marble and dazzled the eye and left you for the moment blind. The birds were silent, the cats had disappeared, the whole city seemed to be at sleep. It was hot, it was sweltering, and we had been at work since dawn. Both of the great doors stood full open—the delivery door from the Via Santa Reparata and the door to the workyard—but dust hung heavy in the air and not the slighest breeze stirred. No one spoke. We worked in our undershirts, barefoot, with no stockings, tired in the heat and ill disposed one to another. We were all nervous at our work because Donatello was expecting a visit from my lord Cosimo.

  Cosimo de’ Medici was a man of great and unfathomable mystery. He spoke little and listened much, he was a man of enormous wealth who lived—in public, at least—with notable modesty. He was open handed and even profligate with his gold but he could be frugal as well, and even mean. I had observed him closely over the years. He studied politeness and generosity and, apart from his magnificent clothes, he was without ostentation. He preferred a donkey to a horse for daily use and he went about with but a single servant. He loved the busy traffic of florins and was known to have said, “Even if I could wave a magic wand and create money, I would continue to be a banker.” So it was not just the money he loved. He was a man of middle age—younger than Donatello, who was forty-four—but he looked older, perhaps because his mind was much on death. Donatello told me once that Cosimo had had a twin brother Damiano who died at birth and thus they were truly Cosmas and Damian, united in life and death, as in the Litany of the Saints. For this reason—the lost brother—he was ever mindful of dying and of the life to come. He belonged to a pious confraternity that met together for prayer and penance, and later in his life, for the sake of his soul, he would spend a vast fortune on the monastery of San Marco. And yet in every other way he was the most worldly of men. He had a particular love for Donatello who loved him much in return.

  My master Donato was at this time at work on the Santa Croce tabernacle that shows the angel Gabriel announcing to the Virgin that she is to be the Mother of God. It is a relief in sandstone, generously gilded, and has the look of two fully rounded statues. In truth it seems not so much two statues as the living presence of the angel Gabriel and the Virgin Mary. She is a creature of supreme beauty and intelligence and, despite her initial fright, she accepts what must be. Caterina Bardi, Donatello’s niece, posed for the Virgin Mary, and—let me say it once again—at the top of the tabernacle and teetering above it on the right and left are my two boys, Donato Michele and Franco Alessandro, holding one another in fear of the height.

  Agnolo had once again come to the bottega to ask for money, not because his soldier had thrown him over but because he got bored during the day and found pleasure in causing me discomfort. In truth he had called here several times before and on this day chance alone brought him to Donatello’s notice.

  Agnolo appeared at the open door of the bottega, leaned in—shy—and called to Pagno di Lapo who was sharpening chisels near the door, asking that he call me away from work for only a moment.

  “Tell him his brother has a message for him,” he said.

  Pagno came and stood by me where I attended Donatello as he cut in details of the angel’s wings for his Annunciation. When at last Donatello stood back and studied the effect of his chisel work, Pagno took that as permission to speak to me.

  “Your brother is here,” he said softly. “He has a message.”

  I looked across the room at Agnolo, who stood at the doorpost, smiling, his straw hat clutched in his hands. He looked up at me and scuffed one foot against the other. He was wearing only a shirt and those strapped boots the soldier had given him. I made a sign that he should wait there.

  “I thought you said you didn’t have a brother,” Donatello said and continued to study his work.

  “He’s not my brother.”

  Donatello looked from his angel to me, and seeing I was uneasy, he cast a glance at the door where Agnolo continued to wait. His glance lasted for some time.

  “He doesn’t look like you.”

  “He’s not my brother.”

  He looked at me again, comparing us. “He has yellow hair and a broad forehead and eyes that . . . he is very comely.”

  I said nothing. My master Donatello was forty-four years old and was still taken with comely youths. There was nothing I could say.

  He put down his chisel and gave me all his attention.

  “What is he called?”

  “Agnolo. Agnolo Mattei.”

  “So he is your half-brother?”

  “He is no brother of mine at all. Neither his father nor his mother was my father or mother.” I spoke with some heat. “My father was a merchant. My mother was the merchant’s slave. She died at my birth and I was forced to live my early years with Matteo and his wife. This Agnolo is their son. He is not my brother.”

  Donatello had rarely heard me speak with passion
and never with such anger.

  “He only wants money,” I said.

  “Then we must give him some.”

  He put down his chisel and went to the rope that hung from the ceiling and lowered the basket with the money in it. There was a scattering of piccioli, some silver florins, and a single gold florin. He took out several piccioli, hesitated a moment, and then put them back and took out a silver florin, a large sum, enough for a man to live on for weeks.

  “No,” I said. I spoke in anger still.

  Donatello paused, thinking, and then he raised the basket and tied off the rope. “I think so,” he said.

  As Donatello approached him Agnolo bowed his head, a quick jerky movement, and then bowed once more, solemnly. Donatello smiled at him and Agnolo returned the smile, his white teeth flashing, his eyes darting from Donatello’s face to my own and then back to Donatello.

  “You are called Agnolo Mattei?”

  “I am Luca’s brother.”

  “Then you’re mine as well.”

  “He’s not my brother,” I said.

  “Peace, peace,” Donatello said. And to Agnolo he said, “Have you been in the city long?”

  “A year, almost.”

  “Then you have a place to live.”

  Agnolo simpered and said nothing.

  “And friends.”

  Agnolo looked down at his boots.

  “Those are very handsome boots.”

  “They were a gift.”

  “A handsome gift.”

  There was a silence then and I did nothing to make it easier.

  “I came to see Luca,” Agnolo said.

  “I could not run my shop without Luca. He is greatly valued here.”

  There was another silence.

  “I’ve seen you before,” Agnolo said. “In the Mercato.”

  “Yes.”

  “And on the Ponte Vecchio. On the far side.”

  “I live there. With Michele di Bartolomeo.”

  “Yes.”

  “Have you seen him as well?”

  What were they playing at, I wondered? This seemed less a first meeting than a deliberate flirtation. It was clear that Agnolo was prepared to spend the afternoon in this way and I worried that Donatello was also.

  “He only wants money,” I said.

  “Then you must give him some,” Donatello said and handed me the silver florin. He nodded to Agnolo and went back to his work.

  I gave Agnolo the coin and a hard look along with it. I waited until I thought Donatello could not hear me.

  “You have no shame,” I said.

  “He likes me. I can tell.”

  “He only gave you the money because of me.”

  “But he gave it.”

  “You must never come here again. This is where I work. Don’t come here!” My voice had risen in anger and the others had begun to cast glances at me.

  Pagno laughed silently and shook his head.

  I turned back to Agnolo but he had disappeared. I stepped out into the street and there he was on his way to the Mercato, tossing his coin in the air and catching it, careless, defiant.

  At the horseblock outside the door the great Cosimo de’ Medici stood looking after Agnolo, a broad smile on his face. I bowed to him and retreated into the bottega.

  At once Pagno approached me with a knowing grin. “A little problem with the boy?” he asked. Pagno was one of those men who sees sin everywhere, in everyone, as if the greatest pleasure lay in sniffing out the failings of others. He was twenty-two years of age and had never known love. No, nor sex either, I thought.

  “He’s my brother,” I said and turned away from him.

  “Oh? Your brother? Indeed!” Pagno said.

  IN ANOTHER WEEK Agnolo returned. For the past two days it had been raining and the bottega was heavy with the stink of wet wool and sweat and the earthy smell of cut marble. Lamps were lit throughout the vast room and flares were set beside the Annunciation where Donatello was at work. I had finished feeding the chickens and was in the workyard pulling down hay for Fiametta when Agnolo arrived, drenched through, stamping his feet against the wet.

  I came back into the workplace and noticed him at once. He was standing at the door, his hat in his hands, aware every moment that he was being looked at. His hair was drenched, his clothes clung to his body. He looked a misery. The orange cat ran to him and rubbed herself against his leg and he shoved her away with his foot. Good, I thought, let them all see his heartlessness: he has rejected the cat. But of course no one cared. It was just a cat.

  At this moment Pagno went to him and said something and they both laughed quietly, like conspirators. I went up to them and Pagno gave me a look and said, “Your brother.”

  I waited till Pagno left us, then I said, “I told you not to.”

  “I came in out of the rain.”

  “What do you want? You couldn’t have gone through all that money in these few days. And you’re not supposed to come here.”

  Agnolo hung his head, a penitent.

  “Well?”

  “I know. I’m sorry.”

  “Well, what do you want?”

  “I want nothing. I wanted only to see you.” He looked beyond me to where Donatello was at work on the Annunciation.

  “Nobody wears boots like those except soldiers and whores,” I said.

  “I know. I know.”

  “And everyone knows how you paid for them.”

  “They were not payment, they were a gift,” he said. He ignored me then, done with pretending to penitence, and instead tugged at the hem of his shirt to shake off the wet. He looked around the room boldly. His eyes darted from Donatello to Pagno where they stood together talking and then to the other assistants and apprentices.

  “So many people work here.”

  “And we’re always busy. That’s why you must not come here. We have work to do.”

  “There’s a girl over there.”

  “Yes.”

  “Do girls make good stone pickers?”

  “She paints. And she makes designs.”

  “She is very fair. Is she your mistress? Or Donatello’s?”

  “It’s not like that here.”

  “It’s like that everywhere.” He gave a small poisoned smile.

  “You should go,” I said. I could not think how to make him leave.

  Meanwhile Pagno had lowered the money basket and raised it again and now he approached us, his mouth stretched in a grin.

  “This is from your brother,” he said, and dropped a few piccioli into Agnolo’s outstretched hand. “Donatello is busy now.”

  “You are most kind,” Agnolo said, and slid the coins into the small embroidered pouch he wore at his waist. “I am your servant.”

  Pagno nodded his head, glanced at me, and left us.

  “I know his kind,” Agnolo said, once Pagno was out of hearing. “He’ll do you a shrewd turn and rejoice in it.”

  “And you?” I said.

  “I? I’m just a poor boy of sixteen looking to please God.” He laughed then and ducked out into the rain.

  * * *

  THE NEXT TIME I saw him he was inside the bottega itself, sitting on a stool next to Caterina as she painted the inside lid of Cosimo’s wedding chest. The painting showed Queen Esther, bare of breast, pleading before the King that he should spare her people. Agnolo sat watching, his feet planted firmly on the stone floor, his legs apart, playing the man. Caterina was absorbed in her painting, but she could not keep herself from turning now and again to respond to him as he talked. He had a way of fixing her with a glance that lasted a moment longer than necessary and seemed to send a message . . . of interest perhaps or of desire, if she preferred to regard it that way. He was a very practiced young man.

  “I’ve met your brother,” Caterina said.

  “He’s not my brother.”

  “Luca is ashamed of me,” Agnolo said. “Can you believe such a thing?”

  “No. Not Luca,” Caterina said
and looked at me, an admonition.

  It was clear she was taken with him. How could this be? His head was too big for his body and his body was soft and girlish. His skin was sickly white.

  “I must get on with this cassone,” she said and turned back to her work.

  Agnolo shifted his attention to me. “I talked to your friend, Michelozzo,” he said. “He told me Ser Donatello is away in Pisa.”

  “Buying stone,” I said. “You should let Caterina get on with her work.” I took his arm and, reluctantly, he got to his feet.

  “Michelozzo is very big. And handsome.”

  He meant to annoy me so I did not respond.

  “How old is Michelozzo?”

  “Come. I’ll walk you out to the street.”

  “Does he play the boy to Donatello?”

  I struck him then, an open hand to his cheek that left a stinging red mark. He raised his fist as if to strike back, then thought better of it and left. Everyone pretended not to notice, except Pagno, who cast me that glancing smile of his.

  * * *

  IT WAS SOME time before Agnolo returned. Once again I was not there when he arrived—I was occupied in the storage area overseeing delivery of a large packet of wax blocks—and when I came out to the main room of the bottega, there was Agnolo deep in conversation with Donatello. They were standing together before the tabernacle of the Annunciation as Donatello explained to him what was happening in the scene before them.

  “You see, the Angel Gabriel kneels before the Virgin and he has come in much haste,” Donatello said. He pointed to the feathered wings, still unfurled, rising behind the angel’s head. “Mary is startled, she is afraid, as who would not be? She has been at prayer and she is still clutching her book in her arm, see here, as she rises from her chair and makes as if to flee.” With his long fingers he traced the book and the arm and the figure rising from the chair. “Notice that the lower part of her body has turned away from the angel, her right foot is poised for flight. Do you see? And now the angel greets her, ‘Hail, full of grace!’ And at the angel’s words she turns back to him—notice the upper part of her body—and attends his message, so we see her face in profile, her hand above her heart. Her eyes are fixed on his eyes and she says, ‘Behold the handmaid of the Lord.’ And in that moment it is done. She is to be the Mother of the Christ.” Donatello stepped back and looked at his work, not altogether satisfied.