In a leather wallet the messenger carried, Luca di Matteo would find a manuscript of Cicero’s letters to be copied in triplicate in his best hand and put aside safely against the end of our exile, nine years hence.
So there it was! Cosimo de’ Medici writing to me! But what followed meant the end of my rejoicing.
He wished once more the blessings of God upon Ser Donatello and all his works and, in a post scriptum, he said he looked forward on his return to viewing Donato’s bronze David, triumphant and joyful, with his foot on the head of Goliath.
This post scriptum, however casually intended, proved sufficient to enflame Donatello with his old madness. The Prato Pulpit lay unattended in the workyard. The marble relief of the Feast of Herod was far from completion. And the Duomo Cantoria, for lack of the right marble, had barely proceeded beyond the stage of design. And now, of a sudden, there was talk of the bronze David. Not talk, to be sure, since Donatello did not mention the David to anyone, but I knew from his look when he read the letter—and he read it over again many times—that the fire had been started and that in very little time we would be back again to posing and sculpting and perhaps this time to forging in bronze the statue he seemed doomed to complete.
* * *
SUMMER WAS AN unbroken succession of sweltering days. Everyone was listless, the customary noise of the bottega sank to a low murmur, even the chickens seemed too tired to lay eggs. The entire city lay smothered beneath a blanket of heat. Rumors continued to circulate that Cosimo’s exile would not be permanent, but no one seemed to care. It was enough to get through the day.
Perhaps because of the heat, perhaps because he was not born to lead, Rinaldo degli Albizzi relaxed his hold on the city government to the point that he neglected to fix bribes for the summer elections of the new Priori. He awoke one day to discover that five of the nine Priori were Medici loyalists and the power of the Signoria was no longer entirely in his hands. Rinaldo considered refusing to seat the new Signoria, but even he could see that this would be to overreach himself by much and to guarantee revolt. The new Signoria was seated and, indignant at their treatment and determined to show their independence, they took advantage of Rinaldo’s absence at his summer villa to move definitively against him.
When he reentered the city in September, refreshed and eager for work, Rinaldo was greeted by a summons to report immediately to the Palazzo della Signoria. He knew at once that rebellion was at hand and, sensing the possibility of imprisonment in the alberghettino—and would he, like Cosimo, emerge alive?—he rode straight to his own palace and called to arms his private bodyguard that numbered more than five hundred men. He gave orders for them to occupy the church of San Pietro Scheraggio near the Palazzo della Signoria and to await orders to attack the palazzo, to burn all the Medici properties, and to take the city by force. The Signoria countered by sending its own troops into the piazza and barricading themselves inside the palazzo with food and supplies enough to withstand a lengthy siege. Civil war seemed inevitable. Days went by and nothing happened. Troops on both sides became restless, standing at attention and ready to fight but with no orders given. Finally the Priori smuggled out messengers to the Pope in his sanctuary at Santa Maria Novella and Eugenius was persuaded to summon Rinaldo to a conference. Rinaldo knew this could not be good. He arrived with fewer than his original five hundred troops; they had begun to dessert as time passed and rumors swirled about a huge mercenary army levied by the Signoria and only waiting for the signal to attack.
Rinaldo joined the Pope in his court at the monastery and through the long afternoon the troops waited in the piazza outside the church. The Pope was grieved by this unrest, he said, he wished only for peace. And, of course, for a strong and stable government in Florence that might guarantee his eventual return to Rome. Meanwhile what could he do? He spoke sympathetically of the Medici in exile and to Rinaldo he promised he would do what little he could to protect the life and property of the Albizzi family during whatever period of conflict might come upon them. He droned on and on.
Rinaldo remained closeted with the Pope, determined whatever the cost to win his support. As darkness fell the troops began to disperse and by the time Rinaldo emerged late in the night he was greeted by the few stragglers who had remained hopeful till the end.
And the end it certainly was. Two days later, on September 28, 1434, Rinaldo degli Albizzi was banished from Florence and Cosimo de’ Medici who at his death would be named Pater Patriae was recalled from his exile in Venice. Almost a year to the day after his banishment my lord Cosimo returned to the city in triumph.
Cosimo, the humble David, had brought down Goliath with not so much as a stone.
WHEN MY LORD Cosimo visited our bottega a month after his return, Donatello was able to show him the life-sized model in wax that would become—once it was cast—the first free-standing bronze nude in more than a thousand years.
Agnolo stood beside the model as if he alone were responsible for it.
1435
CHAPTER 29
THE WAX DAVID was a work of such perfection that Donatello himself seemed reluctant to risk it to the clay and fire that must come next. It was life-size and gleaming as it stood on the low workstand where Donatello had put his last strokes to it and pronounced it done. This was a special moment because Cosimo de’ Medici had been invited to view his statue and we watched as, stunned in admiration, he gave way to its magic. He looked and looked and after a long while he leaned forward and pointed to the laurel wreath on David’s hat. “Ah!” he said, because of course the laurel was sacred to the Medici family. And then he noticed the laurel wreath beneath Goliath’s head, making of it an offering to a jealous God. He studied the helmet closely and gave a small gasp of pleasure as he realized that the medallion on Goliath’s helmet was a copy of a medallion from his own collection, ancient, Roman or perhaps Greek. On the medallion a chariot is pulled by three winged children while a fourth child pushes it from behind. They are true Donatello children, plump and full of charm. High on the chariot sits an imposing male figure shaded by an umbrella and before him a fifth child kneels in worship. Here, in a medallion emblazoned on the helmet of the stricken Goliath, is the triumph of pride brought low.
Cosimo could not have been more pleased. He leaned forward and let his hand trace David’s buttock and thigh and then he turned to Donatello and gave him a warm embrace. He kissed him on both cheeks once, and then again, and whispered some word of thanks or astonishment—we could not hear it—before turning back to the statue and gazing at it with wonder.
The whole world has come to know and marvel at the bronze statue as it stands glowing in the courtyard garden of the new Medici palace. But to see it for the first time—so fragile in its thin coat of wax—was to confront a vision of what was possible for humankind: this frail boy, armed only with a stone and the mighty strength of God, had brought down the enemy of the people of God. Cosimo, who had just brought down the Albizzi, must have seen himself in David, just as surely as Donatello saw himself in Goliath. Look at Goliath’s head and tell me these are not the sunken eyes, the scruffy beard and the blade-like nose of Donatello.
“There will be much gold for this,” Pagno whispered. “I have never seen my lord Cosimo more pleased.”
“Donatello does not care about gold,” I said.
“No, but it makes his work possible.”
I could not argue with that and so I turned to my accounts where, in truth, I found that we were much in need of gold. As always we were behind in our work, and several of our major commissions, though completed or nearly completed, had not been paid for. Only Cosimo was beforehand with his money and so we were not surprised when a week later a huge shipment of copper and tin arrived—some three hundred pounds altogether—so that the casting of the David could go forward at once.
* * *
OUR BOTTEGA HAD formerly been the Inn of Santa Caterina and so we had to create our own foundry before we could cast the David. Donate
llo installed a new furnace for smelting the bronze and a new crucible for melting it, though he kept his old oven for heating the clay mold because he trusted it. He knew its oddities and its range of temperatures and he could depend on it to bake the clay mold slowly so that, when the wax had melted out and before the bronze was poured to replace it, he could further strengthen the clay by heating it to a higher temperature. The stronger the mold the less danger of imperfections in the pouring.
He installed a new drum bellows also, an old invention newly perfected by Michelozzo. Two men mount the twin bellows where they stand with a stout cord in hand. They shift their weight from foot to foot and, as they depress one bellows with their heels, they pull on the cord to raise the skin of the other bellows, allowing air to flow inside and fan the fire. Everything depends on the heat of the fire.
Beneath the pouring platform a pit was scooped out and filled with sand that was damp and porous. This would become the casting pit where the sand would support the individual pieces to be cast and would serve to cool the bronze once it was poured.
I took great pleasure in seeing the foundry come together. I had been charged with the installation of each of the related pieces and in the end even Pagno di Lapo acknowledged that it was a model foundry, as fine as Ghiberti’s. The casting itself—if all went as planned—would be a matter of a week.
All other work in the bottega came to a halt as we held our breath to see if the miracle in wax could be reproduced in bronze.
* * *
THE CASTING OF David was planned for the first week of January. The days were cold but not freezing and the sky remained clear, a good casting weather. We rolled back the huge doors that gave onto the courtyard of the bottega so as to accommodate the terrible heat of the furnace and to allow fresh air to circulate through the foundry.
Michelozzo was concerned about the timing of the pour. Two strong men working together could manage a crucible of about 150 pounds or two gallons of molten bronze. To pour more than that would tax their ability to control the flow of the metal. The poured bronze would take at least two days to cool, followed by a day or more to break open the clay molds and remove the finished bronze. If everything went smoothly the casting would require a week to complete.
Donatello had painted the wax David with many coats of clay and he had separated the several parts in which it would be cast. The hat with its laurel trim was to be cast separately from the head. Then the body in a single section to below the knees, and a separate section from the top of the boots to the bottom of the sandals. The sword itself would require a separate casting, though the hilt of the sword along with the right hand that gripped it was to be cast as a single piece. In the same way Goliath’s head and the laurel wreath it rests on were meant to be cast as one, but out of concern for the intricate details of the helmet and its medallion Donatello decided to cast them separately. Each of these pieces presented a problem all its own in the pouring, the casting, and in removal from the clay mold.
As always on a casting day much of our time would be taken up with preparation, each of us with an assigned task. Donatello himself had prepared the clay molds with their flues and wax vents and he had placed the individual sections in the order they were to be fired: first the hat and, if the pour went well and the bronze did not clog, then David’s head and trunk, and his sword. That would be the total casting for the second of January.
Four special assistants were hired for this day, men with knowledge and experience who had worked on Ghiberti’s bronze doors. Two were in charge of the clay molds as they entered and left the oven while two others positioned the molds in the sand of the casting pit once the wax had been melted away.
Two of the apprentices were in charge of the bellows. They were young and inexperienced but they had been practicing for days. They knew that, once the furnace was fired, there was no room for error: temperature must be kept at a constant heat and that would depend on the deft use of the bellows.
Pagno and I, as two of the strongest, were assigned the task of pouring the bronze from the crucible into the individual molds.
Michelozzo supervised the mixing of tin and copper and lead: 90 percent copper, 10 percent tin, and a tiny addition of lead to lower the melting point of the bronze mixture and to allow the molten bronze to pour more easily.
Donatello himself supervised every step of the pour.
* * *
THE BOTTEGA BRISTLED with the excitement of the first casting. We were all aware that this was a special moment and that our task—and our privilege—was unique among Florence’s craftsmen. This was to be the bronze David, life-size, a free-standing nude, such as had not existed since ancient times, and sculpted by the greatest artisan of our day. Agnolo was beside himself with expectation.
The morning was cold but the heat from the furnace was overwhelming and the acid smell of the melting bronze burned in our noses. Even worse, bits of ash from the fire flew at our eyes. We all wore heavy leather aprons to protect us from the fire and around our necks we had twisted thick towels for further protection. Pagno and I stood on either side of the furnace, raised above it on a low platform, and that extra height gave us purchase on the two heavy rods that supported the crucible and would enable us to control the flow of molten bronze as we poured it into the molds.
We began with David’s hat. It was fired in the oven, the wax was drained out, and then—to further harden the clay shell—it was fired at a still higher temperature to make it strong enough to resist the melting force of the molten bronze. Everything was moving along smoothly. The empty mold was allowed to cool a little and then the two special assistants from Ghiberti’s bottega transferred it to the sand pit immediately below the crucible. The mold was heavy and they carried it in a kind of cradle they balanced between them. It had a great weight and they groaned in an unseemly way as they carried it. Our apprentices—who would never allow themselves such a groan—had prepared a hole to the right size and as Ghiberti’s assistants lowered the mold into the pit, they scooped the moist sand around it to secure it in place. This was the easiest part of the process. What mattered here was to keep the mold—the hardened shell—intact, with no chips or splinters within that might cause the finished bronze to blister or clot.
Meanwhile, under Michelozzo’s careful eye, the molten bronze had been stirred and heated to exactly the right temperature and consistency. It was a beautiful and terrifying broth and I stared into the crucible, marveling that this liquid was the most important step on the way to the completed statue. Pagno and I waited for Michelozzo’s signal to pour. The mold was firmly in position in the casting pit, the temperature and viscosity of the bronze exactly right, and at last Michelozzo gave the signal, pointing first at the crucible and then at us.
We took a deep breath and began our work. Carefully, steadily, we tipped the crucible until the molten bronze bubbled at the lip and then flowed—slowly, slowly—into the funnel at the base of the hat. We poured steadily with no jiggling or jerking of the rods that might cause an uneven flow.
It was good to feel the strength in my arms become the controlling force that made the bronze flow perfectly. Pagno and I worked well together since this was no time to compete and because, for all I did not trust him, I acknowledged that he was strong and had some gifts as a pourer of bronze. The effort was tremendous and the sweat coursing down our arms made it difficult to sustain the evenness of the pour, but it was yet early in the day and we were glad to perform so well. We finished pouring the hat, slowing the flow of bronze as it gathered in the funnel, the sign that the empty mold was now full. We tipped the crucible back into position above the furnace and rested. Pagno smiled at me, satisfied, and unable to help myself, I smiled back at him.
Michelozzo checked the fire to make certain the right temperature was being maintained. He said nothing but he looked satisfied at our work. Donatello, more anxious than I had ever seen him, hovered above the mold while it was lifted from its place beneath the crucible
and placed further down the casting pit where it would settle and cool for the next two days.
The hat appeared to be a success, though of course we would not know for certain until the mold was broken open and the backing scraped away from the new bronze. But for now, in anticipation of success, there was a moment of pleasure and satisfaction for all of us as Donatello examined what we had done and, from the look of it, found our work satisfactory.
He gave orders then to proceed with David’s head. The mold was placed upside down in the pit and, at the signal from Michelozzo, Pagno and I repeated what we had done with the hat, pouring slowly so as to control the flow of the bronze while being careful not to jerk the crucible from its fixed position on the furnace. It was exhausting work and required more strength and attention than you might think. Once again we worked together as one to create an even and smooth pour. And once again the funnel indicated the empty mold was now filled and we tipped the crucible back into position on the furnace and stepped back from our completed work. Donatello seemed pleased. Pagno and I exchanged a glance—he smiled yet again—and for the first time since I had met him I felt some affection for him.
We could now move on to casting the upper body and the sword. I call it the upper body but in truth it was the largest piece to be cast and it extended from the base of the neck down to the joining of the leg and the boot, including the belly and buttocks and the private parts that had so deeply disappointed Agnolo. “My cazzo is twice the size of that,” he said, “even at its smallest it is bigger than that.” Donatello was hard pressed to convince him that decency must be observed, that it was merely a symbolic cazzo, that nobody would think less of him because the penis on the statue was not of the immensity of his penis in real life. “We must not offend,” Donatello concluded, “with too much reality,” and that at least for a time had seemed to satisfy Agnolo’s vanity. The casting of so large a section worried me. To sustain a constant pour at a very low volume would tax all my strength but I was determined not to fail my lord Donatello nor let Pagno see me as the lesser man. We leaned back from the poisonous smell of the bronze and waited for Michelozzo’s signal. He gave it and we bent to the controlling rods and tipped the crucible at exactly the right angle and held it there truly. The pour took a long time. The sweat poured into our eyes and down our arms, but we held the rods firmly and the pour was a success. Gratefully—the strain was over at last—we tipped the crucible back into place.
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