by Tony Bulmer
Upon their arrival they were introduced to a presentation line of the cities wealthiest and most ennobled residents—merchants, guildsmen, bankers, and a veritable plethora of government officials, so numerous it made Salai’s head spin. He quickly felt his attention dip, as his spirits craved the taste of a cold, refreshing glass wine, accompanied by a minstrel’s song and the strong, heavy-oiled hands of an Ottoman masseur.
Alas, for the moment, such fantasies seemed as far off as ever, for they were carried forward, by the welcoming throng, through long corridors of toiling artisans—painters and plasters and goldsmiths and joiners, all going about their labors with the tenacity of worker bees. Quite a sight it was, the renovations of the Palazzo Vecchio already well under way.
As if this carnival of activity were not enough, a host of entertainers and musicians of every description mixed in the workmen—jugglers threw fire, bears danced, gypsy acrobats gamboled and flipped—all in time to the pipe call and drum beat of the most modern of ages conceivable.
Such a glorious and eventful confusion—and the master strode through it all, resplendent in his finest carmine robes, his long platinum hair and beard flowing around him. He was a god—a magician and an ipsimus, strolling through this chaos as though such festivities were the most commonplace events imaginable.
Salai marveled. How people loved his master—so many gushing and effusive greetings—so many earnest and manful declarations of admiration—so many high-pitched shrieking women, swooning and curtseying, in their improbable threads of court.
Then, at last, as they walked onward, they entered into the famed Salone dei Cinquecento—The Hall of the Five Hundred. The giant room was gloomy and dark, like the lost chamber of the devil himself. In the musty, smoke-tinged chill of the great hall, Salai imagined he could smell the putrid death-stink of the heretic priest Savonarola roasting in the hell-fire torment of his refusal to obey the Papal will.
Salai shuddered.
Sunbeams slatted down towards them from the high windows, like holy swords from the Lord above. Salai shuddered again, as a cold omen ran its fingers across his soul. A dark robed figure stepped out of the shadows and hissed in Salai’s ear “Puer delicates—delicate boy!”
Leonardo da Vinci turned in surprise, “Why Buonarroti, what you fail to gain in stature you gain in reputation, I congratulate you—where is this giant hunk of stone you have been chipping through these long years, like a mouse through a piece of cheese?”
“You know this beggar?” snapped Salai imperiously.
“This is no beggar master Salai, this is non other than Michelangelo Buonarroti the terribilita of Hellenistic shepherd boy’s everywhere.”
“How can that be possible, he is not much older than I!” squawked Salai indignantly. “And he stinks like a Perugian vagabond!”
“Honest and Holy sweat given in service to lord God Almighty. I will warrant you have never seen a fair day’s labor in your life master Ganymede,” snarled Michelangelo.
Salai flounced forward, “He cheeks me like a tuppeny strumpet!”
“Tuppence would be a heavy price to pay for company such as yours young catamite,” sneered Michelangelo.
Leonardo gave the brightest of smiles and said, “Is there not an alter piece nearby that requires the attention of your divine presence Buonarroti?”
“Your humor and your company do you mis-service my Lord.”
“Tish, tish, we do not stand on formality, do we Salai?” not waiting for a response, Leonardo continued, “In fact, we are honored to be reacquainted with your divine, if somewhat idiosyncratic talent, is that not so Salai?”
Salai pulled a dark face, as he struggled with difficulty to contain the stream of poisonous invective that boiled within him.
“And now,” continued Leonardo pleasantly, “After so brief a meeting, we must away, to reacquaint ourselves with the company of Galfoniere Soderini, excuse us if you will Buonarroti, I have no doubt we will be able to further continue this lively exchange of views in the very near future—perhaps over dinner, what do you say Salai? A dinner date with the famous Michelangelo Buonarroti—”
But Michelangelo had already stalked off in disgust, grumbling sotto voce threats as he went.
“After all the stories of his divinity to the works of the Lord, I was expecting Signor Buonarroti to have an altogether more hallowed demeanor—both in terms of temperament and visage,” sniffed Salai lightly.
Leonardo nodded sadly, “Foulmouthed intolerance has made him many enemies. Whilst apprenticed to the master Bertolo di Giovanni, a fellow pupil name of Pietro Torriagiano took umbrage with young Buonarroti and struck him in the face with a stone chisel, and presto, the tortured countenance of high art received it’s initiation into the world of facial disfigurement. A fortuitous event perhaps—it may not have tempered his tongue, and it certainly enabled his endeavors in the realm of physical beauty, of that there is no question.”
“I was hoping for a fairer countenance from the modern worlds leading exponent of the platonic ideal,” said Salai dismissively.
“Ours is not to judge my boy, as one day we too may be smitten by the cruel hand of the fates. Come, let us make acquaintance with our gracious host, as master Soderini is renowned for his light and temperate disposition.”
Salai followed his master across the chamber of the Five Hundred, towards a somber looking group of officials, who were staring in unison towards a giant scaffold that stood against the long wall of the chamber. None of the figures were familiar to Salai, but his master seemed drawn towards them none-the-less.
As they drew closer, Leonardo hailed the group with a raucous greeting.
All eyes turned towards them.
That was when Salai recognized the toad like face of Machiavelli, his long neck craning, to witness their arrival.
“The master arrives, oozed Machiavelli, and his most able assistant Salai. Welcome gentlemen. Prey allow me to introduce you to the assembled company.” Machiavelli gave a dramatic gesture that reminded Salai of a fairground conjurer he had once seen at a traveling circus. “Behold the great Galfoniere of the Republic of Florence Piero Soderini.”
Soderini nodded curtly, “It has been too long master Leonardo, since your presence graced the fair city of Florence.”
Leonardo da Vinci gave a gracious bow, “Indeed it has been too long my Lord, but during these long years of absence there has been no moment that the fairest Republic in Christendom has not been in my thoughts.”
“I hear Leonard that you have been consumed by your duties to his Holiness the Pope and his most particular ambitions.”
“Indeed my Lord.”
“A very great pity that a talent as immense as yours should be squandered thus, but have no fear master da Vinci, the City of Florence will henceforth be employing your skills in the field of the decorative arts.”
“You are most gracious in considering me for the honor my Lord,” said da Vinci.
Everyone beamed, and nodded in stout agreement. Even Salai felt himself swallowing back his natural cynicism, as he saw the elders of this great city pay effusive tribute to his master and his very considerable repertoire of talents. Machiavelli made the introductions apace. So many hands to shake—so many names to forget, Salai felt almost queezy with the strain of this social overload—all the men were so earnest and dreary, sucking up to the great Galfoniere as though their collective little lives depended on it, the wheezing little toadies.
Machiavelli took it all in his stride of course, effecting introductions as though the master was Saint Peter himself—it was all too much to bear. Salai shrank backwards, easing into the crowd, so that he might make an escape into the realm of more worldly pleasures. But as he neared the periphery of the group, with the sweet taste of freedom so deliciously close—the parasite Machiavelli spied him—caught him by the hand and inflicted further introductions upon him. Salai felt about ready to roar out in protest, when a young couple of the most elegant disposit
ion suddenly stepped before him.
“Master Salai, I give you Francesco del Giocondo and my lady Lisa del Giocondo. Signor Giocondo is consul of the Silk Guild—L'Arte della Seta. Should you require an outfitter, during your stay, I am sure his great experience and will prove invaluable to both you, and your master.”
Signor Giocondo gave an elegant bow, and held out a soft white hand.
Salai grasped it and assessed the cut of Giocondo’s cloth. His clothes were well tailored and decorous, elegantly and tastefully accessorized, with great style and subtlety. “Signor Giocondo, what a delight to make your acquaintance. It is always a genuine pleasure to meet a gentleman of taste and refinement. You must excuse my most ragged appearance, for my master and I have spent many long months in the battle torn employ of the great Cesare Borgia.”
“How exciting—both you and your master must have had many adventures—it would be an honor if you would join us for dinner at our villa, so that we might share news of your decorous exploits.”
Salai beamed widely, Signor Giocondo was a most delightful young fellow and cherubically handsome too. Salai was just about to ask his new acquaintance searching questions, about what type of cologne he was wearing, and which apothecary might be able to advance a supply of such a glorious scent, when Signora Giocondo thrust a sweaty little lace trimmed had in Salai’s face, that it might be held and kissed, by manner of chivalrous introduction. Salai grasped the hand and kissed it wetly, thrusting his tongue between her fingers.
Lisa Giocondo squealed loudly.
“Signor Salai—you are aptly named to be sure,” she giggled.
Salai gave her a most charming smile. “Madonna Giaconda. He growled teasingly. The girl had a soft little provincial smile, full of sin and dark eyed sauciness. Salai made eyes at her. She giggled again.
Suddenly the master was at Salai’s side. “You will excuse my young associate for his familiarity Signora Giaconda. His long association with the vulgar company of the common soldiery has proven to be a poisonous influence on his manners of court.”
“I find your young companion to be most charming signor da Vinci—his sense of fun is most refreshing.”
“You are as gracious as you are beautiful Signora,” da Vinci stepped back a pace and held up his hands framing the lady’s countenance. He danced quickly left and then right squinting through the frame of his hands. “You have, if I may be so bold Signora, a most singular countenance, the like of which I have rarely seen, the many long years I have studied such things.”
Salai raised his eyes to the heavens. The master was capricious in such matters, like a hungry butterfly flitting from flower to flower.
Francesco del Giocondo beamed widely at the attention the great master Leonardo da Vinci was paying to his beautiful young wife, “Signor da Vinci a proposal if you will—paint my wife and I will reward you handsomely.”
“The masters time is short Signor, and we are already fully engaged to paint the great hall within which we stand,” interrupted Salai coldly.
Giocondo gave da Vinci a pleading look with his handsome cherubic face, “I beseech you—find time in your labors master da Vinci and I will reward you well—five hundred golden Florins.”
“My master is a great artist—such whoreish considerations have no meaning to him.” barked Salai rudely.
Da Vinci, still peering through the frame created by his hands coughed loudly, and said, “Not so fast Salai, the confluence of great need and great beauty creates within me a feeling of great artistic compulsion—it rises within me, like a powerful geyser. It would be wrong to deny such inspiration, for it comes directly from the Lord God himself.”
The assembled throng took this news with extreme gravity, each one of them making the sign of the Holy cross, apart from Machiavelli, who’s face strained noticeably at this great announcement. As Salai watched the pained expression, he suddenly noticed a blonde haired woman standing directly behind the great diplomat of Florence. The woman had a striking and most sensual air to her, blonde curls running past her shoulders and the palest porcelain skin that Salai had ever seen. The neckline on her gown plunged indecently, thrusting her large breasts forward provocatively. In contrast to Signor Giocondo this creature had a worldly and cynical demeanor. As he saw her dark eyes burning into his soul, Salai’s found himself staring back. The woman smiled and mouthed an obscenity the like of which surely could never have passed the lips of a woman anywhere before. Hypnotized, the words of the Giocondo’s now slipped past his ears as Salai became consumed by obsession. Who was she? Where was she from? Why was she here?
Salai knew one thing—he had to meet her. But before he could take a step, she turned and slipped away, moving like a ghost into the smoke tinged gloom of the great chamber of Florence.
THE FINE ART OF MURDER 09
The Chamber of Leonardo Da Vinci 1503
The unendurable pain! Salai’s head hurt worse than any pain he had encountered before. He felt as though he had been smitten with the war-club of a marauding giant. He covered his head with a pillow and emitted a long anguished moan. The large bed was warm and soft, but it offered no comfort, nor indeed any refuge, from the encroaching pain. Then there was the noise—an infernal bang, bang, bang, that reverberated through the walls, as though the devil himself was hammering at the door. Salai peered out from beneath the soft pillow, squinting against pressure of a furious blinding sun.
The shutters—the cursed servants—surely they had pulled open the shutters to torture him. Salai railed against the injustice of his plight, with a furious warbling cry, such as a wild beast might make when speared at the hunt.
The banging ceased temporarily and quick, cheerful footsteps marched towards the bed. “So you live—a miracle to be sure—come Salai, rise from your slumbers, we have much work to do.”
“But I am poisoned!”
“Nonsense Salai—an overindulgence brought on by your notorious lack of judgment when it comes the consumption of intoxicating beverages.”
“Overindulgence, be damned. I am poisoned I tell you.”
Da Vinci gave Salai a benevolent smile. “Fortunately, I have prepared my famous elixir of contrition, that you may be well again young Salai.”
“I will never be well again, I am victim to the art of the poisoner I tell you.”
“Tish, tish, Salai, your constitution is almost as feeble as your ability to assist me. Now raise yourself from your slumbers, and desist from your infernal griping, or I will instruct the servants to cold-bathe you with ice-water.”
Salai rose slowly into a sitting position, taking care to hold the soft pillow over his head, in a vain effort to mitigate the throbbing horror of the day. He felt cold and sick, every part of his body crying out with anguish against the crude injustice of his awakening.
“What was that infernal banging?”
“A machine young Salai—I have been manufacturing a great machine, within these very apartments, to assist us with our endeavors.”
Salai groaned, and fell backwards into the comforting embrace of the great white bed. “Can we not start these endeavors at a more amenable hour?”
“Come, come Salai, ’tis past the hour of seven already, rise from your torpor, for we have work of great moment to attend to.”
Leonardo da Vinci poked roughly at the rumpled figure beneath the bed sheets, forcing Salai to squirm away so that he might escape this most unsatisfactory intrusion into the quiet dignity of his morning.
Come, Salai, enough of your malingering. Drink deeply of the elixir of contrition and raise yourself into the land of the living. I have word from the great hall that young Buonarroti is already committing his preliminary sketches to the wall. If we shirk in our endeavors we will surely fall behind in our great task, and that will never do.”
Again Salai sat up, squinting against the pain of the suns intrusion. He reached out for the dark bottle of elixir that his master held forward and raised it to his lips. He paused for a three count
—then threw his head backwards, allowing the cloying syrup of forgiveness to run across his tongue and down his throat. He sat in the bed for a long moment, a sheet wrapped around his body toga style, as the heavy liquid eased down into his stomach, causing a soft, warm sensation to emanate slowly outwards throughout every part of his body.
Da Vinci examined his young assistant closely, his wrinkled face flush with excitement. “It is working—I can see it is working—”
Salai smacked his lips, assessing the change that was now moving rapidly through his body, “You should give me the formula for that potion—we could become rich men with such knowledge.”
“Money Salai, it is all you think about. Think instead of the many things we could achieve, if only you were to adjust you outlook to a more creative perspective.”
Salai blinked, his eyes adjusting slowly to the brightness of the day. As he focused, he became aware that his master had nailed hundreds of sheets of manuscript to every available wall and door in the room, not only that—very many of these manuscript pages were adorned with furious scribblings and calculations. There were scores of sketches of figures and horses, twisting and rearing and fighting, in tormented unison. Salai gaped at the drawings in disbelief, “When did you start this work master—what hour did you rise?”
“Rise Salai? I have never been to bed, what time is there for sleep, when inspiration is upon us—we must seize the chance whilst the divine muses look favorably on our humble endeavors; now raise yourself from your pit, before I am forced to punish your apathy.”
The sound of a throat being cleared diplomatically, cut into their discourse, Both Leonardo and Salai turned sharply, and there in the doorway stood Machiavelli, a malevolent expression spread wide across his face.
“Good morrow Gentlemen. I see this new day finds you in stout spirits. You will excuse my intrusion at this hour, as I realize you ‘artistic types’ are unconventional in the hours you keep—but there is a very important introduction I would like to make.”