Oil and Marble

by Stephanie Storey

  “There will appear gigantic figures in human shape,” Leonardo said, his voice lilting as though telling a good joke. “But the nearer you get to them, the more their immense stature will diminish.”

  The notary walked away.

  “That’s it. That’s all there is. It’s easy,” Leonardo called after him. The notary’s heels clicked against the stone piazza as he got further and further away. “You have to guess. At least once. I’m not just going to give you the answer.”

  The notary kept walking until he disappeared around a corner.

  Salaì stepped closer. Leonardo knew the young man was probably trying to decide what to say. He wished Salaì wouldn’t say anything. “Sir? What’s the answer to the riddle?”

  Leonardo leaned against the closed church door. “It doesn’t matter.”

  Back in the studio, they found a letter waiting. It was from the silk merchant, Francesco del Giocondo, the husband of the lady in the market. At the time of their first meeting, Giocondo did not know who the Maestro was, but now, he had done his research and discovered Leonardo’s great merits. Giocondo was a patron of Santissima Annunziata, so both men shared a spiritual home as well as a love of art, the letter assured. His wife had told him about the master’s kind offer to paint her, and he was now writing to offer Leonardo that very commission: to make a portrait of his wife, the dear Madonna Lisa Gherardini del Giocondo. If the letter were correct, then the lady, Leonardo presumed, was indeed real.

  But the offer was too late. That night, Leonardo wrote a letter to Duke Valentinois, Commander of the Papal Armies, the newly appointed Duke of Romagna, Cesare Borgia, and accepted the job as his military engineer. Florence might not want him, but someone else did. Leonardo was going to war.

  Michelangelo

  Spring. Florence

  “He’s working for who?” Michelangelo roared.

  “I assumed you knew,” Granacci replied. The two were squeezed into the Piazza del Duomo with every other Florentine, waiting for the Easter procession to begin.

  “How could I have known?” Michelangelo asked. “I’ve been locked up by myself for weeks.” Easter was the first day he had left his silent stone behind and gone outside to interact with people in over a month. He could hardly believe this first bit of news. “Leonardo may be an insufferable bully, but he’s no traitor.”

  “When Florence refused to hire him, he offered himself to the enemy.” Granacci craned around another man’s head to get a better view of the cathedral’s facade. “I’m speaking the truth, mi amico. Leonardo da Vinci is Cesare Borgia’s new military engineer.”

  Easter—its joyous resurrection story, inspiring hymns, and fragrant smells of incense, fresh bread, and roasted meats—usually filled Michelangelo with hope, but this Easter did not feel like a celebration. His family was somewhere in the vast crowd enjoying the festivities without him; they refused to forgive him for dissecting the dead. His marble still had not woken up and spoken to him, and during the quietest moments, Michelangelo feared it never would. Now this news about Leonardo. “Florence welcomed him back with parties and parades,” Michelangelo said incredulously, “and this is how he repays her?”

  Granacci shrugged. “Serves the city council right for rejecting him, if you ask me. They should’ve put him on payroll to keep him loyal.”

  “Florence shouldn’t have to pay for loyalty.”

  “Why not? They’re already paying for protection. They offered Borgia an enormous sum to convince him not to invade. What’s the difference?”

  “We’re bribing Borgia?”

  “What choice do we have? We are a people of artists, not warriors. Not that I’m criticizing Florence for supporting art,” Granacci added quickly. “But our people stay inside our walls to build beautiful things and hire mercenaries to fight our battles. Our only recourse against a warmonger like Il Valentino is our money.”

  As the wealthy Strozzi family, dressed in their finest regalia, entered the square to begin the Easter parade, Michelangelo’s ears rang with rage. In Rome, he had proudly carved his Florentine heritage into the marble of his Pietà. When he had achieved a hint of success, did he stay down south and offer his talents to the Romans? No, he returned home to Florence. His heart, his soul, his mind, his hands, his dialect, his taste buds, they were all Florentine. He could no more betray his city than betray himself.

  Leonardo, on the other hand, Florence’s most famous resident, had no trouble selling himself to the man who threatened Florence’s walls and extorted money from her coffers. Why? Because Borgia paid him well? Gave him a fancy title, prestige, and power? Everyone knew Leonardo had switched loyalties against Milan and Il Moro, but against Florence?

  On the front steps of the cathedral, the archbishop opened his Bible and began to read the Easter story out loud. Men with strong voices repeated the scripture to the people behind them, and behind them, other callers repeated the words again. The refrain continued until it reached the back of the piazza and into the streets beyond. Thanks to the repetition, the entire population of Florence could hear the story of Easter.

  As the word of God spread, Michelangelo dropped to his knees. Those around him might think he was praying. Any lingering respect Michelangelo still had for Leonardo was now gone, a candle extinguished between two fingers. “Bring your worst, old man,” Michelangelo murmured. As his lips moved, barely a sound came out; yet his voice felt as loud and clear as if he were standing on the cathedral steps, his words being passed from Florentine to Florentine until they reached Leonardo’s ears, wherever he was. “Out of that botched block of marble, I’ll create something more magnificent than you ever have, more magnificent than you have ever imagined. I will create something so miraculous that the whole world will forget the traitorous name of Leonardo da Vinci. I will prevail with nothing but faith and stone.”

  When the archbishop called, “Jesus is risen,” Michelangelo stood up just in time to see a wooden dove speed down a wire from the top of the Baptistery to the cathedral steps. Every year, a similar wooden dove made the same journey over the heads of the Florentine people, and every year, Michelangelo stood there in awe and meditated on the victory of the resurrection.

  This year was no different.

  As the dove landed on a wooden wagon and set off an explosion of fireworks, a feeling, pure and bright and clear as the North Star, gleamed in the sculptor’s gut. It was as if it had always been there and always would be. In the distance, he heard a faint sound, quiet as a sighing fly. “Excuse me,” Michelangelo mumbled, pushing his way through the crowd.

  “Mi amico,” Granacci called after him. “Where are you going?”

  Michelangelo kept swimming forward through the crowd. “Scusa, per favore.”

  “Come back,” Granacci yelled. “It’s Easter!”

  As the crowd burst into a joyous hymn, Michelangelo broke out of the piazza and sprinted around the cathedral to the workshop in the back. As he rounded the corner, the distant sighing grew louder, a breeze blowing across a giant sea. With shaking hands, Michelangelo unlocked his shed.

  When he opened the door, the breeze changed to a wind. He slipped into the shed and locked the door securely behind him. The wind hummed and vibrated, tingling the air like a lightning storm.

  Michelangelo faced the stone. He placed his hand on the marble and listened. The wind was not a wind. It was coming from inside the marble. In, out, in, out. He closed his eyes and focused on each breath. Soon, a faint heartbeat emerged. And slowly, the heartbeat grew in strength. Then the breath was no longer a breath, but a whisper. The words were not discernible at first, but a jumble of sounds and letters. As Michelangelo caressed the marble, the letters started to come together. “Light,” was the first word Michelangelo understood. “Fear.”

  “What was that?” Michelangelo coaxed. “Please, say it again. I can’t hear you.”

  Then came the faintest whisper. “The Lord is my light and my salvation; whom shall I fear?”

 
; Michelangelo inhaled sharply. A psalm—a prayer David had said in the fields to his sheep long before his battle with Goliath.

  The marble was finally speaking.

  Another whisper, this one slightly louder. “The Lord is my strength of my life; of whom shall I be afraid?”

  “David,” Michelangelo exhaled.

  “When the wicked came against me to eat up my flesh,” David said, his voice growing louder, “my enemies and foes, they stumbled and fell.”

  Tears knotted behind Michelangelo’s eyes.

  “Though an army may encamp against me, my heart shall not fear,” David called.

  “Yes,” Michelangelo said, a laugh bubbling out of his throat.

  Then he heard the most beautiful sound in the world. David began to sing. “Though war may rise against me, in this I will be confident.”

  That stone was not dead, but very much alive, and finally, Michelangelo could hear its story.

  Other artists had depicted David as a young shepherd boy, innocent and soft, triumphant after defeating Goliath. Now, Michelangelo could hear that his David had a different story to tell. His David was not fresh off a victory. No, his David was standing on the edge of the battlefield, preparing for the fight. There would be no need for a sword or sheep, not even the severed head of Goliath. David would stand alone, facing forward, his right arm falling down by his side, holding the pebble. As for his left arm, where Michelangelo had knocked off the knot, there was still a small lump of marble protruding near the top third of the stone. If he bent the elbow and curled his hand under his chin, the arm would fit. That hand would cradle the sling. David’s head would turn to the left, his nose wedging into the corner of the block, glaring off at Goliath, his indestructible foe waiting for him on the horizon. At this point in the story, David didn’t know if he would win or die, but knew it was his destiny to fight, and like anyone facing a battle, this David wasn’t pure confidence or pure doubt, but an infuriating mix of both. He stood, half-relaxed, half-coiled with anxiety.

  Comparisons to Donatello or not, David would also be nude. There wasn’t room—or need—for helmets or armor or cloaks. Perhaps that was for the best. Michelangelo had always known that the most effective way to praise God was to praise His most perfect creation: man.

  That’s when Michelangelo recognized something extraordinary in David’s voice. This was not the high-pitched tenor of a boy, but the baritone of an adult male. The courage David needed to face Goliath never would have fit inside the body of a mere youth. No. The moment David chose to fight his enemy, he ceased to be a soft-bellied, innocent boy wandering the fields, and grew into a powerful, muscular hero and king. This David was a man.

  Michelangelo opened his eyes. He could hear David clearly and see his figure longing to break free from the stone. Michelangelo picked up a piece of chalk and drew in the details: broad shoulders with well-defined biceps, the undulating muscles of a powerful chest and stomach, a forehead wrinkled with worry. He drew the head and hands slightly larger in proportion than the rest of the body. They were the most important tools of David’s victory: his mind had given him the idea that he could defeat Goliath, and his hands had chosen the pebbles and worked the sling. It had taken Michelangelo months to arrive at this moment, and now he was there, the design fully formed, an amalgamation of his previous thoughts and drawings. If someone had been watching from a distance, they would have seen a singular burst of genius, but this moment was the product of months of thinking, dreaming, and drawing.

  Michelangelo’s skin tingled and his eyes widened; the same sensation he had whenever he truly started a new statue. This was the moment when his most perfect dreams were possible. This was the moment of pure potential.

  As the stone continued to sing, Michelangelo picked up his hammer and chisel. The marble had finally woken. David was calling. Now, it was up to Michelangelo to set him free.

  Leonardo

  November. Cesena

  “Crank harder!” Leonardo bellowed over the cacophony of cannon fire, clashing metal swords, and screams. He had been working for Cesare Borgia for nine months, but he still wasn’t accustomed to the screams.

  “It’s no use. We’re stuck,” a young soldier shouted.

  Leonardo and his team were sealed inside a covered, four-wheeled armored war wagon of his own design. Eight soldiers pushed on cranks to turn the wheels, but the contraption was so heavy, the tread only sank deeper into the snow and mud. The vehicle was stuck in the middle of a raging battle and fast becoming an easy target. Leonardo might well die in a box of his own creation. He would have laughed at the irony if he hadn’t been choking on the smell of gunpowder and smoke.

  The vehicle rattled. Leonardo staggered and toppled onto the floor.

  “What was that?” a soldier yelled.

  Another bang.

  “Do something!”

  Leonardo scrambled to his feet and loaded artillery into the last barrel. The round armored vehicle was outfitted with sixteen cannons, all of them pointing in different directions. He had warned Cesare Borgia that without sight holes or an ability to aim, the multi-directional cannon were likely to kill as many papal soldiers as the enemy, but Borgia didn’t care who he had to kill to win. The duke ordered the vehicle built and sent Leonardo into battle without even waiting for a test run.

  As Leonardo lit the fuse, he prayed for the artillery to shoot outward as planned and not fire back into the carriage. Ever since going to war, he’d been praying more. “Fire!”

  Leonardo and the eight soldiers ducked. All sixteen cannons exploded at once. The wagon shook. The sound thundered like a bell tower toppling over and crashing to the earth. After a moment, the men slowly looked up. None of the cannons had imploded. Inside, they were safe. Outside, the sounds of war had ceased. Leonardo envisioned a circle of carnage surrounding this box of death.

  “We got ’em!” The soldiers erupted in celebration and laughter as Leonardo allowed himself to breathe again. He had survived.

  A loud bang, and the armored vehicle shook violently again. An axe burst through the thick wooden walls with a horrifying crack. Then another and another. The cannons hadn’t killed the opposition. It had only angered them.

  “Retreat!” All eight soldiers grabbed their weapons, pushed open the hatch, and fought their way out. With the door open, Leonardo could taste the mist of blood hanging in the air and hear cries of pain. The lid closed heavily. He was alone.

  After a few months in battle, he had learned that the worst thing in war was to be alone. Alone, there was no backup, no lookout, and no one to distract him from the doom swirling around his head. Any breath could be his last. He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. He noticed everything about that breath, how it took him six counts to inhale, seven to exhale; how the smoky warmth traveled through his nose and lungs; and how, under the odors of blood and cannon fire, the air smelled of a mounting storm. He wondered what caused that scent. Was it rainwater collecting inside the clouds? Was it a special, aromatic wind that created a storm? Was there a change in pressure that spun dust and dirt into the nostrils? Just one more thing he would die without knowing.

  The armored wagon shook again. Leonardo opened his eyes. Smoke now filled the carriage, and he could hear the popping of fire. The enemy must have set the vehicle ablaze. If he didn’t want to be baked alive, he needed to get out. Covering his mouth and nose with his sleeve, he pushed open the hatch and looked outside.

  Sixteen cannon balls sat on the ground around the vehicle, each having landed only a few inches in front of its barrel. Leonardo tried to feel sorry that his invention was a failure, but instead he felt relief. He hated being responsible for killing people, and that blast could have murdered dozens. Perhaps it was best the enemy was burning it.

  Leonardo surveyed the battlefield. The city of Cesena was consumed by thick smoke, orange flames, rearing horses, and clashing swords. The papal army looted shops, set houses on fire, and massacred entire families. Blood spewed fr
om decapitated heads and seeped into the white snow. During his half-century of life, Leonardo had seen many men die in the fields—from disease, and during the invasion of Milan—but he had never seen so many men take the lives of others with such relish. War was a most bestial madness.

  But he didn’t have time to stop and contemplate the meaningless of violence. He slid through the hatch, rolled down the slanted roof of the burning vehicle, and landed in the snow, coming to a stop at the feet of another man. “Scusa,” he apologized. No need to forgo politeness simply because he was at war. However, when he looked up, he realized blood was oozing from a wound in the stranger’s neck. No need to apologize to a corpse.

  Rolling away from the dead man, Leonardo pushed up onto his elbow to assess the situation. In every direction were swordfights, licking flames, and horsemen swinging maces. If he rose to his feet, someone would cut him down. If he waved to a Borgia soldier for help, a Cesenan rebel was likely to reach him first. Leonardo didn’t have a weapon, and even if he swiped one from a corpse, he wouldn’t know how to use it. He had never been trained as a fighter.

  “Lisa,” he whispered. “Angel, save me.” Calling for his lady savior was a desperate last resort, but if anyone could rescue him now, she could. She could break free from the market and her husband and find him in the midst of war. He envisioned her traipsing through the battlefield, calling off soldiers, lifting him off the ground, and cradling him in her arms as she carried him to safety. Leonardo willed her to come, but no matter how hard he tried, she did not appear.

  What did appear was a Cesenan horseman galloping straight for him and brandishing a long sword. The man’s eyes were the color of dark, peaty soil found at the bottom of a cave. Leonardo dropped to his belly, closed his eyes, and lay still. His only option, it seemed, was to play dead. As the Cesenan horse trampled by, the horse’s hoof nearly crushed his skull. Leonardo was alone again.

  Leonardo had dined with princes and dukes. He had painted some of the most beautiful pictures ever known. He had been to bed with great women and great men. He had lived in Florence and Milan, walked the glittering canals of Venice, picked flowers on the hills of Vinci. He had dreamed up clocks, portable bridges, war boats, and flying machines. So many flying machines. He had always believed he had a long ribbon of life rolling out in front of him, but now, he would probably die, and his legacy would die with him, right there, on that ignoble spot. If he had known he was almost out of time, he would not have come to war. Instead, he would have painted more.