The creases in Soderini’s face deepened, like roads etched on a map detailing how long he had traveled. “That’s too bad.” He shook his head and then walked toward the exit.
Michelangelo waited for Soderini to say something, to explain why he had called him to the top of a tower in the middle of winter to give him a brief and pointless history lesson.
“Oh, and son?” Soderini paused on the stairs, but did not look back up. “Do me a favor and don’t tell Giuseppe Vitelli we spoke. He gets offended whenever I try to …” Soderini paused, as if rolling around a few choice words in his mouth before settling on the right ones, “… offer my opinions on cathedral projects.” With that, he left the bell tower without another word.
Michelangelo stared down the empty staircase. What was Soderini talking about? He hadn’t offered any opinions on anything. The bells had nothing to do with him or his statue. However, as he looked out over the city, Michelangelo had an unsettling feeling that the pressure on his David had just intensified.
1503
Leonardo
Winter. Rome
“Oremus.” Pope Alexander VI called across the Sistine Chapel, and Leonardo dutifully bowed his head. The corpulent pope’s voice sounded the way he looked, round and majestic. “Praeceptis salutaribus moniti, et divina institutione formati, audemus dicere …”
The small congregation responded in unison. “Pater noster, qui es in caelis, sanctificetur nomen tuum.”
As the Lord’s Prayer echoed through the chapel, Leonardo watched Cesare Borgia, draped in a black cape and kneeling humbly at the pope’s feet. Borgia looked so earnest that he could almost imagine the young duke as his former self, the God-fearing Cardinal of Valencia, dressed in red robes, swishing through the halls of the Vatican. After renouncing his cardinal’s hat, Cesare had donned a soldier’s uniform instead. From what Leonardo had seen of the young man’s insatiable passion for blood on the battlefield, Il Valentino was much better suited to war than religion.
“Amen.” The pontiff, wearing a crimson velvet cape and a golden skullcap topping his head like a halo, broke the bread.
This was a special Mass, delivered by the pope to a few cardinals, friends, and family members to celebrate his son’s safe return home from Romagna. The congregation stood through the service, except Cesare, who knelt at the pope’s feet, publicly begging for forgiveness for his wartime sins. The prostrate position had the extra benefit of placing even more attention on the victorious duke.
A week earlier, Cesare and his army had marched triumphantly back into Rome. Leonardo had visited the Eternal City once before, a brief trip to study the ruins of Emperor Hadrian’s villa at Tivoli, but as a special guest of the duke, he saw the capital from a new perspective. Staying in the lavish private chambers of the pope, overlooking St. Peter’s deteriorating basilica, Leonardo sat on his balcony and sketched peasants, farmers, and merchants streaming into the Vatican to ask forgiveness for their sins. He wanted to call down and tell them not to worry; their transgressions were surely nothing in comparison to the sins of those who had been to war.
“Pax Domini sit semper vobiscum,” Pope Alexander intoned.
“Et cum spiritu tuo,” Leonardo responded with the congregation.
Mumbling inaudibly, the pope dropped a small piece of the Host into the Holy Chalice, and then chanted the Agnus Dei three times.
This was the first time Leonardo had been inside the Sistine Chapel. The barrel-vaulted room was three stories tall and nearly three times as long as it was wide—the same dimensions as the Old Temple of Solomon in Jerusalem. The ceiling was painted blue with gold stars emulating the heavens. Leonardo knew no one would ever look up at that ceiling, because who would ever be able to tear their eyes away from the jewels that adorned the walls?
In 1481, Pope Sixtus IV had announced a plan to hire the peninsula’s best, most innovative artists to decorate his new chapel. He asked Lorenzo the Magnificent to help choose the painters. Lorenzo had called on Florentine artists Sandro Botticelli, Domenico Ghirlandaio, and Cosimo Rosselli, along with the Perugian painter Pietro Perugino. Leonardo, living and working in Florence, was the same age as many of the participants, nearly as experienced and, by his own measure, much more talented. He waited for his invitation, but it never came. After a few months of silence, as he agonized about his fellow artists creating masterpieces without him, he’d packed up his belongings and moved to Milan.
Twenty years later, he was finally in the presence of those frescoes, which adorned each side of the chapel. To the right of the altar, on the north wall, were scenes from the life of Christ. To the left, down the south wall, the life of Moses. Each picture trumpeted its own voice, and yet the cycle worked in harmony to create a single artistic vision, like the different ceremonial elements that came together during Holy Communion. Cosimo Rosselli’s frescoes were like the pomp and circumstance of any Mass. Embellished with gold leaf, his pictures burst with color and ornate detail. Like the pope’s fine robes and golden chalices, Rosselli’s pictures kept the eye entertained. Domenico Ghirlandaio, on the other hand, was like the homily, weighty and grounded. He didn’t paint thin, airy figures, but actual people. If Rosselli was the light, Ghirlandaio was the heft. Then there was Botticelli. His figures and their swirling clothes moved along the foreground like a well-choreographed song. His beautiful, undulating lines created a soothing flow and energy unmatched by any artist. The Botticellis were the music.
As Leonardo lined up to receive communion, he scanned the northern wall until his eyes came to rest on the most important fresco in the chapel. In this mass of paintings, it was the body and the blood.
Pietro Perugino’s masterpiece depicted Christ handing the keys of heaven and earth to a kneeling St. Peter. The two protagonists stood in the center of the foreground surrounded by an elegant flood of contemporary Italians and apostles. Behind them, in the middle ground, two other scenes from Christ’s life, the stoning of Jesus and the “render unto Caesar the things that are Caesar’s” speech, played out in an explosion of colorful figures. In the background were two triumphal arches flanking an octagonal domed church, and even further behind stretched a landscape of bluish Tuscan hills rolling into infinity. More than the graceful figures and classical architecture, the painting was hailed for its inventive use of space. Etched on the ground of the piazza were large squares receding backward along bold perspective lines. This was the firm foundation for the middle of the piazza, which was empty, an explosion of openness encouraging the eye to dart from corner to corner, building to building, figure to figure. The piazza seemed to expand beyond the picture frame, the architecture, the surrounding frescoes, and even beyond the Sistine Chapel itself.
As Leonardo’s eyes danced across Perugino’s picture, he realized that a bit of him had made it into the chapel after all. A few weeks before Perugino had left for Rome to paint this fresco, he’d stopped in Florence to visit Lorenzo de’ Medici, and while in town paid a visit to Leonardo’s studio. There, Leonardo had shown Perugino a pen-and-ink design for his Adoration of the Magi altarpiece. Leonardo’s sketch was an energetic eruption of human figures, animals, staircases, columns, perspective lines, and blank space. That same sense of controlled chaos, intended to emulate the experience of human life, was captured in Perugino’s Sistine fresco. Leonardo had clearly influenced Perugino, but he couldn’t stop thinking that his Adoration of the Magi would have been more beautiful. If he had ever completed it, that is.
As Leonardo reached the front of the line and dropped to his knees at the pope’s feet, he thought about his rivals, Botticelli, Ghirlandaio, Rosselli, and Perugino, locked in this chapel together, pushing each other to great heights while Leonardo had been alone up in Milan. If he had joined them in Rome, what masterpiece of his might now grace these walls?
Pope Alexander placed a piece of the Host on Leonardo’s tongue. “Corpus Domini nostri Jesu Christi custodiat animam tuam in vitam aeternam.”
As the consecrat
ed Body dissolved, Leonardo compared his own actions to Machiavelli’s description of Cesare Borgia. If Machiavelli analyzed Leonardo, the diplomat would say the artist had made a critical error. When his enemies came down to Rome, Leonardo had left them alone in unguarded territory to grow their own empire. From the looks of the chapel, they had prevailed.
After Mass, Leonardo ducked out of the celebratory feast without explanation and traveled through the bowels of the Vatican to a small, private door usually reserved for the pope’s personal entrance. He slipped through it and into St. Peter’s Basilica.
As he scanned each chapel, he wondered whether he would know it when he saw it. He’d never seen a picture or sketch. He had only heard rumors, and those descriptions had never been precise.
However, when he looked into that tiny, shadowy chapel filled with pilgrims kneeling in prayer, there was no doubt this was what he had come to see.
The statue was heavenly, yet grounded. Quiet yet loud. The undulating lines, soft skin, and pyramidal composition were as beautiful as any he had ever seen, and the rare combination of serene surrender and anguished grief would bring the most stoic viewer to tears. Even he felt a knot rise up his chest. He stepped past the pilgrims, approached the statue, and ran his fingers along the marble. The hood around the Virgin’s face was as thin as paper, while the folds in her gown were solid and thick. Christ’s skin rippled over his muscles and bones, gentle as a small fish breaking the surface of a calm lake. However, it was the play of light that affected Leonardo most. This marble was luminescent, bulging out to catch a glimmer of sun and then diving into deep crevices, collecting in pools of shadows darker than the most mysterious cave. The sculptor had captured light and dark. Day and night. The marble was alive with light, a kind of play Leonardo could never hope to accomplish in paint.
This was not luck, produced by a fledgling stonecutter. This statue was carved by the deft hand of an emerging genius. Michelangelo’s Pietà was a masterpiece.
After leaving St. Peter’s, Leonardo went immediately to Cesare Borgia’s private chambers and resigned his position as chief military engineer. “Go, Master from Vinci,” Borgia dismissed him without looking up, his face hidden behind a black mask. “Go and do not look back.”
That same evening, he packed up his things and headed north on the Via Aurelia toward Florence. Leonardo wouldn’t make the same mistake twice. He would not allow his competition to work unrivaled; he would face down his opponent, and this time he would win.
Michelangelo
Spring. Florence
Michelangelo struck his chisel again, and the breastbone cracked. Two more blows and the sternum broke in two. He dropped his tools and then wedged his hands into the crevice and pried open the rib cage to reveal the lungs and heart.
Wearing a piece of cloth over his nose and mouth, he looked inside the chest. Over the last few weeks, he had been carving the delicate veins running down David’s arms and hands. He had studied veins on live models, but in order to properly understand them, he needed to find their source. He needed to get to the heart.
When he first started dissecting again, he hoped he would only have to endure the practice a few times. It was gruesome work. The putrid stench, always with a hint of a sickeningly sweet aroma, made him retch up his dinner. The smell burrowed into his clothes, hair, and skin; long after he retired to his pallet on the floor of his shed, he woke with cold sweats. Yet he kept returning to the mortuary, searching for more answers. How many tendons were in the abdomen? How many bones in the hands? How exactly did a toenail attach to the soft, supple skin of the toe?
And now, those veins.
Michelangelo reached into the dead man’s chest, and his fingers brushed against a thick vessel connected to the heart. He had found the mouth of the river. His own heartbeat quickened. He grabbed a candle and leaned over the corpse. The mortuary was dark, lit only by a few candles and torches hanging on the walls. Heavy shadows spilled into the room, threatening to obscure his vision, but he refused to be blinded by the night. He pulled the candle closer. This was what he had come for.
A plunk echoed from across the room.
His head jerked up. The sound had come from a corner veiled in shadows. He sensed something there. Someone was in the mortuary with him.
“Hello?” he said.
Silence.
With shaking hands, he lit another candle, but it only shed more light on the oozing insides of the corpse. Beyond where the light reached, anything could be hiding in those pools of blackness. “Is someone there?” he whispered, his pulse thundering. He had always feared that spirits might haunt him for defiling the dead. Perhaps their ghoulish arms were finally reaching up to drag him into hell.
The darkness rustled.
Michelangelo threw his candle in the direction of the sound. It hit the wall, landed on the dank floor, and extinguished. The shadows grew even darker.
He lunged toward the door.
“Going somewhere?” a voice asked.
Michelangelo scanned the darkness for a figure. He saw no one. “What do you want?”
A soft chuckle danced out of the dark. The spirit was mocking him. A foot slid out from the shadows. The limb did not look ethereal, but corporeal. It was followed by a hand. A bejeweled bird ring glistened in the orange glow of the torches.
Even in the dim light, Michelangelo could see he had aged substantially over the past year. His hair was whiter, his face and hands more deeply lined, and the skin around his jaw sagged. “I can’t believe that war didn’t kill you,” Michelangelo said.
“Sorry to disappoint.” Leonardo approached the corpse and looked into the open chest.
Michelangelo pulled a cloth over the body. Leonardo couldn’t just sneak in and steal the benefits of his research. “How did you get in here?”
“I used to dissect inside these very walls before you—or Father Bichiellini—could grasp a piece of chalk. I know how to get in and out.” Leonardo picked up Michelangelo’s chisel and studied the point.
“Get out.” He snatched his chisel back.
“Over the last two years, you have taught me something, Buonarroti. I have been impressed with your urgency of doing. You don’t think. You do, do, do. I always thought knowing was enough, but it is not. Iron rusts from disuse, water loses its purity from stagnation, and inaction saps the vigor of the mind.” His eyes slid over every part of Michelangelo’s body from foot to head. He took his time. “Take off your mask.”
“No.” He packed his tools into his leather satchel.
“What are you hiding?”
Michelangelo yanked the piece of cloth off his face. The stench was suddenly a flood, rising up to drown him. His hand flew up to cover his nose and mouth.
“After war, I find that this serene version of death smells almost pleasant,” Leonardo said, using his hand to waft more air into his nostrils. “Ah, the sweet smell of science.”
Michelangelo grabbed his tools and crossed toward the door.
“I have seen your statue,” Leonardo said quietly.
Michelangelo stopped. “What did you do?”
“I studied it. Touched it.” He said the last two words as though he had touched another man’s wife.
“What did you do to David?” Michelangelo pulled his hammer out of his bag and turned to face Leonardo.
“David?” he said, his voice ringing with laughter. “David isn’t yet a statue yet, boy. David is a lump of marble waiting to become a statue. No. I saw your Pietà.” The look the old man gave him could only be described as a challenge.
Michelangelo cocked his hammer over his shoulder.
Leonardo moved to the other side of the table, using the corpse as a buffer. “I have always been strong and fast, but scrambling for my life on the battlefield has made me more so.”
Michelangelo stalked him around the corpse.
“I’m surprised you come into the mortuary by yourself,” Leonardo said, circling to the other side of the table. �
�All alone, with the bodies. If you aren’t careful, you might wake the spirits.” With one swift movement, Leonardo slid out of the room and pulled the wooden door closed behind him.
Michelangelo lunged after him, but the lock clicked closed. Michelangelo called out and pulled on the door handle, but it was no use. “Bastardo.” Leonardo had locked him inside the mortuary. He banged on the wood, but quickly stopped. He didn’t want to wake the priests.
He turned back to face the corpses. The room was quiet except for a single drop of water dripping into an unseen puddle. One of his torches had already burned out; the others were probably not far behind. Suddenly, the stench overpowered his senses, and he gagged. He felt like the walls were closing in. He heard spirits rustling within them.
He searched the room for an alternate exit even though he knew there was only the one door. When he didn’t find one, he seethed. Leonardo was probably standing on the other side of the door, laughing.
Michelangelo turned his attention to the room’s only window, a tiny opening high on the wall. He stretched up, but it was too tall. He jumped, but his fingers still didn’t touch the bottom of the sill. He looked around for something to climb on top of. The corpses lay on stone slabs attached to the floor with thick bolts, and there was no other furniture. Crawling through the window would not work.
He tried not to think about the mutilated body lying on the table, or the dead man’s spirit flying around the room, or what would happen if a priest other than Father Bichiellini woke and found him in the mortuary with the dissected corpse. An intolerant man might call the authorities and have him arrested. They might arrest Father Bichiellini, too.
If he escaped the mortuary without getting caught, Michelangelo swore he would never let Leonardo get the best of him ever again. He wished the war had killed that old man. As soon as the thought crossed his mind, cold closed in around his chest and circled his neck. Wishing someone dead apparently angered the ghosts.
Oil and Marble Page 17