Signora Da Vinci

by Robin Maxwell

  Neither was Leonardo in this group.

  The final third of the bottega held the most impressive level of artifacts. There was sculpture of every kind—bronze and marble and wood. Gold work and ironwork. There were portraits of ladies and gentlemen unknown to me, but clearly wealthy enough to pay for their likenesses to be painted by Maestro Verrocchio. Another man sat at a loom, threading glittering fibers through a long swatch of cloth of gold. Last there was a lad covered in fine dust, tapping away with his chisel at a marble slab, the subject and features of which were not yet discernible. I had been told that a bottega produced more than frescoes and statues, but never had I imagined that the world of the artisan was so broadly imagined.

  But where was Leonardo? And where was his master, Verrocchio?

  As I made my way to the far end of the studio I began to hear the sound of a lute being prettily played, with no accompanying voice. It was coming from the open back door, so I proceeded on. An unused anvil and a huge kiln stood untended, shimmering with internal heat. But when I peeked around the door I was met with a shock of the unexpected.

  While the yard directly outside the back door was nothing more than a serious workplace, the other half was another world altogether. I might have been looking into a small wooded glen outside of Vinci. An ancient walnut tree shaded the better part of a high-walled garden that had been planted with shrubs and smaller trees, and the stone walls hung thickly with vines. There was even a tiny patch of “meadow” with grasses and wildflowers abounding. In a corner where two of the garden walls met, a rock waterfall sent cascades of crystal water bubbling down a tiny pebble-strewn stream, complete with ferns and moss!

  Amidst this bucolic haven under the branches of the thick-trunked tree I could make out several young men lounging on the ground and an older, heavyset man on a bench, each with a sketchbook before him. Another man stretched out in the grass leaning on one elbow plucked at the lute. A platform was centered between them, and on it sat a grisly sight—the severed head of a long-haired and heavily bearded giant, or at least a clever likeness of such a head. Clearly it was Goliath.

  But where was David?

  I heard the older man call out, “That is the longest piss in Florentine history!”

  The others laughed good-naturedly and then, from behind the walnut’s massive trunk stepped a most beautiful youth, a thin sheet draped around him. Gracefully he bent to pick up a wooden sword lying in the grass, and in the moment before he let drop the drapery and struck his pose above the head of Goliath, I knew this perfect creature to be my son, Leonardo.

  I was thoroughly transfixed, as though I had caught sight of a Greek god. He had retained the leanness of boyhood, but in the years since I’d seen him last his muscles had defined and hardened. His height, the shape of his legs, and the vertical cut of his loins were so like his father’s that a breath caught in my throat. His cheeks, jaw, and chin still retained the round lines of youth. The mane of curly brown-gold hair curling around his face was angelic.

  My son! I cried silently. Leonardo!

  Wishing to gather my wits I pulled back through the doorway and stood as still as one of Maestro Verrocchio’s statues. There I stayed, my eyes closed, one moment practicing the first words I would speak to the group in the garden, the next planning a cowardly escape.

  “Surely you don’t mean to stand in that spot the whole day.”

  The voice behind me was so close and so unexpected that I nearly came out of my skin.

  “Whoa! Sorry, lad.”

  I turned and was greeted with the third shock of the day.

  Lorenzo de’ Medici stood behind me with an amused expression on his dark, handsome face. The look changed when he saw me. While I knew instantly who he was, he had only a vague memory of having seen my face. I could tell he’d not yet placed it.

  I executed a small, respectful bow. He nodded at me with what appeared as equal respect.

  “Cato, lately of Siena . . . ,” I said. “You . . . at the celebration of your betrothal . . .”

  “I remember now. You’re the young man who threw himself under my horse.”

  I smiled at his easy humor and felt comfortable adding, “You straightened my cap.”

  He looked at me askew. “It could use straightening again.”

  I reached for it.

  “I was joking.”

  This time I laughed out loud.

  “Who are you here to see?” he asked.

  “I . . .” I was altogether unprepared for this question, but I knew I could not afford to stutter.

  “The purpose of my visit is twofold. I’ve come to have a sign painted for my shop . . . my master’s shop,” I added quickly. “And that’s my nephew there, the model.” I moved aside so Lorenzo could see into the garden. “He doesn’t know I’ve moved to Florence. This is a surprise visit.”

  “You’re Leonardo da Vinci’s uncle?” he said, looking at me, too closely for comfort.

  “On his mother’s side,” I said quickly. “You know him?”

  “Everyone knows him,” Lorenzo said. “He is the maestro’s prized pupil.” He saw my delighted expression. “Were you not aware?”

  “I know that the boy is talented,” I said, trying for a nonchalance that was difficult to maintain. “But he’s modest about it.”

  “Leonardo? Modest?” Now it was Lorenzo’s turn to laugh. “You really must not have seen him for a while. He’s brilliant, sweet-hearted, levelheaded, and respectful of his master. . . .”

  “But not modest,” I offered.

  “Nor humble,” Lorenzo added.

  I turned to look at the group sketching my son. “Do those traits trouble the maestro?” I asked, having forgotten for the moment that I was conversing with one of the foremost young men in the world.

  “Not as much as they do his father.”

  I was grateful to be looking away from Lorenzo, as he would have noticed my discomfort.

  “You know Piero da Vinci, then?” I asked.

  “Not really, I’ve just heard Verrocchio speak of him.” There was a brief silence before Lorenzo continued, rather gently. “The man treats his son with very little regard. But of course you know that.”

  “Yes,” I agreed, “he does.” I wondered if he also knew of Leonardo’s bastardy. Chances were he did.

  “What kind of sign?” Lorenzo suddenly demanded.

  “Sign?”

  “For your shop. Your master’s shop.”

  I turned to face him. “Apothecary,” I answered.

  “Apothecary! Then one day you and your nephew will be members of the same guild.”

  I nodded. It was true. Physicians and apothecaries together with artisans were brothers in the same guild.

  “What is your errand here today?” I asked, feeling suddenly bold.

  “Coming to drag my friend Sandro out of here to visit a certain lady.” He gave a wink and a grin. “Shall we go join our friends and family?” Lorenzo said.

  “After you,” I said, and stepped back for the Medici heir.

  We passed through the outdoor workshop and moved, without pausing, to the green garden.

  The man plucking the lute looked up and saw us first. He sprang to his feet and smiled at us. His face was long and oval, his sloe eyes brown and expressive.

  “Botticelli!” Lorenzo bellowed at him, and I realized with a start that this must be the renowned painter Alessandro Botticelli. They embraced heartily. Then Lorenzo bowed to Verrocchio. “Maestro, you’re looking well.”

  The heavyset older man, whose lips seemed too large and sensitive for his careworn face, began to rise from his chair.

  “Do not get up, Andrea.”

  Verrocchio stayed put, gratitude for the respect shown him glowing on his features. The apprentices scrambled to their feet, however, with Leonardo quickly clutching the sheet to him. Everyone made their obeisance to the closest thing Florence had to a prince.

  I could see my son gaping at me, unaware that his expre
ssion of surprise was as naked as his body was.

  “This is Cato,” Lorenzo announced. “A new apothecary in town.” I was struck by the sweet irony of the moment. Lorenzo de’ Medici was introducing me, a humble village woman in the guise of a man, into his august society.

  “Do you not recognize your uncle?” he said, turning to Leonardo. “He tells me it’s been some time since you’ve seen each other.”

  “Uncle Cato,” Leonardo said, moving forward, awkwardly tying the sheet around his waist.

  I embraced him. He’d grown taller than I was in the years we’d been apart. The arms that encircled me were wiry and hard.

  “I wanted to surprise you,” I managed to utter without any crack of emotion, but the sweet, familiar smell of him nearly took my breath away.

  “Surprise me you did, Uncle,” he replied with the greatest restraint. But I could feel the core of him trembling wildly and his strong fingers gripping me.

  So there, under the pleasant gaze of these great men of Florence, love and relief flowed between my son and me like a warm, silent tide.

  “Bring some wine for our guests, Guido,” the maestro said to one of the apprentices. He rose instantly and was gone. Verrocchio turned to me. “So where is your shop?”

  “Via Riccardi,” I said. “A pleasant neighborhood. I’m restoring the building. My master will be very pleased when he sees it.”

  “And doubly pleased that he hasn’t had to do the restoration himself,” Verrocchio added with a chuckle.

  “I would like your studio to make me a beautiful sign,” I said, worrying that I appeared overly serious amidst this rather jovial group.

  He turned to Leonardo, who had dropped the sheet so the sketching could resume. I was struck again by the sight of him, as much by the utter grace of his form and movements as by his beauty. “Why don’t we have you paint your uncle’s apothecary sign, eh, Leonardo?”

  He grinned at the idea.

  “He’s a good boy,” Verrocchio said, then lowering his voice, added, “A genius. You see this garden. His idea. His design. His execution.”

  I nodded, attempting equanimity, while all the time I was burning with pride.

  “He said he could not bear being away from his beloved countryside,” the maestro continued. “A good thing, as we work here seven days a week . . .” He looked over at Lorenzo chatting amiably with Botticelli and raised his voice for all to hear. “. . . except for festival days, which, happily for Florentines, come more often with Lorenzo setting the calendar.”

  Smiling, Lorenzo pulled a bench over to Verrocchio’s bench and sat, leaning into the artist, who, among all these men, was the least attractive, almost porcine in his features. “I’d like to discuss the plans for a new festival with you,” he said.

  “A new festival. And what is its theme? Religious perhaps?”

  Everyone laughed at that, as though it were a well-worn joke.

  Lorenzo gazed conspiratorially at Sandro Botticelli and said, “The Four Seasons and the Four Elements.”

  I tried to stifle my surprise. While I knew that Florence was the most secular city in all of Europe, Lorenzo and Botticelli’s idea bordered on the pagan.

  “It has possibilities,” Verrocchio replied, clearly pleased with the idea.

  Guido came with the wine, which was served all around. Botticelli joined Verrocchio and Lorenzo, and they sat with their heads together making joyful plans for their newest extravaganza.

  I took the opportunity to go to Leonardo, who, I had noticed, was staring at me unabashedly, certainly wondering how it was that his mother was casually engaged in conversation with these men. I could hardly fathom it myself. With the garden so small and the market for gossip so large, we were forced to speak in an impromptu code. But then Leonardo had, as had I, been schooled from the earliest age in the art of subterfuge.

  “How is your sister?” he asked me pointedly.

  I smiled. “I stopped in Vinci on my way from Siena. Your mother is very well. Thriving, in fact. She sends you her love and told me to remind you to wash behind your ears.”

  Leonardo repressed a smile. “Mama loves to nag me about that.”

  Now I repressed my own smile.

  “And tell me about my grandfather. How is his garden?”

  “He says it is incomplete without you there tending the plants.”

  Leonardo’s expression became more urgent. He carefully moved us away from the others, toward the rock waterfall in the corner of the garden.

  “Maestro Verrocchio was kind enough to indulge my pastoral fantasy,” he said quite loudly, and we realized our nearness to the water caused our voices to be thrown farther than we wished. After I had exclaimed, quite sincerely, at the work he had put into the waterfall and stream that looked as if it had been there since the beginning of time, we moved again, now to the tiny flowering meadow he had planted. We squatted and spoke in voices so low we were sure no one could hear.

  “I cannot believe you’re here like this,” he said, unable to contain his glee. “You have always been daring, Mama, but you have outdone yourself this time.”

  “I was dying without you, Leonardo. And I was not ready for my life to end.”

  “Who is this ‘master’ of yours. The apothecary who has sent his student ahead of him?”

  “He is Umberto . . . a figment of my imagination. Sadly, he will be dead within the year, leaving me everything.”

  Leonardo laughed at that. His smile was a work of supreme beauty. No wonder Verrocchio used him as a model.

  “Tell me, son,” I whispered, “tell me honestly. Are any of these men suspicious of me . . . my womanhood?”

  He didn’t immediately answer. That worried me.

  “It is hard for me to be objective, of course.” He spoke slowly and thoughtfully. “But I think, as Florence is presently a place of peace, whereby masculine warriors are little called for, gentle, refined, and scholarly men are deemed worthy, and young boys as pretty as girls are . . .” He hesitated. “. . . men’s playthings. . . .” He looked into my face and studied me as an artist would his subject. “I think you are a passable young man. Work on keeping your voice in the lower range.”

  “I will.”

  “And let me put my hand to those lifts in your shoes. They should be more well-hidden.”

  “When can you visit me at my house?”

  “As the maestro said, we work all the time. But you, my clever mother, have created the perfect opportunity.” He saw my puzzled expression. “Your apothecary sign.”

  I beamed.

  “I cannot believe you own a house in Florence.”

  “Remember your grandfather’s employer, Poggio?”

  He shook his head.

  “I will tell you the whole story when we can be private.”

  There was a small commotion around Lorenzo and Botticelli, who were making to leave.

  “I’m going, too,” I said to Leonardo.

  We stood.

  “I want to kiss you and kiss you,” I said, losing my battle with emotion.

  “Mama,” he said imploringly. “Just give me a pat on the back, like the fond uncle you are.”

  I did as I was told, and bidding a good afternoon to Leonardo and receiving his promise of designing and executing my sign, I departed just behind Lorenzo de’ Medici and Sandro Botticelli. They were laughing companionably as they tried to maneuver through the back door, side by side, with their arms thrown around each other.

  “After you, Lorenzo,” said Botticelli, making way and executing so low and embellished a bow that it mocked the respectful gesture.

  In his turn, Lorenzo outdid his friend in flourishes. “No, no, after you, Sandro.”

  Then they noticed me.

  “Don’t mind us,” said Botticelli. “We grew up under the same roof. Silly young brothers together. Sometimes we act as though we haven’t grown up.”

  I wondered at that. Botticelli growing up in the Palazzo Medici?

  We walk
ed along the center aisle of the bottega now, three pairs of eyes drawn to the crucible of creation through which we moved.

  “Andrea is a forward-thinking maestro,” Botticelli said. “He is the first in Florence to experiment with the Flemish technique. This uses paints mixed with oils rather than water. I’m beginning to like it myself. Leonardo has a brilliant future ahead,” he added. “If only he can learn to concentrate on one thing at a time. His mind wanders.”

  “It always did,” I said.

  “I agree with Sandro,” said Lorenzo. “I see him going far. He’ll make you and his mother proud.”

  “I would hope, if possible . . . ,” I said, trying to remain cool, “to keep the news of my arrival in Florence from Leonardo’s father.”

  Lorenzo and Botticelli exchanged a look.

  “That should be no problem,” Botticelli finally said. “No one here is particularly fond of Piero da Vinci, and Leonardo is much loved, despite his bastardy.”

  “Perhaps because of his bastardy,” Lorenzo added as we continued on. “The maestro himself is an illegitimate son. Men like Piero suffer from false pride. They forget that the highest nobles in Italy, the pope even, love and elevate all their children, whether they were married to their mothers or not.”

  “It doesn’t help that Piero is a lawyer,” Botticelli added. “By their guild’s own laws, a bastard son is prohibited from taking up his father’s profession.”

  “In the case of the divine Leonardo da Vinci,” said Lorenzo as we reached the front archway at the street, “that is a blessing in disguise.”

  I was jolted twice in the space of Lorenzo’s one utterance—reminded by the word “disguise” of my own dissimulation, and also by the great compliment paid my son by the Medici heir.

  “Thank you both for all the consideration you have shown my . . . nephew.” I choked. I had very nearly said “son.”

  “It has been a pleasure,” Lorenzo replied. “I hope Sandro and I can visit you in your new establishment. I love apothecary shops. My crushed nose dulls that sense, but in such places I am sometimes able to smell.”