Signora Da Vinci

by Robin Maxwell

  “Then we will lay a trap for Savonarola,” he said, “proving him to be a false prophet. When he breaks canon law he will be chastised and prohibited from continuing to make his prophecies.”

  “But in his arrogance he will defy the church,” said Roderigo, continuing the line of thought, “and the church, in reply, will throw its full force down upon his head.”

  “But what are the prophecies?” I asked. “And how do we place them inside the man’s head?”

  Lorenzo’s eyes seemed to gaze into the future. “I know the way we will suggest them. Let us try to discover the first of them. The others will come.”

  As we sat quietly at the long table I was reminded of the last time we three had shared a board. It had been at the Vatican. The night Giovanni had been nominated for the cardinalate and two marriages had been announced—Cibo’s with Maddalena, and Maximilian’s with Bianca Sforza of Savoy. A picture began forming in my head. A memory of that night. All of us around the pope’s table. A surprising detail.

  “Lorenzo,” I said. “Do you remember that portrait of Bianca Sforza as a girl?”

  He thought a moment, looked into my eyes, and grew very still. I could tell he was flying back in time. We were sitting side by side in Innocent’s lavish dining room, Bianca’s portrait held between us.

  “Yes,” he said. “Her sleeve.”

  “Tell me,” Roderigo demanded, intrigued.

  Lorenzo squeezed his forehead between his fingers. “It is convoluted and not altogether formed in my head. Tell him something, Cato. You know my mind.”

  I smiled inwardly, realizing how well I did know this remarkable man’s mind. “It is just a seed, Roderigo. The tiniest seed. But there are two people who live in Milan who are our friends. Who will wish to assist us in our plan. And using their talents . . . and with their cooperation, we might indeed find our way to eradicate a certain vermin from our midst.”

  Roderigo cocked a wicked grin and poured himself another glass of wine. “Move closer, my friends, and let me hear what you have to say. There is nothing I enjoy more than a good conspiracy.”

  CHAPTER 32

  “My heart is pounding so hard it feels as if it will burst from my chest,” I told Lorenzo as we passed through the gate in Milan’s south wall. Though I could not deny that age was every day taking its toll on me, the thought of seeing Leonardo again after nearly a decade was making me feel young again.

  We rode together in the comfortably appointed closed carriage Lorenzo used for traveling. It had taken us three days to journey from Chianciano, and my love was tired and sore from the constant jouncing on bumpy roads.

  I parted the window curtains and saw that the city—strange for one of such importance to be far from any river or lake, or even perched atop a hill for safety—was teeming and noisy with life and commerce. The place seemed a random network of streets, unlike the straight and orderly ones of Florence. Here they were narrow and dirty. The houses of gray stone and tawny brick were some of them centuries old, others built with lovely new façades, and all interspersed with prettily laid-out gardens. Now and then we’d bump across a bridge over a narrow canal.

  “Look to your right, Caterina.”

  I did and saw a fine modern building with a sign that announced BANCO MEDICI. “Will you tell the driver we will not be stopping here?”

  I did what I was asked.

  Indeed, this visit to Milan was secret to all but a few. We drove several blocks farther and entered a large square.

  “Prepare yourself,” Lorenzo said. “The Duomo is quite astonishing.”

  Despite his warning my mouth fell agape at the sight of the mammoth edifice, not simply its color, a whitish rose marble, but the intricacy of its design. The tall spires and buttresses were all lined with narrow pinnacles that looked like French lace. It couldn’t have differed more from the austere exteriors of Florentine churches. It might have been something imagined in a hashish dream.

  “The Goths’ influence,” Lorenzo whispered. His voice had grown weak.

  “We are here, my love,” I said. “Leonardo’s house is right on the southern edge of Cathedral Square.”

  Moments later our small cortege had pulled across a moat, through a gate in some fortified walls to a large cobbled courtyard. This was surrounded by porticos boasting a long stable house, and shadowed by a tall stone tower. It was, as Leonardo’s letters had told, the old ducal palazzo, now deserted by Il Moro and given as a home to my son. Despite its dilapidated appearance and lacking the buzzing activity of a noble court, its colonnaded courtyard was astonishingly grand.

  Leonardo’s bottega, I thought, in a duke’s palace!

  “Mama?” I heard his voice outside the carriage and threw open the door. A moment later I was in his strong embrace, inhaling the clean scent of rosewater. My heart calmed instantly. But it was not until he had pushed me to arm’s length that I had full sight of him—those sweet, melancholy eyes, the lush, shapely lips, high-boned cheeks and nobly slender nose. His hair was gloriously wavy, worn loose and long. I always censored my urge to remonstrate with Leonardo about the full beard he insisted upon keeping. All that hair, I thought, hid the rest of his handsome face. And how prosperous and fashionable he looked! Tall and broad-shouldered, his beautifully tailored doublet was deep yellow satin, his calves shapely in hose a shade lighter than above. And he wore, for the first time I remembered, simple gold rings, one on each hand.

  “You’re still a handsome man, Uncle Cato,” Leonardo loudly proclaimed, as Zoroastre came out to greet us. The apprentice, still affecting all black in his dress, helped Lorenzo out of the carriage and gave instruction to the drivers for unloading our trunks and seeing to the horses.

  Leonardo and Lorenzo embraced. I saw my son’s face crumble with sorrow to feel the pain my lover so clearly suffered. But when they parted Leonardo was all smiles, for he knew very well Lorenzo would never brook the slightest pity for himself.

  “Come, let us show you around,” Leonardo said, and with Zoroastre at his side, led us through a grand front doorway. It was an enormous place with high ceilings and several wings sprawling away from a central corridor.

  “For a time, Il Moro had Duke Gian and Isabella living in the north apartments here,” Leonardo said. “They were strange housemates. Angry—for good reason, I suppose—to be banished from the royal residence to live with the court painter.”

  “And all the while the rightful ruler of Milan,” Lorenzo added.

  “And now?” I asked.

  “Now they’ve been sent even farther from court—to Pavia.”

  “You have a ruthless patron, Leonardo,” Lorenzo said. “It is a good thing Il Moro loves you so well.”

  A row of small chambers were revealed as studioli of Leonardo’s various specialties. There were rooms for grinding colors and glazes. In another, circles of glass were being ground and polished into lenses. Another housed every sort of mechanism, from pulleys and ropes to screws and bolts and winches.

  As we passed another chamber that was, quite openly, an alchemical laboratory, Zoroastre caught sight of a young apprentice inside, rather lazily fanning its furnace with a bellows.

  “Put some elbow into it, Marco!” he cried, and strode over to the boy, who cowered under the reprimand.

  “There’s more to see,” Leonardo said. “So much more.”

  As we continued down the hallway he opened the door to what appeared as a great wardrobe stuffed with colorful, fanciful costumes—men’s and women’s and animals’, and masks beaked and feathered, both grotesque and beautiful.

  I was drawn inside this last room, and Leonardo followed.

  “You know I am Il Moro’s revels master,” he said.

  “Ah, for the court pageants.”

  “And weddings. All we seem to have these days are weddings. Ludovico to Beatrice d’Este, Gian to Isabella. We are already planning Bianca Sforza’s marriage festivities.”

  “I imagine they will be rather spectacular.
” Lorenzo had joined us in the costumery. “It is not every day the Holy Roman Emperor marries. Do you see much of Maximilian?”

  “Only the payments that come for my work on Bianca’s wedding portrait.”

  Leonardo led us out and across the corridor through an archway into the largest chamber I had ever seen. Three hundred feet by fifty was my guess.

  “The old ballroom,” he said. Pillars ranged on all four walls, and a high arched ceiling towered overhead. But now there was nothing left of a royal playground. It was a workshop, a veritable cauldron of creation. I moved to one wall. Every inch of it was hung with sketches—of waterworks and hydraulic systems, cathedral domes and a city designed on two levels. Drawings of a crossbow the size of a house, and a terrifying war weapon on wheels with a revolving quartet of scythes.

  On tables were wooden models of cranes and hoists and aqueducts. In one corner was a mysterious arrangement of eight large rectangular mirrors, all hinged together in a perfect octagon.

  There were numerous apprentices. Boys from ten to eighteen working with great industry at their chores. The youngest swept the floor. Another, slightly older, stretched and nailed a canvas onto a willow panel. The oldest, clearly a journeyman, was laying down the first color on a cartoon of what would later become a painting.

  More than half of the hall was filled with scaffolding that surrounded a massive sculpture, a great prancing horse. Leonardo had been granted the commission for a much-sought-after equestrian monument, one commemorating Il Moro’s father.

  “Strange,” Lorenzo said to him, speaking my mind out loud, “to see you working as a sculptor—though of all the subjects you might have chosen first, this does not surprise me.”

  It was, indeed, magnificent—the great horse. Even enveloped in scaffolding with apprentices balanced on the wood, working on its various details, I could see the strength and beauty of the beast’s musculature, even an expression of the animal’s pride in its long face and soulful eyes.

  “When the clay sculpture is finished, I shall cast it in bronze,” Leonardo told us. “It gives me much grief, the planning for this casting.” He kicked his heel into the floor. “I mean to cast it in one piece. It is so large I must dig a great pit to put the mold in the ground, here, upside down. Four furnaces shall have to be built around it, and the molten metal will flow, through pipes, into the horse’s belly, air escaping through its feet.”

  I could see sketches on the walls of an iron framework for the mold of the head. Another of a great wooden contraption that would, by the look of it, move the finished horse from the bottega.

  “And the problem?” Lorenzo asked.

  “Groundwater,” Leonardo answered. “The top of the head will come dangerously close to Milan’s shallow water table. If moisture intrudes, the whole thing could collapse.” He smiled. “But it will not. It cannot. I cannot have done all this work for Il Moro’s horse to have it collapse.”

  A high-pitched screech echoed through the cavernous hall and we all turned to find its source—a beautiful boy of about ten. He had an extravagant headful of soft blond curls, and was dressed not as the other apprentices but in scarlet silks. Just now he was jumping down from the horse’s scaffolding, being chased by an older boy. The younger one made for the archway followed in close pursuit by the older, who shouted, “Give it back, you little demon!” A moment later both were gone.

  We turned back to Leonardo. “Who is that?” I asked.

  When he answered I saw on his face the oddest expression—one I had never seen before—a confusing welter of amusement, irritation, and love.

  He shook his head. “That is Salai.”

  “Salai?” Lorenzo said. “In Arabic, does that not mean Limb of Satan?”

  “He is very aptly named,” Leonardo said simply.

  I waited for a bit more of an explanation.

  “I’ve recently taken him in as an apprentice.”

  “Awfully well dressed for an apprentice,” I observed.

  “Let us talk about Salai later. There’s so much I still want you to see.”

  “And what is this?” Lorenzo asked, moving to the other side of the hall. A huge linen sheet covered a tall, square structure.

  Leonardo strode over and, without hesitating, pulled it off. What was revealed was the most remarkable contraption imaginable. I observed Lorenzo’s wide-eyed expression.

  What had made it so wide, we now saw, were two pairs of thin “wings” that crossed like a dragonfly’s appendages. The height was made up of a ten-foot-tall open wood-frame gondola, with pedals near the bottom, and large rollers at the top. All the mechanisms were attached in a web of ropes and pulleys.

  Without a word to us Leonardo inserted himself into the center of the device, put his feet in the pedals and his arms into straps that attached to the wings. He fitted his head into a cloth sling, then began pumping hard with his feet, raising and lowering his arms. The wings began to move slowly at first, then picked up speed.

  “He is determined to fly,” I whispered to Lorenzo.

  “And this is a flying machine?” he asked me quietly.

  The rollers above Leonardo’s head were now turning at a furious rate and the wings creating a breeze all around us.

  “Look, Lorenzo!” I said, pointing to the base of the contraption.

  The thing was quite miraculously lifting off the floor, if only a fraction of an inch. It hovered there for several moments, but Leonardo’s exertions were taking their toll. The wings’ motion slowed, and with a loud creaking sound the gondola settled back down onto the floor. He disentangled himself from the device, red-faced and perspiring.

  I went to his side. “You never fail to amaze me.”

  Lorenzo joined us. “It came off the ground,” he said, unable to hide his incredulity.

  “It does come off the ground,” Leonardo said, “though I’m quite sure now it will never fly. Too heavy. But I’ve other designs. Ones that are more birdlike. This is just the first I have built.”

  “Are you painting?” Lorenzo asked as Leonardo gestured for two apprentices to re-cover the flying machine with its sheet.

  “Oh, yes. Mostly portraits. I’ve done one of Beatrice, and a lovely one of Il Moro’s mistress, Cecilia. She’s pregnant with his child.” Leonardo indicated we should follow him out the ballroom archway toward a grand staircase. Lorenzo took the steps slowly. Leonardo grasped Lorenzo’s arm. “Only a few more steps,” he said.

  We were shown to our rooms, what had surely been Duke Galeazzo and Bona’s apartments in the glory days of the ducal palace. Even in their downtrodden condition these apartments nearly rivaled our chambers in the Vatican.

  Leonardo smiled. “I’ve a wonderful cook who indulges all my perverse demands—Julia makes a divine minestrone. We’ll dine together tonight . . . if you’re well enough.” He looked with concern at Lorenzo.

  “As long as I can rest awhile”—Lorenzo gazed at me with affection—“and your mother can lay her hands on my gouty old knees.”

  I folded myself into Leonardo’s arms again.

  He kissed the top of my head. “I cannot believe you’re here. The two of you. I am complete.”

  Then he left us, shutting the door behind him. I turned to Lorenzo. “Thank you, my love,” I said. “Thank you for bringing me.”

  That night we came down from our rooms to find a table long enough to seat Leonardo and all of the apprentices, though there were only four places set at its head. It had been tastefully arranged with a fine white linen cloth, modest plate and utensils, and vases of fresh-cut flowers in every color.

  My son offered the seat at the head of the table to Lorenzo, who declined.

  “This is your home, Leonardo, and you are the man of the house.” He looked around, smiling. “The king of your own palazzo. You must sit at the head of your table.”

  I could see how proud Leonardo was. He had come so far. “Who is joining us?” I asked.

  “Salai.”

  “The
Limb of Satan?”

  The confused expression reasserted itself on Leonardo’s face. “I must tell you about him before he comes to the table.” He went silent for a long moment. Then he said, “Salai is my natural son.”

  I sat stunned, speechless, though not unhappily so. It was quite a large matter to comprehend. Leonardo has a child. I am a grandmother.

  “How did it happen, Leonardo?” Lorenzo asked. “You’ve never spoken of him before.”

  “I only learned about his existence this year.” Leonardo took some time before he went on. “When I first came to Milan, Il Moro was very kind to me.” He turned to Lorenzo. “I have you to thank for that. One of the duke’s ‘kindnesses’ was a visit to one of his courtesans.” Leonardo rarely looked embarrassed, but now he did. “I had not been with anyone, man or woman, for a long time. This girl—her name was Celeste—was very beautiful. She had a temperament much like yours, Mama.” He smiled, remembering. “I began to use her as a model for one of my Madonnas.” Now Leonardo looked down at his plate. “She fell in love with me, and for a time, while I painted her, she refused all her other customers. Even Il Moro.” Now my son smiled. “I think I might have risen somewhat faster in the duke’s favor if Celeste had not ceased giving him her favors. But finally the Madonna was finished. In truth, I was not in love with her and”—the shy revelatory look reappeared—“Zoroastre was insanely jealous. Celeste left Milan shortly after, and my life went on.”

  Leonardo sat back in his chair and sighed a long sigh. “Last year a short, squat man I had never met came here and asked to see me. I thought he had come to give me a commission.” Leonardo smiled ruefully. “In fact, this man brought me one I never expected. He said his wife, Celeste, had recently died. She had been a great beauty in her day. So great, that despite her having once been a courtesan, and despite her having a young child—she called him Giacomo—he felt lucky that she would accept his proposal of marriage. They had lived quite happily at first, he said, and he’d refrained from asking who the boy’s father was. She never offered to say, and he thought perhaps, because of her previous trade, she did not know his paternity.”