by Mary Hoffman
I shook my head. It had never occurred to me.
‘Is that how you manage to get all the muscles and veins so like those of living people, even though they are carved in stone?’ I asked.
He laughed. ‘If they are like the living, it is because I have studied the dead,’ he said.
I shivered. He had not admitted this before.
‘When?’ I asked. ‘Where?’
‘At Santo Spirito, on the other side of the Arno,’ he said. ‘I had an arrangement with the Prior there, old Bichieli. I drew the corpses that came in. Cut into them so that I came to understand the ways in which bone and flesh and organs and the vessels that carry blood all relate to one another.’
‘It must have been difficult.’
‘The only difficulty was in getting it right,’ he said. ‘In finding out what was just the way one man was put together and what was true of us all. If you regard it as another stage in learning your craft, it becomes bearable.’
‘Do you still do it?’ I asked.
He shook his head. ‘No. It was when I was in the city before, after Lorenzo died. I made them a wooden crucifix to thank them.’
I remembered that Clarice had mentioned seeing it in Santo Spirito. My brother was a constant surprise to me; was he suggesting that I should learn by cutting up corpses?
‘But perhaps I am wrong to think you might be a sculptor,’ he said. ‘Perhaps you would feel more comfortable as a sculptor’s assistant?’
‘Are you offering me a job?’ I asked.
‘I’m offering to teach you some more skills to add to those you are learning in the bottega.’
This was something I would have to think about.
Florence had heaved a huge sigh of relief when the French army reached Milan. According to Gismondo, King Louis had invited all sorts of people with a grievance against Cesare Borgia to meet him at his court there and then – in a clever twist – invited Cesare himself!
‘Their faces were a sight to see,’ said Gismondo, as if he had been there in person. ‘They’d all been griping and complaining about Cesare and then they saw the French king kiss him on both cheeks! They were all there – the Duke of Urbino, Sforza of Pesaro, Gonzaga of Mantua – all people whose cities Cesare had taken or threatened.’
‘What happened?’ I asked. ‘Did they meet him?’
‘No, they packed up and left Milan as if the Furies were chasing them!’
Gismondo was highly amused by this tale.
‘There’s more,’ he said. ‘It’s taken a while for the news to reach the Signoria here, but Cesare has now changed course and is aiming at taking Bologna! His condottieri are furious with him, because he has his eyes on their cities too. Florence is safe for the time being.’
I wondered how long it would be before this fearsome young prince turned his attention back to our city. It seemed as if he wanted to make all Italy his kingdom.
‘Do you think Cesare Borgia wanted Florence for himself?’ I asked. ‘Or is he friendly to Piero?’
‘Who can say?’ said Gismondo. ‘When your father is Pope, you can ask for almost anything. But no, not even Cesare Borgia can be everywhere. I think he would make his base at Urbino – he would like to show off in its magnificent ducal palace – and he would have probably installed a de’ Medici here.’
I shuddered. ‘Then it’s good news he has turned his attention to Bologna.’
Leone had finished his Leda and the Swan. I saw it when I was called back to the studio to start posing for his new subject: Mars and Venus. It was a good painting. But while I was admiring it, I saw that Leda’s ecstatic face had something about it that looked like Grazia.
I hadn’t seen her as often over the summer because of posing for Angelo instead of Leone, though I was admitted to the house as an accepted ‘follower’ of hers. Lords and ladies turned a blind eye to such liaisons.
That first night back after posing as the God of War, I asked her point blank if she had modelled for the painter.
‘I did,’ she said. ‘My master told me to and we do what our masters tell us, don’t we?’
‘But did you pose like that – with no clothes on?’ I asked. ‘And with that expression?’
‘Do you dare ask me that?’ she said. ‘You who lay with a grand lady and got a baby on her and God knows who else? Do you dare to be jealous?’
‘I can’t help what I feel,’ I said, sounding sulky even to my own ears. ‘And there was no one else.’
‘Oh, really?’ said Grazia. ‘Does that mean you are true to me now? Are you offering to marry me?’
I was silent.
‘I thought not,’ she said. ‘Well, until you do, you have no right to ask who sees me – with or without my clothes.’
I gathered up my things and left immediately. At that moment I really thought I would follow my brother’s advice and give up women for good.
But my body betrayed me as it had done before.
I was walking to work next morning, wondering what would happen when I next went to Visdomini’s house when someone I hadn’t seen for over a year hissed my name from the street corner.
It was Clarice’s pert maid, Vanna.
‘Psst,’ she whispered. ‘Come here.’
I went; I was always being told what to do, usually by women, and it was instinctive to obey.
‘What do you want?’ I asked her.
‘It’s not me that wants anything,’ she said contemptuously. She was taller than before and her figure had rounded out but I did not find her attractive. I never had.
‘My lady sends for you to the Via Tornabuoni.’
‘I am on my way to work,’ I said. ‘I can’t just go visiting when my maestro is expecting me. I might lose my job.’
‘She said you’d say that,’ said Vanna. ‘She said, “Tell him to come after work.” My lord is away.’
That made me think. Dangerous as it was to go back to Clarice’s house, I could see my son. Surely that was why she had asked me? And I suddenly considered that maybe I could find out more about Altobiondi and the pro-Mediceans. That would be useful if my relationship with Grazia was to end.
‘So,’ said Vanna, ‘shall I tell my lady you will come?’
‘Tell her I might.’
I thought about it all day and spoiled the latticework for a stone window frame. My maestro shouted at me for the first time. Perhaps Angelo was wrong to think he could make an artist of me. But gradually I took control of my emotions and by the end of my day’s work I had won back the maestro’s good opinion.
‘Everyone has the occasional bad day,’ he said. ‘We all make mistakes. No one can learn anything without making mistakes.’
That was kinder than I deserved but I’d worked for him long enough to show that I wasn’t usually unreliable.
I went to the Via Tornabuoni. Of course I did. And I went just as I was, with all my stone dust on me. Clarice knew what I did and what I was and if, before, she had dressed me up and pretended I was something other, at this meeting she had to be reminded of the gulf between us.
It was another house but that was the only difference in my reception. I was brought warm water to wash in and good wine to drink and all the time I said nothing. Clarice never took her eyes off me. But when the servant withdrew, she seemed shy and embarrassed.
‘How are you?’ she asked. ‘I mean how has your life been since . . .’
‘Since you threw me out?’
‘That’s not fair! You left my house to live with the sculptor.’
‘You know what I mean. I couldn’t come to your palazzo any more once you were to marry Altobiondi.’
I think I spat out his name. I wasn’t usually envious of the lives of rich men; I didn’t crave what they had and they always seemed so anxious about losing it. But I suddenly wondered, looking at Clarice, why it was that some men lived in big comfortable homes with their small families while poorer men struggled to house their larger broods.
But to be honest I wasn�
��t really thinking revolutionary thoughts; I was just sore that Antonello de’ Altobiondi was bringing up my son.
As if I had conjured him up, a nursemaid brought Davide in. I felt a surge of pride that I had helped to make this strong and sturdy boy. He was over six months old and could sit up straight on his mother’s lap. He put his hands up to her face and they looked together like a Madonna and Child painted by one of the past masters.
The impression lasted an instant; Clarice was no saint.
‘He’s a fine boy, your son,’ I said.
‘Isn’t he?’ she said proudly.
‘Do your daughters treat him well?’ I asked. I could not bring myself to ask about his supposed father.
‘The girls love having a little brother,’ she said. ‘I want you to know,’ she said very carefully, ‘that he is very much loved. He will have a good life.’
I nodded. She was right.
‘But I didn’t ask you here to see Davide,’ she went on. ‘Though you may hold him if you wish.’
She held the boy out to me and I took him as before, full of wonder at this beautiful creature who had a year ago simply not existed in the world. He was like a work of art, only one conceived without intention.
‘Why did you want to see me then?’ I asked as I let the boy bury his little hands in my curls.
If she thought we could just resume our life together as lovers whenever her husband left town, she was playing a very dangerous game.
‘I felt I owed you something,’ she said.
If she had offered me money, I would have given her back the child and walked out of that house never to see her again. But it was not that.
‘My . . . Altobiondi is involved in something I think you want to know about,’ said Clarice. ‘He is at this moment in Rome, meeting Giovanni and Giulio de’ Medici.’
‘The Cardinal and his cousin? Are you telling me that your husband is conspiring to bring back the de’ Medici?’
‘It is well known, I think,’ said Clarice.
I was still holding Davide and must have squeezed him too hard because he started to cry and turned to reach out for his mother.
‘Sorry,’ I said, smoothing the boy’s curls as I handed him back to Clarice, who quieted him by jogging him up and down on her lap.
‘Antonello doesn’t tell me everything,’ she said. ‘But he and his friends have frequent meetings here – your patron Visdomini is one of their number – and I overhear things.’
‘Why are you telling me this?’ I asked.
‘Because, although it might surprise you, I don’t want the Republic overthrown any more than you do. I’d like to help you.’
So Clarice was no more pro-Medici than Grazia was!
‘I believe that Lorenzo did some good things,’ Clarice said. ‘But I am just old enough to remember what it was like under his son, Piero. The de’ Medici name is no guarantee of a good ruler.’
‘You sound like my brother,’ I said.
‘Will you let me help you?’ she asked.
So my life as a spy and my romantic life continued to be entangled. The room where Altobiondi met his fellow conspirators had an alcove covered by a tapestry of a hunting scene and sometimes, before a meeting, Clarice would send me a message and I would get there early, let in by the maid, Vanna, and hide behind it.
This was incredibly dangerous and I had to stay for the whole evening. Often they were dull with no real new information for me to pass on. But one night there were some new men I didn’t know and their presence seemed to excite the other pro-Medici conspirators.
One was called Ridolfi and the other Bellatesta – that much I managed to pick up. I didn’t know them but the frateschi might.
The one called Ridolfi had been in Rome and come back with de’ Altobiondi. They were reporting on their meeting with the de’ Medici.
‘Giovanni says the Pope is ill,’ said Ridolfi. ‘It could mean the end of Borgia rule in Rome.’
‘And of Cesare Borgia’s rise, then,’ said Altobiondi. He sounded quite pleased.
I tried not to sigh but I was confused. It seemed that the pro-Mediceans were not in league with Cesare Borgia. But then the Bellatesta one made me think again.
‘I am not so sure. Giulio de’ Medici told us Cardinal Piccolomini will be the next Pope,’ he said. ‘And he is certain that Piccolomini will support Cesare. Giulio and Giovanni are both courting the Cardinal’s favour. It will be a long time before Cesare stops rising.’
‘And Giovanni will vote for Piccolomini in conclave when the Pope dies. The one they don’t want is della Rovere. He hates Cesare and all the Borgias.’
There was a lot more talk after that but it was so uninteresting that I fell asleep. It’s fortunate that I don’t snore – or rather that I didn’t as a young man – or my hiding place would have been revealed.
When I woke, the room was dark and I was curled into an awkward position behind the tapestry. Vanna was shaking my shoulder. I came stiffly out of my hiding place and was soon on my way home. But I was still half asleep and not taking notice of my surroundings.
Otherwise I would have seen my attackers. A group of masked men jumped out from behind a pillar in the Via Tornabuoni and started laying into me. I felt for the knife that Angelo had given me but one of the men held my arms behind my back while the others punched and kicked me. At least they used no weapons.
When they had finished and I slumped to the ground, their leader, who had taken no part in the attack but looked on with satisfaction, bent down and hissed in my ear, ‘Stay away from de’ Altobiondi! Death to the de’ Medici!’
They left me and I rolled on to my knees and hands, spitting blood. At least I haven’t lost any teeth, I was vain enough to think. But I was a total mess, my eyes swollen and my lips bloody. My entire body ached from the beating but I knew things would be a lot worse by the next morning.
I limped home to Lodovico’s and I smiled, although it hurt the split in my lip. I had been beaten up for being a Medici supporter! And probably by another cell of the frateschi! The irony wasn’t lost on me but I had no idea how I was going to explain the attack to my brother and his family. Or to my maestro and my patron.
My life was getting so complicated I hardly knew how to explain it to myself!
Chapter Eleven
A Telling Blow
‘Dio mio,’ said Gismondo, who was the first member of the household to see me next morning. ‘What have you done to yourself?’
‘It was done to me rather,’ I said, scarcely able to speak for the pain in my jaw. My eyes were closed up and I could tell I would not be able to work for some days. I would not know where to make my chisel blows.
‘Who did this then?’ he asked, looking as if he would like to take a weapon and go and deal out summary justice to them.
‘Fellow republicans,’ I said. I would have smiled wryly if I could.
‘Frateschi?’ he asked. ‘But why? Did they think you had betrayed them?’
‘I am not sure. It was no one I knew. They saw me coming out of de’ Altobiondi’s palazzo. Maybe that was why they jumped to the wrong conclusion.’
‘And what would have been the right conclusion?’ Gismondo asked.
I had no desire for anyone else to know about my past liaison with Clarice so I said, ‘I was spying on him and his friends.’
I groaned. I had so much to tell my own cell of frateschi, but that too would have to wait. My ribs were aching and it would take a long time for my bruises to subside. Another thought struck me: I could hardly pose for Leone’s Mars looking like this. Even though the God of War must have been in a fair few scraps, I’d wager he was never shown as having come off worse.
Angelo came in while we were talking.
‘Who has ruined your beauty?’ he asked, pouring me a cup of wine. He sent to the cook to make me a bowl of gruel since there was no way I could chew crusty bread.
I told my story again and the two brothers were both sympathetic. Angelo promi
sed to call in at the bottega on his way to the Duomo and tell my maestro that I had been set upon by robbers and beaten and would not be able to work for the rest of the week.
Gismondo undertook to take a message to Ser Visdomini and also to get in touch with my cell of frateschi. Perhaps one of them would come and visit me and I could tell him my news? Being well-off young men they had no work to employ their hands during the day, unlike Gismondo, who was supposed to go to the wool shop but much preferred to think of pretexts that kept him busy around the city.
The cook herself brought me the bowl of slop and tut-tutted over my appearance.
‘You must rest,’ she said when I had eaten what I could. ‘I will bring you a cold compress for your poor eyes.’
I went back to bed, very sorry for myself, but wondering – true Florentine that I had become – how to turn this attack to my advantage. I must have slept heavily and long, because a servant came to tell me I had visitors.
There was a little cry, which I recognised as Grazia’s voice, as they were shown into the room.
‘Oh, poor Gabriele!’ she said and immediately took over nursing duties from the cook.
As she bathed my eyes in an infusion of herbs in cold water, I gathered that my other visitor was Gianbattista. He clasped my hand.
‘Who did this?’ he asked. ‘Ser Buonarroti told me it was piagnoni.’
His use of that term showed me that he disapproved and, as I thought, had nothing to do with the attack.
‘They shouted “Death to the de’ Medici” as they ran away,’ I said. ‘And I was coming out of de’ Altobiondi’s palazzo.’
I heard the sharp intake of breath, though my eyes were being soothed by Grazia’s attentions.
‘Who is this young woman?’ asked Gianbattista. ‘Is it safe to speak in front of her?’
‘I work for Ser Visdomini,’ said Grazia, putting a finger to my wounded mouth. ‘He is a compagnaccio, like many of his class. But I am as republican as Gabriele is, or yourself, sir, if you are indeed a fratesco.’