Leonardo’s Shadow

by Christopher Grey

  “Good-for-nothing!”

  Just because I delivered a letter for him to Messer Dianni instead of Messer Dianno. He has rotten handwriting.

  “Glutton!”

  Would you call eating fourteen hot cheese buns in one sitting “gluttony”? When Caterina is always at me not to waste food?

  “Idler!”

  Who is the biggest idler: me, for taking off a sunny afternoon to go fishing in the canal with my friend Renzo—or my master, who has still not finished his most important painting for the Duke after two years, even though a messenger arrives every day asking for news of his progress?

  He can call me what he likes (and he does, I can’t stop him), but if my master had wanted to put me back on the streets, he would have done so long ago. He hasn’t, though, and I deem it unlikely that he ever will. On the contrary, he wants to know where I am at every moment.

  Besides, if I was to go, he would have no one to talk to. He is as alone in this world as I am, unless you count a father and brothers he never visits in Florence. I have no family. None that I know of, anyway.

  And the Master let me keep the things he found in my ragbag, although I had to plead with him to do so. He even made a box out of dark wood, with a lock and key, for me to store them in. It is not too big, it has no need to be, but it is very fine. He painted my picture on the lid. It looks more like me than my own face, Caterina says.

  That box is my dearest possession. I have the only key. It hangs on the leather band around my neck. I never take it off.

  As soon as the fever had left me and I was well enough to rise from the Master’s bed, the lessons began. “What use are you to me,” he said, “if your body grows strong, but your brain remains weak?” He hired a priest, Father Bernardo, as my tutor, who always said “Go with God” at the end of the lesson. Then my master did not pay him for so long that the good priest decided to go with God himself and never came back to the house.

  From then on the Master did the teaching, and I could only pray for the return of Father Bernardo, because I was not allowed to rest, even for a moment, and if I fell asleep at the table he would rap my knuckles with a measuring stick. I rose at five, had my breakfast of dried figs or a pear, followed by three hours of grammar and writing; lunch, maybe some broth or dumplings, with an hour off for exercise outdoors, watched over by Caterina, who gave me a good slap if I played the fool; then back inside for three more hours of arithmetic on the abacus and more reading practice. After that I was too tired for anything but a supper of fried cheese on bread, and off to bed. But before I could sleep, I had to recite a poem, a story from the Bible, or one of Ovid’s ancient tales. From memory.

  I also learned the rudiments of geometry, the fundaments of logic, and the art of argument, known as rhetoric. And having taught me that, how can he complain that I am so contrary?

  Within two years I could read anything you like and write anything I liked. Then my master started me on Latin. When I told him that it was too hard, he pressed me even harder, saying that such a great language was not meant for fools, and that he had every hope I did not want to be one.

  And he gave me the name of Giacomo.

  It’s not my real name, but the fever I suffered from took that away from me, along with everything else. I spend a lot of time wondering who I am. Who I really am. The great trees in the Duke’s park do not cast longer shadows than those that have fallen across my life.

  When my master brought me to his house, he told me I was eight years old, near enough, to judge by my height and breadth. And it is now 1497, and I have been here seven years, so I must be fifteen, or perhaps fourteen, but I refuse to believe I am any younger than that I have a beard coming, although it is taking longer to arrive than I would like. Caterina says that when it is full grown, I should marry. Marriage is the only path to happiness, she says, even if you have to beat down the thorns as you go, but I think I prefer to walk around them. Besides, my master is not married, never has been, and it looks as if he never will. He doesnt have the time for it.

  So this is the story of Leonardo da Vinci and me. No, make that me and Leonardo da Vinci: it is my story, after all, even if I owe it all to my n4iaster, without whom there would be nothing to tell, because there would be nothing of me, I suppose, except the dust on your shoes.

  III

  On the last day but one of September we celebrate the Feast of Saint Michael, the mighty angel who drove Satan from Heaven and who guards our city from evil. Some say that he is not doing a very good job anymore and that Milan has become a home for thieves and villains. Others say that Milan has always been a home for thieves and villains, and that Saint Michael can hardly be blamed for it.

  It’s true that you can get your head knocked in if you take the wrong street on a dark night.

  And it’s true that if someone cheats you out of your money, your best chance of recovering it is to steal it back from him when he is asleep, because going to court is only for the rich, who can afford to pay off the judges.

  And its true that—but, listen to me, carrying on like a laundrywoman! I might as well complain to the pigeons. Im a servant. No one listens to a servant, except another servant. And then our masters say that all we do is complain.

  But it is true that the Duke raises taxes each year, and that the price of eggs is now so high that a good hen is carried through the streets on a velvet cushion. But who dares speak out against Duke Ludovico? He has a spy in every doorway—you can often see their toes sticking out—and if you are overheard, your head will be swiftly parted from your shoulders and rammed on the end of a pike for the crows to peck at your eyes.

  Ah, but Milans not such a bad place. Especially if, like me, you have nowhere else to go.

  The Duchy of Milan is one of fourteen states that make up our country. We are usually at war with at least one of them. Then the Duke signs a treaty, and they become our affies. A month later a new state is threatening us, and we are at war again. There are only two certainties: the first is that we trust nobody outside Milan. The second is that nobody outside Milan trusts us.

  To our west lie the Duchy of Savoy; the Republic of Genoa; and the smaller, though no less bothersome, Marquisates of Montferrat and Saluzzo. To the east are our old adversaries, the scheming and deceitful Republic of Venice (we say that a Venetian has all the qualities of a dog, except trust and loyalty); the lands belonging to the Marquis of Mantua; and those ruled by Ercole d’Este, Duke of Ferrara (whose daughter, Beatrice, married our Duke).

  To the south of us are the Duchy of Modena; the Republics of Lucca, Florence, and Siena; and the territories belonging to the Church. The rest of our country, all the way to the southernmost tip, is ruled by the King of Naples, a man who eats three pounds of olives a day and keeps the stones in a sack made of gold cloth. So they say; and who am I, not having met the King myself, to argue with them?

  And directly north of us, their snowy caps touching the clouds, are the high Alps, beyond which lie the countries of Switzerland and France, where they speak a different language from ours, but no doubt argue with each other just as much as we do.

  Its not an easy life, a servant’s. Youll see. But thats for later. Right now the great bells of the Cathedral are tolling seven, time for our citizens to down tools and put on their best finery to celebrate the last night of the wine harvest with as much drinking as can be done before their arms fall off.

  We have more than a hundred feast days a year, but Saint Michaels is the servants’ favorite; after nightfall, the inns and taverns throw open their doors and the city does its best to drinkwhat remains of the old wine, in readiness for the new. If the harvest has been plentiful, many taverns display the only charity theyll ever show, by handing out free cups of wine. Free wine, even the kind that sticks pitchforks in your belly, is of great interest to those of us without a silver coin to light the dim inside of our purses.

  I’ve already had a couple of cups.

  I need to put some red in my v
eins.

  I’m off to meet my friends Renzo, Antonio, and Claudio at the Goldoni Fountain, the one with the statue of a cherub that lost a wing and a couple of fingers during a brawl between the Luccis and the Pozzos this May Day past. Terrible enemies, the Luccis and the Pozzos, although nobody knows why.

  Tonight I face my big test.

  The most important night of my life.

  It’s not that Im scared, not at all. Just shaking a bit. You would be, too.

  But here I am now at the main square, where a huge crowd is already gathered.

  What a sight! What a spectacle! I’ll tell you all about it as soon as this giantlike gentleman standing directly in front of me moves to one side—ah, thats better. The great Cathedral, whose facade is filled, nook and cranny, with statues and carvings, seems to have come alive with the light of the torches burning below. All around the square, suckling pigs—dozens of them—are roasting on spits above furnace-hot coals. Its a terrible thing, it is, to see a poor pigs head turning over and over, its mouth still open, as if it was in the middle of asking a polite question: “Excuse me, can you tell me the way to—?”

  A gigantic vat, big enough to hold twenty persons at one time, has been erected in the center of the square by the Commissioners of Wine and Leather. The vat is filled and refilled to the brim with grapes from the new harvest. Every citizen is welcome to help tread them down, and there is a line stretching all the way to the statue of old Barnaba Visconti.

  Music from drum and trumpet accompanies the treading of the grapes. And it is not soothing music, I can tell you, it is the kind of music they play to keep an army on its feet. Which, I suppose, is the purpose of it.

  “Hey, you! Get out of the way! Weve got new wine to deliver in this cart!”

  Thats all the thank’s I get for standing here while I set the scene for you.

  But I mustnt tarry. It’s almost time.

  Saint Michael, lend me the strength of your mighty arms! Tonight you send me into battle—

  Tonight is the big fight between servants and apprentices. Its a tradition, among servants and apprentices, at least.

  The rules are simple: no weapons, no mercy, no excuses. Fight with fist and foot, head and knee, however you can. Knock down one of the enemy, trample on him, do what you will.

  And this year I’ll be in the middle of it.

  If I can keep my courage long enough to reach my friends without turning tail and running back to Caterinas warm and cozy kitchen.

  Theyre not so bad, apprentices, even though wed happily see them boiled in oil and fed to the grunters. Apprentices learn a trade, a craft, such as carpentry or metalwork, something you can use, while we servants—all we learn is how to clean piss pots, wash walls, and say “Yes, Master.” Theres no one lower than a servant. And that’s why tonight were going to break some heads.

  But Ive never been in a real fight. A few shoves, a slap, a kick. Nothing like this. This is the real thing. I could get hurt. Badly. Or killed. Caterina would not like that, not at all. And, truth be told, I wouldnt either. Someone was killed, last year—a servant by the name of Paolo. We knew him well. He had weak legs; he should have stayed at home. He gave his life to warn us of the futility of fighting. It didnt work.

  It takes a lot of elbowing and cursing to thrust my way through the crowd and across the square towards the Goldoni Fountain, but once I have turned this corner

  “Giacomo!” That’s Renzo, sitting on the rim of the fountain, wearing his customary jerkin with the leather patches. Renzo is the servant of Bernardo Maggio, the carpenter, who does a lot of work for my master.

  The cherub in the fountain is spitting a very thin stream of water.

  “Where’ve you been?” says Claudio. “We thought you’d forgotten.”

  “Or decided to stay at home,” Antonio says, giving me an unpleasant smile. He likes to provoke me, that Antonio. Hes jealous of my blond hair, that’s what it is, hes got hair like a mud-caked wolfhound.

  “Im here, aren’t I?” “I say. Every house in Milan has emptied its occupants out onto the street, you can’t breathe for the crush. It’s like a scene from a painting by—”

  “Don’t start,” Antonio says. He doesnt love art, either.

  Renzo takes three strips of red cloth from his belt. He already has a piece tied around his upper arm. He’s our leader, sort of.

  “Tie these on,” he says.

  This is it. No going back now. Im wearing our colors.

  “Follow me,” he says.

  “Where are we going?” Claudio asks.

  “The Cathedral field. That’s the place this year.”

  We pass through back streets and alleys, staying clear of the crowds, until Saint Catherine, will you look at this! My heart jumps a few beats and my stomach slops about inside. Every bit of dry skin on me is instantly cloaked in a cold sweat.

  There must be two hundred youths here, facing one another like opposing armies, cursing and spitting. The apprentices are wearing green strips to our red, so that well know who to hit. Already the taunting has begun:

  “GoosenecKs”

  “Toadbacks!”

  “Ratmanglers!”

  “Sheephuggers!”

  “Dogfoot maggots!”

  “Lilyprick wormstrokers!”

  And on and on.

  I let fly with a few myself—I love a good insult—but my mouth is dry. I mean, look at the size of some of them—like giants! Theyre fed well, these apprentices.

  The shouting has reached a crescendo. Claudio grabs my arm: “Im getting out of here, well all be killed!” He does not have a figure for fighting, our Claudio, he’s round as a roasting pan (and hell eat whatever is being cooked in it), but Im not leaving. I want to fight. I want respect. Where else am I going to get it? Not at home.

  The signal has been given by someone, somehow—and with a great roar the two lines of green and red are running towards each other—

  —and before I can take another breath Im launching my left fist at someones face and my right elbow is thrusting at anothers head Renzo has someone by the throat a youth has kicked me in the thigh another one has jumped on my back Im falling I press my thumb into an eye a scream over there Antonio is holding his head blood coming from his ear I kick upwards and clear a space to rise I’m on my feet a fist in my back I kick behind me jab three fingers into the ribs of a dark youth on my left watch out Renzo someone has a stone I grasp the villain’s arm and force it down Renzo shouts thanks now he has taken the youth’s head and God he’s twanging it so far back it must break someone right up on me I butt him on the nose trip fall get up Giacomo a strong arm has me around the neck and punches my temple and I elbow him in the side—

  The sound of a horn, one note repeated again and again—

  “It’s the Guard! Scatter, apprentices, lose yourselves!”

  “Servants, fellows, run like water—!”

  Here they come, the City Guard, it didn’t take them long to find us—the dogs are here, too, snarl-toothed and froth-mouthed—Renzo is lifting me up from the ground—“Where’re the others?”

  “Gone!”

  “Come on, then, let’s get out of here”

  We make for the trees at the edge of the field, and behind us the Guard is already laying hands on some of our fellows, and the battle has been broken up for another year.

  Glory. We fought man-to-man, shoulder to shoulder.

  And we lived. Thats the best part.

  Tonight we are heroes.

  “You did good, Giacomo.”

  “So did you, Ren.”

  He laughs. “What a fight! I took five or more of them down. Your first time, wasn’t it?”

  I nod. I was too young a year ago.

  “Break anything?” he says.

  I run my tongue around the inside of my mouth. No holes. No blood on my jerkin, either, thanks be to the Virgin, or Caterina would want to know why.

  “We’ve earned ourselves a cup or two of wine, eh,”
he says.

  We make our way south towards the Ticino Gate and cross the bridge over the Grand Canal, beyond which, snug in the shadow of the city walls, is Jacopos tavern, called the Seven Knaves.

  Now most folk, the first time they enter the tavern, ask Jacopo why there are seven knaves. “Because there are not eight,” he says. And that shuts them up. Of course, I never asked him a silly question like that. Truth is, I never saw the sign outside, the first time Renzo took me there. For the lack of a silly question, I got the reputation for being a sensible lad. Jacopo likes me, the wine is cheap and untainted, and the place is usually free of troublemakers.

  Tonight the tavern is so full even the mice must have fled for want of room.

  Antonio and Claudio are already here.

  We squeeze in next to them, and the cups are passed round.

  “Im sorry,” Claudio says to me, “I let you all down.”

  “Don’t be stupid,” I reply. “If we had died in battle, who would have told our story?” Claudio is a poet, or hopes to be one. We hope so, too. The sooner the better. Because what he writes now, the best you can say about it is that it’s not usually longer than a page.

  “No, no,” Claudio says. “I’m worthless.”

  We all object to that in loud voices. And after we have finished, he waits a breath, then says: “Nothing but a terrible failure.”

  Antonio starts laughing. Claudio revels too much in misery, which they say is an indulgence shared by many poets.

  “And where were you?” Renzo says to Antonio.

  “Me? Why, I was in the thick of it, punching and kicking,” Antonio says. “And anyone who says different will receive my boot to his head.”

  Renzo looks at me and smiles. We both saw him running for cover after he had received but a single blow.

  “Anyway,” Renzo says, “here’s to Giacomo, who put up his fists for the servants and showed us what he was made of. Glory to the Duke and Milan!”

  We raise our cups. “To Milan!”

  And here comes Jacopo himself with a fresh jug of wine. If hes buying drinks, that can only mean he wants us to listen to one of his stories. Jacopo has hatfuls of bad stories.