That said, my father and I appeared to all in Vinci as the best of Christians. We attended mass, made our communion, swore our allegiance to the pope and Rome. Papa donated the money to have a fresco painted at the altar of the local church, and took tender care of the friars at no charge. Regarding this deception, my father told me it was better to be a living hypocrite than a dead truth teller. Our beliefs, he insisted, were no one’s business but our own.
As I grew older I became well known for my forays into the countryside collecting herbs and medicines for my father’s shop. No other girl had the freedom to roam alone as I did. As far as I knew, no other girl desired such solitary wanderings.
The others of my age and sex were kept at the hearths with their mothers, learning those womanly skills my aunt Magdalena wished me to know, going out only to church or in groups with the village women to weave reed baskets by the river. They ended their childhoods by leaving their fathers’ houses and moving into their husbands’ houses, or in many instances the houses of their husbands’ fathers.
All of them expected to marry.
All of them were virgins.
My father and I had, without speaking of it, delayed talk of my marriage. The only thing that Magdalena’s nagging at her brother-in-law yielded were his claims that I was different from the other girls, better and brighter than them. My father and I were both content with our private life of scholarship and service to the village through the apothecary shop.
It therefore came to me as something of a shock in my fourteenth spring when a strange upwelling of “womanly humors” took hold of me. I had, of course, been expecting my menses. And I had endured Magdalena clucking over the buds that had grown into prettily rounded breasts, the dark silken hair sprouting under my arms and between my legs. But the unbidden urges, moods, and black melancholies that assailed me, and the pleasant but unnerving sensations that tingled in the place I made water, these were things my aunt had never spoken of. And of them my father was entirely unaware.
Whereas I had always happily and unfailingly stoked the alchemist furnace, tended our apothecary garden, and made thoughtful and appropriate conversation with Papa’s clients, suddenly I had become a wild thing. I felt trapped in the too-dark house, bored with every task my father assigned me, unable to concentrate on Pythagorean geometry, and loathing the smell of his sulfurous laboratory.
All of what seethed inside me I hid from him, afraid that the raw animal I had become would be unlovable to him. At home I remained his adored Caterina, his precious little scholar and helpmate. I was the picture of perfection.
Out in the fields I would hoist up my skirts and run like a boy in a solo footrace, just run and shout into the wind. It was the only way I knew to release the demon between my legs.
“Caterina, come sit with us!”
I was jolted from my reverie by the voice and startled to see how far I had come from the village, out past the olive groves on the hill-side, through the pastures where sheep grazed, and all the way down to the riverbank. There I saw before me the girls and women of the town, wickerwork in their laps and strewn about them on red wool rugs.
I was sorry they had seen me, for I had no wish to insult them but no use for idle chatter this day. I had no use for anything save an indolent walk down the reedy banks of the Vincio, filling my sack with fragrant herbs and flowers.
“I’m on an errand for my father!” I called back with my most friendly smile.
“Forget your father! Come sit with us!” they called. Signora Palma was the most insistent.
“If I don’t go pick some valerian, Signora Segretti will not get her nerve tonic and will make all your lives miserable when you go to her shop to buy bread!”
When I heard a chorus of shouts and good-natured curses I knew I was safe to go. I set my eyes on the path going downriver, closing out the sound of chattering women, attuned myself to birdsong, rushing water, and the rustling whisper of reeds along the bank.
I delighted in nature. Except for Papa, nothing was so dear to me in life but what lived and breathed, grew and died in the hills and meadows and caves around Vinci. For a moment I considered visiting a certain cavern where grew a special mold that kept a wound from suppurating. But no. Today I envisioned a sun-dappled meadow along the river path far enough upstream that no one from town would bother me.
I could already see up ahead that the meadow next to the path was a riot of lungwort flowers, their deep rose heads on tall stalks so delicate that the whole field of them was tossed by the softest of breezes. I decided to walk to a place in the river that elbowed around a tiny eruption of boulders and trees, making for a small waterfall, thick with greenery on either side. Moss covered the ground in a thick mattress. It was pure heaven.
Once at my destination I sat down, and opening my herb sack, I heaved into the river the incriminating verbena. Then I dug deeper till I found my red and gold wrapped book. I had marked the place where I had left off Plato’s most fabulous of all tales, that of the lost continent of Atlantis. More interesting to me these days were not his ruminations on the perfection of the Atlantean society, nor its tragic war with Athens, but the great love affair of the god-king Poseidon and his Earth mistress Clieto. How he had ascended from the stars, married her, and sired on her five sets of twin sons.
My imagination had carried me back, as the Greek sage had written, nine thousand years before even he had ever been born! Just the antiquity of it filled me with wonder. But nothing was as enthralling as the romance of a god with a human. This day I read and reread those passages of Timaeus that evoked such a love. It aroused me, disturbed my passions. I closed my eyes and imagined what it would feel like to have the hands of a man from the heavens on my body. They would be strong, yet tender. As he was a god, he would know my mind, know my nature, know what would pleasure me. . . .
Caterina! I scolded myself. You must stop indulging in these sensual fantasies. You will drive yourself mad! I felt my armpits soaked with perspiration. My skirts were suddenly too heavy, my bodice strings too tightly drawn.
I stripped down to my shift and, closing my eyes again, lay on my back in the shallow water, letting it ripple over my belly and breasts, hoping to cool them.
“Scuse.”
The single word, spoken in a near whisper, but so unexpectedly, had me suddenly thrashing in the shallows, trying to cover my near nakedness. I grabbed for my skirt and bodice, holding them over my breasts, which, through the wet shift, were not only visible but spiking two hard nipples.
I turned to the male voice, but with me on the ground and him standing, my first sight revealed only a torso—a tall, well-dressed one at that, in a fine doublet of rust and gray. The stockings encapsulated shapely calves and muscular thighs.
That was all I saw before I scrambled to my feet and turned away from him, pulling my clothing back on.
“I saw you lying there,” the man said. “I wondered if you were hurt.”
“Not hurt. No.” I was finally covered enough to face him. When I did I received another shock: the man’s face was achingly handsome. Amidst a lion’s mane of pale wavy hair were broad cheekbones tapering into a proud, chiseled jaw. The eyes were set far apart, their color light hazel. The nose was straight and long, though not unpleasantly so, ending in a fine tip rather than the hooked beak with which so many Italian men were endowed. His lips were thin but carefully shaped, and he was smiling at me with a lopsided grin that all of a sudden caused my mouth to go dry, and my groin to grow damp.
“I am Piero, son of Antonio,” he said.
The name was familiar to me. “The big house just inside the old castle wall?” I asked, finally finding a less-than-stupid voice.
“That’s the one. With the waterwheel on the side, and the grain mill. . . .” His voice was strong and melodious. Though he had been speaking of a mill in his house, his eyes seemed to be saying something different. Something like, “You are beautiful. A goddess. I cannot stop staring at you.”
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But I was not imagining it. His eyes had never left my face. He stared so deeply at me I grew even more uncomfortable.
“I should go,” I said and looked for my sack, which was lying on the ground just behind him. Awkward and trying desperately not to touch him, I snatched it up, stuffing my copy of the Timaeus inside.
“What are you doing out here by yourself in the first place?” he asked.
“Gathering herbs. I help my father in the apothecary.”
“Ah.”
“Last year he treated your mother for her bowel affliction,” I said. I remembered the incident because of the extreme pain the woman had suffered, the great relief my father’s potion had given her, and how payment from one of the wealthiest families in town had been made more than six months later, and with no thanks at all.
“How is it that your father allows a young girl to be wandering around in the hills on her own?”
“I am not a young girl,” I said. “I am a young woman.” I wondered if my tone was unpleasantly defiant, but his smile told me he had not been offended in the least.
“What have you gathered so far?” he asked me. It seemed as though he was struggling as hard as I was to make conversation.
“Nothing so far.”
“Nothing?!” He laughed, and immediately I loved the sound of it. “I don’t think you’re out here picking herbs for your apothecary father at all,” he said. “I think you’re a gypsy escaped from your band.”
“I’m not, really!” I cried. I knew the man was flirting with me, a game I had never engaged in but knew something about, having listened to girls gossip. What should I do? I wondered. I did not wish him to think me a woman of no virtue. I lowered my eyes demurely and stared at the ground.
“What’s your name?” His voice was low and somehow demanding, and again I was aware that the triangle between my thighs was alive with sensation.
“Caterina,” I answered, then, forgetting restraint, looked him directly in the eye. “My father sometimes calls me Cato.”
“Cato? That’s a man’s name!”
I enjoyed surprising him. “Not just any man,” I continued. “Cato was a great Roman who—”
“I know who Cato was.” He looked at me oddly. “I just wondered why a girl should know such things.”
Oh no! I had erred. In my desire to flirt and appear worldly, I had divulged the most important of family secrets—my education. So I shrugged like a silly girl.
“That’s all I know of him,” I said, my second lie of the day. My father had called me Cato because, even as a child, I had been bold and stubborn, demanding the toys or food or hugs I wanted. The great Roman had been described by Plutarch as a man who would strike boldly without flinching. Standing his ground.
This young man was amused. He knew I was lying.
“By your own description you also seem to know what herbals to pick for your father’s apothecary,” he said. “You’re a bit precocious for a beautiful young girl. Forgive me,” he added quickly. “Young woman.”
There, he’d said it! He did think I was beautiful.
“Why are you out here?” I asked him, groping for a way to continue this exchange.
“Just out for a walk. I’m home for a time from Florence, where I’ve begun to practice law. I’m a notary.”
I attempted to suppress my admiration. The Notaries Guild was the foremost of all the guilds, the profession a noble one. Piero da Vinci, I quickly decided, was a man of substance.
And very handsome.
“I think I should start home,” I said.
“Won’t you disappoint your father?” I must have looked confused. “You’ve gathered no herbs.”
I flustered and flushed red. “I’ll pick them on the way back.”
“Will you allow me to accompany you?”
“I don’t see why not.”
I led him to a field where angelica grew and stopped to pick some. I could feel Piero was watching me, and all at once, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, I allowed myself to bask in his warm gaze. I felt beautiful. Knew the sun was casting a shine on the black silk of my hair, the breeze pushing the skirts against my legs to show their shapeliness.
“You’ve very long legs for a girl,” he said, as though reading my mind.
As a god would do, I thought. I was happy to be facing away so he couldn’t see me blush.
“Like a young colt,” he went on.
“You should not be talking about my legs,” I told him in a tone that was unconvincingly stern, “or any other part of my body.”
“Why is that?”
“It is improper.”
“Might I comment on your pretty dark hair?”
“I suppose.”
“Or your lovely hands?”
“My hands are not lovely.” I looked down at them. There was soot under my fingernails from pulling a double pelican out from an ash bath that morning, and green stains from the elder ointment I’d made yesterday.
“Why don’t you let me decide that?” Piero said, coming around in front of me. He’d picked up both my hands in his before I could stop him.
I wanted to die with shame.
“Well, they are a bit grimy.”
I tried to pull them away, but he held them firmly. “But the fingers are long and shapely . . . like your legs.”
“Let go!” I cried, but I was very much enjoying being teased.
“And the skin, where it’s not green or black”—he laughed at his own joke—“is soft and creamy white. Kissable.” Before I knew what had happened he had leaned down and placed his warm lips on the back of my hand, lingering there for what seemed like forever.
Feeling a sudden twitch of pleasure between my thighs, I jerked my hand away.
“I’m going home now,” I announced, starting back toward the river path.
“I’ll walk back with you,” he said, following me.
“No!” I shouted.
He stopped short.
“Have I offended you, Caterina? It was not my intention.”
“You haven’t offended me. It’s just . . .” I lowered my voice, as if anyone could hear. “There are women at the river, weaving baskets.”
He was amused. “And you would not want them to see us walking together.”
“Alone and unchaperoned? No, I would not. There’s already enough gossip in this village.”
“You’re quite right about that. What do you suggest?”
“About what?”
“How should we make our way home without inflaming the gossip-weavers?”
I liked this young man. He was not simply handsome and charming. He was intelligent. He had just made up an excellent new word.
“I know another way home,” I said. “But it takes us through a marsh and over some jagged rocks. If I show it to you, you will keep your hands to yourself.”
“Must I?”
“Yes. And no more . . .” I suddenly became shy.
“Comments on your body parts?”
“Exactly.”
“Then lead the way.”
He kept his word that day. A perfect gentleman. We spoke little as he followed close behind me. Only when I sank suddenly into a too-soft spot in the marsh did he reach out and catch my arm, quickly releasing it once I was upright. When the village was in sight we stopped and stood side by side.
“I have to see you again,” he said. His voice was husky and urgent.
“You will,” I replied, then teased him, “at church.”
“Caterina!”
“I’ll be gathering herbs again.”
“When?”
“I have chores, Piero.”
“When?”
“Tomorrow.” I looked down at my feet. “Early in the morning. I can tell Papa I need to gather the mallow before the dew dries.”
“What place?”
“The meadow where you told me I had the legs of a colt.”
“The meadow where I kissed your hand.”
He grasped my hand again, but this time opened my fingers and placed it over his chest. “You must bring me a remedy for my aching heart,” he said.
Then he let me go on ahead so we would not be seen together. By the time I returned to the apothecary I was dazed. I had no answer for Papa as to why my shoes were muddy or why I had not collected any verbena or woad.
I went up to my room and flopped on my bed. What had happened? I wondered. I had spoken to a young man. Been teased by him. Had had my hand kissed. Promised to meet him again . . . secretly.
I would not think of it till tomorrow, I decided. I stood up and climbed to the third floor to check the furnace, which indeed needed another log. I swept the laboratory floor with tremendous industry, then went across to the library and opened the Cabala to a page of text I’d lately had difficulty translating. I set my mind to the task and was soon immersed in it.
But that night when I fell asleep I dreamed of a handsome horseman who’d arrived on a road through the clouds—a god with light hazel eyes.
CHAPTER 2
After that, almost every day I found excuses to leave my father’s house and meet Piero. We’d seek the privacy of the woods, a cave, the edge of a field. He would bring a blanket. I would take him to the small secret waterfall where grew myrtle and sweet cicely. We’d take off our slippers and dangle our feet in the cool rushing water. We talked easily, laughed at almost anything. My shyness evaporated as quickly as the dew on a hot summer morning, and soon I had blossomed from the studious young hermaphrodite Caterina/Cato into the woman I had, on that first afternoon, insisted I was.
Somehow I’d known how to kiss him, let my whole body melt effortlessly into his in a standing embrace. Later we’d lay back on the blanket in each other’s arms, me with my head in the sweet, musky nest of his shoulder.
He talked of his family. I would admire his father, he insisted, a man who had refused to follow his family tradition of the notary’s profession. Instead, Antonio da Vinci had wisely invested his money in property—groves and vineyards and farms. Piero’s mother was rather stern and prudish, he told me, but would take to me, given time. He was sure of it.
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