“Come outside and see your sign,” Leonardo said.
“My sign,” I said rather stupidly, having forgotten my secondary excuse for having barged in unannounced at Verrocchio’s studio three weeks before. “Of course. My sign.”
All of us piled out the door and Leonardo began unwrapping from heavy canvas a long narrow sign that read, simply, APOTHECARY, in shades of green and gold. The lettering itself was bold and elegant, and a border surrounded it—a chain of flowers and plants, each of which I recognized as the herbs and medicines I used in my pharmacy. The leaves of yellow chamomile flower were interwoven with the stem of sage and some of its petals encircled the slender stem of basil and parsley, and on and on, never the same plant twice. I was moved deeply by Leonardo’s work and forced myself to stay dry-eyed as Leonardo threw up a ladder and he and Benito manhandled the sign up the ladder, installing it above the window.
A crowd of neighbors gathered. There was much good-natured chatting and laughter, and many compliments to the artist, which Leonardo accepted with grace and not a little pleasure. Benito told everyone who arrived that the artist was, in fact, my nephew.
Once the sign was up it looked wonderful. As the ladder was taken down everyone applauded and Leonardo took a bow. I could see how pleased he was with his artistic effort, and also with the public approval of my neighbors.
I had been feeling warm and full, but as I watched the crowd disperse I felt my heart lurch with the thought that Leonardo would be leaving, too. He must have seen my expression.
“I thought I’d spend the rest of the afternoon here, Uncle.” There was no one around to hear us, but we remained cautious. “Maestro Verrocchio has given me the day off.”
“The whole day?” I said, surprised at the artist’s generosity. Masters of all the trades were well known for working their apprentices half to death.
“And the evening as well,” he added.
“Oh, Leonardo . . .” My eyes were filling with tears.
“Let’s go in,” he suggested, and opened the door.
Once inside I placed the CLOSED sign in the window and turned to him. He was looking at a table I had set up for selling pigments.
“Four lire for an ounce of azurite. That’s a good price.”
“Let’s go upstairs,” I said. “Out of sight.”
He followed me up the steps, pausing to gaze into the storeroom.
“Hurry,” I said. When we reached the first-floor salon I turned to him and threw my arms around him. His embrace of me was just as fierce. We stood and wept for joy and relief for several minutes, unable to speak. Finally we parted and beheld each other’s tearstained faces, which made us laugh.
“Come, sit down,” I finally said.
“I don’t want to sit down. I want to look around. See what you’ve done. This is amazing!” He was examining the books, the tapestries, the furniture, all of which was familiar to him. “The shop is extraordinary. The proportions, the colors you’ve chosen. . . . And look at you! You’re a man!” He laughed again. “How did you do it?”
“I have my secrets,” I said, teasing him. “As you will no doubt have from me.”
“Never,” he said, teasing back. “Not from my mama.”
“Come up again. There’s more.” He followed me up another flight.
“How is Grandfather?”
“Very well . . . but very lonely, I’m afraid. First you gone. Now me. He is left by himself in a village that has treated us very badly. He is talking about traveling.”
“Traveling? Where would he go?”
“The East. Perhaps as far as India.”
Leonardo threw back his head and let out a long exhale. “The East . . .”
“He thinks he has a buyer for two of his most valuable manuscripts. Their sale would finance a splendid journey.”
Joy lit my son’s face, and not a little envy. “One day I shall travel to the East,” he said.
I had led him up, pausing only briefly on the third level to glance into my bedroom and the kitchen. I think he half knew what was to be found on the top floor. We paused before the locked door.
“Mama . . .” His look was imploring, mischievous.
I unlocked it and swung it inward. He followed me in. I heard the breath expelled from him. Then there was silence. When I turned, his eyes were closed and the fingers of his right hand were pressed between his eyebrows.
“This is so dangerous,” he said of my alchemical laboratory.
“No more dangerous than my pretending to be a man.”
“I’m not sure of that.”
“You don’t disapprove, do you?”
“Disapprove! No, no, Mama! I’m awestruck. I’m flabbergasted.” His eyes grazed over the tables piled with flasks and beakers, stills and pelicans. The alchemical furnace was burning with quiet intensity in one corner.
“I love you so much,” he said. His face grew red and his eyes overbrimmed with tears. “You have done this for me. Risked everything to be near me.”
I smiled. “You’re worth it, Leonardo.”
This wrenched a small laugh from him. “I swear, between your heresies and mine we shall both burn at the stake.”
“And what are your heresies?” I said. “You’re seventeen years old.”
He looked suddenly shy and refused to answer.
“Well,” I said, “I’m going to pack us some lunch, and we’ll take out the cart and mule. . . .”
“Not old Xenophon?”
“Indeed. He will be very pleased to see you. We will ride into the hills across the river, and you will tell your mama what kind of trouble she can expect you to be getting yourself into.”
“I’m so glad you’re here,” he said.
As we walked together through the city, leading the mule on foot, Leonardo talked without stopping. We conversed with the ease we had always shared while he grew up, and as though we had never lived a day apart from each other.
It had made him smile to see that Xenophon really did recognize him, and he stroked the beast’s nuzzle, speaking to him like an old friend. I’d forgotten how much my son loved horses, even those as broken-down as this one. It was lovely to see how closely he observed the creature as they reacquainted themselves—Leonardo cocking his head, or pulling back just so, as if he were fixing the image of the mule in his memory for a later work.
The only time we grew silent together was at the busy northern corner of the Palazzo della Signoria. We both knew this was the location—quite a prestigious one—of Piero da Vinci’s house. Once we had passed I asked the inevitable question.
“Do you see your father often?”
“Almost never,” he said with a lift at the end of the short phrase that was Leonardo’s attempt to prove that Piero’s disregard of him was not painful.
“Have you met the new wife?” I asked.
“Francesca? No. But I hear she is just as pretty and quite as infertile as Albiera was.”
“It must have been difficult for Piero,” I said, carefully measuring my words as well as my emotion, “to lose his father and his wife within a year.” I chose not to speak of Leonardo’s rift with his paternal grandfather. Antonio da Vinci had never warmed to his grandson.
“How is my uncle?” Leonardo asked with sincere interest.
“Nothing bothers Francesco as long as he can visit his orchards and vines and sheep. He is the best-natured man I have ever known.”
“Does he know of . . . ?” Leonardo indicated my clothing.
I nodded. “Only he and Papa and Magdalena.”
The teeming Mercato Vecchio, with its fruit and vegetable stands, fish, meat and cheese stalls crowded and noisy, was difficult to negotiate with the cart, so we went very slowly. Though Leonardo shouted out greetings to many young men and nearly half the merchants we passed at the marketplace, we did not stop to shop or gossip, wishing only to put the bustle of the city behind us and lose ourselves in the countryside.
But on the Ponte Vecchio itsel
f—the bridge lined with some of the city’s most beautiful craftsmen’s shops, all built of stone—Leonardo and I were hard pressed not to stop and ogle at the wares. Many were goldsmiths’ places, and the candlesticks and saltcellars and filigreed plates and goblets were a glory to behold.
South of the river was the Oltramo district, far less populous than the city proper. We climbed into low, verdant hills almost immediately.
Later we settled in a tiny cleft in a hilltop, as if nestled between the breasts of a voluptuous woman. With the mule munching contentedly on sweet grass, a gentle breeze caressed us as we gazed in awe at the great city sprawled below us. From here even the red Duomo cupola looked no larger than a halved walnut shell, and the tallest towers little squared-off sticks.
It was a joy beyond comprehension to be private, in the beauty of nature, with my Leonardo, who thrilled me with his manliness and confidence in his new world. The last time we had been together he’d been a gawky pubescent boy stumbling over his big feet, and self-conscious for his lack of facial hair and the ragged squeaks in his changing voice.
Though he still had a fresh look about him, he was formed into something undeniably masculine. His voice had grown deep and rich. I could not take my eyes off him, and delighted in his every word.
“You always were remarkable, Mama,” he said, chewing thoughtfully on a crust of fragrant rosemary bread, “but now you astonish me. Not in Florence two months, and already a friend of the Medici.”
“I owe that to you, son. I made Lorenzo’s acquaintance at the bottega.”
“Acquaintance is one thing. A seat at his dinner table is quite another.”
“It was extraordinary,” I told him, pleased at remembering. “Sandro Botticelli unveiled the most marvelous painting. And I still haven’t recovered from the conversation.” I felt that I should lower my voice, though I knew we could not be heard by a soul. “They are the foremost family in Italy, perhaps the world, yet they spoke of the most dangerous ideas. They savaged Pope Pius for his treatment of Cardinal Platina.” Leonardo looked baffled. “The librarian at the Vatican,” I said. “He was imprisoned and tortured for his pagan beliefs.”
A sly look slid like a cloud’s shadow over my son’s face. He reached into the leather satchel he’d brought with him.
“I want to show you something,” he said, and drew from the bag a large folio made of heavy black cloth. It was thick with vellum pages. Carefully—his strong, well-made hands working with the delicacy of a lace maker—he untied the ribbon that held the folio together, laying it open for me to see.
The first page was instantly recognizable as a study of dogs, a dozen or more in every imaginable pose. They would have filled the page completely but for the small masses of writing between the images. Though unreadable, I recognized them instantly as Leonardo’s back-to-front script.
He smiled to himself and turned the page over so I could see the next. This was the portrait, in red chalk, of a young woman. She had the sweet, faraway look of a Madonna, but there was a hint of mischief in her smile.
I was overcome, for here again was proof that in three years Leonardo’s already-prodigious talent had multiplied several-fold. He turned the page again. This was less easy to discern. There was a single image and a volume of writing all around it.
I leaned down to see better and found myself shocked at the sight. It was a frog laid open, eviscerated. No, that is wrong. All of its organs were still in place, with only the skin peeled back. I had never seen such a thing. I was looking inside the creature, at its internal organs.
“What does this say?” I asked, pointing to the unreadable writing near the frog’s flayed belly. I realized there was urgency in my voice. Perhaps it was fear.
“I describe the heart there, and how it differs in texture and color from the bowels.”
“And what about this?” I demanded of a dense paragraph with small arrows aimed at the feet. He put his head closer and silently read his own backward writing.
“I am questioning why a frog has webs between its toes, and why the webs between people’s fingers and toes are so much smaller.”
“But who are you questioning?” I asked, bemused.
“I don’t know,” he said. “I always had you or Uncle Francesco or Grandfather to ask about such things. I still have the questions . . . but no one to answer them.” His face flushed very suddenly. “I love Master Verrocchio. He’s so kind and forgiving, but I would not think of bothering him with such things. You understand,” he said imploringly, “don’t you, Mama?”
“Of course I do,” I said quickly and gestured for him to show me the next page. But I was genuinely and inordinately touched by his sentiment, and suddenly saw into Leonardo’s new life in Florence. How, despite his genius and his fortunate surroundings, he was still, after three years, adrift in an uncertain sea. There were friends, and a kindly master, but a dearth of people he could deeply trust.
I hoped he hadn’t noticed my lips quivering to stave off a mother’s overbearing emotions. I think he did see—for he observed all the world so meticulously—but he fixed his eyes on his next drawing, allowing me the privacy of sentiment.
“Leonardo,” I said, staring down at a page I assumed to be the same frog, this time its back laid bare. The muscles and the column of his bony spine were rendered in impossible detail.
“Drawings like this . . . the questions you ask. They are . . .”
“Heretical?” he said simply.
“In the extreme.”
He looked me square in the face and smiled. “Now where would I have acquired such dangerous tendencies, I wonder? And the people you are keeping company with now. . . .”
“You must be careful, Leonardo. You are not a Medici. You have none of the protections they do.”
“I will.” He no longer smiled. “I will be very, very careful, Mama. I promise. In fact, I brought my drawings for you to hide at your house. I seem to be attracting more attention than I like at the bottega. And there is no privacy.”
“Your secrets are safe with me,” I told him. “We will lock them away with mine, on the top floor.”
Leonardo looked away, over the ocean of red Florentine rooftops. “Having you here in the city . . . ,” he began, but paused, seeming to collect himself. “It is the happiest day of my life.”
CHAPTER 12
It seemed too bitter an afternoon to be playing outdoors, with snow still left in small piles on the ground. But it was Sunday and the churches had emptied. It was, I supposed, a time when young men always gathered for games, the more rough-and-tumble the better.
As I came into the pastoral flat between two low hillocks near the northeast wall of the city, I saw twenty-five noblemen at play together. In the scrum, faces set in stern or even angry grimaces, they were tossing a hide ball between them. It was a fast game. Feet were flying, hands were darting, poking, reaching. Much grunting and shouts of triumph, fury, or disbelief at a fumbled play were heard from the writhing mass over which the faint, steamy cloud of body heat was rising.
Lorenzo was easy to pick out. He was the darkest, in both hair and clothing. It seemed to me, watching him wield his thick, muscular body like an angry bull, that he was the fiercest combatant as well. Giuliano was still a boy compared to his brother, though what he lacked in strength he made up for with raw energy. Sandro Botticelli was here, but I did not see Leonardo.
With a final crescendo of guttural satisfaction and defeat, the game finished and the men separated, not into two teams but into fifty good-natured friends, laughing and knocking arms, and clapping each other’s shoulders.
Lorenzo caught sight of me almost instantly and, breaking away from the crowd, strode in my direction.
That smile again. . . .
“I’m pleased you came, Cato,” he said, “though you missed the best game of calcio I’ve played since I was a boy.”
To my great surprise, from that first dinner at the palazzo I’d received a steady stream of invi
tations to share Lorenzo’s company—everything from holiday masses at the cathedral, which I gracefully declined, to public festivals, where I became one of the Medici family’s entourage, which I most happily accepted.
“You’re only slightly battered,” I said, noticing a scrape on his forehead and smudges of mud on his chin and tunic front.
“Perhaps we can stop at the apothecary for a cleansing poultice,” he said familiarly.
“Come earlier next time and you can play.” This was Giuliano, who barged between us, knocking shoulders. As usual he’d taken no time in joining the conversation.
“I fear I’ll never play calcio again. I had a bad fall from a barn window and injured the head of my leg bone. I’m barely able to ride.”
“My brother,” Giuliano proclaimed, saving me from an embarrassing moment, “is having a romance with his horse.”
“Tell me more,” I said, giving Lorenzo a sidewise grin.
“They’re together constantly,” said Giuliano. “Lorenzo insists on personally feeding Morello, who stamps and whinnies and dances around at the sight of him.”
“The horse has good taste in men,” Lorenzo told his brother.
“And if Lorenzo, for more than a day, is unable to get there and act as stable boy, Morello grows ill.” He turned to Lorenzo with all seriousness. “When you were in Naples the beast nearly succumbed.”
Several others of the young men had joined us and now, with no words spoken, they trudged and bumped with rude grace back toward the city.
I think it was Lorenzo who started the singing, but in no time everyone had joined in. It was a bawdy song about a hairy girl who, despite her hirsuteness, was a perfect lover. Everyone knew all the words, and finished by clapping themselves in their armpits and falling over themselves with laughter.
By now we were in the city streets, picking out a house of ill repute or a rich palazzo, and singing loudly at the window till a girl opened it to encourage us, or a matron to scold us.
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