Signora Da Vinci

by Maxwell, Robin

  “That speaks well for the man,” Lorenzo observed mildly.

  Ascanio smiled. “I understand you’re adopting Giuliano’s son by his mistress.”

  “Medici blood.” It was all Lorenzo had to say—understood by everyone.

  We’d come to a fantastically gilt and carven door. Roderigo opened it and showed us in. It was an apartment fit for a king, with two separate sleeping chambers joined by an ornamented salon.

  “I’ll send in tubs and attendants for your baths,” Ascanio Sforza offered, “to get the road grime from your pores.”

  All at once the pleasure of my surroundings transmogrified into a threat.

  “Very kind of you, Cardinal Sforza,” I said, hoping to keep my tone calm and even. “But a wash basin will do nicely for me. I’ve a skin condition that worsens if I soak in a tub. But Lorenzo . . .”

  “By all means, send me a tub,” he finished for me. “But no attendants. My physician here will see to my needs.”

  “Very well.” Roderigo moved to the door, Ascanio following. “Someone will be sent to fetch you for the evening meal. The Dukes of Savoy and Milan have already arrived. Our rider tells us that Maximilian’s cavalcade should be here momentarily. The French king has sent his regrets, along with Edward of England.”

  “Louis is too old to travel,” Ascanio said.

  “And Edward of England too fat,” said Roderigo. “All that gluttony and debauchery.”

  With that they were gone. Lorenzo bolted the door behind them and immediately took me in his arms.

  “So tell me, physician, what is to be done with this rod that grows stiff between my legs at the first mention of a king’s debauchery?”

  “I cannot be sure,” I said with a lazy smile. “But I would guess it will need examining.”

  A page came to collect Lorenzo and me as the sun went down over Vatican Hill. I could hardly keep my eyes off my lover, for I had not seen him so resplendent since the day of his wedding festival. He wore black velvet—a doublet trimmed with ermine, the puffed sleeves large and slashed to reveal fine ruffles of cloth of silver silk. And he wore diamonds—fist-sized clasps at both shoulders, in rings on his fingers and a row of them hanging like teardrops from the rim of his black velvet cap.

  Lorenzo, in all the years I had known him, had shown nothing but modesty in his dress and manner, but this night he was changed. Bold. Confident. Strutting and peacocklike. Necessary, I thought. Necessary to display his might and his wealth to this new pontiff.

  He’d even urged me to assume less severe garb than a scholar would for this visit, and having had several attractive doublets made for me, took great delight in helping me dress. When I admitted it felt strange for the first time in my life to display my legs in nothing but a pair of hose, he insisted I was “a fine-looking man” in all my parts.

  We were shown to a dining hall so massive and so opulently appointed that the Medici garden loggia was a peasant’s table in comparison. No ladies had come. And no children were present.

  This was a meeting of men who ruled the world.

  Maximilian, tall and rangy with the strange pugnacious Hapsburg chin, owned an empire that spread across the entire European continent. His demeanor was the easy grace of one whose noble family bloodline snaked like a river too far back into history to imagine ever finding its source.

  Jacque, the Duke of Savoy, had a long oval face, tight red curls and eyebrows so severely arched he looked at all times surprised. The Savoys, too, were an old and powerful family that held the high Alps joining France and Italy in its powerful grip.

  The two cardinals, Roderigo and Ascanio, stood to greet us, and when they regained their seats, I saw with a shudder of delight that Ludovico Il Moro Sforza, now a solid young man, inhabited a place at the table. It seemed apparent by Il Moro’s presence here that his sister-in-law, Bona, had lost her regent’s control over the Duchy of Milan.

  “Vico!” Lorenzo cried with sincere joy.

  The two embraced. Ludovico recalled meeting me in Florence, but even more memorable was Leonardo’s fantastical sacre rappresentazione at San Spirito and the fire from which we had all escaped with our lives.

  “His Holiness,” a page announced, and we all stood.

  Innocent was tall and, I thought, rather handsome, though I could clearly see that meekness about him that Roderigo had called “rabbitlike.” His gaudy robes and jewels were expected, but the way he moved his hands, as though every gesture was an onerous benediction, I found irritating.

  One by one we made our obeisance. I was only too aware of my hypocrisy as I knelt and, taking the soft perfumed fingers in my own, kissed the papal ring. I wondered then as Lorenzo did the same if he loathed that necessary act. If he saw in his future an ally, or a murderous enemy as Sixtus had been.

  The pope bade us all sit and, clapping his hands twice, began the parade of servants bearing the first course of what I imagined would be many courses—an open pigeon and prune tart smelling of nutmeg.

  With Roderigo and Ascanio greasing the wheels, conversation flowed easily. It was plain how deeply Innocent depended upon the counsel of his cardinals. For all his flourishes he barely had an opinion of his own. But the pair of them were clever, and tactful in the extreme. Never once did they stray toward condescension or hubris. And every chance they had, they made much of Lorenzo and his beloved Florence, as well as the beauty of Milan’s steadfast alliance with them.

  The pope hinted half a dozen times that he hoped Lorenzo would send him some of our city’s “excellent artists” for his many projects, but Lorenzo was tactfully evasive about granting that wish, at least until he had made the point for which he had come.

  “Queen Isabella’s Inquisition that has sent thousands of Jews fleeing from Spain is troubling,” Lorenzo said. He fixed Innocent in an intense gaze. “And the witch burnings that are occurring with ever greater frequency since the publication of Malleus Malificarum perhaps moreso. These are signs of a coming catastrophe in Europe, Your Holiness.”

  Innocent began to splutter with anger and confusion. He had never imagined so blatant an attack on the first evening of his entertainments.

  “I’m sure Lorenzo meant no offense, Holy Father,” Cardinal Sforza offered quickly.

  Cardinal Borgia, too, was ready with a soothing balm. “I believe what our friend Lorenzo is saying, Holy Father, is that he dearly wishes that your reign and reputation are never besmirched by such calamitous events as he describes.”

  I watched as the pontiff’s features slowly settled and calmed. “I have no wish to be remembered as a murderer, a persecutor,” he said.

  “Of course you do not,” Lorenzo said, his demeanor softening.

  “You wish to be remembered as the pope who brought peace and justice to the world. The pope who restored Rome to its former glory. And you will . . .” He smiled broadly. “. . . with the help of Florence’s greatest artists and architects, whom I will gladly send you.”

  Now it was Innocent who was smiling, an alarming sight, for the man’s teeth were brown and rotten.

  But Lorenzo’s point had been well made. He had rallied strong support from the two cardinals who controlled the pope. And he had, for the moment, made the Holy Father a happy man.

  Perhaps there were other skirmishes to be fought, but this evening had begun successfully.

  Next morning the pontiff was all abuzz, hurrying us through the meal and the obligatory tour through his domain. First we viewed the former pope’s chapel, the one he had named “Sistine” after himself. I found it very boxlike and uninspiring. Innocent did, indeed, need the talent of Florentine artists to bring him greater glory.

  We were then taken in to see the vast basilica in the shape of a cross—the one Innocent desired to rebuild. Now it was simply a thousand-year-old church, a cavernous space with five columned aisles jumbled with chapels and oratories and shrines. Frescoes and mosaics, precious gems inlaid into molded silver and gold. Statues and crypts of various martyrs we
re buried within its walls.

  All of it left me cold, but then when had a church done any more than chill my soul? Innocent, however, waxed effusively of his grandiose schemes. “Pope Nicholas,” he intoned, sweeping his ringed fingers in a majestic arc around the cathedral, “wished a reborn Basilica of Saint Peter. A temple so glorious and beautiful that it would seem a divine, rather than a human, creation. Sadly he died before he could see his dream fulfilled. I shall take up that mantle.”

  He led us to a circular, chest-high wall in the center aisle of the church, where its two arms crossed. “Here,” he cried, “here lie the remains of our beloved Simon Peter, upon whose bones the very church was founded!”

  I hoped my smile, as the Holy Father gazed at us all, was passably sincere, as my sentiment was wickedly cynical. But what he wished for us most to see were his precious relics. He was like a child with a new toy, gathering us to follow him down some stone stairs to a belowground hallway.

  “Behold,” Innocent intoned and swept his arm around the small, low-ceilinged chamber illuminated by flickering wall torches. There were three crypts—two of them long and thin, one square and small—all tilted at an angle so that their contents might be easily viewed. “The Sacred Regalia of St. Maurice,” he said.

  The pope moved to the first long box of polished cedar lined with rich purple velvet. Inside lay what looked like a common lance, though very old, its metal blade as pitted as the wooden handle was shrunken and splintery.

  The sight of the weapon that so enthralled the Holy Father left me cold, and though I dared not say as much, I had no knowledge whatsoever of St. Maurice or his importance in the Christian pantheon.

  Lorenzo stood with Maximilian and the Duke of Savoy staring down at the other long box. I came to their side.

  “What is in here, Lorenzo?” I asked.

  “It is the ‘Spear of Destiny.’”

  Pope Innocent glided up behind us and in the most reverential tone said to me, “It is, my son, the very spear that pierced Christ’s side as he hung upon the cross. It makes me weep to look upon it.” He sniffed loudly and wiped at his cheek, though it looked very dry to me. “Can you not feel the pain of our Lord? That point of steel, that very blade touched the flesh of Jesus Christ. Hastened his death and resurrection, and thus our salvation. But come, there is more to see.”

  As we repaired to a second chamber in the basement hallway, we were joined by Cardinal Borgia. The Holy Father seemed relieved at having “his brain” attending him.

  Inside the second chamber was a single case within which was a smallish piece of yellowed cloth, its reddish-brown markings crudely arranged in the shape of a face.

  Before this relic Pope Innocent knelt momentarily before flinging out his arms and extending his legs, then flopping his great belly on the stone floor in complete prostration.

  “The Veronica,” Roderigo Borgia said in such a cynical tone that we who were standing eyed each other incredulously. “This is the cloth that the good woman of that name used,” he continued, “to wipe our Lord’s face as he staggered under the weight of the cross on his way to Calvary. Can you not see the imprint of his features?” The cardinal gestured with two fingers for the rest of us to join the pope in his full prostration.

  There was nothing to be done but obey. I knew that Lorenzo felt as ridiculous as I did, but we managed to keep straight faces as the pope droned a benediction into the floor.

  The showing over, we were all invited by the pontiff to stroll through his private garden. Lorenzo and I were only too happy to oblige, sincerely awed by the rare and exotic flowers and trees that had been collected from the four corners of the known world for Innocent’s personal enjoyment.

  We had bent down to sniff the fragrance of an African striped fuchsia when the Duke of Savoy sidled up behind us. He spoke quietly.

  “Did the Veronica impress you?” he said.

  Lorenzo and I stood facing the man and closed our ranks for privacy. “The truth?” Lorenzo asked.

  “What else, my lord?”

  “Not only a fake, but a pathetic one at that. Perhaps I’m spoiled by the artisans of Florence, but I know a dozen who could have executed a much better one.”

  Roderigo Borgia had made his way toward the three of us.

  The Duke of Savoy stepped aside and allowed him into our discreet circle. “The Shroud of Lirey has been in our family for one hundred years,” he said.

  “A shroud?” I asked. “What is the nature of this shroud?”

  Savoy lowered his voice to a whisper. “The full-length winding cloth of Jesus with his image divinely imprinted on it.”

  The rest of us were silent, quietly urging the duke to continue.

  “Its authenticity cannot be disputed. Thousands of pilgrims and clergy in hundreds of showings have seen it and accepted its veracity.”

  “Hundreds of showings?” Cardinal Borgia said. “Imagine the small fortune the Savoys have enjoyed from a single holy relic in their possession.”

  The duke seemed offended by such a suggestion. “The Lirey Shroud has not been seen in public for twenty-five years.” The timbre of his voice became even more shrill.

  “Why is that?” Lorenzo wanted to know.

  Savoy bristled, appearing besieged by the questioning. “I cannot say why. But I believe our family’s fortune is sufficient enough so that profiting from a holy relic is not our concern.” He glared at Cardinal Borgia. “And I think, Roderigo, that you should perhaps examine your own Christian faith. Cynicism seems to be your guiding principle these days.” With that he nodded politely to us all and moved away to view a butterfly-covered shrub.

  “A full-length shroud. Curious,” Lorenzo observed.

  “Unseen for twenty-five years. More curious still,” said Roderigo. “I happen to know the Savoys are, in fact, in dire need of money.”

  I regarded Cardinal Borgia with interest. His support of Lorenzo was intriguing. But, I wondered, was it sincere?

  The answer came that evening at the dinner table, where all of us had again gathered. From the time we had been seated I had had the eerie sensation that one does in the still moment before a lightning strike.

  The Emperor Maximilian rose and lifted his goblet. His tone was gracious and proud. “I am delighted to announce a betrothal—my own—to Bianca Sforza of Savoy.” Certainly expecting this, the Duke of Savoy stood and lifted his glass as well.

  “To my niece,” Ludovico Il Moro proclaimed with a smile, and stood to join the others.

  Now Lorenzo and I followed, as did Cardinals Sforza and Borgia.

  The pope, with a show of self-important pomposity, remained seated but nodded his approval, then raised a pontifical hand in the direction of Maximilian and Savoy, and bestowed a long Latin prayer. The man was clearly enamored of his own benedictory repertoire.

  Once everyone was seated again Savoy clapped his hands and a servant brought forward a small framed portrait. “Bianca is still a girl. Not yet ready to marry,” he said, passing the painting around, “but once she is, it will cement an alliance between the great houses of Savoy and Hapsburg.”

  I chanced a peek at Maximilian, who tried unsuccessfully to stifle a sour look at the allusion of equal footing between the two families. The Hapsburg dynasty was a vast empire by anyone’s standards, the Savoys a respected but limited regional duchy.

  At that moment the portrait of Bianca reached us. I held it and Lorenzo and I gazed down at the youthful face, pretty enough, with graceful hands. I was startled by what I was seeing and knew that Lorenzo had seen what had caught my eye. Though in her fingers the Sforza girl held a flower—as was typical in portraits—there, just above her wrist, was a symbol embroidered into her sleeve. A symbol that was as out of place on a Christian duchess’s gown as a wing would be on a cat.

  Then Lorenzo took it from me and, passing it to Ascanio Sforza, stood.

  He was always so tactful, so diplomatic, and I wondered at the timing of his announcement. It would cer
tainly eclipse Maximilian’s betrothal to Bianca of Savoy. It must be his express purpose, I thought. Another show of Florentine strength.

  “I wish to propose another marriage,” Lorenzo said, sweeping his eyes around the table, allowing the anticipation to build. When his gaze stopped and fixed on Innocent, the Holy Father sat back in his chair with curious anticipation.

  “I wish to propose to you, Your Grace, the hand of my eldest daughter, Maddalena, to your son, Cibo.”

  The man looked stunned, I thought. The pope’s bastard son marrying into so illustrious a family as the Medici.

  With both hands Innocent beckoned his cardinals to his ears. The whispering went on for what seemed an eternity. Finally he waved them away. He sat silently, for as long a moment as he could manage before blurting, “I accept!” Then he graced us with his great rotten-toothed smile, and everyone raised their glasses with loud “Salutes!” Some of these exclamations, I noticed, seemed more sincere than others.

  Roderigo Borgia stood. He was imposing with his steely gaze and thin-lipped smile. “We of the church are deeply grateful for the long and faithful friendship of the Medici family. And now it is time to reward them for their service.”

  There was nervous shifting in the chairs around me. I did not dare meet anyone’s gaze.

  “I hereby nominate Giovanni de Lorenzo de’ Medici to the cardinalate!”

  There was, for a brief moment, dead silence in the room. Then a commotion of voices.

  “He is only thirteen!” Maximilian cried.

  “Far too young,” the Duke of Savoy added, barely controlling his anger.

  “I second the nomination.”

  All eyes fell on Cardinal Ascanio Sforza, whose face was stern and impassive.

  Pope Innocent was looking from one to the other of his cardinals. Their nomination was preposterous. And yet . . .

  “Thank you, Your Graces, for your vote of confidence for my studious and deeply pious son,” Lorenzo said. “A boy who has, since his youngest days, desired nothing more than a life of religious devotion.”