Rudolfo threw his hands in the air. “Dio save me from these nuns! Can’t I even pray in peace? Do you suppose I would dishonor Annaluisa by answering your question, if it were true?”
“I think you have answered it,” she replied softly. “I apologize, a thousand times, for asking it. I was not seeking gossip. I promise you. I do not gossip.”
She patted his back. “Now, I will leave you to your prayers for Annaluisa, who was a beautiful young lady. I pray for her too, I want you to know.” Bowing her head, she left him.
When she entered the sacristy, Father Testa looked at her expectantly. “Do not undress,” she told him. “There is something very serious we must discuss.”
“You know I am not your confessor,” he warned. Long ago, they agreed that it would be inappropriate for him to absolve her of sins they committed together. She therefore confessed her sexual transgressions only when he sent his substitute to the convent--fortunately, a priest of liberal appetites himself, who gave her easy penances.
“I am not seeking absolution. I am seeking advice,” she responded. She then told him of her suspicions relating to their guest Rudolfo, and what she proposed to do about them.
Father Testa looked dismayed. “It has been years. Some things are better left alone, Sophia. Why stir a hornet’s nest?”
“That is your advice?”
“Well, yes.”
“I will consider it.”
The bell began to ring for mass. Sister Sophia squeezed her lover’s hand, then returned to the church.
Chapter 42—In the Roman Baths
Convent of San Sisto, Rome
March 1503
Nicola relished the moment, as she left the convent for the first time in five years, walking beside a handsome young man. She felt envious eyes on her back. The girls would question and tease her unmercifully when she returned, she knew. For now, she didn’t care. It was a glorious day, and she intended to enjoy every minute of it.
Nicola had begged for this outing. She had always wanted to see what was on the other side of the ancient Roman walls opposite the convent.
When Caterina arrived to give permission, this exploration had finally become possible. At Caterina's request, Leonardo da Vinci had made a preliminary exploration, and returned eager for a second one.
Da Vinci, Caterina and Zoroastro walked ahead, while Nicola and Salai followed. Da Vinci and Zoroastro wore old clothing and carried torches, though it was a bright, sunny morning. Salai, who was dressed more carefully, carried an easel and sketchbook. Caterina carried a handful of papers.
Maestro da Vinci had insisted that the ruin was a bath, which Nicola found hard to understand. Baths were something she took behind a curtain in the Girls’ House dormitory, according to a regular schedule posted and enforced by La Greca. The ruins were vast, and in places almost as tall as the convent bell tower. How could they possibly be a bath?
Caterina had taken Maestro da Vinci's arm, and was now talking in an excited voice, gesturing vigorously with the papers she held in her right hand. Nicola could not hear them, but she knew they were talking about the murders.
“Leonardo is fleeing from your zia,” Salai remarked. “Why is she waving those pieces of paper at him?”
“Those are her lists. She makes lists. She wants him to get to work, solving her husband’s murder.”
“No one can hurry Maestro Leonardo.”
“You know him well, then?”
“He is like a father to me. I have been his apprentice since I was ten years old.”
“Did he ever have a wife?”
Salai gave her an odd look. “When I was little, there were rumors that he was secretly married to Isabella d’Aragona, the widow of the old Duke. If that is true, he is married now. But I never saw them together, because I never went with Maestro da Vinci to the Duke’s residence, or to her residence. But he worked in both places, I know.” Salai responded
“Does it seem possible?”
Salai considered. “To be honest, I cannot imagine him wanting a wife, or any woman wanting to be his wife. His habits are—not domestic. He thinks nothing of staying up all night to gaze at the stars. He has turned down valuable painting commissions to study mathematics. He does not care what he eats or drinks. When he tires of a commission, he simply stops work on it and gives the money back. He cares so little for money that sometimes we aren’t sure where the next meal is coming from. When we are rich, we live well. We have also lived for months on bread and cheese.”
Salai paused. “I do not mean to sound critical. Maestro da Vinci has been very good to me. But painters travel from place to place and court to court, in quest of patrons. Some painters have wives, but most do not. It is not a good life for women and children.”
They now entered a tall, deep archway, leading to the interior of the Roman ruin. In its shade, Caterina stood waiting for them. Behind her, an enormous pile of rubble lay in sunshine.
“Maestro da Vinci and Maestro Zoroastro went to explore a hole in the ground,” she announced, her disapproval evident on her face. “You are to show us around, Salai.”
At first, Nicola was disappointed. The dome that once roofed the enormous space beyond the archway had long since fallen into a heap of rubble, leaving a musty, shaded pathway around the outer edges.
“Look up,” Salai directed.
Nicola did so, and gasped. Far above her head, the exterior walls were black onyx, and still held nude marble statues, luminescent in sunlight that flooded the room from the fallen roof. Above the statues, fragments of running figures decorated the outer parts of the ceiling that had not collapsed, flesh-colored frescoes against a deep red background. The men were naked; the women wore loincloths and an additional band supporting their breasts. The artist had caught their expressions, and the flex of their muscles. The frescoes in the church at San Sisto were childish and primitive, compared to these.
The colors above them were dazzling, offset against a cloudless blue sky. There was mute evidence, though, that they would not last. A tall ladder propped against one wall showed that the ruins were being pillaged.
“It is only a matter of time before someone figures out how to harvest the rest of this art,” Caterina said.
“Maestro da Vinci already has,” Salai responded. “He drew me a picture of the machinery he would build to do it. If Il Moro were still our patron, we would bring him these statues immediately. Maestro wants me to sketch them, because they will soon disappear.”
Nicola, meanwhile, was gazing around in silence, hoping the shadows would hide the color that had risen into her face. Finally she asked, “Didn’t the ancients wear clothes?”
Salai laughed. “Not when they bathed, certainly. Come, let me show you something else.”
Caterina and Nicola followed him to a place where the roof still dripped rainwater into a long, shallow trench. Nicola looked into the trench, and was startled. Someone was looking back.
The face that peered up at Nicola was evidently a tiny part of a huge mosaic, now mostly hidden by mud and rubble. The muscular, clean-shaven man glittered wetly in a shaft of sunlight. Like most of the other figures in the room, he was naked.
Looking around her, Nicola saw that the room had once contained an enormous, rectangular pool, about three feet deep. What would it be like, Nicola wondered, to bathe in such a pool? The idea of walking over mosaics of huge naked men was a little disturbing.
It was also disconcerting to Nicola that neither the statues nor the mosaic man had penises like that of Alfonso d’Aragona, whom she still remembered vividly from his wedding and bedding of Lucrezia Borgia. The male organs on these figures were small and flaccid, like what Pia had described seeing on her little brothers. She would ask Pia about this, she decided.
“Zia? I am going to see what is in the next room,” she announced, waving as she left them.
Salai, meanwhile, had set up his easel in a shaft of sunlight and placed on it a half-complete sketch of one of the s
tatues.
“That is a very fine copy,” Caterina observed. She didn’t like the way he was staring at Nicola. Da Vinci, at least, smiled when he looked at Nicola, as if he appreciated her as an artist. Salai was looking at her as if she were a haunch of roast pork.
“Maestro da Vinci could do better,” Salai responded modestly, his gaze at last returning to his work.
“Your maestro is a very fine artist,” she agreed.
“He would be the best in the world, if he would concentrate on his art,” Salai replied. “He is always distracted, however. He is more interested in the engineering of this building than in the statues.”
Caterina looked at him blankly.
“He is interested in the way water ran through it,” Salai explained. “He thinks about things like that, on a colossal scale. When we were in Imola together, he and Niccolò Machiavelli created a scheme to divert the Arno River to deprive Pisa of its seaport and give one to Florence instead.”
“You are joking,” said Caterina.
“No, Madonna, and neither were they. This is the way his mind works. It is hard to keep him focused on anything as small as a statue or a painting.”
Salai paused melodramatically. “You won’t believe this, Madonna. He thinks that the sun does not rise and set. Earth moves, instead of the sun, he says. Also, he believes people will be able to fly, with the aid of machines. In fact, he is trying to design such a machine.”
Caterina shook her head in disbelief. Diverting rivers? Flying machines? Earth moving, instead of the sun? Nicola was right—da Vinci was pazzo, definitely. She wished again that Lord Valentino had not put him in charge of finding the murderer.
Just then Leonardo and Zoroastro reappeared, looking disheveled. Zoroastro was carrying pieces of dirty pipe. “Lead,” he explained. “I am going to get more.” He bowed, and disappeared again.
“Pardon the mud, Madonna,” said da Vinci. “We have had a most interesting exploration.”
“Did you learn anything?” Caterina asked politely.
“It is an engineering marvel! You will recall seeing the fragment of aqueduct outside?” She didn’t, but she nodded anyway.
“It obviously carried an enormous amount of water into this complex, from a great height, “ he continued. “I wanted to see where it went.”
Da Vinci sat down on a piece of rubble, opened a notebook, and began to write and sketch as he talked. “It is quite amazing. The pipe traveled into a series of boilers. There must have been an army of slaves down there, stoking the fires for hot water. The water flowed constantly, driven by its fall from the aqueduct. The waste water from the baths flowed underneath the latrines, carrying the waste into the sewers, and from there to the Tiber.”
“There are more statues in the next room,” Nicola announced as she appeared from behind them. “They are holding scrolls, as if it were a library. Did the Romans really put libraries in their baths?” she asked.
“A Roman bath had places for games, places to eat, theaters, places to get a massage—everything you could imagine,” Caterina said.
“And even some things you probably couldn’t imagine,” Salai added.
Caterina smiled. There was nothing wrong with her imagination. Knowing what went on in ancient Rome, she had already conjured up hundreds of naked bodies in this room, coupling in pairs and in orgiastic groups, in the heated pool and along its edge. The result of seeing all this naked art, she supposed. Maybe it was a sign she was coming out of her numbness after Ugo’s death.
Nicola was staring at da Vinci. “Now you need a bath, Maestro. What has happened to you?”
Before da Vinci could answer, Caterina intervened. “He was exploring,” she said, hoping it would stop Nicola from asking further questions. If she got started, she and da Vinci would discuss lead pipes and latrines ad nauseam.
Nicola’s appetite for facts was a blessing, for the most part. The girl remembered everything she had learned concerning the deaths of Sister Annaluisa and Sister Gerolama, including details most people would not have retained for a day, much less for three years. She had done this without any written record, except for the lists of suspects she had constructed with Sister Beatrice. It was a little frightening to Caterina, who depended heavily on lists and notes.
Nicola’s weakness was her naiveté and inexperience. She could hardly fault the child for being naïve, though. It was part of what you paid for, when you educated a girl in a convent.
Caterina thought she knew who the murder was. Her conclusion had surprised her, however, and consequently she had confided in no one. She had been mulling over the problem of finding proof. Da Vinci would be no help--he had put her off today, before she could tell him anything. And anyway, if he really was trying to build a flying machine, he was too pazzo to trust. She would have to prove or disprove her theory without him.
Though she feared endangering Nicola even further, she had little choice. She needed help, and Nicola needed to know how to protect herself. It was time to confide in her daughter.
Just then Zoroastro reappeared, panting and filthy. “There are people living down there, Maestro. I didn't see them, but I saw blankets and belongings, and I think I heard someone. I brought more lead pipe up but I can't carry it all. We are a large enough group to protect ourselves, I think. We did not bring swords, but lead pipe will serve. But still . . .are we ready to go?”
Leonardo looked at Nicola. “Have you seen enough?”
Caterina took her daughter's arm firmly. “She has. Let's get out of here.”
Chapter 43—A Better Musket
Convent of San Sisto, Rome
March, 1503
A large party was assembled in the convent barnyard to witness the re-testing of Leonardo da Vinci's hand-held cannon, its design newly updated by da Vinci, Rudolfo and Caterina. Nicola, Pia and miscellaneous older students chatted, laughed and flirted with Salai while da Vinci and Sebastian Pinzon prepared the gun. Carlo, flanked by two nuns, stood to one side, looking glum.
Nicola now stood with Pia to watch the spectacle, feeling happier than she had felt in a long time. She was surrounded by people who cared about her. Pia was a far better friend, now that she was a Roman matron instead of a nervous bride. Nicola had learned to trust her mother, and they also had become friends--more like peers than mother and daughter. With all this support, finding the murderer of her Uncle Ugo and Sister Gerolama no longer seemed such a daunting task. Caterina thought she had the answer, but Nicola was skeptical. Maestro da Vinci had promised he would give it his full attention, however, once today's experiment was over.
The new version of his handheld cannon featured the same complicated brass firing mechanism, decorated with snake heads, which Nicola remembered from the earlier experiment. However, the new version had a much longer metal barrel, no bigger around than her wrist. It no longer looked like a miniature cannon, but instead like something—something never before seen.
Sebastian Pinzon inspected it deliberately. Caterina and Leonardo glanced nervously at each other when he looked down the barrel, but Pinzon appeared satisfied. He inspected each of the miniature cannonballs it would shoot, each about the size of a pebble. Finally, he personally filled the pan with gunpowder he had made, according to his own recipe.
“All stand back,” he warned. Then he wound the key, and retreated himself as it unwound noisily.
Thunderous noise and sulfurous sparks made the nuns shriek and the chickens squawk. The barrel had exploded, sending shards in several directions. Fortunately, no one was hurt.
Leonardo da Vinci looked sadly at the remains of his invention. “I am sorry, Lord Pinzon,” he said.
“No sorrier than I,” Pinzon replied. “There is little to keep us here, now. I return to Lord Valentino. I think you should come with me, Leonardo.”
“No, no no!” said Caterina, exchanging glances with da Vinci. “Lord Valentino specifically instructed him to stay here, to assist us in finding the murderer of my husband! We ha
ve need of him, Lord Pinzon! He is a man of great intelligence. We are simply women, and nuns. We cannot possibly fulfill Lord Valentino's instructions without him!”
“Has he been of assistance to you, Madonna?” Pinzon inquired, a sardonic smile on his face.
“Oh, si!” she replied. “We have worked together, talking to people. . . . .”
“I am glad to hear it,” he responded. “It is my impression that Leonardo has been spending most of his time sketching, playing his lute and buying books for his library.”
“These activities help me to think!” protested Leonardo. “And, as you know, Lord Pinzon, I had to spend most of my time completing the paintings of fortifications ordered by Lord Valentino. They are packed up, and ready for you to take back with you. I only require my final payment. I wrote you about that.”
“You certainly did. Several times.”
Priora Picchi joined them. “Madonna Biaggi has summarized Lord Valentino's orders correctly,” she stated. “ Has he given you contrary instructions?”
“You can keep him,” Pinzon replied with evident reluctance. “Here is your payment, Leonardo,” he continued, handing him a bulging purse. “I will take your drawings, and be back in three days' time. See to it that these ladies make progress in finding who tried to poison Lord Valentino, before I return.” Bowing, he left them.
Once Pinzon was gone, Leonardo mopped his face with a handkerchief. “I will not forget your assistance,” he said quietly to Caterina.
“I would not leave a dog to the mercy of that man,” she replied.
“Maestro da Vinci, I require your assistance in another matter as well,” said the priora, taking his arm.
“My assistance as an engineer? As a painter? As a musician, perhaps?” he responded, smiling.
“As a man, who thinks like a man,” she replied.
“Rudolfo Giamatti also qualifies if that is what you require,” da Vinci responded, somewhat nervously.
“In this instance, he cannot assist me, for reasons I will explain,” said the priora. “Come, we must speak privately.”
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