Portrait of a Conspiracy

by Donna Russo Morin

  “If you wish,” she acquiesced with what she hoped was amiable nonchalance. “I did come to read.” Isabetta waved the book about as if doing so would make it true.

  Leonardo grinned. “Yes, I see. It is Dante, sì? Which?”

  “It is La Vita Nouva,” Isabetta’s voice dropped almost to a whisper. She knew it then, for herself, the obvious intent of her choice, felt her cheeks warm with a blush.

  “A fine piece. It is, perhaps, his best,” Leonardo mused as he leaned over to reach into the heavy leather satchel at the base of the rock, extracting a block of malleable poplar wood. This he placed on his lap and prepared a quill, removing any remnants of plume that might prick his fingers. “Or at least, his best in the Volgare style.”

  “Exactly,” Isabetta quipped, pleased.

  Leonardo placed the thinnest sort of paper upon the poplar. Isabetta understood; he would produce two sketches then, one on the paper, the other indented on the wood below.

  “Though I would not have thought the topic of courtly love to your liking,” he said it casually, but now Isabetta did indeed feel caught up.

  “Well, it…I…as you say, it is the best example of literature in the Florentine dialect rather than the Latin.” Isabetta could have kicked herself for her stammer. “It is a great thing he has done here. Making great literature available for all, not just those privileged with a thorough education, is a wondrous thing. It…well, it could change the world. I believe it has already.”

  “As do I.” Leonardo nodded, slowly, gently, his pale gaze looking at something far off in the distance. “Have you ever noticed time?”

  “Noticed…time?” Isabetta cocked her head.

  “Yes, the passage of time.” The artist shifted on his rock so he faced her, leaning forward with elbows on knees. “Time comes and goes in fits and starts. Slow times are marked by mundane passages where little changes, little dust rises from the streets of progress. Oh, but when time comes at you, it becomes a rushing battalion armed with catapults of change, fair boulders of it. Time stays long enough for anyone who will use it.”

  “It is a blessing to be a witness to it,” she turned, “to be a part of it.”

  Leonardo smiled back, understanding unspoken, unnecessary. Isabetta’s heart beat with the same fits and starts of time.

  “And education,” she reverted the conversation; she had to. “The education of the masses will only bring the movement of time, the progression of civility, ticking faster.”

  Once more, she inwardly chastised herself for her rush of words; she knew of his early rustic life in the small village of Vinci—one revealed now and again in his accent—and his lack of formal education as a bastard son.

  “In truth, I hope it will help rid me of my own telling dialect,” she said as quickly.

  Six years in Florence as Vittorio’s wife, as a Florentine citizen, had done little to deny the other sixteen in Venice.

  “It is very faint,” Leonardo said kindly. “From the north, yes? Venice perhaps?”

  Isabetta’s eyes gleamed. “You’ve been there?”

  Leonardo shook his head. “I have not, but yet feel sure I will someday.” His tools now assembled, the last in place, a small vial of iron gall ink set upon the stone just to his left, he made ready. He looked intently at her, but not her, she knew from her own work, but as the object he would draw. “Open the book upon your lap. Yes, bene. Now turn your head to the left. Ah, not too much, just a bit.”

  “You plan a three quarter rendering.” More telling words escaping before she could shut the gate of her lips. She flicked a quick slip of a glance at him.

  Now he did look upon her, at the woman before him, his brows puckered, the furrow beginning to etch itself permanently into his young skin between them. “Sì, three quarters.”

  It was all he said, but she could see, within his eyes, it was not all he thought. Had he guessed, had words exchanged at both their meetings given her away? Isabetta thought it had, but with the same conclusion came another. This was a man who would not object. He would, in fact, be delighted at her truth. An artist who loved art for its own sake.

  The tip of the quill flowed about on the page with ease, powered by the mastery of his hand. At times, he conducted an orchestra of design with long sweeping gestures, at others he leaned over closely, making the smallest of marks. It was with such fluidity he moved, gentle yet commanding, soft yet sure. And always, the flicking of his heavy-lashed lids, the stab of blue eyes upon her again and again.

  Isabetta did her best to lock her gaze upon the distance, head held as instructed, but it was a hopeless struggle. She needed to see his hand move, to see the motion creating the murmuring as his skin brushed along the finely textured paper.

  Even when she held herself in her pose, eyes turned from him, his gaze touched her, as if lithe fingers sloped down her check, flowing along the curve of her neck, brushing against the roundness of her breasts. Her skin prickled with goose-flesh at each slow, sensual swoosh of his hand. Isabetta swallowed, unable to look at him, willing the warm flush from her face.

  There would be no satisfaction in this and yet she could not deny it. Isabetta could only rein it in—as she had done for so long now. The small flicker of hope that perhaps in a world filled with wondrous things, unchangeable things could be changed. Such a hope she could not deny.

  She risked a glance at the artist and his work, thunderstruck. She saw herself clearly upon his page and a myriad of notes in a strange scrawling hand bordering the picture, tucked into each corner.

  “How will you proceed from there?”

  “I will use boiled linseed oil and perhaps some crushed stones to burn the lines in,” he answered without looking up, for now he worked on shadows and diminishing lines, now he brought the depth of life to his rendering. “I prefer animal fur though others tend toward bird feathers, but such things are hard to come by these days. From there I will make a rubbing upon canvas which will serve as the basis for the painting.”

  “Painting?” Isabetta squeaked like a child.

  “Do you object, madonna?” His gaze pierced her, alert to her reaction.

  She shook her head, gently, a half-smile upon her lips. “No, I do not mind at all. I am honored.”

  “Just a few more minutes,” he turned back to his work and Isabetta turned back to watching him.

  Even as the sun moved across the sky and the church bells in the valley city below them struck None, the hour of mid-afternoon prayer, she felt no compulsion to leave this place, or this man. Isabetta the woman was gone; Isabetta the artist remained, lost in the study of his technique.

  Her mouth fell as the thought struck her. It was an epiphany and she longed to behave as Viviana might, with loud exuberance.

  “Are you free Tuesday next?” The soft-spoken words burst from her without regret.

  Leonardo looked up with surprise, but tinged with a flash of sadness dulling his eyes to somber gray.

  “Signorina, I—”

  But she would not hear what he thought he had to say, what she thought he might say. She raised a hand to silence him.

  “There is a group, a group of artists in need of your help.” Even as she spoke, the idea became fully formed in her mind. “But I must know, Leonardo…are you adept at keeping secrets?”

  Chapter Nineteen

  “Bindings and bonds; cracks and fissures,

  All must be carefully made and guarded against.”

  At the front of the secret studio, the women moved two of the smaller tables together, a difficult task in their long skirts and the layers beneath. They laughed at their own awkwardness as the hard oak squawked resistance, legs dragging across uneven stone.

  Viviana and Mattea, Fiammetta and Natasia spread their sketches of the painting across the tables. The anonymously painted but infamously known Feast of Herod lay across the now wide and accommodating surface.

  Four different versions of the same painting, the same subject, were displayed
before them. Some emphasized capturing the dimension of cloth—its folds and drapes and hanging—for this painting had done much to further the treatment of the subject. For others it was the men themselves—the realism of faces, especially of shape and color. In others, the room took precedence—the décor and the placement of men and furniture, giving it depth.

  “Have you made inquiries, Fiammetta? Have you had any word?” Viviana asked.

  “I have, but her friends speak of nothing but fear.”

  “I have knocked upon her door twice,” Natasia chimed in, “but received no answer at all.”

  “I haven’t had the chance to ask at the market.” Mattea walked a circle about the table, studying the sketches from all angles. “I don’t know if Isabetta has.”

  “It is quite rude of her to call the meeting yet be the last to arrive,” this from Fiammetta.

  Viviana’s shoulders slumped, “Perhaps it is her husband keeping her from—”

  But a grating tolled as metal met metal, as the key inserted unlocked the door, and Isabetta entered. Upon her heel, but hovering at the threshold, stood a companion—a male companion, his visage hidden by Isabetta’s shadow.

  Mattea gasped. Natasia and Viviana eked startled yelps, though they, at least, had the good sense to throw themselves upon the scattered sketches, to attempt to hide them.

  No man, save Father Raffaello, had ever visited their sanctuary. No persons, other than themselves and a handful of servants sworn to secrecy, knew about this place, this group, and what they did there. Even as Viviana rushed to capture parchment and flip it over, her mind screamed at Isabetta, at vows broken.

  “What do you mean by…?” Viviana’s demand stuck in her throat, her gaze upon the tall man became a pop-eyed glare. Disbelief, astonishment, burned bright splotches on Viviana’s cheeks. Though Isabetta’s actions were an affront to their friendship as well as to the group, this man’s presence took all precedence.

  “How dare you?” Fiammetta barked.

  “Fiammetta, wait,” Viviana held a hand out. “Do you not realize who—”

  Isabetta steadied herself. “Please, my sisters, calm yourselves. Let me make the introductions.”

  The man with the long reddish blond hair stepped hesitantly into the chamber. Dressed in a long tunic, a cioppa, and a brimmed beretto upon his head, his attire made him unplaceable. Few noblemen wore the long sleeveless outer robes unless it was over a bejeweled tunic, not one as simple as this man wore. Those who wore such simple tunics were typically men of some religious order, but they would never be seen in a cioppa or a beretto. His very outward appearance confused them, Viviana could see it in their befuddled expressions.

  He smiled at them shyly. The impact of his penetrating gaze made all the more powerful with the light color of the iris seeming to reflect both wisdom and experience. The man swept his gaze about the room, to the worktables, the easels and canvases, the paint mixing station with its riot of splashed color, and his shoulders lowered, his smile traveled up to his eyes, and the hand holding a leather portfolio before him like a shield eased its grip.

  Isabetta preened, “My friends, I would like to introduce you to Leonardo da Vinci.”

  “Certainly not? Truly?” Natasia quacked.

  Isabetta brought her hands together with a clap in either relief or delight. “Truly.”

  Of all the men to walk into this sanctuary, of all the people dared to be told their truth, Viviana could not think of another more startling, yet more appropriate.

  Leonardo made his way to Natasia and took her hand, bowing over it and asking her name, as he did to all, ending with Fiammetta. Viviana knew her upbringing, her inbred manners, prevented the grandiose nobildonna from snubbing the man completely, but she acquiesced with little joviality. Instead, she turned her ire upon Isabetta.

  “Why have you brought him here?” Fiammetta asked as if the man did not stand but two feet from her.

  Isabetta squared her shoulders at the demanding woman, unflinching. “He is here to help us with the painting.”

  “What painting?”

  “The painting?”

  The outcry rose again. Viviana reached back to knead tense neck muscles.

  “Worry not,” Isabetta told them. “I have told him all. He is acquainted with Lapaccia. He is all too eager to help.”

  “Is he eager to keep his mouth closed?” this from Fiammetta.

  “Beauty and its creation know nothing of men or women and who or which its creator is, it just allows itself to be created. The greatest deception men suffer is from their own opinions.” Leonardo’s long face grew almost deathly still. “I will guard your secret like no other, to this I swear.”

  “What are you working on, maestro?” Mattea asked with a small bounce on her toes.

  But Leonardo held up a long-fingered hand. “I have not earned that title, signorina, though I thank you greatly for the compliment of its use. Someday perhaps.”

  The women would not divest him of his modesty; it sat too well on shoulders too thin.

  “I am presently setting up my own studio,” Leonardo told them, receiving, graciously, the oohs and aahs such a proclamation deserved. “Il Magnifico himself is assisting me, though I would imagine progress will stall, for a time at least.”

  Lorenzo de’ Medici had taken him in as the artist’s troubles resolved themselves, though not indisputably. Only a chosen few, the greatest of talents, were brought under Il Magnifico’s wing, a finely feathered one.

  “But we are not here for you to hear my tale. I am here to serve you, to help you in your creation,” Leonardo graciously turned the conversation away. “But first I must learn a bit about you, about you as artists, about your studiolo. Who is the maestro here?”

  “We are all learning, signore,” Viviana answered. “There can be no maestro.”

  “I have been painting the longest, no doubt.” Fiammetta crowed.

  Beside her, Viviana saw Isabetta roll eyes at Mattea, who smiled to hide a smirk.

  “It was Viviana’s cousin, Caterina, who truly brought us together,” Isabetta offered. “She was a nun, if you would believe it. But she kept careful notes and journals of her progress as a painter. They were the beginning of our study. We’ve based our alliance and our work upon them.”

  Leonardo spun on Viviana; she flinched back against a man moving on her so quickly.

  “Your cousin was Caterina of Bologna?” he whispered urgently, almost breathless.

  Viviana blinked, at his vehemence, at hearing her relative called thusly. “You know of her?”

  “My dear,” Leonardo took Viviana’s hands in his, “All true artists know of her. Giotto, Masaccio, even my master, Verrocchio, spoke of her. She was the first some…” he shook his head, “…she was the only woman any have yet speak of as artist. I am…grateful, deeply grateful, to meet her heir.”

  It was then it happened; Viviana fell under his spell. With this man’s words, his reverence, unlike ever before, Viviana realized the importance of the work they did here, not just for themselves, but for the women who would come after them, women who should be allowed to wield a brush, to brandish hammer and chisel. If progress could not be made for their own sakes, she would dedicate her life to creating it for others.

  She dipped her head with true gratitude. “The pleasure, sig—”

  “Leonardo.”

  Viviana smiled. “The pleasure, Leonardo, is all mine.”

  The air changed then, in that pinpoint of time; he became one of them. The reedy man put hands to hips. “Now, you must all show me your work. I can only tell you where to go if I know where we begin.”

  As it was closest, they led Leonardo to Mattea’s easel, and the partially painted canvas upon it. He could not know she was the least experienced among them, or the most hesitant, regardless of her proficiency. Once their apprentice, she didn’t realize how talented they thought her.

  Leonardo stood before the half-finished painting propped against the tr
iangular wood stand. The cartone had been drawn upon it, the fully articulated composition in the thinnest of lines, and the artist had just begun to fill in the nearly empty meadow landscape with its color. Mattea chewed upon her bottom lip as Leonardo’s gaze touched every inch of the painting’s surface—as he squinted, as he pulled back, all in the sake of differing viewpoints.

  “You have washed your colors with an abundance of gesso, sì?” he asked her. “Egg white, I think.”

  Mattea’s thin pointed brows jumped up her high forehead. “I have, yes. Should I…is it wrong?”

  He turned, head tilting as he pulled on one ear. “Do you think it is wrong?”

  Mattea studied her own painting, as did the others. Viviana thought the girl had perfectly captured the depth of the scene; it appeared as if the field continued as far as the eye could see, as if one could run through it with abandon, never reaching the end, never to be found. Her pale colors of citrine and jonquil merged and overlapped in a dreamy wash, as if looking through squinted eyes or a waterfall.

  “No,” Mattea’s soft answer broke the silent scrutiny, the ever slight straightening of her shoulders broke her self-doubt. “No, it is as I wish it to be.”

  Leonardo lips spread beneath the bristles of his facial hair and Viviana saw the girl’s pleasure in the dip of her round chin and the flush on her pink skin.

  “All our knowledge has its origins in our perceptions.” The truth of his words gave them pause.

  “Why do you paint?” Leonardo asked her, a question out of nowhere, but the only question.

  Mattea looked at him shyly, through the tops of her eyes.

  “It is not something I want to do or would like to do, though it is both. It is…more.” She closed her cherubic mouth, opened it, and closed it again. And then, “It is something I have to do, an itch I must scratch or go mad.”