The Medici Seal

by Theresa Breslin

  The Maestro took a moment to answer. In the silence I heard the wick of the lamp sputter, the clack of a shutter being closed elsewhere in the building. He gazed at his fingers. Then he spoke carefully. ‘It is inherent for a mother to love her child whether the baby is illegitimate or not.’

  ‘Not always,’ I said stubbornly.

  ‘You’re impossible!’ he cried. ‘You refuse to be persuaded.’

  I trembled. I had made him angry. ‘I am sorry,’ I began. ‘I did not mean to annoy you.’

  He shook his head. ‘You did not annoy me. You make me sad.’

  He rested on his elbows and looked through the narrow window. These were not glassed like the rooms in the lower part of the keep, but open to the elements, with a wooden shutter to be pulled over in bad weather.

  A bird had flown down and alighted on the sill. The Maestro drew back so as not to disturb it. His hand strayed to the notebook at his belt, then he recalled my presence, glanced at me and said quickly, ‘I am a bastard.’

  I stared at him.

  ‘I am a bastard.’ He repeated the sentence again.

  ‘But you have a second name,’ I replied.

  ‘Ah yes,’ he said. ‘Leonardo of Vinci. But Vinci is not my father’s name. Vinci is a place.’

  ‘I do not even have that,’ I said. ‘I am only Matteo.’

  He turned from the window. ‘Sit down upon your mattress and I will tell you a story’ – he smiled – ‘Only Matteo.’

  He leaned against the window recess and began his tale.

  ‘There was a good man who went about his business very honestly. One day another man reproached him, by calling to this honest man’s attention the fact that he was not the true-born child of his father.

  ‘“To be born out of wedlock means you are illegitimate,” this man said.

  ‘The honest man replied that illegitimate meant illegal, and there was no such thing as a child who was not legal. “How can a child, of itself, be illegal?” he asked. “A child is a child. Born of the union of a man and a woman. A child does not know, care, or indeed have any control over the circumstances of its conception.”

  ‘Therefore, according to natural law, the honest man declared, he was a legitimate child of the human species. It was the other man who was the bastard, because he behaved more like a beast than a man.’

  I said nothing.

  ‘Matteo, listen to me. Being legitimate is a . . . a . . . technicality. It does not mean that there is anything wrong with you. Men use “bastard” as a curse. But to use the term thus is to show that they themselves are less than a proper human being. My grandfather brought me into his house and my beloved uncle cared for me, and I have benefited more from this upbringing than I could have from any other.’

  He turned again to the window. The bird had flown off but he continued to gaze at the spot where it had rested. He fell into one of his reveries. Then he roused himself and surveyed the room. ‘This will not do,’ he said. ‘It is becoming too cold at nights for you to stay here. You may sleep on the floor of my studio, if you wish. Although in a few days I must move on. I have to inspect the castle at Averno and it is much larger and must have more attention paid to it, so I will be there for a month at least. Have you given any thought as to what you want to do for the winter?’

  I shook my head.

  ‘Then you may come with us for the present. There will be tasks that you can perform to earn your way.’

  I was sorry to leave the keep at Perela.

  Until you experience love and friendship you do not realize how lacking your life has been without it. But I knew that I was safer away from that area. Perela was too close to where Sandino and I had parted company. Some spy of his might pick up my story, and if he heard of an extra boy appearing out of nowhere he would come to investigate.

  My heart dipped as I looked back and saw them waving from the wall of the keep: Paolo, Rossana, Elisabetta, with baby Dario hoisted on Paolo’s shoulders.

  Their figures diminished as we rode away. Never before had I felt such regret at leaving a place. They had made such a fuss on our departure that I could see they held me in some affection, pressing many small gifts into our hands and making us promise to return when winter had passed.

  The Maestro had said that I could go with him further on their journey. He could not at that time have anticipated Graziano’s illness and Felipe’s absence. But not long after we reached Averno his two companions became unavailable to help him in his work.

  In return for food and accommodation I was engaged as a servant, and thus it was I that he turned to when he needed special assistance.

  PART TWO

  THE BORGIA

  Italy, in the Romagna, winter 1502

  Chapter Seven

  MY HEART.

  Seeming too large for the space beneath my ribs.

  Thudding so noisily that I thought my master walking just behind me, following the light of the lantern I held up to show our way, must hear it.

  ‘Halt here, boy.’ He spoke softly, took the lantern from me and raised it to the street name painted on the wall. ‘Street of Souls,’ he murmured. ‘Yes, this is the place.’

  He kept the lantern and went into the alleyway.

  And I was left to hasten after him. Glancing around fearfully. Walking down the narrow street, he lifted the light high, and the darkness dispersed. But the shadows scrolled in once more as we passed, creeping at our heels, bringing the spectres who hover in the night to pounce on the unwary.

  I made the gesture used by the gypsies to keep away evil, and then, as I caught the amused glance of the Maestro, I fumbled the sign of the cross on my forehead, breast and shoulders. He laughed out loud at me then, but not unkindly.

  ‘Keep your magic signs to ward off the dangers of this world, Matteo. The harm that men do to each other in battle is more wicked than any the spirits can offer.’

  We came to a door set in a wall. Unmarked but not unknown. The mortuary door of the hospital of the city of Averno.

  ‘Hold the satchel, Matteo.’ He handed me the large bag that contained his working tools, his papers, parchments and chalks.

  I’d only been with his household a short time but I knew that this was an honour. I put the strap around my shoulder and clasped the heavy leather bag carefully in both hands.

  He positioned the lamp so that it would shine on his own face. Then he knocked on the door. We waited. At this time of night the porter would be asleep or drunk at his post. After sunset no one came to collect their dead.

  The Maestro raised his fist and pounded on the door. Minutes elapsed. Then the grille slid back. A bad-tempered face regarded us.

  ‘I have permission from the magistrate to examine the bodies of the dead.’ The Maestro took the order from the inner fold of his sleeve. He held it up.

  ‘You are . . . ?’ Through the grille the porter spoke in the superior way of men of little authority.

  ‘Leonardo, engineer, and . . . painter. From the place known as Vinci.’

  ‘Vinci? Never heard of it.’

  ‘I also carry another pass’ – the Maestro spoke quietly – ‘which allows me free entry to wherever I choose. It has the personal seal of the Borgia on it.’

  The man recoiled.

  ‘Il Valentino,’ the Maestro continued, without changing the expression on his face, ‘Cesare Borgia – you may have heard of him?’ He placed a caress rather than an emphasis on the last word of the sentence.

  The mortuary attendant had the door open before the Maestro drew another breath. He bent so low that his brow almost touched the cobbles.

  As we passed through the Maestro winked at me.

  My heart lifted. For to begin with, in those first weeks of being his servant, I was not always sure of his mood. Was not familiar with his deep periods of reflection, when he hardly spoke or ate or slept. Had not yet become accustomed to his intensities and preoccupations.

  Chapter Eight

  WE WERE N
OW in a small courtyard.

  I had never been in such a place. There was a rancid smell that soap, scented herbs and incense could not smother.

  It was the stench of death.

  The burial customs of the travelling people are different to those of house-dwellers. If a gypsy leader or a respected man or woman dies their dwelling is burned.

  Thus was my grandmother’s wagon sent with her spirit into the next world. My grandmother, who had cared for me in the absence of any other, was laid to rest in the traditional clothes of her people, with herbs and flowers scattered over her. The tools of her trade – her infusion pot, her spoons and measuring scales and recipe book – were buried in a wooden box near the place where she died.

  After my grandmother had gone, I rejected offers of shelter from the rest of the camp, preferring to roam free by day, and at night lie under the wheels of any cart with the dogs on either side to keep me warm. My memory is of being constantly hungry despite kindness and meals shared by the other families. My ever-empty belly soon forced my hands to take whatever was available to fill it. A kitchen door standing open, a market stall left unattended, and I was as quick as a kingfisher by a lake. Nothing edible was safe from my hands. And if the food was not on display, no matter, I soon developed an aptitude for opening locked storerooms. Hunger was the spur to my learning the craft of thievery.

  And it was my talent for stealing that attracted the attention of Sandino, who entered my life and took me to join his band of brigands. Which was how I became fatally entangled in his ways of intrigue and murder.

  Now the Maestro and I waited just inside the door of the place of death while the hospital porter regarded us with a mixture of fear and curiosity.

  My master set the lantern down and stared at the stars, murmuring their names under his breath: ‘Castor and Pollux, and the great Venus beyond. Can those others be . . . ? Too late in the year surely for them to occupy that position for the winter solstice with the moon in that phase.’ He pulled out the little notebook that he carried always at his belt and began to make marks in it.

  His gazing at the moon and muttering made the porter uncomfortable. It had the sound of incantation, and the Maestro’s great outer cloak, swept round his shoulders against the chill of the night, gave him the appearance of a sorcerer. The porter understood that we were not there to collect a relative or loved one, and we didn’t wear the garb or carry the equipment of any of the medical profession. But the terror that the Borgia name invokes forestalled him from asking any questions.

  The porter pulled the interior night bell. The hospital in Averno was conducted by the brothers of the Order of the Holy Compassion of Jesus, and after some moments a monk approached along the outside cloister.

  He moved silently on sandalled feet, the grey of his cloth merging with the shades of night. The cowl of his habit was raised. The flaming pitch torches set at intervals along the wall flung dark shadows on his face.

  This man introduced himself as Father Benedict, the monk in charge of the mortuary. He regarded both my master and myself with interest. Then he took the Borgia pass and the magistrate’s order and read them closely.

  ‘This document, signed by Cesare Borgia . . . Il Valentino, the Honourable’ – was there a hesitation upon that word? – ‘Duke of Valentinois and Prince of Romagna, gives leave for you to access the castles and fortified houses in the Romagna and other parts under his domain.’

  ‘That is so.’ The Maestro inclined his head.

  The monk held up the parchment. He read unhesitatingly:

  ‘This Order is to all our lieutenants, castellans, captains, condottieri, officers, soldiers and subjects, and to any others who read this document.

  ‘NOTICE THIS:

  ‘Our most beloved Architect and General Engineer, Leonardo da Vinci, who bears this pass, is charged with inspecting the palaces and fortresses of our states, so that we may maintain them according to their needs and on his advice.

  ‘It is our order and command that all will allow the said Leonardo da Vinci free passage, without subjecting him to any tax or toll, or other hindrance, either on himself or his companions.

  ‘All will welcome him with amity, and allow him to measure and examine any things he so chooses.

  ‘To this effect, we desire that delivered unto him should be any provisions, materials and men that he might require, and that he be given any aid, assistance and favour he requests.’

  The monk raised his eyes. ‘This is not a fortified building.’

  ‘Yet it is under his rule now,’ my master pointed out.

  ‘We are very aware of this.’ The monk spoke quietly.

  There was a silence.

  The brutality of Prince Cesare Borgia’s regime and its enforcement by his governor in Romagna, General Remiro de Lorqua, was becoming known in all parts of Italy. This Remiro de Lorqua, in effecting the prince’s instruction to impose civil order locally, while the Borgia armies conquered and subdued the rest of the region, had caused widespread terror throughout the area. His methods of public torture and execution intensified the fear and hatred of the name of Borgia.

  It would be a brave man who sought to oppose so ruthless an overlord. Brave monk, braver than I knew. The last sentence of the Borgia document, which he had not read out, said: Let no man act contrary to this decree unless he wishes to incur our wrath.

  ‘It would please me to make a donation to your funds,’ my master suggested.

  But this mortuary monk was a brother of the Holy Compassion Order, whose reputation also spread wide. Established during the Crusades by a devout knight named Hugh, they were enjoined by their founder to care for anyone in need of medical care. This good knight, doctor, soldier and, latterly, saint would not allow any distinction between men and women, civilian and army, Infidel and Christian. Braving the arrows of both sides, and without payment from either, he tended the hurt and wounded where they fell on the battlefield. At home his monks nursed the poorest of the poor, the victims of plague and pestilence, the beggars and the penny whores. Unlike others they turned no one away, not even those for whom the road was home. Theirs was a true vocation, not like the secular clergy who joined the Church for personal profit. There was no bribe that could corrupt this monk, no threat that he feared. He walked with death many times every day.

  He ignored my master’s offer and said, ‘If you are engaged in engineering studies, what interest do you have here?’

  ‘Is not the human body the most perfect piece of engineering constructed?’ my master asked him.

  The man held the Maestro’s gaze for a long moment, and finally replied, ‘That is your purpose then? A study of the human body?’

  ‘Yes. Most sincerely it is. I am an engineer, and a painter.’

  ‘I am familiar with your name, Messer da Vinci,’ the monk interrupted. ‘And your famous works. I have seen your fresco of the Last Supper at the Dominican monastery in Milan, and your cartoon of the Virgin with the Christ Child and Saint Anne in the Church of the Annunciation in Florence. The images you have produced are masterpieces . . . with God’s grace.’

  ‘Ah!’ My master regarded the monk, then asked thoughtfully, ‘You are interested in how Scripture can be illustrated by man, through visual art?’

  ‘Messer da Vinci,’ the monk replied, ‘it is said that your works have many codes and symbols contained within, and that we should seek to find their true meaning.’

  My master said nothing so Father Benedict went on, ‘The explanations of these works, as offered by the brothers of the monasteries, propose them as theological meditations. In the Last Supper the Apostles are struck in poses of astonishment and disbelief at the accusation that one of them is about to betray Our Blessed Lord. Yet it could be said that the force that emanates from Christ is also spiritual.’

  The Maestro did not comment on this interpretation of his work, but tilted his head as if listening attentively.

  ‘And in the Florence cartoon the depiction of Sa
int Anne, with the Virgin and the Christ Child, displays the concept of the Three in One. My attention was drawn to the fact that the whole is constructed as a kind of pyramid and, at the bottom of the piece, only three of the feet of the adult figures are shown; these factors indicating the Trinity. Also, we can see that the Virgin, fearful for the safety of her child, tries to draw Him back onto her lap away from the danger He is stretching towards. Yet Saint Anne’s expression indicates that she knows the Child must fulfil His destiny to effect the Salvation of Mankind.’

  ‘Then you would see the challenge to depict the interaction between Christ and his Apostles in the fresco, and between the three figures in the cartoon.’

  ‘I found the dynamic force of the movement within your drawing astounding.’

  ‘I make studies of various aspects.’ My master appeared to ponder and hesitate before replying. ‘Many, many sketches of different poses. The hands of Christ in the Last Supper, as he reaches to the dish at the same moment as Judas. The Virgin’s arm . . . Striving for the form of the limbs, considering most carefully all options . . .’ He allowed his voice to fade on a questioning note.

  ‘Yes. I understand that your work requires a great deal of reflection.’

  The Maestro seemed to take these words to heart. He nodded slowly and waited.

  ‘I would say,’ the monk continued, ‘much of the impact comes from how the figures are grouped, and within that, how they are portrayed in their various actions.’

  ‘Therefore you appreciate that the depiction and composition of these holy figures is dependent on my study of anatomy. It is unachievable without it.’

  The Maestro had brought the monk to where he wanted him. The monk acknowledged this with a slight inclination of his head.

  My master advanced his case: ‘Furthermore, this interest in anatomy that I pursue has more uses than true representation of figures, human and divine. Medically it is of great value to examine the bodies of those who have died. It is the way to discover what has caused death.’

  ‘God causes death.’ The monk spoke firmly.