The Medici Seal

by Theresa Breslin

  I did remember.

  It had been almost summer 1503 when I arrived in the city after weeks travelling through the mountains from the convent at Melte. It hadn’t taken me long to find out the whereabouts of such a famous person as Leonardo da Vinci. I discovered that he was away and not expected back in Florence until October, when he was to set up a new workshop to begin the fresco commissioned by Pier Soderini and the City Council.

  The weather was warm enough for sleeping outdoors so I found a sheltered hole in the embankment of the Arno and there made a den for myself.

  Towards the end of August I heard news from Rome. The Borgia Pope Alexander had died. He had become gravely ill after eating dinner and had not recovered. Italy had been experiencing the hottest of weather and Rome was running with fever brought in by the insects from the surrounding marshes. But most believe he had been poisoned, either by others or in mistake by his own hand. He suffered a most horrible death. It seemed a fitting end to one who had lived his life in the manner he had.

  For a while the Church and its leaders were in turmoil, but eventually a new pope, Julius, was elected. This Pope Julius, being a warrior in his own right, did not want a rival in Cesare Borgia and removed Il Valentino as commander of the papal armies in order to lead them himself. He also refused to recognize the Borgia’s title of Duke of Romagna and demanded that the cities Cesare had conquered in the Romagna be returned to papal control. Cesare Borgia, in fear of his very life, took refuge in Spain. I immediately felt safer at this downturn in the Borgia fortunes for it was to Cesare Borgia that Sandino intended to sell the Medici Seal.

  I had not known this when Sandino first instructed me to meet a priest called Father Albieri in Ferrara. At that time I was only told that a certain priest attending the wedding celebrations of Lucrezia Borgia in Ferrara knew the location of a locked box which held an object that Sandino was anxious to own. I was to find the priest and he would lead me to the box. My task was to pick the lock, remove the object and relock the box in such a way that no one knew it had been opened. When Father Albieri took me to where the box was kept within a certain house in Ferrara I accomplished my mission very easily. It was the priest who told me what the object was, and insisted that I should carry it. He put the seal in a leather belt pouch and tied the belt around my waist. He must have felt guilty at encouraging a child to commit an act of theft for he insisted on giving me absolution for my sin and blessing me before we set out together for our rendezvous with Sandino.

  Foolish priest! He should have made his own confession for he was soon to meet his Maker. But neither he nor I had any suspicion that Sandino was going to betray us when we met up with him.

  The priest spoke first after Sandino greeted us. ‘I have brought what you sought,’ he said, ‘great treasure’.

  Sandino grinned in triumph. He turned to one of his men and said, ‘Now we will have gold aplenty! Cesare Borgia will pay us well for the Medici Seal.’

  ‘The Borgia!’ Father Albieri recoiled. ‘You told me that you were working for the Medici. That was the only reason I agreed to help you.’

  ‘I know,’ hissed Sandino. ‘If I had told you all of the truth then I would not have such a treasure now in my hands.’

  And saying this, the brigand swing his cudgel and clubbed the priest to death, and would have done the same to me had I not managed to escape from him.

  To begin with I could not reason out why Sandino would want to kill us. At first I thought it might be that he did not want to share the reward but then I came to think it was also because he could not trust us to be silent. For it was only when I grew older that I appreciated that the value of the Medici Seal was more than the gold of which it was made. The seal could be used like a signature to authenticate documents of any kind, and people would believe they had come from the hand of the Medici. So the Borgia, in his quest for power, could have procured loans, falsified papers and promoted any number of conspiracies – and laid blame on the house of Medici. But now, with Cesare Borgia gone from Italy and a whole year having elapsed since I stole the seal, surely Sandino would no longer pursue me to recover it?

  Therefore, on hearing that the new Pope Julius would not tolerate Cesare Borgia’s return to any part of Italy, I was much more at ease at being in public. I found some jobs in the shops around the marketplace in Florence. In return for a penny or two and scraps of food I helped with deliveries. I was good at memorizing names and addresses, having had practice in the past at doing so.

  One day while I loitered in the street waiting for work a hand gripped my shoulder. It was Felipe. Leonardo da Vinci had returned to the city and Felipe was out ordering goods to provide for the new household. Felipe told me that the Maestro had recovered his spirits after they had left the employ of the Borgia and had resumed painting. He brought me back to the monastery of Santa Maria Novella, where they had set up a workshop and accommodation.

  ‘I thank you for taking me in again,’ I said now to the Maestro.

  He sat down upon a stool beside Zoroastro’s workbench, far enough away in the Council Hall so that the others could not hear us. ‘I’m not asking you to recall the circumstances of your return to my service so that you can thank me, Matteo. Can you cast your mind back to our time in Santa Maria Novella during the autumn of 1503?’

  ‘Very easily,’ I said. It had been interesting for me to see the establishment of an artist’s working studio. There was great excitement among the members of his household at him having being awarded the commission. It meant regular income for a few years and a chance to be involved in a magnificent enterprise. That was when I’d met Zoroastro. He had come and set up his forge in the yard at the side of the monastery and through those cold months we had all worked together to get the project underway. ‘Why do you want me to remember that autumn?’

  ‘Because it was then, almost two years ago from now, that the merchant’s wife, Donna Lisa, was delivered of her baby stillborn. I would like you to recall the nurse. The one called Zita, who had been Donna Lisa’s own childhood nurse, and whom she kept on in the house.’

  Zita was an elderly woman who had charge of Donna Lisa’s children and the stepchild from her husband’s previous marriage. We had first met her when she brought two little boys with her when visiting her brother, who was a friar in the monastery of Santa Maria Novella. These boys loved to watch Zoroastro working at his forge.

  ‘I remember her,’ I told the Maestro.

  ‘This nurse told us that the reason Donna Lisa’s baby was born dead was because a fat toad had hopped in her path on her way to church on All Saints’ Day. Yes?’

  ‘I remember she said that.’

  ‘As it had sat there, unmoving, Donna Lisa had been obliged to step over it. And, she said, this was why the baby that Donna Lisa was carrying within her had ceased to live.’

  I nodded. ‘It is what the nurse told us when she spoke to us the evening we went to their house.’

  ‘So,’ my master went on, ‘the nurse would have us believe that the toad caused the baby to stop breathing in the womb. Which was why, when it was time for Donna Lisa to give birth, the child was born dead.’

  I nodded.

  ‘Do you believe that, Matteo? That because the lady, Donna Lisa, stepped over a toad, in some way this caused the child within her to die?’ I hesitated.

  ‘Do you?’ he insisted.

  ‘It would not seem so,’ I said reluctantly.

  ‘Yes or no, Matteo.’

  ‘No, but—’

  ‘Yes or no?’

  I shook my head, refusing to answer in the manner he wished.

  ‘It is a matter of reasoning, Matteo. Think about it. A toad sitting in the path of a pregnant woman. How can that possibly cause the death of the child she is carrying?’

  ‘My grandmother said that the old beliefs come from the seed of truth,’ I replied.

  ‘And I could not agree more. It may be that if a pregnant woman eats a frog or toad it could be harmful
to her or the child. It’s known that there are certain foods that we should not eat, and that can be especially harmful to women. You yourself are most aware of this. You’re the person who told Graziano about the false mint and so saved him from perpetual stomach ache. And it may be that eating a toad or even touching one can spread some infection that’s harmful to an unborn babe and that is the source of the story.’

  ‘Well then,’ I said. ‘You have confounded yourself!’

  He raised his eyebrows. ‘I have?’

  ‘Indeed. There it is. You have just said that it is almost certain that a toad can be the cause of such a mishap.’

  ‘You irrepressible, troublesome boy!’ he exclaimed.

  I looked at him anxiously, but he was laughing.

  ‘You see,’ I went on, ‘it is better for the woman who is pregnant to avoid such a thing altogether and be safe. So what the nurse said has truth in it.’

  ‘Matteo, listen to me.’ He put his hands on either side of my face. ‘Something caused the child to die. But it can be useful for men or women to place the blame elsewhere. It means no guilt can be attached to them. Not the father who sired the child, nor the mother carrying it, nor the servants in the house preparing her food, nor her good nurse charged with looking after her, nor the midwife attending her, nor the doctor who was called to her bedside. They are all exonerated because it is the fault of the toad. You understand how convenient this is?’

  ‘I understand.’

  ‘But by blaming the toad,’ the Maestro continued, ‘it means that we do not need to seek out the real cause.’

  He waited.

  I did not say anything.

  ‘What could you deduce from all of this, Matteo?’

  ‘I do not know.’

  ‘Let me help you,’ he said. ‘It will happen again. Somewhere a child will be born dead. Yet another mother will suffer this grief, with or without a toad being present. Though that will not matter, because in the absence of a toad some different portent will be adjudged to have caused the catastrophe. And so . . .’ He looked at me expectantly.

  ‘It will keep on happening,’ I said slowly, ‘and the real cause will not be discovered.’

  ‘And what is the advantage of finding the real cause?’ he pressed me further.

  ‘We might be able to prevent it happening again.’

  ‘Well reasoned, Matteo.’ He regarded me with approval. ‘Now consider this.’ He indicated something for me to look at. As in many other instances when his actions had more than one purpose, it was not an accident that he had led me to Zoroastro’s workbench. He touched the red thread that hung from various parts of the wine press. ‘What are these for? To ward off toads?’

  I felt my face blush.

  ‘Is this a reasonable thing to do?’ he asked. ‘Why is it, do you think, that Zoroastro has these pieces of red wool and such like hanging here?’

  ‘It is an old folk belief. Older than our forefathers’ forefathers. It is a very potent symbol.’

  ‘A symbol?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Of what?’

  ‘It is connected with fire,’ I said. ‘Hence it is red. With fire, man can protect himself. Even the Church teaches the power of fire to drive out demons.’

  ‘Indeed’ – he laughed – ‘and if fire is effective against a demon such as Pier Soderini’ – he mentioned the name of the head of the City Council, who was hounding him to finish the fresco – ‘then a burning brand would be most useful. But red thread? I don’t think that would keep him away, or make the wind blow less, or the rain cease to fall. Surely you see that?’

  I bent my head.

  ‘Matteo, you must think about this.’

  ‘I do,’ I said truculently.

  ‘Your belief is based on fear. Fear comes from ignorance, and ignorance exists due to lack of education.’

  ‘My grandmother educated me.’

  ‘She taught you what you needed to know to be able to live the life you did. You have a different life now. There are matters to which your mind is closed, and should be opened before it is too late.’

  ‘There are matters that men will never discern. There are things that cannot be explained.’

  ‘All things can be explained.’

  ‘Not everything.’

  ‘All things can be explained.’

  Heresy.

  ‘The monk at Averno said there are things that are not given to men to understand.’

  My master stood up. ‘I say there are things that men do not understand because we have not yet developed the tools to do so. In past years we were unable to look closely at the moon. Therefore men made up legends to explain what they saw but could not understand. But now with mirrors and ground glass we can see the surface of the moon more clearly, and therefore we know that it is not a goddess, or the soul of a beautiful woman, or any of these things. So when the monk says that there are things not given to men to understand, I say there are things that men do not understand yet.’

  He saw that I was unhappy. ‘No matter,’ he went on gently. ‘I wanted to talk with you because I know that you cannot read. Every day I see you looking at the fresco. It shows men fighting so that they can live in freedom. I tell you, freedom is worthless if you do not also set your mind free. A person who cannot read is prey to superstition and can be led into error by the ignorant opinion of others.’

  ‘Yet you have also said to me that you have found mistakes in the writings that you have studied. And these are books that are held in respect. You told me that when doing your dissections in particular you have noted with your own eyes things that are in conflict with the texts you have read.’

  ‘Tchh!’ He made a sound of exasperation, and for one moment I thought he would cuff my head. ‘What I am saying to you is this. If you do not learn to read very soon then you never will. It’s a mystery to me that your grandmother did not teach you, she who taught you so much. She must have seen that you have an excellent memory and are extremely quick-witted.’

  ‘Perhaps she was unable to.’

  ‘I doubt that. You said that she had her own recipes. She must have had some skill in reading them.’

  ‘I know she valued her recipes. She made me promise that they would not be burned, although she could not read them very well herself.’

  ‘I believe she could. Why did she not teach you to read them?’

  ‘She taught me enough,’ I said defensively.

  ‘Only as much as she had to. You told me that she showed you the names of her customers and the streets or squares where they lived. She taught you only this. Just enough, and no more. I wonder why she did not want you to learn to read when she educated you in the stories of The Iliad, The Fables of Aesop, and the other myths and legends?’

  I had no reply for this.

  ‘We must arrange for you to learn to read.’

  ‘No!’ I knew a servant should not speak so impudently to his master but I would not allow him to sway me in this. ‘I will not do it. The others would find out and the humiliation would be too great for me to bear.’

  ‘I know it’s embarrassing, but I think you have urgent need to attend to this.’ He drew something from inside his tunic and handed it to me. ‘Some packages arrived after everyone had left the workshop at the monastery this morning. Felipe had gone so I sorted through them myself. This letter was among them. It is addressed to you. I know that you have received other letters in the past. What do you do with these letters? How do you read them?’

  I did not answer him.

  ‘Do you ask one of the other pupils – Flavio perhaps?’

  ‘I do not.’

  ‘It must be very frustrating for you not to know what is in your letters.’

  But I did know what they contained.

  Because, although I could not do it myself, I had found someone to read them for me.

  The Sinistro Scribe.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  THE FIRST TIME I received a letter I e
ndured many catcalls and whistles from the other younger apprentices. This was to be expected in the ordinary banter of the workshop, but one of the older pupils, Salai, possessed a malicious turn of mind. He snatched the package from my fingers and sniffed it.

  ‘I do believe I smell perfume,’ he declared.

  ‘Give it to me.’ I could feel my temper rise. I realized that it was a mistake to show Salai that he had annoyed me. It served only to make him torment me the more.

  ‘He’s the grey wolf who hunts in the dark watches of the night, is our Matteo,’ declared Salai. ‘The one who slinks against the wall, and we cannot make out which is wolf and which is shadow.’

  ‘I have noticed that you are abroad in the night,’ Flavio chimed in. ‘Where is it that you go, Matteo?’

  It was true that I went out at night from time to time, to accompany my master to the nearby hospital mortuary where a sympathetic doctor allowed him to undertake dissections. But he preferred to keep this as secret as possible. A magistrate could give an artist permission to undertake an anatomical study of a corpse if the artist could provide good reason for his interest, such as Michelangelo had done when sculpting his great statue of the boy David. But my master feared that it would become known that his interest in the study of the dead was more than merely to ascertain the position of certain tissues and muscles to perfect his art. If people saw his more detailed drawings of internal organs they might whisper to others, wondering what their purpose could be. It would make him vulnerable to gossip and bad feeling. Without the protection of a powerful patron, it was vital that my master kept this work unknown.

  Salai knew about these night visits. At one time he had accompanied my master on his nocturnal excursions. But enduring long hours with nothing much happening had bored him, and also he was inclined to prattle to others in the wine shops whereas I did not, so my master now took me with him. Salai was aware of all this. Therefore he kept teasing me, knowing that I would not reveal the truth. He waved my letter in the air. ‘Jump up and let’s see if you can catch it,’ he taunted me.