I went forward, pretending to comply. As Salai stretched his arms higher to keep me out of reach I kicked him hard in the groin. He crumpled, yelling in pain, hands clutching between his legs. I grabbed the letter from him and raced from the workshop.
I had made an enemy but I had my letter safe.
That was the first letter.
Of course I could not read it.
But I did recognize the name beneath the last line of the writing.
Elisabetta.
I kept it close on my person all the time. Salai had taken to watching me and I knew that he would steal it from me if he could. It was January and near the time of the festival of the Epiphany, when gifts are given by the master of a household. I asked if I might have a purse, one that I could attach to my belt to hold what little money and any precious possessions I had. I carried the letter there for a month or so before finding the person who could read it to me.
The man known as the Sinistro Scribe.
This was the name he gave himself, partly because he wrote using his left hand. And it was that which drew him to my attention. One day, almost a year after I had come to Florence, I had occasion to be on the other side of the river. I was walking from the direction of the Santo Spirito, making my way towards the Ponte Vecchio, when I caught sight of him tucked in at the foot of a tower just before the bridge. There was a little niche there and he was in a good position to catch passing trade. He had enough space to sit with the box containing his materials resting on his knees, giving him a surface upon which to lean to write. I noticed that his pen was in his left hand. But he did not write backwards as my master did, with the words flowing easily so that he could see his work and read it as he wrote. This scribe wrote with his hand curved like a hook and he placed the paper sideways as he did so.
I barely paused to look at him. He was just an old man with white hair and, like many others in the crowded streets near the river, set up to sell something. I walked on, but then I remembered Elisabetta’s letter tucked in my belt bag and a thought came to me. I turned back and stood a little distance away. He kept his head bent as he penned his letters. I watched him for a minute before addressing him.
‘Ho there, scribe. I see that you write well enough. Can you also read?’
‘Obviously you cannot, boy,’ he replied. ‘For if you were able to read, you would see that my sign’ – he pointed to a piece of paper pinned to the wall above his head – ‘says: Reading and Writing – Careful and Discreet – the Sinistro Scribe.’
‘The Sinistro Scribe,’ I repeated. ‘How came you with that name? I see that you are left-handed, but although the Florentine for left is sinistro, the word for left-handed is mancino.’
He looked at me with interest. ‘A boy who cannot read yet appreciates the subtleties of language,’ he said. ‘What is your name?’
‘Matteo.’
‘If you were more observant, Matteo, you would notice that I sit on the left side of this tower, which is situated on the left side of the river.’
I looked around and noted that what he said was true.
‘It humours me to do so,’ he went on. ‘And when one has a service to sell, it’s good to have a name that marks you out from others.’
‘I see,’ I replied.
‘And what do I see?’ He examined me more closely. ‘A boy. And a servant boy, I’ll wager, for your sandals, such as they are, are worn with running errands. And a boy who carries a quality leather pouch at his belt. Most likely a gift from his master as it’s not so long since Epiphany. And I also saw that this boy’s hand came to rest upon his pouch as he was speaking with me. Hmmm . . .’ He stroked his beard theatrically. ‘I’ll warrant there’s more than money in that pouch. I believe it’s a letter that you have there, Master Matteo.’
I hurriedly folded my arms.
‘Aha!’ he declared in triumph. ‘I’ve made a hit! The eyes of the Sinistro Scribe miss nothing.’
The old man was so pleased with himself that I could not help but smile with him.
‘What’s more,’ he added, ‘I will further warrant that the letter is from a girl and you don’t want to admit to your friends that you’re unable to understand what it says.’ He held out his hand. ‘Give me a florin and I will read it for you.’
‘A florin!’ I exclaimed in genuine horror. ‘I have never owned a florin in my life.’
‘Well, half a florin, then,’ he said grudgingly. ‘But I am astounded that you would cheat an old man in this way.’
‘Half a florin is a week’s wages for an artisan,’ I retorted. And then, finding the rhythm of the barter, added, ‘Brunelleschi, who built the dome of Santa Maria del Fiore, was not paid at such a rate.’
‘Am I not as good a craftsman as any?’ the scribe demanded. ‘I, who was trained in the monastery of Saint Bernard by the venerable Brother Anselm? The same Brother Anselm whose scriptorium is renowned throughout Christendom for the elegance of its manuscripts. My penmanship is second only to his.’
‘It is not your skills in script writing that I am interested in, scribe. It is your talent for reading that I wish to employ. That must be a lesser charge, surely?’
‘Am I not deserving of the rate of any artist in this city?’
‘Half a florin? For two minutes’ work? Even my master is not paid that amount.’
‘And who is your master that he sells his work so cheaply?’
‘Leonardo da Vinci.’
‘You bragging liar. I hardly think that the Divine Leonardo would have an illiterate youth in his service.’
I flushed and made to turn away.
The scribe reached out a bony finger to detain me. ‘Tush, boy. Don’t take offence. It’s not given to all of us to read and write. Else how would I make my living? Let me see your letter. If it’s not very long I may offer a special price to read it to you.’
I hesitated, then I pulled Elisabetta’s letter from my pouch.
‘It’s scarcely a page. Why didn’t you say so?’ He made to peer into my purse. ‘How much money have you in total?’
I took out a penny and held it out to him with my other hand.
‘That’s all there is.’
‘I thought I heard it clink against another coin in there.’
‘Take it or leave it.’ I made as if to put the letter and the penny back into my purse.
‘All right, all right,’ he conceded. ‘Though I will starve tonight while you will no doubt go back to your master’s household for an evening meal consisting of nine courses,’ he grumbled as he read my letter.
And so our friendship was born.
In his position by the bridge he saw and heard the happenings of the city so he was a ready source of gossip, with many amusing anecdotes regarding prominent people. His mind was sharp and he possessed a shrewd grasp of politics. From my conversations with him I became more aware of current affairs. I did not need his services again for some time as it was near the end of the year before I received another letter from Elisabetta.
Nevertheless I usually stopped and exchanged words with the scribe several times each month. If there was any errand to do for the workshop, generally I was the one requested to undertake it as my memory was such that I knew most streets of the city. Also my master regularly visited the Brancacci Chapel on the other side of the river to study the frescos there. I would accompany him and afterwards bring his satchel with any drawings in it back home while he would go and eat a meal with friends who lived close by. He rated these frescos very highly, but the howling faces of Adam and Eve being expelled from the Garden of Eden disturbed my dreams. On these occasions, after crossing the river I would loiter at the Ponte Vecchio to speak to the scribe, then run to collect the satchel from my master as he was leaving the Church of the Carmelites.
The scribe did not get much employment in letter writing. The kind of persons who had need of his services were superstitious, and as soon as they saw he was left-handed they would cross themselves and move away.
But on saints’ days, of which there were many, he managed to sell lots of little squares of paper on which he’d drawn the appropriate saint and written out a prayer.
This evening, after the Maestro had spoken to me, I went to the scribe for him to read to me the fourth letter I had received from Elisabetta. It was near the end of June, the eve of the feast of St Peter. He is the saint considered to be the founder of the Christian Church and claimed as the first Pope. This is because the Bible states that Christ changed the name of Simon, who was the leader of his disciples, to Peter, which means rock, by saying, ‘Thou art Peter, and upon this rock I will build my Church.’ And Christ also said, ‘I will give to thee the Keys of the Kingdom of Heaven.’ Therefore, in preparation for the feast day tomorrow, the scribe had been busy and had already made up some prayer cards. He’d drawn a crude representation of St Peter with some large keys in his hand, and beneath this he had penned a line or two of text. Half a dozen of these were stuck on the wall around him.
As I came over the bridge I saw him bent over his box, raising his head now and then to call out, ‘A prayer from the lips of Saint Peter himself. See! He holds the Keys of the Kingdom of Heaven. Pin this tract above the bed of the dying, and Saint Peter will unlock the Gates of Heaven and let the soul of your loved one enter Paradise. Only a quarter of a penny each!’
As he saw me approaching he left off his writing.
‘And how is the great fresco proceeding?’ he asked in greeting, as he wiped the end of his quill on his sleeve.
All members of the workshop were under instruction not to discuss details of the fresco, but it was hard to resist boasting, especially when I was so besotted with it myself.
‘It is a work of such magnificence,’ I told the scribe, ‘that everyone will flock to see it.’
I was quoting Felipe. Felipe, despite having witnessed the creation of great Art over many years, had been overcome with the painting.
‘From the cities of the civilized world artists will come to the Council Hall of Florence to study and learn,’ I declared proudly.
‘Especially as the drawings of the honourable Michelangelo have been so finely received, and his fresco will be completed on the facing wall.’ The scribe spoke with an innocent expression on his face.
This was to test my reaction, but I knew him better now and only laughed at this baiting. It was the talk of all Italy how the Council of Florence had tried to arrange that the two greatest artists of the day, Leonardo da Vinci and Michelangelo, would be working in the Council Hall at the same time. Leonardo was to paint the battle of Anghiari on one side of the room, while Michelangelo painted the battle of Cascina on the other. But if this is what Pier Soderini and his fellow councillors had hoped for, then they had failed. My master had gone away while the sculptor had been working on his drawings. And now that Michelangelo had finished his cartoon, the new Pope, Julius, demanded that the sculptor come to Rome to undertake a project for him.
‘My master does not trouble himself with petty jealousy,’ I said, ‘and in any case the sculptor Michelangelo has gone to Rome.’
‘I’m not surprised the sculptor has gone to Rome,’ said the scribe. ‘Were I younger and fitter that’s where I would be. It would be safer than staying here. The days of Florence as a republic will be counted off as a nun counts the paternosters on her beads, now that this Pope has been elected.’
‘The last Pope plotted to bring Florence under his control,’ I said. ‘But despite his efforts, even making his barbaric son Cesare head of the papal armies, he failed to do it.’
‘But this Pope is himself a warrior.’ The Sinistro Scribe enjoyed an argument. He put his pen away in his box and went on, ‘They say that when Michelangelo was casting the Pope’s statue for Bologna he intended putting a book in his hand and Julius told him to replace it with a sword.’
‘The Florentine Republic is strong,’ I replied.
‘The republic is as strong as the money it has and the soldiers it can pay to fight for it.’
‘There is more affluence in Florence than anywhere else.’ I knew this to be true. I had been in Ferrara and seen the lavish balls and celebrations held there at the time of Lucrezia Borgia’s wedding to the son of the duke. The Ferrarese had made a great show of their wealth, but it was nothing compared to the commerce that I encountered daily within Florence. ‘This town prospers as no other. And soon we will no longer be hostage to the best condottieri captains with men to protect us. We will have an army of our own.’
The Sinistro Scribe laughed out loud. ‘You’ve been listening to the proclamations of Machiavelli and his talk of creating a town militia, and training men to defend themselves and their property.’
‘Messer Machiavelli’s idea is very clever,’ I said. I had heard my master telling Felipe about it one night. ‘He is forming a citizen army, a Florentine militia which will fight for their own land and homes. They will be more loyal than a band of mercenaries who can be bought and sold and change sides as they please.’
‘And who would you wager your money on, Matteo? A citizen army of farmers and guildsmen? Or troops under an experienced condottieri captain? Eh? Peasants with pitchforks, or seasoned soldiers who know that when they triumph they will be let off the leash and allowed to pillage as they please?’
‘A strong republic is a noble thing.’
‘And a cannonball does not distinguish between a noble and a knave,’ retorted the scribe.
‘We have the protection of the French. They are the most powerful nation in Europe. And their army is not so far away in Milan.’
‘This Pope will seek out anyone who can help him unite Italy under his domain. He will do exactly as the Borgia tried to do. He might not be as ruthless as Cesare Borgia or his father was, but no matter. He will do it more directly and probably with more success.’
‘He cannot overcome the French.’
‘I tell you that, with help, he can. He is making pacts and leagues with various rulers to isolate his enemies, then re-forming and changing these as it’s expedient to do so. In the face of his intent this republic will crumble. When that happens, what need will there be of a fresco proclaiming man’s own democratic spirit?’
I had no reply for this. Like any other citizen I could chat with the young men at the barbers’ shops and on the street corners, but the twisted coils of politics entwined my mind so that I could not think straight.
‘Do you really not see how dangerous it is, Matteo?’ the old scribe asked me. ‘Florence had a mind to be the republic that would last for ever, and she hoped others would follow. But the princes and dictators of their city states don’t want ideas like that to spread.’
‘But I thought the King of France and the Pope were allies?’ I did not say this with any great conviction because I had begun to understand how often the great powers manipulated others to achieve their own ends, but I felt as though sand was running under me and I needed some stability to cling to.
‘Only for as long as it suits them to be. Once this Pope has made enough gains to stand alone he will turn on the French and drive them out of Italy. Who will support Florence then? This brave republic will be on her own with the jackals circling to eat her up.’
‘Florence helped the Pope. It was Florentine soldiers who captured Cesare Borgia’s henchman Michelotto and sent him to the Vatican to be tried for murdering Vitellozzo and the other captains. Pope Julius is well disposed towards the republic of Florence.’
‘He will be better disposed towards a single ruler who can be bribed and kept quiet than towards a group of free men intent on democracy. When the time comes to disperse the Great Council your fresco will not be permitted to remain.’
‘Why not?’
‘Do you think when they come back to take power that they will want a reminder of the ideals of the republic trumpeted across the largest space in Florence?’
‘No one would dare destroy it!’ The Sinistro Scribe was mad to think that. Or more likely only sayi
ng these things to make me dance like a fish at the end of a hook. ‘Maestro da Vinci’s fresco is a stupendous work of art.’
‘But don’t you see, Matteo? It’s because it is such a stupendous work of art that it cannot stay there. From all quarters intelligent and cultured people may come and make discourse on it. It will serve to inflame imagination, and stimulate thought on an alternative way to achieve a life of harmony. The beauty and the power of this Art is precisely why they will not allow it to survive.’
‘Who?’ I demanded. ‘Who are these they that you talk about so knowledgeably who will come and take our freedom away from us.’
He looked at me in surprise. ‘Why, the family that ruled Florence once, and may do so again.
‘The Medici.’
Chapter Thirty-Six
WITHIN THE DA Vinci household we did not have a nine-course meal every night, as the scribe had once suggested.
But after sunset each workday evening Felipe saw to it that large dishes of food were available so that everyone could eat as much as they wanted. Often my master did not eat with us. He used the time to work on other projects or to have dinner with the very many people, within and outside the city, who invited him to their homes. Sometimes he liked me to accompany him but I was glad that this evening was not one of those occasions. I gobbled my food and went straight to my own place within the house. I wanted to be alone to look over my new letter that the scribe had read to me before I’d left him.
The sleeping space that Felipe had found for me was underground: a former storeroom within the network of cellars below the floor of the monastery. By the time I came back into the service of the Maestro he had established his studio within the monastery of Santa Maria Novella, and the available rooms had all been taken. I knew it pleased Salai, the pupil who was jealous of the attention the Maestro paid me, to see that I had been allocated such a lowly place to sleep. But it suited me well. I preferred being away from the others and it meant that my master could call me to go out with him to his night-time dissections without anyone else being aware of it. I placed my mattress at the far side of the room, where there was a door set high up in the wall. It had been used at one time as a hatch to deliver goods into the monastery directly from the street. When the evenings were warm I opened it up. I could listen to the noises of the city, and on the wall outside was positioned one of the iron brackets where the night watch came and placed burning brands to illuminate the street during the hours of darkness. This gave me enough light to look at my letters.
The Medici Seal Page 17
