Including the one that had arrived this week there were four in all. I had been in Florence two years now and Elisabetta was writing to me round about the half-year, at the time of the tax accounting of the farm where she now lived. I took her letters from my pouch and held them tilted to the open hatch to look at them. Whenever I brought him my letters I made the scribe read them to me several times (for which he’d tried to charge me extra) so that I could hoard the sentences inside my head. Later I would recite them to myself at leisure. And by dint of doing this I fancied that I recognized some of the words and knew their meanings.
Elisabetta’s first letter had been very short, no more than few lines, written in haste.
From the farm of Taddeo da Gradella, near Milan
My dear Matteo, brother and friend,
We have arrived safely at the house of my uncle Taddeo. His welcome is restrained, but he has given Paolo and myself the use of two small rooms in his house and I am pleased enough with this as we are as safe as anyone can be in these times.
I hope you also are safe and well,
Your sister and friend,
Elisabetta
When I heard those words my heart had filled with gladness that she and Paolo were out of the way of future harm. This feeling took me by surprise. For years I had schooled myself not to display emotion. This sweetness running through me caused such a lift of my mood that even Felipe had commented on it.
‘You’re in fine spirits since that letter arrived,’ he had observed dryly. ‘The apprentice boys must have guessed correctly then. It was from a girl, wasn’t it?’
I mumbled some reply and resolved not to have this situation repeat itself. From that day I tried to keep watch when the carriers were about so that I would be first to take charge of any letters or parcels. This took more time than I would have liked as very many packages and letters were delivered to our household. Most of them were for my master and were mainly letters asking him to undertake work, in particular painting commissions, for which he had a high reputation everywhere. These requests came from different parts of Europe, most persistently from Isabella d’Este, Marchioness of Mantua, asking him to finish a portrait of her that he had begun some years previously, but also increasingly from representatives of the French court in Milan. It was not hard for me to distinguish between the written form of my master’s name and my own. Thus I managed to catch Elisabetta’s next letter before anyone saw it. I immediately took it to the scribe and he read it to me, again for a penny, although he complained that this one was longer and I should pay him more.
Dear Matteo, brother and friend,
I wonder if my first letter ever reached you? Paolo and I are still in the farm of our mother’s brother. Paolo has not taken well to the tasks he has been set to do here and there is friction between him and our uncle. Uncle Taddeo expects us to work hard to earn our keep but this is not unfair as he works very hard himself. I cook and do other household tasks, but recently, since my uncle discovered that I am able to count and write serviceably well, I am allowed to do his accounts. He is a dour man, given to prayer and fasting, with no fripperies or feasting allowed. There is little laughter here and my brother has become morose. I have thought of entering a convent and wondered if I would be happier there. I would not like to be shut away, although I know that the nuns at Melte were happy with their lot. But I could not bear never to wear a pretty dress again, or show my hair, although there are no fine clothes here in this house. I do wish I knew how you were, Matteo. I fear that some ill has befallen you.
Elisabetta
I held the paper close to my face and studied the curl of the letters that made up her name. She was unhappy. I could sense it. This letter had cast me down as much as the first had made me glad for a while.
Her third letter, which I now unfolded, had engendered another emotion altogether within me. When reading it aloud, the Sinistro Scribe had paused in his speech and glanced up at me for a moment before continuing.
My dear Matteo,
The messenger I entrust this letter to assures me that it will reach you but I have no way of knowing this. So I have decided to put my letter in the care of Rossana. As I do not know which saint, if any, whose special duty it is to look after letters I will ask my dear sister, who I am sure is in Heaven with the angels, to ensure that this one arrives into your hands. I think of her often, and of you too, Matteo. There is a little river here where I sometimes go to be quiet, and sit in the shade of a willow tree. Sometimes I fancy she is near me and so I whisper secrets to her as I used to do when we were small. There is no reply, but perhaps it is her voice I hear in the rustle of the leaves, and I believe her spirit is close by. I think of the days of our youth at Perela and now know them to have been the happiest of my life on this earth.
I pray for you,
Your sister and friend,
Elisabetta
I put this letter down to pick up the fourth and last. The one that I had not managed to intercept and that my master had given to me earlier this evening. The one I had taken to the Sinistro Scribe barely one hour ago and with the last of my money had paid him to read to me.
To Matteo, a servant boy, in the care of the household of Leonardo da Vinci, sometimes of the city of Florence
Dear Matteo,
I am writing to you again, although having had no reply from you to my previous letters I do not know if the time and expense in my doing this is wasted, and whether I should continue to do so. If you receive this, and if there is any way that you can send me word to say that you are well, it would make me happy.
I will not squander my uncle’s money and paper to send any more letters in this fashion unless I hear from you. I fear that you are not receiving my letters, or that you do not wish me to write to you. I will know then, if I receive no reply, not to write to you again. Nevertheless I hope this reaches you and finds you well.
Elisabetta dell’Orte, at the house of Taddeo da Gradella, June 1505
Within my chest a stone slid across my heart. Unless I could send a letter in reply I would receive no more from her. And she would think that I was dead or did not wish to hear from her and Paolo. I looked again at the letter. Starting at the beginning I mouthed out the sentences I had memorized. I counted off the words until I reached ‘Rossana’. I spoke it aloud and traced the outline of the letters of her name with my finger. Rossana. My memory was twinned with Elisabetta’s sister, as they had been twinned at conception. Their whispers and their laughter like the river bubbling in the ravine below their father’s keep. I brushed my hand across my eyes and flung myself back onto my mattress.
I wanted to reply to Elisabetta. But I had no money to pay the scribe to do this for me. There was no salary in my work. Felipe had set up accounts at various shops and services, and I was allowed to take advantage of these. If I needed a haircut or a tooth pulled I went to the barber’s and he sent his bill for this to the da Vinci household. Similarly if I needed new hose or shoes I could go to the tailor and the shoemaker. If I had an ailment I visited the apothecary. My food and accommodation were supplied. No actual money was given to me but I fared much better than many other servants. The families of some of the pupils in the house paid Felipe an amount to be in the school of Leonardo da Vinci. The few pennies that I had earned some time ago were due to the kindness of a silk merchant. These were now gone. How therefore could I pay the scribe to pen a reply to Elisabetta?
I traced some of the letters again with my fingers. I found the E of Elisabetta, the M of Matteo. To draw and write was a talent I did not have. I had often watched my master make a drawing with a few deft strokes. Once I had picked up a piece of charcoal and tried to copy him, but the results were such that I had thrown the paper into the fire so that no one would see them. I could not draw. And I would not try again for fear of failure. I liked the work I did. I was good at it. It was interesting and I was favoured and well fed. I had no need to attempt to be skilful with a pen. But now I began
to see the advantage if I could but do these things for myself.
Was it really so difficult to learn to read and write?
Chapter Thirty-Seven
‘WHAT ARE YOU going to make of yourself, Matteo?’
I stopped brushing the floor and looked over at Felipe, who was sitting at our dining table counting out piles of coins. He was settling the quarterly bills for our suppliers, who would call in today to collect their money.
‘I am happy as I am,’ I replied. I began to sweep more industriously so that I could finish and be off to do some other task. I did not want to linger in the room as I feared another lecture coming. About a month after my master had spoken to me about my lack of learning, Graziano had drawn me aside to have a quiet word about the possibility of me taking up some kind of book study. I thought of the humiliation when it became widely known that I was illiterate and the public mocking this would provoke from Salai and the other apprentices. I refused to discuss it so Graziano had shrugged and left off lecturing me. An interview with Felipe, I guessed, would not be so pleasant.
Felipe got up from the table and, taking the broom from my hand, stood in front of me. ‘The master has said that your appearance must be attended to, Matteo. Look at you. Your tunic is quite tattered and you will need a pair of shoes for the colder weather approaching. And your hair.’ Felipe lifted a strand of my hair and surveyed it with distaste. ‘You never visit the barber as often as you should.’
I could not tell him that, since my conversation with the Sinistro Scribe about the impending power struggle within Italy, I preferred my hair long. It hid my face and, although I did not truly believe that the Medici would ever be welcome again in this city, I deemed it better not to have my features in plain view. ‘In the worst of the winter,’ I replied, ‘having more hair will keep me warm.’
‘It isn’t only your appearance that is causing him disquiet. There is the matter of your education.’
‘I know enough for what I do within the house,’ I replied. ‘And, as you say, winter is coming. There is always more to do in that season, therefore no time to spare me from my duties in the household. I would not be able to undertake any studies.’
‘Indeed the festival of Christmas is approaching,’ said Felipe with an edge to his voice. ‘Therefore why don’t you take the decision to co-operate with those who wish to help you to improve your mind? Then we could have two festivals this year. One to celebrate the birth of Christ, and the other the birth of the new Matteo.’
‘I do not want—’ I began.
‘Pay attention to me.’ Felipe held my arm firmly. ‘You are being given an opportunity that many other boys in your circumstances would never encounter. Messer da Vinci has offered to have you instructed at his own expense. You would receive an education such as others might only dream of having. Even you must recognize that you cannot remain a boy for ever. As one becomes a young man there are requirements in dress and proper conduct to be learned. To grow up into manhood requires more from a fellow than allowing the years to pass.’ He gave me a rough shake. ‘Accept what has been offered to you and be done with this obdurance.’
I hung my head but said nothing.
Felipe made an exclamation of annoyance and went back to doing the accounts.
So as summer faded and autumn burned out the colours of the year through umber, copper and ochre to winter grey, I did not listen to their entreaties to better myself. The only thing that nagged at my mind was how to reply to Elisabetta’s letter. One time I ventured to ask the Sinistro Scribe how much the cost would be to write out a letter of a few words.
‘Aha, Messer Matteo!’ he exclaimed in satisfaction. ‘I wondered when you’d broach that subject.’
‘What subject?’ I asked, feigning innocence.
‘Come now, I’m too skilled in wordplay to be fooled by a stripling like yourself. You want to reply to the lady Elisabetta and have need of me to write the letter for you.’
‘There are many talented men within the da Vinci household,’ I replied haughtily, ‘and I am well regarded there. I might find another who would be eager to do this task free to oblige me.’
‘But even say they did,’ countered the scribe, ‘there is still the expense of the ink and the paper, and then the carrier to pay. How much is it to have a letter transported from Florence to Milan? More than you can afford, I’ll warrant.’
And there he had me. For of course I could not pay for that service. My master was in constant communication with Milan. He had many friends there, artists, academics and philosophers. Felipe would probably not mind if I included a letter in one of the packets to go. But it would be an extra cost to have it taken to the outlying farm where Elisabetta and Paolo now lived and I had no means of financing this.
‘What is the thing that you carry so closely around your neck?’
The scribe’s unexpected question startled me. So accustomed was I to carrying the seal that at times I forgot its existence. I was never parted from the little bag that held it, even when washing my body. The leather had become blackened with sweat but the cord held fast and now I hardly noticed the soft weight of it against my skin.
‘I note how you react to my question, Matteo.’ The old man’s eyes narrowed. ‘If it’s a precious thing that you have there then you could sell it and pay me with the profit you make.’ He reached his skinny fingers towards my neck.
I leaped back and clasped my own fingers round the cord and the leather purse the nun at Melte had made for me. ‘It’s of no value,’ I stammered. ‘There’s nothing in it.’
‘There must be something in it,’ said the scribe. ‘I see how closely you clutch it to you.’
‘It is a relic,’ I said. ‘A holy relic.’
‘What kind of relic?’ the scribe asked me. ‘If it’s a primary one then it would be worth more.’
‘A saint’s bones.’
‘Which saint?’
‘Saint Drusillus,’ I said, thinking of a statue I had seen in the convent at Melte.
‘That’s curious,’ said the scribe. ‘The relics of Saint Drusillus are very hard to come by.’
‘My grandmother gave it to me,’ I replied. ‘She told me it was very old.’
He laughed. ‘That’s not the reason your relic is so rare. Saint Drusillus was a martyr, burned at the stake. There was nothing left of her but ashes.’
‘I – I . . .’
‘Your grandmother was duped by some pedlar.’ He glanced at me keenly. ‘Yet now that I know you better, I would have said that if your grandmother was like you then she would not have been so easily fooled.’
I parted from him rapidly that day. Our conversation had brought back memories I did not welcome: of Sandino and his intrigue with the Borgia. Italy was now feeling the absence of Cesare Borgia. Without his rule, the Borgia domains in the Romagna were falling into the hands of whoever had the power to take them. Some of the previous lords had returned to their cities, like the Baglioni to Perugia, but another mighty predator had cast its eye upon these profitable little kingdoms. The Venetians had seen their opportunity and seized Rimini with some other smaller towns. As these places were part of the traditional fiefdom of the Church, Pope Julius was furious and was now massing armies and allies to help him bring these territories back under papal control. If the Vatican intended to take on the might of Venice, which side should Florence choose to ally herself with? The city had begun to hum with rumour. Was the Council, even with the advice of the wily Machiavelli, cunning enough to manoeuvre itself safely between these sharp rocks?
As I walked home that night via the Ponte Trinità I fingered the bag at my neck. I could not obtain money by selling the seal. There were no shops in Florence, even those of the more dishonest traders, who would buy such a thing without questioning me. The most innocent explanation I could give for having it would be that I had found it. That it must have been lost when the Medici Palace on the Via Larga was raided and the family driven out of the city a number o
f years ago, and that I had discovered it lying on the banks of the Arno. More than likely, the person I tried to sell it to would take me for a spy of some party or other and report me to the Council in the hope of a reward.
I looked over the bridge into the Arno. The river was swollen with rainfall and the water had changed from the sluggish, dry mud-brown of summer to the swift, treacherous, choppy grey of early winter. I could throw the bag with the seal inside into the river. Why not? It was a source of danger to me. But I hesitated. If I ever came across Sandino again it might be the thing that would save my life. And also . . . I touched the worn leather. It was a link to my past, to the dell’Orte family. If not the seal itself, then certainly the bag made me think of the time spent in the convent with Elisabetta and Paolo. I could not part with it.
But I needed to communicate with Elisabetta, else I would be cut off completely. I saw then that I would have to come to some agreement with Felipe. I took the opportunity to make my request when he was alone working at his ledgers.
He looked at me severely. ‘And in return for this extra favour granted from this household, what will you do, Matteo?’
‘I will set my mind to begin to learn, as you wish,’ I answered humbly.
He did a strange thing then, something unexpected. He gripped my shoulder with both hands. It was almost a hug.
‘I am glad for you,’ he said.
As soon as I could I returned to the scribe and told him that I wanted my letter written.
The Medici Seal Page 18
