The Medici Seal

by Theresa Breslin

  ‘With this we will soar, and wheel, and turn, and look down on everyone from on high.’ Zoroastro was now skipping about the workshop with his arms extended, pretending to be a bird. ‘We will take turns and see who can fly the highest. Wouldn’t you like to try it out, Matteo?’

  I blinked away my memory of Perela. ‘Yes, I would.’

  ‘For it would have to be someone small’ – Zoroastro winked at me – ‘and not as heavy and large as a normal man.’

  ‘No,’ said my master at once. ‘Not the boy.’

  Zoroastro laughed. ‘I would not endanger the life of anyone dear to you.’

  ‘You are dear to me too, my friend,’ said the Maestro.

  ‘It would need someone stronger than Matteo,’ said Zoroastro. ‘Someone powerful enough to move the pulley cords.’ He doffed his cap before us. ‘I present myself as candidate to be the world’s first flying man.’

  ‘It’s not ready,’ said my master, but this time his voice had less conviction.

  ‘Supposing you decide to go to Milan?’ Zoroastro argued. ‘There will be no opportunity there to do the experiment in private.’

  ‘Perhaps you are right. And we must also consider the weather. If we wait until after May then the summer may be too hot.’

  ‘Matteo knows country lore,’ said Zoroastro. ‘How say you? Will we have a hot summer this year?’

  ‘The trees are already past budding,’ I answered him. ‘And the birds have built their nests high in the branches. I observe that as a sign of hot weather to follow, with little wind.’

  ‘You have studied climate,’ Zoroastro said to my master. ‘You know about the currents in the air. Make your decision. But I say the time is now!’

  As I gazed up at the flying machine I was uneasy. My master had studied the currents of the wind, but I knew the story of Icarus.

  Icarus was the son of Daedalus and they lived in ancient times. This Daedalus was a very clever man and thus was asked by the King of Crete, who was called Minos, to undertake some work of special importance. This work that King Minos required to be done was the building of a labyrinth to contain the Minotaur, a terrible monster with the head of a bull and the body of a man. But once Daedalus had finished, King Minos became fearful that he might reveal to others the true path through the maze. So, in order to prevent Daedalus leaving Crete with his son Icarus, King Minos seized all the ships.

  Daedalus had to think of another way to escape across the sea. Being very inventive, he fashioned wings for himself and his son, so that they could fly above the water. Early one morning Daedalus and Icarus launched themselves from the top of a cliff. Daedalus flew low over the sea and landed safely in Italy. But Icarus wanted to fly higher.

  The sun rose in the sky. Still higher did Icarus fly. Then the heat from the rays of the sun fell upon Icarus. It melted the wax that held the wings onto his shoulders. And Icarus fell into the sea and was drowned.

  But some people say it was not the sun that caused his wings to melt. It was that the gods were angry with Icarus, as they would be angry with any man who dared to fly.

  I thought about this as I lay on my mattress that night. Above me the great winged bird creaked quietly in the draughts that blew in between the gaps in the windows and under the door. I recalled the bad omen on Friday the sixth of June last year when, despite the warning from Zoroastro, my master had begun to paint his fresco at the thirteenth hour. Zoroastro had been proved right. It was not wise to ignore such portents. My master had not paid attention and now his magnificent fresco was all but ruined. Humans had not been born with wings to fly. Many people believe that anyone who dares to thwart the will of the Creator is doomed. Thus, if man attempts to fly, God might reach out His hand from Heaven, and the presumptuous man will be cast down to earth and destroyed.

  Chapter Forty-Two

  HE READJUSTED HER veil.

  It was the sixth or seventh time he had done so. As he went back to his easel I looked more carefully at how the veil hung around her face. Why was he so unhappy with it today? The Donna Lisa was usually able to arrange herself almost exactly as he required.

  On the days the Maestro decided he would paint her I was sent ahead to ensure that she was available and had time to prepare. She would dress in the agreed costume and go to the studio room. With the help of her nurse she would arrange herself in her chair, her clothes draped, her body posed, exactly as she had been doing for the previous months. When he arrived he made the minor adjustments necessary and then the session would begin. I would either leave or stay as he commanded.

  Sometimes he barely waited half an hour in the house, other times he spent half a day or more. When painting her he might stand for very many minutes staring at her or at the portrait. This did not discomfit her. She was a woman who could sit in silence and with her own thoughts. He would come out of his reverie and say a word or two, and she would continue the conversation seamlessly as though an hour had not elapsed. She had her own time and occupied her space in it and was not uncomfortable with his long silences. However, if he felt that her mood was heavy he would ask me to tell a story aloud and I would oblige.

  What was wrong with the veil today? Had she set it further back from her face?

  He continued but only worked for a matter of minutes before putting down his paintbrush.

  ‘You must tell me what is amiss.’

  ‘There is nothing amiss, Messer Leonardo.’

  ‘There is something troubling you.’

  ‘Not at all.’

  ‘The lady I have painted on this board is not the one sitting before me.’

  He was teasing her. And she responded.

  ‘I am my own best companion. I assure you it is I.’

  He sighed and lifted his brush again.

  But there was something altered in her. I studied her carefully and tried to see what he could see. Her dress was the same. Her hair, her veil, her expression . . .

  She glanced at the nurse who always sat in a chair by the door. ‘Zita,’ she said, ‘if you wish to go and rest for a little while I will be all right. I am well chaperoned here within the house. I will send Matteo for you when I need you to attend to me again.’

  The nurse got to her feet gratefully. She went from the room across the courtyard to the servants’ quarters.

  My master looked at me. ‘Matteo’ – he spoke slowly – ‘I see that I am in need of some Alexandrian white. Would you be good enough to go back to the workshop to fetch it for me?’

  I stared at him. It was my responsibility to attend to his brushes and paints and I took these duties very seriously. He knew that there was a plentiful supply of Alexandrian white to hand. From where I stood I could see it clearly. I opened my mouth to say this.

  Before I could speak my master continued, ‘I would need some freshly prepared. Do not hurry with this. I will not expect you back within the hour.’

  I bowed my head and left.

  So I had an hour of free time to myself. As I went into the city by way of San Lorenzo I considered my choices of what to do. I could go directly to the secret workshop in the monastery. Even if Zoroastro did not require my help I enjoyed watching him work. But the day was balmy and I liked being outside.

  Beside which, I felt a tug at my mind. What had begun as a chore had slipped, without my being aware of the change, into something else. With the alphabet and a multitude of basic words ensconced as part of the rhythm of my life, I was beginning to take pleasure in the action of reading. My stumbling phrases were becoming more assured, and as I went down the Corso towards the Arno I looked at the posters and handbills on the walls and picked out words I knew. Every day I did this, the number I recognized increased.

  The scribe was in his usual place by the Ponte Vecchio. When he’d learned that Felipe would give me quality paper to bargain with, he’d agreed to tutor me for as long as I could spare away from my duties. Felipe, whose time was so taken up with trying to restore the fresco and placate the Florentine
Council, had agreed to this arrangement. With the very first sheet I’d brought the scribe had made good money last Christmas and Epiphany. His drawings of the Magi and his script looked so elegant on the superior paper that he’d attracted customers who were prepared to pay a higher price. He was now eating better and could purchase firewood for the stove in the room that he rented.

  ‘Ho, Matteo,’ he said without lifting his head as I drew near to him.

  For an old man he had the most acute hearing, and he was such a fixture in his place at the corner of the tower that people forgot he was there. Thus he gleaned snippets of information by overhearing careless talk and passed it on to others for a free drink and a piece of bread. Now that I think on it, when times were hard with him it was probably the only way he could live without going hungry.

  I knew what it was to go hungry. It had not been so long ago that, faced with a winter of starvation, I had agreed to steal something. And this act of mine had led directly to the death of at least one man: the priest that Sandino had bludgeoned to death.

  I sat down to wait until the scribe had finished the text he was writing. And while he was doing this I took out the little book that had been my gift from Donna Lisa.

  ‘How far have you got with that now?’ the scribe asked me.

  ‘I am on the fourth page and there are six words I do not know.’

  ‘From the beginning then.’ The scribe set down his paper to dry. ‘Let me hear you.’

  ‘“In a faraway land there lived a dragon,”’ I read slowly. ‘“This dragon was a fierce beast with a long, long tail. It had great red wings and a body covered in scales. When it opened up its mouth it breathed out fire with a mighty roar. On its feet were sharp claws and it killed everything that stood in its path.”’

  The book that Donna Lisa had given me was the story of St George and the Dragon. It was the first story that I had ever seen written and understood the words.

  ‘“This dragon lived in a swamp on the edge of a city. Each day the people of the city sent out two sheep to feed to the dragon. And this way they kept it from destroying their city and killing everyone in it. But one day there were no sheep left. There was nothing they could do but to send out their children each day one by one.”’

  I stopped to draw in my breath.

  ‘Do not hurry the story, Matteo.’

  ‘But I want to find out what happened to the children.’

  The scribe laughed. ‘Indeed you shall. Go on.’

  I continued, stumbling along, with him helping me sound out the more difficult words.

  ‘“The day came when there were no more children in the city. No more, save one. She was the Princess Cleodolinda, daughter of the king and queen. They wept bitter tears as their daughter was led out to her doom. Then, just as the dragon came from the swamp to eat the princess, a knight, with armour shining like the sun, appeared on his horse. This knight was a holy man by name of George and he had the strength of ten men. From their castle the king and the queen looked down in terror as the dragon approached their child.”’

  I paused to look at the illustration in the text which showed the distraught king and queen standing on the castle wall. How did it feel to have a mother and father to care about what fate you suffered?

  ‘“Saint George galloped fast on his horse. He dismounted and untied the Princess Cleodolinda. He placed himself between the princess and the dragon. Then he drew his sword and he smote the dragon. Not once but many times. But the scales of the dragon res— res . . .”’

  ‘Resisted,’ prompted the scribe.

  ‘. . . resisted,’ I repeated.

  With the scribe’s help, I continued with the rest of the story.

  ‘“But the scales of the dragon resisted. Then Saint George mounted his horse once again. He took his lance in his hand and, seeking the place under the dragon’s wing where there were no scales, he drove his lance deep into the flesh of the beast. And the dragon fell dead at his feet. Thus the princess and the city were saved.”’

  I finished with a gasp.

  The scribe took the book from my hand.

  I had expected praise. Instead he said, ‘There is little point in reading if you do not also learn to write.’

  ‘Many do not write.’

  ‘They are fools.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘Think on it. Your reading may serve you well enough, but if you want some business done, a contract or some other kind of accounting, then better to have the skill to write. If you ask a dishonest scribe to write your letter rather than doing it for yourself, he can write it in such a way that your true meaning is obscured. And what if your mind turns to story, poetry or song? How can another person write your thoughts and dreams upon the paper?’

  At first he would not trust me with his precious ink and paper.

  ‘I will look on the riverbank and find you a piece of tree bark,’ he said. ‘You can practise with a stick dipped in soot and water.’

  This I did, halting and unsure. And at night by candlelight I practised with some chalk and the letter board that Felipe had purchased for me. The scribe was a strict teacher and he did not accept anything less than perfect. I would make a letter three dozen times or more before he was happy with it. But the day arrived when he had prepared the ink and the pen, and he set me down and gave it into my hand and told me that now I would write my first word.

  And something happened within me. Like a mother sensing the baby quickening within her, suddenly, to me, the letters were no longer hostile and unwieldy. I had command of them, with my head and with my hand.

  I wrote as he instructed me.

  The long curve of the initial descenders with their feather of distinction at the top, the full bellies of the vowels, the twin letters in the middle to create the crispness of the sound.

  Together. There. As if it was always meant to be thus.

  I looked at the page.

  The word struck, as clear and as pure as a bell peal on a winter morning.

  Matteo

  Chapter Forty-Three

  DONNA LISA WAS with child.

  The thing which her doctors said could not happen had come to pass. On the occasion of her loss over two years ago she had believed that she would have no more children. She had whispered these words to my master as we stood in the cold room beside the table on which lay her dead baby.

  That night I had taken the small firebox from his bag and, using a flint, set some charcoal alight to melt the block of wax he had brought. He laid small pieces of linen across the slightly parted eyelids and lips, then, with a spatula, smeared the warm wax over the face of the little girl. When it had hardened he removed the mask and, cushioning it in straw, placed it inside his cloak. Whereupon he asked the nurse, Zita, to summon her mistress.

  It was only then that Donna Lisa allowed grief to overcome her. We could hear her sobs echoing behind us as we hurried out of the house into the winter darkness.

  So now she did not want to speak of her new pregnancy to anyone else until the baby within her grew stronger.

  I thought it would deter my master from his painting, but on the contrary, it now became his favourite occupation. He went to her house more often, in the early morning when the light did not have the harshness of midday, and again when evening began its slow footfall across her courtyard. Often he did not lift his brush, only stared at the painting or spent the time in study of her face. On paper he made countless drawings of her mouth and her eyes.

  It was so subtle that to begin with I hardly noticed. But being with her in the room, I slowly became aware of an illumination in her demeanour that had not been present before. And, as she changed, within the portrait on the board my master sought to capture her transformation. Until the day arrived, as the three of us knew it would, when she said, ‘It is time to tell my husband.’

  ‘Yes,’ the Maestro sighed.

  There was a silence.

  ‘He would indulge me, I know. If I wanted to conti
nue.’

  ‘He is a good man,’ my master replied.

  ‘But—’ she stopped.

  ‘I understand.’

  The sittings were not the same after that.

  The main focus of her world had altered and perhaps she did not wish to be reminded of her former sad despair. It was time for her to move on. She showed us the preparations she was making for the birth of a new life in her house. She led us to where her marriage cassone stood, and opened it, and let us see the baby robes and the linen bands that would be wound around the child when it was born.

  One day the Maestro went to the Via della Stufa by himself and took the painting away. He brought it back to the monastery swaddled in fine cloth that she must have given him. Still wrapped up, he carried it with him when we went to live at Fiesole. There were occasions when he would uncover it, sometimes to work on it, other times to stand and regard it thoughtfully for an hour or more. It went with him on all his future journeys.