I took the pen in trembling hands. I wrote out my name, Matteo.
Next he brought a book from the shelf and opened it at a random page. ‘Now read.’
I stumbled over the text but I managed a line or two.
He did not smile. ‘It is good,’ he said. ‘But not good enough. If you wish to come as part of my household to Milan you must give me your solemn word to undertake to be educated as I decree.’
I thought of the letter I had in my tunic, the warning from the scribe. I nodded.
‘Say it.’
‘I promise.’
‘Then it will be so.’ He left the room abruptly.
Salai departed the next day. Within the week the boxes were collected by carriers, and at the beginning of June 1506 we set out for Milan.
PART FIVE
WAR
Milan, 1509 – three years later
Chapter Forty-Six
‘STEP – ONE – TWO.
‘Now, forward – three – four. And—’
‘Stop!
‘Matteo, you are like a great ox plodding through the Piazza San Marco pulling a load of bricks.’
I let my hands drop to my sides and hunched my shoulders.
‘La Poursuite is a dance of elegance, of style and wit,’ Felipe went on. ‘If you are to attend any of the French balls next week then you must be graceful. Try not to look as though you are trampling grapes at harvest time.’
‘You must take smaller steps, Matteo.’ Graziano spoke encouragingly. ‘Imagine yourself approaching a lady. A lady, you understand. And you are a gentleman.’
‘We aspire to make you one, at any rate,’ commented Felipe dryly.
Graziano ignored him. ‘So, Matteo, extend your hand. Thus . . .’ He fluttered his fingers at me. ‘And be mindful, you are not a bear offering a paw.’
Graziano, for all his great size, was surprisingly light on his feet. Acting the part of the woman, he danced towards me with tiny steps and delicately offered me his outstretched fingertips.
I tried to imitate his movements as best I could, walking on tip-toes and thrusting my fist at him.
He began to laugh at me. Felipe joined in.
I waited a moment then I laughed too. Despite years in their company I was still unsure of their Tuscan sense of humour. I heard my own laughter as strained and artificial. Even though I’d grown, and at sixteen considered myself a man, I was still young enough to take offence easily.
I tried again.
‘That’s better,’ said Graziano. He allowed my fingers to brush against his. ‘Now you go back and come forward to me once more. But this time the man moves in closer to the woman.’
Concentrating fiercely, I ensured that I adopted the right positions for my feet, held my body the correct way and paced out the specific movements of the dance. Guided by Felipe clapping time, I stepped up to Graziano and proffered my upraised hand. I managed to do this all together. I was quite pleased with my effort.
‘No, no, no!’ cried Felipe in despair. ‘If you stride about the floor like that, the dance will be finished before it’s begun.’
‘For me it would be better to be over quickly,’ I muttered.
Of all the new arts and graces my master had decided that I must learn while living in Milan this was my least favourite. I could see the purpose in being able to write and read, or developing a skill with a musical instrument, but dance, to me, was a foolish waste of time. To my mind the sooner the dance was completed the better, and I told my two instructors this.
‘The intention of dancing is not for the event to be completed quickly,’ responded Felipe. ‘The purpose of a dance is more than to pass the time. You must enjoy the movement, let your body respond to the music.’
‘And to respond also to the ladies or men with whom you are dancing,’ Graziano chuckled.
‘I am interested neither in ladies nor in men in that way.’
Felipe made a clicking noise with his teeth. ‘Matteo, no matter what affairs of the heart you choose or choose not to undertake, you must learn to dance. Unless of course you intend to take Holy Orders?’
‘With some clergy ordination is no deterrent,’ said Graziano. He turned to me. ‘To learn to dance is a great accomplishment. This dance is especially important, as it is a dance of intrigue. The steps are a pattern of approach and retreat. It’s a lesson for life.’
‘How can a dance be a lesson for life?’
‘One could look on it as an apprenticeship in how to court a woman.’
‘I do not wish to court a woman.’
‘Ah, you say that now, but in time your heart will direct you differently.’
‘If I did wish to court a woman, I would declare myself and be done with it.’
‘That would be folly.’ Graziano shook his head. ‘It does not do to let a woman know directly that you have been smitten by her looks or charm.’
‘Why not?’
‘It would give her even more power over you.’
‘But women have no power, or very little at any rate.’
Both men smiled.
‘And I thought you said you had contact with Lucrezia Borgia at one time in your life,’ Felipe pretended to muse aloud.
That name was like a past I hardly knew. My life had altered so much since I’d arrived in Milan three years ago. The circumstances in which I lived were more sophisticated than I had ever known. In this city Leonardo da Vinci was treated with high honour by the French, who ruled the duchy. The governor, Charles d’Amboise, admired and respected my master greatly, as did his own master in turn, King Louis of France. Our Maestro was housed and fed, and awarded honours and income, with the members of his household included in the hospitality.
And, as promised, my education began.
Felipe found me good tutors. Despite my late start and my initial inattention my teachers managed to build on the foundations of the Sinistro Scribe. Now I could write well, and read fluently. And they were attempting to instil into me Greek, Latin, mathematics, history and philosophy.
I knew that I must attend to my studies. So, while the other members of the studio were working on artistic commissions I was with my tutors or at my books. If I fell behind in my lessons or received bad reports I saw that it would be difficult for me to keep a place within the da Vinci household. The Maestro’s workshop did not exist here in the same manner as it had done in Florence. From the beginning, when we were lodged at the castle, within this offshoot of the French court, my duties were reduced. There were more than enough pages, cooks, cleaners and sundry other servants to see to anything Felipe or my master wanted. And then later, when my master had set up his own studio near San Babila, Charles d’Amboise ensured that the Maestro lacked for nothing. He took care of his personal comfort by sending him staff on a regular basis – washerwomen, tailors, cooks and his own barber to attend to him.
Salai had been right when he had warned me that the Maestro would have little use for an uneducated boy in Milan. Also, any professional personal assistance my master needed was now mostly undertaken by his new pupil, Francesco Melzi. This Francesco was a handsome, talented young man of about my own age whose father was a friend of the Maestro. Francesco was intelligent and courteous. He painted and wrote well, and he began gathering and sorting my master’s vast collection of papers, treatises and books. He arranged his appointments and scribed his letters and saw to other tasks that I could never have done. From time to time I would be asked to set out my master’s drawing materials or accompany him on an excursion, but even I now saw that I would benefit from a full formal education.
What I had not realized was that the lessons which I had avoided for so long would engage and draw me in. That enduring the struggles with grammar and comprehension and the arduous hours of recitation and learning and committing facts to memory would stimulate as well as exhaust me. To know the histories meant that I was able to take part in discussions that perplexed yet beguiled me. And all of this triggered by the own
ership of that first little book, the story of Saint George and the Dragon given to me by Donna Lisa in Florence.
Sometimes when he went to dinner the Maestro still sent for me to carry his satchel if he had drawings to show the company. And it was there that I heard the conversations of the mathematician Luca Pacioli. No longer did I stand by my master’s side, dull and staring, my mind half adrift from the babble of voices. Now I attended the discourse on subjects as vast and as interesting as the unexplored New World was rumoured to be. The Maestro debated with poets like Gian Giorgio Trissino, and Bernardino Zenale the painter. I began to empathize with the urge within the mind of my master – his need to know. Like him, I now wanted to know all things.
All things, that is, with the exception of the tortures of the dancing lesson. I did not like this social aspect of my education. With my natural reticence and a lingering fear of the discovery of my origins I did not foresee a time when I would ever wish to dance in public.
‘Listen,’ said Graziano, cocking his head. He went to the window and opened the shutter.
The steady beat of a side drum sounded from the street below. Another party of French soldiers were returning from their recent great victory over the Venetians.
‘There will be a Carnival when King Louis arrives in the city,’ Graziano went on, ‘and I know that you enjoy Carnival, Matteo. This time I insist that you accompany me out in the later part of the night to join in the celebrations, and for that you must be able to dance at least a little.’
Chapter Forty-Seven
KING LOUIS OF France arrived in Milan the next day, the twenty-fourth of July. We watched from our rooftop. My master had designed some of the pageants and spectacles to celebrate the French king’s triumphal entry into Milan at the head of his troops. King Louis was returning from his glorious victory at Agnadello, a small village north-east of Milan. The might of Venice had been trampled in the mud and the victorious French soldiers were laden with a variety of goods looted from the routed Venetian armies. Cannon fired from the battlements as, flanked by the marshals with the lily of France emblazoned on their surcoats, the royal procession made its way to the castle, scattering coins and comfits as it went.
And that night for Carnival I went out with Graziano, more as an adult than a child, to join in the merrymaking. Rather than going about the streets in the evening playing japes like the other young boys, I donned a long cloak and put a mask over my face.
It was the first time that I had worn a full Carnival mask and the effect of seeing my face gilded and sporting the long hooked nose was both disturbing and exhilarating. I paused in front of the great mirror that hung in our hallway. Mature enough now to look at my reflection without fear of any spirit trapping my soul, I looked at the figure before me. Sufficiently tall to be judged a few years older than I actually was, with my boyish features hidden under the false face and the cloak giving my stature length and elegance, I fancied I might be taken for eighteen at least.
A surge of excitement coursed through me as Graziano and I stepped out of our doorway. In my disguise I was unknown, unrecognizable to anyone, even myself. Immediately the current of the street engulfed us and we were at once part of the merriment and laughter. Carnival is the time when respectable men and women can dress up to conceal their identity and go forth among the crowds; when wine flows and people allow themselves abandonment.
A bunch of partygoers surged past us blowing trumpets and trailing streamers. The music increased in strength as we came into the streets leading to the main square. In the Piazza del Duomo jugglers spun plates and coloured balls in the air as their assistants canvassed the onlookers, begging and bullying coins from them. Huge stilt walkers clumped about above a fury of colours: purples, yellows, bright greens and reds. Boisterous clowns and jesters capered among the crowds. The smell of the burning bonfires and the wine, the heat of bodies close together with their mixture of acrid sweat and sweet perfume excited me.
A line of dancers swung past us. At the tail end, a woman, wearing a silk mask across the upper part of her face. Her mouth vibrant red. Through the slits of her mask her eyes surveyed me boldly. She stepped away, then stopped and beckoned to me.
Graziano pushed me in the back. ‘Go on with you,’ he said.
‘I do not know the steps of this dance,’ I protest.
‘Matteo, Matteo’ – he laughed – ‘every man and woman born upon this earth knows the steps of that dance. It is the one you learn by taking part in it.’
The woman took my hand and pulled me along. Her grasp was firm, and when we paused now and then she gave me wine to drink from a leather wineskin she had in a pocket of her cape.
In the centre of the square she carried me off into a huge circle and someone else found my other hand. In the swirling frenzy I did not know with whom I was dancing. Was the woman deliberately pressing her body against mine? I sensed the trace of her fingers on my neck as we turned, and as she leaned towards me, bringing her hands together to applaud the music, her neckline gaped. The swelling of her breasts was evident. She moved, and the shadow between them deepened.
We were thrown out of the circle together, but almost immediately another group formed about us. Hands pulled at my tunic and dragged me into their line. The wine I’d drunk, the dancing, the woman’s presence, all had made me dizzy. Suddenly the woman was in front of me again. She laughed up into my face, pinched my cheek and whirled away. I ran to catch up.
I can dance! I dance very well. I danced with everyone who let me, men, women, girls, boys, until the early hours of daybreak, until my vision blurred and I felt faint.
Somewhere amidst it all I lost Graziano.
Eventually I stumbled against a wall and tried to steady myself. I fought my way to the edge of the square and plunged into an alleyway. It was quieter here, almost empty. An open courtyard faced me. There was a fountain playing. I pulled off my mask and bent my face to the water to drink.
There was a woman beside me.
‘Are you all right, young sir?’
Her voice was husky.
‘I needed some air.’ My head swam as I straightened up, but my mind was clear enough to know that this was the woman who had dragged me into the dance earlier. She must have followed me here. What was her interest in me? We did not know each other, and tonight I carried no purse.
She must have seen my hand reach for my belt to where my purse normally hung, for she laughed and said, ‘I’m not interested in what you carry on your belt.’
She pronounced the word ‘on’ with a faint inflection, and as she saw me pick up on the significance of that she laughed again, deep in her throat. She reached her hand to put it to my cheek. I felt her warmth. She took off her own eye mask and looked at me.
Then she kissed me, full on the mouth.
I was so taken aback that I did nothing.
My mouth stayed open. I had never been kissed before. Not like that. My grandmother’s benediction on my forehead or my cheek was a brief one, performed with closed lips.
This woman’s lips had some kind of colouring on them. I tasted this. I tasted something else. Mixed with her breath was the fertile pulp aroma of some fruit she had eaten. And, underneath all of that, yet throbbing through it, something else, insistent and dangerous.
‘Close your mouth.’ She nudged me under my chin with her fingers. ‘You look like a codfish gaping on a slab at the market.’
I clamped my lips together but opened them again as she handed me her wineskin. I drank some wine.
Not taking her eyes from mine, she took it back and wiped the neck and drank some herself. Then she put it down beside the fountain and turned to face me. She placed her two hands on my chest. Her nails were long and painted.
Into the courtyard with a burst of sound and energy came some dancers: twirling, frenetic. They called on her, and then two of them prevailed upon her to go with them, she protesting. She shrugged and blew a kiss at me as they danced away.
My leg
s were weak and my head hot. I went back out into the alley. The wall was cooler than the air about me and I pressed my face against it. Holding to its firmness I groped my way along until I reached one of the main streets, where I turned in the direction of the studio.
I found my bed but I did not find sleep until dawn came to the city and the last of the revellers were quiet.
Chapter Forty-Eight
‘I SAW YOU with that courtesan last night, Matteo.’
My face flushed crimson.
‘Oh, what a gorgeous colour on Matteo’s cheeks!’ Graziano continued to tease me. He lifted an apple from the plate on the breakfast table and held its rosy skin next to my face. ‘See? The fruit is dull by comparison. If only I could capture Matteo’s blush in my palette then my sunsets would be glorious.’
‘A courtesan?’ I managed to reply.
‘Don’t tell me you didn’t know!’ said Graziano in mock surprise. ‘What other kind of woman would kiss a man in the street in such a manner?’
‘The question is, did she kiss you, Graziano?’ Salvestro, one of the other pupils, rallied to support me.
‘Of course!’ Graziano replied. ‘And before the night was over I’d had more than one kiss, I can tell you.’ He winked broadly.
I was aghast. My woman of the Carnival who had so disturbed my dreams last night had also kissed Graziano. Graziano! It was not that he was not a nice person. He was very likeable. But he was much older than me and very fat.
‘Oh now! Look at Matteo’s face. He is devastated. Did you think she had kept her mouth only for you, little one?’
This was from Salai. And, as always, he took teasing to the point of hurtfulness.
He leaned over the table and flicked my ear. I pushed his hand away. But it did not stop him from pursuing me further.
‘I’ll wager she’d kissed a dozen other men before Carnival was done?’
Other men.
How stupid of me.
The Medici Seal Page 24
