Merchants of Milan

by Edale Lane

  “But the Church–” Florentina began.

  “Drivel!” Maddie exclaimed with a disapproving frown. “The Church has no moral authority to speak to such matters, not while we have a Pope who openly keeps a mistress and has fathered children with her despite his supposed vows of celibacy. The Church can mind its own business and keep its hypocritical nose out of ours.”

  Florentina’s eyes met hers and Madelena registered the relief in them, but was it enough? No, she needed to offer more. “I tell you the truth, before I married my late husband I engaged in such an affair and it was quite exhilarating. People should be free to love whoever they wish, isn’t that right Cesare?”

  He grinned and raised his chin. “Indeed. Fiore, as always you only surround yourself with the best sort.” Madelena watched Florentina’s stance relax and noted a new smoky glint in her tawny eyes. Anticipation seared through her veins and she was suddenly very grateful to the lanky artist with the too long hair and scraggly chin whiskers for making a social blunder.

  “I do try,” Florentina answered him with a wry smile. “I suppose you will do as well. Now, enough of this personal blather. We are here to observe one of the greatest works of art known to man, past or present.” She looked over her shoulder to the children who clearly were too busy poking and prodding art utensils to have even been aware of the awkward exchange. “Matteo, Betta, come stand here,” she instructed, and they dutifully obeyed.

  She put her hands on each child’s shoulders and arranged them in turn to stand precisely in the center of the room, then motioned for Madelena to join her behind them. “What do you see?” she asked.

  Betta’s big eyes rounded. “It looks like we’re in the room with them!” Madelena’s curiosity sated, she could now appreciate the nuances of the painting and began to feel the awe it inspired.

  “That’s called perspective,” Cesare explained. “Leonardo gave the painting depth so that it looks more three-dimensional than flat.”

  “Remember when he was setting it up?” Florentina asked him nostalgically. “He hammered a nail into the wall right there,” she pointed, “to the spot where Jesus’s right eye is depicted. He tied strings to the nail and ran them from there to where every other point in the painting would be–the table ends, floor lines, and edges of the columns. Then he drew lines and diagonals to create the illusion of depth in the room.”

  “That’s what we artists call one point perspective,” Cesare expounded. “That way everything in the picture converges on this one place, the vanishing point, which in this case is Jesus’s face, or his right eye to be specific.”

  “The technique does draw my attention to the central figure of Christ,” Madelena noted.

  “I just think it looks really big,” Betta said. “I can’t even see it all at once!”

  “Then look at the pieces individually,” Florentina suggested.

  “Why is the fresco’s paint peeling off?” Madelena was suddenly alarmed as she noticed flakes and fading colors.

  “Actually, it’s not a fresco,” Florentina corrected. “Leonardo was always experimenting. He said that art wasn’t worth doing unless he could do something new.”

  Cesare added, “In a fresco the paint is mixed with the plaster and applied to a wet wall. The master experimented with an oil-tempura on a sealed dry plaster. His hope was to capture the appearance of an oil painting on the wall.”

  “Unfortunately, it didn’t work so well,” Florentina continued. “It took him a few years to complete the project and no sooner than it was done, paint began to flake away. But he always taught us that we learn as much from our failures and from our successes.”

  “I think it was more,” Cesare gently amended. “If I remember it was that we learn more from our failures.”

  “The technique may have not worked, but everything else about this piece is certainly a success,” Madelena observed. “See the expressions on each face?”

  “Hey, there’s six disciples on each side of Jesus,” Matteo noted.

  “Good,” Florentina praised and patted his shoulder. “That’s symmetry.”

  “Look,” Betta pointed. “They are having dinner and the painting is in a dining room. Isn’t that funny?” Madelena smiled and glanced at Florentina who was beaming down at her little girl.

  “What food do you spot on the table?” Florentina asked.

  “I see bread and fruit,” began Matteo.

  “And fish!” Betta exclaimed.

  “That makes sense,” Matteo announced. “Most of the disciples were fishermen.”

  “And Leonardo doesn’t eat meat,” Cesare added. “Maybe fish, but not meat like pork, lamb, or beef.”

  “He’s a vegetarian?” Madelena asked in curiosity. Florentina nodded. “What is your take on that?”

  “Leonardo is a very gentle soul. He doesn’t approve of the raising and slaughtering of animals and would from time to time quote one of the Greek philosophers on the topic of a healthy diet. I cannot speak to the morality of killing livestock for food as I can’t ascertain if they possess a soul or not. I suppose it would be prudent to err on the side of compassion, but I mostly abide by the teaching of Aristotle on the subject–all things in moderation.”

  Betta turned and looked up at her teacher. “What does that mean?”

  Florentina smiled at her and laid a hand on her shoulder. “It means it may not be bad to eat some meat, cakes, and other rich food, but eating too much of those things would be bad for us. Like it’s not harmful to drink a little wine, but if you drink too much, you become drunk and it makes you sick. Some sunshine is good for you, but too much burns your skin… things like that.”

  “Oh,” she replied. “I understand.”

  “Look at that!” Matteo exclaimed. “That man spilled the salt.”

  Madelena raised smiling eyes to Florentina who returned the amused gaze before being overtaken by a new pink flush. Cesare answered the boy. “That is Judas tipping over the salt container. The moment the painting captures is that when Jesus announced that one of those at the table would betray him. Judas was nervous because he knew it was him, so he knocked over the salt. See, he is also holding a money bag with his thirty pieces of silver inside.”

  Matteo’s studious face turned to an angry frown. “Judas was bad. It is wrong to betray your friends, especially Jesus.” Then he spotted something else. “Hey, that man has a knife,” he said pointing.

  It was Florentina’s turn to teach. “That is Peter, one of Jesus’s closest friends. I think he feels the same way as you, Matteo. He’s like, ‘I won’t let someone betray you, Jesus. Show me who it is and I’ll stab him’.”

  “Did he?” Betta asked breathlessly.

  “No,” her mother answered with a smile. “Later he did try to protect Jesus and drew his sword, but Jesus told him to put it away and not to hurt anyone.”

  “Even the bad people?” Matteo asked. “Even the people who killed Papa?”

  Madelena drew in a deep breath and looked to Florentina for help. She nodded and obliged. “Sometimes bad people break the law and then those in authority ensure they are punished. But in this particular case Jesus knew he had to die in order to save us from our sins, so he didn’t want Peter to stop the bad people. Besides, Jesus knew he would rise from the dead so it wasn’t like with your Papa. One day the bad people who hurt him will get caught and be punished, unless they change and become good.”

  Satisfied for the moment, Matteo turned his face back to the Last Supper. Then Betta pointed. “Is that one a girl?”

  “That’s the Apostle John,” Cesare said. “He was the youngest, probably in his teen years, and didn’t have a beard like the older men.”

  “The disciple that Jesus loved,” Florentina added with a smile. “Although some people want to claim it is Mary Magdalene.”

  “Don’t you remember?” Cesare asked her. “He stood there talking to himself for weeks about whether or not to include her in the painting.”

 
“And did you ever hear him make a decision?” Florentina replied. “I think he painted an androgynous character so that the viewer could decide for himself who he thinks it is.”

  Cesare shook his head and made a dismissive expression. “It has to be John or there’s an apostle missing. Besides, Mary was probably serving the meal.”

  “So, that is all you think women are good for, eh? Serving the meal?” Florentina winked at him and he elbowed her in the side. Madelena wished she could be on the same easy footing with her as Cesare was, but mayhap in time.

  Chapter 9

  After the children went to bed, Florentina found herself seated on a walnut carved settee complete with a rose velvet cushion in Madelena’s private bedchamber. She suspected the request to come and view a Madonna and child painting by an unremarkable local artist was simply an excuse to be alone; excitement and apprehension vied for dominance within her breast as she speculated on what may be the real reason for the invitation.

  She was still exhilarated from the perfectly wonderful day the four of them had enjoyed. After viewing the Last Supper, Maddie had taken everyone for lunch at a popular café with outdoor seating. It was a simple fare–minestrone soup and a green salad with sugared figs for dessert. Then the carriage drove them to the spacious Piazza del Duomo in the shadow of the majestic signature cathedral of Milan, its Gothic spires pointing Heavenward. There Madelena purchased a paper kite from a street vendor for the children to play with while Florentina sat with her on a bench near one of the piazza’s fountains. They had each recounted tales from their youth and childhood getting to know each other better. Florentina was not surprised by how different their upbringing had been with the notable exception of both losing their mother at an early age. They laughed at stories of how their fathers had dealt with a young woman’s arrival at puberty. Maddie had an older brother and Florentina had Cesare. The daughter of House Torelli had been raised under a strict regimen while for the inventor’s child each day had been a new, often spontaneous adventure. The sun had sunk low in the sky and the evening’s chill whipped through the air before they could bring themselves to take the carriage home.

  Florentina made a polite comment about the painting without mentioning the partial nudity of the subject which was rather common at the time, and now she waited in a breathless state of vibration wondering just what would happen next. Madelena sat beside her on the cozy bench for two. “I can’t recall when I have enjoyed a day quite as much as I have this one,” she said in her dulcet voice. “You must have experienced many such exhilarating times.”

  Not daring to meet her eyes, Florentina replied, “None like today.” She wasn’t certain what Maddie was planning to do; she hoped for the moon, but was also just a little terrified. There was one thing, however, that she truly believed she should be privy to before anything further transpired between them. “Maddie,” she began tentatively. “What did happen to your husband?” She sensed the atmosphere in the room dampen in an instant and almost wished she hadn’t asked; but the Night Flyer needed to know.

  Madelena folded her hands in her lap and expelled a breath. “I don’t talk about it, but I think I should like to tell you. It’s silly, I know, but I cannot recall anyone with whom I have felt more at ease or more stimulated. You make me feel alive, Fiore; you make me feel real. Vergilio was a good enough husband, but we were not close in the way I feel close to you. After all, his world was that of a man, the domain of business and mercantile. I was only his wife.” She pivoted on the settee to face Florentina who looked on her with honest compassion.

  “One evening he was late getting home. He had formed a partnership with my father upon our engagement and was in charge of the wool division; Ally’s primary expertise is silk. Anyway, he had traveled to our pastures in the countryside to oversee the spring sheering and inspect the quality of the wool. It is only an hour’s ride at a canter and he was an accomplished equestrian. That is how I recognized something was amiss. There are several spirited steeds in our stables, but he purposefully chose a docile gelding for the trip as it was for business.”

  Florentina detected the signs of distress in Maddie as she relived the event and reflexively reached over to take her hand. Madelena flicked appreciative eyes at her, took a breath, and continued. “It was well after dark and he still was not home, which was very unusual. Then there was pounding on the door and Iseppo opened it. I was worried so Ally and I rushed to see. Two men whom I had never met were holding Vergilio, who appeared to be unconscious, and dragged him inside. They laid him on a fainting couch, said they found him along the road thrown from his horse. Then they left, and I never saw them again. We didn’t even catch their names. Ally sent for a physician, but…” she lowered her gaze to their intertwined fingers. “He was already dead. I think he was dead when they brought him in.”

  “Maddie, I am so sorry that you had to experience that,” Florentina comforted. “It must have been awful to see your husband like that. I know it was to watch my father die.”

  Madelena raised dew-moistened forest leaf eyes to her in a moment of solidarity. “But I am convinced he didn’t simply fall from his horse,” she declared with vigor. “He was a damned good rider on a gentle mount in fair weather. I even traveled out to the sheep pasture, and they said he never arrived–gone all day and he never even got there! The whole episode was bizarre. I tell you the truth, Fiore, someone killed him. Naturally I suspect Don Benetto, but I can’t prove it.” Her voice trailed off, and she lowered her head.

  “But why would Viscardi want to kill your husband?” Florentina asked gently.

  Madelena sighed. “Who knows? Because he’s a mean rat’s bastard, Vergilio looked at him wrong or some other perceived slight, he’s petty and jealous, it was a Tuesday.” At that her voice cracked, and she lifted one hand to push her hair aside. She had removed pins and ribbons and untwined the braids leaving a flow of flaming silk to drape her shoulders. Florentina gave the hand she held a little squeeze and stroked her other across Maddie’s back in solace. “Truly though, Vergilio was too outspoken on his political views, which were in direct opposition to the Viscardi’s.”

  “Oh?”

  “You see, my husband was a stanch supporter of the Sforzas. It made sense,” she explained. “The Sforza family dukes did much to bring our city-state to prominence. Their policies stimulated the economy, they patroned the arts, they commissioned grand architectural and engineering projects.” Then she turned her eyes to Florentina’s. “They brought Leonardo da Vinci to Milan. But then larger neighboring nations wanted to lay claim to Lombardy, and Benetto saw gold. He shifted his support to the French king, knowing that wars fought over our land would send coins streaming into an arms dealer’s coffers. It did pay off for him politically when the French King Louis defeated Ludovico il Moro and he was sent into exile. Vergilio never liked that foreigners rule our Duchy instead of Milanese and said so publicly far too often. I suppose the French could have had him killed to silence his rebellious speech. But you suspect Benetto murdered your father?”

  “I know he did,” Florentina affirmed. “He told me as much just before… No one would believe a grieving daughter who surely was mistaken. The physician wrote that his heart gave out as there were no signs of injury to the body, but Viscardi poisoned him and that is a fact; it is also a fact that no judge will ever hold him to account for it, or anything else he may have done.”

  In the next instant Maddie placed a caressing hand to her face, leaned in, and kissed her. Although she had been anticipating this very possibility for hours, it came on her as swift and unforeseen as a summer storm. The sensual heat of those urgent lips melded to hers ignited something deep within Florentina’s core that sprung to life for the very first time and exploded throughout her being, a sensation so phenomenal, so novel that she had no context in which to place it. Breathless, her mind went totally blank, and she simply savored the moment.

  When Madelena withdrew she whispered, “I’m sorry, I
didn’t mean to overstep.”

  “Sorry?” Florentina’s heart sank and her head spun. How could she be sorry? “Why? I’m not.”

  “You’re not?” Maybe Maddie was as uncertain as she, as overcome with raw emotion and not knowing how to express it. “It’s just that–and I have contemplated this–with me being your employer and all, I don’t want you to expect you must do something you aren’t comfortable with. I would never pressure you-”

  It was Florentina’s turn to be impulsive. She silenced Maddie by repeating the gesture, tasting again those full, cherry lips that flooded her mind, body, and soul with sensations. When it broke, they gazed into each other’s eyes looking for confirmation. “I understand I am only a servant in your household.”

  “Don’t say that!” Maddie replied firmly. “That is not how I view you. Please, Fiore. How can I explain?”

  The earlier butterflies began to settle in Florentina’s stomach and the fog of trepidation evaporate. She could perceive that the beautiful wealthy widow did regard her with esteem, did have feelings for her. This was not a mere dalliance she realized. “I care for you also,” she spoke softly and stroked Maddie’s luxurious strands. “Do not think you press me to do something I have not wanted to do since the moment I first saw you.”

  Relief engulfed Madelena’s expression, and she brushed her cheek to Florentina’s then nuzzled her neck with moist, eager lips. A euphoric sigh escaped Fiore’s mouth at the intimate touch and she pulled Maddie closer. When their lips found each other’s again she opened to the honey-sweet tongue that was impatient to delve into it. Without willing them to do so, she realized her fingers were wound in those silky red strands while her other hand slid down Madelena’s back as far as the bench would allow. She could perceive her heartbeat against her own heated breast. This is what she had dreamt of and it surpassed her expectations. All she wanted to do was touch, caress, explore, and please this singular woman. Even as she was rendered breathless from the physical passion, her heart was telling her head that what she felt was far more, endlessly deeper. It was a very dangerous cavern, a bottomless pit that could spell her doom; she was falling in love.