by Karen Essex
Isabella knew that she was going to Milan with fiendish thoughts on her mind, but she couldn’t help it. One couldn’t stop thoughts from arriving in one’s brain. She hoped to find Beatrice big and fat in her pregnancy so that she, Isabella, could look more beautiful in Ludovico’s eyes—that is, if he was not already beside himself with the wanting of her. Oh, she had no intention of succumbing to his advances. She had already worked out in her mind the scenario by which she would refuse intercourse with him. She would tell him that the Gonzagas were expert breeders, known throughout the world for their fastidiousness and genius in breeding perfect horses and dogs. Did Ludovico not think that Francesco would not see the signs of another man’s features in his own child’s face, should their affair lead to pregnancy? But she had no opportunity to play the rehearsed scene.
She arrived to the news that the duke and duchess were in conference with the Magistro. What luck, she thought. She would use the opportunity to directly schedule a sitting with Leonardo, avoiding the intermediaries. This time, he could not use Ludovico’s demands upon him if Ludovico were there to release him to her. And surely Ludovico would do that for her. Beatrice, pregnant and secure with her husband, would surely support the idea.
Over the protestations of the duke’s secretary—“They will cherish the surprise of my arrival,” she assured the man—Isabella outpaced Ludovico’s staff and entered the parlor unannounced.
Isabella perceived the inhabitants of the room as if players in a tableau. Ludovico’s hands were in midair in the universal gesture of frustration. In one hand, he held a piece of parchment that fell limp over his fingers like a handkerchief. The Magistro had his weight on his back foot as if in a reluctant bow, his chin slightly tucked and eyes downcast like a proud Spanish don who had just suffered a slight to his dignity. Beatrice’s hands were pressed together at the chest, as if she were making a silent prayer for conciliation between the two men. A skinny boy, presumably the Magistro’s servant, cowered by the hearth. The conversation was hushed now, but the tension from whatever was last said hung in the air. All faces turned toward Isabella, each registering the surprise of her intrusion. No one moved but remained frozen. Finally, Ludovico spoke.
“What a charming surprise,” he said, placing the parchment on a table with what appeared to be a series of drawings, which Isabella hoped were renderings and plans for one of the Magistro’s great works. She so loved to see works of art in the planning stages.
Beatrice, plump, robust, and glowing, moved quickly toward her sister, embracing her. The Magistro, Isabella saw over Beatrice’s shoulder, was making great circles with his arms as he bowed low and formal, showing her the top of his head. She noticed that his lush suede shoe, toe pointed directly at her, was decorated with jewels.
“How dreadful of me to interrupt your conference,” Isabella said.
“Nonsense,” Ludovico said. “It is wonderful to see you safely arrived. In fact, being a renowned patron of many artists, perhaps you can assist me in this discussion with our great master.”
Ludovico took his sister-in-law from his wife’s arms and kissed both her cheeks. Beatrice was uncharacteristically quiet, perhaps grateful that Isabella had arrived to mediate. She withdrew behind Ludovico and Isabella, sitting on a chair with a small sigh, relieved of carrying the weight of the baby in her belly. Isabella registered this fact, hoping that Beatrice’s pregnancy would be keeping her more sedentary than usual and unable to interfere with any of her sister’s schemes.
Ludovico spread the drawings on the desk for Isabella to see—dozens and dozens of sketches of every conceivable element of a horse’s body from snout to tail. Flaring nostrils, open mouths revealing fierce teeth, prancing legs, sturdy flanks, even muscular rear ends with long flouncing tails jumped at her from the page.
“Ah, studies for the great equestrian monument,” Isabella exclaimed.
The most startling of the sketches was of a horse rearing up on its hind legs, front legs scrambling violently in the air, with a rider clinging fiercely to its back.
“Why, it looks as if this creature might come to life, throw its rider, and gallop off the page,” Isabella said. She scrutinized the Magistro’s face for a reaction to the compliment and was happy to see a modest smile break across his face, as if she had scored a point for a team on which both of them might be playing.
“Yes, true enough,” said Ludovico. “Lovely drawings, all. But our maestro will not begin sculpting the horse in earnest unless he can figure out how to accomplish the impossible, which is to make a colossal bronze of the animal rearing on its hind legs. I am told by everyone that this cannot be achieved!”
“Everything might be achieved with time and inquiry,” Leonardo said.
Ludovico riffled through the drawings for a particular one, and finding it, waved it in Leonardo’s face.
“And what does this have to do with your interminable goal of making the horse stand on its rear legs while synchronizing its front legs in perfect motion and harmony?”
The Magistro stiffened against the anger hurled at him. He stood slightly taller, Isabella noticed, rather than cowering before his benefactor.
Isabella took the drawing from Ludovico. It appeared to be an architectural plan for equestrian stables.
“With your permission, Your Excellency?” the Magistro said, taking the drawing from Isabella and placing it on the table. He pointed to what appeared to be a system of chutes. “This is a design for what I believe would be the perfect stable. Here, the hay would flow automatically from the lofts above, freeing up the stable attendants for other labors. Never again would one have to worry over feeding times. The troughs are replenished with pumps, a system of plumbing that would rival the finest of baths in castles and palaces. Clean water would flow freely and upon need.” The Magistro stepped back from his creation so that he could see Isabella’s response. But Ludovico interrupted before she could speak.
“But how does this get us any closer to the monument?” Ludovico asked, his shaky voice rising with each word.
“You are a forward-thinking man, Your Excellency,” the Magistro countered. “I assumed that you would like to be the owner of the most advanced and modern stables in Italy.”
Isabella was about to invite Leonardo to Mantua to show his designs to her husband, the most famous breeder of horses in Italy, who would surely appreciate his labors, when Ludovico spoke again.
“Magistro Leonardo,” Ludovico began, his efforts to control himself visible in the tightening of his jaw, “we have been more than a dozen years in discussion, you and I, over the matter of the horse. If you do not soon present me with a monument, something with hooves, a tail, and a mane, I will be forced to cancel the commission and put a living horse on a pedestal, to be changed whenever it dies from thirst, inactivity, or heatstroke!”
Leonardo stood silently, amazed, perhaps, along with Isabella, at Ludovico’s outburst.
“It would be less costly!” Ludovico added as if bolstering his argument. “Even if the horses were of fine quality!”
“Ah, Your Excellency, I see that you believe I have wasted my hours, when it has been my highest intent to create something not commonly seen, something extraordinary and new with which to honor the memory of your illustrious father.” Leonardo’s voice was silky and even. “I shall quicken my efforts, not because I believe that speed will contribute to quality, but because it is my fondest wish to serve you.”
With that, the Magistro’s nostrils flared, not unlike those of the horses in his drawings. He did not appear insulted or angry, but rather puffed himself up like a rooster who was about to leave a satisfied henhouse.
Before Ludovico could reply, the Magistro performed perfunctory bows in the directions of Beatrice and Isabella, snapping his finger at his mute servant before turning away from them and hurrying from the room. The boy scooped Leonardo’s drawings off the table and, without meeting anyone’s eyes, ran after his master. Isabella wanted to fly after the Ma
gistro and invite him to Mantua, but she dared not. She wanted to assure him that neither she nor the marquis would ever hurry his genius; that they understood that such labors evolved in their own time. She looked to her sister, expecting Beatrice to admonish her husband for his impatience, but Beatrice was in the act of standing and offering her chair to him instead.
“My dear, you mustn’t allow yourself to get so distraught over these dealings with the Magistro. It isn’t good for your health. He does not mean to be a frustration to you.”
Rather than sit, Ludovico took his wife into his arms, kissing her forehead. “Imagine, Isabella! My wife is heavy with child, and it’s my health that concerns her.” He raised Beatrice’s face so that he could look into her eyes. “How did I ever live without you, my darling? Isabella, does she not look positively beatific?”
Indeed, she did. Beatrice’s cheeks were cherub pink and, like her belly, rounded. She must have been staying off her steeds as a precaution because her skin was soft and pale like the petal of a white rose. Beatrice’s brown doll’s eyes were wider than ever, but in Isabella’s mind, there was a new strength to her sister that belied her ever-softening features. Yet Ludovico was doting over her as if she were a newly acquired piece of precious porcelain.
“A rose in full bloom,” Isabella muttered, aware that she had not only just lost an opportunity to arrange a sitting with Leonardo but was also losing whatever secret power she had formerly held over her brother-in-law. She even wondered if Ludovico had his outburst in front of her so that she would see his difficulties with the Magistro and stop requesting a sitting. Her brother-in-law was capable of such subtle intrigue, though mistaken if he thought his sister-in-law would be so easily deterred.
“The man acquired his position at this court after convincing me that it was his great passion to make the equestrian statue in honor of my father, but in the last twelve years, he has spent his time on everything but that.”
“You don’t know the half of it, Isabella,” Beatrice said. “The Magistro tells us that he spends all his time working toward sculpting the horse, but we have heard that he is devoting secret time to inventing a machine that would enable a man to take flight as if he were a bird! Imagine!”
“Can you not withhold his household allowance?” Isabella inquired. “He should soon be hungry enough to do your bidding.”
“Oh, I am soft when it comes to genius,” Ludovico exclaimed, putting his head in his hands as if he was never sorrier for another soul than he was for himself for having this all-too-mortal foible.
Ludovico went on to explain how Leonardo spent all his days at the stables, admiring four particular stallions, as well as the magnificent frescoes of different-colored horses, and drawing them from every possible angle. “He has spent more time looking at a horse’s rear end than any man in history,” Ludovico complained, throwing Beatrice into peals of giggles. “I believe he is trying to make a horse’s ass out of me!”
“One cannot hurry genius,” Isabella said, aware that Ludovico was, with every utterance, also preparing her for the disappointment of hearing that Leonardo making a portrait of her on this visit was out of the question.
“I am beside myself,” Ludovico complained. “A few months ago, I sent a request to Lorenzo the Magnificent to send me another Florentine sculptor who would execute the equestrian monument. But then Lorenzo—God rest his discriminating and shrewd soul—passed away. I’ll never be able to replace Leonardo now. Damn the man!”
“You must rest, Ludovico,” Beatrice said. “These things always have a way of working out for the best.” She took Isabella’s arm, leading her out of the room.
“Would Ludovico really send the Magistro away?” Isabella asked, wondering if she could use this opportunity to steal the Magistro away to Mantua without incurring her brother-in-law’s wrath.
“Oh, Ludovico will calm down. Those two are like an old married couple, Isabella. At the end of the day, they always make up. They would no more part company than would Mother and Father.”
ISABELLA had her first opportunity to be alone with Ludovico when he offered to take her on a tour of the Treasure Tower. Ludovico took the key from the steward and dismissed him, opening the door for Isabella and allowing her to walk in. Armed guards, replaced every eight hours, Ludovico explained, stood at attention as the marchesa passed by and into the vaults. She heard the door close behind her.
Light streamed from triangular windows set high in the walls, falling on bushels and bushels of silver ducats sitting in painted barrels and organized according to weight and worth. Long tables held jewels of every kind, the stones and gems too numerous in variety for Isabella to identify. Great silver crosses laden with diamonds were arranged from small to large covering the length of a dining table. Collars and belts glittering with variegated gems lay waiting to be placed about the neck or hip of the fortunate. Tapestries and paintings lined the walls from ceiling to floor. Trunks of silver sat upon handwoven carpets, and tall candelabra of gold and silver, perhaps two hundred pairs, crowded the corner of the great room like some strange army frozen in motion. In the far reaches of the vault sat heaps of coins of every kind, piled so high that Isabella guessed that Beatrice, on her best horse, could not have jumped it.
Isabella felt light-headed surrounded by so much wealth, realizing that she was visiting her sister’s personal jewelry box. “Dazzling,” she finally said to Ludovico, who had awaited her response.
“This is nothing,” he said, producing another dark iron key from the pocket of his robe. He then began to open the doors of the cabinets lining the walls. Isabella hardly knew how to take in the contents—crowns and other bejeweled headpieces; rings of every size, shape, and stone; ropes of pearls both black and white; and reams of golden cloth and heavy brocade.
“It is too much to take in,” Isabella said. “Two eyes are inadequate to the task.”
“The wealth of a small kingdom inside every cabinet,” Ludovico said.
“The cabinets alone are beautiful,” Isabella said, noting the intricate ivy pattern painted delicately on every door. She tried to trace the snaking design with her eyes, getting dizzy in the process.
“Designed and decorated by the Magistro himself,” Ludovico said.
Ah, Isabella thought, an opening. “Having him make my portrait would be worth everything in this room to me,” Isabella said, as if to the air.
“And yet I can give you anything in this room but that,” she heard him say. She turned around to look at him. Gone was the dancing flirtation in his eyes that had been there the last time she saw him. He seemed older now, treating her as if she were the younger, and Beatrice the more mature. Could pregnancy accomplish so much?
“I must be very direct with you, Your Excellency.” He had never sounded so formal when addressing her. Isabella knew it signaled the end of a certain intimacy between them. “I have already approached the subject with my wife. She will not brook such a thing. She fears that it would signal to the world that I have had another affair.”
“But if the Magistro painted her first?” Isabella offered, feeling the hollow of her stomach sink, remembering how she, herself, had already sabotaged that possibility.
“She won’t have it. She will not be placed on par with one of my mistresses.”
Isabella leaned on one of the tables for support. She thought she would faint. How could she have been so stupid? So intentionally cruel? And now God was punishing her for the sin. She deserved to suffer.
At the same time, she knew that she was not about to give up. This would not be like giving up on a pearl ring or an antique vase or some other trifle. This would be like giving up on immortality itself. But at this moment, she was caught in the middle of a web that she herself had spun and unsure of what to do.
“You look unwell, Isabella,” Ludovico said, taking her hand without a trace of the sensuality that used to pass between them. He looked at her like a concerned father.
“What can we do
?” she asked him with tears forming in her upturned eyes.
“At the moment, nothing. As you know, there have been rumors enough about the two of us. The situation is delicate for many reasons. I have tried to make friends everywhere, but I am discovering that I have many enemies. I cannot afford to make one of my wife.”
LUDOVICO palliated the pain he caused in the Treasure Tower by giving Isabella a lengthy bolt of gold brocade. “Have something lovely made up,” he told her, kissing her on the forehead. The forehead! Then he took her hand, and with the old music back in his voice, confided that things were more complex than she imagined and she must be patient. He invited no further discussion as to what he meant by that cryptic statement, but left her to attend to other business.
The next day, Isabella’s world was further shaken when she came to lunch, only to see a lovely blond woman—sweet of face, curvaceous of body, with sharp, intelligent sea-green eyes—laughing as Beatrice played with a hearty brown-haired little boy. Though she had filled out since she sat for the Magistro more than ten years ago, Isabella recognized the woman instantly from the portrait, and the boy, from the dark hair and full, pouting lips he inherited from his father.
Isabella had no idea how to react to the introduction to Cecilia Gallerani, Ludovico’s former mistress, who now sat at table with Ludovico’s wife, who was bouncing Ludovico’s bastard on her knee. Beatrice could not have been more gracious, even hand-feeding little Cesare sweets and remarking on his resemblance to the Sforza clan. “He will have Ludovico’s height,” she said, as if nothing in the world could have delighted her more than that her husband’s bastard son would not have to suffer being short.
