Leonardo's Swans

by Karen Essex

  “No, not entirely. I do not like to sit for artists. I am too fidgety. I particularly do not want to spend hours under his scrutiny. Though I revere his work, and though he shows only charm in my presence, he makes me uncomfortable. There is something dark and intense about the man.”

  “I do not believe I have ever met the lighthearted genius, Beatrice. At least he is handsome and mannered, and not sickly and sour all the time like Mantegna.”

  “Ludovico says that the portrait by the great painter of our day will bring honor to the family, and so I must do it. He has convinced me that asking the Magistro to make my likeness is an act of love on his part. ‘I must move mountains to get the man to paint!’ ” Beatrice says, throwing her arms in the air, imitating Ludovico. “‘I would only make these efforts and go through this frustration for those whom I love!’ ”

  Isabella decides to say nothing. It is not her place to encourage or discourage. Beatrice will do as she pleases, and now it seems that she is pleased to sit for the Magistro, not because it will please herself but because it will please Ludovico. Or aid his ambitions. Or send the message to the clergy of Milan about their powerful benefactor. Or appease Savonarola. Or indelibly link in the minds of generations to come artistic genius with the mighty and powerful family. Or accomplish whatever it is that Ludovico wishes such things to accomplish. It is clear that Beatrice’s motives are selfless.

  “After all,” she says to Isabella, placing her small hands atop her big belly, “Ludovico was in love with Cecilia when he commissioned her portrait. He is in love with me now. He tells me so all the time. I have seen how much effort and patience it takes to coax the Magistro to finish any of his works. I am sure that Ludovico would not take up this challenge unless it was in the name of love for me and for his children.”

  Leaving the refectory, entering the courtyard, Isabella and Beatrice see the broad back of a man sitting cross-legged on the walkway like an eastern potentate, staring at a courtyard wall as if in a trance. His shaggy curls hang incongruently on the shoulders of his rich blue velvet cape. The late-morning sun highlights the deep brown hues of his hair, as well as casts an elaborate shadow on the wall. A moldy water stain mingles with the shadows on the stucco.

  “Sir!” Beatrice says.

  The Magistro, startled from his meditation, turns around. Upon seeing the Duchess of Milan and the Marchesa of Mantua, he stands abruptly—and adeptly, Isabella notices—rising to a full stance without uncrossing his feet.

  “What on earth are you doing, Magistro?” Beatrice asks.

  He points to the stain on the wall. “I am looking at a great landscape of human drama, Your Excellencies. Do you not see it?”

  “I see a rather mildewed wall,” Isabella says. “If the duke is so intent upon renovating the church and monastery, surely he should order a fresh coat of paint for the exterior.”

  “Marchesa, if you will permit me.” Leonardo steps toward the wall, bending slightly and pointing. “Everything in creation might be seen in these shapes and shadows and qualities if one looks with fresh eyes. I have seen, in these humble discolorations, great battles in progress, tableaux of life and death, jousting matches, babies being born, old women dying, goddesses rising out of the sea, boats crashing against the quay during a storm. It is all there, if one looks long enough and with enough concentration.”

  Isabella stares at the wall, unable to see what the Magistro is talking about. She has seen shapes and faces in cloud formations, but she cannot make a scenario out of these stains. Beatrice, on the other hand, is nodding politely, as if she has begun to delineate the Magistro’s imaginings.

  “Your Excellency,” he addresses Beatrice with what Isabella discerns is either a sense of anticipation or anxiety in his voice, as if he is almost afraid to ask the question. “Have we word yet on the bronze?”

  “The bronze?” Isabella asks.

  “The Magistro wants to cast his horse in bronze so that it will last for all time, or for as long as bronze lasts—and I do not think the world is old enough as of yet to know the life of a good piece of bronze.”

  “It is mere clay, Marchesa, and will destruct with time and the elements,” Leonardo says, making a funereal face. “I have been spending my days at the foundries, discussing methods of casting with the engineers and metallurgists in preparation for the project.”

  “The Magistro has become an expert in the study of metals, a veritable alchemist,” Beatrice says.

  “Your Excellency flatters me.”

  “Not at all. I had hoped to find you here so that I might tell you the news. The bronze for the horse has been located, and you will have access to it immediately.”

  Beatrice smiles, raising her eyebrows at Isabella. So this was her mission. Was she flaunting her power over the Magistro in front of her sister?

  “My eternal gratitude to you, Duchess,” he says, tilting his chin toward what Isabella thinks is the direction of his heart. His face flushes with color, leaving him looking relieved, touched, and slightly embarrassed that he is blushing.

  “Congratulations, Maestro, your monument will last for a hundred generations,” Isabella says, but she is thinking that this colossal new work will put her own sitting with the Magistro out of reach for God knows how many more years.

  “The Magistro has devised the most fascinating method for casting the horse. Will you indulge my sister in an explanation?” Beatrice asks. What woman does not know when she has a man’s pride in her grip?

  Leonardo stoops down and reaches into a large leather satchel resting on the ground, pulling out a wide expanse of paper and unfolding it for Isabella to see. Two drawings of the monument sit side by side: one, the sculpture in its entirety replete with its rider; the other, the horse alone drawn upside down and quartered into pieces. Complex mathematical formulas and measurements, all in an impossible handwriting, cover the paper with other bits of unreadable scrawl.

  “I have begun to supervise the digging of an enormous hole in the empty fields to the rear of the Castello. The purpose of this enterprise is so that the mold for the horse might be placed inside of it in an upside-down position so that when the bronze is poured, it will run through the animal’s body.”

  “Astonishing,” Isabella says. “Has this procedure been accomplished before?”

  “No, Your Excellency, no such thing has ever been attempted. This will be the first equestrian statue of its size to be cast in the metal. Naturally, the endeavor demanded a new technique. The old methods are inadequate to the task, which is the reason for the delay.” He looked pointedly at Beatrice. “Invention cannot be rushed. When one desires, as does our illustrious Lord Ludovico, to create memorials of a size and scope heretofore unseen upon this earth, one must tolerate the process of inquiry and experimentation.”

  Isabella has never heard the Magistro speak so excitedly. The news of the arrival of the bronze seems to have infused his body with a new vigor. For a moment, he has lost his perpetual look of detachment, and she believes that he even takes on the appearance of a younger man, what with his rosy cheeks and hurried speech.

  “Speaking of my husband, he did wish me to add this caveat: you shall have your bronze immediately, sir, but on the condition that you begin the mural. The duke has promised the monks delivery of all improvements and decorations to the church and monastery by the end of the year. Please do not put him in difficult stead with the prior.”

  Admonished perhaps, but undiminished, Leonardo says, “Madame, I have already spent weeks in the study of numerous types of faces in order to do justice to Our Lord and the Twelve. The scenario I have in mind will be a great religious drama.”

  The church bells begin to ring the noon hour, and the white-and-black-clad Dominican friars file out of doorways and toward the refectory for their meal. Beatrice links arms with Isabella and excuses them, perhaps because she does not wish to be caught in conversation with the prior, who has a reputation for being long-winded and difficult. As they l
eave the company of the Magistro, Isabella says, “How marvelous of Ludovico to allow these grandiose experiments!” She wonders if her father, her husband, even herself would have the patience, money, and vision to finance such an experimental endeavor—and one of undoubtedly great cost.

  “Ludovico was astonished at the breadth of his research and his labors and his passion, and so gave him permission to begin the dig. Did you see Leonardo’s excitement, Isabella? He’s worked so long on the horse and waited so long for the bronze that he looked like a bride who had been betrothed for years and was finally called to the altar,” Beatrice giggles.

  Isabella is not surprised that Beatrice would create the metaphor, since she also had lived that situation. But she has come so far from that humiliated girl who was not certain that her betrothed would honor the engagement that she doesn’t even seem to make the correlation.

  THAT night, as Isabella blows out the candle at her bedside and closes her eyes, her mind is as jumpy as a cat. When Beatrice speaks of her husband, she glows with the fervor of a novitiate at the feet of a saint. If Ludovico had been complicit in the duke’s demise, Beatrice shows no trace of carrying the burden of that knowledge. Perhaps her adoration of Ludovico precludes believing the rumors. Or perhaps she condones what he has done—if indeed he has done it.

  Isabella would like to soothe herself with the notion that she is now one step closer to being painted by the Magistro, since Beatrice has agreed to sit for him, even though he will undoubtedly be years in the making of the bronze horse, much less the great mural. But nothing makes sense anymore; logic does not necessarily apply. She feels as if she has suddenly been dropped inside a play where she does not know any of the other characters, but is expected to perform as usual. She is watching the shifts in alliances—personal, political, artistic—in the same way that she observes the currents of a great body of water, which move swiftly and are beyond her control. Survival will surely depend upon staying dry.

  Sleep is a gift; dreams are light and forgettable. She can’t remember where she is or what she is doing when she hears dozens of horses’ hooves pounding against the brick courtyard of the Rocchetta just outside her window. She is torn, wanting to remain where she is, wherever she is, because it is so pleasant, like the color pink or soft summer air. That is all she can hold on to of her reverie as her eyes pop open in the dark against her will and she is ripped out of her dream state. She pulls the blanket high up around her chin as a defense against the clamor. She had gone to bed past midnight and has been asleep for hours, she is sure. Could some army have invaded the Castello in the early-morning hours? The walls are high, the moat is wide, and Ludovico’s forces eternally vigilant. The Rocchetta is the private sanctuary of the family. Many a soldier would have to meet his death—or be bribed—before an intruder could enter this part of the Castello.

  Just the same, Isabella finds her wrap in the dark. Her eyes begin to adjust, identifying forms—the tall fat posts of the bed, the long table on which her hats sit in a row like ladies at cards, and the outlines of the vaulted windows high in the walls. She hears men in the hall, low, desperate voices coming toward her. She throws her arms around her chest, pressing her back against the bedpost. She has to struggle for a breath.

  Isabella’s earliest memory is this: rebels bursting into the palace quarters of the Este family in the dark hours while Duke Ercole was far away from Ferrara. Her mother, long, wavy hair and nightgown flying behind her, plucked the children from their nursery beds and took refuge in the fortress. The would-be kidnappers were on their heels as they fled capture, killing all who were helping the duchess and her children escape. Mother and children spent three terrifying days protected by a small guard until Ercole reached Ferrara with his soldiers and put the rebels down. Isabella still remembers running along the dark hall, her tiny sweaty hand clutching her mother’s silky gown, trying to keep up with Leonora, who held little Beatrice in one arm and her infant son in the other. The sounds and images are never far from her conscious thoughts; the shrieks of the servants, the clash of armor as their guards tried to hold back the rebels while the royals escaped, the cries of people dying as she ran away, and the terror of letting go the piece of silk in her little hand, her only lifeline in that black tunnel of a hall.

  Gasping now for a breath, she forces herself to stretch one hand before her like a blind man. With the other clutching her shawl to her chest she makes her way to the door, cracking it open. The shadow of a torch dances along the wall, undulating toward her like a snake on its belly. Above the din and clatter, she recognizes the voice of Ludovico, shouting orders. Relieved, she rushes into the hallway to intercept him.

  He looks like a giant in his riding clothes. Black feathers plume from his broad-brimmed hat; a cloak of wool trimmed in thick fur hangs on his wide shoulders, swishing about him as he strides forward. The men surrounding him are cloaked too, but their garments are flung back around their necks and their hands are on their swords, slung low at the waist. Are they under attack?

  Isabella stops running when she sees Beatrice, arms held by two servant girls, step into the hall from her chamber. Beatrice is bloated and awkward and falls like a rag doll into Ludovico’s arms. One of the girls explains that the duchess has taken a potion for sleep.

  “I was so worried,” she mutters, looking up at her husband. “No letter from you yesterday.”

  “Go back to bed, my darling. All is well.” Ludovico looks down the hall, spotting Isabella as he pets his wife. “Look who is awake! Isabella will share a cup of wine with us and hear our gossip.” Ludovico kisses Beatrice tenderly all over her face as he speaks to her. “You must rest. Your time is near.” When he lets her go, he leaves an imprint of the dust of the road on her pale blue shawl. Beatrice looks relieved, falling back into the arms of her attendants.

  Ludovico motions for Isabella to follow the men down the hall and into his study. She walks in the wake of their scent—the sour sweat of men and horses clinging to their heavy clothes. They must have ridden long and hard, she thinks, to have mustered this odor.

  The silent machinery that runs the Castello has sprung to motion. Everyone but Isabella is dismissed at the door. Valets hold out their arms to catch Ludovico’s heavy coat and hat before rushing the garments to the laundry staff. Inside, wine has arrived, and with it, tubs of water and fresh towels to cleanse the grime and dust from his face and hands. Lamps are already lit, along with a great fire, softening the hard edges of Ludovico’s heavy furnishings, and illuminating his face, glowing with sweat and what looks like fury.

  Isabella keeps her distance. Ludovico’s foul smell and foreboding arrival invite no outstretched arms, no tender, familiar kisses. She stays on the other side of the room, arms folded about her chest.

  “Damn that pock-faced lying hunchback shit-sack of a French king.”

  Ludovico wipes the back of his neck with a towel and throws it on the floor.

  “And that pale, quivering Florentine eunuch. A disgrace to his father. May they both keep Satan company for eternity.”

  Isabella waits for him to elaborate.

  “Betrayed, manipulated, lied to, deceived. Done in by an idiot and a conniver.” Ludovico takes a long drink of wine. A tiny stream of red liquid trickles from the corner of his mouth into his long hair. He freezes, back arched, dropping his goblet, crying out in pain. “Oh, my back, my legs!” His throws his hand into the curve of his lower back. “I cannot ride the way I used to, Isabella. Help me to my chair.”

  Isabella allows Ludovico to lean on her shoulder as she guides him to the big leather chair into which he sinks.

  “Are you ill?” she asks.

  “No, just pinched in the back and bowed and stiff in the legs. We have ridden day and night all the way from the Tuscan hills.”

  Isabella notices that Ludovico has grown heavier. His belly spreads out about him as he leans back, stretching his feet in front of him. She sits directly opposite, looking into his face for clues of
what has happened. He narrows his eyes and licks his lips, and she thinks for a moment that he looks like a great black snake.

  “We have been at the camp of the King of France. He lied to us to get what he needed. And we have been betrayed by Piero de’ Medici, son of the late Lorenzo, who is a blight on his family’s name.” Ludovico leans forward, wincing with pain as he signals with his hand for Isabella to come closer. “None of this must reach your sister’s ears. Not yet. Not until she has delivered the child. She is hearty and healthy, but also delicate in her way. She is very excitable.”

  “Brother, as of yet you have told me nothing, so that there is nothing to share but some name-calling.”

  “That craven idiot Piero de’ Medici, who is unworthy of the title of Prince of Florence, literally threw himself at Charles’s feet, offering him control of Florence, Siena, and Pisa, in exchange for—for nothing! To avoid invasion! Can you imagine? Lorenzo the Magnificent must be vomiting in his tomb.

  “I was a witness to it all, Isabella. I could not disguise my horror. You should have seen the looks on the faces of the French. They were stunned. This fool simply handed them a substantial part of Italy, three of its strongholds. Even the arrogant French were hard-pressed for a response.”

  “They did not refuse him, certainly.”

  “No, they certainly did not. I saw de’ Medici afterward. He came groveling to me, saying that he had tried to meet me on the road to welcome me but had missed me. I was with some French officers, so I could not tell him exactly what I thought of him. I made some excuses to Charles and left Sarzana immediately.”

  “But you yourself have sided with the French against Naples. Now Piero is siding with the French against Naples as well. Without Lorenzo to counsel him, perhaps Piero thought he was following your example.” Isabella knows that these incriminating words should not have escaped her tongue, but she could hardly take them back. Who invited the French into Italy in the first place? That is what she wants to ask. Why is he so upset that others are simply doing as he did? And yet, he looks confused and vulnerable, like a man whose mind has made too many calculations and cannot believe the numbers he has ended up with.