Leonardo's Swans

by Karen Essex

  “You are aware of what must happen, Isabella,” Ludovico says, breaking the silence.

  He has interrupted her angry thoughts, and she has no idea what he is talking about. “No, what must happen?”

  “The Italian League must be solid and strong. Venice has been a rival state for many years, but in order to preserve our independence from the French, Venice and Milan must stand together.”

  “Yes, of course,” she says, realizing that Ludovico has kept her in Milan until he heard from every potential ally, including Venice. But the Venetians are known to be inscrutable and crafty. And this is why he insisted on accompanying her to the dock—to make a last-minute impression of the job she was to do for him with Francesco, to ensure that he would promote the cause of the Italian League with the Venetians. She says no more; she is not in the mood to be either supportive or solicitous of him.

  The river is flat and gray at this time of year, a perfect match to the skies. When they arrive, servants are already loading her belongings onto the bucentaur. Open horse-drawn carts have been parked on the dock, their contents being loaded onto the boat next to hers, a long, flat river barge. The restless horses make great clopping noises against the wooden planks of the docks as they dance impatiently in place, while a crew of six men maneuver pulleys laden with heavy metal squares. A tall man wearing a royal blue cloak richly embroidered with metallic threads directs them as they guide and stack the bricks with great effort. Each package makes a loud thud as it falls upon the other.

  “Is there anything you wish to send to your father in Ferrara?” Ludovico asks. “The barge is going directly to him.”

  “And what are you sending to him?” she asks.

  “Bronze. To make a great cannon. The French have very strong artillery. We must equal or best them.”

  The man in the blue cloak turns around, and Isabella recognizes the face of the Magistro. Though it has been but two months since she saw him at the refectory, he has aged. The lines on his face have deepened into great crevasses, and his hairline has begun to recede. His curly mane and his beard are unruly and uncombed. His dress is impeccable and he is still grand, but something essential in him has changed.

  “Why is the Magistro directing the shipping of goods on the river? Do you need a genius to do the least of your bidding?” she asks.

  “That is the bronze that we had collected to cast the statue of the horse. I told Leonardo that conditions being what they are, we have to forgo the project for the time being. Everything is for the war now. He insisted on supervising the shipping of the material himself. He said it was an opportunity to test a system of hoists and pulleys that he devised.”

  “But he has already worked for years, my lord. The statue is a masterpiece, but the clay will decompose over time. It will be lost if he cannot cast it in bronze!” Isabella feels as if she is losing something in this transaction; as if something precious is being wrested from her. “What is a cannon compared to an immortal work of art?”

  This is horrible, she wants to scream at Ludovico. But she can tell by his face that he would only accuse her of thinking like a woman, of valuing beauty over power, when all rational beings know that with the acquisition of more power comes the ability to acquire and produce more beauty.

  “It is a temporary situation. He understands, believe me. He is a great military engineer and has already come to me with marvelous designs for new weapons. I believe he is excited about the possibilities of war. In the meanwhile, I have advanced him money to paint a mural of great scope and drama. It’s better if he devotes his energy to that one thing. The Horse is an extraneous obsession that he does not need at this time.”

  Isabella does not believe Ludovico’s justifications; she can read sorrow into every gesture as Leonardo watches his precious bronze floating away from him to create something that will end life rather than celebrate it.

  “What was going to be a monument to a great warrior must now become a weapon,” Isabella says. “It is ironic, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, but fitting, somehow,” Ludovico says. “My father was a soldier first and foremost. He would not have objected.”

  “Still, is there no way?” Isabella can only imagine the Magistro’s pain. Why should his work suffer for Ludovico’s ambitions? She wants to run to the artist, to comfort him for his loss, to tell him that she will find him some bronze—in Mantua, or somewhere. She will talk her father into sending it back. But she knows that when men set their minds to war, the pleading of a woman will not alter the course.

  “Perhaps it is better this way,” Ludovico offers. “Casting the statue in bronze would have taken him years. He does not need another distraction. Can you believe that he still spends hours and hours in secret trying to make wings? I am told that he is making plans to soon attempt a leap from an undisclosed building of great height. I pray to God that he finishes the mural of Our Lord’s Last Supper and the portrait of my family before he goes crashing to his death.”

  “Will he really attempt such a thing? He does not look insane.” Isabella does not want to envision this broad-shouldered, middle-aged man trying to alight from a roof as if he were a bird. “Do you not think that all this nonsense about flying like a bird is gossip?”

  “No, I do not. I have spoken with him of this obsession. It is real. His motto is that the painter must possess all forms of knowledge useful to his art, but what does taking flight have to do with painting? Must one actually be a bird to paint fowl?”

  “We will never understand an artist’s obsessions, will we? We must trust that they are following some mysterious path, known only to themselves.”

  The last of Isabella’s trunks are loaded into the bucentaur. Ludovico kisses both of her cheeks, and then her forehead. He holds her close. “When we meet again, Francesco will have run the French out of Italy.”

  “Take care of my sister,” Isabella says. “She needs a husband as much as a prince.” She turns away from him, giving her hand to the river captain who will help her on board. Before she steps onto the boat, she looks upriver to see that the Magistro is watching her. He makes a small obeisance, never unlocking his mournful brown eyes from hers. He is beginning to look like the sketches of old men that she has seen in his workshop. She wonders if he has always been haunted by the inevitable specter of his aged self, aware that lurking in the shadows of his beauty was the ever-present ghost of his old age. Was that why the lovely adolescent boys he drew were always side by side with ancient men with craggy faces?

  She nods her head to acknowledge him. She would like to bow to him in return, but it would be unseemly, so she puts her hand over her heart like a courtier would do for his king. It is a small gesture, but Isabella hopes that he receives it with the respect—and the sympathy—that she intends.

  Chapter Seven

  I * IL BAGOTTO

  (THE MAGICIAN)

  FROM THE NOTEBOOK OF LEONARDO:

  On the arrangement of the figures of the Apostles in relation to Christ:

  One drinks, leaving the cup in its place and turns his head toward the speaker.

  Another twists his fingers together and turns with stern brows to his companion.

  The next opens his hands, showing their palms, and, raising his shoulders toward his ears, he gapes in amazement.

  Another speaks into his neighbor’s ear, and the listener turns toward him and gives him his ear as he holds a knife in one hand and in the other a loaf of bread cut in half by this knife.

  The next, holding a knife in one hand, turns over his glass with the other hand.

  Another rests his hands upon the table and stares, while yet another breathes heavily with an open mouth.

  Another leans forward to look at Our Lord and shades his eyes with his hand.

  Another draws himself back behind the one who is leaning forward and watches the Christ between the wall and the one who is leaning.

  Perhaps Alessandro Carissimo of Parma for the hand of Christ?

 
IN THE YEARS 1495 AND 1496;

  IN THE CITY OF MILAN

  BEATRICE watches Ludovico lower his head to receive the tall ducal cap, allowing the emperor’s ambassadors to drape the official mantle around his broad shoulders. She almost giggles when the same smile with which he receives a delicious platter of food or a good goblet of wine or the promise of sex breaks across his face as he accepts the golden scepter and sword of the kingdom.

  If only Isabella could be here to see the height to which her sister has risen. That is all Beatrice can think as she sits on the great tribunal erected for this occasion in front of the Duomo, in the shadow of the Magistro’s equestrian monument, watching as her husband is proclaimed Duke of Milan and Count of Pavia by order of Emperor Maximilian of Germany and the Holy Roman Empire. But Isabella is pregnant again, and Francesco alone represents the Gonzagas of Mantua at the ceremony.

  Beatrice has participated in every detail leading to this moment, from acting as her husband’s ambassador and adviser, to supervising the making of the enormous scarlet cloth draping the podium on which they presently stand. She visited the embroiderers every day to make sure that the mulberry leaves and berries—symbol of Il Moro—were woven into the fabric with the finest gold thread and in the most intricate detail.

  When it is time for her to do her part, she cannot focus on the rush of words that whirl past her as every noble and patriarch who preside over the houses and great families of Lombardy pledge their allegiance and fealty to Ludovico, and then to his duchess. She recognizes every face, but she is nervous, gripped by fear and thrills alike. She has not eaten in days. Her mind is such a muddle that it would be difficult for her to call any of these individuals by name. Thank God her only duty at this moment is to stand and solemnly receive the honors being bestowed upon her as Duchess of Milan.

  Ludovico had surprised her days earlier by announcing that he was appointing her Regent of the Duchy of Milan and guardian of their two sons. If anything were to happen to him, she would preside over the kingdom until their oldest boy came of age. It is not an unusual honor for a husband to bestow upon his wife, but Beatrice has just passed her twentieth birthday. In the event of Ludovico’s demise, no elderly chancellor or body of governors would have sovereignty over her. She would inherit Ludovico’s power in its entirety and would safeguard it until little Max could assume the title and the responsibilities.

  After the ceremony, as the entire party rides in procession to Sant’Ambrogio Cathedral to give thanks, Beatrice is composing a mental letter to Isabella. This is the grandest and most noble solemnity that has ever been beheld by our young eyes. She does not want to sound as if she is boasting. She has missed Isabella terribly since her departure in March. Little Max, who had taken such a liking to his aunt, would run up and down the halls of the Castello calling her name. And Ludovico would look wistfully at his swans whenever they crossed the moat into the palace and proclaim Isabella “a woman whose every gesture proclaims her noble character.” Beatrice is no longer jealous of her sister; Isabella no longer flirts with Ludovico, at least not in Beatrice’s presence. Her sister even seemed to go out of her way to avoid Ludovico when she was last in Milan, reluctant, or at least it seemed to Beatrice, to spend any time alone with him at all. Years of marriage, duty, and motherhood may have worked its sedulous, steadying effect on Isabella, as it has on Beatrice. The two are no longer girls competing for attention, but women, brought together by blood and by experience.

  Events have been happening with such rapidity in Beatrice’s life that she would love to have had her sister’s cool-headed counsel these last few months. Now that their mother is dead, Isabella is the mentor and female protector in Beatrice’s world. With no mother to turn to, when confronting a challenge or a situation that threatened to overwhelm her, Beatrice has found herself asking: What would Isabella do in this situation? Then she would act according to how she believed her sister would act. Even when Isabella was nowhere in sight, thinking of her gave Beatrice an invisible model of strength and courage to emulate. Sometimes she looks into a crowd and imagines that she sees Isabella coming toward her, only to discover that she has fabricated her sister’s presence.

  Later that evening, at the candle-bright festa for two thousand guests to commemorate the occasion, Beatrice finds herself drawn only to Francesco. Ludovico has asked her in advance to “chat with Francesco and try to read his pulse on the matter of fighting the French,” but Beatrice finds that she wishes only for some firsthand news about her sister.

  “Speak to me not of our usual obsession of horses, Marquis,” she says to Francesco, ignoring the long line of dignitaries and well-wishers who want a word with her. “I only want to hear of my sister’s health and her goings-on. You must tell me everything in great detail because I find that letters are inadequate and leave me wanting for more information.”

  “Well, she is about this big,” he says, putting his hands out a few inches from his stomach. “And she is evermore the Arab horse trader when it comes to procuring beautiful things to decorate her studiolo. She bargains with tremendous conviction. Many a merchant along the trade routes would love to have her talents. I swear to you, she is so cagey and clever that sometimes I think she must be a Venetian.” Beatrice can see his pride lighting up his wide, watery brown eyes. Of course, he should appreciate his wife. Beatrice has heard that Isabella—proud, beautiful Isabella—has pawned her most precious jewels to help Francesco pay for armor and supplies for the Italian League army.

  “She asked Andrea Mantegna for a painting of such-and-such dimensions to cover a certain space on a certain wall in the studiolo, and requested that he make it of some classical theme. Well, what do you think the old man came up with? He is making a painting of the Nine Muses on Mount Parnassus, and who do you think is the golden-haired Muse in the dead center of the painting? It’s our own Isabella, in her pregnant state, dancing among the others. She is more beautiful than Venus, who presides over the painting.”

  “She is more beautiful than Venus,” Beatrice says. “Finally someone has painted her as what she is, a Muse.”

  “Oh yes, she inspires everyone,” he says. “If I were a jealous man, I would already have killed dozens of poets and painters and courtiers.”

  Beatrice does not even attempt to stifle her laugh. “But, Marquis, you are a jealous man.”

  “So I am. Perhaps we should take a moment to reflect upon my self-restraint.”

  After all the guests have departed and the duke and his duchess are alone, Ludovico wants to know what Beatrice and Francesco had been discussing with such liveliness. She tells him about Isabella being painted as a Muse.

  “Good. Then she will stop pestering us over Magistro Leonardo. At least for a while,” he answers. “Mantegna is a genius too. I hope he can slake her thirst.”

  Beatrice has never known Ludovico to make any comment about her sister in less than glowing terms and wonders why he is speaking of her in a snide tone now.

  “Did you speak to your brother-in-law on any matters of importance?” he asks.

  “I thought my sister’s health and state of mind were important,” she answers.

  “The marquis is a short little prig, and I wish to God that we did not require his services,” Ludovico exclaims. “He would not even speak to me of the confrontation with the French. I suppose he thinks he is employed solely by the Venetians, and not by me. Does he know whose money is filling his pockets?”

  Beatrice is fairly certain that all of Italy knows whose money is filling the Italian League’s pockets, not to mention the pockets of the kings of France and Germany. Though Ludovico is making the secret alliance against France, publicly he still sides with the French, and has just loaned Charles a large sum of money. When Beatrice had questioned him, he said, “It’s important to make your enemies think that you are going to do one thing when you are really going to do another.”

  “Well, you certainly have accomplished that,” she replied. Ludovico had p
ublicly denied his involvement in forming the Italian League all the way through the celebrations of the coalition at Venice, where the French ambassador had demanded to know why all the bells of the city were ringing, and why all the houses were alive with parties and talk of throwing the French out of Italy. “We know nothing about it,” Ludovico’s ambassadors had been instructed to say. “And whatever it is, we assure you that our duke has no part in it.”

  Beatrice decides to ignore Ludovico’s question about whose money is going into what pockets. “What do you mean, Francesco wouldn’t speak with you about it? He was altogether charming all evening. I cannot believe that he would have slighted you on the celebration of your ascendance. If nothing else, he is no fool.”

  A dark, jagged vein appears across Ludovico’s forehead. Beatrice is not sure she has ever seen it before, but it makes him look meaner, older, and more malevolent. “Apparently he had already spent all charm and civility on you and on whatever women were in proximity. When I asked him how the plans for marching south to confront the French were progressing, he stiffened. In that arrogant way of his, he said, ‘I am not going to fight the French. I am going to exterminate them.’ Then he had the audacity to walk away, as if I had insulted him.”

  “Perhaps you did. Perhaps he thought you were questioning his ability or his judgment in military matters. You are a great prince, Ludovico, but no soldier, after all. Or perhaps because he hears one thing about your allegiance to the French, and then another about your new alliance with Venice, he is reluctant to speak openly with you.”