Leonardo’s Shadow

by Christopher Grey

  The crowd tenses; heads turn every way. From somewhere we hear the drumroll of hooves on stone—

  “Over there!”

  “Where?”

  A riderless horse thunders out of the shadows, its saddle hanging half off. The owner must have fallen when the strap broke—

  “Watch out!”

  The horse gallops pell-mell across the square, straight into one old fellow, knocking him down cold—and now a girl child is standing directly in front of it, mewling with fear—where is the mother?

  My legs throw me forwards without thinking. I run at the child and gather her up, spinning to my left and shielding her as the horse charges past us and then gallops away down another street. I set down the little creature, still crying, but none the worse for the adventure—her mother is running towards us now—and hasten away.

  Someone shouts: “The boy has saved the child!”

  “Come, Caterina,” I say, “let us make our escape, while the crowd is still distracted.”

  Before anyone can delay us, we have turned down an alleyway whose walls are slick with dampness and grease. Most of our narrower streets are the same. Everyone dumps their filth anywhere they like. Rotten fruit, animal bones, horse—and human—doings, old cooking grease and tallow, charred wood: it’s all here, and it’s all horrible.

  Long ago, the City Council used to allow pigs to roam the streets, and they would eat a lot of the rubbish. But they also took an interest in rich ladies’ ankles, and after a councillor’s wife was badly bitten, the pigs were taken off the streets and turned into cutlets. Now it’s just the dogs, and they are a lot choosier.

  “You’ll find your head on the end of a pike one day,” Caterina says, pulling her cloak around her. “You should know better than to challenge the word of rich folk.”

  “I won’t have anyone talk about the Master like that,” I say.

  “Let him defend himself from others’ accusations, if he cares to,” she replies. “What does it matter to us?”

  “A lot, Caterina. We may be his servants, but if the Master falls from grace, we will fall with him.”

  Just as we are emerging from the other end of the dank passage, the guardsman reappears.

  “Now I’ve got you!” he says, blocking my path.

  I could run for it. But what to do about Caterina? I can’t abandon her to take the blame that’s rightfully mine.

  “So you’re the servant of Leonardo da Vinci,” the guard says.

  “That’s right,” I say. “And you’d better not lay another hand on me, or he will hear about it, and the Duke will—”

  “Enough, lad, I’m not here to torment you. On the contrary, the mother of that child wanted me to thank you. It was a brave action you took.”

  “He’s quick to act, is our Giacomo,” Caterina says, “except when I tell him to clean the hearth of ashes.”

  “I don’t like the rich any more than you do,” the guardsman says. “But I have a job to do and I must be seen to do it. I would have let you go as soon as those two idlers were out of sight.”

  “Then let us go now,” Caterina says. “We have work to do.”

  “I will, old girl,” he says. “But before I do, that gentleman back there said the Duke might give the Last Supper to another painter to finish if Leonardo doesn’t—”

  “The Duke would never do that!” I say.

  “Now, listen to me, will you! Last week I was attendant in the big chamber at the Castle when the Duke told his counselors that he had invited Michelangelo to Milan. Made a big noise about it, he did.”

  Michelangelo!

  A young painter and sculptor whose skill is reputedly greater than any yet seen in the land. The mere mention of the name turns my master’s mood to sour milk. Until now, this prodigy has been no more than a long shadow cast from Florence, but what will happen to us if the rest of him arrives here?

  “Why do you tell me this?” I say.

  “I thought you should warn your master. I don’t know much about painting, but I do know that everyone in Milan wants the Last Supper finished—and not by an outsider, either!”

  Thank the Virgin that this good fellow does not know that my master is also an outsider, from Florence.

  We bid farewell to the guardsman and make our silent way home, passing the Broletto, the council building that houses the offices for many of our craftsmen’s guilds and the collectors of various taxes, until we find ourselves on the Sforza Way, which unites the Castle with the Cathedral. Duke Ludovico likes to parade up and down here with a full entourage of courtiers and servants on his way to Mass, and the city always comes to a standstill while his progress blocks all the main streets. There is nothing to do while he passes by, except stare with astonishment at the display of wealth and power, and wish some of it would rub off on you. And cheer, of course, unless you fancy a sword in the guts.

  The great road is flanked on both sides by tall poplars, their leaves turning yellow as autumn approaches. Flags and banners in silver and red, green and gold, white and blue hang aflutter from tall poles and high towers along the route, bearing the coats of arms of the Sforzas, Battiglias, Cittadinis, and other important Milanese families.

  Now we are at the junction of the Sforza Way and the street that leads to our house. Ahead, some five hundred paces, stands the Castle, its redbrick walls looking out over the city.

  Just as we are about to turn off, the high note of a horn sounds sharp and clear, and a troop of horsemen comes cantering towards the Castle. They are not wearing colors or bearing pennants identifying them, which can only mean that they have ridden here in secret—but wait! Borne on two long wooden poles held between two horses is a covered chair, and on its door is a design—of a bird, its beak open, its wings outspread, rising out of a leafy tree.

  Within a few breaths the horsemen and their cargo have passed by—impossible to see the person inside, the curtain was drawn.

  Who were they carrying in such haste and secrecy to the Castle? And what is the meaning of the design on the door? I am sure I have seen it before.

  Caterina is unlocking our front door when I remember.

  I have seen that bird before. Saint Francis, I have!

  I run upstairs and open my box.

  The same bird—the very same—is on the face of my medallion.

  VI

  Before I have a chance to find my master and question him on this, there is a great pounding on the front door. If you live with Leonardo da Vinci, you get accustomed to people pounding on the door; there’s always someone at it.

  All right, I’m coming, I’m coming.

  “Good day, Father Vicenzo.”

  Bad day. It is always a bad day when Father Vicenzo calls. And it’s the third time this week. Father Vicenzo is the prior of the monastery of Santa Maria delle Grazie, where my master has been working on his biggest painting ever, the one I had the argument about in the market, the Last Supper. It shows Jesus and His Disciples at the moment when He announces that one of them will betray Him. I should say: It will show Jesus and His Disciples. It’s not finished yet. In truth, it’s barely been started. But when it is finished (if ever), it will cover a whole wall of the refectory, where the monks take their meals. And it’s a big, big wall.

  Perhaps it is not surprising, then, that Father Vicenzo has taken to visiting us so often. The longer my master keeps him waiting, the more excuses the prior must make to the Duke of Milan, and the more impatient the Duke becomes. We all have masters we must please, or suffer the consequences—even my master, who must serve the Duke before himself.

  “Where is he?”

  “At Santa Maria, father.”

  “He is not! That is why I am here, boy.”

  The prior is quite correct. He is not there. He is upstairs, asleep. Where he was when Caterina and I took ourselves to the market.

  “I’ll tell him you called, father.”

  I start to close the door, but a white, sandaled foot appears in the crack an
d prevents me. I notice that the toenails are neatly cut. You don’t often see that in a priest; most priests have toenails like eagles’ talons, but Father Vicenzo is not any old priest. He smells of rose water, too.

  “You’ll tell him I’m here,” Father Vicenzo says. “Now.” He pushes open the door and enters our little house.

  “Come in, father, do,” I say. “Please have a seat in the kitchen; it’s warmer there. I’ll go and see if he is in his room.”

  I leap up the stairs four at a time. The quicker I get this over with …

  “Master?”

  His door is open a crack. I tiptoe towards the bed where he is laid out, facing the wall, one arm dangling. He did not even undress himself last night. There are many papers with drawings and notes on the floor. I pick one up. Oh, so that’s it. He has been working all night on one of his inventions, instead of the Last Supper. Why, it looks like some kind of—

  “Giacomo?”

  —Bird?

  The paper falls from my hand, taking far too long to reach the floor. Fortunately, the Master is still rubbing his eyes when it lands.

  “Time?”

  “Past midday, Master. Father Vicenzo is here again.”

  “Then send him away again.”

  “I tried that, Master.”

  “And failed, I see.”

  How easily he forgets all the times I succeeded.

  “He has been waiting a long time for the painting to be finished, Master.”

  A servant should not talk back, but I am no ordinary servant. I am Leonardo da Vinci’s servant. If I did not say my piece, I would not be worthy of him. He gives me one of his looks. He has hundreds more.

  “Your tongue is given too free a rein, boy. Must I remind you yet again?”

  “Yes, Master. I mean, no, Master.”

  “Go down and show the peevish prior into my study. Did you fill my basin? It will take an ocean to refresh this face.”

  I run back down the stairs and into the kitchen. Caterina is showing Father Vicenzo her collection of crosses, all of them laid out on the table.

  “And this one was blessed by Saint Barbara herself,” she is saying, “and protects the wearer from being struck by lightning….”

  “Well?” he says, clearly relieved at seeing me.

  “He’s coming down, father. Please follow me.”

  The prior dabs at his face with a handkerchief. Lace, of course, and I thought monks swore a vow of poverty.

  I knock at the study door, no answer; but when I push, it is open. In goes Father Vicenzo, and to his astonishment—he takes a step backwards, right onto my foot, ouch!—the Master is already sitting at his big table, holding a skull. How he got here so quickly is a mystery, but not a surprise; he is always somewhere you do not expect him to be.

  This skull my master is holding is one of his prized objects. He says it is Donatello’s, the famous sculptor who died many years ago, but I am not sure if I should believe him. The Master does not think much of sculptors. He turns the skull towards the friar.

  “Prince or pauper, priest or prostitute,” my master says, “time erases all signs of our former standing on Earth. What survives, father? Tell me that!”

  “The soul, Leonardo, the soul!”

  “Art, father, art. Art is all we have to remind us that man has achieved something in this world, apart from his own ruin.”

  “Master Leonardo, I must—”

  “Insist that you do not interfere, father.”

  “Eh?” says the bewildered prior.

  “I simply cannot work with all these interruptions.”

  “The Master,” I say, “means that he needs time to let his thoughts ripen, like grapes on the vine, until they are ready—”

  “Be quiet, Giacomo, and go about your business.”

  That’s what I get for trying to help. But when the Master orders me to leave the room, or suchlike, he does not really mean it. For one, he likes to hear what I have to say. For two, he likes it when I interrupt whoever is having a go at him, because that takes some of the wind out of their lungs. For three? Well, for three, I’ll give you two and one. Adds up to the same.

  “Come now, Master Leonardo,” Father Vicenzo says, “you cannot argue that we have not given you time. It has been more than two years.”

  “What is two years to create a monument that will last for all eternity?”

  “Do not talk to me of eternity, Master Leonardo. Our contract was for this world, not the next.”

  Father Vicenzo is sweating, though the weather is cool.

  “You cannot put a time on creation,” my master says.

  “You can when we are paying you,” comes the response.

  My master is silent. He turns the skull round and round in his hand and points it once more at the prior. “You can have your money back, Father Vicenzo, every ducat. I will get it for you now.”

  The Master pretends to rise. It is a ruse, it must be, there’s not a coin in the house. Though the Dominican friars are paying a monthly sum for my master’s expenses, it is never enough. If my master cut back on his daily visits to the barber, that would help. But if I cut back on those, he would reply, who would cut back on my beard? He has an answer for everything.

  “Master Leonardo,” the prior says, “we do not want our money back—we want our painting! Now, when do you plan to finish the refectory wall?”

  “Soon.”

  At this Father Vicenzo’s face almost bursts into flames.

  “Soon? Soon? Why, Milan’s foremost artists were pleading with me for the chance to paint our wall! We could have had Felloni—”

  “A felon! A felon!”

  “Or Capponi—”

  “A capon! A capon!”

  The Master can be very comical, but his timing is off. This is the wrong person to be jesting with, and the wrong time.

  “At any rate, Master Leonardo, it would be finished”

  “Yes,” my master says, “and with it the name of the Order of Dominican Friars.”

  Father Vicenzo sighs and sits down on a small stool with a carved back, which straightway collapses beneath him. Now, where are we going to find the money to replace that?

  “Are you well, father?” I say, helping him to his feet.

  “Yes, yes, boy. Get me a proper chair. Must everything I put my trust in let me down?”

  I find the prior a chair, and this time, thanks to its solid frame, it holds the sacklike weight. And when he is settled, my master says, in his loftiest of voices: “Am I not the greatest painter in the land?”

  I knew the Master would not be tardy in using his best line. But this time it does not silence Father Vicenzo. On the contrary, the good prior gets up from the chair I went to such trouble to arrange for him and says: “That is why the Dominican friars hired you—so that other monastic orders would be green with envy. Right now, I am the one looking green. I commission you, I pay you, but you do not paint!”

  Now it is my master’s turn to rise. They stand facing each other. If looks were daggers, they would have pinned each other to the walls.

  “You will get your painting, father.”

  “When?”

  “When I am ready.” He flicks some dust from his sleeve.

  “The Pope is coming to Milan, Leonardo. It had better be ready by then.”

  “It will be, father, it will be,” I say. “Will you stay for some wine?”

  “There is a time to celebrate, boy. When the Last Supper is finished. And finished it will be, whether by Leonardo da Vinci or someone else.”

  And with that he moves to go. My master makes no effort to stop him.

  But as Father Vicenzo prepares to pass through the front door, my master shouts out from his study: “No one but Leonardo da Vinci will ever finish the Last Supper!”

  “We shall see about that,” Father Vicenzo says. “Tell your master that I am making a complaint against him to Duke Ludovico. This very day!”

  I move in front of the friar.
“Don’t do that, father, my master does not deserve that.”

  “Get out of my way, boy, you and your master both.”

  He draws his robe around him and sweeps by me through the open door in a cloud of perfumed water and unwashed sweat.

  This Father Vicenzo is planning to make our lives miserable, I think.

  VII

  What has my master been doing for the past two years? Not sitting on his hands, I can tell you. If the Duke knew how many sketchbooks had been filled up with studies for the Last Supper, he could not possibly complain that Leonardo da Vinci was shirking his duty. Not one book, not five, no—nineteen books, filled to the margins with drawings of the Disciples in every pose imaginable. But the Duke is not interested in sketches, he wants to see the finished painting. Everything else is just delay.

  And the painting, there’s no denying it, is well and truly delayed.

  Work at Santa Maria delle Grazie began in the spring of 1495.

  First, the wall had to be made ready. The plasterers Guido and Guilio came to Santa Maria on a cart pulled by a donkey with one ear. They unloaded a large wooden tub, two barrels, two buckets, and two trowels, and set up in the refectory. Using stiff brushes, they cleaned the wall, smoothed it down with blocks, and then began to prepare the plaster, which is a mixture of limestone, sand, and water. They wet the wall very thoroughly and with their trowels commenced applying the first layer of plaster. Before the coat was dry, they applied a second, and then a third. Finally, the last coat was worked over again and again with the trowels until the surface was smooth and polished. Then they told the Master they would see him when he was ready for them again, and off they went on their cart drawn by the one-eared donkey.

  This part was completed in eighteen days.

  Then Bernardo Maggio, Renzo’s master—the one who is making him an apprentice next year—arrived on his own cart with three assistants and forty planks of wood, and began to construct the platform on which my master would stand to paint the higher parts of the wall. He built a solid frame with an upper platform and a lower platform, stretching all the way across the wall, with ladders at either end. On this the Master could then roam from one end of the painting to the other; when standing on the upper platform he could paint the top of the picture with his arm at shoulder height, and on the lower platform he could cover everything higher than his reach when standing on the ground. It was a beautiful piece of work, and the Master told Maggio so. It had taken eleven days.