“No, father!” And that is not a lie. The thoughts have me, not I the thoughts. They come without my bidding.
“If you have, you will burn in Hell’s scorching fires, demons and devils striking at you unceasingly with their three-pronged forks!”
“And they never get a day off, father? Not even a Sunday?”
“Are you trying to make a fool of me?” he says.
Trying, Father Vicenzo? It costs me nothing in effort.
“Have you kissed a girl?”
“No, father.” (Not what I’d call a real kiss, tongue and all.)
The friar is looking inside me, and his eyes are like fishhooks, hoping to catch on my every weakness.
“God in Heaven weeps for the sins you commit in Satan’s name,” he says. “Come to confession with me now and repent, or burn in everlasting Hell like a strip of roasting meat on a spit!”
He holds out his hand. What, he wants me to take his hand? Never ever.
“I go to the Church of San Giorgio for confession, father.”
Well, I will one day; I promised Caterina.
He lowers his hand. I’m not going near that hand. Who knows where it has been? And where it wants to go.
“I have a proposition for you,” he says, now toying with the rope around his waist. So does the Devil, for every man. “I am looking for a new servant.”
“I have a master, thank you, father.”
The friar smiles his sweetest smile. “I can give you instruction in many things, Giacomo.”
“My master does that already,” I say.
“Will he teach you … to paint?”
How does he—? Oh, he sees my drawing.
“I must return home, father. I am wanted.”
“You are wanted here!” Father Vicenzo reaches out and holds my arm, just above the elbow. Now what? “If you come to the monastery as my servant, I will find an artist to teach you. I know Capponi and Felloni very well—they take a great interest in young boys. What say you to that, Giacomo?”
“Your offer is most courteous, father. I will think on it.”
The answer is no.
“Do not, as your master does, let an excess of thinking delay the action.”
Just before he releases my arm, I pull it away. Carefully.
“If he fails to finish the Last Supper, what will you do then?”
A cold wind is blowing the leaves across the stones, sending them skipping.
Father Vicenzo turns and walks into the shadows of the cloister.
I pull my jerkin around me and head for home.
XI
Evening. The candles are lit. Caterina is sorting through some linen in one of the chests and telling me the story of the three-legged dog that was eaten by a bear in the woods, but came back to the same place a year later as a ghost, to warn its master and save him from the same fate.
“Now, isn’t that a story to warm your heart?” she says.
“True enough,” I say, “but I’d rather you put another log on the fire to warm my feet.”
Then the study door is opened, and the Master’s head appears.
“Here, Giacomo, I wish to speak with you.”
Caterina gives me a quick glance and scuttles off to the kitchen.
“Now, Master?”
He beckons me in and points to a chair. I sit.
“Why,” he says, walking around to the other side of the table, “must you be so contrary?”
One of those questions I cannot answer without dropping myself farther down a deep hole I will be unable to climb out of unaided. And if I deny that I am contrary, he will only say that I am proving his point! Best to avoid the whole matter.
“I met Father Vicenzo in the garden at Santa Maria,” I say.
“For what purpose, boy?”
“I did not choose the meeting, Master. But he offered me a position as his servant.”
The Master says nothing.
“And he said that he would arrange for Capponi and Felloni to teach me how to paint.”
“If you take instruction from them, Giacomo, you will learn nothing but bad habits.”
“But if you would teach me, Master—”
“I will not. You are my servant, and so you will remain—”
“—while you are in my house.” I know the line by heart.
I hear Margareta calling for her husband, Vanni, next door. The smell of beef roasting in a pot reaches my eager nose; how I long for a nice piece of beef, not that I’ll ever get it while I am the Master’s servant. In this house we may eat nothing that is not covered with leaves or pulled out of the ground by its roots.
“You are fortunate to be alive, Giacomo, remember that. Every day should be a blessing to you.”
“Yes, Master.”
“Now then. Your meddling friend, Father Vicenzo—”
“Not my friend, Master.”
“He has made his complaint to the Duke. We are summoned to the Castle to explain the delay with the Last Supper.”
“We, Master?”
“You will accompany me. You want to accompany me, don’t you?”
I’ve always wanted to accompany you to the Castle, Master!
“I see you do. Well, we can’t have you seen at the Castle dressed like a ragamuffin. I propose that we go to a tailor and have him make you a proper cloak for winter.”
I jump up from the chair.
“Really, Master?”
I thought I was about to be thrashed and thrown out of the house—and here he is, offering to take me to the Castle in a new cloak. He can turn from anger to appeasement faster than the wind turns a weathercock from north to south.
“Which tailor, Master? We owe more than a few.”
“We’ll find a new one, then. A new tailor for a new cloak!”
And next day we set off to find this new tailor, who must not only be a master of his trade, but also willing to take the Master’s credit.
Leonardo da Vinci always dresses richly when he goes out. Today he is wearing blue velvet hose with a red doublet and a black velvet cloak with a hood (lined with green silk, no less). The streets are thick with people about their business, but my master is easily seen. I’ve told him often enough to wear his hood up, but he won’t listen.
“Hi ho, Master Leonardo, wait up! I need to talk to you about Dante!”
Dante is the Master’s horse, and the voice is Fazio’s, the owner of the stables where we keep him. The Master has not paid Fazio for Dante’s upkeep. It’s been due I don’t know how long. Well, I do know. I’m the one who has to keep a record of our debts.
“The Devil take him!” my master says.
I told him to wear his hood up. Now Fazio is abreast of us.
“I can’t talk now, Fazio. I am urgently required at the Castle.”
“The Castle, is it this time, Master Leonardo? You are always looked for elsewhere, just when I have found you.”
“Fazio, I cannot help the demands the Duke places on me. I shall visit you at the stables soon. How is Dante?”
“Very well, very well, considering what he costs me. What does Dante know, as long as he is fed and watered, eh?”
“Quite right, Fazio, let’s keep the horse out of this, he is innocent.”
“But what are you, Master?” Fazio says, walking in front of us.
My master halts.
“I? Why, Fazio, you know very well what I am! I am waiting for the Duke to pay me so I can pay you. And he is tardy, let me tell you, he owes me three thousand ducats.”
“Three thousand du—!”
“Now do you understand? We are all at the mercy of the Duke!”
“Why, I—”
“Good-bye, Messer Fazio.”
And Messer Fazio is left standing in the middle of the street. One cannot dispute that my master is a master at side-stepping his creditors.
The street in which most of the tailors’ shops stand runs between the Church of San Giovanni, with its high-pointed spire, and that o
f San Nazaro, with its two iron bells. When they see the Master, several owners hail us from their shops—
“Special offer on sleeveless tunics—half off!”
“Cloaks, capes, cioppi—waist-length, knee-length, shin-length, ankle-length! We go to great lengths to serve you!”
“Hose! Beautifying hose! No thigh too fat, no shank too thin! Every defect hidden—bowlegs, flabby buttocks, weak calves! We turn short men into giants and fat men into athletes! Codpieces—small, medium, large, or lascivious!”
The Master dismisses them with a wave of his hand. Halfway down we halt outside a shop whose sign over the door announces MARTELLI, TAILOR, EST. 1479, and underneath: CLOTHES MAKE THE MAN, WE MAKE THE CLOTHES. The Master points to a roll of cloth on display on the table just inside the window and asks if that would not make a suitable cloak for me. It is a rich silver cloth. I am so surprised that all I can do is goggle. He has never made such an offer before, in all my seven years with him. Oh, I have been covered well enough, in dark jerkins and dull doublets, but this is decoration.
“Well?” he says.
“Master, I—”
“You don’t like it?”
I love it.
Then he suggests that it might look good with a green velvet trim. A green velvet trim! Only the most fashionable young gallants wear such extravagance! I know we do not have the money for all this—we just failed to pay Messer Fazio, didn’t we—but how can I refuse such a gift?
“No! I mean, yes!” I say. Yes, yes, yes!
“And we don’t owe this one any money?”
“I don’t think so, Master.”
So in we go.
“I wish to buy a cloak for my servant.”
“Ah, a cloak,” Martelli says, coming to the front of his counter and rubbing his hands. “And you will be needing a jerkin, hose, cap, and—”
“How much do you want for this?” The Master is pointing to the silver cloth.
“My dear sir, it is a bargain—look, cloth of silver like this doesn’t come cheap, it’s made to order—a steal for a florin the half-braccio.”
“What? A florin to cover half the length of my arm! Too expensive!”
“We can come to an agreement, sir, never fear! Lazzaro Martelli is not in business to make money, not a bit of it, but to please his patrons. Now, look at this material for a jerkin—”
“If you do not let me buy the cloak, and only the cloak, I will leave.”
I’d better act quickly, or I’ll lose my gift—and who knows when the Master will offer another one.
“Sir,” I say to the tailor, “do you not recognize Leonardo da Vinci?”
“Master Leonardo … the painter? The honor is too great for me! Your name is like honey to my lips, sweetening the words of high regard I have always had for you!”
Martelli sweeps the floor with his bow. It’s a miracle he doesn’t crack his forehead on the stones. The Master, about to depart, halts. Oh, he loves extravagant flattery, does my master, he laps it up like a cat does milk.
“Boy!” bellows Martelli. And here a young lad appears from behind the curtain. “Take Master Leonardo’s servant’s measurements, while I retire for a moment.”
For a cup of wine, no doubt.
And while I am holding up my arms for the boy to measure with the stick, I hear from behind the curtain: “—and some nice new gloves to go with it?”
The Master shakes his head, smiles at me, and lets fly with a great explosion of laughter. That’s the first sign of mirth that I’ve seen from him in months.
Why, Master, if this fellow Martelli can bring a smile to your face, when nothing else seems to work, we should come here every day to buy me something new!
And the Master’s laughter abruptly ceases, as if he has heard the very thoughts in my head and does not thank me for them.
We’re going to the Castle.
At last!
XII
Monday morning. When I tell Caterina where we are going, she pleads with me—“Oh don’t, Giacomo, don’t go—not there! They say that the Duke throws men into the deepest dungeons just for daring to look at him!”
“I’ll keep my eyes closed, I promise. Even if I fall into the moat.”
“You imp, you’d better listen to me! Nobody escapes those dungeons, they are dug deeper than the graves of the plague dead. If you stand within a dog’s bark of the Castle walls at midnight, you can hear the ghosts of the Duke’s victims wailing!”
She continues to tell me tales while I eat my bread and honey: the amazing news she has just heard from her friend Angela, about the four merchants who were robbed on the road from Milan to Lodi—and suffered the same fate on their return from Lodi to Milan. By the same robbers! She gives a tremendous laugh followed by a loud burp, which sometimes happens when one of her stories is particularly amusing to her. Then she blushes like a schoolgirl and busies herself with some polishing.
My master proclaims that gossip is worse than wasted time, it is a disease that can only be cured by raising the intellect, but I disagree; without idle chatter there would be nothing to distract simple folk from their miseries. Work from dawn to dusk for a few coins and fall onto a hard bed half-dead from exhaustion? Is that a life? Most people cannot read or write, draw or paint, play music or chess. What do they have, then? I say an hour of gossip is kinder to a simple soul than any papal proclamation. Just look at Caterina’s face as she talks, it is lit up like the Star of Bethlehem!
Then, at last, my master returns from wherever he was (not the Last Supper, and he’s not happy I asked), and we set off for the Castle at a brisk pace. I am wearing my new cloak and prancing like a peacock. If I was on my own I might be more prudent with my swagger, but with the Master by my side I lack nothing in confidence. He walks down the street as if it was named after him, as one day I am sure it will be.
I am carrying various of my master’s drawings for the Last Supper, secured between two wooden boards lined with silk and crossed with leather ties. It is a great honor to be allowed to carry the ripe fruits of the Master’s mind to the Duke’s table, and all the way to the Castle I am sweating under my doublet, fearful that the drawings will fall out of their casing and onto the streets, still glistening with the early morning rain.
“Be careful the boards do not come undone, Giacomo, or so will my plans.”
Yes, Master. You trust me to carry your plans, but you will not hear me when I ask you for help with mine.
A hunchbacked man leading an old donkey carrying a great quantity of bricks on its back blocks the street while the obstinate creature refuses to move. The Master pulls me by the elbow in his haste to pass. He is, it seems, even more nervous than I am about our meeting with the Duke.
For some distance we follow the river called Nirone, a tributary of the Adda, which brings fresh water into the center of Milan. The Master comments that the water looks murky today, which reminds him that the Duke asked him to look at improving the Castle water supply and installing a heating system in the private apartments. Where the Master will find time for that is a question best left to the Duke’s astrologers.
Then we join the Sforza Way, Milan’s finest road, which crosses northwest to southeast from the Castle to the Roman Gate; halfway along it meets the Visconti Passage, which runs from the New Gate in the northeast to the Ticino Gate in the southwest. And there you have it: a big X dividing our city into four quarters. Four quarters equal two halves; two halves equal one whole—and watch out, Giacomo, you’re about to fall into one!
The Duke should spend some of his gold on new paving stones, instead of wasting it on the more precious stones which only his mistress may have the benefit of.
But I must pay attention—the Master is lecturing me on my behavior inside the Castle, and what good is a lecture without an audience?
“… don’t speak unless I tell you to, don’t wander off, don’t play the fool, and don’t look at the maidservants—or their mistresses. Yes?”
“I can’t stop my eyes from seeing, Master.”
“Then look at the floor. We are here on a serious matter.”
The walk from our house to the Castle is one I have taken many times, curious to see what goes on within. You can always find a crowd of people at the main gates, hoping to catch a glimpse of the Duke. Some cheer when he rides by, but he pays no heed to that; others try to press petitions into his hand, but they are likely to lose whichever hand touches his person.
Milan Castle has the reputation of being impregnable. The walls are made of huge stone slabs that took thousands of laborers more than fifty years to put into position. At each of the two corners facing the city stand round turreted towers, higher even than the walls of which they form a part, each one capable of holding a hundred men ready for battle.
Inside the Castle are the grounds, barracks for the Duke’s army, the Duke’s own palace and apartments, and a highly fortified citadel deep within, known as the Rocchetta, built expressly to house the Duke’s treasure in a room with walls a braccio thick, impenetrable by any cannon or mortar.
A deep moat surrounds the Castle, and the only way in is through the main entrance facing the city across a bridge. Visitors must pass through two sets of gates before they can enter the Castle, and the main gates themselves are vast doors carved from oak and fretted with black iron ribs and bosses. It would take a great army, maybe two, to storm this fortress with success.
There is a constant coming and going at the gates: carts loaded with food and materials, squadrons of foot soldiers, couriers on horseback. I have already tried—of course I have—to see inside, concealed among a group of laborers, but I was spotted—and warned that if I tried it again I would be thrown into the moat. With rocks around my neck.
We continue to walk towards the entrance in silence. Then my master says: “I made plans for a network of secret passages below ground, so that the Duke and his family could escape into the countryside, should the Castle fall to an enemy.”
“Were they built, Master?”
“The Duke would not pay for the works. He says that the Castle can never be taken. That is called hubris, Giacomo, the belief that you are never wrong. Believing you are never wrong is an error that afflicts great men. I have learned that to be right you must first be wrong many times. Without making errors—and learning from them—a man cannot find the truth.”
Leonardo’s Shadow Page 7
