Leonardo’s Shadow

by Christopher Grey

  The Master is right. You learn more from your mistakes than from your successes. I must be learning a lot, then, with all the mistakes I make.

  We cross over the bridge spanning the moat that circles the outer walls. The Castle has a score of white swans, graceful long-necked creatures with flecks of black in their wing feathers, which seem to float atop the still, green water without touching it, guided as if by invisible hands.

  At the guardhouse, we are asked our business.

  “Leonardo da Vinci and his servant to see the Duke.”

  We are told to wait. It is very dark in the passage. Then the inner gates are drawn open and our escort to the Duke appears. He is a fop, an incredible fop, tricked up in the latest fashions. His velvet doublet is intricately patterned with white and red roses, and draped over his left shoulder is a mantle in cloth of gold patterned with black oak leaves. Topping this display is an extravagantly plumed cap, much like one of those mythical birds that no longer exist on God’s Earth. And low on his left hip he wears a rapier with a bejeweled hilt, which hell surely never use, except in practice.

  This, my friends, is how the rich live. At our expense.

  He doffs his cap and bows deeply. He stays down. When I am beginning to think he might be stuck there, he raises himself up and replaces his cap with a flourish, as if he was describing a circle around his head. This they call etiquette.

  “Master Leonardo, I am Count Pirzo de Brevi. The Duke extends his most benevolent greetings and bids you accompany me to him. Glory to invincible Milan and the name of Sforza!”

  My master looks at me and I see the hint of a smile.

  We pass through, led by the fop, and emerge into the inner court, a vast open field. The change from darkness to daylight forces me to close my eyes momentarily.

  When I open them everything is in motion around me. A group of women in white aprons hurries from one building to another, carrying baskets overflowing with washing. Two old men in red robes pass before us conversing loudly in Latin, one shaking his finger, the other his head, their long gray beards swinging in the breeze. Geese are wandering about on the grass, squawking. The smell of horse droppings is mingled with the more inviting odor of roasting meat coming from the kitchens, and my ears are filled with hoarse shouts and the clangor of sword on sword as foot soldiers in the northwest corner test each other in anticipation of battle, knowing that when the time comes to raise their swords against the enemy, their blows must be made with the intention of maiming, not merely outmaneuvering, their opponents.

  We walk across the field and reach the gates to the inner citadel, where Count Whatshisname pulls the bell rope, bows once more—and when I look round the doors are open and a new gentleman stands before us.

  “I am Fausto dell’Aquila, Second Earl of—”

  “Yes, yes, let us not keep the Duke waiting!” the Master says.

  The gentleman (not as gorgeously attired as his predecessor, but still the mirror of fashion) says: “Then follow me, please.”

  We do: down long icy corridors through which the wind seems to follow us like an army of ghosts, and across musty halls with dull shields and limp banners hanging above the doorways. We pass nobody, see nobody, and hear nothing but our own footfalls.

  “It is so cold in here,” I say to the Master. No reply. “Why are you not wearing a cloak or furs?” I direct this to the gentleman, whose face has no color, though whether that is the result of the cold or his face powder, I cannot say.

  The gentleman does not favor me with a glance.

  “Then give your answer to me, if not to him,” the Master says.

  The gentleman sniffs. “The Duke has decreed that the Castle is not cold.” The gentleman’s lips are almost blue from this lack of cold. “And the Duke is right and correct in this as in all things.”

  We cross a courtyard and enter another building, guarded by two men-at-arms in the Sforza colors of silver and green, standing pikes crossed, which they open at a command from the Earl to allow us passage. This building has more sumptuous decorations than the last: some very beautiful tapestries line the walls, but many of them are also full of holes. Perhaps the Duke has decreed that there are no moths, either.

  We mount staircases of varying length and incline, until I begin to feel like a climber on the snowy Alps. At last we stand outside two enormous doors set in a portal of carved, cream-colored marble, with cherubim playing around the edges.

  This is it: on the other side of these doors is the man who holds the answer to my past, the alchemist. I feel inside my pocket for the medallion, which I now carry with me everywhere.

  “Welcome to the Little Red Room,” the gentleman says, and with a flourish of his cape he ushers us through the doors. “The Duke willingly attends you.”

  If this is the Little Red Room, the Big Red Room has to be as big as the dome of Milan Cathedral; there must be fourscore people in here, all dressed finely, all chattering incessantly. It is a bit warmer, too, thanks be to whoever is the patron saint of warm rooms.

  I scan the crowd for someone who looks like an alchemist, but not being sure what an alchemist looks like, I fail in the task. Anyway, there is no one here dressed in anything embroidered with a phoenix in flames.

  The gentleman leads us forward and the crowd withdraws. I hear mutterings and whisperings as we pass: “Leonardo, Leonardo,” and “Our great painter,” and “This is he who will not finish the Last Supper!”

  Then one high, soft-voiced: “Look how pretty is the servant boy!” In spite of my master’s warning not to look at any fine ladies, I turn to catch a glimpse of the beauty with the harmonious tones, only to be smiled at by a wrinkled old gentleman with beetroot-red lips. He blows me a kiss, and in my surprise I tread on the Master’s heel. He gives me a good kick in the shin.

  At length we have passed through the crowd, and he is standing before us, the object of our fealty and fear. The Duke. My master bows deeply. I follow. We rise. Now I know why he is called Il Moro, the Moor. His skin is as dark as saddle leather. Behind his back, men call him other names, too, like Devil’s Hand and Viper’s Tail, but whatever you want to call him, front or back, you don’t want to anger him.

  The Duke, let me be plain with you, has a reputation for making people disappear. His own nephew, who was made Duke of Milan before him, died suddenly in 1494. Very suddenly, some say, from poisoning; and, some say, poisoned very suddenly—by his Uncle Ludovico, no less, who then wasted no time in proclaiming himself the new Duke and winning over the people of Milan with the greatest celebrations ever seen. Weeks of feasting, jousting, horse races, and enough free wine to stop up the thoughts of any citizen inclined to complain. By the time the city had woken up from its merrymaking, it was all over. Ludovico Sforza was in control of the army, the churches, and the treasury. He was untouchable.

  “Is this the man they call our country’s greatest painter?” he says.

  We wait. Nobody speaks. Not even my master. The Duke said it in a way that was not pleasing to the ear.

  “Yes, this is Leonardo da Vinci,” I say, when the silence has gone on too long, “our country’s greatest painter.”

  And all I get from the Master in return is a look that would burn a hole in wood.

  “And who is this?” the Duke says. His eyes seem to have no white in them. It is like staring into a lake at midnight.

  “My lord, this is my servant, Giacomo.”

  “Giacomo, eh? He does not stint at speaking unbidden in the presence of Ludovico Sforza?”

  “My lord,” my master says, “he is young and rash.”

  “Rash, you call it?”

  Someone comes forward and speaks into the Duke’s ear.

  “And be certain,” the Duke says aloud, when the other has finished, “that there is prepared an abundant supply of lampreys for tonight. In garlic and lemon.”

  Those courtiers nearest us begin to cheer and applaud. The Duke raises his hand. They cease.

  “And should
I let it pass, this rashness,” the Duke says, “as I would let pass a mad dog, fearing its bite? Or should I fell it now, while it is before me, before it can do further harm?”

  “My lord…”

  “Does his master let it pass, this rashness?”

  He moves towards my master as if he might draw his sword on him; but, no, the Duke clasps him in an embrace. Then, just as quickly, he pulls away.

  “Leonardo da Vinci!” he proclaims to the crowd. “The greatest painter in the land!”

  And this time he means it, I think. The courtiers are not yet sure that he does, though, and, fearing censure, they remain silent. Then the Duke smiles; his teeth flash brilliant white; his tone brightens. “He is not in Naples, he is not in Florence, he is not in Rome—he is here, here in Milan, where my enemies cannot profit from his genius!”

  Now there is unrestrained applause from the courtiers.

  “My lord, I am your humble …”

  But the smile has gone again, faster than a rat under a floorboard. The applause ceases almost as quickly. “And yet …” The Duke scratches the side of his nose, looks at his fingernails (polished and round), and shakes his head at Leonardo da Vinci. “And yet the Last Supper remains unfinished.”

  “My lord, I—”

  “We have been waiting for it, Master. We have told the whole world that we have it, Master. And yet, Master, we are still waiting for it, we still do not have it, it is still”—the Duke sweeps his arm around the room—“not here.”

  No, I want to say, it is at Santa Maria delle Grazie.

  From out of the circle that has formed around us, a very fine lady steps forward. She wears a jewel-encrusted dress in scarlet velvet cut square across her chest. Her necklace of ivory and jet is wound several times around her neck and hangs low in front, dividing her breasts, but doubling their attraction. The thinnest strip of gold encircles her forehead, and in the center is set a brilliant red garnet that catches the light now and then and dazzles the air. Her lips are painted the same color. Her auburn hair, parted in the middle and descending in two waves to her cheeks, is drawn back and tied behind in a net of sheer silk sewn with pearls. It hangs thickly down her back and swings like a bell rope when she moves.

  Why do I go to such great lengths to describe her to you, when there is such serious business at hand? Because I have never seen such a living creature; her every movement is such that looking at her does not, as in other people, accustom the eye; rather, she becomes more fascinating, more impossible to look away from.

  But this is no ordinary woman: this is Lucrezia Crivelli, the Duke’s mistress. I recognize her from the portrait my master has been at work on for the Duke. She is lovelier even than his rendering of her, and it is a rare woman, having sat for my master, who can boast that.

  “Master Leonardo,” she says, “I wonder that you did not bring my finished portrait with you.”

  She looked at me, I swear she did. At me!

  “I could not do that, my lady,” my master says.

  “Why, pray?”

  “Because it is not finished.”

  “We beseech you to put aside your other works until it is.”

  “Then you must speak to the Duke, my lady.”

  “But I am speaking to you, Leonardo,” she says, with an edge.

  “If the Duke wishes me to neglect the Last Supper, then I may devote all my time to you. Otherwise, you must be disappointed.”

  “You would do well not to disappoint either of us, Master Leonardo,” the Duke says.

  Lucrezia puts a hand on the Duke’s arm. The Duke takes it off. And then he says: “Now hear me, Leonardo! Father Vicenzo, the prior of Santa Maria delle Grazie, comes to me with a most serious complaint against you. It has been two years since you first raised your brush to the Last Supper, and he tells me that since then the brush has scarce touched the surface, in spite of the money I have paid you.”

  “If my lord would care to accompany me to Santa Maria, I would be—”

  “Accompany you? Nay, Leonardo, you must find your way alone. This painting is yours before it is mine. Now then, to begin at the end: When will the Last Supper be finished?”

  I am listening to every word, but I cannot take my eyes off Lucrezia: they are sewn to her front like the jewels on her dress.

  “My lord,” my master says, “to explain what art should be, and to examine why some works jump the hurdle of time and live forever, while others fall at the first fence, would be to—”

  “Make me exceedingly weary. Speak to me not of the how, but the when?”

  “My lord, if you will look at my drawings—Giacomo!—you will see …”

  I begin to untie the boards, but the Duke shakes his head. “No, Leonardo, no more drawings.” So I tie them up again. “You promised me a painting—the finest painting ever made.”

  “And you will have it, my lord. But such excellence does not come without a price.”

  “You have been well paid, have you not?”

  “The price, my lord, is time.”

  “In that case you have been very well paid. And now your credit has run out. State me your reason for the delay.”

  The Master does not reply at first. The courtiers are staring at us.

  “Reason, my lord?”

  I can smell cooking. Perhaps food is being served in the next room, and that is why the assembly looks so eager to see us go.

  “Yes, Leonardo, reason; tell me the reason, before I lose mine.”

  My master hesitates—and in that brief moment I know he is thinking of a good excuse—then says: “I cannot find suitable models.”

  “Eh? Models? My dear Leonardo, you have the whole court! Look around you at all my nobles, good and faithful men, every one. We have a thousand faces, Leonardo, would you have me lose mine by failing me?”

  “I mean, Your Excellency, models for the faces of Judas and Jesus.”

  “Choose from among my courtiers, Leonardo, as I have just instructed you.”

  “But, my lord, how to choose the highest of men and the lowest? It cannot be done.”

  “Is that your problem? Is that it?”

  “That is it, my lord, no more, no less.”

  The Duke claps his hands. “Then it is easily solved! You have my permission to use whomsoever you please.”

  “Anybody, my lord?”

  “My dear Leonardo, use your servant as a model for our Lord Jesus, if you have a mind to—just finish the thing, and finish it by Easter. The Pope will be visiting us, and I want to show him that Milan has the finest—and the largest—painting of Christ and His Disciples in all the land. Failure to finish it will result in my humiliation, and that will not be favorable for either of us. Do you hear me now?”

  “Indeed, my lord, I could not fail to. And Judas?”

  “Find someone, Master Leonardo. Take a beggar off the street, if you must. Paint it, Leonardo, paint it any way you like, but, above all, paint it quickly.”

  My master bows.

  Then Lucrezia speaks. “You are our greatest asset, Master Leonardo. We wish to heap praise and rewards on your head, as soon as the Last Supper is finished—and that as soon as my portrait is done.”

  “My lady.”

  The Duke gives her a look, but does not speak. With a face like hers, Lucrezia can say what she wants.

  “Our business settled, we may proceed to lunch,” he says.

  Thus the Duke brushes us off like dust from his sleeve. So much for the Last Supper, and so little for it.

  The Duke looks at me as he passes. I bow. When in doubt, bow; it is safer.

  “What is your name, boy?”

  You were told that already, O forgetful ruler.

  “Giacomo, if it please you, my lord.”

  “Please me? I cannot say. Does it please you?”

  “Better than Donkey Ears or Monkey Face, my lord.”

  “Ha! A most insolent boy!”

  “Giacomo!” my master says. “Giacomo, mind yoursel
f!”

  “This boy’s effrontery reminds me of my Fool, but his face is better proportioned. My Fool’s face looks like a badly stuffed cushion.”

  And a voice from within the crowd says: “Why does the Duke insult my face behind my back, when he knows full well it is on the front? But that is like everything around here—back to front.”

  The Duke’s Fool pushes his way through the crowd—“’Scuse me.” “Coming through.” “That’s a nice dress, did you make it yourself?” What a sight he is in his costume of red and yellow stripes and his hat a-jangle with bells. Why, he is no taller than a clipped hedge! I have always wanted to meet him, ever since I saw him in the Duke’s procession to the Cathedral, running in and out of the crowd banging a drum.

  “What errand brings you here, Fool?” the Duke says. “I did not send for you.”

  “And I didn’t ask to come. But here I am.”

  Now the little man steps between the Master and the Duke.

  “So this is the famous Leonardo,” he says.

  “This is he, Fool,” the Duke says.

  “The greatest painter in the land?”

  “That is right.”

  “Who paints the Last Supper?”

  “Yes.”

  “Never heard of him,” says the Fool.

  The Duke frowns.

  “We must go, Giacomo,” my master says. “The Duke’s lunch grows cold.”

  “Leave the boy with me, Master Leonardo,” says the Fool. “I will teach him how to wash the dishes.”

  “I already know that,” I say.

  “It will be a short lesson, then.”

  “Master, may I stay with the Fool?”

  “No, boy,” he says, “you are too much the fool already.”

  The Duke places his hand on my master’s shoulder.

  “Your genius is beyond our understanding, Master Leonardo, to be sure.”

  “Why, I thank you, my lord.”

  “As is your habit of disappearing at the very moment we have need of you. Keep me informed of your progress. Do not make me chase you so much, or one day I will be forced to chase you from Milan.”