Leonardo’s Shadow

by Christopher Grey

  “Benedetti, the paper merchant?” he says. “In the Last Supper?”

  “Yes, sir, you, sir, there. Sir.”

  “Oh husband,” Elizabetta Benedetti says, taking his arm. “Imagine what that would do for our daughters’ prospects in marriage! And think how jealous the Vergiliano-Tassos would be!”

  “One more thing,” I say. Oh, why not, I’ve come this far. “As well as canceling our debts, we will require a small payment.”

  “Eh? Payment? Now I see you are more horse dealer than servant! What kind of payment?”

  “Ten ducats.”

  It was the first figure that came into my head.

  “Ten ducats?! Why, that’s five reams of parchment, that is!”

  “Not so much to pay, sir, to become famous throughout Lombardy.”

  “Giacomo, would you sit down? Wife, call the servant for some wine for the boy. Let’s you and I have a little conference outside.”

  Almost as soon as the door is closed behind them a servant enters, an old fellow with a stoop. As he wobbles his way towards me, I get up and take the glass of wine before he drops it, thanking him for his trouble.

  Well, this is the life. Wine at eleven. A fine chair to sit on, not like the ones in the Master’s house that sag as soon as you place your rear on them. And being treated with respect instead of contempt. I could take some more of this life, I could.

  Then the door opens again and a pretty head appears, sees me, and is followed by an equally pretty form: Emilia. She glances back to see that no one is about and then comes in, closing the door behind her.

  “Is it true you serve the great Leonardo?” she says.

  “I have that honor.”

  “Then could you—would you arrange for me to meet him? More than anything, I want to learn how to paint.”

  “You do? That’s what I—”

  But now the door is opening again, and the Benedettis are entering.

  “Emilia?” Elizabetta Benedetti says. “What are you doing in here?”

  “I wanted to ask Giacomo about Master Leonardo—”

  “You ask too many questions of too many people about too many things,” her mother says.

  Too many questions? I like this Emilia more with every passing moment.

  As soon as his daughter has left the room, Benedetti says: “We’ve talked it over, my wife and I, and I agree—we agree—to your proposal, Giacomo. Your master will use my face in the Last Supper—not Judas, mind, not Judas!—and I will cancel all his debts and pay the sum often ducats.”

  “Agreed! Let us shake on it.”

  We do. Several times.

  By the Virgin, what have I done? Some good, I hope, for the Master. But for Caterina and me, I do not need to hope: I know. Tonight we eat.

  “When will we see it?” his wife says.

  “As soon as it is painted.”

  “And when will that be?” Benedetti says, rubbing his hands together.

  “When it is done.”

  Benedetti and his wife smile delightedly at each other. The Vergiliano-Tassos will have to admit they are beaten.

  “Giacomo, I tell you truly, my wife and I are thrilled. What other merchant in Milan will have his face in a painting by Leonardo da Vinci, our greatest painter?”

  To that I will give no answer. There are twelve Disciples. One place taken by Benedetti leaves me another eleven to fill. And we owe money to a multitude of merchants. My friend Benedetti will have plenty of company at the Last Supper.

  And now he escorts me to the front door, his arm around my shoulders.

  “A fine young man, yes you are, don’t argue, a fine young man. I’ll prepare the document annulling your master’s debts and have it sent over to you. Which Disciple will I be, Giacomo? May I choose?”

  “I’ll have to ask the Master.”

  “Oh, don t put him to any bother, wherever he can fit me in.”

  Benedetti knows very well that arguing with the Master is a profitless exercise.

  As I pass through the door, I turn and say: “I’d like the ten ducats now, if you please, sir.”

  He looks at his wife. She nods. Benedetti fishes inside the purse hanging from his belt and brings out the coins. “… Seven, eight, nine, ten. There now. We are settled. When do I come for the sitting, eh, Giacomo?”

  “Just as soon as my master is ready for you.”

  Whenever that will be.

  “I do have one more request,” I say.

  “Anything, my boy, anything.”

  “May I take some paper for drawing?”

  “What—are you an artist, too? Come to the shop tomorrow. By all means you will have your paper, as much as you can carry.”

  As I walk down the street something tells me to look back—and both Benedettis are waving at me as if I was their long-lost son! I would have no objection to them as parents, none at all, except that the last thing I would want to be is Emilia’s brother.

  And now, as soon as the Master returns, I’ll tell him how successful my plan has been with Benedetti, and he will surely agree to let me make this offer to the other shopkeepers.

  XXV

  The New Year is knocking on Milan’s gates, and in a few hours it will enter. Will it be any better than the last? Only God knows, and He isn’t telling.

  At midnight the cannon will be fired from the Castle and the annual display of fireworks will begin, the so-called Battle between the Giants and the Gods. It’s a gift to the people from the Duke, and it lasts an hour or so; for the rest of the year he will not give, he will take.

  Once more my friends and I are met at the Seven Knaves.

  Renzo will not yet say if he has accepted Messer Maggio’s offer to make him an apprentice. By Saint Francis, I do not understand why he delays. You never know what Renzo is thinking. Sometimes I wonder if he does any thinking at all.

  Jacopo is watching over his customers with a falcon’s ready eye; he awaits the next disaster, knowing it will come, but not what form it will take. Just now an old lady, drunk as a young maid on her first night out, slipped and fell into the fire, and precious water had to be wasted putting her out. Much madness will take place tonight. It is New Year’s Eve, and strange spirits are let loose.

  Caterina is spending the evening next door with Margareta, whose master—Messer Montevecchio, the trader—is having a final celebration before he leaves for Spain on business. There will be music for dancing and plenty of food, and even if Margareta will be serving instead of sitting, and Caterina will be in the kitchen helping to wash the platters, they will make merry together. I am glad that she will have company this evening; old folk feel the passing of time more keenly on this night than any other and should not be alone.

  But here in the Seven Knaves the riotous revelry that fills the tavern top to bottom scarcely touches my sides. I am as sober as a tree stump. I have good reason. This morning a message came from Messer Tombi: Tonight at midnight The shop.

  Nothing more. No welcome, no farewell. A command, plain and simple. Which I am meant to obey. And the manner is so unlike the friendly apothecary’s that I wonder if he wrote it, or if his hand was guided by another.

  Who would want to lead me into such a trap? The Duke? The one who sent those thieves to our house? But why send me to the apothecary?

  Such speculation is useless. I must go; I have to. Something is going to happen tonight, something important. I can feel it.

  “What’s wrong with you?” Renzo says. “Not joining in the singing? I’ve never been able to stop you before. God’s breath, how I’ve tried!”

  “I have heavy thoughts,” I say.

  “Drink some more, then, and lock the door on them. It’s New Year’s Eve, Giacomo!”

  I raise my cup and we toast each other, but I set it down again untouched.

  Claudio, by character cautious and shy, is more the opposite tonight. His round face is shining from the heat and drink, and he laughs as if he has just now discovered how.

&nbs
p; “Giacomo, my dearest friend, did I tell you how much I love you?”

  “Only a dozen times.”

  He claps his arm around my shoulder.

  “My master has invited me to join his family for the fireworks tonight. And his daughter Alessandra is the loveliest maid in all Milan. Perhaps I will be seated near her!”

  “Then this is your big chance, Claudio.”

  “But I fear I will make a fool of myself.”

  “You will if you go on drinking. Stop now, is my advice to you.”

  Then Antonio starts telling us about this monk, Teofilio, who has a prayer that can cure bad breath, and how he, Antonio, has bought it from him for a bottle of pear brandy (which he stole, anyway), and how he is going to print a hundred copies of the cure and sell them from door to door. While he drones on about his new scheme, my mind drifts away to thoughts of my master, and what might be happening at the Castle. Have they finished building the flying machine? And will the Master let me be the one to pilot it?

  “Come on, Giacomo, drink up, you’re lagging behind,” Antonio says.

  I raise my cup once more—“My Lady’s Cheeks!”—one in a list often pledges that begin with the lady’s hair, then progress south by eyes, lips, neck, and so forth, as far as the lady’s secret parts, at which point some overzealous drinkers halt and linger for the rest of the night.

  The serving girl sets down a fresh jug of wine. Renzo gives her a look. It’s almost worth staying just to see what will happen next—but the hour of midnight is almost come.

  “Friends, a joyful New Year to you all! I must leave now, I am expected.”

  We shake hands and embrace. And out the door I go into the shivering night air.

  I cling to the shadows, head down, and when I turn into the Street of Apothecaries, the shops are all dark—all except Tombi’s, where I can see a greenish glow flickering behind the shutters.

  “Messer Tombi, open up! It’s Giacomo.”

  Tombi peers through the peephole and, satisfied that my voice does not deceive him, opens the door.

  “Come in, boy, be quick about it.”

  He beckons me through the curtain into the workroom. There is no candle lit, but a glass jar is giving off a strange light. He sees me staring at it.

  “The tails of glowworms, boy, caught at dawn. Cheaper than candle wax, and they last longer. The waste pit outside the city walls is an excellent place to find them. I go there every day.”

  That may explain the persistent strong smell on Tombi’s clothes.

  The creatures are wriggling and writhing behind their glass wall. Is it agony or ecstasy that possesses them?

  “Why did you send for me with such urgency, Messer Tombi?”

  He says nothing at first. Then, from deep inside his robe, he draws out a silver disk. But it looks like the medallion—

  “You, Messer Tombi? An alchemist?”

  “A true member of the Brotherhood,” Tombi says. “Indeed, the last alchemist left in Milan. When the Duke began his purge of my brethren, I disguised myself in a beard and old robes and became the apothecary. I waited. And waited. I have been waiting these many years. Then you came to me that day and told me—”

  “—about my medallion and that I had seen someone arriving at the Castle!”

  “That man is Ottavio Assanti, Grand Alchemist, and Second Brother of the Brotherhood.”

  “Second—?”

  “Second in rank to the First Brother.”

  I take a deep breath. “Will you help me to meet this Assanti?”

  “Better than that. When I told him about you, he came here himself.”

  Tombi holds out his hand by way of introduction, and as he does so, from out of the shadows appears a tall figure, hooded.

  He stands before me, fully Haifa man taller.

  I can see nothing of his face, hidden as it is by the cowl.

  Then he places one of his hands inside the folds of his robe and pulls out a medallion. He holds it in the palm of his hand for me to inspect.

  “The medallion of the Brotherhood,” he says, in a voice that defies argument. “I have been told that you possess the same.”

  “I do, sir. I have had it since I was a child.”

  I take it from my purse and hold it out to him.

  Assanti comes towards me and pulls off the hood that obscures his face. He has a shaved head and short gray beard. His nose is long and bent slightly to the left. His eyes are blue. It is a face that commands respect.

  “But you have forfeited your memory, so I am told. What would you give to have it restored to you?”

  “Anything, sir. Everything!”

  “With my art,” Assanti says, “I can probe the inmost corners of your mind. Together we will discover what lies behind the veil of forgetfulness and return to you the past that is rightfully yours.”

  Straightway, the blood rushes from my head and I feel faint with excitement.

  “You could do that, Master? You could?”

  Assanti smiles. “It merely requires time. Which, at the moment, I do not have. The Duke does not let me wander very far before he sends his men to look for me. He needs me at his side, and he does not trust himself when I am not.”

  “I would give anything to know more, Master.”

  “And so you shall. There is much for you to learn.”

  “Thank you, Master, thank you! I will do everything—”

  “Not everything, boy, one thing. But now I must return to the Castle, or I will be missed. Listen to what Tombi has to say.”

  Assanti moves through the curtain and without another word departs Tombi’s shop, his cloak billowing behind him.

  “Messer Tombi, is it possible? Can Master Assanti restore my memory to me?”

  “He is capable of many things.”

  “Then tell me what I must do.”

  “The Second Brother wants you to perform a small service for him.”

  “Anything I can do is little enough to receive the answers I seek.”

  “The Pope is coming to Milan.”

  “Nobody knows that better than me, Messer Tombi!”

  “Master Assanti wishes to meet with His Holiness.”

  “Why does he need me for that?”

  “The Duke will never permit it. He needs the Pope’s help against the French; and the Church, as I told you, is not a friend to alchemists. The Duke will want to keep Master Assanti as far from the Pope as possible.”

  “But why does the Church hate alchemy so much?” I ask.

  “It considers our work sacrilegious, but most of all it fears that one day we will discover the secret of immortality, which would render the Church’s own teachings worthless. If man could become immortal while he yet lived, who would care for the Christian faith, which says you must die first?”

  Now, that is sacrilege!

  “The Church, however, has the advantage,” Tombi continues. “The First Brother fears that alchemy will one day vanish completely unless we make our peace. Master Assanti has been given the task of winning the Pope’s confidence and proving to His Holiness that henceforth alchemists will work together with the Church to bring about a better life for all mankind.”

  “What must be done, Messer Tombi, and when?”

  “Master Assanti understands that Pope Alexander has requested to see the Last Supper. You will gain access to the refectory at Santa Maria delle Grazie and help the Second Brother to obtain an audience with His Holiness. After this fruitful meeting our two faiths will be drawn together in one happy union. Giacomo, with your help we will change the course of history!”

  It sounds worthy.

  “I’ll do it, sir. Tell Master Assanti he has my agreement.”

  “Now, you must speak nothing of this to anyone. Least of all to your master, who might well deny you this chance, much as he has denied you the chance to learn painting.”

  The apothecary speaks truly. Why does my master seek to hinder my progress in the world?

  I bid
farewell to Tombi and hasten home to a New Year, 1498, and, God willing—and not so far distant from now—a new life. The celebrations are still going on in the streets, and my heart rises up with the thought that I will one day soon have something to celebrate as well.

  In three months the Pope will come to Milan. Now, more than ever, I must make sure that the Master finishes the Last Supper in time. If it is not done, the Pope will never visit Santa Maria delle Grazie, and I will never learn the truth about myself.

  This New Year promises to be the first truly happy one of my life.

  Before I fall to sleep I take out my drawing board and paper and draw the Second Brother, Ottavio Assanti. His proud head, his keen eyes, his imperial nose.

  I work at it for an hour or more.

  In the candlelight I see that I have made a passable likeness of the alchemist. It’s not quite done, but I am too drowsy now to draw any more. For safekeeping, I’ll put it inside the cover of one of the Master’s sketchbooks lying here by the bed and finish it tomorrow.

  XXVI

  The next morning I am too tired to rise early, and without the Master here I have no one to complain at me if I don’t. It is New Year’s Day, after all. Even the dogs are sleeping it off.

  Caterina brings me some soup at midday, and I am soon dreaming once more.

  When I awake it is late afternoon.

  I hear talking in the kitchen.

  My master has returned!

  I jump up and pull on my clothes. I’m about to go in, when I hear his voice: “Has he been stealing?”

  “I do not know where he found the money, but he did,” Caterina is saying. “That is how we ate while you were away. The shopkeepers refused to give us anything more until they were paid.”

  “What! No more credit? I’ll speak to them, they won’t deny me.”

  “You left us with no money,” she says.

  “Nonsense, woman! It was in the pot, where I always leave it.”

  I step into the kitchen.

  “There was nothing in the pot, Master.”

  “Well, you haven’t starved to death, anyone can see that.”

  “If I had not been given money by Benedetti, air is all we would have had to eat, Master.”