Leonardo’s Shadow

by Christopher Grey

  The bells are ringing for late Mass as I hurry towards the Seven Knaves. The streets are strangely silent tonight, as if everyone has been commanded to stay indoors as a sign of respect for my friend’s death.

  But the quieter the streets, the more I feel that someone is following me and means to do some mischief. Perhaps Tommaso and his devil-friends are watching me even now, patiently waiting for the moment to strike. And the Duke? Perhaps my master really did settle the matter, and I have nothing to fear. He said he would, after all. And now that he has the flying machine, perhaps the Duke has put me out of his mind. But the Master’s dealings with the Duke are never certain. My instincts tell me that I am not yet safe.

  At last! I am here. I thrust open the rusted hinges of Jacopo’s citadel, and the scene greets me with its customary warm embrace. I feel better on the instant.

  I am studying a group of shoeless friars in thick black robes grouped around the fire and raising cups to one another’s health in a strange language, when Jacopo’s wife, Marta, pats me on the back.

  “Nice burial, was it, Giacomo? Poor Caterina, we were sorry to see her go, but we’ve all got to go sometime, as my husband says when he is closing up the tavern and kicking out the drunks! Speaking of my lord and master, he has settled your company in the back room.” She laughs and returns to her business, lifting foaming cups and brimming goblets, the Venus of the tavern, the goddess of the grape.

  Through the old curtain and into the back room, to be greeted by cheers and shouts. I’ll soon settle them down.

  “Gentlemen, please!” I say. “Today was the funeral of my master’s faithful housekeeper, Caterina. Show some respect, I implore you.” And that’s the first time I’ve ever had the pleasure of telling others to pay the respect that I’m usually accused of not paying myself.

  But I got their attention. They’re all looking at me now. Then Gregorio Rinnucci, the saddler, raises his finger and points at me: “Respect, the young fellow says! Respect! Your master owes me respect—and fifty ducats!—for the fine saddle of leather with silver stirrups. Lovely work, if I say so myself. Now, I want in on this Last Supper!”

  “Stand in line, then,” says Lorenzo Delitto, the goldsmith, elbowing his way forward. “Giacomo, you know me—”

  “He knows me better than you, Delitto,” Rinnucci says, giving him a shove.

  I hardly know either of them, except to run when they come for money.

  “Pah! I was serving Master Leonardo when you were still an apprentice,” Delitto says.

  “And I’ll still be serving him when you’re lying three braccia under the earth!” Rinnucci retorts.

  “Well, who gets to be in the Last Supper?” And that’s Paolo Vecchio, the tailor.

  “Gentlemen! Gentlemen!” I raise my voice above the hubbub. “We must decide this matter in a seemly manner. Please be seated.”

  The merchants do so, pushing and shoving for the best places on the two long benches.

  “That’s right,” Benedetti says. “Behave yourselves, or Giacomo will cancel the auction.”

  “Auction?” someone says. “Nobody said it was to be an auction!”

  And the uproar commences once more.

  “Gentlemen! If you cannot restrain yourselves, I am leaving!”

  Oh, that shut them up. This is more fun than sweeping the yard! Nobody except Caterina ever listened to me before, and even she with only one ear—now I have Milan hanging on my words like silken bell ropes.

  So I begin, and what comes out is a surprise, even to me.

  “Messer Benedetti,” I say, “the Master sends you his greetings and bids me tell you that your seat at the Last Supper is no longer assured.”

  His brow furrows; time to sow the seed.

  “We have been offered more by others who wish to take your place.”

  The colors in Benedetti’s face run into one another. The result is a kind of green.

  “What,” he starts to say, “is … this?” It ends as a shout.

  The other merchants look at Benedetti. Then they bend towards me, all ears.

  “It is simple, sir. There are certain persons who most earnestly desire to be seated at Christ’s table, and they are prepared to bid higher for the honor.”

  “Who is prepared to bid higher?”

  “I cannot tell you that, Messer Benedetti. The question is whether you are willing to ensure your place by offering a sum that is agreeable to the Master.”

  I want to laugh out loud! Never have I had such a feeling of power. Indeed, I’ve never had any feeling of power at all, until now.

  “This is madness, Giacomo!” Benedetti says. “It’s not what we agreed.”

  “I’ll pay!” says Girolamo Martino, another tailor the Master owes. “I’ll cancel Leonardo’s debts and give him a new cloak with fox trimming! What else would he like?”

  “He’d like twenty ducats in addition,” I say. Ten more than the last lot paid. And why not.

  To which Martino replies forthwith: “Very good! His debts are gone, he’ll have twenty ducats, and I’ll make him a new cloak—all for a place at our Lord’s table!”

  “Your master has owed me for two years past,” says Rinnucci, the saddler, his voice rising to make itself heard, “but I forgive the debt. He can have his twenty ducats as well, and I’ll throw in a new saddle, free of charge. What say you, Giacomo?”

  Then they all rise from their seats and begin speaking at once; it sounds like the Monday cattle auction outside the New Gate.

  “Gentlemen, you do me wrong, when I am so honest with you,” I say. “You mock my master with your miserliness!”

  Really, I have to clench my teeth to stop the laughter.

  They stare at me, mouths agape. But not for long. Another one stands up—I don’t know his name—and says: “Leonardo’s debts to me are canceled, if he will grant me a place at the table. And I will give him three pairs of—”

  “—Shoes and a pair of soft leather boots for you, Giacomo,” Veroli, the shoemaker, finishes the sentence. Now, that is a proposition worth considering. New boots, without having to foot the bill!

  Delitto is back again: “I’ll make your master an ivory medallion inlaid with gold, with his name on it in Latin: Leonardus Pinctor Magnificus. A gift, and freely given. Who can match that?”

  “I can, for one!” The bookseller Pierfrancesco Festa is pressing a book bound in soft red leather into my hands. “I have the only copy in Lombardy of Pliny’s Natural History! Yes, that’s right, its value is greater than gold, the Duke was after me for it—but your master can have it, if he will paint me seated near Christ in the Last Supper. And he need not pay me for the books he still owes: the two by Pulci, the Epistles of Filelfo, and the others. I can’t remember all the names in this madhouse!”

  “Gentlemen,” I say, “I thank you, but we have only five places left—”

  “Five? We heard six!”

  “Here, Giacomo, listen here! Come and live with me on my country estate near Pavia! Fish in my private river on weekends! Just get me a place at this supper, wherever it is, I cannot bear to miss a good meal! I am Gherardi, the banker. Call me Ercole, my dearest friend!”

  “Sir,” I say, “do you know the name Leonardo?”

  “Leonardo … Leonardo … I know a Leonardo Zanetti, he makes wine barrels. Is that the one?”

  “Off with you, sir, you are in the wrong tavern!” I say.

  “Gentlemen! Gentlemen!” Benedetti is still trying to keep order. And failing.

  Delitto and Rinnucci are pushing and shoving each other, Veroli punches Vecchio’s shoulder, and Vecchio tries to kick him in the shins—and misses. There is much hurling of angry threats and bitter curses.

  Then some fellow—I thought he was asleep, his head on the table—sits up and says: “Shir, from your young lipsh come the wordsh of a gentlemans, and I am a gentlemans, sho I will respond to them.” He stands up and sways over the table. “What shlay you—what shay you to four hunnerd, four hun
dred ducatsh and my daughter for a place at the Lush Sipper? Thus shpeaks Count Girolamo di Berto … da Campo … Fregoso!”

  My first thought is: How did you get in here, you old sponge? My second is: Four hundred ducats? Saint Matthew! And his daughter, too? Well, I’d have to take a look at her first. But, no, that won’t be necessary. We do not want or need a gentleman at the Last Supper; indeed, I insist we have no gentleman, highborn or self-proclaimed, especially one the length of whose name will leave no room at the table for anyone else.

  “Sir,” I say, “we thank you for your generosity. But the bidding is between friends. I cannot accept your offer.”

  “Do not inshult me, shir,” Count Girolamo says, reaching for his weapon. He makes two full turns, like a dog chasing its tail, before he gets a hold of it.

  My hand goes to my dagger.

  But Jacopo’s short, strong arm holds mine in place.

  “Have a care, Giacomo.” Then, turning to the gentleman, Jacopo says: “Sir, the boy means no offense. And he is right. This is a private meeting. Not knowing who invited you or why, we must ask you to leave.”

  “Well, shir,” the Count says, trying to pull his sword from its scabbard, “if I mush leave, I’ll take every one of you devilsh with me!”

  While the gentleman is once more struggling with his weapon, Jacopo turns, picks up a cask as if it was a paperweight, and drops it squarely on his head. The Count collapses into his cloak and falls to the sawdust floor with no more sound than a stuffed pillow.

  “I’ll lug his lordship to the neighboring tavern, The Falling Star,” Jacopo says, “and when he wakes up, he’ll more than likely have forgotten what happened or why. Continue with your business, gentlemen. More wine in here, Marta!”

  While the others are being served, I confer with Benedetti, whose face has not yet regained its former aspect. Drawing closer to his ear, I whisper: “I am using you as bait to raise the price of admission to the other tradesmen. You have been a friend to Leonardo da Vinci, sir, and I am a man of my word.” A man of my word! I like the sound of that, yes I do. “Your seat in the Last Supper is secure.”

  Benedetti’s face straightway finds its original, happier composition.

  “I knew you were a clever lad,” he says, “but this is the height of cunning! Brave boy! Your master will be proud of you, I warrant.”

  I had hopes that he might feel that way, yes.

  Let the bargaining begin.

  Between cups of wine and chunks of spit-roasted mutton, long into the night, with Messer Benedetti acting as my help, and with a strong word from him to whoever uses one on me, I make an end to the question of who should be seated in the Last Supper.

  And this is what has been decided: the remaining five places will be taken up by Pierfrancesco Festa, who has already given me the valuable copy of Pliny’s Natural History to take to the Master; Cesare Cabrera, the swordsmith, who has offered a silver dagger with a pearl handle for his place; Lorenzo Delitto, the goldsmith, who has promised to start work on the gold-and-ivory medallion as soon as he returns to his shop; Vittorio Veroli—new shoes for the Master, new boots for me, and free repairs for as long as we are in Milan; and Girolamo Martino, the tailor, who promises a new cloak trimmed with fur for my master, and a new jerkin and three shirts for me.

  What is more, they each agree to cancel all debts incurred by the Master and to pay nineteen ducats in coin. (And they are overjoyed, too, because I asked for twenty and let them beat me down!)

  And I’m taking the money now. We need it, after all.

  While those tradesmen who have been fortunate enough to gain their places in the Last Supper congratulate one another, I commiserate with the other members of our auction who would not bid, or bid enough. I am thankful there is no ill feeling. We all shake hands, and Jacopo shows them out.

  “Messer Benedetti, my thanks—and Leonardo da Vinci’s. You have not yet been to sit for him, and he is waiting for you. Do not be tardy, sir, or your place may be taken—”

  “What? Let’s have no more of that, Giacomo, please! Il’l be there tomorrow, first thing!”

  Benedetti wraps his arm around my shoulders and asks if he can bring his wife as well. Without a doubt, Benedetti, without a doubt.

  “And Emilia, too,” I say. “If she can be spared from the shop”

  “Business first, Giacomo,” Benedetti says, smiling, “but I dare say I can let her out for an hour. She showed me your drawing. Now, my boy, why didn’t you tell me you were such a fine artist?”

  “Because I am not, Messer Benedetti. Not yet.”

  Dawn is breaking when I emerge from the tavern; the darker sky is rent apart with gashes of pink and rose. I feel newly born into the world, and my hopes are high. I have not drunk a cup all night—what need have I of drink, when my success in this venture gives me more pleasure than any wine? I have cleared all our outstanding debts and, in addition, can hand over ninety-five ducats to my master. (Not forgetting that rare copy of Pliny’s Natural History.)

  Look what I have accomplished, Master—and think how much more I will be capable of when you recognize me as your true son.

  XXXI

  “Master?”

  No answer. I run upstairs. His door is open. He lies on his back, his arm across his chest, breathing heavily.

  Wake up, Master, wake up, I have excellent news to tell you!

  In the kitchen I start up the fire. Nearly out of wood again. So many things to think about now that Caterina is gone. I put the money from the shopkeepers in the clay pot, and then I take two buckets and go down the street to the well. The air is cold, but it is refreshing.

  The buckets full, I start for home. Some water goes into the pot over the fire for heating. The rest into our drinking barrel. I take the broom and begin the housework. To my astonishment, I need neither rest nor sleep. My night’s work has given me strength, not taken it away.

  An hour later, he appears in his robe.

  “Anything to eat?” he says.

  Now he expects me to cook for him, too?

  “Wait here, Master, a moment.”

  I run to my room and bring back Festa’s book.

  “Master—this is for you, from Pierfrancesco Festa. Look! It is a book you have long coveted, is it not? And listen to this: I have made the contract with the other merchants. Our debts are erased, and in addition you will have a new dagger from Cabrera, shoes from Veroli, an ivory-and-gold medallion from Delitto—”

  “What? What is all this, boy? You are making no sense.”

  “Don’t you understand, Master? In return for painting their faces in the Last Supper, the merchants have agreed to cancel our debts. And I got more out of them, too—they were so eager to be in the painting that they offered us gifts and money. I have ninety-five ducats for you!”

  “You do? I don’t believe it!”

  “Well, look in the pot.”

  He hesitates—probably thinking I will play the same trick on him he once played on me, claiming there is money inside when there isn’t.

  He goes to the shelf and picks up the pot. Yes, Master, it’s heavy, isn’t it!

  Then he pours out the coins onto the table.

  Ninety-five ducats, the Duke’s head on every one of them. More money than we’ve ever had in the house, I swear.

  “They paid this money to you of their own free will?” he says.

  Does he think I robbed them all at knifepoint?

  “Well, well,” he says, when I do not answer. “I see I must thank you, then.”

  Not if it’s too much trouble.

  “I’ll take the money to my study and lock it in the coffer for safety.”

  We go together, and when he has done that, he says: “Thank you, Giacomo, you may go now.”

  I bring him ninety-five ducats and I get no more thanks than for one.

  “Master, when would you like me to bring these merchants to Santa Maria delle Grazie to sit for you?”

  “Mmm?”

&nbs
p; He has this habit of drifting away like an unmoored boat at the very moment he should be anchored firmly before the coming storm.

  “Master!”

  “You are worse than a wife, Giacomo. I can never remove you from my ear. What is it now?”

  “The merchants, Master, when may I bring them to the refectory?”

  “Did I not already say? Bid them come to me one by one. Now go.”

  “Yes, Master.”

  “And you may bring the first four to see what I have done. They are finished.”

  “What? Fazio and—?”

  “Yes, yes, Rossi, Bagliotti, and the other one.”

  “Peroni.”

  “Peroni. The one who tried to murder me. Yes, him.”

  “Oh, Master, that cheese was not his fault, you know.”

  He says nothing. He goes back to his drawings. And just as I am passing through the door, he says: “I have received another letter from Cecilia, boy. She is coming to Milan at the end of next month.”

  Cecilia! She will soon be here. My waiting is almost over.

  “Did you ask the Duke whether you could have her painting?” I say.

  “He will never agree to that. She will have to live without it.”

  But that was what she said she could not do.

  And then, because he does not seem to care that it is Cecilia’s dearest wish, I say: “We could take it ourselves in secret from the Duke’s gallery, Master. You have the key. He would never miss it, after all. It sits in the dark among a hundred other paintings.”

  “That is exactly the kind of foolish suggestion that will get us both thrown into one of the Castle dungeons, boy. And we have already come too close to that of late. Let me not hear such talk again.”

  “Yes, Master.”

  Then he says he is going to the Last Supper, and to be ready to take an order to Tombi.

  “Give me some money, please,” I say.

  “Money? I have no money.”

  “Master, I just gave you ninety-five ducats!”

  He writes out the order and reluctantly, very reluctantly, unlocks the coffer, puts his hand inside, and pulls out a ducat for the colors he needs. I am never asking for credit from any of our friends again, I vow. If the Master won’t give me the coins, he can go himself.