Leonardo’s Shadow

by Christopher Grey

  Truth be told, I do not think he can finish it in time. Even if he had two new arms, each one holding two brushes.

  Then, one morning, at Santa Maria delle Grazie, he says to me: “I will not finish it in time.”

  There he goes, reading my mind again.

  He wipes his brow with a cloth, leaving a small streak of paint behind.

  “Master, your forehead has a blue—”

  “Giacomo, do not interrupt me, please. I was about to ask you if you would do something for me.”

  “With pleasure, Master.”

  “Something useful.”

  Very comical, Master.

  “Help me to finish the Last Supper.”

  “Master!”

  “Sit down, boy. Do not wave your arms like that, and do not speak until I have finished telling you what I want.”

  “Yes, Master.”

  “I just told you not to speak!”

  “Yes, Master. I mean, no.”

  “You are to do exactly as I say.”

  I nod. I wave my arms a bit more.

  “Tell me you have understood.”

  “Why yes, Master. But you told me not to—”

  “Enough! Now listen: I want two things. The first is to cover with my special varnish that part of the wall I have painted each day. Can you do that?”

  “Why yes, Master, of course.”

  “And the other way you can help me, after I have instructed you, is to mix my oil with the colors, in readiness for me to paint.”

  “Master, will you really—?”

  “And may God help both of us if you do not repay my trust.”

  “You need ask no help from God, Master. I will do the job myself.”

  “What do you know about colors?” he asks.

  What do I know about colors!!

  And I explain how Messer Tombi has been teaching me these past months and how I know all about where colors come from, what they are made of, how to grind them, mix them with water, and prepare them for use.

  “All this time Tombi has been teaching you?”

  “Yes, Master.”

  “And he never told me.”

  “Perhaps he thought you might be angry with him.”

  “Why would I be?”

  “Because you do not want to teach me.”

  “That is something else entirely.”

  “Why won’t you teach me, Master?”

  He tilts his head. “Eh?”

  “Is it because you hate the thought that I might become more than a mere servant?”

  “You are more than a mere servant. You are Leonardo da Vinci’s servant. That makes you much more than a servant to me, Giacomo. You know that.”

  Do I, Master? How much more than a servant—as much as a son?

  “Now then,” he says, “will you help me or no?”

  “You know I will, Master. And you will see how quick I am about it.”

  “But you are not to paint on the Last Supper. Not a smear. Is that understood, Giacomo?”

  I nod again.

  “Do you think that anyone may become an artist, merely because he has the intention? Do you?”

  “No, Master.”

  “Every man has a dream. Dreaming is man’s balm and comfort, his recompense for an unendurable life. But, for most men, a dream is all they will ever have. They are not prepared for the years of hard work and perseverance required of them.”

  “Yes, Master.”

  “Very well. You will start tomorrow. Now please bring me the next merchant.”

  With every step home, my humor improves. Tomorrow I will help the Master. And the next day, well, the next day the Master might turn around and help me!

  I am walking down the Sforza Way, when from behind I hear three rapid blasts on a horn—and I turn to see the Duke’s heralds, a dozen of them in capes of black and gold, running down the road in lockstep, at full speed.

  They halt near the Fountain of Graces, and a crowd gathers.

  When a hundred or more folk are milling around, there is a lengthy fanfare on the horn, and one of the heralds is lifted up above the crowd. Then he proclaims in a mighty voice: “By Order of the Duke of Milan, harken this! War against France! The Duke calls on all men older than fifteen years to enlist in his army, for the glory of Milan. The French enemy is at our borders. The Duke has decreed that they will advance no farther! All honorable men be present this Sunday at the Eastern Gate, from midday. Free uniform and two meals a day. Join the Duke’s army now, for the defense of our great city! By Order of His Excellency, Duke Ludovico, High Guardian of Milan, Most Benevolent Protector of Lombardy!”

  Another three blasts on the horn and off they run to broadcast the message at their next stop.

  Voluntary recruitment, is it now? And how long before volunteers become conscripts, and every man with more than one leg is forced to sign up? The Duke’s army has been shredded by all the petty wars with his neighbors; he will need every one of us, if we are to offer the French some real opposition. All the more reason why the Master and I must leave Milan—I’m not going to war for the Duke, to lose a hand or an arm in the fray! How would I hold a paintbrush then?

  The next day, just after sunup, the Master and I walk together to the Last Supper.

  He watches over me as I varnish the wall with the brush. The varnish is as thick as pitch and as hard to spread. I make each stroke with care, again and again, until the surface is smooth and free of bubbles and holes. My wrist aches badly and my fingers are already blistering.

  “You’ll have to work faster, boy, or I might as well do it myself,” he says.

  “Yes, Master.”

  I expected him to find fault at first. And I will go faster, too, just as soon as my hand stops shaking.

  The morning passes. My shaking stops. I work faster. The Master looks better disposed towards me. He inspects my work and nods. At midday we open the basket and eat the bread, cheese, and fruit I packed.

  When he has finished eating, the Master drains the water from his leather gourd, wipes his mouth, and goes to his bag. From it he pulls out a drawing, turns it the right way round, and hands it to me. He says: “Do you know who drew this?”

  It’s the drawing of Master Assanti. I forgot to remove it from inside his sketchbook, where I put it that night! All that time spent worrying when I would show him my work, and he found it for himself.

  “I did, Master.”

  “I know you did. Who else could have left a drawing tucked inside one of my sketchbooks? Indeed, who else could have been taking my sketchbooks from my shelves and copying my drawings? I know what you have been doing, boy. For some time now.”

  He knows everything. Why has he said nothing before?

  “It’s not a bad drawing.”

  “It isn’t?” I say.

  “No, it isn’t. Why have you never shown me any of your drawings?”

  Oh, Master, it’s hard to explain. You see, I never felt worthy of you and my work was not good enough and I was worried you would laugh and then I knew you did not want to teach me and I am only a servant and—

  “I don’t know, Master.”

  “Who is the owner of the face?”

  Oh, let me not have to explain Master Assanti.

  “Master, it’s just some fell—”

  “It is Ottavio Assanti. I could never forget that nose and those eyes. Or the sound of his voice. It is impossible to stop up his prattling.”

  “You know him, Master?”

  “Oh, yes. I know him of old.”

  “But, how—?”

  He gives me a long look. Presses his lips together. Furrows his brow. And sighs. (Signs I know well: he is about to tell me something astonishing.)

  “I studied alchemy for five years. In Florence, a long time ago.”

  Whaaaaaat?

  “That medallion you keep in your box is mine. It was given to me … by Ottavio Assanti of the Brotherhood.”

  Now, this is too amazing, even for my ears.
They’ll fall off the sides of my head with this news, I swear.

  “No, Master! You told me that alchemy—”

  “Was neither art nor science, but their unholy offspring,” he says.

  “A fantasy born of ignorance, practiced by people who suffer from the same deficiency.”

  “I commend you on your memory, boy.”

  “But, Master—”

  “And I would not, could not have made those assertions had I not seen for myself that alchemy is a wasteful pursuit, of little use to mankind, but of much greater use to rogues who seek to gull the gullible. Gullible people like the Duke.”

  “Why did you spend five years studying it, then, Master?”

  “I wanted to learn what alchemy could and could not do. And it is capable of the latter far more than the former. In other words, it has little merit. But how would I have known that if I had not delved into it most thoroughly?”

  “But why did you give the medallion to me, Master?”

  “A good question, Giacomo, and worthy of answer. But I do not have one. All I can say is that I did not yet wish to dispose of it, but neither did I want it near me. So I gave it to you. A gift, if you like.”

  “Master, you do not know how much time I have wasted on fruitless speculation concerning that medallion—how I came to have it, and what I was or might have been to its former owner. Could you not have told me?”

  “I just did. Now I want to know where you saw Assanti, what he was doing, and why you drew him. In fact, everything.”

  I have to think quickly. I can’t tell him about Tombi, about my contract, about what I must do at the Last Supper.

  So I cook up a story involving the Duke, my trip to the Castle, the Medusa, and my medallion. And how I met the alchemist, briefly. And at the end of it, my master says: “But why did the Duke never tell me that Assanti was working for him?”

  “Assanti’s presence here is a closely guarded secret, isn’t it, Master? What with all the French spies in the city. The Duke swore me to silence.”

  The Master nods, slowly.

  “Very well,” he says. “For now, let us continue with the Last Supper. The afternoon is under way and I do not wish to waste the light.”

  And we continue with our work. But although I give the wall my every attention, I cannot help wondering if the Master is satisfied with the story I told him about the alchemist.

  Side by side we work on the Last Supper. Every day I mix the oil with the colors he plans to use that day, and then he paints. And when he has finished painting, I varnish the part of the wall he has painted. And so it goes on. By Saint Peter, it looks as if we are going to do it in time!

  Then, a month before Easter, he tells me that he will finish the painting alone, and that I am no longer needed.

  This upsets me greatly, but instead of getting into an argument, I thank him for the chance to work by his side. I tell him that I have learned a lot. But I also tell him that I still have a lot to learn. I think he understands my meaning.

  XXXV

  Two weeks have passed. They caught some French spies trying to pass through the Roman Gate. There was an announcement. And now there’s going to be a burning.

  It’s evening. Claudio, Antonio, and I are met at the Seven Knaves.

  We have seen nothing of Renzo since New Year’s Eve. The story is going round that he has run off with a girl, one Patrizia Bandino, who works at the market with her mother, selling fish. But I begin to suspect that he has been knifed by some villain; he has always been quick to anger, and I have had to pull him away from a brawl more than once.

  Antonio has been watching me strangely.

  “What is it?” I ask him.

  “Nothing,” he says.

  “Nothing?”

  “Are you going to join up?” he says.

  “The Duke’s army? No, I’m not.”

  “Don’t you want to fight against the French?” he says. “I’m going to the Eastern Gate tomorrow.”

  “I want to be an artist, Antonio, not a soldier.”

  “Artist? Pah! You’re a coward, Giacomo, that’s the truth of it.”

  “You may think that war is a fine thing from afar, but I doubt you will be so pleased with it if you come home without an arm or a leg.”

  Or not at all.

  “I do not fear dying,” he says. “It is an honor to die for the Duke of Milan.”

  “Perhaps, but I doubt the Duke would do the same for you.”

  “That’s treason, talk like that.”

  “Only if someone overhears us,” I say. “We can speak plainly to each other, can’t we?”

  He says nothing and looks away. If what we witnessed last Saint Michael’s Day is any guide, Antonio will more likely run behind a tree at the sound of the first cannon.

  “And you, Claudio?” he says. “What about you?”

  “Me? Why, I—”

  “Another coward!” Antonio says. “A pair of weaklings.”

  “Antonio,” I say, “think hard before you do this. There’s no going back.”

  “There’s no going back anyway. I’ve been ordered to leave my master’s house.”

  “Why?”

  “It doesn’t matter. But I cannot stay there. It’s the army or the street.”

  He probably stole something and tried to sell it, if I know Antonio. So much for honor and glory.

  “Are you so keen to hurry to your death in battle,” I ask, “that you won’t stop a while longer with your friends and talk it through?”

  “I’m done with talking,” Antonio says. “I have but one more word for you: Farewell.”

  Antonio gets up to leave and pushes his way through the crowd.

  “Are we cowards?” Claudio says. “For not wanting to fight?”

  “I don’t care what he calls me,” I say. “An artist fights another kind of battle.”

  But Antonio’s taunt is not so easily forgotten. Or forgiven. We stare into our cups.

  “What happened on New Year’s Eve?” I say, hoping for happy news.

  “Oh, that. I drank too much. I don’t think they will invite me again.”

  “Ah, I’m sorry for you.”

  “I was a fool to hope for more,” Claudio says. “In future I’ll stick to servants for friends and marry a laundry girl. Come with me to the burning, Giacomo, eh? You are my best friend, you know.”

  I have no wish to go to a burning, but I’ll keep Claudio company as far as the main square, then turn back for home.

  We make our way towards the Cathedral, and the closer we come to it, the slower our progress. I have not seen a crowd like this since last year’s midsummer carnival, when the big attraction was twenty whores whipped naked through the streets. Their crime? They were Venetians, and they took away trade from the local girls.

  The mood is festive; the crowd is merry. Are we really about to see a burning, or the celebrations marking a new saint? No, it’s a burning, all right, and what a burning it will be. Three enormous bonfires, still unlit, are piled to the sky—they must be taller than the trees they were cut from.

  The mob is pressed up against these stacks of firewood, and everyone, young and old, is shouting and hollering. At the pinnacle of each of the three bonfires, high, high above the ground, is a human form tied and bound to a stake. One with his head hanging down, another twisting from side to side, the third—Saint Francis, it’s a woman!

  Now the priests are making the sign of the Cross. Now the burning torches are thrust into the branches.

  The fires spark and catch, and in a few moments there is a whoosh! as the flames ignite the dry wood.

  A huge cheer goes up from the crowd. I have lost sight of Claudio. The crowd pushes against me, eager for the kill. As the fires take hold, silence falls over the multitude. For a time, all that can be heard is the crackling and snapping of the wood. The flames circle, hesitate, and then, sensing no resistance, attack the inner branches. Within a minute, all is blazing orange, yellow, and red.


  The fire has licked the feet of one fellow, and he screams. This brings renewed cheers and whoops from the crowd. The tethered figures are swiftly enveloped by the flames. Soon they will be as blackened and charred as pigs on the spit.

  I have to leave this accursed scene now, as quickly as possible—I can take no more of this brutality. At last, after what feels like an hour of pushing and a gallon of sweat, I have made my way through the mass of onlookers, whose faces, lit up by the flames and twisted into strange shapes by their shouting, no longer seem human at all, but like lost souls in Purgatory.

  I sit down in a doorway. Sundry groups of Milanese pass by: wives, mothers, sons, fathers, rich and poor—they are in such a fine mood, laughing and smiling as if the world was a sanctuary of goodness and love, instead of a damnable hell pit. When the wind turns in my direction, the smell of roasting meat—burning human flesh—penetrates my lungs before I can stop up my nose. It is horrible, horrible. The noise from the square rises and falls with the wind.

  I raise myself at last and turn in the direction of home. There is a strange tremor in the air, it is heavy and bloated, as if a storm was about to break. The moon, milky and clouded, hangs over the rooftops like a blind man’s eye, seeing nothing of the madness going on below.

  I wander I know not where and find myself in a small garden square. In the middle stands a tree, beneath it a stone bench. I sit down, trembling with passion and exhaustion. I do not recognize this place. How did I come here?

  “Gia … co … mo!”

  “Giacomooooooooh!”

  “Who’s there?” It can’t be—

  “You’re ours now, gypsy boy!”

  They’ve found me. My heart doubles its pace. Oh God, what should I—I’ll run, I can still—but in which direction? Their voices seem to come from everywhere—

  “We’ve been waiting for you, Giac-Giac-Giacomo!”

  The fight against the apprentices was just practice. This is war.

  Now four figures separate themselves from the gloom: Tommaso, Marcantonio, and their cronies, Simone of the bulging eyes and Filippo, the pinch-face.