Leonardo’s Shadow

by Christopher Grey

  “I was a little older than you are now. The Duke saw me one day when I was out riding and sent a message to my father, praising my beauty and grace. He desired me for his mistress. Do you understand, Giacomo? My father, who could not or would not refuse the Duke, decided to make the best of it—for himself, if not for me. He sold me to Duke Ludovico for two hundred acres of rich farmland and one thousand gold ducats. That was my price, the price my father extracted from the Duke before handing me over to him.”

  No! How could her own father do such a thing?

  Cecilia coughs. For a moment her eyes fill, as if she would begin weeping, but she quickly recovers.

  “I had a secret, however. I was already in love with a young man. He had told me that he loved me, and we had lain together. I was carrying his child. I had not yet summoned the courage to tell my father, but now I had to. He was more than enraged with me, of course, but still more fearful of the Duke’s wrath, should I not be delivered as promised. He managed to put off the Duke, without revealing the true reason, thinking to delay my going until after I had given birth. But the Duke was impatient; if he was to be kept waiting, he wanted a portrait of me while he did. That is how I met Leonardo, who became my true friend. It was he who stood by me, when my parents would not.”

  “What about the young man you loved?”

  “The father?” Cecilia says. She rubs the table, as if there was a mark on it. “He would not have come to my side if I had been dying.”

  “And the infant?”

  “Taken after the birth to the nuns at the Convent of Santa Beatrice in Pavia.”

  She hangs her head but, like a true lady, raises it again, even though the effort has cost her much. Then she says: “I went to the Castle some months after the birth and became the Duke’s mistress. I was there for nearly ten years. Then he grew tired of me and I was sent away to be married to one of his nobles.”

  She gives a small, sad smile. “My place at court has been taken by a new and younger woman. Lucrezia Crivelli. I believe you know her.”

  She smoothes a crease from her dress.

  “That is my story.”

  I cannot look at her. I cannot bear to hear more. My heart will crack, I swear.

  “Are you listening to Lady Cecilia?” my master asks.

  What does he think I am doing—playing the fiddle?

  “That is why I was present at the birth,” my master continues. “Not because I was the father, but because she had no one else. Do you hear me, boy? I was there to help her, nothing more. I was the only one she could trust.”

  “Your master saved me, Giacomo. Without his kindness, I would surely have taken my life and been sent to Hell for it.”

  I look at my master. His face is a mask he will not remove. What is he really feeling inside?

  “What became of this child?” I say.

  “He died after seven months. I never knew my little boy.”

  Her tears will come now, I am thinking, her eyes must spill. But no, she holds them back. Neither she nor my master will surrender to their sorrow. And neither will I.

  I want to go to her, to hold her. I look at my master. I make the smallest movement. His eyes warn me away.

  Long moments pass. The wind howls, and the rain rushes at the shutters in waves.

  “They will be waiting for me. I must go.” She sniffs, gives her head a little flick, and she is ready. “Perhaps now you understand why having this portrait means so much to me. It reminds me of who I was, and of who I truly am. Your master, Giacomo, saw in me what no man could take away. To have this portrait will be a great comfort. Thank you, dear boy, for what you have done, even if it was done without your master’s consent.”

  When she has gone, the Master invites me to sit down.

  “Since tonight we are being so honest with each other, I have a confession to make to you.”

  “Master?”

  “The ring, the one with the red jewel you keep in your box.”

  “Yes, Master?”

  “You did not steal it.”

  “I didn’t—?”

  “The ring was a gift to me from the Duke,” he says. “He took it off his own finger one day, when he was in a very cheerful mood, and placed it on mine. It has value, Giacomo. If ever something should happen to me, you can take it to the moneylenders and sell it, or procure a loan. It is yours.”

  No, Master, I can never take it to the moneylenders. Not in Milan, anyway. They won’t let me run off with the Duke’s ring a second time!

  “And the cross?”

  “Ah, it was not I who gave you that—”

  “Caterina!”

  “Who else?” he says.

  From her precious collection of crosses. Blessed by the Pope, among others.

  The medallion came from my master. The ring from the Duke. The cross from Caterina. Gifts, every one.

  But, then—

  “You told me those things were in my ragbag, Master. Now I know they were not. What was in the bag?”

  “Nothing much, my boy. A half-eaten apple, some old crusts of bread, a smooth, black pebble, probably plucked from the riverbed.”

  Outside, the rain has ceased at last. Just the steady drip, drip from the roof to the paving stones.

  For some time we continue to look at each other.

  “You told me I was a thief.”

  “I did, I did. Try to understand. When I brought you to my house you were such an unruly child—I had to find a way to control you. By suggesting you were a thief—”

  “You did more than suggest it, Master! You proclaimed it.”

  “Yes, yes, but listen a moment: I had to stop you from running away. In Milan, youth is merely a coin passed from hand to hand until it loses its luster and all value is spent. A lovely face only hastens the decline. You would have been corrupted and lived a life of pain and anguish. And, I suspect, died an early death. I wanted to save you from such a fate, Giacomo. I had to keep you here, and to do that I had to scare you. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, Master.” Sort of.

  “Then why was I being chased that day, Master?”

  “You were seen at the same time as another small boy, who was the true thief. He was later caught.”

  “What happened to him, Master?”

  “That … I do not know.”

  I am not a thief. I was never a thief. Not even of Cecilia’s portrait. After all, the Duke had no right to take Cecilia’s youth from her. All I did was return it to its true owner.

  But I am still no closer to finding the truth about myself.

  Who are my parents? Why was I abandoned? For how long did I live alone on the streets?

  He is turning to go. His candle flickers in the doorway.

  “Master?”

  “Yes, Giacomo?”

  “Thank you for painting my face in the Last Supper.”

  “You are most welcome, boy.”

  “And I am sorry—sorry for thinking that—”

  “No more need be said on that matter. You are safe with me, Giacomo. You always have been, and you always will be.”

  “What do we say to Martino, who paid for his place and will now be disappointed? My jerkin is ruined by the rain, and he promised me a new one for a seat in the Last Supper.”

  “Don’t fret about Martino. I’ll go to his house tomorrow and offer to paint a portrait of him and his wife. Hell be more than content with that.”

  I’ve no doubt he will, Master. Let’s see how he feels when a year has gone by and you have not yet begun it!

  The Master rises and moves to the door.

  “Giacomo, I—”

  “Yes, Master?”

  “I wish you good night.”

  “Do you really know nothing of my past, Master? Nothing at all?”

  “No more than you, boy. You have my word.”

  And then he is gone. I watch the fire slowly die away, and then I too make my way to bed.

  XXXIX

  Spring has come
at last to Milan. Today, Margareta showed me the new pear trees in the garden next door, and how the buds hang heavy like drops of glass.

  The refectory of Santa Maria delle Grazie has been opened to the people of Milan for the two weeks before Holy Friday, and soon after the announcement was made in the main square a line of eager visitors formed outside the refectory doors from early morning until late in the evening, on some days stretching all the way back to the Vercellina Gate. It makes me proud to see such a multitude waiting patiently to see my master’s greatest work. However, I have not told any of my servant friends that my face is in it. They would never believe me, even if I showed them.

  The Master—after paying a visit to the refectory on the day it was opened, and satisfying himself that Father Vicenzo was not allowing anyone to touch the wall, and telling Father Vicenzo that if anyone did, the Duke would hear about it directly, and reminding Father Vicenzo that he still owed my master a good deal of money—has not since returned to Santa Maria delle Grazie.

  It is as if, now that the work has been done, he has no more interest in it. If I had painted such a thing, I would go there every day, rain or shine. But my master is not like that, he does not need to congratulate himself for a work whose deficiencies he is already privately cursing, even if he is the only one who can see them.

  Meanwhile, inside the refectory, the friars are fully occupied with the crowd. You may stand in front of the Last Supper for only a short span, but many onlookers are so affected by the scene before them that they become like statues and have to be prodded until they shift, while others weep openly, point, and shake their heads in disbelief. But they too, if they will not move when entreated, are pushed or pulled until they do.

  “We must prepare for the Pope’s visit,” the Master tells me. “He is arriving with his retinue on the Monday before Holy Friday and will stay at the Duke’s apartments in the Castle. He has requested to see the Last Supper by candlelight on the Thursday evening, in private.”

  “Why then, Master? Surely daylight would be better.”

  “What could be better than to view it at the same time he supposes the Last Supper actually took place?”

  So Assanti knew all along that the Pope was planning to see it alone. He must have someone high up in the Vatican, a secret friend of the Brotherhood, who reports back to him.

  And now I must pass on this news to Tombi. But until the Duke has paid the Master, I would prefer not to see him in person and have to explain that I still do not have his money. So later that day I put a note under his door, giving him the time for Pope Alexander’s visit to the Last Supper, and advising him that I will meet Assanti by the fountain in the garden at Santa Maria one half hour before.

  Everything is coming together. The Brotherhood and the Church will soon be reconciled. The start of a new era for mankind! And I will have played my part in it.

  I wonder what reward Master Assanti has in mind for me. Perhaps he will teach me how to turn lead into gold, which is one of the legendary alchemical skills. The Master would never again have to worry about paying the merchants!

  The Pope and his attendants arrive on the Monday, but there are no cheering crowds to greet him; the only sign of His Holiness’s presence is the Vatican flag, red with a white cross and four white keys, flying high over the Castle gates alongside the Sforza colors.

  The lack of pomp and ceremony attending the Pope’s arrival in Milan bespeaks the grave matter that occupies the minds of our Duke and His Holiness. An invasion by the French is a threat to be taken most seriously, the more so because this is not the first time they have been at our borders. They crossed them once before, in 1494—at the invitation of our very own Duke Ludovico, who was pleased to help them pursue their claim on the Kingdom of Naples, if it meant the overthrow of King Alfonso, his detested enemy. The French accomplished that, but they had also decided to attack Rome on the way and would only leave when Pope Alexander paid them thousands of gold ducats from the Vatican treasury.

  Our Duke was then afraid that the French would turn against Milan, so he made a new alliance with the Pope against them, and together they fought the French at Fornuovo in July of 1495. There was no outright winner, but the French king, Charles VIII, his army spent and war-wearied, went home.

  And now Charles is dead, and Louis XII is the new French king.

  And now Louis is threatening Milan, which he claims is his by right, because of a marriage long ago between one of his ancestors and a Visconti (the family that once ruled Milan).

  “But is the Pope our ally or not?” I asked the Master.

  “Nobody is very sure,” the Master said to me. “However, it is rumored that he has sent one of his sons to France to find a wife. And that does not bode well for us.”

  Everything—the fate of Lombardy, Milan, and Duke Ludovico—now depends on whether my master’s painting of the Last Supper can so dazzle the eyes of His Holiness that he renews his alliance with Milan and pledges his support to save the painting from the enemy.

  XL

  On the Wednesday before Easter the refectory was again closed to the people of Milan, and all day Thursday the Dominican brothers have been at work sweeping and washing the inside and outside of Santa Maria delle Grazie in preparation for Pope Alexander’s visit.

  And now it is night. The sky is a deep, dark velvet blue, and the wind is sending the clouds across it at a gallop. The movement in the heavens seems to foretell the great events that will occur here below. Inside the refectory, bunches of fresh flowers sit on the floor below the Last Supper, giving off a heady fragrance. And four large tapers on gold stands have been placed nearby, throwing a hazy light upwards and across the painting.

  Even the Master seems pleased with the effect, walking to and fro before the wall and inspecting the work from every angle.

  “It is a sight worthy of a pope, Master.”

  “Hmm? … Well, let us hope so, and then he might invite us to Rome. He is a liberal spender, our Pope, unlike Duke Ludovico. We could do worse than get a summons to the Holy City to paint a few ceilings.”

  “We’d better leave, Master, the Pope will be arriving soon.”

  “What’s the matter, boy? You look perturbed.”

  “Me, Master? Why, no, well—I’m just a bit on edge because I so much want the Pope to admire your painting.”

  “No need to trouble yourself on that account, Giacomo. I give you my word he will esteem it highly. Come, then, let us depart. I do not wish to meet the Pope before he sees the thing and be obliged to explain myself. It is always those who have no understanding of art, I find, who are most insistent that the artist listen to their opinion on it. Come, now.”

  Outside, a large group of Dominican friars has gathered to greet the Pope on his arrival. After we have managed to elbow our way through them, I bid good night to the Master.

  “Where are you off to, boy?” he says.

  “Oh, just for a walk, Master, before it gets too dark.”

  “No tavern visits, I trust.”

  “Oh no, Master, you know me!”

  “Only too well,” he says.

  I notice that the Master is wearing his sword, which is rare for him. He says a sword gets in the way of his thinking.

  As soon as he has disappeared into the darkness, I turn back to Santa Maria and, avoiding the monks gathering outside the entrance to the refectory, enter the main body of the church, walk down the nave, and leave through a side door into the cloistered garden for my meeting with Assanti.

  I set myself down on the lip of the fountain, which gurgles soothingly behind my back.

  Should I have told my master what I am up to? I think I should have. But Tombi is my friend, I can trust him. And Assanti needs my help. All will be well, surely. And yet, I begin to wonder if—

  “Giacomo.”

  I peer into the shadows. My heart skips three beats and twists itself into a knot. The alchemist is here.

  “Come under the walkway, where we wi
ll not be seen.”

  I leave the fountain and cross the garden.

  “It is a fine night,” he says, when I am standing before him.

  “It is, sir.”

  “A night that will change all the days that come after.”

  I clasp my hands together. They are cold. Freezing.

  “Are you ready to learn what I am here to teach you?” he says.

  “If you are ready to tell me, sir.”

  “I am. Now lead me in.”

  We walk along the cloister until I see the door that gives entry to the passage leading to the refectory. An owl hoots in the distance. I look up, as if expecting to see it on the church roof. It’s a rare thing to hear an owl in the city. But tonight is a rare night.

  I turn the handle of the door, gently, gently. The passage is damp and dark. Too dark to see anything. We begin our walk. Master Assanti is so close behind me that I can smell his breath in the air. Spices. His sandaled feet give off soft slaps against the polished stone floor. Then my hand touches wood. The door to the refectory. I find the latch and open it.

  Inside, the tapers are burning with a silvery-gold light.

  Assanti follows me in. “A fine painting,” he says, looking up.

  “The finest,” I say.

  Although the platform on which the Master stood to paint has been dismantled, Maggio has not yet been here to remove the planks, which stand upright against the far wall. I have already decided that these are what we will use.

  “Crouch behind those planks, Master Assanti, sir, and I will drape this painting sheet over them. Thus you will be concealed until you wish to be made known. The Pope will be here soon, let us not delay.”

  But the alchemist seems in no haste to move.

  “Did your master tell you he once studied alchemy?”

  “Yes, he did. But he—”

  “Considered it beneath him. The work of lesser minds than his own. Tonight I will show him how artful an alchemist can be. Tonight I—”

  “Master, please hide yourself, the Pope—”

  “Leonardo could have been the greatest of all alchemists. Together, he and I would have discovered the secret of immortality. Instead, he abandoned me. It was a terrible thing to do. I trusted him, Giacomo. And I envied him his mind.”