“Indeed.” Bernardo moved quickly to bow before me, though never taking his eyes from my face. “And I hope soon to have the honor of knowing her better.”
“Well then,” Simonetta said, “here is a perfect opportunity, surely sent by the Fates.” To my horror, she extricated my arm from hers and slipped my hand into Bernardo’s offered one. I made my eyes big in protest and glared at her. She just smiled regally at me, although her eyes danced with mirth.
“Come, let us join Giuliano.” She gestured toward another corner of the studio, where Verrocchio and Giuliano circled a terra-cotta bust of a young hero in classical armor. “He is here to view a sculpture portrait Master Verrocchio is creating of him to commemorate the joust. He wanted my opinion, but I would more value yours, Ambassador. I know you are quite the collector of art yourself. Giuliano told me that when he traveled to Venice several years ago, you showed him what is thought to be a portrait of Petrarch’s Laura?”
“Really?” I interrupted. What a treasure! “Oh, how I would love to see that. Is she quite beautiful? Can you see the nobility of spirit Petrarch praised her for?”
A pleased laugh rumbled up from Bernardo’s chest. “Yes, she is enchanting. But not as fetching as you two ladies.”
Simonetta’s smile was unruffled. She must have been so accustomed to such compliments. I was not. I blushed and spluttered, saying nothing coherent.
“I did not know that Laura sat to be painted,” Simonetta offered, clearly to give me a moment to collect myself.
“In Avignon’s cathedral, there is a fresco of St. George and the dragon. Laura was reportedly known by the fresco’s painter and was his inspiration for the princess St. George saved,” Bernardo explained. “I had her copied when I was ambassador to France.”
“Oh my, what an honor to have one’s likeness used to represent a legendary personage,” she said.
“But Simonetta, you have already been such. Botticelli made you Pallas in the banner Giuliano carried into the lists.” Did my envy leak into my voice?
“And so she was!” Verrocchio boomed, beckoning us to join him. “Botticelli’s portrayal of La Bella Simonetta as the warrior goddess was magnificent. And I have made sure to keep the symbolism of Pallas in Giuliano’s armor. See?” He pointed to a snarling face in the center of the armor. “Just as Pallas’s breastplate carried Medusa’s head to defeat her enemies in war, so does Giuliano’s. This way I continue to mark him as your champion.” He smiled, obviously pleased with himself. “Now, look at my sculpture and tell me what you think, Signora Simonetta. Did I capture your beloved in this clay face?”
Giuliano beamed at Simonetta so she could compare.
“Oh, carissimo,” she said. “The maestro has re-created you!”
Indeed, the terra-cotta looked exactly like Florence’s Prince of Youth. The same expectant tilt of the head, the slight boyish smile, the smooth face, the arched and expressive eyebrows, the long but chiseled nose, the chin-length mass of curls.
She turned to Verrocchio. “It is exquisite. It is so very like Giuliano I wish to kiss it. May I?”
“Gently!” Verrocchio laughed. “The clay is still soft until we put him into the furnace.”
“God’s wounds, Andrea!” Giuliano swatted Verrocchio playfully on the shoulder and joked, “That sounds like a prophecy of damnation!” The men laughed as Simonetta leaned in to press her pretty lips to the statue’s. When she withdrew, she coughed lightly.
Now Bernardo added his appraisal. “Your image in this bust, Giuliano, looks exactly how I imagine Alexander the Great.”
Giuliano appeared pleased with the comparison.
So did Verrocchio. “Yes, yes, exactly! Very much in my mind as I carved. His head is tilted to the left, you see. Plutarch wrote that the youthful emperor always held his head thus!”
“How clever of you, maestro.” Bernardo thoughtfully surveyed the bust before asking, “Giuliano, how old are you?”
“Twenty-two,” he said. “Why do you ask?”
“Because the parallel is astounding. That is precisely the age Alexander the Great was when he left Macedonia to begin conquering the world. I can see you riding out, just as Alexander did, to unite Italy someday. I would happily guide Venice to follow such a magnanimous and virtuous champion.”
Oh my, I thought, his words were honeyed, but appropriately and charmingly so—no wonder Venice chose this man to be ambassador.
Giuliano laughed heartily and modestly dismissed the idea. “Bernardo, you are a man of dreams and myth.” But the younger Medici held himself taller, his chest swelling from the compliment.
“Perhaps we should show Lorenzo this representation of you as a warrior, so he stops trying to convince the Pope to make you a cardinal,” Simonetta murmured.
Giuliano’s happy grin faded.
“A cardinal?” I asked with far too obvious surprise.
When, oh when, would I learn to stop speaking my mind? Giuliano was many admirable things, but pious was not one of them. But of course, such high offices in the church were mostly about political influence and power, not necessarily about the spiritual. Many a second son of wealthy families who would never inherit its full riches was sent into the cloth. And the celibacy required of priests and nuns did not seem to be a rule they followed. I remembered Abbess Scolastica speaking of a pope who had a herd of illegitimate children he called his “nephews and nieces.”
Fortunately, Simonetta ignored the hint of incredulity in my voice. “It’s true, Ginevra! Oh, my heart will break if Giuliano is sent to Rome.”
Giuliano gently took her hand and kissed her palm, then held it against his cheek as he spoke to her. “It cannot be helped, my love. It is for the family. For Florence. The Vatican and the Papal States question Florence’s holding of certain provinces and mines. And there is talk of the Pope no longer wanting the Medici as the Vatican bankers. He looks to favor the Pazzi bank instead, which would ruin us. Our Rome office is our main bank, from whence come the majority of our Medici wealth and our ability to pressure the papacy to Florence’s benefit. One of us needs to know what is discussed within St. Peter’s walls. And Lorenzo is already married.”
“But my dear . . .”
Giuliano kissed her lightly to stop her speaking.
The sweetness between them brought tears to my eyes. Was this love?
“I have an idea, Andrea.” Giuliano turned to Verrocchio. “I had been contemplating asking you for a work, and now I realize it might also assist my brother’s quest to have me ordained. I would like to commission a Madonna and child from you, using the virtuous Simonetta as the model for the Virgin Mother. She would be the sweetest of Marys, don’t you think?”
Verrocchio’s face lit up. “Marble or bronze or terra-cotta, Your Grace?”
“I think a painting this time, Andrea, that I may hang in my camera.”
Verrocchio’s face clouded a bit. He glanced toward his painting of St. John baptizing Christ. I think only I really knew what he was considering, what he was questioning about himself. “Perhaps,” he began, “you would prefer Leonardo do that for you, Your Grace.” Verrocchio motioned for Leonardo, who had been standing respectfully at a distance as his old master had conducted the commonplace business aspect of art—showing wares to a buyer.
The four of them retreated to an inner garden to sit and talk, Leonardo looking thrilled but trying to mask it with nonchalance. That left me alone with the ambassador.
Bernardo turned to me with an expression I could only compare to the delight I’d seen on Luigi’s face when a client was purchasing a large bolt of his best cloth.
“It dawned a foggy morn, but I feel awash in warm sunlight now that I am in your presence,” he said, his voice as velvety as his expensive cloak. “Tell me, La Bencina, do you feel the clouds disperse as well? The flaming wheels of Apollo’s chariot riding through our horizon and lighting it up?”
Too quick. It was all just too quick. I withdrew my gloved hand from his and resp
onded carefully. “Yes, Your Grace. I am bathed in the glow of . . . of . . . of this glorious art. My heart races with the warmth of wonderment.” I turned away from him toward the painted baptism and fixed my gaze on Verrocchio’s work, hoping he couldn’t sense that my heart raced.
From the corner of my eye, I saw Bembo nod slightly, his expression amused, as if to say, Ah, I see the game. He changed tack. “Speaking of the sun as Apollo’s chariot,” he said, “the other night, I was dazzled by your poem about your soul being a charioteer, struggling to guide two horses to pull together in harmony.”
“But how could you be?” I asked, startled. “I did not read it aloud.” Then I blushed with irritation at myself, remembering how I had unfolded my sonnet under the table across my skirts to read and reread, and then lacked the courage to share it with the dinner guests when invited.
“Ah, you have found me out.” Bernardo lowered his voice. “I could not help seeing and reading the riches held in your lap.”
Sweet Mary, Mother of God. I was untested in such courtly banter, but not so naive as to not catch the flirtation in his wordplay. Flushed, flattered, yet still a bit frightened, I backed away, regaining my composure in the distance between him and me.
“And what did you think of my poem, Your Excellency?” I emphasized poem. “I would value your opinion.”
Again that slight nod and small smile as if entertained by my determined innocence. Another change of tack. This time he steered to my intellect.
“I was impressed by your metaphor of horses to represent the duality of human nature. Pray, how did you think of that image?”
I tried to read that handsome face, lean and strong, in its absolute prime, neither soft with youth nor slack with age. But Bernardo kept his thoughts masked in a polite attentiveness he’d no doubt learned as ambassador. Was he testing to see if I had actually read the dialogue by Plato that had inspired my poetry? Did he doubt that I, as a woman, was capable of reading ancient philosophy and had simply picked up the image from table talk?
I hesitated. What had my brother warned me against? Displaying my education and appearing “overwhelming.” Although I had just used my reading to goad Leonardo into answering my question, annoyed, if I was honest, that a man of lesser breeding might doubt my intellect, I didn’t want to offend the ambassador by appearing to show off.
Then Scolastica’s command filled my ear: Make them listen. Sing of what treasure lies inside women’s hearts and minds.
Yes. Yes! I thought. But I fought the urge to rush in clumsily, brandishing what I knew, like a too-ardent foot soldier charging a battlement only to be the first killed. I took a deep breath and spoke as casually as possible. “Why, it is not new to me, Ambassador. I read the allegory in Plato’s Phaedrus. My abbess gave it to me. I am sure you know this dialogue.”
Bernardo smiled, oh so graciously. “I am afraid I am more a scholar of Aristotle and the Muslim philosopher Averroës.” He glanced over his shoulder toward where Giuliano sat. He lowered his voice. “I would be grateful if you would educate me more in Plato’s thought, as it is clearly of such importance to my hosts, the Medici.”
I hesitated. I had witnessed Bernardo exchange all manner of Platonic concepts with Ficino at the Medici’s palazzo the night of the dinner. And yet I smiled back at him in spite of myself, charmed that he was pretending I could help him by sharing my knowledge.
Sing of us. Make them listen.
So I answered. “Even though Plato believed women needed to be educated in order for a republic to be truly strong, I would not presume to teach you, Ambassador.” I allowed a little flirtation to slip into my voice. “But certainly I will share what I know in order to learn more myself. I believe Socrates suggests this, yes? This give-and-take.” I hastened to add, “Of ideas.”
Goodness, this was rather fun.
Bernardo clearly heard the shift in my tone. His face lit up like a sailor spotting land he recognized. He took my hand again, his own leathered ones swallowing it up. “Please. Instruct me.”
I looked up at him. This close he seemed so tall, so enveloping. “Well,” I said, pausing to assess his face once more.
He nodded. “Please.”
“Well, Plato used the chariot, its driver, and horses as an allegory of the human soul. The charioteer represents intellect and reason. He must steer his chariot through life, trying to keep to the path of enlightenment to find truth and earn immortality. He drives two horses. One is rational and moral, peaceful. The other is passionate, full of earthly appetites, erratic. The task is to blend the two elements, to create harmony between the two different steeds so that they keep apace and work together.”
“Aaaaahhhh.” He nodded. “Just like your poem!”
“Oh, well, I, but . . .” I frowned. Lord, what a nitwit I was being. “I would not presume to compare anything I might think of to the great Plato. I tore up the verse.”
“What? Oh, that was a crime, La Bencina! It was an exquisite poem. I was about to ask if I might have it as a”—he smiled warmly—“a token of our new friendship. But I am grateful to you for my better understanding of Plato now. I so like the ancients’ concept that earthly pleasure is not completely forbidden or viewed as evil that must be killed off—as our priests teach.” He leaned even closer toward me. “But rather a force to be harnessed for its energies and guided by the more noble in us.”
I laughed nervously. “Yes, most men do like that concept when they hear of it.”
That telltale rumble of mirth in his chest grew to a chortle just as Giuliano, Simonetta, Verrocchio, and Leonardo finished their discussion and approached us. Embarrassed, I pulled back quickly from Bernardo, but he let go of my hand reluctantly, keeping his extended like a statue’s gesture of disappointment. Verrocchio and Giuliano were too busy discussing how Leonardo should paint the Madonna offering a red carnation to the Christ child to notice. But Simonetta’s playful smile and Leonardo’s disapproving glower told me the two of them had.
Her expression I understood and felt bolstered by. But Leonardo’s seemingly negative judgment bothered me. I stiffened as I nodded formally at him, seeking some expression or gesture to explain his thoughts. Leonardo did nothing in response.
The business between patron and artisan was done. It was high time for me to get back to my house. I had been gone far more hours than I had planned, and I was queasy with hunger and a swirl of confusing emotions. I said my good-byes hastily and awkwardly, not daring to meet Bernardo’s gaze again. I swept up Sancha, who was chatting amiably with one of the older apprentices.
As I hastened out the door, I heard Bernardo proclaim with gusto, “What news I have, Giuliano. What a glorious day! Ginevra de’ Benci’s inner virtue and beauty are just as her outer loveliness promises. I have found my Platonic love. I have found my Simonetta.”
12
St. John’s Feast
June 1475
I DID NOT SEE LEONARDO AGAIN UNTIL THE FESTIVAL OF ST. John the Baptist, when I spotted him sitting on a rock beneath a tree, sketching. He was smiling. I realized Leonardo was in heaven in terms of subjects. Before him paraded some of the most majestic horses in all of Italy. Snorting, pawing the earth, prancing, tails and heads held high, they strained against their lead lines to nip at one another as their grooms walked them. They were gathering in a meadow just outside the city’s western walls for the palio—a tumultuous race from one end of the city to the other, right through its main streets.
One of those magnificent steeds belonged to my brother—the infamous Six Hundred. Giovanni wanted to speak with his jockey one last time before he and dozens of other horses and riders would squeeze through the narrow gates of Ponte alla Carraia to start the breakneck dash to glory or disaster. The jockeys rode bareback, and many a horse crossed the finish line without a rider, the man having fallen or been pushed off somewhere along the five-minute course. Many horses were injured, too, squeezed up against the stone walls of palazzos or kicked brutally in the ramp
age of panicked animals straining to pull ahead of the pack.
“There he is.” Giovanni pointed to his horse, Zephyrus, at the far end of the field, on the other side of the bucking herd. “Good. I told Apollonio to keep him away from the others.” He kissed the top of my head, something he’d started doing right after my wedding when he finally grew taller than I, shooting up four inches within a year. “Will you be all right waiting here, sister? I don’t think you should try to navigate that horde with me.”
“Of course I will be, brother.”
He hesitated. No other woman was in sight. And there were a great many men milling about, stumbling from the wine they’d just consumed at the midday feast meal.
“Go on.” I laughed. “You can see me from over there. If I am threatened, you can jump on Zephyrus and rush in to save me!”
“It’s just . . . I need to tell him . . .”
“I know, my dear, I know. If the jockey needs to pull up or turn a corner sharply, he must not saw on Zephyrus’s reins, as the bit would damage that tender Barbary mouth.”
He smiled. “Stay right here then.” Giovanni wagged his finger at me. “Keep a sharp lookout for a horse breaking away from his groom. I don’t want to have to explain some mishap to Luigi—after all, he did entrust your safety to me for the feast day.”
“And hasn’t it been grand fun?” I said. “Like old times. I am so grateful that Luigi was chosen to be one of the festaioli to oversee this year’s festivities so that we were able to enjoy the events together, brother.”
Giovanni pulled a tendril of my hair playfully before jogging away to see his horse.
I smiled, watching him go. At eighteen, Giovanni still moved with that childhood gladness, a boyhood joy in motion that we women were denied in our heavy dresses and society’s requirement for calm deportment. I used to ache to run alongside him and his horses, to feel my legs skip. But that day I was so flush with the festival’s colors and music and vibrancy, I felt nothing but happiness.
Da Vinci's Tiger Page 9
