“Thank you, Sancha. I appreciate your finding out those things for me.”
She caught my hand as I started back up the stairs to sunlight. “What I am about to warn you of is unlikely, my lady—most charges like this are dismissed with only a small fine of ten florins—but sometimes the punishment for vice is worse. Sometimes homosexual men are burned at the stake, like women are when accused of being witches. Or men are exiled. Or castrated. Or branded to humiliate them.”
During dinner, I found it difficult to engage in idle conversation. Luigi wolfed his dinner, as was his wont. He had put on weight since our marriage. I pushed my tench fish round with my knife.
“Are you not going to eat that, wife?” he asked.
Shaking my head, I handed my plate to him. He quickly devoured my portion as I watched silently. When finished, Luigi leaned back in his chair and wiped his face with his napkin, eyeing me. “Today, I was called to the office of the Night Watch.”
I looked up at him with surprise. But I had the sense to stay mute to see what he would say.
“A number of us were asked to . . . hmm . . . influence the tribunal on several matters.” He stopped. “I have you to thank for that, you know.”
My heart pounded. Was he being sarcastic? Was he in some kind of trouble that was my fault? “How so, husband? For what were you called in?”
“For my opinion and my voice. I was asked for by the Medici family,” he said quietly, “in a time they are in . . . need.” He chose the last word carefully.
Should I pretend not to know what he was talking about? No. That seemed so false and insulting to him. I waited.
“I have an old friend who serves as one of its officers. So the tribunal heard me out. That will be a favor the Medici will need to return to me someday,” he said. “Thank you. Your virtues, which are being so celebrated by the Medici circle, are what made them think to ask me.”
I nodded. “Was your opinion . . . helpful?”
“I think so.” Luigi clearly saw that I knew precisely what he was referring to. “The denunciation had no signature. Such accusations can be secret but not anonymous. A legal fact the magistrates often ignore, but cannot in the case of a powerful family. So it is likely the charges will be dismissed with the stipulation that they all will be watched in the coming months.” He leaned forward and added in a low voice, “The Night Office hires spies and informants. Tell your painter.”
I nodded again, grateful for the warning.
Luigi sighed. “The Night Office served a real purpose once. It was started to safeguard the convents, to prevent carousing men from climbing the walls to harass the sisters, or do worse. But then it expanded to all sorts of . . . all sorts of nonsense—like forbidding civic musicians who spread the Signoria’s decrees by using herald trumpets from playing within fifty yards of a convent for fear the secular music might corrupt the sisters inside.” He rubbed his forehead as if the thought gave him a headache. “Then it built the tamburi to encourage citizens to report acts of debauchery. All that’s done is to promote slander and eavesdropping. Neighborhood gossip can totally ruin a man, so we must hide—” He stopped short. “Some things should be prosecuted and stopped, but some not. I don’t know why private affections should matter to others.”
He kept talking, sipping his wine, more in thought than conversation. “Dante’s description of the seventh circle of hell in his Inferno makes clear what he believes awaits men who act on their love for each other. They are condemned to circle in a burning desert for eternity.” He swallowed a large gulp from his cup. “But it is interesting, don’t you think, that ancient Greek art and literature praise appreciation of the male figure and the closeness of male friendship?”
I was stunned, not by the Greek philosophy but that Luigi knew of it. I had never seen him pick up a book. “I did not know you read such things.”
He smiled wanly. “Oh yes.” He looked up at me then. “I suspect there are a great many things we do not yet know of each other, my dear.”
I caught my breath. Now I knew. My husband’s words told me that he might fit into the category of man Scolastica said used women to hide something, something Luigi could be condemned for by the city’s moralizing gossipmongers.
Our cook bustled in to clear the table of dinner. Amid her clattering interruption, Luigi leaned across the table and quietly repeated, “Tell your painter.”
Then he clapped his hands and rubbed them together. “What have you for me now, Maria?”
“A fine hazelnut pudding and sugared figs, signor.”
“My favorite!” he exclaimed.
I felt my convent school naïveté wiped away just as surely as the cook cleared our table of dishes. But I also recognized in Luigi a new possible category of man to add to Scolastica’s list: friend.
22
A WEEK LATER, SANCHA’S INFORMANTS TOLD HER LEONARDO would be released that afternoon. She and I walked to Verrocchio’s studio so I could share Luigi’s warning of future spying on him. Once we reached its courtyard entrance, I sent Sancha on to the market for vegetables so that I could talk with Leonardo alone, knowing it would be an awkward conversation at best, worsened if Sancha hovered nearby. But he was not there yet.
I was startled to see the studio’s bustle had not slowed in Leonardo’s absence, and it bothered me that I sensed no anxiety about his situation from his fellow artists. Apprentices still darted about; the walls continued to reverberate with pounding and chipping and shouts. Verrocchio’s greeting was merry as ever. “Donna Ginevra! Have you come to see how your beauteous face is emerging from stone?”
I hadn’t, but I smiled and said I could hardly wait to see his work. Following him inside, I did marvel at how much progress he had made within a fortnight. Emerging from the marble was a face, still scratched and scarred and not polished smooth, but lovely, its head tilted slightly, the hint of a smile, the hair exactly the way I wore mine. “Oh my, maestro. You have accomplished so much since last I was here.”
Verrocchio beamed. “I threw myself into your portrait, my lady. Sometimes when I see a figure emerging under my hand, I cannot stop. I work night and day with the urgency of creating.”
He went on, as if speaking to himself. “Work has always been to me what a good sermon is to the faithful. It is my solace, my bread. It is especially true when I am worrying about something. Something I cannot control or change.” He paused and shook his head.
Ah, so he was concerned about Leonardo. I put my hand on his arm and smiled.
He patted my hand. “You know, my dear, I cast a statue of David for the Medici. It stands in their Careggi villa. Young Leonardo was its model. Oh, what a beautiful youth he was, graceful limbs, sweet smile. He was so excited to have come to Florence and to be working in this studio. I could barely keep up with his questions.” Verrocchio paused. “Have you seen the statue?”
I shook my head. Although my relationship with Bernardo and his with the Medici had taken me to the palazzo several times over recent months, I had not been invited to that inner sanctum, the country villa where the Medici’s Platonic Academy gathered to read aloud and discuss literature.
“No? A pity.” He looked back to his growing portrait of me. “I must start to tap in the flowers you held.” He trailed off. “You know my David does not hold a stone. Nor a slingshot. Try as I might, I just could not put them into that innocent David’s hand, despite the biblical story. Of course, my David does grasp a small sword he used to sever the giant’s head. And I laid the huge head of Goliath at his feet.”
Depicting the youth who saved his people by felling a giant with one rock from his slingshot and not including any stone in his hand was certainly unusual. “Why did you choose to do that, maestro?”
Tears welled up in Verrocchio’s eyes. “When I was a youth, I accidently killed a boy with a rock. The incident has been much on my mind the past few days, with Leonardo in prison. Being in prison, even for just a few days, changes a man forever. Especial
ly a young man.” He paused before continuing his story. “I have not been able to shake my memory of it. It was so long ago, happening in the heat of a moment. I just wasn’t thinking. We were arguing, well, fighting. Young men’s passions run too hot for them to control sometimes. But oh, what horrible results can come of them. The incident haunts me still. That boy died in terrible pain. I thought he would duck when I hurled that stone at him. Well . . . perhaps I thought that.” He closed his eyes as if recalling the scene.
I had no idea what to say to such a confession. Brawls were commonplace on the streets of Florence. But I had never stood next to someone who had actually taken a life, whether intentionally or by accident. An awkward silence hung between us for several moments before Verrocchio spoke again.
“Ahhh, well. I hope you see my David someday. I would like to hear your opinion. The Magnifico was very taken with the tender youthfulness I was able to capture. But that was easy. It emanated from Leonardo as he posed. Sometimes the dialogue between an artist and his model is so complete, so intense and unfettered a connection, that the artist cannot help but fall in love with his model in some ways. And his model with the artist. We see into each other’s hearts. Does that make sense?”
“Yes.”
“It is almost a sacred bond, impossible for outsiders to really comprehend or accept.” Verrocchio sighed.
“Oh, maestro, I know exactly what you speak of.”
“Then you should write a poem about it, signora. Put words to the experience so others can feel it and understand.” He pulled himself together abruptly and joked in a blustery manner, “No matter what Leonardo says of poetry being inferior, verse can explain things and inspire readers very well indeed.”
Verrocchio waved his hand in the air as if ridding himself of a fly. “Bah, that Leonardo. What trouble he is. And that Jacopo—pppffffff. Certainly not worth the stain an arrest leaves on a man, or his studio. I warned Leonardo to be careful of who his friends are. But he doesn’t listen to me. He hung on my every word once, but now?” Verrocchio shrugged. “It is the way of apprentices once they become adults—so full of themselves. Of course, Leonardo is especially so.” Even though he frowned as he spoke, concern and affection still laced his words.
“He is to be released today, yes?” I asked.
“Yes, yes. What is the time, my lady?” Verrocchio was suddenly energized. “He is to be released to me, since he still belongs to this studio.”
“I heard the noon bell chime on my way here.”
“I should go.” He held his arm out to escort me to the door.
“Ahhh,” I said, stalling, “my servant is not yet returned.” I wanted to see Leonardo myself. “May I wait here until she comes back? I am forbidden to walk through the streets on my own.”
“Of course, signora, of course!” He led me to a chair. “I hope to be back shortly with our Leonardo. If you are still here at that time, he can show you his portrait. It is nearly complete, just a few last strokes to be done.” Verrocchio gestured to a stand that was draped. “Not as good as my sculpture will be, of course.” He winked, his jocular humor reclaiming him. He left. Instantly, his apprentices scattered, too, for a bit of adventure during their master’s absence.
All alone in the deserted studio, I stared at the covered painting. What temptation! I knew I should wait for Leonardo to unveil his work, so I forced myself to sit, my foot tapping like a drummer’s baton. But I managed to remain so for only a minute, if that, before I tiptoed over to the stand. Verrocchio might be carving a marble image of me, but I was certainly not made of stone. I could not wait a second longer.
I pulled up the tarp and was peeking underneath when I heard, “How do you look, carissima?”
“Your Excellency!” I dropped the cloth and whirled around. “What are you doing here?”
Bernardo chuckled. “Come to speak of the commission with the maestro.” He approached and took my hand, bowed, and kissed it.
His touch always sent a shiver through me. “Master Verrocchio is not here right now,” I said nervously.
“Fortune smiles on me then.” Bernardo stepped closer so that his booted toes disappeared under my dress’s hem. He drew my hand to his chest, covering his heart with it.
I looked up into his face. So close. He smelled of leather and cinnamon and jasmine mixed with musk—little of the garlic and sweat stench that tended to ring other men. His cheeks carried a few brown spots of age and sun scorching, but his skin was still drawn taut over fine, prominent bones. The wrinkles around his sea-blue eyes seemed appealing brushstrokes of experience, not age, like he had spent many journeys on the prow of a ship directing its course through winds and waves. He was the age my father would have been if he were still alive, yet Bernardo’s strength and vitality were as palpable and unnerving as a younger man’s.
“Ah, that gaze of yours, La Bencina. So steady, so penetrating, so inquisitive. You look right into my soul.”
Nervous, I pulled my hand away to clasp both of mine behind my back where he could not reach them. Bernardo might call my gaze steady, but his was making me feel disrobed. “Well, I hope you feel elevated then, my lord,” I said, keeping to the Platonic concept that my role was to uplift and inspire his soul to look heavenward.
Bernardo looked surprised and then grinned. Seeing his reaction, I realized how my words could be misinterpreted. “Oh, my lord, I did not mean . . . ,” I began. But then I blushed even more because my recognizing the potentially bawdy undertone in my statement indicated I might not be so innocent after all.
I backed up. He stepped forward. I backed again. He followed. Thus, as if in a pavane dance, we circled the painting.
Bernardo laughed. “Ahh, my dear, you do amuse me. You are as skittish as an unbroken horse before being bridled and ridden.”
I gasped. Once more, I kicked myself for showing I understood the off-color wordplay. Trapped behind the painting, I took a deep breath and pulled the remaining shreds of my ladylike deportment back around me. “Shall we look at the painting, my lord?”
He hesitated a moment, still smiling, clearly regretting my return to safe conversation. “Allow me.” He lifted the cloth away.
We both caught our breath then. Leonardo had created an image so luminous, so lifelike, it was as if the painted Ginevra could blush and smile. But what really shocked me was the tinge of sadness, the yearning, the questioning, and the defiant invitation in my eyes to return my gaze and step into my mind, my very soul. God help me, I thought. How would Florentines react to such a bold female image?
I dared a glance at Bernardo to see his reaction. His jaw was clenched, his eyes slightly narrowed. “You are exquisite, carissima.” Bernardo’s voice was deep and quiet, and I could not read its emotion. “Let us see the back.” He took the portrait in both hands to carefully turn it round.
The verso was executed as we had designed—a subdued image of a laurel and palm wreath laced with a ribbon carrying the motto Virtus et Honor. Bernardo nodded, pleased. “I have begun identifying the manuscripts in my collection with our emblem.”
He turned the portrait back so my painted face appeared again. “Lovely. Your fine countenance will keep me company in Venice, carissima. I will introduce you to my fellows in that city, and they will admire you and want to hear all about you and about us. I will look at this painting nightly and talk to it as if you were standing in front of me. Having this portrait with me will make my departure a little easier.”
“You are leaving Florence?” I asked with alarm.
“Will you be disappointed to see me go, my dear Bencina?”
“Y-y-yes,” I stammered. I was stunned. Bernardo had been in Florence for only sixteen months—sixteen exhilarating, confusing, life-altering months. I shook my head, looking down to the floor, trying to absorb the news. My heart ached. Was that love? Or was it just fear of drabness enveloping me again? No more portraits, no more philosophical debates, no more invitations to the Medici palazzo. No matter which
was the real underlying reason, my answer was an honest one. “Yes,” I whispered, “I will be terribly disappointed.”
Bernardo cupped my face in his hands. “Then kiss me, carissima. Kiss me good-bye.”
This time I did not pull back aflutter or afraid as he bent his head down and held his lips close to mine, his breath warm, willing my breathing to echo his, just as music can beckon the listener’s heart to match its beat. He held himself close like that for a long, tantalizing moment, his eyes on mine, looking for agreement. When I did not blink, he smiled. Then his lips pressed my mouth, soft, a brush as pleasing as a spring breeze, a beguiling taste of sweetness, of new hopes. And then again, lingering, relishing, as one does the first juice of a plum after a long, cold, frugal winter.
So this was a kiss, a real kiss. Now I knew where love poetry came from. I returned it with the same kind of hunger I had first devoured verse.
23
OUR EMBRACE TIGHTENED. BERNARDO’S LIPS TRAVELED FROM my mouth, slowly, kiss by kiss by kiss to my eyes, to my temple, to my hair, to my ear. I felt him nip at my earlobe, and then a mesmerizing whisper blew into my ear. “I have never known a woman like you, Ginevra, my life . . . my love . . . my soul.” Each word burned.
His thumb traced my jawline to come to rest under my chin. He pushed and tilted it up, my head fell back, and now his mouth wandered bit by bit down my throat. His other hand slid around my waist and gathered me to him. Our clothes crushed, rustled, wrinkling. His lips reached my shoulder, as his other hand traveled downward. I felt his fingers tug at the lacing of my bodice.
I caught my breath. Without realizing it, I had longed for such an embrace, for someone to cherish me this way. But this was anything but Platonic.
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