Viviana strolled south toward the Ponte Vecchio, not at leisure, but in thought. The meeting would, by necessity, need to be properly timed. Setting a signal would signal that it was much more than just another day.
Her group of colleagues—women who had named themselves Da Vinci’s Disciples—who dared to learn true art, rarely went a day or more without time in their hidden studiolo behind the church of Santo Spirito. Rarely could one of them go too long without the feel of the brush in her grip, the acidic scent of pigments in her nose, or the sight of the chisel and stone that cried out for her attention.
Viviana needed them all there at the same time, needed it to be a full coming together of the entire group when she shared her news. She needed Leonardo there as well. She would have to set the meeting time for at least a fortnight from now; it would take that long for the message to get to the artist and for the artist to make his way to Florence. The young man, a model Leonardo entrusted to carry such messages, was reliable, but he could only go as fast as the horse that carried him.
She approached the corner niche shrine of Saint Caterina—not their Caterina, not her cousin, who had been a prolific gifted artist, whose journals had first brought this group together, but a Caterina nonetheless. They had made this shrine theirs, had used it, the stones, flowers, and candles that they lay at her feet, to schedule their meetings.
Viviana looked up into the unseeing eyes of the saint. She wished the saint could see. Viviana wished Caterina could see into the future, could tell Viviana if what she did—what she hoped they would do—was the right thing. Would it bring them that which they wanted most of all, to be revered for their talent? Or would it only bring more devastation into their lives? This very question had haunted her for most of the night, a specter refusing exorcism. Her answer now was still the one that had kept coming to her through the darkest hours.
Without another moment’s hesitation, she began to set the signal: two candles, two weeks; three flowers, three days; eight stones on the east side, eight o’clock in the morning.
Viviana stepped back and studied her work.
The possibility became ever more real. Her blood pumped at the very notion.
She closed her eyes and pictured them, guessing at what their responses would be. Not all would be the same as hers. In her mind, she saw Leonardo again. Oh, how terribly she missed him.
The scarcity of da Vinci in her life—in their lives—had been far too great these past few years. He had been sent to Milan, so he told them, as an artistic emissary by Lorenzo de’ Medici himself, taking with him a young musician, Atalante Migliorotti, and the musician’s unique instrument created by da Vinci…a lute in the shape of a horse’s skull. Artist, musician, and lute traveled to cement the alliance with Milan. Leonardo himself decided to stay.
She understood why, looking at it through his eyes. To watch others—Botticelli, Ghirlandaio, and even his own teacher, Verrocchio—receive the most prestigious commissions, was to watch too much passing by. Though his talent far outshone theirs, in Viviana’s mind as well as many others’, Leonardo floundered in the heated competition that was an intrinsic element of being an artist in Florence. His focus seemed forever expanding, buzzing from project to project like a bee in a profusion of blossoms. Life was his subject, and the world his canvas. It did not sit well with those whose commissions he did not finish. It did not compete well with those he competed against. What Leonardo needed most was the freedom—the financial and artistic freedom—to follow his mind, wherever that took him. It was a hard thing to come by in Florence in those dreary days after Giuliano’s murder.
When the Duke of Milan made the offer through his uncle, though Leonardo had not shared the finer details with the women, only a few hints at a regular salary from the stipendiati of the duke’s court, and a place to call his own, he would have been a fool not to go. He visited them at least once a month, sometimes more. It was not enough for Viviana. She missed his calm wisdom as much as she missed his expert tutelage.
Yet there was one she missed far more than Leonardo. Viviana stumbled against the pang of it, a jutting cobblestone upon her smooth path. She had lost him quickly as well, to those first skirmishes of war against the Vatican and Naples, to the battles to recapture Florentine-ruled lands in Colle Valdelsa, Poggibonsi, and Chianti. Sansone Caivano was a soldier, a highly sought after, highly paid soldier. She accepted his truth. Her sons were soldiers as well—or had been—yet they had returned. Though those lands still required military protection, she thought—hoped—Sansone would have returned, to the city he loved, to her and the promise of what they could be.
Perhaps her truth—what she had done—prevented him. Perhaps his unimpeachable honor kept him at bay. Perhaps he could not, would not return to her.
Viviana skidded to a stop midstride. Her fingers fisted in her voluminous skirt. She turned, looking, as if the truth lay somewhere nearby, awaiting discovery. She found something, but was it an answer?
In the ground-floor paned windows of the Palazzo Minerbetti, Viviana found herself.
There she stood, the sun bright on her face, her reflection unvarnished.
Was she deluding herself? Had the years been unkind, or had she aged so much in his absence that he would no longer want her? With a twinge of embarrassment, she admitted she saw little change—her eyes still bright, her skin still smooth, her body still firm. But there were younger, firmer, smoother women out there, women who craved a celebrated soldier like Sansone. Had he found temptation in another?
“Stop it,” she chided herself aloud as she slapped a lone tear from her cheek.
If she would never see him again, it would wound her deeply, forming yet another scar on her tattered heart. She had survived the others; she would survive this one as well.
Wouldn’t she?
Chapter Three
“Regrets are often found, not in what we have done, but in what we haven’t.”
Viviana pulled at the chain around her neck, inserted the key in the lock—a key that all members of her society wore about their necks—and turned it. With the click came her sigh.
She stepped into the studio, closed her eyes, and breathed deeply.
Viviana knew her smile and from whence it came. The pungency of linseed oil, saffron, and poppy seeds—just some of the ingredients used to make the paint—satisfied her more than that of a rose or a lily. She sniffed the dust of chiseled stone, relished the tickle it brought.
She opened her eyes; again, she sighed.
How different the studio was from before, before Leonardo and his tutelage. One couldn’t say it was any less messy, but a more organized mess. The six worktables now gathered in the center of the room, rather than along its walls as they used to be, allowing for more shelves and storage bins, more mixing tables, and more room for Isabetta when she chose to sculpt.
A riot and mess of color was everywhere, as if it had leaked and slithered off their canvasses and onto the floors and the walls. Viviana cherished it all.
Her table, the canvas on its easel beside it, beckoned. She answered, rushing toward it, stumbling to a stop as the door she’d left unlocked swung open.
He was there.
“You came!” she cried, launching herself into his arms.
For seconds uncounted, thick with gratitude, they held each other.
Viviana laid her head upon his chest. He kissed the top of her head.
“I have missed you as well, madonna,” Leonardo said.
Viviana giggled like a small girl, pulling away from him just enough to see his face, to see the long, straight nose, the full, curved, almost womanly lips, to see the amber eyes that held all his wisdom, his truth, his demons. It had only been a few months since his last visit; it felt like years.
She could have cried. Instead, she teased, “Well, I can see they are at least feeding you well.”
The tall man threw back his head with a bark of laughter, his berretto nearly falling from its perch atop
his long, wavy, golden hair.
“I eat very well, cara,” he said, rubbing his belly. “You look well, my friend.”
“I am, dear man, I am.”
He squinted his penetrating eyes. “You are up to something.” It wasn’t a question.
Viviana raised her brows high, batted her wide eyes. “Me? Up to something? What could I—”
The click and whoosh were her salvation. Viviana had no wish to speak her thoughts, to share her dream, until they were all present. The opening door, the women flouncing in, crying out at the sight of da Vinci, saved her.
Viviana stood back and watched them huddle around him, each one hugging him, even Fiammetta. She looked upon them as she did when her children were little and played merrily together.
“Well then,” Fiammetta hooted, fists on her wide, plump hips, where she seemed to prefer them to be, “who called this meeting and why?”
The moment was upon her; Viviana’s heart quickened. She almost changed her mind. Almost.
“I did.” She stepped into the center of the group. “I have a proposition.” She shook her head; that wasn’t right. “No, I have an opportunity for us, for the group.” She quaked beneath the penetrating stares all trained on her.
“Go on,” Fiammetta nudged.
Viviana sucked in a breath, straightened her shoulders, and began. “At la Festa di San Giovanni I overheard a conversation. It was between Antonio di Salvestro de ser Ristoro of the Serristori family and another man I did not recognize. Antonio has purchased a cappella—well actually he purchased it a few years ago.” Viviana rambled; she knew it. She bounced on her toes as she babbled. “But now, now that Il Magnifico has released the city from its mourning, allowing building and business, and allowing the arts to flourish once more, Antonio wishes to change the fresco, to have it completely redone.”
“Yes, I know Antonio and his family. What has that to do with us?” Fiammetta pushed, oblivious.
Not so Isabetta. “Hah!” she barked. “Dio mio, you are well and truly mad, Viviana, do you know that?”
Viviana cocked her head, brows waggling. Perhaps she was mad—a madness that demanded they do more, go further.
“I believe we, Da Vinci’s Disciples, should bid on the commission.”
“You are mad!”
“What are you thinking?”
“Us? You want us to do it?”
The words pummeled her; the women closed in on her, all save Isabetta. Leonardo too said nothing. Their instant objection brought out the fighter in Viviana.
“We have the talent; you know we do,” she said, an accusatory finger pointing. “Do you not think so, maestro?”
Leonardo stood motionless, arms crossed thoughtfully.
“Sì, the question of your talent is an irrelevant one. The real question is one of consequences.”
Leonardo said nothing Viviana had not already thought.
“It would mean the world will know of us,” Mattea muttered. Viviana could not tell if her softly spoken words were in favor of or against the notion.
“Patrizio,” Fiammetta moaned her husband’s name.
“He is a good, kind man, Fiammetta.” Viviana pacified her with truth. “I think he may be more understanding than you imagine.”
The woman’s deep-set brown eyes glared at Viviana. “Perhaps. But not until he roars.”
“He won’t—”
“Oh, he will.” Fiammetta stomped away from her, trundled to her worktable. “He will, for the only way to tell him what you want us to do is to tell him what we have done.”
“Surely that’s not necessary,” Isabetta snapped quickly.
Fiammetta spun. “But it is. In my marriage, it is.”
“Pagolo.” It was Natasia’s turn to speak her husband’s name; her blue eyes enlarged to the size of platters. “His position. I could not do anything more to jeopardize it.”
“More? What do you mean—”
“He has just been promoted,” Natasia carried on. “He has become one of Il Magnifico’s chancellors. A lower one, but still.”
“How wonderful, Natasia.” Viviana preened with happiness for them.
Under Lorenzo de’ Medici’s new regime, one very different from before his brother’s death and the wars that followed, such young men as Pagolo, those of the lesser elite—secretaries, notaries—had gained a greater foothold in Il Magnifico’s organization. To become a personal chancellor to the ruler meant a place in his inner circle. They accompanied ambassadors on diplomatic visits, wrote their letters, and at times, so Viviana had heard, became involved in other negotiations, those Lorenzo meant to keep more private. Others went on to serve on powerful committees, such as the Otto di Pratica, which supervised not only Florence’s diplomatic relations but the security of the territory itself. They were a powerful force in a city filled with powerful men.
“He will be against it.” Natasia ignored Viviana. “It would be too much of a risk. It could be too much of a detriment to him.”
“I don’t agree,” Isabetta said, softly yet firmly. “Il Magnifico is a different man these days. He is doing a great many things unheard of before. Why may we not do the same?”
“That’s easy for you to say,” Fiammetta sniffed.
“Perhaps. But there has been little easy in my life. And I have survived. I have thrived.”
Isabetta’s husband’s illness had done more damage than merely take his life; it had almost robbed them of their small butcher shop, one Isabetta still owned; it had brought them to the brink of homeless poverty.
“My mother will be livid,” Mattea said, but not without the hint of a sly grin on her thin, rosy lips. “She already believes me unmarriageable, at my advanced age. Twenty-three and still not married,” she mimicked with a high-pitched whine. “She will say it will be the ruin of me.” The still young, still beautiful woman rolled her azure eyes, bringing her gaze to land on Lapaccia. Lapaccia missed her son as much as Mattea did; to her, she was married, for her heart belonged to Andreano now and forever.
Viviana knew she must appease these women, remind them of what they promised never to forget.
“What is it we have always wanted?” She pulled each one close to her, forming their eternal circle. “We have always wanted more, wanted our talent to be more than a secretive diversion, is it not true?”
Three heads nodded. Viviana pushed ever onward.
“We forged a painting, one that still hangs in the Palazzo della Signoria, one that is still admired and talked about.” Once more, a pointed finger swirled around their circle. “We did that. We put our lives in danger to save one of our own—”
“I did not want—” Lapaccia sputtered.
Isabetta stroked the woman’s shoulder. “Of course you didn’t,” she said. “But you would have done the same were it one of us, wouldn’t you?”
The eldest of the group did not hesitant for an instant. “Of course,” Lapaccia replied.
“Women who do such things are not ordinary,” Viviana continued.
“We are not ordinary,” Isabetta chimed in.
Viviana bestowed a smile upon her. “We want our work, our talent, to be recognized, above all else.”
The silence was one of agreement—very quiet agreement.
“And we do not do it for ourselves alone.” Viviana turned to Fiammetta. “What of your daughter? She is a great talent, isn’t she?”
Viviana fought unfairly; Fiammetta worshipped her daughter as much as she did her God. Using the girl was a ruthless tactic. “Do you not hope for better for her? Do you not wish, deep down inside you, that she should not have to hide her talent as you have hidden yours?” Viviana’s blood rushed through her. Her words were no longer words of persuasion but of her truest passion; they enflamed her. “And what of our children’s children, the daughters, shouldn’t they have the opportunity to be a part of the artistic growth overtaking Florence?”
Isabetta nodded. “Should they continue to be denied it simply because o
f their sex?”
“It will have consequences, some grave, but some amazing, for us all.” Viviana’s blue eyes glowed with her mania. “But what is the point of all this if it dies when we die?”
There it was; the true crux of the matter, the true purpose of the creation of Da Vinci’s Disciples. There was little any could say in opposition.
“May I make a proposition?” Leonardo’s voice came from the corner near the paper-covered windows, where he had stood, all but forgotten.
Viviana opened the circle to him. “Of course, maestro. Your thoughts, your guidance, are greatly desired.”
Leonardo came to stand with them. “I propose you all return to your homes and do perhaps the hardest thing you have yet to do.” Considering all they had done, it was difficult to imagine. “You must tell your families, tell them all. Beyond a doubt truth bears the same relation to falsehood as light to darkness.”
Fiammetta groaned; Natasia whimpered.
“Tell them all, and what Viviana proposes. If they are adamantly opposed you will have your answer.”
“A perfect suggestion,” Viviana said, believing that, while it may be difficult, each woman would ultimately find not only acceptance but encouragement.
“Agreed,” Fiammetta was the first to acquiesce, surprising them all. The rest followed suit.
“And what if we can’t…if I can’t? What then?” Natasia asked.
“Then we will not do it,” Fiammetta answered, though not for all.
Isabetta cocked her head. “Then you will not do it.”
Fiammetta’s head whirled round, frizzy red strands of hair coming loose from her bejeweled caul.
“You would do it without us?”
This silence bristled.
Viviana knew the truth of it, and she could not pretend otherwise.
“We must each do what our heart tells us to do.”
Chapter Four
The Competition Page 2
