“That is true,” Viviana agreed, yet her mind still felt heavy. “I suppose it would not be nearly as impressive if they had included Burial of the Wood.”
That scene had but three figures in it and was quite small in comparison to most of the others.
“It is what this is all about, is it not?” Isabetta postulated. “These rich people and their chapels. They do not decorate them to pay homage to any god, but to themselves and those they wish to impress.”
No one could argue. As Florence had begun to flourish once more, and as luxury became ever more luxurious, such frescoes had become a standard by which to measure a family’s wealth and position.
“I have no doubt you can do this.” Leonardo’s voice matched his straight back.
“Nor do I.” Fiammetta shocked them. “I know what talent we have, what we are capable of with these hands of ours.” She held hers out only to draw them back quickly. “But I do not know if I still want to do this.”
“Why, what has changed for you?” Isabetta pestered her quickly.
“Time,” came the answer, not from Fiammetta but Lapaccia. “Such an enterprise will take a great deal of time, many, many hours, many, many days, weeks, months. I do not know if I have such time.”
“What?”
“Are you ill?”
“No, my dears, no. My illness is as it’s always been, nothing more, nothing worse,” she assured them quickly. “It is just…I am not as spry as I once was. I tire much more easily these days.”
“We will ask no more of you than what you can do, Lapaccia, never fear.” Mattea eased Lapaccia’s agitation tenderly, just as a true and loving daughter-in-law would. The other women added their soothing voices to Mattea’s.
“There is something else to consider,” Viviana said thoughtfully. She related what Sansone had told her, what he had said about men and their possible reaction to loss of work, loss of money. She did not tell them whose words she repeated. “We must all be prepared, not only for disapproving reactions, but for angry ones.”
“How much is the commission worth? Did he say?” Natasia asked, receiving a sidelong look of cynicism from Isabetta. It was easy to ask of money when the question of it in one’s life was never in question.
Fiammetta’s face puckered. “Fifty florins,” she spat.
“Fifty!” Mattea exclaimed.
“Yes, fifty. A measly fifty florins.” Fiammetta turned to Viviana. “If you will stop this nonsense, Viviana, I will give you the damn florins myself.”
Mattea spun on her. “My share would feed my mother and me for a year. It is unkind of you to belittle it. But we do not do this for the money. I do not do this for the money.”
Viviana scanned her sisters’ faces. “We continue then?”
“Yes.” Isabetta and Mattea voted with vehemence.
“We do,” Natasia said softly.
Lapaccia merely nodded.
All turned to Fiammetta.
The corpulent women huffed a breath, stood up, grabbed a brush from the nearest table, and announced, “Of course we do.”
Chapter Eleven
“How can one be themselves if they do not know who they are?”
The young woman hurried down the quiet street, grateful for the tranquility of the midafternoon rest. The heavy heat of the day would only find more at rest than usual. It also found her drenched in sweat—hunched over, chin low—beneath the cover of her hood and cloak, an uncomfortable necessity. She was a wraith, a shapeless, faceless form scurrying through the city just like the rats in the gutter.
It was not the first time she had traveled through the city alone, hidden beneath such garments. It would not be the last. The heat scorched from below as well as above, rising through her slim slippers, rising up from the paving stones. She prayed that this outing would be more productive than the last.
Had any started to notice her absences, her late arrivals, her early retreats? She flung the questions from her mind; refused their poisonous venom. She must not waver in her quest. Though she might question it—why her, why now—the answers, when they came, always comforted, always ignited the fire burning within her, the passion for the truth she sought. It scorched her as the falsehoods had her family for too long. She must make this appointment today; she was getting closer, she knew it.
She approached the front door of the church, as anxious for the coolness of its marble interior as she was for anything—any help—she might find there. The priest waited, opened the door a crack as he spied her through the stained glass of the massive arched door.
“Around back,” he hissed at her, ticking his balding pate toward the right side of the church and the path that wound its way around it.
“Of course, Father,” she panted, nodding and scurrying around as directed, slithering through the tall spire’s shadow.
When she reached the back door—just a plain, small wooden door—he was already there, holding it open for her.
She hurried in.
“This way, my child,” his words rushed at her as he rushed her through a narrow hallway, down an even narrower stairway, and into the stone basement. The coolness was a blessing; the moldy scent of the seeping stone was not.
He led her to one of the small scribe desks filling the room. “I think I may have something that will help you, but it is not definitive.”
“Any help at all, Father. I will be most grateful.”
She threw back her hood, leaned down over the papers, and began to read the age-yellowed parchment.
Chapter Twelve
“Journeys of great import are traveled on many paths.”
In another part of the city, two other women made a pilgrimage of their own.
Viviana insisted she accompany Fiammetta on this visit, though the contessa assured Viviana that her presence was not necessary.
“You do not know how they will react,” Viviana told her. “If there are arguments to be had, is it not better that I have them, not you? We do not want to remove the authority of your status in their eyes. We may need it later on.”
“Well, I suppose that is true.” Fiammetta puffed up. Viviana bit her lip. Manipulation did not come easily to her, but she did it when forced. Fiammetta made it easy—annoyingly easy.
It was a short carriage ride to the Serristori palazzo, just over the Ponte Trinta and onto the Via Maggio, one street east of the Piazza Santo Spirito. Viviana rode in Fiammetta’s carriage, checking every thread in her finest gown and gamurra, preferring she herself find a fault, if there was one, before the contessa did, as she surely would.
As they climbed out of Fiammetta’s carriage, Viviana’s gaze rose upward, drawn to the finely sculpted capitals atop the cube-shaped palazzo, to the smooth polished stone of its façade. She thought it quite beautiful.
“Do not be fooled by what you see on the outside,” Fiammetta told her, catching Viviana’s admiring look. “Such taste did not make its way inside.”
Viviana gave no response; whether Fiammetta was correct or simply envious that these “new” elite should have a palazzo as fine as hers, Viviana did not know. She would judge for herself.
The door was opened by the maggiore duomo; the mere fact that they had a maggiore duomo made Fiammetta squirm, as such servants belonged to the true nobility of the city, or so it was in her mind, as she had told Viviana on too many an occasion. It was an irritation wiped cleanly away as the man and woman of the house came rushing to her, effusively sycophantic.
“How lucky are we.” Antonio di Salvestro de’ Serristori flew toward them on his ostrich legs, his petite gazelle of a wife scurrying to catch up. “The contessa pays us another visit.”
He struck a flourishing bow, far too extravagant, rising up only to take Fiammetta’s hand and bow his horse-like face over it. Viviana now understood Fiammetta’s desire to make this visit alone. It was not that she cared if someone witnessed such unctuousness, only that the experience of such a display should belong to her alone.
&n
bsp; “We are so pleased to see you again.” Fabia, glistening raven hair braided and twirled about her head, curtsied with drama to equal her husband’s. “And you have brought a guest. How wonderful.”
Fiammetta introduced Viviana to the couple, who fawned on her as they had Fiammetta simply because Fiammetta called her friend. The dichotomous couple—he so tall, thin, and gangling; she so short, curved, and graceful—led them through the house, past their sitting room—the room where they should have brought their guests—to the center of the palazzo and a grand salon.
“See?” Fiammetta scoffed softly. “Garish.”
Viviana remained silent; she had no care to agree with Fiammetta, though she did. Every room boasted sculptures, frescoes, and far too much gilding.
Pleasantries passed between them like playing cards; those dealt by the couple always with a toadying dispensation. They waited as a servant brought a lovely platter with cheeses, sliced meats, and fruit along with two choices of wine. With a shrug, Viviana indulged in the delicious offering. But such tidbits and chitchat could only last so long. They had filled their mouths with food and then words, until there was nothing else to be offered. It was time they made their offering.
With a fleeting shared glance, and an imperceptible nod, Fiammetta took the first step toward their truth.
“You are such lovely hosts”—How smart of her to begin with a compliment, Viviana thought—“but it is not just your gracious company we have come for today.”
“Is it not?” Antonio said, even as he chewed on a piece of smoked mortadella.
Fiammetta chastised his poor manners with a withering look, but continued. “No, Antonio, I…we have come to tell you something, something you may well find a bit shocking, and to ask a kindness of you.”
“Oh, you know we will do anything for a friend,” Fabia twittered, a baby bird chirping for food.
“How pleased I am to hear it.” Fiammetta used her guile and her status to its full potential. “My dear friend here and I belong to a special group of women.”
“Meraviglioso,” Fabia’s cheeping voice continued, “I do so love women’s societies. They are so charitable.”
“Well, yes, that is true,” Fiammetta agreed graciously but continued righteously, “however, ours is not that sort of society.”
Antonio’s dark, almost singular brow rose up his high forehead. “And what sort would it be then?”
The fiddler stopped playing; the time for dancing was over.
“We—that is, Viviana, myself, and four others, including Signora Lapaccia Cavalcanti, you know her, do you not?” Fiammetta dropped the powerful name like a boulder in a puddle. “Of course you do,” she continued, before they could find a way to admit the truth. “Well, we are”—she pulled in a deep breath, let it out in a rush of words—“a group of artists under the tutelage of Leonardo da Vinci.”
Their hosts gaped at them. Two pairs of chestnut eyes bulged in concert.
“A—artists?” Antonio stuttered.
“Leonardo da Vinci?” Fabia breathed.
“Yes, both are true,” Viviana replied to their mutterings, which were all they seemed capable of managing. Fiammetta had done her job; it was time for her to do hers.
She quickly told them of her cousin, the great Caterina dei Vigri, and her legacy, which the Disciples had chosen to continue.
The couple met her dissertation with stony-faced astonishment; they had become yet two more statues to populate their home.
“I…I…” Antonio shuddered, as if to break free of the marble that held him. “I do not know what to say.”
“You need not say anything, yet,” Viviana cajoled, slipping to the edge of her seat, approaching him as she would a frightened puppy. From the large reticule she had kept close to her side since the day’s mission began, she produced a thick bundle of parchment, all very neatly gathered and tied with a thin, brown ribbon. She held them out to Antonio.
“Inside you will find our full proposal in response to your posted commission.”
He looked at her, full-lipped mouth a cavernous maw. His narrowed eyes clouded beneath his hunched brow.
“For the commission, for the fresco you wish to have created in your cappella at Santo Spirito,” she explained further, as if he didn’t understand. It was not understanding he lacked, but comprehension.
Antonio made no move to accept the offering hanging in the air between them.
“You…you women—”
“We are called Da Vinci’s Disciples,” Fiammetta said with all the pretention she could muster, a potent power. “It is the name of our studio as well as who we are.”
“And you wish to bid on the commission?” Antonio struggled with the assault upon his senses; it was there in every twitch, every clipped breath.
Viviana brought the package back to her lap. “You will find our proposal developed to every detail. We have seen to every aspect, a list of supplies and their cost, a well-mapped timeline for its completion, as well as basic sketches of the proposed scenes.”
Once more, Viviana held the parcel out to Antonio. Once more, he made no motion to accept it. Yet the parchment slipped from her grasp nonetheless.
“I am a poet, did you know that?”
Viviana looked up at the woman who had spoken, to her hostess, who had stood and accepted the parcel from Viviana.
“I did not, Fabia,” Viviana murmured; her breath quickened now. She dared a sidelong glance at Fiammetta. “I would love to read some of it.”
Fabia returned to her seat, the parcel safe within the crux of her arms, pressed to her chest.
“I served Il Magnifico’s mother for a time, when I was but a young girl,” Fabia told them, high-boned cheeks blooming with pride.
Viviana shot another glance at Fiammetta. It was a little treasure of information dropped in their laps.
“I was very young, just a girl of twelve, but I learned a great deal. Signora Tornabuoni de’ Medici said I showed great promise.”
Like the women of Da Vinci’s Disciples, Lucrezia Tornabuoni de’ Medici had been a woman far ahead of her time. Her depth of study had matched any man’s; her talent as a poet was still renowned. A buzz of excitement trilled in Viviana’s ears. If this woman could bring the lingering influence of Il Magnifico’s mother into the situation, it could only bode well for them.
“What a remarkable experience it must have been for you,” Fiammetta said with unaffected tribute; any woman of an intellectual bent would be blessed with such tutelage. “We have, in fact, spoken to Il Magnifico.” Fiammetta turned to Viviana, who quickly took up the thread.
“We have indeed. I myself, with another of our group and Signore da Vinci, were allowed an audience with him concerning this very subject.”
“You spoke to him?” Antonio jumped in. “You spoke to Il Magnifico about my commission?”
“Not only about your commission, but about our group and our hope to complete it for you.”
“I want to include his likeness in one of the frescoes. What did he say? Tell me. He should know he is included in my plans.” Gone was the fawning sycophant. In his place there now sat on the very edge of his chair the social and political climber that Antonio was to his core.
“He readily gave us his permission to present you with our bid,” Viviana declared, not allowing a hint of weakness, or an intimation of the flippant manner in which the permission came.
The man’s stare released Viviana, darting a glance to his wife, to the contessa, and back.
“He did?” Of all the things that had flabbergasted this man this day, the draining color from his tawny face showed this to be the most staggering of all.
“He did,” Fiammetta and Viviana said in concert, with a quickly shared grin at their collusion.
“Well, that it is magnanimous of him, isn’t it, cara?” Fabia said to her astonished husband. “As devout Mediceans, it is our duty to take it seriously then.”
Her husband whirled on her. “But—�
� he began.
“I fear we have kept you long enough.” Fiammetta stood before he could protest, before he could natter at his wife for her declaration. Viviana stood quickly beside her, her stare never leaving Fabia’s. She saw a strength there she would not have thought the woman owned when first they’d met, a strength that added to Viviana’s hope.
“We have enjoyed your company,” she guilelessly told her hostess. “I would like to come again, if I may, to read some of your poetry.”
The woman rose, a shimmer of pink pleasure on her porcelain cheeks.
“That would make for a most wonderful visit. At your pleasure, signora.”
In the small squeeze that Fabia’s hand gave hers, Viviana felt the soul of a kindred spirit. Her own spirit soared.
“Thank you, contessa, and you, madonna.” Antonio caught himself, brought himself back to the realization of his place beneath Fiammetta’s, to the effusive manners his elders had taught him, and that his position demanded. He stood and led them to the door. “We are honored, as always, to have you in our home.”
“Thank you, dear man.” Fiammetta offered him a small curtsy; Viviana almost barked a laugh. Fiammetta was fully in the fight now. “Till we speak again,” she said to him from the threshold, “which, I am sure, will be soon.”
“S—soon, sì,” he muttered.
There they left him, in the shadows of the empty hollow beneath the great arch of his front door, floundering in the thick sludge that was his confused mind.
“Well,” Fiammetta chortled as they settled once more in her tasseled carriage, “I think that went well.”
Viviana remembered the look on Fabia’s face when she told them she was a poet, felt once more the squeeze of the woman’s hand.
“Very well indeed,” she agreed.
Chapter Thirteen
“Once the paint is on the canvas it is a great thing to remove it.”
The Competition Page 7
