“We’ve already given the painter thirty florin, and you’ve spent my lire liberally on lapis and gold,” Cosimo said. “This work must be the best the monk has ever produced. It must be the finest work Alfonso has ever seen.”
The banker had entrusted the commission to his son, but Giovanni was young and unsure of how to wield his power, while Cosimo was a forceful man. A shaft of sunlight glimmered on the thick gold ring that encased Cosimo’s fat pinky, and he made it known in a glance that he expected Ser Francesco to exercise the power and will of the Medici family in this instance as certainly as he’d done in the past.
“Pope Callistus will not budge in Rome’s allegiance to Venice and the Doge,” Cosimo said. “Milan is already allied with Naples. We must secure our position alongside them. And we will not go without the painting.”
He motioned for his secretary to bring the sketch of the triptych that Fra Filippo had sent with the contract from May of 1456, securing their agreement. Cosimo spread the documents open on the dark table.
“We must get to Naples before the Sforza of Milan can advance a position against us, as I know they will try to do,” Cosimo said. “We were promised the painting in one year’s time. Now it’s almost summer’s end and Lippi’s sent us nothing more.”
No one understood better than Cosimo the power of the pen—and the paintbrush—to sway public opinion. He had secured his influence over the Republic of Florence by turning it into the greatest city since the Roman emperors walked the earth. Poetry, philosophy, science, humanism, and the arts flourished under his leadership: Brunelleschi had completed the glorious dome above the cathedral of Florence, while Ghiberti’s bronze doors gave the church baptistry the finest portal in the land. Michelozzo’s palaces ornamented Florence’s streets, and Ghirlandaio’s spectacular frescoes graced the walls of the Medici Palace. Both Fra Giovanni and Fra Filippo had become great artists under his patronage.
The banker truly lived by his motto—Operare non meno l’ingegno che la forza: Exercise intellect as much as force—and the wealthier he became, the more he lavished on Florence. The allegiance with Alfonso of Naples was the linchpin that would secure the Medicis’ future against the dual threat of Rome and Venice. But King Alfonso the Magnanimous was not an easy man to impress.
“Remind him that we could have had Fra Giovanni,” Cosimo said, referring to the Dominican monk whom he had paid richly to complete a famed series of frescoes at the San Marco monastery. “The saintly painter would have been very happy to have another thousand florins for this commission.”
Cosimo looked at the parchment before him, where Fra Filippo Lippi had sketched his plans for the triptych. The artist was irascible, and one always had to chase after him. But his work was filled with the brooding beauties and scruffy lads that ran the streets of Florence, and he used the perspective and style encoded in the new artistic treatises of the age to turn out works that were alive with earthly passions. For the King of Naples, Cosimo had commissioned a scene depicting the adoration of the Christ child in a manner newly conceived and filled with the progressive spirit of the age: a beautiful Madonna, kneeling in a grassy wood, gazing at her sleeping infant. This was to be a work filled with all the mysticism of the Incarnation; a triptych that showed the hand of God written in leaves and stones and streams. Only this would be a gift fit for King Alfonso.
“I’ve entrusted this to you,” the great Cosimo cautioned his emissary. “What did you accomplish three months ago in Prato when you delivered the contract? Didn’t you make it clear to him then that our honor rests on his work?”
“Of course, Your Excellency. The monk is truly grateful to be in your good graces.” Ser Francesco Cantansanti spoke with the greatest deference. “Believe me, sir, the painter hasn’t forgotten the many occasions you’ve used your influence to protect him from the ecclesiastics.”
Both men well recalled the sight of Fra Filippo, his usually generous frame thin with anguish, bowed in disgrace before the courts of the Archiepiscopal Curia in Rome the year before.
“Your will shall be done, Your Excellency,” Cantansanti vowed. “By God’s good graces I will return with evidence that the panels are well under way.”
Cosimo nodded and dismissed the emissary with a wave of his hand.
Outside the chamber, Cantansanti shook his head. He understood Cosimo’s impatience and would do his bidding with the painter. But he had to admit that he admired Fra Filippo’s talent and irrepressible spirit. His ingenuity made him one of the most sought-after artists in Florence and, like it or not, Ser Francesco had to stay on the painter’s heels.
Chapter Five
Monday of the Tenth Week After Pentecost, the Year of Our Lord 1456
Fra Filippo Lippi sat beneath the window in his bottega and studied the nearly finished Madonna and Child for Ottavio de’ Valenti. The likeness was breathtaking. He knew he should disguise the resemblance to Sister Lucrezia, but the Virgin’s expression was flawless, her features exquisite. Even her high brow, as suited a woman of great intelligence, couldn’t be altered, for this would change the face that illuminated all the Virgin knew, and all she understood. He needed only some madder for the Virgin’s lips and the jewels on her crown, perhaps the smallest bit of lapis lazuli to enhance the blue of her eyes. In all else, this Madonna was perfect.
Hanging his worn leather pouch from his corded belt, Fra Filippo set out for the convent. Heading toward Via Santa Margherita, he passed an old prostitute who lived with her twisted arm in a sling, shunned now by all but the meanest men. As the friar said a silent prayer for the aged peddler of sin, he wondered at the fates that led some women to God, and others to Satan.
I’ve seen this in my father’s garden,” Lucrezia said to Sister Pureza, holding soft dill needles in the flat of her hand. “And this,” she said, fingering the sharp rosemary spikes. “This I know from Beatrice’s bread.”
Lucrezia held a sprig of rosemary to her nose. The air was filled with the scent of crushed herbs. The heat had broken, and it was very soothing to be in the garden.
“Rosemary is used in the infirmary as well as in the kitchen.” Sister Pureza bent slowly and snapped a sprig from the healthy bush. “It clears the head of all weakness and aches, and may be rubbed vigorously on the hands and feet to chase away pain. But married women must always take care, for too much of it can rid the womb of its blessed contents.”
As the old woman examined the herb bush, Lucrezia studied her with quiet envy. In her time at the convent, Lucrezia’s bleeding had not come as expected, and she wondered, not for the first time, if the Virgin in her wisdom had chosen to spare her from the monthly curse so that she might sooner become a placid older woman, like Sister Pureza.
Except during prayer and mealtime, or when someone needed her attention in the infirmary, Sister Pureza could always be found in the herb garden, tending the plants that served the body, the spirit, and the mind. Always, as now, she appeared to be fully absorbed in her task.
“Many herbs have more than one use,” Sister Pureza said. “It’s our duty to find the purpose God intends for each plant, in each instance, and then serve His will.”
The garden was nearing the full bloom of late summer. The quince trees were heavy with young fruit, and the lavender spikes were just breaking into purple blossom. The stone birdbath was filled with small sparrows, sunflowers poked merry faces over the garden wall, and colorful hummingbirds hovered in the air collecting the last of the hollyhock nectar. There was a city of more than four thousand souls beyond the convent gates, but here they enjoyed the quiet solitude of a country garden, and the fragrant air took Lucrezia back to the carefree summers she’d spent at the family’s small farmhouse above the hills of Lucca. Her life then had been filled with simple joys: planting pole beans and red peppers, packing fresh fruit preserves in terra-cotta jars, and climbing in the small vigneto with its clusters of deep purple grapes.
“Buckthorn is used primarily by the artisans, to obtain a d
eep green,” Sister Pureza said as she showed Lucrezia how to take each branch gently in hand and find the place where it was nubbed. She trimmed carefully, shaping the unruly bush into a plump mound. Then she gave Lucrezia another set of iron shears, and the two worked side by side until Sister Simona appeared at the garden hedge, pale and silent in the bright sun.
“I’ll attend to our Sister Simona, while you keep at your work,” Sister Pureza said.
Lucrezia looked on as Sister Simona raised her arm to show a pustule of lumps on her skin.
“You aren’t fevered,” the old nun said to the thin one, putting a hand to her brow. “Perhaps it’s something in the lye or ash from the washroom. I’m sure I have a poultice that will soothe this.”
She ushered Sister Simona into the cool infirmary, leaving Lucrezia alone in the garden.
The friar swung open the low gate of the herb garden, and the back of a nun’s black robe caught his eye. Only when he saw the delicate hand pruning the boxwood leaves did he realize it was Lucrezia.
She turned at the sound of the latch.
“Benedicte, Sister Lucrezia. Do I disturb you on this fine morning?”
Although she’d been working for hours, Lucrezia looked as fresh as dawn as she knelt beside the bush. Beside her was a basket filled with leaves.
“Buongiorno, Brother Filippo, and God’s grace to you.” Lucrezia ducked her head respectfully, and stood. Even at a distance, she could feel the energy that radiated from him. “I’m afraid Sister Pureza is tending an ailment.”
“Who is ill?”
“It’s nothing serious, only a rash on Sister Simona’s skin. Would you like to wait?”
Lucrezia glanced toward the bench along the garden wall.
“I’m sure I can locate what I need,” Fra Filippo said. He was a bold man but found himself subdued in the presence of this young woman. “And I’ll have to ask Sister Pureza for what I need from the apothecary, for she’s very jealous of her careful storage system.”
Lucrezia looked up at Fra Filippo, avoiding his face but eyeing his white robe and the leather pouch that resembled the one her father’s master dyer had carried. She remembered the delight his Coronation had offered her that first morning at the convent, and cringed at the intimacy of her tearful confession only days ago. Already the monk knew much about her, and she felt an urge to hurry him out of the garden.
“Maybe I can help you, Fratello,” she said softly. “What have you come for this morning?”
Fra Filippo paused and smiled. Yes, he believed his painting caught the likeness of the novitiate very well. He looked quickly at her eyes, pleased to note they were as he’d remembered, with many shades of blue and even a hint of green sparkling in the sunlight.
“Lavender,” he said. “And woad. I’ll need the woad today, as it takes some time to ferment.”
“Yes, it does,” Lucrezia answered, flushing brightly at the mention of the fermenting process.
Fra Filippo saw she was biting her lip.
“I think you may know something about woad, Sister Lucrezia, although I can’t imagine how or why.”
It was true. Lucrezia knew that urine was needed to ferment the woad to its fine blue hue, and remembered her father’s workers drinking their fill of beer and wine when the supply of woad arrived each year. She’d been told that the alcohol they expelled with their frothy golden urine provided just the right bath in which to soak the woad so it released its deep blue dye.
“My father,” Lucrezia said uneasily. “He used woad to dye the blue silks in his shop.”
Of course Fra Filippo remembered that Lucrezia’s father had been a silk merchant. In fact, he remembered everything about Sister Lucrezia.
“Ah, yes,” said Fra Filippo. “And are you familiar with other herbs, as well?”
“Yes, Fratello.” Lucrezia nodded. “My father taught me what he could about dyes. He knew a great deal.”
“Yellow,” he said, curious to learn what else she knew. “I also need something for yellow.”
“Back home we used saffron.” The reply came to Lucrezia easily, for her father often had tested her knowledge in a game that went much like this one. “But I know it’s very costly. The weld will yield a good yellow, too. I can gather some for you. Or better still,” she said quickly, for in spite of herself, she was pleased to be showing off her knowledge. “Some margherita.”
Both turned their eyes to the rich clusters of golden margherita that grew in the southern corner of the garden, and their gazes met. Margherita. Santa Margherita. Although he’d never seen it, Fra Filippo was suddenly sure that Lucrezia’s hair was the exact color of margherita.
“Dandelion is abundant in the meadow, and if you soak it for as long as you can the magenta will be almost as deep as your cinabrese,” Lucrezia said. Her discomfort faded, and words spilled off her tongue almost as easily as they had at home as she pointed to various leaves and plants.
Listening to her lovely voice, Fra Filippo was struck with a desire to fold back her wimple and then to paint her exactly as she was at this moment, a beautiful virgin in a garden clausura.
“Boxwood makes a fine green, Fratello, and we’ve been trimming it just today. Perhaps you’d like to take some of the leaves?” Lucrezia looked up and saw that the monk’s attention had wandered. “But I’ve gone on too long, Brother Filippo, forgive me, I was carried away with myself. Let me get you what you came for.” She bent clumsily to reach for a branch of lavender.
“No,” Fra Filippo said a bit too quickly. “Per piacere. Go on. Your learning is impressive.”
“Truly?” She responded earnestly. “I remember what you told me, Fratello, that the world is a speculum majus, a mirror of the Lord’s kingdom. It eases me to think of this when I work, and when I pray I remind myself that everything is a mirror of God’s miracles.”
Lucrezia opened her palms in a small gesture meant to include the garden, the sky, the chaste berry, and even the heavy shears she’d been using to prune the bushes. For the first time since their meeting, Lucrezia smiled a real smile and met Fra Filippo’s blue eyes.
“Fra Filippo.” She spoke his name too quietly for the painter to hear. Then, adding volume to her voice, she said, “I’m very honored to help you in my humble way.”
Fra Filippo saw her smile in relief and in shadow, and was imagining how he would capture it when the bell began to ring, calling the nuns to prayers.
“Already!” he cried, looking up at the sun’s position in the sky and turning away. “I’ll have to return after the prayers. I haven’t yet gathered any supplies.”
As he rushed from the garden, Sister Pureza emerged from the infirmary and stood beside Lucrezia.
“Fra Filippo must have a great many needs today,” the nun said quietly.
“Yes, he was waiting for you.” Lucrezia resisted the urge to glance at her face. “He said you guard the herbs carefully.”
“Indeed.” The older nun turned her eyes upon Lucrezia, and the young woman saw they were veiled. “I guard this garden and everything in it with great care. A gardener must be sure her plantings are not trampled or harmed by a careless hand.”
The bell was still pealing. Sister Pureza took the shears from Lucrezia, and placed them carefully in the basket of boxwood trimmings.
“Andiamo,” the old woman said, turning to lead the way out of the garden. “It’s time.”
Chapter Six
Tuesday of the Tenth Week After Pentecost, the Year of Our Lord 1456
A glance at the fine steed tied just beyond his window confirmed Fra Filippo’s fears: Ser Francesco Cantansanti had arrived.
Casting a hurried glance around his workshop, the painter considered making some order of the chaos. But the emissary had come to see his progress on the altarpiece for King Alfonso of Naples, and no empty showing of methodical workmanship would make up for his procrastination now.
“Ser Francesco.” Fra Filippo flung open his door and greeted the emissary with a smil
e. “You’ve come for the festa!”
“Brother Lippi.” Cantansanti nodded. He cut an elegant figure in his farsetto and the bright calze, silk stockings. “Buongiorno.”
Unlatching his cape, Ser Francesco stepped into the bottega. He smiled slightly, remembering the year the great Cosimo had ordered Fra Filippo locked into his country workshop so he would finish a commission instead of roaming the streets at the devil’s hour in search of prostitutes.
“The altarpiece?” he asked Fra Filippo without delay. “What is your progress? Cosimo wishes to set a date for Naples.”
“Yes, yes, there’s plenty of time to discuss these matters. First, my friend, can we share a glass of wine?”
The monk held out his jug, but the emissary shook his head. Fra Filippo took a swig and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
“Well, what of it?” Cantansanti looked around the cluttered workshop. “They’re awaiting news of your progress in Florence. Where is it?”
There was no use stalling. Fra Filippo knew from the past that gamesmanship would only anger the emissary.
“It’s not quite ready to be seen.”
“Not quite ready?” Cantansanti raised his voice. “Why not? Do you think the Medici will wait forever?”
“The wings have been started.” To his own surprise, Fra Filippo sounded calm. He could see Ser Francesco scanning the room, looking for signs of the altarpiece. “Please, let me show them to you.”
The painter pulled the draped linens off two rectangular panels, each half as high as a man.
“Look,” he said. “I’ve done as Giovanni and Cosimo instructed. Saint Michael’s golden hair and silver armor shine like a Greek warrior’s.”
“Bella.” The emissary pursed his lips as he studied the carefully executed painting of Saint Michael, and the portrait of kindly Saint Anthony Abbot. “Molto bene. And the Blessed Mother? Surely you’ve transferred the sketch onto poplar by now?”
The Miracles of Prato Page 5
