With Isabetta at the helm, she added the small snake to the picture. It could barely be seen, hidden as it was, disguised as one of the tie-backs for the curtains on one of the three windows behind the table of men.
Viviana leaned forward and squinted at it. “I did not see it at all. Are you sure?”
Isabetta nodded. “Quite,” she affirmed without hesitating in her work.
“The snake is the symbol for the Sforzas,” Fiammetta said from Isabetta’s other side.
Isabetta’s hand hesitated then, like a single stutter, but continued on. She felt no need to mention it was the Sforzas causing so much of her troubles with the store, with their “regulations” on the selling of meat raised on their lands.
“May I?” Viviana held out a hand to Isabetta, one begging silently for the charcoal. With a few swift strokes, she embedded the smallest of daggers onto the picture, sitting untouched, almost hidden on one of the back corners of the table.
Standing back to scowl at her contribution, she handed the implement back to Isabetta.
“There was no knife in the painting, was there?”
Isabetta shook her head, as did Fiammetta on the other side of her.
Viviana cocked her head. “It is there, though. In all my sketches, I have placed it there.”
“It is your trope,” the male voice came from behind.
“My t—trope?” Viviana stumbled on the unfamiliar word.
Leonardo stood beside her. “You saw the evil in this picture, somehow you saw it. A trope is a metaphorical expression of what we want to say but cannot truly say, what we see but cannot name. For you, it is that dagger.”
“Do we leave it in?” Isabetta queried with a whisper.
“It is so small, I do not think anyone but the artist would notice it. I think it has a rightful place. It is the signature of this group upon this work,” Leonardo answered. Isabetta returned to her work, the small implement remaining.
As with any gathering, the work was not undertaken in silence. Between remarks on the work came the idle chatter of a group of friends. It began with Fiammetta’s simple remark of regret.
“I missed Calendimaggio yesterday, very much. Would it not have been good for the city to have a little gaiety?”
Viviana harrumphed, “Perhaps. But it surely would have been the height of impropriety to the deceased Giuliano and his grieving family.”
“Of course,” Fiammetta snipped, turning her back on she who dared to correct her.
“There was a…a festival of a sort,” Leonardo said, no more than a shamed mumble.
“A festival?” Mattea cocked her head to the side.
Da Vinci shrugged. “Perhaps it is the wrong word, but it was an event for certain. But first I must tell you, I spoke to Lapaccia’s houseman.”
“You did?” Viviana squawked, bright eyes darkening. “Why?”
“What did he say?” Fiammetta demanded.
Leonardo turned azure eyes toward Viviana, their outside corners drooping. “Please, madonna, do not think I mistrust or fail to believe you. I simply…well, I needed to know the situation at her home. To feel it. Capiesce?”
“I do understand, signore.” She assured him.
“He said, ‘she is not in residence.’”
“That’s it?” Isabetta grumbled.
“That’s it,” Leonardo confirmed, “but then, as I thought to make for a tavern…” Leonardo shook his head, dark clouds crossing his face, “then things truly became interesting.”
With this intriguing introduction, the artist launched into the tale of the previous day’s adventures.
“It was the most astonishing of things I have ever seen.” Dropping his long form into a chair, Leonardo took a deep draught of watered wine, not caring whether the chalice was his or not.
Isabetta took her place again as artist. She began to draw the figures themselves. Natasia, standing at her wing, began to giggle, and the loveliness of it drew them all to the work.
Without guile or timidity, though Leonardo joined the group, or perhaps because he did, Isabetta allowed her strokes to pay particular attention to the formation of the men and their most manly parts. As she turned her attention to one man, Fiammetta began to laugh.
“You do him far more justice than he deserves,” she chortled. “He has nothing near that kind of…wealth.”
The cackling was joyous.
Viviana struck an incredulous pose, her eyes gleaming. “And just how would you know how deeply his pockets fall?”
The question only ignited more laughter.
Fiammetta shrugged a shoulder with feigned though superior nonchalance, proclaiming the truth with the drama it deserved. “I saw it with my own eyes. In my own home!”
With brows so high on her forehead, they almost reached her plucked hairline, Isabetta scoffed, “You and this man?”
Everyone in the room knew who he was, who he used to be, for he was one of the first executed. Piero Felici was a diplomat of some sort, from the court of Urbino. He was very young, very thin, and very unimposing. The thought of him and Fiammetta, together, brought the most fanciful of images to mind.
“Do not be silly, Isabetta. You really must get hold of your priapic thoughts,” Fiammetta quickly disavowed them of the ridiculous notion. “I actually walked in on him, and some woman, during a ball in my home.” She shook her head and tutted, “It was so rude.”
This time the women kept their giggles contained, for Fiammetta’s sake.
“Besides,” she leaned in and squinted, “if I were to forsake my vows to Patrizio, it would be with someone with much more to offer.”
That did it, the gales returned. Isabetta began to draw again. As she gave life to another, a taller man this time, with a long, almost delicate face none recognized, she gave him the same bounty of certain parts as she had before, expecting a similar response.
“Surely not!” Viviana squawked. With only her husband as a gauge, she found such abundance difficult to accept. If it was true, if a man could be built thusly, she was doubly deprived in life.
Isabetta just smiled, but this time Leonardo answered.
Leaning in, peering over Isabetta’s shoulders, he pulled back with a slim smirk.
“Oh no, that one you most certainly can leave as it is.”
The women’s jaws dropped as if in concert. Viviana put a hand on his arm, a gesture full of her pleasure that he felt safe to speak so plainly with them. Only Isabetta failed to join in; she turned quickly away and began to sketch another man.
On this figure, she took her time, paying particular attention to all the details of his rendering. He wore a short tunic, cinched at the waist with gilded belt, and tight, multi-colored hose. His legs she sculpted with the deep lines of well-formed muscles, the torso she angled with a slim waist broadening in the chest and shoulders.
“Do you know this man?” It was Mattea who asked, Mattea who sounded skeptical.
Isabetta shook her head. “No, nor will anyone, I think. Wait for a moment.”
She continued to sketch him with fine details, but this man’s face she drew in profile. Though he stood at the back corner of the table, his body in a frontal pose, his face was turned to the side. His hair, lovely wavy locks, fell in front of his face like drawn curtains. One could see only a nicely straight nose and a strong chin, little more.
“I thought him very fine, very beautiful,” Isabetta sighed wistfully, “Such beauty is often hard to pull away from.”
Viviana frowned, knowing the yearning Isabetta felt, one seeming to stretch out like a never-ending road, one she recognized as her own.
Mattea studied the drawings but stayed at the table at the back of the room.
“Are you all right?” Isabetta called.
“We need to be very careful here.”
Mattea spun round, small nose wrinkling, lips pursed pensively.
“What do you mean?” Leonardo asked of her, though they all felt the change in the air, the chang
e in her.
“The Medici, the government, even the common men of the street, they seek this painting to identify those who were part of this crime, yes? And we do so to save Lapaccia?” She walked toward them, pointing to the sketch as if in accusation. “But what of the other men in it?”
Every glance turned to the large canvas. The faces of those drawn in were of those already denounced and dead. Those with blank features had not been drawn, and were therefore unidentified.
“We take on a serious burden here. We cannot put anyone into this painting, this irreparable and damning evidence, who hasn’t already been arrested or executed. We could be committing them to death, whether deservedly so or not.”
It was another layer of their deception to which none had given any thought. Like the others, Viviana was stunned they had not. How could they not?
Quiet suffused the room; the gurgling of the water in the small garden fountain just outside the windows grew and took precedence.
“You may be right,” Isabetta said, breaking the brittle stillness, though gently. “But I know this man. I know his embodiment as well as I know my own. Nor can we really tell who he is, though oft times I thought he looked familiar.”
“Then you see—”
“What I see is a gathering of men so enamored of their own power, beguiled by what they perceived as their own intelligence and cunning that they chose to have this painting created. They chose to do it.” Isabetta shook her head, mouth curling grotesquely. “If he is a part of this conspiracy, it is his trouble to have.”
“Please, Isabetta, wait,” Mattea tried once more. “We have to…” But her words failed her, while those of others—voices in conversation not far from their closed door—broke in.
“Who is it?” Viviana hissed, brow furrowing, eyes bulging.
“What can I do for you, Ser Ufficiale?” It was Natasia’s brother, Father Raffaello, speaking, very loudly, and to some sort of government representative.
“Lord save us all,” Natasia whispered in prayer. “What have we done?”
“Shush,” Viviana silenced her.
Isabetta went to the door, mouth set in a hard, firm line not to be denied, even when she opened the door and tiptoed out into the corridor, closing the door behind her.
Viviana thought she would vomit, such was the clenching grasp fear had upon her. From their sweaty brows and their wringing hands, she knew the others felt the same. There was no air, nor did it matter, for not a one seemed capable of breathing.
When the door cracked open once more, they did not know what to expect. Isabetta dashed any hopes with a single finger tapping hard and repeatedly against her pursed lips as she locked the door behind her.
Silently, with exaggerated mouthing, she told the others the worst of the news. “They are coming.” Her lips formed the words while her hands swirled around to all parts of the room, pointing into cupboards and under tables. The message was clear. They were coming to search.
Self-preservation banished all fear, turned it into action. Viviana ran to the table, gathering the sketches together, wincing as the parchments scratched against each other with a sound so small, any other time it wouldn’t be heard. Leonardo snatched the canvas from the easel, shoving it into Mattea’s hands.
The voices outside the door grew louder; footsteps clattered arrhythmically.
“It’s one of these keys, I am sure of it,” Father Raffaello laughed at himself.
Both hands now free, Leonardo took Mattea’s arm in one, Natasia’s in the other, fairly dragged them across the room, shoving both of them—Mattea clutching the painting—into the single large cupboard.
Fiammetta dropped her girth behind Isabetta’s plinth and threw a paint-smattered, long forgotten piece of canvas over her, one they had used to practice creating fresco dimensions.
Only Leonardo, Isabetta, and Viviana remained exposed, vulnerable.
The grating of key after key sounded in the lock.
“Give it to me,” a disgruntled male voice insisted from the other side of the door, and the jangle announced his possession of the keys.
In the space of time, Leonardo threw remnants of cloths—most used for cleaning—over one table, turning it quickly into a tent of sorts.
“Aha!” came the cry from without.
Leonardo grabbed the women, pulled them around the back of the table, and shoved them under, crowding them in as he curled his long body into a ball beside them, head and shoulders so curled, his long face hanging squelched between raised knees. Safely hidden from the front, yet if the inquisitors walked the circumference of the room, they would soon be uncovered.
The door opened with a whoosh, followed by a stamping of feet.
“As you see, signore, it is as I said, an art studiolo.” There was but the slightest quaver in the priest’s voice; only those who knew him would hear it.
“Are you allowed such an amusement, father?” this from the same voice belonging to he who had taken the keys.
“Well, there have been many famous men of the cloth who accomplished a great deal artistically, such as Fra Filippo Lippi,” Natasia’s brother laughed nervously, perfectly fitting for this conversation. “Of course he was not of my order. Perhaps, just perhaps mind you, this work of mine would be, shall we say, frowned upon. Why do you think the door was locked?”
Viviana could have cheered for the brilliance of his words, at the lengths he would go to protect them. Even as she shared small smiles with the two crouched beside her, she knew Father Raffaello would condemn himself to many days of penance for his lies.
“Surely in these times, a painting priest is of little concern?” he continued.
She heard it then. Viviana heard the sniffle and her eyes bulged. She knew it came from Natasia. Had the men heard it too?
“It is sorry I am not to have more to show you. I have no current work in progress at the moment,” Father Raffaello performed wonderfully; Viviana almost believed he was sorry.
“Very well then,” the man grumbled with disappointment. “See to your true duties, priest. The city has great need of them.”
“I will. Oh, I certainly will. This way, gentlemen.”
Even as they heard the door shut, even as they heard the key turn again in the lock, they didn’t move. No one moved. They waited.
It seemed like an hour, but was not more than a handful of minutes before the key returned to its home and the door opened.
“It is safe. Are you here? It is safe, I swear it.” The dear priest sounded close to tears.
They came out then, each from their own hiding place. Father Raffaello rushed to his sniffling sister, cradling her in the basket of his arms. The remainder of the group came together in the middle of the chamber, each asking others, all at once in a jumble of words, if everyone was all right.
“My knees are no doubt bruised from kneeling so long,” Fiammetta groused, but it was not to be the worst thing she would say. “We must let this go.”
“What? No!” Viviana’s voice was not the only one raised in protest.
“If you were missing, if you were hunted by the authorities, would you want us to stop?” Mattea asked her with more than a tincture of her previous anger.
“It is not me,” was Fiammetta’s answer, a poor one even in Viviana’s ears.
They all began to talk at once—Fiammetta for the end, Natasia wondering if she spoke true, Mattea and Isabetta antagonistic against them. Leonardo stepped away silently.
Viviana could stand it no more.
“Silence!” she commanded. “All of you. Be still. It is not just about this painting.” Viviana’s blue eyes were aflame with righteous indignation. “It is not even just about Lapaccia. It could be any one of us, at any given time. The world has gone mad and we are more blessed than all the women out there. And I for one refuse to see it riven. To have meaningful purpose should be the challenge of everyone, man or woman. There is no price, no life more worthy than another. There is no price on loy
alty.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
“Curiosity indulged, is often satisfied on a jagged edge of regret.”
As Viviana gathered the aberrant array of belongings into the large satchel, her hands quivered. To take tangible action in the search for Lapaccia filled Viviana with a sense of power, of action. The risk of it, the blatant idiocy, fired her adrenaline. Jemma entered the room, shaking out a cloak.
“Are you sure you want this?” Jemma held it out from her body, barely holding it with thumb and forefinger, nose crinkled on her face turned as far from the garment as possible.
“Yes, I am quite sure,” she replied, folding it into the satchel. “We are ready.”
As the two women made for the door, Viviana repeated a litany of instructions, a prayer recited many times over the last few days.
“You will stay at Signora Fioravanti’s home until we return. You will not ask, not now, not ever, where we go. Only, only, if we do not return by morning will you find my husband and alert him to our lack of reappearance. Understood?”
Jemma gave her a frown and a narrow-eyed stare, disapproval and concern conjoined.
Viviana stopped at her front door, and took the young woman’s arm. “Understood?”
Jemma nodded, whispered, “Understood,” and opened the door.
• • •
“I thought perhaps you may not be able to get away from Orfeo.” Isabetta whooshed her door open, heaving with relief, greeting her guests with quick curtseys, and shutting the door.
“He left once more for the Signoria this morning,” Viviana replied, “I do not expect him for at least a day or two. It has become his way.”
Isabetta frowned. “It is a long time to leave his wife in these days.”
“Yes, well, he considers his attendance there a necessity.” This time Viviana’s bitterness blared like a trumpet. She heard it herself and rushed to disguise it. “Your home looks lovely, Isabetta, but so dark. I did not expect you to be so fearful, to live with your shutters closed.”
Portrait of a Conspiracy Page 15
