by Lisa Rochon
“Were you born so rich?” she said, her voice low, stepping to the bed. The woman’s face had gone pale. Maybe death would claim her, as well as the child. She felt a flare of anger rise up in her, that the world was ugly and unjust.
At that moment, Agnella appeared. She shot Beatrice a warning glance, moving efficiently to check the pulse of the silk merchant’s wife. “Beatrice,” she said. “Did you purchase fruit for Madonna Lisa?”
Beatrice took out a fig and twirled it between her fingers. Agnella nodded and sat down on the bed, her eyes shadowed with sadness.
“What happened?” asked Beatrice.
“Piera’s cough is bad. Even clapping my hands on her back to encourage the phlegm to clear was useless.”
Beatrice reached out and gripped Agnella’s hands. They were not given to displays of affection and had not touched each other since she had clung to Agnella after the killing of the cock. But now she held the healer’s warm hands in her own.
Agnella’s voice was laced with doubt. “There is not much more I can do, except for some cooling cloths for Piera. She’s burning up with fever.” Agnella looked at Lisa. “Try your best to keep her calm.”
“How?”
“Be inventive,” she said. “Remember to concentrate. You can’t run after two hares at the same time.”
Kneeling there, alone with Madonna Lisa, Beatrice looked up and discovered a fresco of dancing angels painted in light, frothy colors, as if Heaven were something sweet to eat. In each of the high corners of the room were sculptures of cupids. Compared to her own human versions of putti, they looked overly fleshy, with bodies fattened on goose fat, ill equipped for flight.
From outside the room, she could hear music approaching. It was one of the ways Florence mesmerized her—the range of instruments that musicians would play in the streets, producing sounds lush and beckoning, far beyond the thin, reedy sounds made by the penny whistlers in Settignano. In one leap, she was at the window to listen. The shawm—how wonderfully delicate its sound was! She preferred it to the loud fifes and drums played at carnivals as sing-along catches. The latch on the window was easy to release, and so Beatrice found herself suddenly bathed in the brilliant light of the day and the spritely melodies played on three shawms. She leaned out the window to see the musicians. They were wearing red velvet hats adorned with crests of the Florentine lion, and they beckoned to her with their woodwind instruments. Without willing it, she was suddenly dancing lightly on her feet, her hands raised delicately by her head. By the time she had finished dancing through three more songs, sweat had pooled on her lips and between her breasts. A breeze floated in from outside, refreshing the morbid room.
“You came here to dance in my room?”
Beatrice turned to face the woman, whose eyes were now open. “Madonna, I am sorry. I did not intend to wake you,” she said, quickly closing the window shutters.
“No,” came the order. “Leave them open so that I may see it is not always night. Come here, girl. Tell me your name.” Lisa spoke in whispered, halting tones, as if testing the timbre of her voice.
“I am Beatrice.”
“The object of Dante’s love.” The patient looked steadily at Beatrice, challenging her.
Beatrice dropped to her knees and leaned in closer to the woman in the bed. “Can you believe that Dante waited nine years before daring to speak to her?” she said, delighted to engage. Her mother and father had told her of the love story many times.
“The fool. Wasting time, the life they could have enjoyed together.” Lisa picked up Beatrice’s hands and pressed them against her nose. “You smell like my perfume.”
“What do you call it?”
“Frankincense mixed with myrrh and lavender.”
“It’s beautiful.”
“You’re a girl born to be carefree. It’s beautiful on you.”
“Is anyone truly carefree? I think not,” said Beatrice, eyeing the pillow, the lace that her mother might have made with her tombolo spools not so long ago. She remembered her station, Agnella’s instruction. “I brought you fruit. May I cut you some slices?” She pulled a fig from her leather bag and peeled back the skin with her knife. Realizing that Lisa was unable to feed herself, she cut a small piece and pushed it gently between her lips. Lisa chewed and considered. “It tastes good enough,” she said at last. “Fresher than most. Which market did you find it at?”
“Oh, it’s not purchased. The best figs come straight from the trees of your neighbors.”
Lisa looked at her quizzically and said nothing.
“Shall I rub your feet?” Beatrice asked awkwardly, anxious to fill the silence. She set to doing so, massaging the insteps with her thumbs as her mother had taught her years ago. “I find it relaxes. By the way, you have a nice face. Naturally handsome.” She was happy to talk, even if her tongue might run away from her. “My mother would say: ‘You are blessed with all of the female perfections. Three long: hair, hands and legs. Three short: teeth, ears and breasts. Three red: cheeks, lips and nipples.’” She tugged some of the coverlet into her hand, making a ball with the fine silk. “She liked to tease me,” she said, eyes cast down. “I miss that.”
Lisa turned her head slightly, a flick of concern showing in her eyes.
“If I had a gold florin in my pocket, I’d buy myself boots,” muttered Beatrice, “or that flying machine Leonardo wants to create.”
Lisa looked up to the ceiling and pressed her hands against the silk sheets, smoothing them below her neck.
“I am looking for my mother,” added Beatrice. “Maybe you have seen her? Auburn hair, long neck, simple dress. She might have sought work here?”
Lisa shook her head slowly.
“Have a slice for each of your toes,” encouraged Beatrice, cutting another fig wedge. Lisa rolled her eyes and accepted the food. “The best thing when you’re hungry is to crack an egg on your head and let the liquid slide down your throat. I do that whenever I steal an egg. I mean, borrow an egg from a hen. The bird looks at me, I thank her for the egg and pay her back by feeding her a bit of the shell. City people do not know this—that way, she can make another egg.”
Lisa offered a tentative smile. A flush of rose was beginning to brighten her cheeks.
“Va bene. That is fine,” said Beatrice. “I can tell from your eyes, and your feet.”
Lisa nodded and looked directly at her. “Tell Agnella to bring Piera to me. And all of my children.” The clarity of her voice surprised Beatrice. “They need their mother. Piera is not yet dead, and neither am I.”
Beatrice grasped Lisa’s hands and squeezed them tight. “With pleasure. I’ll go straightaway.”
“And Beatrice, let us not waste time as Dante did,” said Lisa. “In the armoire.” She motioned with her chin. “Go ahead. Try on my boots. Most of them have never been worn. Find a pair that pleases you.”
Chapter 17
By the time they left Madonna Lisa’s home, the sun was beating down mercilessly on the city. Agnella clicked her tongue and urged her donkey to manoeuvre slowly through the busy streets, finally arriving at the Duomo. Beatrice sat beside her, head held high, toes wiggling with delight inside the Madonna’s lace-up ankle boots. She wished she could brandish a pomander to ward off the evil smells of the streets, as a wealthy Florentine might. And the ride—it was a blissful thing to be pulled by a donkey rather than pulling a cart herself. She set her face to stone, giving nothing away, not even her delight at seeing Madonna Lisa blissfully surrounded by all of her children.
Agnella was still a mystery to Beatrice, less of an evil force than she had feared, more a woman of the earth guided by both intelligence and female intuition, her remedies culled from the land and proffered, Beatrice had to admit, with motherly kindness.
Besides all of her bracelets, Agnella wore three golden rings on her left hand: one from her dead husband; another, she said, for the lovers she’d had; and the third for the lovers to come. “Here,” she said, slipping one
of the bands from her finger. “It’s a pretty thing, like so much within Madonna Lisa’s palazzo. Wear it for a while.” Beatrice hesitated, cradling the ring in her palm, enjoying the weight of extravagance, before finally slipping it onto her right thumb.
They rode together in silence, past the Basilica of San Lorenzo toward the monumental Duomo, its orange tiles turned to shards of silver by the unforgiving rays of the sun. Anybody who lingered in Agnella’s path received a lick of her whip and curses strong enough to make aspens shiver. Leaving the shadows of the Duomo, Agnella guided the cart down the lane of the artists’ guild, allowing her body to move in concert with every bump in the road.
The late-afternoon heat soured Beatrice’s mood, and she turned to look at the woman sitting tall in the cart. Agnella seemed oblivious to the heat, except for beads of sweat gathering delicately at the highest planes of her cheekbones. Like jewels, Beatrice thought, scowling.
“Can I keep this for a day or two?” Beatrice hoped to wear the ring to impress Michelangelo during her next visit to his studio, to trick him into believing she was worth more than a simple village girl.
“I think not,” said Agnella, looking straight ahead and extending her hand. “But did you enjoy wearing it?” She signaled to her donkey and the cart rolled to a stop.
Beatrice set the ring back on the woman’s outstretched palm. Agnella slipped it over her knuckle and took up the reins again.
Beatrice felt the heat of the day claw its way down her neck to the small of her back. She longed for the shade of a tree, or to dive into the river, the way boys did. Something twisted in her gut. She needed to confess to Agnella.
“Wait,” she said. “You have been good to me. I don’t know why I did this.” She swept a hand inside her father’s gambeson and fished out a silk square, embroidered at each of its corners with a purple lily. She allowed Lisa’s handkerchief to drift through the air onto Agnella’s patient hand. “Madonna Lisa required a silk, and having none myself . . .”
“That is sufficient, Beatrice. One lie is enough of an annoyance.”
“But she called out in the heat!”
“Two lies smell like meat boiled twice. Besides that, you dishonor your chance to be a woman of virtue. Daughters, wives, mothers, sisters—we hold up half the sky.”
Beatrice gripped her knees below her skirts and tried to stop the overcrowded thoughts populating her head. It seemed her ability to be good and virtuous was swirling in tight, treacherous circles, caught in a river’s eddy, threatening to rush away. Then she felt clarity again.
“Please, can we ride to the Duomo and Piazza della Santissima Annunziata to look for my mamma?”
Agnella narrowed her eyes.
“I know: it’ll be dark by the time we start for the hills, and it’s dangerous,” said Beatrice, resigned to going home.
Agnella softened her grip on the reins and walked the wagon past dozens of tiny shops, set cheek-by-jowl, that sold plush crimson velvet and squares of gold leaf to those able to pay with florins. She watched as Beatrice feasted her eyes on imported berets that shone with tightly woven silk, while strings of silk flowers swayed high in the breeze. The privileged girls would expect the sarti tailors to sew the flowers on their head garlands. “Silk is the future of the city,” she said. “More and more women will become artists, weaving exquisite gold and silver threads into baudekin brocade and sendal silk.” She gestured to the festival of color and craft, inhaling the smells of freshly pressed cheese and bouquets of lavender. “The city is a great creation, and the artists never become wealthy.”
“None of this matters to me,” said Beatrice impatiently, jabbing a finger into Agnella’s side. “My mamma is not here.”
The bells of the Leone and the Podestà were tolling powerfully in the city to signal the end of the day. Agnella lifted her chin and inspected the thinning crowds on the street. She snapped the whip above the back of the donkey and turned the animal and the wagon down a narrow back lane. The stench of an open latrine made her lift a scarf against her nose. Looking over at Beatrice, she gave her commitment: “We’ll search until sundown, and tomorrow we’ll start again.”
Chapter 18
You’re back!” Beatrice appeared at the door of Leonardo’s studio, out of breath, as if she had run across the city to see him.
He was playing his violin, a lira de braccio, the wood of the instrument glistening in the sunlight. “Only love makes me remember,” he sang, drawing the bow over the strings, ignoring the girl. “It is the flame of my fire. Of the time we met before.”
She was no doubt familiar enough with the way musicians sang their poems while accompanying themselves on their lutes or liras da braccio. Leonardo knew he had a fine voice, deep and sonorous, but she was clearly anxious to get his attention, and it was true, the frottola song-poem could go on for a long time.
Shrugging off her father’s old quilted gambeson, Beatrice sighed loudly. “Signore?”
He lifted his bow and set the instrument down. What game might she be up to today? What lie might she tell? This abandoned girl with a look of daring etched over her face. He nodded for her to come in. She burst into the room and bounded over to his side. “I was counting the days. I was hoping you would come back to Florence. How was it with the duke, over in Romagna? Were there battles to see or were you safe in a room, making maps?”
Not waiting to hear his reply, she leapt onto fresh topics: “I told Michelangelo and Granacci and his horrid other friend that you had returned. I brought you something.” She pulled a twig of juniper from her leather pouch. He motioned to her to come closer. “This is for you. I don’t know the name.”
He held the greenery in his hand and looked closely. “In Italian, ginepro. In English, juniper. In French, genévrier.”
She looked curious, allowing herself to slow down. “Like the Ginevra you painted once?”
He nodded solemnly.
“In your portrait, you set her against a tree like this to show her with nature, a good person.” She mimicked the posture of the girl’s portrait. Also known as the filthy rich girl’s portrait, she recalled, amused. “Master da Vinci, you selected a big, powerful juniper tree!”
“To symbolize her virtue.” He was interested to know where she was going with this.
“See this?” She waved the juniper twig gently in the air. “Little people, little trees.” She pointed to the tiny spikes on the twig—miniature trunks and delicate branches, all adding up to exact replicas of a larger tree. “We are one tree, no?” She smiled at him. “You are my father, like this—” she pointed to the spine of the twig. “Michelangelo is your brother.” She extended the twig toward Leonardo. “Here. For you.” He took the twig and placed it on the table.
“Did you bring olive oil?” He feigned interest, looking longingly back at his lira de braccio sitting idle on the table.
“When I was a little girl, I had friends to play with,” she said, ignoring his question and seating herself at the table next to him. “Our stupid little games kept us busy for hours. Making homes for rabbits at the base of trees. Throwing olives at old women walking through the groves. And sometimes we were mean to each other. But nobody else could say mean things about us. That wasn’t allowed.”
Leonardo nodded and reached for one of his notebooks, full of sketches and rough ideas. He was meant to be working on his altarpiece for the Servites, panels to fill in a big, carved wooden frame. The prior had requested a Deposition of Christ from the Cross for the front and an Assumption of the Virgin at the back. This did not interest Leonardo; after hearing from Francesco Giocondo about his dying child and his wife’s refusal to accept the tragedy, he had become more interested in creating a scene about love between mothers and their children. One that would celebrate intimacy and tenderness, flesh pressing against flesh, without any formal stiffness. How good it was to return to drawing scenes of love and humanity—he had seen too much blood and suffering during his time in Romagna working as military e
ngineer for Duke Borgia.
Florentines revered Anne, the mother of Mary, so he’d decided to feature Anne prominently, providing a safe, hallowed lap on which Mary could sit while holding Jesus. The Child would be wrestling out of her arms to connect to Saint John and Heaven above. Using his chalk lightly, rubbing his finger into the darkness, he was attempting to create il concetto dell’anima—human feeling—a moment that was always evolving. Emotion is contoured, after all. It is never one straight line.
He weighed the chalk in his hand, considering. Remembering himself, and the girl standing expectantly beside him, he turned his chair toward Beatrice. “Was somebody mean to you?”
“Michelangelo talks about you all the time. He always wants to know what you’re making. I think he might be jealous of you.”
Leonardo wanted to ignore the girl’s comment, brush it away with his hand, but instead he was listening carefully. The governor had asked him to be part of a committee of distinguished Florentines. Their mission was to decide where to place the David. Michelangelo was not to be part of their discussions. He would be furious when he found out.
“I tried to tell him about all your important work,” she said, chin lifted, surveying the many drawings on the long wooden table. “Portraits and inventing war machines and wanting to fly—and working for Duke Borgia.”
“You are a sponge for details. I might have to hire you as my new assistant.”
“I’d like that very much,” she said. He saw her eyes shimmer with hope. Maybe she could come along with him to some of his meetings. He could make her part of his entourage.
“Michelangelo thinks you can’t be trusted, that you’ll steal commissions from him.” She bent over the table, a hand pressing against her stomach. “Paolo forgot to feed me,” she muttered, picking up one of Leonardo’s drawings with her free hand. On the page were small studies, each one framed deliberately with pencil. There was a baby boy reaching a hand across his body and a pair of women, Anne and Mary.
