by Lisa Rochon
The Sangallos were already wrapping the David in protective blankets, binding the wool covers together with rope, building a massive wooden crate around the sculpture, as if forcing the giant into prison.
So much conspired against the safe arrival of his sculpture, its elephantine weight supported by bone-thin ankles. Michelangelo joined the entourage as the first men inched the wagon along, sucking in his breath with every surge of the team, and with the horrible rocking of the David.
By midnight, the colossus loomed above the street, his eyes the height of the second-story rooms of the Convent of Santa Caterina. A crowd was forming around the conveyance, more and more people appearing from side streets, candles held aloft, to join the procession. Michelangelo shrank back into the inky shadows, preferring to bear witness. The candles grew to a blur of flames, a river of fire running above the streets.
He saw Agnella coming out of the convent, palms pressed together in a blessing. He nodded to her. The men groaned under the weight of the ropes, the smell of their sweat mixed with the perfume of the lilac blossoms wafting heavily in the gentle May air. He and Agnella walked slowly together, not speaking, the cocks calling, the street dogs skittish, setting to barking.
The conveyance was ordered to halt, and the men readied to turn a corner. They were near the back-lane studios where Michelangelo had first modeled his boy hero in clay. Skins of fortifying wine were passed to the men by the gathering crowd.
Agnella reached for Michelangelo’s hand and pressed it into her own. “I remember when your father brought you to my house.”
“Full of airs and ridiculous pomp, I imagine.”
“Of course. He strutted into our little well-swept home, ordering his livery boy to check the cupboards for mice droppings and my own glistening hair for lice. Finally, he handed me a basket with a bawling baby inside. I wished it might have been different for you. Not the way I raised you—”
“Pure perfection, of course,” teased Michelangelo, glad to be walking with Agnella through the night.
“Only that I wished your father could have seen you for who you truly are.”
“Incapable, I’m afraid.”
“Well, now, all of this is for you,” she said. She pulled the hood of her cape up and over her head, her eyes deepening to midnight blue. “Let go of all your torments and be glad for this.” Pride flooded her face. She also looked assured, as if she believed now the governor would surely see his worth and offer him protection. She spelled it out for him: “All of these people have come to pay homage to you and what you have created, your glorious David.”
“If you say so,” he said, sounding unsure, clasping his hands together to hide their trembling. “It needs to arrive without crashing.”
“I’m praying for its safe passage.”
He was still sickened by the sight of the copper leaves defacing his sculpture. But there was nothing he could do about it, except to pray for strength.
They shuffled along with the procession, listening to the low murmur of the crowd, the occasional squeal and laughter from a child allowed to stay up late to witness the parade.
“I am staying full-time at the convent these days,” Agnella told him. “Many women need my healing—”
“Where is Beatrice?”
“Back in Settignano, replenishing supplies. Her clients demand more and more of her products. It’s hard to keep up! You’ll see her soon.” She squeezed Michelangelo’s hand and smiled. He saw in her expression that she dreamed of more for him and Beatrice, more than he could possibly give her.
She turned to walk briskly back to the convent. He walked on, alone with the crowd. Moving at the pace of a caterpillar with the rest of the entourage, he found himself tingling with life even as he was lulled back in time.
* * *
He had been out late with Granacci, running through pounding rain and stopping to catch their breath at the San Marco monastery. Savonarola had presided over it at the time, and Michelangelo felt comfortable seeking temporary refuge. He also felt malinconia, had wanted to be alone and stay the night within the hallowed halls. Granacci, starving, wanted to push through the rain to his room near Ghirlandaio’s studio, a few blocks away. “All right, with your blessing, I’ll go,” he said, shaking his head at Michelangelo before he ran back out into the pouring rain.
There was a stone bench in the San Marco foyer, cool to the touch, and Michelangelo had lain down on it and fallen asleep with the kind of delicious abandon that adults long for but seldom achieve. He was never sure what woke him from that deepest of slumbers, what betrayed the still, sweet black of the night: a softening of twilight, the chill of the damp shirt still tied around his neck, or the voice that sang in curves and figure eights and climbed vertically, taking Michelangelo’s heart with it, even before he opened his eyes:
Broken and thrown to the wind is all hope.
I have seen Heaven turn me to weeping.
Behind this voice were others, a chorus of men; Michelangelo could hear that now, though he had no idea why or how so many people had entered his family home. That was when he startled; his eyes open, he sat up.
The voice belonged to a young Dominican carrying a trowel, the better to dig up new soil and encourage the rosemary growing in the herb garden of the San Marco courtyard. “The bells toll five,” he said. His cheeks were flushed with an unbroken night’s sleep, and he was wearing the black cloak with white cotton rope tied around the waist that all Dominicans wore. His hood was down.
Michelangelo studied the double knot of the rope and looked at the young man with the beautiful voice.
“Morning prayer,” the novice added, nodding toward the courtyard and the chapel beyond. “Forty-three men, singing together.”
Looking past the arcaded hall, Michelangelo imagined the men, half-awake, half-aroused, torn from the blanketed secrets of their beds, singing in grudging unison. They sang together to repress the desires of the flesh, to eradicate the memory of being spurned by the daughters of their neighbors, to give themselves over to poverty, humility, chastity—and God. He knew their stone rooms were designed as cells of contemplation. In every room at San Marco, an arched window overlooked the cloister and a large courtyard of greenery, with a stone kneeler for sustained prayer. Every cell was an essay of minimalism, but for a luminous artwork by their Dominican brother Fra Angelico to inspire their enlightenment.
The monks sang a low, melodic line with the solemnity of an army beaten and retreating. The storm of their music built the space between dawn and sunrise. Not even the cocks crowed. I should leave, thought Michelangelo. But he seemed unable to move.
That voice—that voice rose again in song, finding tenor notes that Michelangelo never knew existed, inventing pure joy against the bleakness of the men’s chorus. It was like freeing a man from a stone block and watching him dance away. Directly before him, the novice sang, in Latin, eyes closed, voice reaching and soaring, while, in the chapel across the courtyard, the men sang a somber prayer:
I was wounded,
but in my sorrow I called upon Thee.
O Lord did I hope
The song ended. The young man drew his cappuccio around his blushing face; his green eyes were heavily framed by black lashes.
Michelangelo felt larger than his sixteen-year-old body. He stood and bowed to the singer. It didn’t matter that he was half-naked. “I’ve never heard anything like that before,” he said.
“It’s new. I’m hoping you didn’t mind the liberties I took . . .” He made large curving gestures with his hand and laughed. His eyes shone. The room, stone-vaulted, shadowy, allowed only the outline of his mouth and the whites of his teeth. “Josquin Desprez. A composer from France,” he added, motioning to the other side of the monastery. “My home country. And an admirer of our great leader, Savonarola.”
I want to kiss him, Michelangelo thought. Instead, barely moving his lips, he said, “He inspires us all in his devotion.”
“He so loves
the poor, and so hates corruption,” agreed the monk.
Michelangelo remembered feeling all-powerful then, as if the moment was his to own, and he stepped forward and kissed the monk fully on the mouth. He clung to the white habit inside the black cloak, felt the man’s hands pressing against his own bare back. In a few scant moments, Michelangelo learned everything about him: the smell of the earth on his linen cloak, the heat of the soaring notes on his tongue. Then the moment of crossing from ordinary to extraordinary was over. Wanting more, Michelangelo explored hungrily with his tongue until finally the novice pushed him away. He drew his black cappuccio down low over his head and heaved the oak door open, stepping into the gloaming of the garden.
Michelangelo never saw him again—though he never looked for him, either.
* * *
Emerging from his memory, Michelangelo heard the low murmur of the crowd pressing around him, the laborers hauling David grunting in unison as they heaved against the braided ropes. Progress was slow.
Seeing the David actually in motion held particular power for some of the crowd, and men and women fell to their knees, pressing their foreheads to the ground as if God had come down to their cobbled streets.
The night was edging toward dawn, its blackened husk peeling away for the fruit of sunrise, and the great sculpture continued moving forward, bound and tethered on its conveyance, pulled by a shift of fresh laborers. It moved for days through the city, and always David was blessed by a river of candles, staying upright on a prayer, caressed by a flickering glow.
Chapter 35
The Piazza Santo Spirito had been transformed into a midsummer festival of color honoring the Feast of Saint John. Banners made from strips of wool hung down all four stories of the stone buildings. Let the rest of Florence be draped in silk, huffed the wives of the dyers who had stitched the thick flags; all the florins in the world could not convince them to trade their woolen standards for a vulgar show of silk.
Iron cauldrons of hot vegetable soup stood at the ready, along with loaves of bread stuffed with chestnuts and honey. A pig with an apple in its mouth roasted over a fire nearby. Prior Bichiellini stepped next to Beatrice and jabbed his knife into the beast. “Cooked through,” he said. “Your thoughts, Beatrice?”
She bent forward and inspected the juices running clear. “Ready to serve, Prior.”
A dozen children running through the sweet-smelling smoke came to an immediate halt. “Time to eat!” they shouted, clapping their hands. “Mangiamo!”
More than a hundred people rushed toward the feasting tables. They took their faith seriously and attended Mass to pray on their knees almost every day of the week. But the Feast of Saint John celebrated the miracle of bounty. No tickets, no requirement for penance or prayer.
“Women and children, step up!” called Michelangelo. It was the third year that he and the prior had organized this community event for Santo Spirito, and this time they had arranged to roast a prize pig selected from Settignano. The prior and his monks had made dozens of cheese tarts sprinkled with herbs, saffron and ginger. Naturally, there was an abundance of wine and mead.
Michelangelo handed a plate of giblets to Giovanna and Lucia, the sisters who were once beggars. Now they studied Latin and embroidery at the Ripoli convent. “Take this plate to the prior and make sure he eats. He needs to fatten his belly like Pope Julius!”
Picking up an empty platter, he turned to the roasting pit, elated by the chaos and joy swirling all around him. He smiled at Beatrice and she nodded back at him. Maybe tomorrow the wolves would circle. But at the moment, all seemed right in the world.
“Michelangelo, you’ve become a holy man.”
He turned to face Leonardo da Vinci, who stood before him, lavishly clothed in a purple silk cape and a rose-pink cap. His pretty boy stood next to him. “Delicious,” said Salaì, stuffing his mouth with strips of roasted pig.
Michelangelo felt his back stiffen. Here was the man who had insulted him in public and demanded that his David be covered up. The Feast of Saint John belonged to Santo Spirito, to the people of Oltrarno, where the wool laborers had toiled for two hundred years—not to Leonardo. He watched as the old man surveyed the crowd, his rich cape rustling in the wind. What business did he have here?
“Leonardo da Vinci, welcome to Santo Spirito!” The prior stepped forward and grasped Leonardo’s hands with both of his. Beatrice moved next to Leonardo and offered him a bowl of soup.
“The pleasure is mine. Your festival would make any member of the priory green with envy,” said Leonardo lightly. He smiled at the colorful humanity in the piazza, the beautiful, hand-crafted banners, and gulped back half of the soup. “It feels like a village,” he said, looking at Beatrice, acknowledging her with a bow. “Something all cities need to cultivate more often.”
Michelangelo scoffed and turned back to tend the fire.
“You must be pleased with yourself,” said Leonardo, leaning in to Michelangelo the moment the prior excused himself. “Winning so many commissions you can now afford to feed the poor? Does Soderini provide you with meat from his private butcher?”
“I’m surprised you troubled yourself with a trip across the river. Why leave your patrons and dukes of indulgence to dine with the unwashed?” Michelangelo grabbed the poker and stabbed angrily at the fire.
“Your ego knows no bounds. Your David takes up prime real estate—”
“You insisted on slapping a diaper on my shepherd boy. For a court artist, you have no class, except among swine.” He pointed the poker at Leonardo.
“You want to own every corner of this city,” said Leonardo, suddenly grinning. He appeared friendly to the crowd, but those close by no doubt heard the venom: “A dog pissing to mark his territory.”
“That’s enough,” Beatrice said, moving to stand between him and Leonardo. “Stop this now. You sound like two little boys arguing over a lost ball. This city has work enough for you both. Though I can’t say there’s room enough for your big fat heads. You may be exceptional artists, but you are lousy men. Once I admired you both.” She yanked the poker from Michelangelo and threw it onto the fire, sending ashes into the air.
The prior returned from the grill. He looked at Leonardo and then at Michelangelo, clearly sensing the simmering hostility. “Even if we are on the rotten side of the river,” he said to Leonardo, changing the subject, “our library has more books than I’ll ever read in my lifetime. It is yours to explore at any time.”
Leonardo bowed graciously to the prior as a knot of children gathered around Michelangelo and pulled him forward, begging him to watch the juggling entertainments in the piazza. He was glad for the excuse to step away from Leonardo. Somebody threw him a lemon, then another and another. Soon enough, he was juggling while jesters threw burning torches high into the air and caught them effortlessly in their bare hands.
Trumpets blared. A carriage pulled by a pair of horses was crossing Piazza Santo Spirito at a trot. Everybody knew by the sound of the trumpets and the high polish of its leather and iron exterior that the cart belonged to Governor Soderini. Little boys squirmed free of their mothers to get a better view. The governor stepped from the carriage and Machiavelli appeared by his side, wearing high leather boots.
“Brother,” said Soderini, grasping Michelangelo’s hands in his own. “I am very glad to find you here.” He seemed unusually effusive. Michelangelo wondered if it was because he’d consumed too much wine.
Machiavelli was now strutting around the plaza, addressing the people. “It gives us great pleasure to find ourselves in the community of Santo Spirito, among its industrious people.” The crowd applauded loudly. He pointed to Leonardo and doffed his cap, then bowed low. “Master of the Arts, Leonardo da Vinci.” Polite applause as the crowd looked with interest at the man with the mane of white hair and richly endowed clothes.
“Maestro da Vinci has been commissioned to paint a fresco of the Battle of Anghiari inside the Great Council Hall at the Palazzo
Vecchio,” said Soderini to the crowd that had gathered around him. “But Florence is a city of many riches, which is why we have come here, to your celebration: to invite a man you know and admire, a man who has earned your affection”—he stepped next to Michelangelo—“to apply his great talents to our beloved city hall as well!”
There was a burst of thunderous applause and shouting.
Michelangelo was still holding three lemons. He handed them to a man standing nearby and straightened his vest. He turned to Soderini for clarification. “Gonfalonier?” he said, eyes questioning.
Soderini looked meaningfully at the crowd. “Michelangelo has given you the David, a monumental hero for you, the people, standing proud in front of our great Palazzo Vecchio.” The crowd shouted its delight for several minutes. “He gave the Pietà to the pope, and all Romans.” More cheering. Soderini stepped in close, placing a hand on Michelangelo’s head as if blessing him. “Now our beloved son will paint another great Florentine triumph.” The crowd went wild with applause and wolf whistles.
Machiavelli stepped in front of the governor and waved both hands for silence. “Our city will see the battle of two geniuses!”
“Michelangelo,” Soderini said, finally turning to face him. “You are officially commissioned to paint the east wall next to your elder, Leonardo da Vinci.”
The crowd roared and threw chestnuts in the air. Michelangelo looked at his boots and up to the sky. He felt unable to move.
Beatrice stepped to his side and hissed in his ear: “It’s an honor. Are you daft? Show your thanks.” Hand on his back, she pushed him forward.
Michelangelo looked over at Leonardo, whose chin was lifted defiantly even as his eyes shone. He seemed to be enjoying the moment. Their rivalry and public squabbles had come to something real: a competition between the young upstart and the old master to see who might prove to be superior. They were officially pitted against each other.
Overwhelmed, fearful, Michelangelo knelt at the governor’s feet, pressed his hands in prayer and wept. The competition was on.
