Da Vinci's Tiger (17 page)

A
WEEK LATER,
S
ANCHA
'
S INFORMANTS TOLD
HER
L
EONARDO
would be released that afternoon. She and I walked to Verrocchio's studio so I could share Luigi's warning of future spying on him. Once we reached its courtyard entrance, I sent Sancha on to the market for vegetables so that I could talk with Leonardo alone, knowing it would be an awkward conversation at best, worsened if Sancha hovered nearby. But he was not there yet.

I was startled to see the studio's bustle had not slowed in Leonardo's absence, and it bothered me that I sensed no anxiety about his situation from his fellow artists. Apprentices still darted about; the walls continued to reverberate
with pounding and chipping and shouts. Verrocchio's greeting was merry as ever. “Donna Ginevra! Have you come to see how your beauteous face is emerging from stone?”

I hadn't, but I smiled and said I could hardly wait to see his work. Following him inside, I did marvel at how much progress he had made within a fortnight. Emerging from the marble was a face, still scratched and scarred and not polished smooth, but lovely, its head tilted slightly, the hint of a smile, the hair exactly the way I wore mine. “Oh my, maestro. You have accomplished so much since last I was here.”

Verrocchio beamed. “I threw myself into your portrait, my lady. Sometimes when I see a figure emerging under my hand, I cannot stop. I work night and day with the urgency of creating.”

He went on, as if speaking to himself. “Work has always been to me what a good sermon is to the faithful. It is my solace, my bread. It is especially true when I am worrying about something. Something I cannot control or change.” He paused and shook his head.

Ah, so he was concerned about Leonardo. I put my hand on his arm and smiled.

He patted my hand. “You know, my dear, I cast a statue of David for the Medici. It stands in their Careggi villa. Young Leonardo was its model. Oh, what a beautiful youth he was, graceful limbs, sweet smile. He was so excited to have come to Florence and to be working in this studio. I could barely keep up with his questions.” Verrocchio paused. “Have you seen the statue?”

I shook my head. Although my relationship with Bernardo and his with the Medici had taken me to the palazzo several times over recent months, I had not been invited to that inner sanctum, the country villa where the Medici's Platonic Academy gathered to read aloud and discuss literature.

“No? A pity.” He looked back to his growing portrait of me. “I must start to tap in the flowers you held.” He trailed off. “You know my David does not hold a stone. Nor a slingshot. Try as I might, I just could not put them into that innocent David's hand, despite the biblical story. Of course, my David does grasp a small sword he used to sever the giant's head. And I laid the huge head of Goliath at his feet.”

Depicting the youth who saved his people by felling a giant with one rock from his slingshot and not including any stone in his hand was certainly unusual. “Why did you choose to do that, maestro?”

Tears welled up in Verrocchio's eyes. “When I was a youth, I accidently killed a boy with a rock. The incident has been much on my mind the past few days, with Leonardo in prison. Being in prison, even for just a few days, changes a man forever. Especially a young man.” He paused before continuing his story. “I have not been able to shake my memory of it. It was so long ago, happening in the heat of a moment. I just wasn't thinking. We were arguing, well, fighting. Young men's passions run too hot for them to control sometimes. But oh, what horrible results can come of them. The incident haunts me still. That boy died in terrible pain. I thought he would duck when I hurled that stone at
him. Well . . . perhaps I thought that.” He closed his eyes as if recalling the scene.

I had no idea what to say to such a confession. Brawls were commonplace on the streets of Florence. But I had never stood next to someone who had actually taken a life, whether intentionally or by accident. An awkward silence hung between us for several moments before Verrocchio spoke again.

“Ahhh, well. I hope you see my David someday. I would like to hear your opinion. The Magnifico was very taken with the tender youthfulness I was able to capture. But that was easy. It emanated from Leonardo as he posed. Sometimes the dialogue between an artist and his model is so complete, so intense and unfettered a connection, that the artist cannot help but fall in love with his model in some ways. And his model with the artist. We see into each other's hearts. Does that make sense?”

“Yes.”

“It is almost a sacred bond, impossible for outsiders to really comprehend or accept.” Verrocchio sighed.

“Oh, maestro, I know exactly what you speak of.”

“Then you should write a poem about it, signora. Put words to the experience so others can feel it and understand.” He pulled himself together abruptly and joked in a blustery manner, “No matter what Leonardo says of poetry being inferior, verse can explain things and inspire readers very well indeed.”

Verrocchio waved his hand in the air as if ridding himself
of a fly. “Bah, that Leonardo. What trouble he is. And that Jacopo—
pppffffff
. Certainly not worth the stain an arrest leaves on a man, or his studio. I warned Leonardo to be careful of who his friends are. But he doesn't listen to me. He hung on my every word once, but now?” Verrocchio shrugged. “It is the way of apprentices once they become adults—so full of themselves. Of course, Leonardo is especially so.” Even though he frowned as he spoke, concern and affection still laced his words.

“He is to be released today, yes?” I asked.

“Yes, yes. What is the time, my lady?” Verrocchio was suddenly energized. “He is to be released to me, since he still belongs to this studio.”

“I heard the noon bell chime on my way here.”

“I should go.” He held his arm out to escort me to the door.

“Ahhh,” I said, stalling, “my servant is not yet returned.” I wanted to see Leonardo myself. “May I wait here until she comes back? I am forbidden to walk through the streets on my own.”

“Of course, signora, of course!” He led me to a chair. “I hope to be back shortly with our Leonardo. If you are still here at that time, he can show you his portrait. It is nearly complete, just a few last strokes to be done.” Verrocchio gestured to a stand that was draped. “Not as good as my sculpture will be, of course.” He winked, his jocular humor reclaiming him. He left. Instantly, his apprentices scattered, too, for a bit of adventure during their master's absence.

All alone in the deserted studio, I stared at the covered painting. What temptation! I knew I should wait for Leonardo to unveil his work, so I forced myself to sit, my foot tapping like a drummer's baton. But I managed to remain so for only a minute, if that, before I tiptoed over to the stand. Verrocchio might be carving a marble image of me, but I was certainly not made of stone. I could not wait a second longer.

I pulled up the tarp and was peeking underneath when I heard, “How do you look,
carissima
?”

“Your Excellency!” I dropped the cloth and whirled around. “What are you doing here?”

Bernardo chuckled. “Come to speak of the commission with the maestro.” He approached and took my hand, bowed, and kissed it.

His touch always sent a shiver through me. “Master Verrocchio is not here right now,” I said nervously.

“Fortune smiles on me then.” Bernardo stepped closer so that his booted toes disappeared under my dress's hem. He drew my hand to his chest, covering his heart with it.

I looked up into his face. So close. He smelled of leather and cinnamon and jasmine mixed with musk—little of the garlic and sweat stench that tended to ring other men. His cheeks carried a few brown spots of age and sun scorching, but his skin was still drawn taut over fine, prominent bones. The wrinkles around his sea-blue eyes seemed appealing brushstrokes of experience, not age, like he had spent many journeys on the prow of a ship directing its course through
winds and waves. He was the age my father would have been if he were still alive, yet Bernardo's strength and vitality were as palpable and unnerving as a younger man's.

“Ah, that gaze of yours, La Bencina. So steady, so penetrating, so inquisitive. You look right into my soul.”

Nervous, I pulled my hand away to clasp both of mine behind my back where he could not reach them. Bernardo might call my gaze steady, but his was making me feel disrobed. “Well, I hope you feel elevated then, my lord,” I said, keeping to the Platonic concept that my role was to uplift and inspire his soul to look heavenward.

Bernardo looked surprised and then grinned. Seeing his reaction, I realized how my words could be misinterpreted. “Oh, my lord, I did not mean . . . ,” I began. But then I blushed even more because my recognizing the potentially bawdy undertone in my statement indicated I might not be so innocent after all.

I backed up. He stepped forward. I backed again. He followed. Thus, as if in a pavane dance, we circled the painting.

Bernardo laughed. “Ahh, my dear, you do amuse me. You are as skittish as an unbroken horse before being bridled and ridden.”

I gasped. Once more, I kicked myself for showing I understood the off-color wordplay. Trapped behind the painting, I took a deep breath and pulled the remaining shreds of my ladylike deportment back around me. “Shall we look at the painting, my lord?”

He hesitated a moment, still smiling, clearly regretting
my return to safe conversation. “Allow me.” He lifted the cloth away.

We both caught our breath then. Leonardo had created an image so luminous, so lifelike, it was as if the painted Ginevra could blush and smile. But what really shocked me was the tinge of sadness, the yearning, the questioning, and the defiant invitation in my eyes to return my gaze and step into my mind, my very soul.
God help me,
I thought. How would Florentines react to such a bold female image?

I dared a glance at Bernardo to see his reaction. His jaw was clenched, his eyes slightly narrowed. “You are exquisite,
carissima
.” Bernardo's voice was deep and quiet, and I could not read its emotion. “Let us see the back.” He took the portrait in both hands to carefully turn it round.

The verso was executed as we had designed—a subdued image of a laurel and palm wreath laced with a ribbon carrying the motto
Virtus et Honor
. Bernardo nodded, pleased. “I have begun identifying the manuscripts in my collection with our emblem.”

He turned the portrait back so my painted face appeared again. “Lovely. Your fine countenance will keep me company in Venice,
carissima
. I will introduce you to my fellows in that city, and they will admire you and want to hear all about you and about us. I will look at this painting nightly and talk to it as if you were standing in front of me. Having this portrait with me will make my departure a little easier.”

“You are leaving Florence?” I asked with alarm.

“Will you be disappointed to see me go, my dear Bencina?”

“Y-y-yes,” I stammered. I was stunned. Bernardo had been in Florence for only sixteen months—sixteen exhilarating, confusing, life-altering months. I shook my head, looking down to the floor, trying to absorb the news. My heart ached. Was that love? Or was it just fear of drabness enveloping me again? No more portraits, no more philosophical debates, no more invitations to the Medici palazzo. No matter which was the real underlying reason, my answer was an honest one. “Yes,” I whispered, “I will be terribly disappointed.”

Bernardo cupped my face in his hands. “Then kiss me,
carissima
. Kiss me good-bye.”

This time I did not pull back aflutter or afraid as he bent his head down and held his lips close to mine, his breath warm, willing my breathing to echo his, just as music can beckon the listener's heart to match its beat. He held himself close like that for a long, tantalizing moment, his eyes on mine, looking for agreement. When I did not blink, he smiled. Then his lips pressed my mouth, soft, a brush as pleasing as a spring breeze, a beguiling taste of sweetness, of new hopes. And then again, lingering, relishing, as one does the first juice of a plum after a long, cold, frugal winter.

So this was a kiss, a real kiss. Now I knew where love poetry came from. I returned it with the same kind of hunger I had first devoured verse.

O
UR EMBRACE TIGHTENED.
B
ERNARDO
'
S LIPS
TRAVELED FROM
my mouth, slowly, kiss by kiss by kiss to my eyes, to my temple, to my hair, to my ear. I felt him nip at my earlobe, and then a mesmerizing whisper blew into my ear. “I have never known a woman like you, Ginevra, my life . . . my love . . . my soul.” Each word burned.

His thumb traced my jawline to come to rest under my chin. He pushed and tilted it up, my head fell back, and now his mouth wandered bit by bit down my throat. His other hand slid around my waist and gathered me to him. Our clothes crushed, rustled, wrinkling. His lips reached my shoulder, as his other hand traveled downward. I felt his
fingers tug at the lacing of my bodice.

I caught my breath. Without realizing it, I had longed for such an embrace, for someone to cherish me this way. But this was anything but Platonic.

I pulled away. “No, my lord. I beg your pardon. I . . . I cannot do this. My honor. My husband.”

He laughed, but it was hoarse with desire, not the warm, amused chortle I knew so well. “Come, come, Ginevra. That is no real marriage. It was arranged, a calculated merger of families, one of convenience only.” He paused. “You and I, on the other hand, share true, heartfelt affection, our love of literature and art, great passions of the soul. Come, my dear, this is an expression of love. I promise.” He reached for me.

I evaded him, retreating deeper into a corner behind the portrait.

“Where is that poet who captivated me with her sonnet about the unrepentant, fiery horse pulling the chariot of her soul?” He caught me and bent me backward, his mouth against my hair as he crooned, “Let go the reins. Let that dark horse lead you.”

The arm encircling me tightened so that I was totally enveloped. He curled my body up into his, and only my tiptoes touched the floor. If Bernardo let go, I would have fallen to the ground, but instead, given his strength, we were fused as surely as two figures in a statue. Again he kissed me, tender but insistent. I was having a hard time knowing which limbs were mine in that embrace, an even harder time making myself want to break it.

But I wriggled free, prattling, “That poem was about my finding the wisdom to keep the two horses—one chaste, one not—working together . . . to keep me on my chosen path of virtue.” I took a deep breath to steel myself. “This is not what we agreed, my lord, or what is heralded by Plato or Ficino or . . . or . . . Lorenzo de' Medici.”

“Lorenzo?” Bernardo guffawed. “Do you realize how many illegitimate children he has probably sired?”

I tried to not show my shock. “Nevertheless, Your Excellency, I know what you value in me is my loyal, virtuous heart. You had the poet Landino compare those qualities of me to Petrarch's Laura, the most lauded lady in literature!” I quoted the last poem he had sent me, having memorized every word of it. “‘For she surpasses Laura in chastity, beauty, elegance, and even her pious character.'” I looked at Bernardo defiantly now. “Landino also wrote, ‘Mortals, learn that the beauty of the soul, not of the body, must be desired, and learn to love true grace.' It was your commission, so surely those are your beliefs. I trust you to hold to them.”

Bernardo considered that a moment. And then he tried another tack, ever the persuasive, clever diplomat. “Come now, Ginevra, this is not the sweet young lady I beheld at the joust, the obedient niece Bartolomeo introduced me to, the inquisitive mind I saw looking so rapturously at Donatello's statue, the avid scholar who yearns to know the truth of life and its art.” Those blue eyes twinkled mischievously as he added, “Nor is it the woman who looked without flinching at the bronze
David
's manhood.”

Oh sweet Mother Mary,
he'd seen me. Sister Margaret had always said my brazen curiosity would be the hook on which the devil would catch me.

“Take pity on me,
carissima
, I have longed for you for months, commissioned poems and artwork from Florence's most renowned studio
.
” He held out his arms, gesturing to Leonardo's painting and toward the corner where Verrocchio's sculpture stood.

Bernardo had indeed done all that. I felt my resolve weaken, wondering how I could be so ungrateful. Certainly I'd just felt great longing as he kissed me. It was a sweet ache. Lord knows many a soul succumbed to desire and transgressed, and then afterward begged forgiveness and received absolution in the confessional. It was done all the time in Florence.

“Yes, you see?” Bernardo seemed to read my mind and stepped toward me slowly, carefully, to not spook me as he continued his plea. “Was there ever as devoted a lover as I have been? A better champion? All Christendom will now know of you, La Bencina. You will not die, but live forever in art. Because of me.”

It was true. “Why must you leave Florence, my lord? Why must things change?”

Bernardo stopped. His face clouded. “I have been called back.”

“But why? Do they need you for another ambassadorship?”

“I am called back by the Council of Ten.”

“The Council of Ten?” I knew nothing of Venice's politics. They were completely different from Florence's. Each Italian city—Florence, Venice, Milan, Naples, Ferrara—had their own government, their own armies, their own rulers. It was why they bickered endlessly and why treaties among them were so critically important.

“I am to answer ethical questions.”

“My lord?”

“It seems they are not happy that I asked Lorenzo de' Medici for loans. The question I must answer is if I compromised Venice somehow in doing so, if I neglected my city's needs to advance my personal friendship with Lorenzo in order to obtain monies for my own household. And”—he paused for emphasis and swept his hand to point at the studio—“for these commissions.”

And for how many gambling debts? I wondered.

“What some of the council members fail to understand—several of them never having been diplomats themselves—is that these commissions ultimately glorify our realm, not just me personally.” He spoke with growing agitation. “My joining Lorenzo's philosophical circle, my Platonic romance with you, brought me and therefore Venice closer to the Medici.”

I stiffened. So Scolastica had been right. Bernardo might indeed be taken with me, want me, but clearly he recognized the political advantage of our romance as well.

And what about me? If I was honest about my feelings? I certainly had gained social prominence through his
attentions. My life had brightened, like a rosy dawn following a thick fog. But was that love? Or just infatuation?

Bernardo scowled and spoke with sudden fury. “My honor has become suspect! Life without honor is a living death. If I ever catch the bastard who twisted and used my private affairs to poison the council against me, I'll pay him back with my sword.” He caught me by the elbow. “And it is all your doing, La Bencina.” The term he had always used lightly, flirtatiously, he now drew out with sarcasm. “I did it for you. That gaze of yours goaded me into it.”

“Me? What gaze?”

“What gaze?” he repeated. “That one!” He pointed to Leonardo's portrait. “Come, Ginevra, a truly modest woman would not look out at a man so unrelentingly—right into his soul, as well as revealing her own if the man braves entering that stare. You're like a siren, singing a song that Odysseus couldn't resist. Your painting betrays you. The painting I commissioned. The painting I will pay for—in more ways than one.”

Having me by the elbow, Bernardo pulled us down to sit on a bench, crowded with drawings and small clay figures. He yanked me to him and kissed me again. But I did not feel love, or even passion, in it this time. This kiss tasted of resentment, of entitlement. Bernardo thrust his tongue hard past my lips and jammed his hand down the neckline of my bodice to grope my breasts.

“NO!” I squirmed and tried to push him away. This was
no expression of love. “Not . . . not like this.”

He did not let go, and his mouth continued its voyage over me.

Panicked, I squirmed backward along the bench, bumping into some of the apprentices' little statue studies of draped clothing that had been drying on it. I reached down and grabbed one. Before Bernardo realized what I was doing, I brought it crashing down on his skull.

“God's wounds!” he cried, releasing me. His hand went to his head, but the figure had done little damage other than leaving a powder of crumbled plaster in his hair and a little trickle of blood along his forehead from a scratch.

I scrambled to my feet, my hands clenched in fists. “I will not yield to you this way, signor,” I cried. “No matter how much you track me around this room. No matter how many arguments you make to convince me it is my obligation to reward you with my body. No matter what promises of fame you dangle before me.”

He looked at me, amazed. But that quickly changed. For a few tense moments, his face darkened with wrath, his body coiled dangerously. I planted my feet firmly, anticipating his lunging at me. I glared back, my heart pounding.

Then, remarkably, Bernardo's expression lightened. He began to laugh—a deep, rumbling chortle. Dusting himself off, he stood. “You are a magnificent creature, Ginevra de' Benci. You are . . .”

“A mountain tiger,” I finished for him.

He cocked his head, thinking for a moment, and then nodded, smiling with that warmth that had first charmed me. “Yes, just so. Just so. Caged, perhaps, but untamed. Just like the sultan's pet. I understand. It is in that gaze. And”—he rubbed his head—“in those claws.” He laughed again. Then he grew serious. “You know, my dear, I would not wish, nor do I need, to force myself on an unwilling woman. There are plenty who ask to undress for me.”

There was nothing malicious in his tone, just a matter-of-fact braggadocio with a tinge of teasing that now fell flat with me. But it was also an unspoken capitulation that allowed me to speak honestly. “I was not trying to provoke anything with my gaze and this painting. I was trying to do the exact opposite. To look out so the viewer could see that I am not just what men define me as—a saint, a bargaining chip, a mark of my family's fortunes, a political pawn, or . . . or a trophy. My own being, with my own thoughts, my own poetry, if you but look.”

Bernardo held his hand out toward me and waited for me to take it. Gingerly, I did. “You overwhelm me, Ginevra.” He paused. “When I speak of us, I will celebrate your virtue and your great spirit. I will talk of how you guided me to my best self, my
summum bonum
. Surely, we are owed heaven having denied ourselves it here on earth in this moment of passion. I hope you will remember all that came before this afternoon when you speak of me.”

“Yes,” I agreed, still not letting down my guard, but in
a treaty of mutual respect, mutual debt, and a fondness that once was.

Bernardo lifted my hand and kissed it lightly as he would do in court when introduced to a woman for the first time. “My lady,” he said, and bowed. Then Ambassador Bembo walked out of Verrocchio's studio and out of my life.

Or so I thought.