Da Vinci's Tiger (9 page)

S
TEPPING OVER THE THRESHOLD INTO THAT
WORLD OF HEAVENLY
beautiful art, I nearly retched from its earthly stench. Varnish, sweat, urine, stone dust, cow dung, charred ox horn, billowing smoke. I covered my nose with one hand. The other flew to my ear against the pounding and hammering, the chisels scraping stone, the shouts of apprentices as they dashed about the yard.

Leonardo took me by the elbow to guide me through to the studio proper, Sancha trailing behind. We passed a young boy, in a swirl of dust, sweeping scrapings into the street. Another knocked chickens off a nesting roost in a great fluttering of wings to collect eggs. A third stoked a fire to a
hellish-high blaze within a red-glowing furnace. The child was covered in soot, but he grinned and waved at Leonardo.

Inside, a slightly older youth sat at a grindstone, smashing lapis lazuli into a powdery pool of blue. Next to him, another applied cream-colored gesso to a wooden board, just the right size for a portrait. A little army of small plaster statues of draped cloth marched beside them on the bench. I paused and cocked my head, wondering why they had no heads or arms.

“These are exercises,” Leonardo said. “Master makes his apprentices do these studies so we know how to sculpt and paint clothing in folds that imply the movement of the human body underneath. Know the bones and muscles underlying the clothes, he always said. That way the cling of the cloth shows a walk. The direction of a gesture conveys the emotion of that moment.”

“Ahh.” I nodded. Leonardo still held my elbow with his pincer-strong hand. He unceremoniously jerked me out of the way as the boy who'd plucked eggs from the hens darted past. Cradling a half-dozen in his arms, the boy looked as if he might drop them in his haste to deliver them to the youth grinding colors. That apprentice took the eggs one by one, cracked them, separated them, and dropped the gold yolks into a bowl to mix with water. Next he sprinkled in the ground lapis, creating an eddy of bright blue that slowly spread out into an azure paste as he stirred.

“Take that paint to Perugino, boy,” Leonardo instructed the youth, who hurried the bowl of vibrant blue to an adult
artist in the corner, painting the dress of a Madonna.

I'd known nothing before of the process of making art. Enchanted, I pulled my elbow away from Leonardo's grip, slowly turning around to take it all in. The studio was crowded with worktables littered with bowls, knives, papers, and charcoal bits. Along its walls hung tools and sketches. I caught my breath when I recognized a long triangular drawing of a reclining nymph and a Cupid trying to awaken her—the beginning sketch for the joust banner.

I approached to get a better look. Gazing at the drawing, I began to understand how the figures on the painted banner had seemed so lifelike, their faces so expressive and the contours of their cheeks so real. The effect seemed to be achieved with contrasts of light and dark. The nymph and Cupid were sketched in black chalk against the warm, creamy color of the paper. Their faces were made of soft smears and rubs of the chalk. There were no hatch marks or bold strokes until the elaborate braids in her hair and the millet stalks surrounding Cupid. Inching closer, I got practically nose to nose with the nymph and could see the cool white accents within the dark smudges on her face that at a distance created the dimple in her chin, the fullness of her lips, the rise of round, high cheekbones from the thinner jawline.

Leonardo had come up behind me as I marveled at the technique. Once again reading my curiosity, he said, “Maestro Verrocchio wet the laid-in chalk with a brush to make those grays and white.”

“The illusion is . . .”

“Extraordinary. I know.”

I turned round to look at Leonardo and caught his profile. His eyes remained fixed on the banner drawing, giving me a chance to study him better. He had a high broad forehead, full arched eyebrows without the wild scraggle common to men, and large dark eyes that drooped slightly at their outside corners. His nose was long but straight, his mouth soft and etched in supple red, his chin and jawline clean and strong. It was a lovely face, somehow pretty and masculine at the same time. What was most remarkable about it, though, was how perfectly proportioned it seemed, one element flowing into the other without a bump or bulge or pockmark to interrupt it. Flawless, as a perfectly measured and executed statue might be.

Unaware of my staring, Leonardo reached over me to point at places in the drawing where dark and light blended seamlessly. “The trick is to blend the shadows and light without any clear borders or strokes, like smoke seeps into the air.
Sfumato.
That's how the maestro created the swell of her facial bones as effectively as he does in his sculpture.” He didn't move his arm as he murmured more to himself than to me. “I wonder.” He paused. “I must find a way to do this better, more consistently, with paint. Egg tempera dries too quickly. Perhaps . . .”

Arm still extended, Leonardo inhaled deeply and then sighed, his breath warm on my cheek. He was completely transfixed by the drawing. I was riveted by his face, no longer by its physical features but by his expression. I fought
my breathing, fearing to interrupt. I knew I was witnessing creativity, a thought trying to fight its way out of a cocoon to light.

Sancha giggled from the corner.

Startled, Leonardo stepped back, dropping his arm. The spell was broken. I shot Sancha a look of annoyance. She lowered her head, bobbed a curtsy, and retreated to the doorway.

I tried to retrieve the magic. “I am intrigued that the maestro included this millet.” I pointed to the little forest of grain shafts. “Millet symbolizes fidelity, yes?”

Verrocchio's hearty laugh answered me. He was crossing the room toward us. “You know your mythology, my lady.” He threw his arm over Leonardo's shoulders. “But my dear former apprentice includes the millet for a different reason, eh?” He playfully knuckled Leonardo's ribs. “This one is not as interested in classical symbolism as our dear friend Botticelli is, for instance. Go on, explain yourself.”

Leonardo frowned at Verrocchio, and then assessed me, his eyes narrowing a bit as he considered. I bristled at what was implied by his analyzing expression that I might not be intelligent enough to understand his reasoning.

“My family owns several Alberti treatises, and I remember the author writing that painting contains a divine force that can make absent men present and the dead seem almost alive. Is there something about the way an artist presents millet that improves this divine capability?” I spoke with some arrogance in my education, thinking it would impress
Leonardo. But I was still careful to smile sweetly as I challenged him to answer my question and not brush me off as incapable of such philosophic and artistic dialogue.

Humph
. Leonardo nodded slightly. “Well . . . if you are truly interested . . . I think nature is an all-encompassing force that dictates our earthly life. So to not include it in artwork, to present man standing all alone in a void, is idiocy.”

Verrocchio roared with laughter and clapped his hands together, creating a little volcano cloud of stone dust. “Leonardo is as blunt as he is talented. Look there,” he said, gesturing to the millet. “Leonardo drew the millet, not I. To get it right, he brought armloads of the grain stalks into the studio to study before drawing. I swear they look as real as the plant in terms of the construction and details. But he goes beyond that. See how the millet's lowest leaves swirl as if being tickled by the wind? So alive! Astounding! I am making use of that eye of his in one of my more important commissions. Come.”

Now he took my elbow and walked me to an alcove at the far end of the studio, where light spilled in through a window and the stone floor was washed clean of dust. He pulled a cloth back to display a large painting of St. John baptizing Christ.

“How lovely,” I said, instinctively crossing myself in reverence at seeing the depiction of the momentous biblical moment.

Verrocchio considered the painting. “I have taken far too long to complete this. It was commissioned for a church high
altar many years ago—there have been so many other lucrative works ordered in between. After all, I am responsible for feeding all these boys.” He gestured back toward the studio's large room, swarming with busy, hungry youths. “And I will admit, signora, this painting has taught me that I am a far better sculptor than painter. I just could not get it quite right until recently. Leonardo has helped with that, particularly with the landscape.”

He pointed as he spoke. “Look at the delicacy of these ferns and grasses, how transparent the water is and how it ripples away from Christ's ankles as he steps into the river. Look how Leonardo has rendered the wilderness behind John and Jesus. The perspective! The scene seems to stretch back toward infinity.”

Indeed, the meandering river and the mountains behind the holy pair became vague and paler as they receded, conveying a sense of distance—the hills in particular vanishing into the misty horizon, like smoke into air, just the way Leonardo had described. The scene also captured the imposing vastness of nature. I had seen many religious paintings that might have distant hills seen through windows or archways. But I had never before seen earth presented as a powerful, mythical force in its own right.

Verrocchio put his hand to his chin and rubbed back and forth in thought. I waited for him to speak, and my eyes drifted to a pair of angels kneeling to the left of Christ. Their robes were still being finished. But I felt my hand cover my heart as I looked at their faces. One of the angels turned to
witness the baptism with such rapture and awe.

Verrocchio shifted his gaze to the angels. “Ah, you see. I am painting this one.” He pointed to the angel on the right, which was lovely, too. There was a true sweetness to his face, but somehow that angel didn't possess the palpable look of adoration the one on the left did. “Leonardo is completing the angel to his left,” he said. His usual convivial smile faded to a rueful one. He crossed his arms and went silent as he looked over the work. “There was a time when Leonardo's and my technique blended perfectly, like mirrors of each other. I did a Tobias, depicting the scene in which the angel Raphael tells him to burn the gall of a fish to cure his father's blindness. Leonardo painted the fish in Tobias's grasp and added the little dog said to have accompanied Tobias on his journey. The two figures added so much life to the painting, and echoed the look of the angel and boy I created. Now, though”—his voice lowered to a murmur—“in this painting of St. John and Jesus, it is clear that a hand other than mine painted that angel.”

“Maestro!” A loud, merry voice pealed through the studio.

“Ahhhh.” Verrocchio brightened. “There's our patron,” he said, and winked at me before shouting out, “Your Grace!” He threw open his arms to greet the newcomer. “Welcome!”

In strode Giuliano de' Medici, grinning with his confident exuberance and obvious delight in the world that had earned him the title “Prince of Youth.” His waves of midnight-black hair were swept back from his handsome
face, one hand jauntily atop the hilt of his sword to keep it from bumping along his thigh as he walked. Everyone stopped whatever he was doing to bow, one boy dropping a hammer to the floor in a clatter. As they straightened up, they froze again—this time to gape at La Bella Simonetta, who swept in behind her champion in a wake of apricot silk.

Like a queen receiving courtiers, Simonetta remained serene as apprentices stared and Verrocchio hurriedly wiped his hands on his tunic before kissing hers. But then she spotted me. “Ginevra!” she squealed, and rushed toward me, holding her hands out for me to clasp. Kissing my cheeks, she whispered, “You are certainly well met.” I pulled back and looked at her quizzically. She giggled and squeezed my hands. “Prepare yourself, my dear.”

“For what?” I whispered, charmed as always by her affectionate and conspiratorial girlishness.

“A surrrrr-priiiise.” She warbled the word. Raising her perfectly plucked eyebrows mischievously, Simonetta Vespucci put her arm through mine. She turned me to face the threshold, just as Ambassador Bernardo Bembo entered.

W
HILE
G
IULIANO MOVED WITH AN INFECTIOUS
AURA OF JOY
and gleeful anticipation of what the world was about to present him, Bernardo Bembo's stride was jauntier, more of a grand entrance. It wasn't swagger, exactly. It wasn't a prowl. And it wasn't pretense. It seemed honed, built by successful adventures—of a man sent to foreign kingdoms to charm old enemies into friendship, a man from a city-state that defied logic to create itself in a bog as the gateway between Christendom and exotic lands to the east. His bearing spoke of a place that bred men of resolve and improbable vision, men who did not take no for an answer.

When Bernardo blessed me with that broad smile, that
quick sweep of appreciation in his sea-blue eyes, I knew the word I sought to describe him.
Audacious.
I felt my legs go wobbly again, as if I stood in a boat bobbing on the Arno.

Simonetta hugged my arm closer to her. “A pleasant surprise, then, I see,” she whispered in my ear. “The ambassador was talking about you and asking questions all the way here.” She raised her voice to a musical lilt. “Look who I have found, Ambassador, my dear friend and cousin, Ginevra de' Benci Niccolini. I believe you two know each other?”

“Indeed.” Bernardo moved quickly to bow before me, though never taking his eyes from my face. “And I hope soon to have the honor of knowing her better.”

“Well then,” Simonetta said, “here is a perfect opportunity, surely sent by the Fates.” To my horror, she extricated my arm from hers and slipped my hand into Bernardo's offered one. I made my eyes big in protest and glared at her. She just smiled regally at me, although her eyes danced with mirth.

“Come, let us join Giuliano.” She gestured toward another corner of the studio, where Verrocchio and Giuliano circled a terra-cotta bust of a young hero in classical armor. “He is here to view a sculpture portrait Master Verrocchio is creating of him to commemorate the joust. He wanted my opinion, but I would more value yours, Ambassador. I know you are quite the collector of art yourself. Giuliano told me that when he traveled to Venice several years ago, you showed him what is thought to be a portrait of Petrarch's Laura?”

“Really?” I interrupted. What a treasure! “Oh, how I would love to see that. Is she quite beautiful? Can you see the nobility of spirit Petrarch praised her for?”

A pleased laugh rumbled up from Bernardo's chest. “Yes, she is enchanting. But not as fetching as you two ladies.”

Simonetta's smile was unruffled. She must have been so accustomed to such compliments. I was not. I blushed and spluttered, saying nothing coherent.

“I did not know that Laura sat to be painted,” Simonetta offered, clearly to give me a moment to collect myself.

“In Avignon's cathedral, there is a fresco of St. George and the dragon. Laura was reportedly known by the fresco's painter and was his inspiration for the princess St. George saved,” Bernardo explained. “I had her copied when I was ambassador to France.”

“Oh my, what an honor to have one's likeness used to represent a legendary personage,” she said.

“But Simonetta, you have already been such. Botticelli made you Pallas in the banner Giuliano carried into the lists.” Did my envy leak into my voice?

“And so she was!” Verrocchio boomed, beckoning us to join him. “Botticelli's portrayal of La Bella Simonetta as the warrior goddess was magnificent. And I have made sure to keep the symbolism of Pallas in Giuliano's armor. See?” He pointed to a snarling face in the center of the armor. “Just as Pallas's breastplate carried Medusa's head to defeat her enemies in war, so does Giuliano's. This way I continue to mark him as your champion.” He smiled, obviously pleased with
himself. “Now, look at my sculpture and tell me what you think, Signora Simonetta. Did I capture your beloved in this clay face?”

Giuliano beamed at Simonetta so she could compare.

“Oh,
carissimo
,” she said. “The maestro has re-created you!”

Indeed, the terra-cotta looked exactly like Florence's Prince of Youth. The same expectant tilt of the head, the slight boyish smile, the smooth face, the arched and expressive eyebrows, the long but chiseled nose, the chin-length mass of curls.

She turned to Verrocchio. “It is exquisite. It is so very like Giuliano I wish to kiss it. May I?”

“Gently!” Verrocchio laughed. “The clay is still soft until we put him into the furnace.”

“God's wounds, Andrea!” Giuliano swatted Verrocchio playfully on the shoulder and joked, “That sounds like a prophecy of damnation!” The men laughed as Simonetta leaned in to press her pretty lips to the statue's. When she withdrew, she coughed lightly.

Now Bernardo added his appraisal. “Your image in this bust, Giuliano, looks exactly how I imagine Alexander the Great.”

Giuliano appeared pleased with the comparison.

So did Verrocchio. “Yes, yes, exactly! Very much in my mind as I carved. His head is tilted to the left, you see. Plutarch wrote that the youthful emperor always held his head thus!”

“How clever of you, maestro.” Bernardo thoughtfully surveyed the bust before asking, “Giuliano, how old are you?”

“Twenty-two,” he said. “Why do you ask?”

“Because the parallel is astounding. That is precisely the age Alexander the Great was when he left Macedonia to begin conquering the world. I can see you riding out, just as Alexander did, to unite Italy someday. I would happily guide Venice to follow such a magnanimous and virtuous champion.”

Oh my, I thought, his words were honeyed, but appropriately and charmingly so—no wonder Venice chose this man to be ambassador.

Giuliano laughed heartily and modestly dismissed the idea. “Bernardo, you are a man of dreams and myth.” But the younger Medici held himself taller, his chest swelling from the compliment.

“Perhaps we should show Lorenzo this representation of you as a warrior, so he stops trying to convince the Pope to make you a cardinal,” Simonetta murmured.

Giuliano's happy grin faded.

“A cardinal?” I asked with far too obvious surprise.

When, oh when, would I learn to stop speaking my mind? Giuliano was many admirable things, but pious was not one of them. But of course, such high offices in the church were mostly about political influence and power, not necessarily about the spiritual. Many a second son of wealthy families who would never inherit its full riches was sent into
the cloth. And the celibacy required of priests and nuns did not seem to be a rule they followed. I remembered Abbess Scolastica speaking of a pope who had a herd of illegitimate children he called his “nephews and nieces.”

Fortunately, Simonetta ignored the hint of incredulity in my voice. “It's true, Ginevra! Oh, my heart will break if Giuliano is sent to Rome.”

Giuliano gently took her hand and kissed her palm, then held it against his cheek as he spoke to her. “It cannot be helped, my love. It is for the family. For Florence. The Vatican and the Papal States question Florence's holding of certain provinces and mines. And there is talk of the Pope no longer wanting the Medici as the Vatican bankers. He looks to favor the Pazzi bank instead, which would ruin us. Our Rome office is our main bank, from whence come the majority of our Medici wealth and our ability to pressure the papacy to Florence's benefit. One of us needs to know what is discussed within St. Peter's walls. And Lorenzo is already married.”

“But my dear . . .”

Giuliano kissed her lightly to stop her speaking.

The sweetness between them brought tears to my eyes. Was this love?

“I have an idea, Andrea.” Giuliano turned to Verrocchio. “I had been contemplating asking you for a work, and now I realize it might also assist my brother's quest to have me ordained. I would like to commission a Madonna and child from you, using the virtuous Simonetta as the model for the
Virgin Mother. She would be the sweetest of Marys, don't you think?”

Verrocchio's face lit up. “Marble or bronze or terra-cotta, Your Grace?”

“I think a painting this time, Andrea, that I may hang in my
camera
.”

Verrocchio's face clouded a bit. He glanced toward his painting of St. John baptizing Christ. I think only I really knew what he was considering, what he was questioning about himself. “Perhaps,” he began, “you would prefer Leonardo do that for you, Your Grace.” Verrocchio motioned for Leonardo, who had been standing respectfully at a distance as his old master had conducted the commonplace business aspect of art—showing wares to a buyer.

The four of them retreated to an inner garden to sit and talk, Leonardo looking thrilled but trying to mask it with nonchalance. That left me alone with the ambassador.

Bernardo turned to me with an expression I could only compare to the delight I'd seen on Luigi's face when a client was purchasing a large bolt of his best cloth.

“It dawned a foggy morn, but I feel awash in warm sunlight now that I am in your presence,” he said, his voice as velvety as his expensive cloak. “Tell me, La Bencina, do you feel the clouds disperse as well? The flaming wheels of Apollo's chariot riding through our horizon and lighting it up?”

Too quick. It was all just too quick. I withdrew my gloved hand from his and responded carefully. “Yes, Your Grace. I am bathed in the glow of . . . of . . . of this glorious art. My
heart races with the warmth of wonderment.” I turned away from him toward the painted baptism and fixed my gaze on Verrocchio's work, hoping he couldn't sense that my heart raced.

From the corner of my eye, I saw Bembo nod slightly, his expression amused, as if to say,
Ah, I see the game.
He changed tack. “Speaking of the sun as Apollo's chariot,” he said, “the other night, I was dazzled by your poem about your soul being a charioteer, struggling to guide two horses to pull together in harmony.”

“But how could you be?” I asked, startled. “I did not read it aloud.” Then I blushed with irritation at myself, remembering how I had unfolded my sonnet under the table across my skirts to read and reread, and then lacked the courage to share it with the dinner guests when invited.

“Ah, you have found me out.” Bernardo lowered his voice. “I could not help seeing and reading the riches held in your lap.”

Sweet Mary, Mother of God.
I was untested in such courtly banter, but not so naive as to not catch the flirtation in his wordplay. Flushed, flattered, yet still a bit frightened, I backed away, regaining my composure in the distance between him and me.

“And what did you think of my poem, Your Excellency?” I emphasized
poem
. “I would value your opinion.”

Again that slight nod and small smile as if entertained by my determined innocence. Another change of tack. This time he steered to my intellect.

“I was impressed by your metaphor of horses to represent the duality of human nature. Pray, how did you think of that image?”

I tried to read that handsome face, lean and strong, in its absolute prime, neither soft with youth nor slack with age. But Bernardo kept his thoughts masked in a polite attentiveness he'd no doubt learned as ambassador. Was he testing to see if I had actually read the dialogue by Plato that had inspired my poetry? Did he doubt that I, as a woman, was capable of reading ancient philosophy and had simply picked up the image from table talk?

I hesitated. What had my brother warned me against? Displaying my education and appearing “overwhelming.” Although I had just used my reading to goad Leonardo into answering my question, annoyed, if I was honest, that a man of lesser breeding might doubt my intellect, I didn't want to offend the ambassador by appearing to show off.

Then Scolastica's command filled my ear:
Make them listen. Sing of what treasure lies inside women's hearts and minds.

Yes. Yes! I thought. But I fought the urge to rush in clumsily, brandishing what I knew, like a too-ardent foot soldier charging a battlement only to be the first killed. I took a deep breath and spoke as casually as possible. “Why, it is not new to me, Ambassador. I read the allegory in Plato's
Phaedrus
. My abbess gave it to me. I am sure you know this dialogue.”

Bernardo smiled, oh so graciously. “I am afraid I am more a scholar of Aristotle and the Muslim philosopher Averroës.”
He glanced over his shoulder toward where Giuliano sat. He lowered his voice. “I would be grateful if you would educate me more in Plato's thought, as it is clearly of such importance to my hosts, the Medici.”

I hesitated. I had witnessed Bernardo exchange all manner of Platonic concepts with Ficino at the Medici's palazzo the night of the dinner. And yet I smiled back at him in spite of myself, charmed that he was pretending I could help him by sharing my knowledge.

Sing of us. Make them listen.

So I answered. “Even though Plato believed women needed to be educated in order for a republic to be truly strong, I would not presume to
teach
you, Ambassador.” I allowed a little flirtation to slip into my voice. “But certainly I will share what I know in order to learn more myself. I believe Socrates suggests this, yes? This give-and-take.” I hastened to add, “Of ideas.”

Goodness, this was rather fun.

Bernardo clearly heard the shift in my tone. His face lit up like a sailor spotting land he recognized. He took my hand again, his own leathered ones swallowing it up. “Please. Instruct me.”

I looked up at him. This close he seemed so tall, so enveloping. “Well,” I said, pausing to assess his face once more.

He nodded. “Please.”

“Well, Plato used the chariot, its driver, and horses as an allegory of the human soul. The charioteer represents intellect and reason. He must steer his chariot through life,
trying to keep to the path of enlightenment to find truth and earn immortality. He drives two horses. One is rational and moral, peaceful. The other is passionate, full of earthly appetites, erratic. The task is to blend the two elements, to create harmony between the two different steeds so that they keep apace and work together.”