David (15 page)

‘We’re the same age, it’s true,’ said Angelo, narrowing his eyes as he tried to capture my awkward pose. ‘But neither Piero nor Giovanni was a patch on Lorenzo. They were both lazy, greedy and more interested in football and athletics than in learning anything. And Giovanni at least still lives that life in Rome, hunting and hawking and pawning the family silver to pay for lavish feasts.’

‘So how does that make him more likely to take back the family interests in Florence?’ I asked.

‘Don’t ask me,’ said Gismondo. ‘I’m not a Medici man after all. I’m a republican. But I’d dearly like to be a soldier in whatever army would take me.’

‘Even King Louis’ army?’ asked Angelo.

‘What we need is a proper Florentine army,’ said his brother, evading the question. ‘You can never get the same loyalty from mercenaries.’

And the conversation drifted on to Gismondo’s views about military strategy. But he had given me a lot to think about. Neither Piero nor Giovanni seemed at all likely to make good leaders. But there were other de’ Medici contenders and I wondered if the
compagnacci
were in contact with them.

It was a hotter than usual August and I spent my free time walking down by the river, trying to get some fresh air. Living in Florence in high summer was like sitting inside a bowl surrounded with boiling water. One Sunday I walked on my own up to Fiesole on the hillside outside the city. It was a long walk and stretched my leg muscles well but once I got there, I could take in great lungfuls of breeze-cooled air. I felt as if I hadn’t been able to breathe properly for weeks.

Looking down on the city from up there made all the political factions and intrigues seem as petty as the antics of insects. What difference would it make if one of them carried a leaf or not? It was what I needed and for a long time I just revelled in the view. It was impossible to miss the cathedral with the great dome Brunelleschi made for it; that cupola dominated the skyline.

So down there was the marble statue that looked like me and there would soon be another in bronze. I wondered how much longer than my own lifespan these copies of me would last.

I came back down from the hillside in thoughtful mood, temporarily refreshed but soon sweating again in the damp heat. Thunder rumbled round the hills. On an impulse I set out to walk to Gianbattista’s and arrived there tired and famished.

Gianbattista was not at home but his sister was and the servant who answered the door and knew me well showed me into the small parlour where Simonetta was sewing. She jumped up when she saw me and seemed flustered. It was the first time we had been alone together since the day I had seen her leaving flowers for Savonarola.

‘Was my brother expecting you?’ she asked. ‘Do you have information for him? I’m afraid he has gone out.’

‘No,’ I said. ‘I was out walking and just found myself nearby. Don’t let me disturb you. I’ll go.’

‘Don’t go,’ she said. ‘You look tired. Sit down. Where did you walk to?’

‘Up to Fiesole,’ I said.

‘So far? You must be exhausted. And hungry too. Let me send for refreshment.’

I was glad enough to rest. The little parlour was snug and comfortable and if I had to feel warm and confined, where better than in a small space with a beautiful woman?

Simonetta was just going to ring for a servant when there came a mighty clap of thunder that seemed to be right above us. We both jumped and instinctively, I put my arm around her. There was a delicious moment – not more than a second or two – when she seemed to lean into me and relax her whole body into my arms. Then she sprang away as if stung by a bee and rang the bell hard.

I sat down and waited in silence, listening to the heavy rain that had at last fallen. It would feel fresher tomorrow. I knew Angelo had been wrong when he said Simonetta was a woman I hadn’t impressed. I knew she liked me. And I liked her too. But my life was so complicated that I dare not make any approach to her.

It seemed to me that if anything happened between us it would be bound to end in unhappiness. And I did not want to face an angry Gianbattista and a gang of
frateschi
as well as a disappointed woman.

It was a relief when the servant came back. Simonetta picked up her sewing and I ate and drank with a good appetite. Anyone watching us would have thought us an old married couple.

‘You visited the monastery the other day,’ she said at last.

‘Yes. I went with the sculptor to see his brother, Fra Lionardo. It was full of the most wonderful paintings,’ I said. I was glad we had found a subject of conversation that was quite safe. Even Savonarola must have approved of Fra Angelico’s frescoes or he would have had them whitewashed over.

‘I wouldn’t know,’ she said. ‘A woman can’t go there and visit the friars.’

‘That’s a pity. You would like them – they are all on religious subjects and beautifully done.’

‘Perhaps I should go into a convent,’ she said. ‘What do you think?’

This was sudden and unexpected and, I thought, a dangerous topic. So I avoided answering and left as soon as I could, even though it was still raining hard. I ran back towards the house in Santa Croce, letting the rain soak through my hair and clothes. I resolved never to call in at Gianbattista’s house again without being invited.

Chapter Ten

Mars and Venus

Round about this time, Angelo had a new idea. Apparently he had been impressed by the way I had appreciated all the paintings and sculptures he had shown me in the city and had got it into his head that I should become an artist.

‘Do you want to be a stonecutter all your life?’ he asked me one day when I was posing for the new David.

We were on our own, as Gismondo was out gathering more information about the French army.

‘I wouldn’t mind,’ I said. ‘It’s an honest trade.’

‘Indeed. But I’ve seen your skill with a chisel and I’ve watched the way you respond to works of art,’ he said. ‘I think I could teach you to make a statue of your own.’

I was astounded. In all the time I had known him, Angelo had been quite determined that he would never take an apprentice.

‘I thought you always hated the idea of teaching,’ I said.

‘I hate the idea of taking on a pupil for money,’ he grunted, turning the paper round and starting again on a new version of my arm. ‘My old master couldn’t teach me anything under that system.’

‘Yes, but you have genius and probably knew more than he did,’ I said. I was the only person that Angelo ever allowed to tease him.

‘Possibly,’ he agreed in all seriousness. ‘I might not be a good example. But how can you know if a pupil shows any promise till you see him work? I know you can square stone and cut moulded corners, but I also know your
maestro
has had you working on acanthus leaves for capitols and other fancier stonecutting tasks.’

He must have been talking to my
maestro
del bottega
.

‘Well, yes,’ I said. ‘I can do that. That’s just copying. But I can’t do what you do – conceive a design for a commission. I wouldn’t know where to begin.’

‘Apprentices don’t start by planning whole statues,’ he said. ‘They start by doing tasks very like the ones you work on all day. And they use their eyes. They look at all the statues and friezes and reliefs they can find in their own city and they develop a sense of how sculpture works – in the round, in high and low relief. And they draw. Do you draw?’

I shook my head. It had never occurred to me.

‘Is that how you manage to get all the muscles and veins so like those of living people, even though they are carved in stone?’ I asked.

He laughed. ‘If they are like the living, it is because I have studied the dead,’ he said.

I shivered. He had not admitted this before.

‘When?’ I asked. ‘Where?’

‘At Santo Spirito, on the other side of the Arno,’ he said. ‘I had an arrangement with the Prior there, old Bichieli. I drew the corpses that came in. Cut into them so that I came to understand the ways in which bone and flesh and organs and the vessels that carry blood all relate to one another.’

‘It must have been difficult.’

‘The only difficulty was in getting it right,’ he said. ‘In finding out what was just the way one man was put together and what was true of us all. If you regard it as another stage in learning your craft, it becomes bearable.’

‘Do you still do it?’ I asked.

He shook his head. ‘No. It was when I was in the city before, after Lorenzo died. I made them a wooden crucifix to thank them.’

I remembered that Clarice had mentioned seeing it in Santo Spirito. My brother was a constant surprise to me; was he suggesting that I should learn by cutting up corpses?

‘But perhaps I am wrong to think you might be a sculptor,’ he said. ‘Perhaps you would feel more comfortable as a sculptor’s assistant?’

‘Are you offering me a job?’ I asked.

‘I’m offering to teach you some more skills to add to those you are learning in the
bottega
.’

This was something I would have to think about.

Florence had heaved a huge sigh of relief when the French army reached Milan. According to Gismondo, King Louis had invited all sorts of people with a grievance against Cesare Borgia to meet him at his court there and then – in a clever twist – invited Cesare himself!

‘Their faces were a sight to see,’ said Gismondo, as if he had been there in person. ‘They’d all been griping and complaining about Cesare and then they saw the French king kiss him on both cheeks! They were all there – the Duke of Urbino, Sforza of Pesaro, Gonzaga of Mantua – all people whose cities Cesare had taken or threatened.’

‘What happened?’ I asked. ‘Did they meet him?’

‘No, they packed up and left Milan as if the Furies were chasing them!’

Gismondo was highly amused by this tale.

‘There’s more,’ he said. ‘It’s taken a while for the news to reach the Signoria here, but Cesare has now changed course and is aiming at taking Bologna! His
condottieri
are furious with him, because he has his eyes on their cities too. Florence is safe for the time being.’

I wondered how long it would be before this fearsome young prince turned his attention back to our city. It seemed as if he wanted to make all Italy his kingdom.

‘Do you think Cesare Borgia wanted Florence for himself?’ I asked. ‘Or is he friendly to Piero?’

‘Who can say?’ said Gismondo. ‘When your father is Pope, you can ask for almost anything. But no, not even Cesare Borgia can be everywhere. I think he would make his base at Urbino – he would like to show off in its magnificent ducal palace – and he would have probably installed a de’ Medici here.’

I shuddered. ‘Then it’s good news he has turned his attention to Bologna.’