Signora Da Vinci (19 page)

He smiled broadly. “Of course! Here is the beauty of it, Cato. This library, like no other in Europe, is open to the public. All scholars are welcome.”

This was a staggering thought.

“Knowledge, Herself, has her home here,” he intoned reverentially.

“That’s beautiful, Lorenzo.”

“I wish
I’d
said it. It was one of my tutors, Angelo Poliziano, who did.” Lorenzo moved to a shelf upon which stood a row of bound books—these which had been printed in the new style, on a press with moveable type—and lovingly ran his fingers across their spines. “This house is the nurse of all learning, which here revived again.”

“And who said
that
,” I asked gently.

“I did,” he replied, unable to conceal his pride. “I fancy myself as something of a poet, though I have everything to learn.”

“What better place for you to be, then? In the belly of the nurse of all learning.”

“In at least one way,” Lorenzo said slowly, seeming to think as he spoke aloud, “I’ve turned into my grandfather. I would, had I no responsibilities to family or state, spend my entire fortune on books.”

“Even more than art,” came an unexpected voice from the library door.

We turned together to see Sandro Botticelli leaning against the doorframe, a jaunty grin on his long sensual face. He looked altogether at home in this place of magnificence, and utterly pleased with himself.

I found myself smiling at his presence. I liked this audacious man. I said to him, “So to Lorenzo, politics and art are lesser occupations than the collecting of books?”

“That is a gross understatement,” Botticelli replied. “He is
obsessed
with books, as Cosimo was. I would go looking for my friend to play ball with, search all over, only to find the two of them in a corner of the San Marco library, poring over Plato’s
Republic
, the old man pointing with a gnarled finger at a difficult passage, and Lorenzo translating with a look of such transported joy you would have thought he was making love to a woman . . . except he was ten years old.”

Lorenzo laughed at that.

“I’m glad to see you here, Cato,” Botticelli went on. “Another good mind is always welcome at the table. The more voices, the fiercer the arguments.”

“I’m delighted to be here,” I said, “though I admit to an utter state of awe.”

“How can one not be awed?” Botticelli continued. “Can you imagine how it was for me, a working-class boy of fifteen being taken under the wing of Cosimo de’ Medici, the greatest man in Italy, and being raised like a son in his wonderful family? Then, the most divine woman, Lorenzo’s mother, became my most generous patron. If there is Heaven on earth, I swear it has been my life so far.”

The sudden sound of a gong being struck three times reverberated authoritatively through the palazzo.

“That is our dinner being served,” Lorenzo said. “Shall we?”

 

With that, we three companionable fellows walked shoulder to shoulder back out into the central courtyard and toward a rear doorway.

“Say hello to Hadrian,” Botticelli quipped, acknowledging a marble bust of the infamous Roman emperor in a niche above the door.

“He is Sandro’s favorite sodomite,” Lorenzo added with an indulgent smile that left me wondering about what other indulgences were acceptable in this household.

We exited the palazzo and stepped as if into another world. Sheltered from the bustle and stark stone of the city, here between ivy-covered walls, was a living paradise—Verrocchio’s garden a hundred times over. Footpaths wound through a riot of flowering bushes, patches of blossoms and grasses, short and tall. Artfully pruned trees and others as wild as nature had made them shared the garden with a pair of strutting peacocks and what sounded like an entire flock of songbirds trilling ardently. Through the greenery and splashing fountains I caught a glimpse of a large, masterful bronze statue—a woman about to behead a cowering man. This was no simpering Madonna, I thought. “This way,” Lorenzo said. “We’re dining under the loggia.”

The south wall of the garden was dominated by three sweeping stone arches separated by ancient marble columns in the Greek style. A moment later we’d passed through the arches to be confronted by a high-vaulted chamber and an immense dining table, perhaps the largest single piece of furniture I had ever in my life seen.

It would have easily seated forty, but places were set only at one end—I counted eight. Though the silver filigreed candelabra and salt-cellar would have paid for a whole new section of Vinci to be built, the place settings surprised me with their simplicity—terra-cotta plates and goblets, no finer than would be found on my father’s table.

The other diners were flowing in through all three archways now. There was a young woman who, I surmised, must be Lorenzo’s wife, Clarice Orsini. My friend Benito had been right; the newest member of the Medici clan had a palpable air of snobbery about her. She was tall, though not as tall as me, with a pale moon face on a long thin neck and a headful of tightly curled hair, more red than blond. She was not unpretty, but the aloof tilt of her chin, and her lips, which seemed perpetually pursed, made me sorry for Lorenzo the instant I set eyes on her.

Giuliano and Lucrezia de’ Medici clutched either arm of Piero. First Giuliano seated his mother, then together with Lorenzo the boys helped their father to his chair at the head of the table. The ruler of Florence grimaced as his knees bent to sit.

Giuliano and Lucrezia took places on Piero’s right and left, Lorenzo and his wife next to Giuliano, and I across from Lorenzo at their mother’s side. Sandro Botticelli sat next to me. Next to Clarice was an empty place setting. No one spoke of it.

“This is my new friend, Cato Cattalivoni,” Lorenzo announced, sounding very pleased. He introduced me in turn to his mother, father, brother, and wife.

“Will you make a blessing on our table, Lucrezia?” Piero asked his wife in a voice rough with suffering.

We all closed our eyes as she prayed.

She spoke in a lovely, melodious tone, and suddenly I felt a pang of longing, almost to the point of physical pain, for my own gentle mother, whom I had never known.

The blessing was over and the servers were bringing in wooden platters of steaming loin of veal with sour orange relish, and ravioli in a fragrant saffron broth. The chicken with fennel was equally delightful, and an herb and mushroom omelet was redolent with mint and parsley and marjoram. This would certainly be a feast, but it was, I realized, one of the simplest food, none that Magdalena had not served my father and me a hundred times.

Suddenly I heard my name spoken. Lorenzo was addressing his parents. “Do you remember that fabulous mechanical sun and constellation that Verrocchio and his apprentices erected for our third wedding feast?” His mother nodded. “Cato’s nephew, Leonardo da Vinci, designed it. Cato has just opened a wonderful apothecary on Via Riccardi.”

“Really it is my master’s shop,” I demurred. “He’ll be joining me presently.”

“You are modest, Cato. You yourself refurbished the place and made it a thing of beauty.”

“Whosever shop it is, we are delighted to have you at our table, Cato,” Lucrezia said, leveling me with a warm and welcoming smile. I could see that her two front teeth crossed a touch at the bottom, but it only increased her charm.

“Oh, I so loved the sun and stars!” Clarice cried, sounding more like a little girl than a woman. “We had three feasts,” she told me across the table, “one more splendid than the last. My in-laws built a great ballroom out into the Via Larga, just for the occasion. We had fifty dishes at each feast.” And she added pointedly, “Served on the
best
gold plate!”

“Clarice thinks us very strange for eating simple fare on stoneware when we dine as a family,” Lorenzo told me, trying to suppress his amusement. “In fact, the first time her mother came for a visit, she was insulted by it.”

“Well, it is strange, husband. And it was positively embarrassing when instead of sitting with our guests at the wedding feast, you stood up and
waited
on them.”

“That is nothing for you to be embarrassed about, Clarice,” Lucrezia said. “Lorenzo has a fine sense about what is right and proper in any given situation. He has since he was very young. Do you suppose his father would have sent him at the age of sixteen to visit the new pope if he had—”

“I was seventeen, Mama.”

“Sixteen when you went to Milan as a proxy at the wedding of the Duke of Sforza’s son . . . ,” she insisted, “and on the way, investigated our banks in Bologna, Venice, and Ferrara. And you are quite right, my darling.” She smiled at Lorenzo. “You
were
seventeen when your papa sent you to Rome to wrest a concession from the pope for our family to work the alum mines in papal territories.”

“Your brothers advised me all the way,” he said to his mother. He seemed embarrassed at the praise being heaped on him in front of me. But Lucrezia was not finished.

“Well, my brothers were not present when you visited that appalling creature in Naples.” Lucrezia addressed me directly now. “Don Ferrante, the ruler there, is renowned for his extreme cruelty and violence. He is positively determined to rule the whole of Italy. My husband sent Lorenzo to discover the man’s intentions.”

“And I never did,” Lorenzo demurred.

“But you fascinated the man. Charmed him. And came to an understanding with him that has held Tuscany in good stead with Naples ever since.”

“Please, Mama,” Lorenzo begged her.

“I know how to silence her,” Giuliano said with a wicked grin.

“No, son,” she pleaded, appearing to know what was coming. She began to flush pink.

“Our mother,” he began, “is the most accomplished woman of the century.”

“A noted poetess,” Lorenzo went on, pleased that the conversation had veered away from himself. “She has written in
terza rima
a life of Saint John the Baptist, and a brilliant verse on her favorite biblical heroine, Judith.”

“That big-boned woman in the garden about to decapitate Holofernes,” Sandro told me.

Lucrezia, sincere in her modesty, sat with downcast eyes, knowing she could not quiet the boys and their litany of her accomplishments.

“She is a friend and patron of artists and scholars,” Giuliano boasted.

“And a businesswoman of some merit.” This was Piero who had chimed in. “Do not forget the sulfur springs at Morba that she purchased from the republic and turned into a successful health resort.”

“Enough! All of you! I shall never brag about any of you ever again,” she announced with comic solemnity. There were murmurings of mock approval all around the table. “Though it
is
a mother’s right,” she added, as if to have the final word.

I smiled inwardly, agreeing with her entirely. It was indeed a mother’s right to brag about her children. To glow with the pride of their accomplishments. But here at this table I was witnessing a remarkable happenstance—children that were reveling in their mother’s achievements.

I suddenly noticed that despite Piero’s enjoyment of this family banter, the patriarch’s eyes were closed. Giuliano, too, had observed this.

“Papa!” the younger son cried. Piero’s eyes sprang open. “Why were you sitting there with your eyes closed?”

He smiled sadly at the boy. “To get them used to it,” he said.

There were cries all around of “No, Papa!” “Don’t say such a thing!”

Lucrezia grabbed his sore-knuckled fist and bit her lip. She looked at me imploringly.

“Have you anything for pain, Cato? All of my husband’s physicians have thrown up their hands with it.”

I looked around, momentarily unsure about talking of so intimate a subject at this table, but I could feel all around me the raw love and concern of family for family, and no less affection in Sandro Botticelli’s eyes than in Lorenzo’s or Giuliano’s.
Manners be damned,
I thought. I leaned toward Piero.

“Is there a repression of urine?” I asked, and he nodded yes. “Frequent fevers?”

“Almost every day,” Lucrezia answered for him.

I was silent for a time, recalling a decoction my father had once made for Signor Lezi’s condition, one that closely resembled the Medici patriarch’s. It had not cured the gout, but had considerably lessened the man’s fever and suffering.

“If your sons”—I smiled at all the young men, Sandro included— “will come to my shop tomorrow, I will send them home with something that I promise will help you.”

Lucrezia bit her lip and blinked back tears of gratitude.

“Thank you, Cato,” Lorenzo said. “We all thank you.” He grinned. “First thing in the morning we’ll be descending on your apothecary like a pack of hungry dogs.”

Now everyone was smiling. Even Piero looked hopeful.

“Forgive my tardiness,” I heard from one of the garden archways. We all looked up to see a sweet-faced man of perhaps thirty-five, hurrying to take his place across the table from me, next to Clarice.

Lorenzo nodded at me. “Let me introduce you to our beloved tutor and longtime family friend, Marsilio Ficino.”

I was startled, to say the least. Ficino was a legendary scholar, one of the greatest writers and translators in the world. “Silio,” Lorenzo went on, “meet our new friend, Cato the Apothecary.”

I detected pride in this introduction, and was pleased that my new identity was more than accepted. I sat a bit taller in my chair. This evening that had begun as extraordinary was becoming fantastical. I, at the Palazzo Medici offering medical advice to the patriarch of Florence, and now meeting Marsilio Ficino!
Would my father believe me?
I wondered. Then I remembered what he had said when he’d given me his cache of precious books—that I would need them when I was in the company of great men.
How had he known?

My mind had wandered momentarily, but when I refocused it on the table I found that the discussion had turned to a most fascinating subject, and I prayed I had not missed a single thought. Lorenzo was speaking in the most reverential tones of an ancient text recovered six years before that had been given to Ficino to translate.