Signora Da Vinci (52 page)

The congregation, even much used to Savonarola’s dire words, sensed some new horror to be predicted.

“I have had a vision,” he cried. “A vision placed before my eyes by God Himself! Unless you turn to the Golden Cross, disaster will befall you. But this is no mere pestilence, my children,” he raged, reaching his arms high above his head. “This is the apocalypse of
war
!”

Above the frightened murmuring and shouts of fear from a people who had not in their lifetimes known war, the prior went on.

“The Lord has placed me here as a watchman in the center of Italy that you may hear my words and know them for the truth.” He paused again, so that the petrified listeners had quieted completely. “A foreign enemy will soon be pouring down across the Alps. You had perhaps feared invasion from the East—the Turks. But no, it will be a great king from the
north
, bringing with him hordes of soldiers like barbers, armed with gigantic razors!”

A woman near me fainted into her husband’s arms.

I squeezed Papa’s hand
. The prior had read the forged letter and fallen into our trap
. The “king from the north” crossing over the Alps with his hordes was certainly Charles, and his “gigantic razors” could be nothing other than Leonardo’s scythe weapon. As we made for the door I nearly collided with a tall, elegantly dressed man. It was Piero da Vinci, his face looking like one of Leonardo’s carnival masks—the face of fear. Piero was old to my eyes. There was no remnant of that beauty of his youth, not that at our age anyone was beautiful, or much cared about such things. But all I could see was the toll that a lifetime of greed and stinginess with love had carved into his features. Now in addition there was the ugliness of terror. Like so many other Florentines, he had fallen victim to Savonarola’s threats of fiery damnation.

And now war.

CHAPTER 39

King Charles and thirty thousand soldiers climbed over the Alps and invaded Milan. In a turn of events that took
Il Moro
’s subjects—if not we conspirators—by surprise, he welcomed the army with open arms and an open purse. Even though the French hordes did not come brandishing Leonardo’s “gigantic razors,” they caused much death and destruction with their fearsome “cannon”—large guns that propelled not the stone projectiles that had always been used, but iron “cannonballs.” By the banks of the river Taro more than two thousand Venetians were killed in one battle alone.

Of course Prior Savonarola was positively exuberant. “My prophecy has proven true!” he cried from his pulpit from the moment word came that a “king from the north” had crossed the Alps. As glad as I was that the Dominican had fallen into our trap, it was horrible to watch the final downfall of Florence and the pathetic flailings of Piero de’ Medici.

Lorenzo’s arrogant son decided he would face his enemy and negotiate a settlement. But once shat upon by the King of France, and after acceding to every one of Charles’s outrageous demands, he slunk back into Florence to report his defeat. The gates of the Signoria were literally slammed in his face, and the disgusted citizens threw stones at him and his family. Stones! Then the city fathers banished the Medici forever from Florence. They fled, every one, like thieves in the middle of the night.

But there was worse to come.

Florentine mobs broke into the deserted Palazzo Medici and looted it. I forced myself to bear witness as they desecrated that place of beauty, comfort, and learning. I was glad my love had not lived to see this day.

Two days later, Charles and his enormous army marched into a panic-stricken Florence.

With everything here destroyed and Lorenzo gone, I took some solace as I began my prearranged correspondence with Roderigo, dispatching the messenger with plenty of gold to hurry him on his way.

CHAPTER 40

I knew that when I opened my front door Leonardo would be standing there, yet the sight of him thrilled me as deeply as had seeing him at sixteen, posing as the biblical David in Verrocchio’s bottega garden. Ours had been a lifetime of separations and homecomings, none of them ever the same, except for the solace we always found in each other’s arms.

Papa had come down to greet him and I watched them embrace, my son in the full bloom of manly vigor, my father on the cusp of frailty.

“I worried I would be recognized in the city,” Leonardo said, pulling off his hooded cloak, “but it is more that I do not recognize Florence. What a sad, gloomy place it’s become.” He looked around him at the sparsely furnished ground floor—a few benches and a storeroom. “Not to see an apothecary where you two are . . .”

“We haven’t even a garden,” Papa said, climbing the stairs to the first floor.

Leonardo and I followed him into the salon. This was comfortable enough, with some cushioned chairs and a table. But the books that had always been so evident in all our homes were strangely absent. Of this there was no need to comment.

We sat at the table. The simple dinner I’d prepared awaited. Papa poured wine.

“I’m glad you and Grandfather were together in such terrible times,” Leonardo said.

I reached for Papa’s hand and closed my fingers around his. “We were very blessed. Poor Pico. He died on the morning the French marched in and occupied the city. I’m sure that one tragedy caused the other.”

“Thankfully there were no casualties from the invasion in my household but one,” Leonardo said. “My bronze horse. All that metal I’d collected for it was melted down to make shot for the French military. Certainly I was bereft for a time. I’d worked so long on the thing. Then to see it used that way . . .” He allowed himself a wry smile. “But Ludovico took pity on me.”

“
The Last Supper
fresco on the refectory wall?” I asked, remembering mention of it in a letter from him.

Leonardo sighed. “I am mightily tired of all these Christian subjects demanded of me, but that is where my living is made, I suppose.” He turned to Papa. “I’m sorry to say I had to kill your daughter. Neighbors and vendors kept asking me why they had not seen Caterina, so I told them she was ill. Signora Ricci insisted she must come see her friend and bring some remedies.” He looked at me with a long face. “Sadly, you died. I tearfully bought three pounds of wax for your funeral candles and paid eight soldis for your bier. I applied for the license for burial, but the ceremony took place so quickly—and I was so distraught—that you were dead and buried before anyone knew it. When you return to Milan I’m afraid you’ll have to assume another woman’s disguise. Perhaps you could be my housekeeper,” he joked.

“What of your flying machine?” I asked.

“My first attempt to soar was off the roof of Corte Vecchio. It was a failure, though it could have been a bit less humiliating. I came close to murdering Salai. After I’d crashed to a landing in the center of the Cathedral Piazza . . .”

I gasped aloud at that. I could tell Leonardo was enjoying his storytelling.

“. . . my darling son came running over at the head of a concerned crowd of Milanese, and once finding me alive and in one piece, began to laugh so hard that he bent over double and fell to the ground. Of course his merriment was contagious to everyone . . . but me.”

“I know you take it lightly,” Papa said, “this obsession of yours to fly. But if something should happen to you, Leonardo, think of your mother. . . .”

My child was suddenly contrite, but when he turned to look at me he found me trying to suppress my amusement. “Are you smiling, Mama?”

I put my fist to my lips. “Sorry. I was just remembering . . .” I gazed at my father. “When I was a girl . . .”

“A wild creature,” he said.

“. . . all I wanted to do was run in the hills and the meadows. Throw my arms wide and pretend I was a hawk, gliding in the clouds, graceful and free.” I fixed my eyes on Leonardo, understanding. “It is the
freedom
, is it not?”

He nodded once, overcome, his eyes suddenly glittering with tears. But when we looked to my father we found him gazing blankly at his plate.

“No shop, no garden, no customers,” he said with an air of self-indulgence I had never in all my life heard from him. “Not so long ago I was traveling the Silk Road on the back of a camel. Now I can feel the fingers of decrepitude clutching at me.”

“Well, you just slap them away, Papa,” I said. “A new day is dawning in Florence. And you’ve no excuse for getting old.”

He seemed to collect himself, sitting up straighter in his chair.

“To Pico. To Lorenzo. To Florence,” Leonardo intoned. “And to the return of Reason.”

We three clinked our glasses in a solemn, triumphant pyramid and drank in grateful silence. I was afraid to believe it possible. But that day was coming, and we at this table had helped to make it so.