The Medici Boy (14 page)

At the horseblock outside the door the great Cosimo de’ Medici stood looking after Agnolo, a broad smile on his face. I bowed to him and retreated into the
bottega
.

At once Pagno approached me with a knowing grin. “A little problem with the boy?” he asked. Pagno was one of those men who sees sin everywhere, in everyone, as if the greatest pleasure lay in sniffing out the failings of others. He was twenty-two years of age and had never known love. No, nor sex either, I thought.

“He’s my brother,” I said and turned away from him.

“Oh? Your brother? Indeed!” Pagno said.

I
N ANOTHER WEEK
Agnolo returned. For the past two days it had been raining and the
bottega
was heavy with the stink of wet wool and sweat and the earthy smell of cut marble. Lamps were lit throughout the vast room and flares were set beside the Annunciation where Donatello was at work. I had finished feeding the chickens and was in the workyard pulling down hay for Fiametta when Agnolo arrived, drenched through, stamping his feet against the wet.

I came back into the workplace and noticed him at once. He was standing at the door, his hat in his hands, aware every moment that he was being looked at. His hair was drenched, his clothes clung to his body. He looked a misery. The orange cat ran to him and rubbed herself against his leg and he shoved her away with his foot. Good, I thought, let them all see his heartlessness: he has rejected the cat. But of course no one cared. It was just a cat.

At this moment Pagno went to him and said something and they both laughed quietly, like conspirators. I went up to them and Pagno gave me a look and said, “Your brother.”

I waited till Pagno left us, then I said, “I told you not to.”

“I came in out of the rain.”

“What do you want? You couldn’t have gone through all that money in these few days. And you’re not supposed to come here.”

Agnolo hung his head, a penitent.

“Well?”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

“Well, what do you want?”

“I want nothing. I wanted only to see you.” He looked beyond me to where Donatello was at work on the Annunciation.

“Nobody wears boots like those except soldiers and whores,” I said.

“I know. I know.”

“And everyone knows how you paid for them.”

“They were not payment, they were a gift,” he said. He ignored me then, done with pretending to penitence, and instead tugged at the hem of his shirt to shake off the wet. He looked around the room boldly. His eyes darted from Donatello to Pagno where they stood together talking and then to the other assistants and apprentices.

“So many people work here.”

“And we’re always busy. That’s why you must not come here. We have work to do.”

“There’s a girl over there.”

“Yes.”

“Do girls make good stone pickers?”

“She paints. And she makes designs.”

“She is very fair. Is she your mistress? Or Donatello’s?”

“It’s not like that here.”

“It’s like that everywhere.” He gave a small poisoned smile.

“You should go,” I said. I could not think how to make him leave.

Meanwhile Pagno had lowered the money basket and raised it again and now he approached us, his mouth stretched in a grin.

“This is from your brother,” he said, and dropped a few
piccioli
into Agnolo’s outstretched hand. “Donatello is busy now.”

“You are most kind,” Agnolo said, and slid the coins into the small embroidered pouch he wore at his waist. “I am your servant.”

Pagno nodded his head, glanced at me, and left us.

“I know his kind,” Agnolo said, once Pagno was out of hearing. “He’ll do you a shrewd turn and rejoice in it.”

“And you?” I said.

“I? I’m just a poor boy of sixteen looking to please God.” He laughed then and ducked out into the rain.

* * *

T
HE NEXT TIME
I saw him he was inside the
bottega
itself, sitting on a stool next to Caterina as she painted the inside lid of Cosimo’s wedding chest. The painting showed Queen Esther, bare of breast, pleading before the King that he should spare her people. Agnolo sat watching, his feet planted firmly on the stone floor, his legs apart, playing the man. Caterina was absorbed in her painting, but she could not keep herself from turning now and again to respond to him as he talked. He had a way of fixing her with a glance that lasted a moment longer than necessary and seemed to send a message . . . of interest perhaps or of desire, if she preferred to regard it that way. He was a very practiced young man.

“I’ve met your brother,” Caterina said.

“He’s not my brother.”

“Luca is ashamed of me,” Agnolo said. “Can you believe such a thing?”

“No. Not Luca,” Caterina said and looked at me, an admonition.

It was clear she was taken with him. How could this be? His head was too big for his body and his body was soft and girlish. His skin was sickly white.

“I must get on with this
cassone
,” she said and turned back to her work.

Agnolo shifted his attention to me. “I talked to your friend, Michelozzo,” he said. “He told me Ser Donatello is away in Pisa.”

“Buying stone,” I said. “You should let Caterina get on with her work.” I took his arm and, reluctantly, he got to his feet.

“Michelozzo is very big. And handsome.”

He meant to annoy me so I did not respond.

“How old is Michelozzo?”

“Come. I’ll walk you out to the street.”

“Does he play the boy to Donatello?”

I struck him then, an open hand to his cheek that left a stinging red mark. He raised his fist as if to strike back, then thought better of it and left. Everyone pretended not to notice, except Pagno, who cast me that glancing smile of his.

* * *

I
T WAS SOME
time before Agnolo returned. Once again I was not there when he arrived—I was occupied in the storage area overseeing delivery of a large packet of wax blocks—and when I came out to the main room of the
bottega
, there was Agnolo deep in conversation with Donatello. They were standing together before the tabernacle of the Annunciation as Donatello explained to him what was happening in the scene before them.

“You see, the Angel Gabriel kneels before the Virgin and he has come in much haste,” Donatello said. He pointed to the feathered wings, still unfurled, rising behind the angel’s head. “Mary is startled, she is afraid, as who would not be? She has been at prayer and she is still clutching her book in her arm, see here, as she rises from her chair and makes as if to flee.” With his long fingers he traced the book and the arm and the figure rising from the chair. “Notice that the lower part of her body has turned away from the angel, her right foot is poised for flight. Do you see? And now the angel greets her, ‘Hail, full of grace!’ And at the angel’s words she turns back to him—notice the upper part of her body—and attends his message, so we see her face in profile, her hand above her heart. Her eyes are fixed on his eyes and she says, ‘Behold the handmaid of the Lord.’ And in that moment it is done. She is to be the Mother of the Christ.” Donatello stepped back and looked at his work, not altogether satisfied.

He had never explained to me what he was working on or what he hoped to achieve. He had never explained to anyone, until now.

“And this is all marble?” Agnolo asked.

“Limestone. The very best there is for carving.”

“You are very skilled.”

Donatello laughed softly at this. They stood there in silence for a moment and then Donatello placed his hand on Agnolo’s shoulder and squeezed it gently. Agnolo gave no sign that he felt the hand. Then, in the way he had done with all of us at one time or another, Donatello reached up and ruffled the boy’s hair. Agnolo shrugged his shoulders and pulled away. Donatello stepped back from him.

If there had been an offer, Agnolo had turned it away and Donatello recognized that. I watched to see what would happen next, but nothing happened. They continued to look at the Annunciation and then Agnolo said he had to go.

“To meet a friend?” Donatello asked.

Agnolo flushed and looked at the floor. After a moment he lifted his eyes to Donatello and gave him that look I had seen him give Caterina, lingering a moment too long, and with a kind of promise in his eyes.

“Could you spare a few
piccioli
? A loan only. I will repay you.” Donatello went to the basket and took out some money and gave it to him.

Agnolo looked at the coins in his hand. “So few?”

“Easier for you to repay,” Donatello said.

* * *

I
T WAS IN
this way that Agnolo became a frequent visitor to the
bottega
of my lords Donatello and Michelozzo. The assistants and the apprentices seemed to accept him as just another presence, here for a few minutes or a few hours and then gone again on his way. Caterina in particular seemed pleased by his visits. Michelozzo did not.

Agnolo made a show of repaying Donatello’s few
piccioli
and a week later borrowed some more. Donatello gave without hesitation, as he gave to anyone in need, but finally one day he said, “How do you plan on repaying me?”

Agnolo had watched Caterina posing for Donatello and now, without hesitation, he said, “I can pose for you.” He lowered his glance.

“If you find me comely enough.”

“You are comely enough.”

Agnolo cast him a long look.

“As Ganymede, perhaps.” Donatello paused. “The beloved of Zeus.”

“Ganymede.”

“Or as the boy David.” They continued to stare at one another, Agnolo eager, Donatello curious.

I could not understand his fascination for the boy. He seemed to think he was in truth a new Ganymede, the perfect boy, with his thick yellow hair and his long, thin body, like a girl’s. Everything about Agnolo was girlish, especially his hair. He fussed with it constantly, pushing it back and tossing it to the side, calling attention to it. One day he arrived with the sides cut shorter than the back, so that in the front it fell in thick curls about his ears but in the back it hung down until it touched his shoulders. He wore a farmer’s hat—a
galero
—a ridiculous affectation, with a laurel wreath around the crown—and of course he was never without those expensive leather boots, the gift from his soldier. To me he appeared laughable, the toy of sodomites. I could not abide him.

“We’ll talk of this later,” Donatello said and returned to his work.

“And where is your soldier these days?” I asked. “You seem to spend a good part of your day with us.”

Agnolo took no offense at this, and merely said, “He’s in Lucca, fighting. He could not take me with him.”

“And you would go if you could?”

“It would be my duty.”

“Duty? Are you his bride?”

“He gives me gifts and I am faithful to him. I am not like some of the boys. I am not for sale at the Buco.”

“But you were for sale at the Buco. That is where he bought you.”

“You want only to hurt.”

And he was right. I did want to hurt him. And to spare my master Donatello, since it was clear how tightly he was wound in Agnolo’s web.

“And Donatello?” I asked. “You are faithful to him as well?”

“My lord Donatello is a great worker in stone, but he is an old man of more than forty years. I have no designs on him.”

“But does he have designs on you?”

He smiled, then, on one side of his mouth. “Most men do,” he said. And then he added, as an afterthought, “I would rather Caterina.”

And so the situation was impossible. He would pose for Donatello and Donatello would wind himself tighter into that web and in the end it would all come to no good. I knew this and I think Donatello knew it as well.

A
GNOLO, STRIPPED TO
his underdrawers, stood on the posing platform while Donatello sketched him from every angle. I stood behind, watching him sketch. It was August, one of those sweltering days in Florence when the heat is unendurable, and Agnolo was hot and restless.

Donatello was trying to encourage him to hold his pose.

“You have just killed Goliath with a stone from your slingshot. You have cut off his head with his own sword and now you stand with one foot on his severed head. It is not your triumph, it is God’s.”

“It’s too hot.”

“Stop moving about.”

For a few moments he stood still and the only sound was Donatello’s stylus scratching against the paper.

“I get itchy standing here.” Agnolo flicked his thumb against his waist and then slipped one long finger into his crotch. He let it rest there.

Donatello gave a quick intake of breath. I could hear the lust in his throat.

“Keep still.”

“As you wish.” But in a moment he touched his crotch once again, as if by chance. I thought I saw Donatello’s hand falter.

I turned away from them and found myself facing my lord Cosimo who had come in unannounced and stood there watching. He never interrupted Donatello at his work. I made him a small bow and he nodded in return. His servant Giacomo stood, silent, beside him.

Donatello had stopped sketching. Agnolo stood there motionless. There was a great silence and a pulsing in my ears as if I knew what was about to happen.

“Take off your clothes.”

“I’ve taken them off.”

“Take off all of them.”

“Even my boots?”

“Leave the boots on.”

Agnolo tugged the cord that held up his drawers and they fell to his feet. He kicked them aside and stood there, utterly comfortable in his nakedness. After a moment he raised one foot and rested it on the posing stool. He raised his hands to his hips. “Now what?” He looked down at himself to see how he must look to Donatello and he was satisfied by what he saw.

It was at this moment that my lord Cosimo finally spoke. “Goliath, conquered by the boy David.”

CHAPTER
16

I
T WAS NOT
clear to me what Cosimo de’ Medici intended when he said, “Goliath, conquered by the boy David.” Was he referring to the scene before him, with Agnolo as David, his boot resting on the head of Donatello? Cosimo was a quick, hard man and, though he loved Donatello, he knew his nature well. Or was he suggesting that here was the subject of a new sculpture? Donatello had carved two Davids already, one for the Duomo and another for the Martelli family, both of them in the old fashion, both of them in marble, both of them clothed. Agnolo would make a new kind of David altogether. There had not been a naked statue in perhaps a thousand years.