The Medici Boy (35 page)

“He is well settled too.”

“But in Prato.”

“You will work better without him.”

“If I can work at all.”

But over the coming months he did work and he worked well, his longing for Agnolo caught up into his creation of a Christus that had suffered physically and in his heart as well. Love rejected. Hope betrayed. A Christus whose face is a map of disappointment and despair.

Donatello took on two new apprentices, young boys more remarkable for their strength than for their beauty. He hired three new assistants, men as experienced as Pagno and I, and he turned over to them the heavy work of casting and assembling. The chasing and polishing he reserved for himself.

In this way it was not long before the iron cross was cast and gilded. The corpus of the Christ was cast in four pieces, a miracle of detail and exquisite in finish. The torment he has suffered is evident in his face. His cheeks are sunken, his eyes hollowed, and his mouth hangs slightly open as if he has only now ceased to gasp for breath. The hairs of his beard are modeled flawlessly and the hair of his head is pulled back to reveal the strain in his neck as his head falls forward and to one side. The body of the Christ, broken though it is, remains perfect in its bones and sinews. He is naked, his private parts barely visible, a shaming to our eyes.

Donatello has caught the moment of death in the timeless act of martyrdom. Here truly is a man crucified by our sins. Brunelleschi would look upon this crucifix with wonder and admiration.

Even before the crucifix was finished, the marvel of it had spread throughout the city. Donatello was the genius of our age. There was no sculptor who could compare. He must remain forever in Padua.

The formal commission for the equestrian Gattamelata—and the money to execute it—followed fast upon news of the crucifix. Even before Donatello could give thought to this new commission—a marble tomb surmounted by a horse and rider in bronze, nearly twelve feet long and thirteen feet high—he was visited by another, even greater commission. He was to create a new high altar for the Basilica, with statues of six saints and the Virgin Mary.

Money poured in for these commissions. Our
bottega
expanded to include two shops adjacent to the Piazza Sant’ Antonio. A new and enlarged foundry was created from another two shops near the expanded
bottega
. Skilled workmen were hired to do construction along with workmen who specialized in the use of wood and wax and bronze. By the feast of Epiphany 1447 there were some fourteen men employed in our
bottega
, along with one woman—Ria Scarpetti—an Amazon the size of Michelozzo who was hired for her expertise in the pouring of bronze.

All this expansion of workers and work place consumed much time and Donatello used it to conceive and sketch out designs for a new high altar with bronze and marble panels before and behind it and, surmounting the altar itself, six bronze statues of saints dear to Padua. Seated in the center would be the Blessed Virgin holding the child Jesus. These designs he executed with meticulous care so that sculptors less skilled than himself could follow his precise directions and, under his watchful eye, proceed with the creation of the altar panels first and then the statues that would surmount the altar. The finished work would appear to be from the unique hand of Donatello himself. It was as if the
bottega
—now a small army of assistants—had somehow become an extension of a single mind and heart. With no mention of Agnolo Mattei.

Overwhelmed but completely engaged in the work unfolding in his name, Donatello was not prepared for the news that came on August 14, 1447. Agnolo had once again entered his life.

CHAPTER
36

E
ARLY IN
A
UGUST
Agnolo was arrested in Prato and would remain in prison there until his fate was determined: exile or death. Donatello decided therefore that I should go to Prato to learn the precise charges against him and then to Florence to seek the intervention of Cosimo de’ Medici. At the last moment Donatello said that Pagno would accompany me since he might prove more persuasive with Cosimo. I was offended by this, of course. I had designed and executed the two gold manuscript caskets for either side of his private altar and I had long served as copyist for his most prized Latin scrolls and I had proved useful in transferring his gold florins to San Miniato al Monte only days before his arrest and exile. And he had told me he would not forget me. Did all this count for nothing? But Donatello pointed out that it was Pagno whom Cosimo had requested to pose for the bronze bust that now stood in his great salon and that Cosimo was ever devoted to youth and beauty. I did not point out that at thirty-five years Pagno had not been a youth for some time and that Cosimo’s love of beauty was limited to bronze and paint and parchment. Instead I offered a grudging, “As you say.” Thus it was with no good feeling between us that Pagno and I set out for Prato.

“That bronze bust of you counts for much with Donatello,” I said. “Let us hope it counts for as much with my lord Cosimo de’ Medici.”

“I may yet prove of some use,” Pagno replied. And with that said, and pondered, we kept the rest of our thoughts to ourselves.

* * *

W
E ARRIVED IN
Prato late in the morning of August 17. It was a cool day for August, with a soft blue sky and the promise of more clement weather. There was birdsong and the lowing of cattle in the fields and we found ourselves full of excitement and energy. Suddenly a good feeling sprang up between us.

As we entered the main square, the Piazza San Giovanni, we had our first sight of Donatello’s pulpit on which we had both worked but which we had never seen fully assembled. It was a glorious thing, all white marble with a gold mosaic background and a bronze capital. A gigantic umbrella of holly oak spread its shadow over the pulpit and threw into relief the row of seven huge panels where singing and dancing
putti
were praising God for his mighty acts. It was at once both gigantic and airily beautiful, a perfect site for the annual display of the Virgin’s sash. Pagno pointed out the
putti
he had carved and, in a moment of truthfulness, admitted how much inferior they were to Donatello’s. He expected me to agree, but—as Donatello’s bookkeeper and accountant—I was lost in my own thoughts about payment for the finished work. It was now 1447 and Donatello and Michelozzo had still not received their final payment of—I think I remember correctly—some seven hundred lire.

“The rich are just like us, only stingier. They don’t pay their bills.”

“How can you think of money when you look on something this magnificent?”

“I lack your poetic soul, Pagno. And remember, I keep the books.”

And so our mood turned sour again.

* * *

P
AGNO AND
I refreshed ourselves with a tankard of wine before braving the prison. A pretty serving girl lingered at our table, attracted I must admit by Pagno rather than by me, but I fixed her with a look and told her that she was very fair. Pagno seemed mindful only of what lay ahead of us at the prison.

“This is no easy task,” I said, trying to put aside the sour mood.

“It’s for Donatello. We owe him much.”

We drank some more. The serving girl flashed me a generous smile.

“You were ever close to him. To Agnolo, I mean.”

“And you were his brother.” Pagno laughed a little to let me know he was joking.

“
Attenzione
!”

“He’s of an age when he should have put all this behind him.”

I passed up the easy joke of “behind him” and said, “He has thirty-three years now. He is the age of Jesus.”

We pondered this sobering thought and had another tankard of wine.

“It’s time,” Pagno said. “We must look in on our brother prisoner.”

We finished our wine and made ready to go but first I asked the serving girl her name and she replied, “Marguerita” with such sweetness that I knew she would let me purchase her affection for an hour or an evening. I told her I hoped I would see her again.

The prison was located just off the Piazza San Giovanni. It was a makeshift affair, a series of cells in the basement of the Palazzo Pretorio, the ancient castle that served as government offices for the Podestà. We approached the gate and explained that our desire was to speak with a prisoner. The guard at the door was unoccupied and free to make difficulties about our request.

He asked if we were the prisoner’s lawyers and, since we were not, did we come with governmental authority? Were we representatives of the Podestà or the Otto di Guardia? Were we relatives of the prisoner?

“He is my brother,” I said. “In a sense.”

“In a sense?”

“We were raised by the same parents. I had a different father.”

“So you are half-brothers?”

“In a sense.”

“What was your brother’s alleged crime?”

“Sodomy.”

He gave a half smile at this. “Not a first charge, I think.”

“There have been several charges.”

“Torture perhaps. Perhaps death.”

“We would like to see him.”

“You can hope for exile.”

“If we could see him . . . ?”

Pagno slipped a silver florin into his hand and the guard nodded, satisfied, and led us down a steep flight of stairs to the prison cells.

The air was cold and stank of sweat and urine with hardly any light to see by. There was the prison noise you would expect—fighting and cursing—but as the guard appeared leading two strangers the cells nearest us fell quiet. Our eyes adjusted to the gloom and we could make out cells full of prisoners, ten or twelve to each cell. They were starved-looking, lost behind their iron bars.

“Mattei!” the guard shouted. “Agnolo Mattei!”

There was no immediate response and so the guard said, “He is not here,” and turned to lead us out.

“Agnolo!” I called out and again, “Agnolo!” One of the prisoners shouted, “He’s here,” and pointed to what looked like a pile of rags beneath a bench.

Agnolo got up slowly from the floor and approached the bars where we stood waiting. He clung to the iron grill for support and the other prisoners gathered around him to listen in. “Twenty minutes,” the guard said and left us.

Agnolo stared at us with glassy eyes, empty. I could hardly bear to return his gaze. He was filthy, of course, and he looked near death. He was so thin that the flesh seemed to have fallen away from his body leaving only a skeleton. His eyes were sunk deep in his head and his cheekbones appeared about to poke through the flesh. I thought of my Franco Alessandro and his five arrests and I prayed that he was not again in jail.

Agnolo coughed and for the first time I felt pity for him.

“I knew you’d come,” he said and, reaching through the bars, he took my hand in his. “You are a true brother.”

“Are you well?” Pagno asked nervously and I looked at him as if he were mad. “I mean, have they set the charges against you? And can we help?”

“My friend,” Agnolo said. “My true friend.”

“The charges,” I said. “What are the charges against you?”

“The charge is rape. But the boy offered himself. I paid. It was not rape.”

“Was he a boy still? Was he underage?”

“He was fifteen. And willing. He gladly took money, but after his arrest he gave up my name. It was his father who claimed the act was rape.”

“So do they all,” one of the prisoners said, leaning on Agnolo’s shoulder. “We are worth more to them in fines than what we pay to fuck them.”

One-fourth of the sodomite’s fine was paid to the anonymous denouncer. Everyone knew that.

“We want to get you out of here, rape or not,” Pagno said. “We are going to seek powerful intervention. In Florence. You know the man. Do not mention his name here.”

“Is it Cosimo?” Agnolo asked. “If it is Cosimo he will surely help me.”

The prisoners looked at one another, surprised.

“Tell him I too am innocent of rape,” a prisoner said.

“And I.”

“And I.”

“We need the name of the boy’s father,” I said. “Whisper it to me.”

He whispered the name of Rinaldo di Bino and I had him repeat it for surety and I turned to leave. I was surprised to see Pagno lean against the bars and kiss him lightly on the lips, like a saint with a leper.

We retraced our steps down the corridor and up the stairs where the guards saw us out.

* * *

P
AGNO THOUGHT TO
set off at once for Florence but I wanted to linger in Prato for the rest of the day. In truth I wanted to revisit the Tintori where the wool dyers worked at their boiling vats and I wanted to revisit the Camposino San Paolo where I had first met Maria Sabina and, yes, I wanted to revisit Marguerita, the willing serving girl from the
taverna
, and have sex with her.

“At a time like this?”

“We would be late getting to Florence if we left right now and besides Prato is my home city. I served as a Brother of Saint Francis here.”

“But you want to go whoring, Brother Luca.”

“I am a weak man. I confess it.”

Pagno was defeated by this and said simply, “As are we all.”

So we visited the cathedral and studied the outdoor pulpit again for a long time and then Pagno accompanied me on a walk through the Tintori and the Gualdimare, with a pause I did not explain at the ruined houses in the tiny Camposino San Paolo. I said an Ave there for the repose of the soul of Maria Sabina and another for the good health of my wife Alessandra. Pagno was surprised to see me mumble my prayers and make my sign of the cross because, though he did not say so, he had come to think I was without religious feeling.

“Alessandra lived here,” I said. “My wife.”

Pagno nodded, given over to his own thoughts.

We returned to the cathedral, and as it grew dusk we found an inn just off the Piazza San Giovanni and rented a room for the night. We sat down to a trestle table and were brought a stew of lamb and vegetables and some stout bread. We ate in silence.

“I can think only of that boy,” Pagno said, and pushed aside his half-empty plate. “He looks to be dying. All bones and misery. He stinks of death.”