Immortal (35 page)

“Perspective wasn’t well worked out during Uccello’s time.” I shrugged, enjoying, as always, the give-and-take with the precocious youth.

“It still isn’t,” Leonardo said, gesturing with his beautiful hands. “I will perfect it. I will be famous for it; people will talk about my work for generations.”

“I’m sure you will. And I will still appreciate Uccello.”

“You can ogle this mediocre painting, I’m going to look at the clock Uccello painted; time and timekeeping interest me,” Leonardo sniffed. He went off and after a while I went to sit in a pew and look up into Brunelleschi’s marvelous Duomo. This was my form of prayer, the reverence I had it within me to tender: perusing, admiring, and adoring beautiful art. Creeds and faiths and myths of virgin birth and crucifixion meant little to me, convinced as I was that human life was a joke that brought laughter either to an ill-tempered divine intelligence or to a kind one, according to their engagement in a war no man understood. In beauty, in art, I found peace. I found freedom and redemption.

It was only a few minutes before Leonardo came back. “Luca, Luca,” he whispered. His face was puckered with worry. “There are men over there talking, and you should listen. I think they’re plotting against Lorenzo’s papa! I heard them, and then I had one of those glances into the future that come over me: blood on the road to Florence!”

I went with him toward the front of the church. We moved nonchalantly, and when we stood in front of Uccello’s clock with its star-shaped hand and twenty-four-hour cycle of the day, we heard men speaking in low voices. Something about the shape of the cathedral carried their words to us. I stood still, listening. When the voices stopped, I knew what I had to do.

“We’re leaving at once for Careggi,” I told Leonardo. “I’ll take you home first.”

“I’m going with you,” he insisted. “I always like talking to Signore Ficino.”

LEONARDO AND I ARRIVED
at the Medici villa in Careggi in the afternoon, our horses soaked in sweat. I didn’t like riding Ginori so hard, except for such urgent need. The Moorish servant took the horses, telling me that Lorenzo was in the garden with Ficino and others. I ran around to a side entrance with Leonardo at my heels. Ficino and some visiting Greek scholars sat on benches beneath the poplars with thick afternoon sunlight dappling their shoulders. I greeted them hurriedly and asked for Lorenzo.

“Lorenzo has gone inside,” Ficino said. He turned to Leonardo. “Young signore Leonardo, you’re taller every time I see you! Tell me, have you returned to finish our discussion about finding the daimon who will lead your life?”

“The daimons are the unnamed spirits who motivate and guide life.” Leonardo smiled. “You say that whoever examines himself thoroughly will find his own daimon. I say that I go deep into myself to see how deep is the place from which my life flows. That’s how to live a soulful life!”

“I say I have to find Lorenzo de’ Medici right now,” I growled with great impatience, “or life won’t flow well for any of us!”

“Inside. Piero’s ill again. He came an hour ago from Florence in a litter.” Ficino waved.

I bolted inside toward Cosimo’s old chambers, which were now inhabited by the invalid Piero. When I reached the chambers, Piero was being made comfortable. Lorenzo sat on the edge of the bed, talking to his father, while servants bustled around.

“Excuse me, signori,” I called. “I have urgent news for you!”

“Easy, Bastardo, is the house on fire?” Lorenzo smiled at me.

“Would that the Lord would grant me that kind of energy,” Piero said. He wasn’t a bad-looking man, especially as the Medici went, with his determined chin and well-proportioned features, but the droopy eyelids and swollen glands on his throat made him look sleepy and ill. I knew him to be patient and courteous, and because of my long experience as a physico, I guessed that what others perceived as a certain coolness in his character resulted from prolonged physical discomfort. His lips compressed and I knew that he was in pain again, and my heart sank. Florence needed him to rise to the challenge that was now facing him.

“The Medici house may catch fire,” I said, motioning for the servants to leave. “Leonardo and I were at Santa Maria del Fiore and we overheard men discussing the insanity of Sforza’s son in Milan. They said that with Piero ill and the Medici’s ally Milan in the hands of a lunatic, Florence is alarmed, faith in the Medici is low, and now is the time to strike against the Medici!”

“Nonno made an alliance with Milan the cornerstone of his foreign policy,” Lorenzo said, leaping to his feet beside me. “He did not foresee the jeopardy we would be placed in upon Sforza’s death! Luca, who did you overhear?”

“Dietisalvi Neroni and Niccolo Soderini. I heard them, I didn’t see them,” I admitted. “There are others involved, and a request to the republic of Venice and to Borso d’Este, the Duke of Ferrara, for armies to march against you. The Duke of Ferrara agreed.”

“The other conspirators would be Agnolo Acciaiuoli and Luca Pitti,” Lorenzo said, pounding his fist into his hand. “Papa, we must act!”

“It could be idle chatter.” Piero sighed, scooting down beneath the linen sheet. “People talk, it’s hot, it’s August, armies don’t like to march in the heat.”

“Papa, Luca Bastardo was well beloved of Nonno, who trusted him! I have found that Luca is a most reliable man. You must listen,” Lorenzo urged. “This confirms other rumors with which I did not want to disturb you in your illness!” He gripped his father’s arm in his own. Piero blinked his heavy lids a few times, and then let Lorenzo pull him to sitting.

“We will need a ruse, about how I’ve heard of this,” Piero muttered, stroking his sweating brow. “I don’t know why, but your nonno always protected Bastardo’s identity.”

“I have dangerous secrets—” I began, hoping my confession would prod him into action.

“I don’t want to know.” Piero sighed, waving. “Papa knew, Lorenzo knows, I don’t need to know. I just need a ruse.”

“Scusi, signori,” Leonardo called from the doorway, smiling in that beatific way of his that always got him out of trouble. “I couldn’t help but overhear. For a ruse, wouldn’t a messenger who’s just arrived with a letter serve nicely?”

Lorenzo snapped his fingers and crowed. “Yes! A letter from the ruler of Bologna, who is friendly to the Medici. The messenger says the letter’s urgent, there’s a plot against you afoot!”

LESS THAN AN HOUR LATER,
Lorenzo and I were galloping into Florence. To our happy surprise, Piero roused himself, readied his litter, and sent us ahead to prepare for his arrival. I rode a spirited black stallion, one of Lorenzo’s horses, because it would have been unkind to run Ginori again. I knew courageous Ginori would have gone flat out for me until his heart burst, but I didn’t want him to endanger himself. Lorenzo rode a leggy bay with a smooth stride, and we flew along the road to Florence. We rose over the crest of a Tuscan hill, and in the thick, slanted light of late afternoon, I saw dark shapes on the road ahead. Something about the sinuous dark silhouettes of the horses against the ocher and gold Tuscan field stirred the hairs on the back of my neck. My keen old sense of the presence of danger kicked in and sent frissons of cold down my spine. Leonardo spoke of blood on the road to Florence. I was willing to trust his prescience because I, too, had gazed into the future.

“Lorenzo,” I called, “slow down! Those men are dangerous!” Lorenzo glanced across his horse’s withers at me. Once he saw my serious face, he slowed down until we were both trotting. There were six horsemen. We had to get past them. My mind went blank for a moment, and then, like a ghost from the past, a favorite ditty rose up. I sang, loud and raucously, “She loved my MASSIVE tool so she never ever denied me her favors!” Startled, Lorenzo did a double take. But he was ever quick and shrewd. He caught on instantly. He tucked his black hair up into his hat and then slouched down low over his horse. He joined in, affecting a basso unlike his usual high-pitched voice, and I thought it was lucky that I’d taught him the lyrics. Lorenzo had a taste for bawdy songs, lewd jokes, and ribald stories, and that saved him now.

“That Napolitana with the huge juicy melons and the sweet ripe figa,” we chorused, riding right into the center of the milling horsemen. I spied among them a nervous Luca Pitta, who was no longer young, and a determined-looking Niccolo Soderini, though neither knew me. They were clearly waiting for someone, either for allies and reinforcements to join them or for the Medici. It would not go well for Lorenzo and Piero if Lorenzo was recognized. I waved sloppily and hiccuped. “She loved my massive tool,” I bawled, and then slumped, as if drunk. The milling riders guffawed, except Pitti, whose age put him past those kinds of amorous considerations. Lorenzo and I didn’t stop but kept trotting on, and when we’d dropped below the next crest, Lorenzo straightened in his saddle.

“That was Soderini and Pitti, did you see? And their scum friends! I owe you a cask of Chianti for getting me through!”

“Only if it’s better than what we were drinking the night I taught you the song,” I said. Indignation at the conspirators flushed Lorenzo’s young cheeks crimson. The heat of his anger reached me where I sat on the black stallion. Lorenzo’s enemies would pay for their disloyalty.

“Go back and warn Papa to take another road,” he barked. “I’m on to Florence!”

INSTEAD OF BEING OVERTHROWN,
the Medici consolidated their power. They took decisive action over the next month. The first day, upon my warning, Piero found a seldom-used road to take. His unexpected appearance in Florence unnerved the conspirators, and over the following weeks, he summoned his men at arms, sent to Milan for help, and arranged for the election of a pro-Medici Signoria in the forthcoming elections. The handpicked Signoria was duly elected, and the power of the Medici was assured. Soderini, Neroni, and Acciaiuoli were all banished from Florence while Pitti begged forgiveness and swore an oath of fealty.

Later on in the year, Lorenzo brought me to Rome. He was sent to congratulate the recently elected Pope Paul II on his ascension. Of course, though he was still a teenager, Lorenzo had business to conduct, as well, regarding the valuable alum mines at Tolfa. Alum was essential in dyeing, which was a huge part of the Florentine cloth industry. Until recently, most alum came from the East, particularly Smyrna; in 1460 huge new deposits were discovered at Tolfa near Civitavecchia in the Papal States. The powerful Medici bank smelled revenues and naturally wanted to control and exploit this valuable find. Lorenzo was sent to discuss it personally with the Pope. To my amazement, Lorenzo went so far as to bring me in during a private meeting with the Holy Father.

The Holy Father was a handsome, imposing man who laughed when he heard I didn’t know if I’d been baptized.

“I can remedy that,” the Pope said, in a jocular tone. He placed his hand on my head and spoke in a sonorous voice. “I baptize you with the Holy Spirit, in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit.” I felt a soft flow like a clean wind from his hand into the crown of my head. It reminded me of Geber’s consolamentum: it was a true transfer of something spiritual. It wasn’t part of my personal faith and I was startled. I sat back on my heels, staring at the Pope.

Paul II grinned. “Bastardo, eh? I’m sure your parents were good Christian folk, Luca; a fine, handsome face like yours would only come from such. You don’t have to keep the surname. I can grant you something more honorable that you can leave to your children with pride.”

“You are more than generous, Holy Father,” I answered, with new respect, “but I think it rests on me to bring honor and pride to my name, not the other way around.”

The Pope raised his eyebrows. “You’re not one of those pagan humanists, are you?”

“I’m a man who grew up on the streets of Florence and is trying to make something of himself.”

The Pope nodded. “There’s something noble about you. You have the look of a good Christian soul. I want to encourage your faith as you proceed in your life. Young Lorenzo tells me that you live outside Florence. Do you own a place in the city?”

“No, signore,” I said, having long since liquidated my holdings in Florence.

“The Church owns property in Florence. I will see to it that some suitable palazzo is deeded over to you,” the Pope said.

“What?” I gasped in disbelief.

Paul laughed. “It’s a papal inducement to righteous Christian living. I expect you to take a wife who will bear children that you will have correctly baptized and catechized.”

Of course I wanted my future children to be properly raised in Florentine society. “Holy Father, thank you for your generosity!”

“Of course.” He smiled. “Be good to young Lorenzo here. Like me, he is going to need friends who protect him. He’ll make enemies, though I foresee a long, illustrious career for him.” Paul II sighed then, and wiped his hand across his face. “I wish I could say the same for myself,” he muttered. Then he bade us farewell.

And so Lorenzo and I rode back to Florence along another turn in the road, and I started yet another phase of my life in the city of my birth in a lovely palazzo given to me by a pope, the head of Christendom and the Vicar of Christ on earth.

Chapter
18

THE TIME CAME FOR LEONARDO
to leave my tutelage. He was sixteen, and Ser Piero, as he often did, brought him to my palazzo one day when I was in residence in the city. I first thought it was an ordinary visit, but one look at Ser Piero’s august, withdrawn face told me that something was afoot and that Leonardo didn’t know about it yet.

“Welcome,” I said to them. I turned to Leonardo, who was now taller than I. “Ragazzo mio, your friend Ficino says there are some new manuscripts in the Medici library. Why don’t you run along and take a look?” Leonardo didn’t have to be told twice. He brightened and waved and was off to the Medici palazzo on Via Largo, which wasn’t far from my own palazzo, a spacious manor that Pope Paul II had selected for me.

“My cook made an excellent
ribollita
for lunch,” I said to Ser Piero. He shook his head and sat down heavily on a bench in my foyer. Now I knew something serious was occurring; Ser Piero had refused my offer of a meal. I sat down on a bench across from him and waited.

“I’ve shown the painter Verrocchio some of Leonardo’s drawings,” Ser Piero said. It was a cool March day, but he mopped the sweat from his brow.

“When does Leonardo start with him?” I asked, affecting a neutral tone that belied my sadness. I’d known this day was coming. I just hadn’t expected it to be today. Leonardo was as close to kin as I had. My inquiries about my parentage failed to turn up any more information than that nobles in the company of Cathars had lost a son in the 1320s. I suspected that Lorenzo de’ Medici had the old letter about it, but he wouldn’t turn it over to me. And the woman from the vision of the philosopher’s stone remained frustratingly aloof, as if kept from me by the time that fell like fabric from the sky in Leonardo’s Cathar tale. I yearned for her more now that I lived in Florence and never saw Caterina, whom I missed. Leonardo was my family, a kind of son to me. I would miss him.

“Tomorrow, the next day. Verrocchio was amazed. I asked him if it would be beneficial for my son to study with him, and after a moment of looking at the boy’s drawings, he was pleading for Leonardo to start his apprenticeship today!” Ser Piero looked at me in proud fashion. I tried to smile but couldn’t. He said, “You’re not surprised.”

“No, signore.”

“You’re familiar with his astonishing intelligence, of course,” Ser Piero muttered, more to himself than to me. Then he looked up at me. “Has he made any progress on the Latin?”

“Not really. Ficino’s tried with him, too. There seems to be a gate in his mind that’s closed against learning it,” I said honestly. “As if he had made some prior decision not to learn the language. I haven’t pressed him about it. Leonardo is like a wise old horse that already knows the way up the mountain, so you give him his head and don’t interfere.”

“I know what you’re saying, and he is so good at everything else.” Ser Piero gestured.

“Especially mathematics,” I remarked. “I taught him everything I knew in a few months, and now he just laughs at my feeble attempts to discuss it with him!”

“You’ve done great work with him, signore. He’s enjoyed your scholarship.” Ser Piero heaved himself to his feet and moved toward the door with a rapidity unhindered by his bulk. “I’ve business to attend to, Luca. You’ll tell the boy, yes?”

“You haven’t told him? That he’s apprenticing with Verrocchio?” I was flummoxed.

“That’s your job, don’t you think?” he said, scooting out the door before I could argue.

THE MEDICI PALAZZO ROSE,
square and impregnable, directly from the street in three immense stories and ten bays to a side. The three stories were graduated in height like those of the Palazzo delle Signoria, emphasizing the Medici connection with the city politic. In every way, Cosimo’s favorite architect, Michelozzo, had designed the palazzo to impress. Its huge mass had replaced twenty earlier homes, and it showed a kinship with the imposing fortress-towers which had once dotted Florence, and where long ago, even before my birth, warring nobility had lived. The Medici had thus managed to demonstrate both their dominance and their connection with the old traditions of Florentine aristocracy. I passed through the main portal and smelled citrus trees and the pleasant dampness of shade on stone. Then I entered into a handsome inner courtyard with an open arcade supported by classical columns. Sculpted roundels suggesting the ancient Roman intaglios of the vast Medici collection decorated the frieze above the arcade, and everywhere was the Medici emblem: seven
palle
—balls—on a shield.

The number of palle was fluid, not fixed, and the palle were said to represent either dents on the shield of the original Medici, a knight named Averardo who fought under Charlemagne and received the dents in a heroic fight against a giant terrorizing the peasants in the Tuscan countryside, or the round shape of pills or cupping glasses, as the Medici had originally been apothecaries. Some people said the palle represented coins. I thought the undefined shape was a brilliant ploy by the shrewd Medici. It allowed people to see in the balls what they wanted to see. The Medici knew how to engage the imagination, and thus the hearts, of their countrymen.

On a pedestal in the center of the courtyard stood Donatello’s sculpture of David. I admired its technical brilliance and its daring in being the first freestanding nude created since antiquity. However, the sculpture was unnecessarily erotic, with its sinuous, girlish hips and its strutting posture emphasized by teasing high boots. Why should David be so provocatively posed? Only to please those men who loved other men. I remembered all too well, wishing I could forget after so many decades, the patrons at Silvano’s. There was no surpassing or understanding the labyrinthine nature of desire.

My own desires lacked complexity. I simply enjoyed women, their soft skin and long silken hair. So I pursued my own simple desires and did not judge other men unnecessarily. My shadowed past and the dark deeds I had committed to survive made that imperative. Moreover, Donatello had been a good friend when he died, the same year that Piero was almost overthrown. Still, because of Silvano’s, I had difficulty being comfortable with men who loved other men.

I found the ever-ebullient Leonardo in a sunny corner of the courtyard, chatting with a scrivener who sat on a marble bench, taking advantage of the mellow weather to copy a manuscript outdoors. The Medici employed dozens of scriveners to copy their manuscripts, either to sell them for profit or to present them as gifts to foreign rulers and thus curry favor. It was impossible to visit the Palazzo Medici without tripping over one of these supercilious men.

“Professore!” Leonardo cried. “Isn’t this a manuscript you sent to Cosimo?”

“The
Corpus Hermeticum
?” said the scrivener, a narrow, thin-lipped man with ink-stained hands and a high, arched nose. He sniffed. “I don’t think so. This manuscript came into the Medici hands in ’61. Your professore with the big coarse muscles”—he rolled his eyes, finding it humorous that I would be a teacher—“would have been a young man your age!”

“I’m older than I look,” I said.

“And more discerning?” The scrivener smiled, looking down his nose at me, which was a feat, considering that he was seated and I was standing.

“I don’t know,” I said easily. “But I’m discerning enough to hope you have other skills, signore, than copying manuscripts. I hear there’s a new process for printing from movable type that will soon make your skills obsolete.”

“My skills will never be obsolete,” the man argued shrilly. “That is a vulgar process, practiced among barbarians in some German city. Real collectors like the Medici would be ashamed to own a printed book made by some gross mechanical process!”

“There are printing presses in Napoli and Roma. Soon there’ll be one in Florence. They make good sense; they turn out books cheaply and quickly. They’ll catch on,” I said. “You should learn a new trade, just to be on the safe side. Sheep-herding, maybe.”

“You have a low and common mind, signore,” the scrivener hissed. He gathered his manuscript to his chest and flounced off in a huff. I took his spot and sat down beside Leonardo.

“That was not kind to poor Armando,” Leonardo chastened me.

“I don’t like pretentious scribes.”

“I think you’re right about the printing press. You know that when I daydream, I feel as if I catch a glimpse of the future. I’ve seen things like the world full of books that are inexpensive and abundant, that everyone reads, because of the printing press.”

“An interesting world you see.”

“As did you; I often think of the vision you told me about, the very first day I met you. But something’s amiss. Luca, you have something to say, and you’re not happy about it,” the young man said suddenly. He wore a yellow and pink lucco that he’d shortened himself, whose flamboyant design he’d probably foisted on the ever-permissive Caterina, and ragged gray hose with holes in them. I knew he owned at least two pairs of fine, unblemished hose, because I myself had taken the grumbling Ser Piero to the tailor to purchase them. But Leonardo eschewed them for these torn old things; he had his own unique sartorial taste.

“You are too perceptive, ragazzo,” I said. “You read me like Armando’s manuscript.”

“Better than that, I hope.” Leonardo chuckled. “Armando copies Latin, and I’m terrible at reading Latin! I feel like I used to know it and don’t want to be bothered anymore.”

“Your father has apprenticed you to Verrocchio,” I said baldly, not to delay it more.

“But I do read you,” Leonardo murmured, as if I hadn’t spoken. “Sometimes it’s like a light pours forth from people, and I can just barely make it out. Your lights are like veils with torn places for the light to shine through, almost unwillingly. The holes in your lights aren’t empty, they’re full. Full of secrets. You harbor secrets, Luca Bastardo. Secret gifts, secret fears. And the hand of fate is upon you.”

“All men have secrets.”

“Not like you.” He shook his golden head. I looked into his finely sculpted face and noted that auburn stubble darkened his cheek and chin. His beard was coming in. I’d have to take him to a barber to be shaved and instruct him in caring for the beard. I should have done so before now. I had been remiss. I was turning him over to Verrocchio unfinished, like one of Leonardo’s own sketches. Part of me had known that Leonardo was entrusted to me for only a short time, but another part of me thought our time would continue without an end, as my own life seemed to. Despite the great spans I was unaccountably allotted, I did not understand time. There were things I had meant to teach my young charge, to say to him, and now I wouldn’t have the opportunity. I tore my eyes away and found my gaze resting on the David.

“You don’t like Donatello’s sculpture,” observed Leonardo.

“I liked the artist.”

“Why don’t you like it?” he asked.

“It’s not that I don’t like it,” I replied. I closed my eyes, seeking a greater honesty with him, now that we were parting. “Something from my childhood. It makes me uncomfortable to remember it.” I opened my eyes and the young man was gazing steadily at me.

“Your childhood. That was long ago, wasn’t it, Luca Bastardo? There’s an old panel that the nuns at San Giorgio own. There’s a boy in it, an onlooker, he has your face. I’ve studied it many times, to be sure. The coloring, the features, it could only be you, professore. I know this. What you said to the scrivener is true: you are much older than you look.”

I let my breath out slowly, nodded, turned my eyes up to the sky, remembered Giotto’s beautiful panel of St. John’s ascension, the infinite blue sky into which the saint so gracefully rose. I whispered, “Giotto painted that panel. He showed it to me without telling me he’d put my face in it, and then when I recognized myself, he laughed and told me that a man who knew himself would go far in life.” It was a relief to admit this to someone I could trust, someone who wouldn’t use my past as leverage against me. After more than a century of protecting my secret, of hiding the inescapable and alienating fact of my great age from other people, it gave me chills to speak it now, openly and without fear.

“Ficino says things like that,” Leonardo said in a neutral tone of voice. “Ficino likes to get his friends together at banquets and have discussions, and he talks about the immortal soul. What is the soul? Can it be known? Is it even a thing? Is it essence? Is it the same as spirit, incorporeal and invisible? I think soul is a quality or an amplitude, that it has to do with imagination and love and nature. I’m not much interested in talking about it when there’s so much to explore in nature that isn’t nebulous.

“Ficino says the essence of each person originates as a star in the heavens. But what is a star, that’s the better question. What is the sun, what is the earth? By what rules do they operate? Any intelligent man who studies the night sky realizes that it is the earth that moves around the sun, not the other way around! Stars are natural objects; can they really determine human destiny? Ficino would refer you to a horoscope to understand your unusual longevity. He’s a brilliant man, but his astrology, so like necromancy, is supreme foolishness.” The boy shook his head. “Could a star grant you a life that stretches past a hundred years, professore mio?”

“There are men who say my long life and youth arise out of necromancy and enchantment,” I admitted.

“That’s the point,” Leonardo said, with some satisfaction. “Necromancy and enchantment don’t exist except in the minds of fools! There must be some natural reason for your long life span. Internal to your body, perhaps.” He perused me up and down, examining me as if I were some specimen on a table, as I used to see in Geber’s laboratory. “Too bad we can’t examine your parents to see if you inherited your gifts from them, as one inherits hair color or a particular shape of the nose, or if your longevity is yours alone. I remember you told me when we first met that your parents were attended by Cathars. Perhaps this longevity is the great secret which brought them together with Cathars, who are keepers of secrets.”