Da Vinci's Tiger (11 page)

G
IOVANNI AND
I
HAD PLANNED TO WATCH THE
RACE WITH
our mother, sisters, and younger brother, since Luigi would be sitting with city officials. But Lorenzo gathered us up at the meadow along with Bernardo to join him at the Medici's grandstand at the
palio
's finish line. On the way, we passed hundreds of citizens dressed in their most festive clothes, waving banners and flags, pushing and shoving one another for a space in front of the crowd along the race's path. But they always parted to make way for the Magnifico. He and Giovanni talked excitedly about the horses entered in the race, while I walked behind with the ambassador.

“Have you enjoyed the Feast of St. John, Your Excellency?” I asked.

“Bernardo,” he corrected me. “Surely you must take pity on your most ardent admirer and call me by my Christian name.”

I nodded.

“Say it,” he insisted.

“Bernardo,” I said, testing the word. The sound was sweet.

“Yes, I have enjoyed the festivities, Ginevra. Is it permissible for me to call you Ginevra?”

I didn't know. So I sidestepped the question. “I would suppose surrounded by the sea as Venice is, you do not have races or many horses?”

“Well, La Bencina.” He smiled and kept to the affectionate but more formal way of addressing me. “I actually enjoy nothing more than a good canter around my villa, near Padua. My favorite horse is named Pegasus. He is a gorgeous steed, much like your brother's in temperament and markings. We cannot race horses in Venice, no, but we do have our own feast day, for St. Mark, and our own grand procession in Piazza San Marco—an enormous space, modeled after the imperial forum in Constantinople. There we parade in front of our basilica. It is adorned with many treasures from Byzantium, including the pride of Venice—four life-size gilded horses that look down from the basilica's loggia onto the square below.”

He drew in a deep breath and sighed a bit. It was obvious how much he loved his home city, and I could feel myself falling under its spell as he continued in his descriptions. “Our greatest ceremony is the Feast of the Ascension, when all the city's boats are taken into the lagoon. Our head of state, the doge, sails out in the state barge to throw a gold ring into the sea to symbolize Venice's marriage to the waters.”

“Oh, how romantic,” I said. “Do the sea and Venice have a good and happy marriage?”

He laughed. “Sometimes.”

I had never traveled to the coastline of Italy to see the ocean wrapping around it. “Is the sea like the River Arno, just wider?”

“No, no, my dear. It is a vast horizon of unpredictable gray-green, sometimes as placid and alluring as sleep, sometimes as terrifying as God's wrath. It stretches and stretches, pulling your heart and your imagination with it, knowing that beyond where you can see are completely foreign lands, uncharted possibilities, and absolute freedom on the way there. There are no rules that man can make to tame the sea. He must brave it and ride it out, always alert for opportunity or threat. On the sea, man lives his fullest, his most alive.”

“And what is Venice like?”

“Ah, Venice is beautiful and as mysterious as its waters.” He stopped walking and closed his eyes. “It smells of brine and new boats and sails wet from sea winds. There is always the sound of unloading or loading cargo, ropes straining and sliding through winches and pulleys, fresh fish just dropped
from nets and flopping on the decks. Men shout, berate, curse, and laugh, in a whirl of German, Turkish, Portuguese, Yiddish, as well as Italian. They smell of spice and sweat and sweet liquors, ripe fruits from the East packed in baskets, sitting in the sun, ready to devour.”

He opened his eyes. “On the wharves, merchants and travelers, armed condottieri and beggars alike, all mingle together. They bring in exotic wares—ivory from Africa, furs from Mongolia, tea from China, slaves from Serbia. And such amazing animals are shipped in—monkeys, camels, giraffes.

“Oh, and the most magnificent thing I ever saw,” he added, “a tiger from the Talysh Mountains just off the Caspian Sea. A sultan visiting the doge had hunted the beautiful creature down. He said that when his hounds cornered her, she did not panic and she did not show fear. She kept her ground with such dignity that he decided to keep her as a pet. He brought her to Venice as a gift for the doge.” Bernardo shook his head. “But in the end, the sultan could not part with her. There was something about that tiger's eyes, her stare. I don't think she blinked. Everyone in the court would circle her cage and try to imagine her past and her thoughts, listening to her rumbling breathing—half purr, half growl—as they looked into her amber-gold eyes. Poets wrote of her, musicians sang of her. . . .”

“What happened to the mountain tiger?” I asked breathlessly, having hung on every word.

“I don't know.” Bernardo shrugged. “One day the sultan just disappeared. So did the tiger.”

We had arrived at the Medici's grandstand.

“Ambassador!” The poet Cristoforo Landino strode toward us.

But before the two men could truly greet each other, the great baritone bell in the tall tower of the Palazzo della Signoria tolled. One . . . two . . . three.

“Quick, up into the seats, all of you!” Lorenzo shouted, over the deafening cheer of people lining the streets.

The race was on!

I found myself plopped down in the shade of a blue-fringed canopy beside Lorenzo's mother and his wife, Clarice, on chairs covered with red satin. Behind me perched Simonetta and Lucrezia Donati, Lorenzo's porcelain-fine Platonic love. Their husbands sat with Giuliano on the far side of the dais. The odd assemblage of women clapped and smiled, a happy unit, it seemed. I joined in, leaning forward to watch down via dell'Oriuolo toward the edge of the Duomo, which the horses would skirt in their dash.

The race came to us in waves of sound. Within a minute of the old bell tolling, we could hear distant cheering, rippling louder and louder toward us with each passing second. Two minutes and we could catch individual shouts within the squall of voices, punctuated with collective gasps signaling that a rider had fallen and heartbreaking whinnies of pain from injured horses. Way down the street a rainbow of small pennants began to wave furiously. There was a shower of red
flower petals hurled into the road, and the roar of excitement surged toward us.

My heart began to beat faster, and I glanced toward Giovanni. Had we been together I would have held his hand to soothe him. I could tell he was about to bite a hole in his lower lip in anticipation.

Now I could hear the torrent of hooves, pounding the hard-packed dirt of Florence's streets.

“There!” Simonetta pointed at the first horses rushing along the Duomo's base. “They are coming!”

Unable to contain their anticipation—or perhaps worried over their bets—many men scurried into the street, craning their necks to see which horses were in front. They pushed one another and pranced nervously, trying to time their exit from the race's path before being run down. I noticed Leonardo across the way, watching them, strangely quiet and still amid the mayhem.

“MOVE!” Lorenzo stood and bellowed, waving his arms at the men standing in the street. Somehow one man heard him over the cacophony or noticed his wild demeanor. He elbowed his neighbor, who elbowed his. The men scattered.

Now I could see the leading horses, legs flying, dirt churned up and sprayed, jockeys hunched and clinging to handfuls of mane. They had little hope now of steering their mounts, frenzied by the competition, frantic at the mass of humanity and their guttural shouts of encouragement.

Two were pulling ahead. I shielded my eyes from the sun
and strained to identify them. They were so lathered with sweat it was hard to tell their coloring.

Giovanni jumped up. Lorenzo started cheering.

It was il Morello and Zephyrus! Lorenzo's and Giovanni's horses, neck and neck. And right behind them, snapping at their flanks, another three, jostling one another angrily, teeth bared, nostrils wide to suck in air.

Out of the corner of my eye—as everyone on the dais jumped out of their seats to clap and urge the horses on—a few more men darted into and then out of the street. And then I saw a body dash across after them, stooping to gather something up. Was he mad? I followed the fool's sprint and realized it was Leonardo. He threw himself out of the way just as the storm of horses crashed across the finish line.

There was no time to wonder about Leonardo's risky behavior. Which horse had won? I couldn't tell. I looked to Giovanni, whose face was frozen in anticipation. Lorenzo was watching for a sign from the judges.

Cheering drowned out the pronouncement, but Lorenzo turned to my brother and clapped him on the back. Zephyrus had won!

The next hour was a blur of jubilation. Giovanni received the trophy—an enormous swath of the best scarlet velvet, in several parts stitched together with gold trimming as wide as a man's palm, the whole thing lined with squirrel belly fur and edged with ermine. Zephyrus was wiped down with cooling water and then loaded onto a cart decorated with
flower garlands and a carved lion on each corner. He would be paraded around the Duomo in triumph.

Giovanni grabbed my hand so that I might walk behind the victory cart with him. Now, I thought, let's see what Florence will have to say about the Six Hundred! Certainly it was clear that my brother had spent his florins well.

Before our parade could begin, though, we had to wait for Lorenzo's contingent to assemble behind us and then all other dignitaries like Luigi, as the feast's organizer. My husband was beaming. He'd done good work—the feast was an obvious success. I watched Lorenzo congratulate him. Uncle Bartolomeo, of course, appeared out of the crowd in a great show of friendship with Luigi in order to join our little circle of victory.

Then Bernardo approached Luigi as well. I felt my smile evaporate. Why would he do that?

“Do not worry, my dear.” Simonetta took my arm. “I know what that conversation is about. The ambassador is so taken with you and so impressed by Verrocchio's studio, he wishes to commission a portrait of you. To celebrate you as being his chosen Platonic muse.”

I gasped. “Really?”

She giggled. “Yes, my dear, really.”

“Just like you?” I couldn't help asking.

“Indeed! And if we are lucky, perhaps we shall meet regularly at the studio when we sit for the maestros. That would be such fun. Also”—she drew herself up tall, placing her hand above her heart, looking down modestly—“you can
help me know how to appear like the Virgin Mother. You are so spiritually serene.”

I turned to her with surprise. Was that how I appeared? If only she knew how those very different horses within my soul combated each other.

Beside me Giovanni shouted and waved, beckoning someone to look at him. It was Leonardo, still standing and observing. Giovanni cupped his hand to his mouth to shout over the celebrating crowd so Leonardo could hear. “What were you picking off the course?”

Leonardo approached, holding out his hand. In his palm were spikes called caltrops, shaped like crow's feet so that a point always stood straight up. The Romans threw the devices in front of enemy cavalry to puncture the soft insides of horses' hooves. It brought the chargers to the ground in horrible pain. Italians still used the wicked things during battle.

“How cruel!” Simonetta said.

“Who would do such a thing?” I asked.

“I can certainly imagine who.” Simonetta spoke with uncharacteristic anger. “They are such sniveling, dishonorable rivals. They never have the courage to challenge the Medici directly. They spread lies behind Giuliano and Lorenzo's backs. They connive and lay traps. This is precisely the kind of underhanded trickery they might resort to.”

“Who?” Giovanni and I asked together, although I could tell Simonetta suspected the family that had tried to thwart
Giuliano's triumph at the joust.

“Who? The Pazzi, of course!” She almost spat the name. “Mark my words, someday they will manage to do something terrible.”

Leonardo shrugged. “I did not see the man. I just noticed the caltrops drop onto the race's course.”

Giovanni cursed loudly before reaching out to embrace Leonardo. “Thank you, signor. I am totally indebted to you. Those spikes could have crippled Zephyrus.”

“Let the parade begin!” Lorenzo approached, holding up his hand to signal the procession.

As we began to move, Bernardo caught up with me to speak into my ear. “Tomorrow, La Bencina, I will come for you and escort you to Maestro Verrocchio. Your husband allows me the honor of commissioning a portrait.” He smiled and stood back and let the crowd swallow him from my sight.

A portrait of me. I still couldn't believe it. Me! From the legendary studio of Andrea del Verrocchio.

Of course, I already knew which artist in that studio I hoped would paint it.

T
HE NEXT DAY
I
AWOKE WITH EXCITEMENT.
I
DRESSED MYSELF
in one of my best, most colorful day dresses long before the sun arose. When our house echoed with the sound of someone pounding its heavy ring knocker, I ran down the steps, skirts hoisted to my knees, to answer it myself. But when I pulled open the heavy wooden door, a different messenger than I expected stood there—Abbess Scolastica's son, a Franciscan monk.

“She is sick and requests you.” Beneath the shaved crown of his head and its fringe of hair, Friar Don Ugolino's round face lacked the composure expected of a monk. His expression told me that his mother's illness was grave.

Despite the heat, I donned the cloak required of women when they stepped out of their homes into the city. I followed him through the streets, still littered with bits of festive flags and haunted by stray dogs sniffing out scraps of holiday sweets.

When we arrived at Le Murate and entered its familiar gate, I heard soft chants and weeping. I took in a sharp breath. Under Scolastica's leadership, Le Murate's numbers had grown from twenty women to more than one hundred fifty. Many of them were educated young women like my friend Juliet, enticed into becoming cloistered nuns by Scolastica's promise of being able to study and grow as scholars as well as brides of Christ, unmolested by earthly concerns. But the mourning I was hearing went beyond the respect such a leader and mentor was due. Scolastica was loved like a real mother, not just a spiritual one. When I heard the depth of sorrow emanating from those walls, my heart sank. She must be dying.

I was led to her cell by one of the older nuns, Sister Margaret, who had always berated me for my impatience and pride. She kept silent until we reached the door, where she grasped my sleeve. “Do not tax our Mother Superior too long. There are many who long to say their good-byes, who have cared for her daily and have remained faithful to our Lord Savior.”

My face aflame with the rebuke, I entered Scolastica's room.

“Ahh, my dear.” She motioned weakly for me to come to
her bedside. I knelt and took her hand. At first her eyes had the distant, watery look of the very ill, but then that intrepid spirit, that keen mind I so loved in her flickered. She looked at me carefully and reached out to touch the ribbon threaded through my sleeves, a dark-blue striping through peach-colored challis wool. Despite her Spartan surroundings, her years devoted to spiritual simplicity, the woman who had once been named Cilia and dazzled onlookers with her beautiful face and lavish dresses awoke. “What a vision you are, Ginevra, so full of life and color. That garment makes you look like our hoopoe bird in spring plumage. Such a compliment to the high color in your cheeks. You are glowing.” She smiled. “Perhaps my prayers for you have been answered? Tell me, my dear, are you with child?”

“Oh no, Mother, I am not.” I felt my cheeks flush red again.

She shifted on her stiff pillow to see me better. “Such a grand dress. Did you don that for me?”

“I—I—no, Mother.” I shook my head. “I was already dressed when your friar son arrived to summon me here.”

She nodded, pressing her lips together in thought, and fixed her gaze on mine. “Is there anyone outside the door, Ginevra?”

Over my shoulder I could see an edge of Sister Margaret's white habit beyond the doorframe. She hovered, waiting to swoop in and hurry me out. “Yes.”

“Go close the door, child.”

I looked at her in horror. I knew the wrath that would
await me with Sister Margaret if I did so.

“Go on, child, I know you are braver than that.” She smiled. “Do not forget that the Benci crest of lions decorates our gates. You have some sway here.” I swallowed hard to suppress sudden tears, wondering how I would get by without her guidance.

I rose and shut the door in Sister Margaret's face. God forgive me, I did feel satisfaction doing it.

I settled back down beside my abbess.

“Ginevra,” she said, “I wish to speak to you now as your spiritual adviser, of course. But also woman to woman, a mother to a much-beloved daughter. I see it in your face, child. The man you told me of, the allure of his admiration is much upon it. Am I right?”

I nodded.

“As you go forward, then, remember this: Most men are hunters and collectors. You must come to know the difference between those who do so out of true appreciation and affection, those who do it for sport, those who do it for prestige and to possess what others admire and desire, and those who do it desperate to use a woman as a shield. The fourth man is hiding something, Ginevra. The third man can be like a dog that teases others in its kennel with a bone it will never share. That kind of man might tear his object of affection to shreds, without meaning to, just as a dog would a bone. The second man can amuse you with the game of the hunt, if you do not take him too seriously. And the first? Well, if you can find the first kind of man, you have found heaven.”

She shifted herself and grimaced a bit. “But no matter what, do not lose the core of who you are. That inner poetry we talked of.” She flinched and sighed. Her voice dimmed to a whisper. “I wanted to ask a gift from you, child. And only you will be able to do it for me, without worrying about breaking a sacred rule of the convent.”

I leaned closer to hear.

“Go to my cabinet when you leave and find that embroidery you saw when last you visited. I have finished it. Find a way to put it in my casket with me. I wish to present it to the Lord on my day of reckoning. My thanks for his giving us this beautiful world. My own bit of poetry. Do you promise?”

Now the tears came. I could not hold them back.

“There, there, child. It is all right. I have lived a full life, with many different roles that have brought me fulfillment. Now go and do what I ask.” She smiled. “I promise the only danger you will face in completing this task is getting it past Sister Margaret!”

I laughed. She laughed—a final little peal of earthly mirth. “Le Murate is always a home for you, Ginevra,” she whispered. “And remember the wisdom I just passed to you. I had to learn it for myself long ago, and it may save you some pain.”

As I stepped out of Le Murate's protective walls, Abbess Scolastica's embroidery tucked carefully into my dress, I was surprised to feel the bright Tuscan sun. Florence should be
dark and gloomy, in mourning with me.

“Wife.”

I startled at Luigi's voice. “Husband! Why are you here?”

“To walk you home,” he said matter-of-factly. “I heard the news of the abbess's illness. I knew you would be sad.”

“Thank you,” I said, taking his arm. We walked several streets and were nearing Santa Croce when I thought to congratulate him on the festivities of St. John.

He nodded his thanks. “I wish to discuss something else with you.”

“Yes?” I guessed at the topic but had no idea what Luigi's reactions to Bernardo's proposal would be. I braced myself.

“Ambassador Bembo and the Magnifico talked with me yesterday about His Excellency commissioning a portrait of you. Are you aware of this?”

“Yes, husband,” I said carefully.

“And what do you think of that?”

I glanced at his face. Beyond recognizing the studied look of concentration he often had when bartering a labor deal with his workers, I could not read it. I chose the safest answer. “I should like to know your opinion, signor.”

“I think it an excellent opportunity.”

“Opportunity?”

“For my shop and for the Niccolini family. To have one of us noticed by the Venetian ambassador and to become part of the Medici patronage of the arts, well, that certainly elevates us above other wool merchants. Times are difficult. Weavers in the Netherlands and England are beginning to
compete with our work. Worse, silk is becoming the preferred fabric of the upper class. My brothers and I are not set up to make that shift. So to stand out as a wool merchant, it is not enough to be a
priore
anymore or influential in the guild. To be seen as part of the Medici inner circle will be critical to our survival. Do you understand, my dear?”

“Yes, completely.”

“Also, the ambassador has promised to introduce my fabrics to the doge and his wife, just as you suggested he might. That could open a lucrative client for me.”

“So I have your permission to sit for the portrait?”

“By all means!” Luigi stopped and stood still for a moment, to pat my hand and look into my face for the first time since we began walking from Le Murate. “I know you will do the Niccolini—and the Benci, of course—great honor, my dear. As Lorenzo the Magnificent and your uncle Bartolomeo explained the Platonic love ideal to me, you are the perfect subject. Someone who inspires others to virtue.” Then he started walking again, mumbling to himself, considering which dress to put me in, which jewels to pick from my dowry trousseau.

I thought of Scolastica's words and felt fairly certain which of her four categories of men she would put Luigi into. The question for me to determine, of course, was which type Bernardo was and how that might affect my virtue.