The Palace (22 page)

Estasia had begun to sing; the tune was popular and the lyrics she set to it
remarkably lewd. As the three men watched, she wriggled nearer to them and began
to move her tightly bound hips in a slow, sensuous counterpoint to her song. She
interrupted herself to say, "At least the fiends of hell know what to do with a
woman. Simone, you're useless—you're constipated with religion. Sandro, ah,
Sandro, if you had been willing, I would never have needed other lovers. You
paint such lovely, lovely nudes, surely it would have pleased you to come to my
bed. Take off this stuff you've bound me with. Look at my breasts. They're like
ripe fruit. Touch them. Take them in your mouth and taste the sweetness."

"Stop this, Estasia," Sandro said as he walked slowly to the door. He could
see a blush on the monk's face and the formal indignation on his brother's. He
sighed. "If you want to deal with her, Brother, I would appreciate it. Who
knows? Confession might help."

"I… I will try, Signor. But if she really is possessed of devils…" He stopped
and set his jaw. "Devils are for the Domenicani. Our order is for praises."

Sandro gestured helplessly. "You must do as you think best, Brother. But if
she screams again I may throttle her." With that, he shouldered his brother
aside and went down the long hall toward his bedchamber.

"You must exhort her," Simone said in a steely voice as he glared at the
monk. "Listen to her. No woman who is chaste and modest would sing that way."

Estasia heard this and laughed. "The words don't frighten the boy, Simone,"
she said mischievously. "It's what the words
do to him
. Sandro may have
no use for my body, but I wager that monk does." She tried to find a position
where she could see the young monk more clearly. Her hazel eyes brightened as
she realized that he was good-looking and fairly athletic. "Does your body know
what I want, monk?" she teased. "Exhort me all you like. I'll be happy to learn
of you."

Simone stopped her suggestive words. "Where the devil is, pain will cast him
out." He trod across the floor, bits of broken jars crunching underfoot. He
reached down and took hold of her tangled chestnut hair. Harshly he jerked her
head back, pleased at her gasp. "There, you see? She's not so willing a servant
of the devil now." He tightened his hold on her hair and Estasia strained to
save herself from Simone's abuse.

The Servanto Brother was at once shocked and curious. He came nearer the bed
and looked down at the woman there, seeing how thoroughly she was tied in her
own bed hangings. "Don't hurt her any more, Signor," he said after a moment.

"We must not be gentle with Satan," Simone admonished the young monk.

"But we must not judge until we know that it
is
Satan we punish. To
do otherwise is prideful." For all his youth, he was shrewd enough to see the
distorted satisfaction in Simone's stern face. He directed his attention to
Estasia, making a gesture to dismiss Simone.

But Simone was not going to leave immediately. "You cannot be alone with her,
Brother. What if she were to become violent again?"

"She is well-confined, Filipepi," the monk said gently. "If there is trouble,
I will call. Surely you won't be so far away that you cannot rush to my
defense?" He had a pleasant moment of victory as Simone lowered his head,
crossed himself and backed out of Estasia's bedchamber. "My dear sister," the
monk said firmly to Estasia as he knelt by the bed, "I am Fra Enzo, from
Santissima Annunziata. You are in distress."

Estasia ran her tongue over her lips. "Oh, yes. And you must help me, Fra
Enzo."

He nodded and clasped his hands together. "Tell me your affliction and
together we shall pray for guidance of your soul."

A half-turn brought her even nearer to the monk. "Fra Enzo," she whispered,
"you can do so much more for me. I have faith that you can."

Fra Enzo was young enough to be flattered by this, but he did his best to
maintain his dignity. "We must ask for the help of heaven." He began to recite
the First Psalm, Ms eyes closed, his voice rich with sincerity.

"I know a better way to worship," Estasia said softly. She lay back and
waited for Fra Enzo to give her his attention.

When he finished the psalm, Fra Enzo opened his eyes and smiled earnestly at
Estasia. "You have heard Holy Writ without terror and cries. The Devil, if
indeed he holds you, is very weak. Tell me what happened and be free of the
toils of hell."

Estasia's half-smile was disconcerting in the soft light. "Very well, Fra
Enzo. You must forgive me…"

The monk was alarmed and reprimanded her gently. "It is not I who will
forgive you, sister. It is God Himself Who will forgive your errors."

"But through
you
." The tone of her voice was disquieting. "Shall I
tell you what I thought the fiends of hell did to me? Shall I tell you what
their lusts were?" She laughed. "They possessed me…"

Fra Enzo was on his feet. "Sister, it is neither fitting nor decorous for you
to speak this way. If the Devil himself were holding you, you would find my
presence a torment. But you don't. And you think because I am young and that my
face is fair to you, that I am foolish enough to be lured by you." His
indignation rose with his voice. "I have had to endure this before. You think
because my face and form please you that my vocation is a lie. I am a monk
because that is all I have ever wished to be. I take pleasure in my vows, and in
chastity, poverty and obedience. You won't trick me, Donna." He turned abruptly
and stormed out of the room, his young face deeply flushed.

Simone, who had been waiting near the door, drew himself up in haughty
surprise as Fra Enzo came up to him. "What has happened, good Brother?"

"That woman is no more possessed than I am," he said with asperity. "To think
that men like you are fooled." He did not pause, but went quickly out of the
house.

When Sandro had once again secured the door, he came back to his brother.
"Well, Simone, what now?"

"We must get a confession from her. Obviously, the Servanto was too young to
understand in what peril her soul stands. His advice was good: we must take her
to the Domenicani."

Sandro's expression was filled with disgust. "Let well enough alone, Simone.
You are as bad as she, feeding her illusions this way."

"The Devil," Simone said, growing very solemn, "is the father of lies. Take
care that you do not admit him into your heart through such misguided
tolerance."

"Santa Chiara protect us." Sandro sighed. "As you wish. If in the morning
Estasia still desires to confess, by all means, take her to confession, just so
long as there is an end to this nonsense." Sandro hesitated before adding, "That
includes your nonsense, too, Simone. I won't have any more discord in my house.
I have too many commissions to complete, and I can't work with you and Estasia
nettling each other." He put his hand on Simone's shoulder to soften his rebuke.
"You know that artists are difficult. So, if it will make it easier for you,
pray for me."

There was icy disapproval in Simone's angular face. "You are the master here.
Of course I will do as you wish."

"Simone, don't…" He stopped. It was useless. He went past his brother into
Estasia's bedchamber once more. "Cousin?"

The voice that answered him was flat, hard and practical. "You may untie me
now, Sandro. My nightmare is over. I'll be sensible. Who knows? I may even go to
confession, if only to keep peace in the house."

Sandro approached her bed and saw that there was no more voluptuous passion
in her posture. Her vixen's face was set and her hazel eyes regarded him coldly.
"Move nearer, Estasia. Let me free you from those bonds." She responded in
silence, waiting patiently as Sandro loosened the knots he had made in her bed
hangings. At last the chore was done and he stood back. "I'll send in the two
slaves tomorrow to clean up. You needn't trouble yourself with the chore."

"Thank you." Her tone was absolutely colorless.

Although he had started for the door, Sandro stopped. "Are you all right,
Estasia?"

"I'm quite well," she said in the same emotionless voice. "You need not fear
I will repeat my unfortunate scene tonight."

Those words, so sincerely uttered, should have reassured Sandro, but instead
he wondered what next she would do. If it was not nightmare that disturbed his
household, what else might it be? And when?

He found no answer, and no peace for the rest of that warm summer night as
she closed her door behind him.

Text of a letter from Leonardo da Vinci to Francesco Ragoczy da San Germano:

 

To the alchemist Francesco Ragoczy da San Germano, Leonardo sends his thanks
and greetings from Milano.

 

You must forgive the inelegance of my script, but as I am left-handed, I
usually simplify the matter and write the other direction. I have heard from
Botticelli that you have the knack of writing with both hands equally well—and I
would assume, in either direction. I wish I were as fortunate as you. I think I
could cut my tasks in half with such a talent.

Let me thank you for the dyes and pigments you were good enough to send me. I
particularly like that blue, which you say will not fade when mixed with oil or
prepared in an egg tempera. I have tried the latter and am in general quite
pleased with it. But I wish it—and the others as well—were faster-drying. You
must have heard by now how impatient I become and a faster-drying paint would
please me very much indeed. If you have any particular knowledge in your skill
that would make it possible to speed the drying of paint, but with no loss of
depth and color, I would become your apprentice, I promise you.

It is the ultimate frustration of an artist's life that nothing he ever
produces is as superior, as excellent as the image he has of it in his mind. I
don't know if it is as true in your particular discipline or not, but I have
found over the years that nothing I have done—nothing—is as fine as the vision
from which it sprang. I hate to say a piece is finished when it is less than I
know it could be. That is one of the reasons I like building the various engines
I have a certain reputation for. With an engine, it is always what it ought to
be, and works fairly much as expected. An engine can be finished, but art,
never.

I am sorry to hear that all is not well in Fiorenza. There is nothing I can
do beyond expressing my regret. And that must be enough. Our mutual friend
Sandro is much troubled, and I understand that of late he has had conversation
with you. It may please you to know that he takes comfort in your knowledge and
remarkably wide experience. He tells me that you have been to India, and have
seen temples as vast as the center of Roma. How fortunate for you. If I were not
bound to Sforza and my other patrons, I think I would ramble the world over.

Perhaps, if you are ever in Milano, you will visit with me, and tell me some
of the tales that have so enthralled Sandro. And if you have any other colors,
paints, dyes, pigments or varnishes, I would deeply appreciate it if you would
share them with me. How rare it is to find someone who not only loves art, but
understands the colors and tools behind it.

Be kind enough to extend my greetings to Botticelli and those friends of
Medici who were there when I was. I wager Magnifico is much missed. Even I, in
Milano, miss him. I thank you again, a thousand times, for your gift. This
should reach you quickly, for it comes with the herald of Il Moro to that young
man who will never replace his father. Well, the world could never endure true
excellence for long. Look to yourself, then, Ragoczy, as I will look to my own
safety. And with that warning, I will send you my respects and all such.

da Vinci

 

Unfortunately in Milano, September 15, 1492

Gasparo Tucchio had been waiting almost an hour and he was becoming annoyed.
He had walked through the cellars of Palazzo San Germano, but since he had
helped build them, there was little to surprise him, and nothing he wanted to
criticize. At last he settled in the room adjoining the kitchen and listened to
Amadeo sing while he made the pastry for the meat pies that would feed the
household at prandium.

Ruggiero found him there and began with an apology. "It's truly unfortunate
that you had to be kept waiting."

"If it's because you've decided that now my Arte brothers are out of Fiorenza
that you no longer need to honor the contract we all signed…" He had risen and
now he thrust his thumbs into his wide leather belt.

"Of course not," Ruggiero said quellingly. "There are some minor matters that
had to be attended to before I could devote my attention to you." He did not
mention that the minor matter was a complaint brought by one of the Domenicani
from San Marco, and was little more than a veiled threat. "Often a visit from
the Domenicani is longer than others."

"Them!" Gasparo almost spat in disgust. "What do they expect of decent men? I
attend Mass, I take Communion, I know the Credo, the Paternoster and the Ave
Maria. I honor the saints on their feast days and I don't blaspheme. Beyond
that, it's up to them. It's useless for them to carry on so. That prior, the one
at San Marco. He's too arrogant by half." Gasparo stopped abruptly, his brow
clearing. "Well, it's no concern of yours, is it, good houseman?"

Ruggiero was secretly relieved to hear such sentiments from Gasparo, but he
maintained his reserve. "The Brothers spend so much time thinking of heaven that
they assume we must all do the same." He motioned to the door. "Come, I want to
review the accounts with you."

Gasparo nodded, but was not willing to let the matter of the Domenicani go
quite yet. "Life everlasting! They tell us that's the reward for suffering and
dishonor in this world. Well, I have given the matter some thought," he said in
a louder tone as they came up the back stairs to the second floor. "I have
thought about life everlasting. I don't think I'd like it much."