Da Vinci's Last Supper E-Book

Paul Arrowsmith

• Herausgeber: Next Chapter
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

When Leonardo da Vinci is commissioned to paint 'The Last Supper' , he believes it will seal his reputation as the finest artist in Italy.

Yet all does not go as planned. The notorious Papal emissary, Father Rodrigo of Salamanca accuses him of blasphemy over his decision to choose a lowly peasant, Alessandro, to be his model for Jesus.

To Leonardo's horror, Alessandro takes on quasi-religious significance for the populace of Milan, dragging both into a journey of political and religious upheaval, violence and scandal, which eventually leads to their climactic confrontation.

Leseprobe

DA VINCI’S LAST SUPPER

THE FORGOTTEN TALE

PAUL ARROWSMITH

CONTENTS

Acknowledgments

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

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About the Author

Copyright (C) 2020 Paul Arrowsmith

Layout design and Copyright (C) 2021 by Next Chapter

Published 2021 by Next Chapter

Edited by Robert Endeacott

Cover art by CoverMint

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author’s permission.

I dedicate this book to my three children, Rachael, Daniel & Samuel.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I am deeply indebted to the following people for their support and encouragement, which proved invaluable during the years spent writing this novel. For their comments and editorial advice in early drafts, I thank Caroline Ryder, Fintan O Higgins and Fiona Blair. For doing a formidable job of editing the manuscript, I offer a special mention to Robert Endeacott.

In addition, I am thankful to my proof reader, Joanna Peios, and to my dear friend Flavia Cerrone, for her help with various Italian translations and advice. I wish to thank Professor Martin Kemp and Dr. Matthew Landrus of Oxford University, whose time and insights into the life of Leonardo da Vinci helped shape my novel. I am grateful to the Direzione Regionale Musei Lombardia for granting me a prolonged stay to view ‘The Last Supper,’ at Santa Maria delle Grazie, to the Uffizi Gallery in Florence for providing helpful information regarding the early life of Leonardo da Vinci, and to the Czartoryski Museum in Krakow Poland for granting me a private viewing of ‘Lady with an Ermine.’

The following deserve to be acknowledged; my former drama tutors Kevin Rowntree for first inspiring me to write this story, and Andy Willoughby for his candid advice that I was a better writer than I was an actor. A special tribute is also reserved for my former screenwriting tutor and mentor Alby James.

To my children Rachael, Danny and Sam, I thank you for always believing your father would eventually get a book deal. The same applies to my mother, Pam, who has been a great source of support, so too my sisters Ruth, Lisa, Susie and brother David. Finally, to all my friends in Leeds, Darlington, London, around the UK and across the globe who have journeyed with me, and always provided encouragement you know who you are and I thank you a thousand times over.

CHAPTERONE

A crisp breeze sloped off the snow-capped Lombardy Alps and blew into Milan, causing the daffodils Leonardo da Vinci walked past to sway in the wind as they displayed their spring splendour, while the smell from an orange grove lining his path wafted up his nostrils. His gait was long and purposeful, while his reddish-brown hair and beard, speckled with streaks of grey, flapped in the wind.

A tall man, standing head and shoulders above many of his peers, Leonardo was undeniably handsome. His appearance oft aroused envy in less attractive members of his sex, while women on the other hand had been known to swoon in his presence. His fingers were slender and calloused at the tips and when he shook your hand he did so firmly, perhaps too firmly for lesser men. Below the furrows of his forehead, Leonardo’s strikingly blue eyes could convey either the calm of wisdom, or that a riot of thought was taking place inside his extraordinary brain.

‘Irksome fools! Meddlers, peddlers and thieves!’ he muttered, the sound of which carried to none but his own ears. Clasped between Leonardo’s fingers was the source of this verbal consternation, a Ducal summons. Earlier that morning he had discussed with his senior apprentice Francesco, a polite and amiable youth, which primer to use on the ancona for the second commission of the Virgin of the Rocks. No paint had been applied to its surface, only the pin-pricked outline of a sketch.

‘I painted them perfection,’ he complained to Francesco. ‘And do those miserable monks thank me? God forbid, they do not.’

Leonardo, along with the de Predis brothers Ambrogio and Evangelista, had been commissioned by the Confraternity of the Immaculate Conception in Milan to paint a wood panelled ancona. The two brothers were given the minor work of the side panels with Leonardo assigned to the larger central panel. The brethren of the Confraternity were vociferous in their disapproval of Leonardo’s contribution. By a succession of court edicts, contested over a period of years, and pleas to the Duke of Milan, Leonardo finally had his hands forced into yielding up a second panel for the Confraternity. The original, the Duke kept for himself after taking a liking to its misty moodiness.

While Leonardo and Francesco discussed how best to proceed, they were interrupted by the arrival of a court official bearing a summons for Leonardo from his patron, Ludovico Sforza, the Duke of Milan, or Il Moro (The Moor) as he was better known. Il Moro was a stocky and pugnacious individual with limited education yet boundless ambition. He aspired for Milan to be the greatest city in Italy. To surpass Florence, Leonardo’s home city renowned for art and commerce; Rome (home to a corrupt papacy); and Venice, which Il Moro loathed due to its refusal to acknowledge him as the rightful ruler of Milan.

Blowing out his exasperation with each step he took in answer to his summons, Leonardo cared little for the court of Il Moro. Experience had taught him that when courtiers were polite, it served only to lure their unsuspecting victim in to some trap. He had long since reached the conclusion: for courtiers to be hostile was bad but for them to be friendly was even worse.

Clutching the summons while still complaining under his breath about the sheer inconvenience, Leonardo wound his way through Milan’s cobbled streets. He recalled that during his ten years in Milan he had received only four previous summonses from Il Moro, three of which bore the influence of some devious courtier pent on mischief.

Ordinarily he took the long way around from his studio in the south on journeys to his patron’s abode, the Castello Sforzesco, thus avoiding the Lazzaretto. Yet this morning Leonardo, walking at a fearsome pace, entered the notorious slum of Milan. His appearance registered with its superstitious inhabitants, most of whom believed him to be a necromancer and by looks, whispers, frantic gestures and gasps of surprise, notice of his arrival soon spread.

The streets of the Lazzaretto were covered with a vile layer of human excrement mixed with that of dogs and other animals. For its unfortunate inhabitants, the stench clung to them in life and only departed upon their demise. For it was death you smelt as you passed this way, the slow, relentless aroma of humanity rotting.

Food was mostly decayed before it reached these parts and along with brick, mortar, wood, glass and clothes, soon became a part of the disease that was known as the Lazzaretto. Leonardo cursed his luck that the black sludge, made worse after a night of rain, seeped its way between the toes of his sandals and splattered up the calves of his legs.

It was a commonly held belief that Leonardo was in cahoots with the Devil, an attitude fuelled by the numerous inventions Leonardo sought to find buyers for amongst the business establishment of Milan. His self-propelled cart had been widely seen in the city. Whereas the educated scoffed that such a machine could have any practical usage, commoners saw the hand of the red-horned one in building something that would put ordinary folks out of a job. To further fuel their misgivings of Leonardo’s ‘witchcraft’, there were rumours of the many outlandish props and costumes he designed for various functions at the Castello Sforzesco.

Exiting the Lazaretto, he entered the Via Castello, the main cobbled concourse that led towards the Castello Sforzesco. Proudly resplendent in red stone, the castello lay atop a hillock and was designed more after the manner of a Turkish castle than a European one. The walls were made of dark red stone but, although sturdy, they lacked the thickness of traditional castle walls seen elsewhere in Europe. A moat ran around the perimeter surrounded by high walls with oblong turrets at each corner, while an additional turret jutted out of the middle of each wall.

Veering off the path, Leonardo ambled down to the water’s edge. He sat down heavily and like a child, dangled first one foot in the moat and then the other until the filth from the Lazaretto had been expunged from his feet. Merchants lined Leonardo’s way back up the path by the Castello Sforzesco, selling fruit, vegetables and clothes of local and exotic origin for the fashionable buyer, pots and pans, chickens, livestock and numerous trinkets. Today there were special offers to be had on secret incantations to protect against leprosy, sold by a man whose skin was so grimy it was hardly an endorsement of the product he was selling.

Further along the path, hawkers dressed like Benedictines were selling ornaments of saints, supposedly blessed by the Pope. A chicken seller and an alchemist vied loudly for Leonardo’s attention. He ignored both and instead bought a red apple from an honest looking peasant woman. He had long ceased to partake of meat, frequently telling his bemused friends, ‘I do not wish my body to be a tomb for other animals.’

Leonardo’s attention was caught by a gonfalon blowing in the breeze above a turret, one emblazoned with the Sforza coat of arms. Divided into four, it showed two blue snakes wearing crowns and a man emerging from the mouths of the snakes alongside two eagles also wearing gold crowns. Leonardo passed beneath the turret and into the forecourt of the Castello Sforzesco.

The courtyard was littered with an array of smaller buildings including a high stone store house guarded by two soldiers. A kitchen, where a cart of fresh produce was being unloaded by a couple of ruddy-faced servant boys. Outside the soldiers’ dormitory, off-duty soldiers drank grappa and played cards under the midday sun. To the left of the dormitory were the stables, where eager recruits brushed down the shiny coats of proud horses. Finally, there was the magnificent Palace, with its imposing fluted colonnade, each column tall and imperious like a soldier standing to attention.

Facing Leonardo was a well-tended herb garden. Passing along its western border he breathed in the essential fragrance of Lombardy: sweet basil, thyme, rosemary and oregano. Two elderly merchants doffed their caps as he walked by. A little further down the path, a young captain was doing his best to win the admiration of a young lady who held in her hand an embroidered handkerchief. The maiden blushed appropriately at the advances of the young captain, who looked splendid in a green cape depicting his family insignia of a gold lion. While the youngsters danced their pas de deux an elderly aunt dressed in black stood at a discreet distance, hawkishly eyeing the captain’s every move. The lovers were oblivious to his presence, but the old girl caught Leonardo’s eye and winked mischievously.

Arriving at the long broad steps that led into the palace, Leonardo reluctantly took them in his stride. At the top, Il Moro’s palace guard moved aside, the blue feathers atop their blackened iron helmets blowing in the wind. Leonardo barely heeded them as he proceeded down the long stone corridor where he passed more soldiers wearing the black leggings, blue tunic and iron plated body armour of Il Moro’s private guard.

The sight of the Sala delle Asse that he himself had painted, momentarily lifted his spirits. Cast in a mid-morning sun, the woodland landscape of intricate branches wove upwards, spiralling around each other, decorating the ceiling and vault as though by some magical incantation. He gazed at the thousands of leaves that dangled from branches arching first in one direction then another. Every leaf slightly different in tone and shade as the shadow seduced each one or left them exposed to an imaginary sun that glistened off each leaf creating a cascade of greens, reds and yellows and every conceivable combination of hue in-between.

Seated opposite him, a solemn-looking fellow in his fifties in black merchant’s robes twitched nervously before rising to his feet.

‘Nasty business, the price of bread. Those Poles in Krakow are charging me hand over fist for a pound of salt and his Lordship still thinks I’m taking advantage of the good Milanese bakers. If they have to charge more for bread, don’t blame me. I’m just doing my best to make an honest living.’ Leonardo nodded his sympathies and rose from his seat just as Il Moro’s secretary was instructing an official to admit him. Leonardo strode forward and bowed before his patron.

‘With what may I assist my good Lord on this fine spring day, the lowering of the price of bread?’ Il Moro smiled at Leonardo’s unashamed impudence.

‘If only you could perform such a miracle Leonardo, the whole of Milan would be in your debt,’ replied Il Moro.

‘Indeed so,’ interjected the secretary to the Duke of Milan, attempting to sound affable when his tone of voice implied the opposite. He was a round, greasy-haired man with an equally greasy disposition. Through years of wet-nursing Il Moro through the intricacies of diplomatic protocol, he had built up a position of considerable trust from the Duke, and with it a sizable portion of envy in the hearts of Il Moro’s courtiers.

‘What I have in mind maestro Leonardo, is a new commission!’ announced Il Moro with considerable gusto. ‘A portrait of my mistress Cecilia Gallerani, in honour of her great beauty, as well as several functions she performs for my pleasure.’ A remark which caused his secretary to snigger, while several courtiers over-hearing guffawed.

‘My Lord, as you are aware, the dear brothers of the Confraternity of the Immaculate Conception have at your ruling an ancona of the Virgin needed from me. In addition to the new engineering plans, you have instructed me to oversee the design and construction of a new well inside the castello. I do not know when I will have time to engage the young lady in her portrait. Would it not be more appropriate if on this occasion another artist was asked?’

Il Moro rose to his feet. ‘When you have two things of rare value, it is prudent to see whether by joining them together, one can create some lasting memorial. Cecilia is a woman unlike any other in my court and, I would be bold enough to say, unlike any found in the whole of Italy. You too, Leonardo, whatever your private eccentricities, are unique.’ To emphasize his point, Il Moro stepped down from his throne and leaned forward. ‘I know how highly you prize your art, always seeking to create perfection. Therefore, I insist you paint Cecilia’s portrait.’

‘My Lord, if it pleases you, you can send the young lady to my studio at noon on Tuesday.’ Leonardo bowed and stepping backwards departed.

Cecilia Gallerani, the young lady whose portrait had been commissioned, was a fair-skinned beauty admired by both men and women alike. She had long slender limbs, a graceful figure and the face of a siren. Few women were equal in terms of their pleasing shape, graceful disposition and hospitable manner of her character. Cecilia was also a scholar. In addition to Latin and her native Tuscan dialect she was fluent in French, German and Spanish. Her keen intellect was put to good use by hosting regular gatherings of Milan’s intelligentsia. At these evenings, held once a quarter as befits the natural cycle of the seasons, the art of philosophy was regularly studied and debated.

‘To be blessed with intelligence is the greatest of all God’s gifts,’ said Cecilia on one occasion. ‘For the intelligent have a greater appreciation of the mysteries of life.’ Her listeners, all men, would murmur approval while stroking their beards and nodding benignly in the direction of this Athena who had been resurrected from antiquity for their benefit.

Cecilia’s father, Fazio Gallerani had been a former ambassador until being forced into bankruptcy. The shame of this had caused his health to fail. Not long after her father’s burial, and encouraged by her six brothers, the virginal Cecilia was brought to Il Moro’s attention. Besotted with his sixteen-year old mistress, Il Moro paraded her around court to the alarm of his advisors.

It was his secretary who gingerly approached him late one night when Cecilia had retired to bed.

‘Sire, I have spoken this night to a trusted advisor to Ercole l d’Este, and he has assured me if the Duke were to discover you have a mistress he… he would not grant the hand of his daughter Beatrice in marriage.’

‘Satan’s breath, what Duke does not have a mistress!’

‘One who wishes to be recognised as the rightful ruler of Milan.’

The secretary lowered his head, anticipating that if Il Moro were to strike him, it would be the top of his head that would take the force of the blow and not his face.

Irrespective of how reluctant she was to become a Duke’s mistress, particularly one who had recently announced his engagement to one of the most influential families in Italy, over time she found Il Moro possessed certain attractive qualities. He spoke to her with more respect than he normally showed his courtiers and allowed her to continue being tutored. Although he had never read Aristotle, Pliny or St Thomas Aquinas, if he found her engaged in a book, he would ask after its nature and listen intently to her summary of the contents.

One of Il Moro’s saving graces was that he liked music and was a fine dancer, a quality that pleased her particularly when functions were held for visiting dignitaries. Such occasions gave her an opportunity to demonstrate her linguistic skills as well as illicit any information or gossip she could later relay to Il Moro, who hoped the delicate tongue of his pretty mistress would prise from his guests what he never could. It was a game Cecilia enjoyed, with the exception of drunken foreigners who sought to seduce her.

Alone in his room, Leonardo pondered the outcome of his meeting with the Duke and, as was his custom, allowed his mind to ruminate: Is the painting of mistresses all Il Moro considers me suitable for? Will he ever commission from me a master work? Something that would stand the test of time as testimony to my superiority as an artist. His mood turned melancholy, and rather like the pitter-patter of rain that beat against his window, doubts assailed his mind.

CHAPTERTWO

Cecilia seemed incapable of sitting still. An attack of acute agitation gripped her slender frame, causing her head to bob like an apple in a bucket and her hair to snag as her maidservant combed it. Her maid Maria, like the Virgin, was blessed with faith and patience. She had black curls hanging just above her shoulders and exquisite pale green eyes that a mercenary had once described as the colour of the Aegean Sea, though she herself had never been fortunate enough to see the sea.

It took some time for Maria to untangle the knots in the fine strands of Cecilia’s red hair. Eventually satisfied that she was suitable for presentation, Cecilia eyed herself in a mirror. Her shapely figure accentuated by her resplendent hair, held upright by a pretty pearled comb, momentarily transfixed Maria.

‘Do I look presentable?’ Cecilia asked.

‘Mistress, you were born to wear that dress, truly,’ replied Maria, snapping out of

her trance.

In the south of the city, Leonardo busied himself with tidying his personal studio, while his apprentices set about preparing the workshop in readiness for their esteemed visitor. Only ever catching rare glimpses of Cecilia from a distance on his various assignments around the castello, matters of appearance and how he would capture her on canvas were utmost on his mind.

News of Cecilia’s arrival was delivered to him in his private studio, one reserved for portrait painting by Francesco, who entered with a boyish grin; his admiring words tinged with wonderment.

‘She’s beautiful, maestro, more so than any woman I have ever seen.’

‘Of course, she’s beautiful,’ rebuked Leonardo. ‘If you were a Duke would you take pig to bed with you?’ Francesco said no more, distracted by the notion of taking such a woman to bed.

Forcing a smile, Leonardo entered his workshop and opened his mouth to speak, but upon surveying the sublime figure of perfection facing him, he for once was dumbstruck.

‘Is anything the matter?’ Cecilia quietly asked.

‘Leonardo da Vinci,’ he said falteringly. ‘At your service, my lady.’

‘I am Cecilia Gallerani.’ She curtseyed. ‘It is a great honour to meet you, maestro.’

Leonardo took her extended hand and let his fingers linger on hers. Transfixed by the moment, it took him a little too long before he realised the lady whose hand he held was not alone. She was accompanied by Maria, a stern-looking court official and two armed guards.

‘Are they also to be present when I am engaged in painting your portrait, my lady?’ The court official cleared his throat, but before he could speak Cecilia addressed Leonardo.

‘No maestro, they will wait here in your workshop while you paint me in your private studio.’

‘Excellent!’ Leonardo said with just a little too much gusto, enough for the court

official to register a degree of disapproval.

‘My lady,’ said the court official in response to Leonardo’s declaration. ‘I am charged with issuing the maestro with a warning. Il Moro will not hesitate…’

‘I am sure,’ Cecilia said, taking a light hold of Leonardo’s arm, ‘the maestro is mindful of his obligations to his Lord.’ Leonardo dutifully nodded his honest intent.

‘I am fully aware of my responsibilities. Rest assured, the lady Cecilia will be perfectly safe in my hands.’ He bowed to ease any lingering suspicion in the mind of the official.

‘This way, my lady.’

‘Cecilia, please call me Cecilia.’

Leonardo smiled as the last ‘Cecilia’left her lips and the solemn oath he had just sworn was drowned out by the sound of her name cascading around his ears. He breathed deeply and escorted her out of his workshop.

The guards showed little interest in the proceedings, being much more interested in Leonardo’s construction of an armoured vehicle. Circular in dimension it was divided into twenty sections of metal that were stretched out like a fan, below each sheet protruded a metal pipe from out of which missiles would be fired. Although it was only a miniature incorporating puppets to operate its mechanical devices, the guards could clearly see its military purpose. But what use a commander would find for such a bizarre contraption they knew not.

Throughout the discourse between the court official, Cecilia and Leonardo, Maria had quivered with fear. She had fixed her gaze firmly upon said magician, while in her hands she clasped a small silver cross that she hoped would grant both her and her mistress protection.

Leonardo guided Cecilia inside his personal studio, reserved for painting portraits, the workshop being far too noisy with all manner of distractions. His personal studio was small consisting of a writing table with a bulky journal atop it, a wooden chair, a large south facing window, a bookshelf and various easels, some with canvases on them and some without. Propped up alongside the wall below the window were several drawings. Cecilia stood motionless, waiting, while Leonardo fiddled with some papers.

‘Now that we have been introduced, is there any particular idea that springs to mind as to how you wish to paint me?’ she enquired, keen to know what the maestro had in mind.

‘I always have ideas; the question is whether they are any good,’ he replied.

Cecilia idly picked up one of the many drawings strewn across the workbench. It depicted five grotesque men in a circle. Their hideous deformity provoked amusement from Cecilia, in particular, one whose lower face resembled that of a duck.

‘I promise not to make you look like any of these,’ he quipped. Cecilia giggled, embarrassed that of all the drawings on display she had selected this one.

‘Where would you like me to stand?’ she asked, toying with a strand of hair.

‘Over here by the window.’

Cecilia moved to where Leonardo had indicated but as she took her place she noticed a look of agitation on his face.

‘Is anything the matter?’

‘The light…’

‘Oh, I am sorry,’ Cecilia said.

‘It is hardly your fault Cecilia if the morning is overcast.’ The hairs on the back of Cecilia’s neck tingled as she absorbed the sound of her name spoken on his lips for the first time.

Leonardo picked up a magnifying glass and ran it over Cecilia’s neck, shoulders and

the tops of her breasts. ‘Your skin has a luminous quality,’ noted Leonardo.

‘Is that a good thing?’ she blushed.

‘It means the light will fall more evenly and make the flesh seem more alive. I take it

you want to look alive?’ She giggled in the flirtatious manner of all women when in the company of a man whom they are becoming more infatuated with each passing moment.

‘Good. We seem to have established an important principle. I am to paint you looking like these grotesque gargoyles,’ he said, taking hold of the caricatures she still held in her hand.

‘I see you are a man of some humour.’

‘If we are to be trapped in this room for long hours, the ability to amuse each other will make life easier.’

‘Oh, I am quite sure we will find ways to do that,’ replied Cecilia with a warm smile. Embarrassed, Leonardo turned away to gaze out of the window that dominated the south-facing wall.

Waiting patiently for instruction, Cecilia took the opportunity to study him closely. Leonardo stood erect with the pride of a man comfortable in his own inclinations and habits. Cecilia wondered what his vices were and whether the love of a woman was one of them. She watched the fingers of his right-hand curl around his beard, first the little finger, then the ring finger, followed by the big finger and the index finger as he slowly stroked his beard with a slow compulsive rhythm.

‘I know you do not have a wife, but surely a man of your attractiveness has no shortage of lovers.’

‘There are some things I prefer to keep secret.’ Bruised by his rather curt response, Cecilia looked to the floor in the hope the maestro would not notice her blushes, which went unnoticed, for he was too busy admiring the contours of her body as she stood half in light and half in shadow due to a cloud passing overhead. Wishing to prolong their time further, he picked up some charcoal and began to draw her portrait. Staring at her body, Leonardo’s mind battled with unfamiliar temptations: Have I not seen desire in her face? Her beauty truly is worthy of all the accolades afforded her. If only my arms could hold such an exquisite goddess. The lady in question held her composure like some Athenian statue, the only movement being the rhythmic rise and fall of her bosom.

His musings were interrupted by an ominous April cloud stealing what light remained from the sun.

‘We have been defeated by the elements. Cecilia, would it be too much of an inconvenience to ask you to return at the same hour tomorrow?’

‘I think that will be fine,’ she replied, trying to hide her disappointment that their encounter was over so quickly. ‘Perhaps in a day or two, the gods will shine on us.’

When they returned to the workshop, the court official jumped up and eyed both for evidence of any misdemeanour. ‘Is everything in order?’ he snapped.

‘Everything, apart from the weather,’ Cecilia replied as pleasantly as possible. As if to reinforce her assertion, the heavens opened. Leonardo stood in the doorway, a hand outstretched to catch the raindrops that beat upon his hand. Cecilia nodded to Maria, who opened a white silk parasol. ‘Good day, maestro,’ she said, departing with her escort.

Soon after her departure, an agitated Leonardo paced about his workshop, drawing looks of puzzlement from his apprentices and derision from Salai.

What’s up with you?’ he said, ‘Got an itch up your crack?’ Salai had wide eyes and a chubby face that shone like the proverbial cherub. He was blessed with thick gold ringlets curling around his bronzed cheeks, while his azure eyes sparkled with mischief. His feet and hands were swift, and he was a deft hand at picking pockets, an art he had learned on the rough streets of Milan.

When he had first come into Leonardo’s care, Salai was even wilder and more foul-mouthed. Indeed, one of the maestro’s best customers, Signor Agusto Montafarno, was trying on a costume for a gala celebration that Leonardo had designed and made when the little vagrant took advantage of the situation to engage in the theft of the signor’s purse. The poor man was so vexed at this betrayal he was adamant that Salai should be hauled before the courts. It took every ounce of persuasive energy from Leonardo to forestall this eventuality. Nonetheless, the good signor swore he would never do business with Leonardo as long as ‘the little devil’ remained under his roof.

Salai’s peasant father was a drunkard who drifted between sporadic periods in work followed by longer periods out of work. Salai’s mother had died when he was very young. Shortly after her death, the boy’s father had left him to fend for himself, abandoning him like an unwanted mongrel. Salai soon learned that if you wanted food you must steal to acquire it. A chance encounter drew Salai and Leonardo together. Leonardo had not been looking for a son, indeed he was indifferent to the notion of taking a wife and raising a family. In truth, he relished telling his friends, ‘marriage was like putting your hand into a bag of snakes in the hope of pulling out an eel.’

One winter’s morning, when the wind and the rain were fleeing down the mountains, Leonardo opened his workshop door to find a child propped up asleep in the doorway. Above the door was an overhang that offered some protection from the rain. The rags it wore barely covered its flesh, which was red raw from the elements. Noticing the child’s fingers and lips had turned blue, and its face was bleached of colour, Leonardo picked the child up and carried it inside his workshop. The child barely managed to open its eyes, so weak was it from cold and hunger. Leonardo laid the child down upon his bed. The feeble creature mustered the strength to kick out and scream.

‘Get off me! Don’t hurt me! Leave me!’ But then, as if waking from a trance, the creature stopped its wild thrashing and lay panting, staring up at Leonardo. It was only then that Leonardo was able to ascertain the frightened wretch before him was a boy and, if not for the filth that smothered his body, a handsome one.

In a short time, Salai came to live in Leonardo’s household as his adopted son. It was an act of generosity that took the maestro’s friends by surprise. Having been abandoned himself at the age of five when he was removed from his mother’s home by his father and sent to live with his uncle, Leonardo knew something of the pain of abandonment and rejection and had much sympathy with the plight of the child. Even when the boy proved to be a nuisance, Leonardo showed himself to be a forgiving even indulgent father.

In a thoughtful frame of mind, Leonardo walked to and fro around his workshop, an oblong building with three large south-facing latticed windows that opened outward onto the street outside. There was a standard door at one end of the workshop and, at the other, a large double door for loading materials and for carrying out large finished pieces. Two workbenches were fitted into the studio. One was on the wall opposite the window, crammed with a variety of instruments and work tools it ran the full length of the room. The second, being smaller, was tucked alongside the wall by the door one ordinarily entered through. There was a kiln and a small furnace near to the shorter workbench plus two basins of water. The floor was covered in terracotta tiles. Upon them was a faded pattern, and in parts green olive trees were still vaguely visible.

The training of apprentices had never been an ambition of Leonardo’s and he made use of the few he appointed sparingly. In one corner, by the large double doors, was a device shaped like a wheel with what appeared to be a wooden wizard’s hat split into lattice-shaped panels that had metal pipes protruding all around it. Next to this stood a box-like machine, woven with interlocking mechanical coils and springs, a self-propelled cart.

‘You’re boring me,’ said Salai, frustrated at watching his papa march silently up and down the length of the workshop. He picked up a vial of red paint and threw it against the cartoon for the Virgin of the Rocks, before he hurried on his way.

Leonardo picked up a cloth, dabbed it in a little water and set about cleaning the red paint Salai had splattered across the left-hand corner of the ancona.

‘Would you like me to do that maestro?’ Francesco asked. Leonardo ushered him away with a wave of his hands.

Having cleaned the paint, Leonardo retired to his room, lay on his bed, stretched out his legs and closed his eyes. His mind raced as it pictured Cecilia’s graceful figure and heaving bosom, her piercing eyes and inviting lips, the contours of her dress that accentuated those parts of her body unseen by all but her lover. Aroused by sensual feelings he had long since denied himself he wrote in his journal: A man who cannot control his appetites is no better than a dog. He put down his quill and sighed:‘Oh Cecilia, what is to become of me? You have seduced me in mind if not in body.’

CHAPTERTHREE

The mere mention of Father Rodrigo of Salamanca was enough to strike fear into the hearts of many an honest Catholic. Amongst the Spaniard’s various papal duties was that of ‘Inquisitor’, a role he relished as he traversed Italy with a license to condemn those he perceived guilty of crimes against the Church. He had ordered the execution of more souls than he could recall. It had only been a few winters previous, when still in Spain, Father Rodrigo had been called upon to investigate allegations of heresy and witchcraft.

Late one November night, he had arrived with a small band of soldiers under his command during a heavy downpour at the ancient town of Cartagena. Abbot Ferdinand, who had sent for him, was waiting with a remnant of faithful monks and nuns in a state of desperation inside a small stone church on the outskirts of the port when Father Rodrigo arrived. Abbot Ferdinand told their sorry tale of blood and feathers on the floor of the Monastery of the Blessed Virgin atop the hill overlooking the town. A jewelled crucifix had been torn from the wall above the monastery altar and positioned in a pentagram, upside down and dipped in blood. The monks and nuns occupying the monastery were drunk and naked and indulging in all manner of Devil worship and licentious behaviour.

‘The vile song of witches has been heard throughout the night, terrifying the townsfolk,’ the Abbot had claimed. ‘Many have fled along the coast to relatives.’

Father Rodrigo considered their comments carefully, along with the horrific accounts the Abbot and his companions told of how Satan had seized the minds of many they once considered brothers and sisters in Christ.

Of the weeks that followed it was Abbot Ferdinand, along with the poor frightened monks and nuns Father Rodrigo had first encountered, who were the first to be found guilty of heresy. It was Father Rodrigo who signed their death warrants and who stood proudly to the right of the hangman when each one of these innocent Catholics was executed. The power he wielded, he did so with zeal, deriving satisfaction from the fear he struck into innocent and guilty alike. Such a reputation proved invaluable to the Pope when sending the surly Spanish priest on diplomatic missions.

Having been thwarted on several occasions by Il Moro’s powerful brother Cardinal Ascanio Sforza, who was Vice-Chancellor of the Holy Roman Church, the notorious Inquisitor had a particular disdain for the House of Sforza. The conniving Cardinal had used his influence to hinder the Inquisitor when he had laid accusations of heresy against several prominent individuals, who Father Rodrigo suspected had paid handsomely for the Cardinal’s protection. Therefore, when he was informed by His Holiness that his next diplomatic mission was to Cardinal Sforza’s usurper of a brother, Ludovico Sforza, Duke of Milan, his black heart beat with menace.

Even Il Moro was not inclined to look the blood-stained Priest in the eye when he arrived in Milan one windswept winter’s day to fulfil his business from Rome.

‘If you wish the Holy Father’s blessing, we would like to see a commission of deep religious significance handed to an artist in whom there is evidence of piety,’ said Father Rodrigo of Salamanca.

‘Leonardo is my artist in residence, I am sure he is worthy,’ Il Moro said with the slightest quiver in his voice, one not lost on the smirking Inquisitor.

‘Leonardo is a bastard and a sodomite!’ was Father Rodrigo’s terse reply.

‘Every artist in Italy is either a bastard, a sodomite or both,’ replied Il Moro.

‘My Lord, rumours abound that Leonardo secretly uses cadavers. Any man practising such diabolism cannot be considered worthy to depict Christ.’

‘I have also heard it said that Leonardo flies around the rooftops of Milan with a broom between his legs, but in all my nights observing the stars from my balcony I have yet to see such a sight. If I paid attention to every piece of tittle-tattle that swept past my ears, then I’d be more worried that either the Pope or the King of France has designs to take my land.’ Bowing slightly, Father Rodrigo continued in a more conciliatory tone.

'Well, my Lord, if you will vouch for the man, I will pass your recommendation to His Holiness.’

In the pretence of warming his hands over a blazing log fire, Il Moro turned his back upon his papal emissary. ‘A room has been prepared for you,’ he said, studying the flickering flames.

‘I thank you for your hospitality,’ replied the priest. The proud Spaniard promptly turned on his heels leaving Il Moro to breathe a sigh of relief.

‘That man could curdle the milk in a dead goat,’ he said to his secretary, who stepped up once their unwholesome guest had vanished from sight.

The following morning, the Inquisitor attended the early morning service of Lauds, where he was dissatisfied with every detail of the ritual. The incense was not pure enough; the prayers were said too quickly; some of the chants were out of tune. Afterwards, he lambasted the poor priest officiating, meticulously pointing out to the startled man, who was deaf in one ear, a list of his shortcomings. Unfortunately, due to the poor man’s disability, the sting in Father Rodrigo’s venom was somewhat wasted. Frustrated, the Inquisitor gave up and took route to the stables, saddled his horse and, in full force of a downpour, commenced his return journey to Rome.

‘Rain, rain and more blasted rain!’ Father Rodrigo complained to the young novice who had been assigned to accompany him on his journey. ‘Only an Englishman would feel welcome here,’ he said as he passed out of the southern gate without so much as a backwards glance.

During his return journey to Rome, Father Rodrigo rued the decline of the Catholic Church’s influence under the reign of Pope Alexander VI (Rodrigo Borgia), a despot who owed his rise to the Papal throne to a successful arrangement he had undertaken with Il Moro’s brother, Cardinal Ascanio Sforza. It was the good Cardinal’s clandestine activities that secured Rodrigo Borgia the necessary votes to become Pope. Of course, the Cardinal’s brother, Ludovico benefited substantially from his brother’s favourable position and new-found wealth.

After a gruelling journey when the rain he had encountered in Milan followed him for the greater part of his return to Rome, Father Rodrigo of Salamanca entered the ornate office of the Pope where he grudgingly bowed and kissed the sacred Fisherman’s ring.

‘How was Milan?’ enquired the Pope.

‘Wet, Your Holiness.’

‘And Il Moro? Is he satisfied with a Papal blessing for his commission?’

‘God has delivered to Rome the greatest artists in the land. You should make it a condition of your Papal approval that it is an artist from Rome who is sent to Milan to fulfil so important a commission.’

‘If Il Moro wants an artist from Rome, let him approach us formally and we will agree terms. If no such approach is made, then he has other artists at his disposal.’

‘By others you mean that bastard Leonardo da Vinci,’ uttered Father Rodrigo.

‘Italy is a land of bastards. Why, I have even fathered a few myself.’ His Holiness

replied, relishing the chance to watch his Inquisitor squirm uncomfortably. ‘Now go. I will speak no more on this.’

Marching out of the Pope’s private chambers, Father Rodrigo passed a bronze statue of Our Lord upon the cross and fell prostrate before it. ‘My Lord, he has defiled the Holy office and made a mockery of your name. He is a usurper to the throne of Saint Peter. By the cross and all the holy saints may I live to see the day when a righteous Pope governs your Church.’

The devout Father rose to his feet and kissed the silver crucifix around his neck. He had heard the rumours of regular evenings of debauchery where drunken revellers spurred on by prostitutes were awarded marks out of ten for virility by seeing who among them could ejaculate the furthest. If that were not enough, Pope Alexander VI openly kept a mistress, Vannozza (Giovanna) dei Cattanei. Their bastard children not only stayed in the Vatican, they were even promoted to office.

Even though Rodrigo Borgia was a Spaniard, Father Rodrigo felt ashamed that a fellow countryman had demeaned the Papacy with such vile behaviour. With trembling lips, he proceeded through the east wing of the Curia, comforting himself with the thought that there were others like him in Rome who had not sullied themselves with drunkenness and immorality. Men like Cardinal Giuliano della Rovere who loathed the Borgia Pope, believed that along with Cardinal Sforza they had conspired to prevent him from being elected to Papal office. The brass knocker on Cardinal Rovere’s door was shaped like the head of a lion. Rodrigo slammed it so hard the oak door juddered. It was only after he had knocked several times that the Cardinal sheepishly opened the door.

‘Welcome Father,’ said Cardinal Rovere. ‘My apologies for the delay in answering, but these are troubled days in Saint Peter’s.’ Cardinal Rovere was a stern looking man with an uncompromising air and a long white beard who, in his scarlet Cardinal’s robes, fitted in perfectly with the opulence of his surroundings. Upon his walls hung a richly embroidered tapestry of the battle of Ostia and the elaborately tailored silk-thread Chasuble that had been worn by his uncle, Pope Sixtus IV, on his coronation as Pope. Father Rodrigo poured out his frustrations.

‘I rejoiced at the sight of white smoke over Saint Peter’s, believing it was you who had taken the Papal sceptre. Now my heart grows wearier by the day, witnessing the evils done in the name of the Church.’ Father Rodrigo suddenly stopped. He knew he could speak openly in front of Cardinal Rovere but in his enthusiasm, he forgot to take into account another who was present, Cardinal Alessandro Orsini, a thin rakish Vatican stalwart.

‘I assure you, Father Rodrigo, Cardinal Orsini is a man to be trusted.’ Satisfied, the Spaniard continued. ‘Bastards, thieves, fornicators, sodomites and heretics of every hue are commonplace in our blessed city. Unless we act to stop the likes of the Borgias and the Sforzas, the very institution of the Church will be threatened.’

Cardinal Orsini filled a gold goblet with wine, which he passed to the distressed Spaniard. ‘My son, when God looks down upon this earth, let me assure you he is well pleased by the purity of your words and actions.’

‘There are those in the Vatican who now conspire to take my life,’ said a stern-faced Cardinal Rovere. ‘But I believe God will preserve it for this divine purpose, to rid the world of Rodrigo Borgia. On that day, I will be made Pope. Until then, it is not safe for me here, and for that reason, I leave soon for the Court of Avignon. There, I plan to form an alliance with King Charles VIII of France and lure him into some pretext for declaring war upon Pope Alexander VI, and in return secure the Duchy of Milan for the French and Naples too, which he has long held aspirations for.’

Cardinal Orsini leant in to speak. ‘This time Cardinal Sforza’s wealth won’t save him. He will come to ruin once the French take Milan from his murdering dog of a brother, and Rodrigo Borgia is stripped of the Papacy.’

There was never any proof Cardinal Sforza had committed the crime of simony, yet rumours abounded that Rodrigo Borgia had paid handsomely with four cartloads of silver for the Cardinal’s assistance in bribing sufficient numbers of The Sacred College of Cardinals, to cast their vote for Rodrigo Borgia.

‘When God pronounces his judgment upon the Borgias and Sforzas, what punishment do you forecast?’ the Inquisitor asked. Cardinal Rovere placed a hand over Father Rodrigo’s and clasped it firmly.

‘My dear friend, the trial of such slippery individuals would need to be judged by a man of calibre, one who could not be bribed. I had hoped you would be willing to oversee such proceedings?’ Humbled by his mentor’s request, Father Rodrigo bowed.

‘Your Grace,’ he said as he kissed the Cardinal’s sapphire ring. ‘It would be an honour to root out and punish the enemies of the Church.’ He kissed the Cardinal’s ring a second time and then raised his gold goblet to Cardinal Rovere. ‘To your health, wealth and future success.’

Feeling rejuvenated, the scheming Father finally left Cardinal Rovere’s office. Speaking to himself, he knelt down before a gilded gold cross. ‘Sforza or not, I swear before Almighty God, I will see Il Moro hung as a heretic. As for that Florentine bastard da Vinci, he too will feel the wind beneath his swinging feet.’

CHAPTERFOUR

In the year following the commencement of Cecilia’s portrait, Leonardo had been so preoccupied by his patron’s demands it remained unfinished. Throughout the summer he was busy overseeing the design and construction of a new well within the castello’s walls. In addition, Il Moro’s wife Beatrice d’ Este, had insisted upon a theatrical production to celebrate her birthday, to which Leonardo had been called upon to plan and make both the costumes and a great variety of props.

Compared to Cecilia, Leonardo considered Beatrice to be a plain woman of simple tastes. The daughter of Ercole d’ Este, Duke of Ferrara, she was well suited to the duteous role of Il Moro’s wife. She was however, perceptive enough to suspect her husband had a mistress hidden somewhere in the castello grounds. Her misgivings were not eased by his furious response whenever she broached him on this subject. Therefore, Beatrice’s watchfulness, combined with Leonardo’s busy schedule, meant that it was often a month or more between each sitting for Cecilia’s portrait. This situation suited Leonardo well, for it allowed his phlegmatic nature time to reassert his vow of celibacy and curb the rush of carnal inclinations she had stirred within him.

One morning Cecilia arrived unannounced in a state of panic.

‘The court is alive with gossip that Ercole d’Este has found out Il Moro has been unfaithful to his daughter. Oh my dear, what will become of me?’

‘Are you alarmed that your position is a tenuous one?’ asked Leonardo.

‘The position of any woman is tenuous but at least a married woman has some security. A mistress has none.’

‘What repercussions do you fear?’

‘Ercole d’Este has some sway with the Venetians, who still do not recognize Il Moro as the rightful ruler of Milan. Il Moro wants Beatrice and her father to embark upon a diplomatic mission to help persuade the Doge to recognize him as Milan’s rightful ruler. But if she finds out about me, she will certainly not embark upon any such mission and neither will her father.’

‘Then you need hope your presence will remain a secret otherwise he will be forced to turn you out.’

‘If he turns me out then I am ruined,’ said a teary Cecilia.

‘You will find a husband I am sure.’

‘Is that a proposal?’ she said. Cheered by the remark, Leonardo laughed and wiped the tear from her eye.

‘My dearest angel, I am not a good prospect for you. Now, enough of this chatter we have work to do. Please, take your place by the window.’

For the rest of the afternoon, Leonardo worked in silence. While he concentrated on the contours of Cecilia’s dress and the technical demands of painting the delicate folds in the material, Cecilia thought of what manner of husband Leonardo might make in the event she was turned out by Beatrice:Surely a man of such sure hands would know how to please a woman.

The morning did not progress well as an anxious Cecilia found herself unable to relax and focus her attention on standing poised as instructed. Much to the maestro’s frustration, she moaned at his constant rearranging of her posture. Resigned to the fact he was wasting his efforts, the artist put down his brush and headed towards the door.

‘Come, there is something I wish to show you.’ Together they entered the main workshop and, accompanied by the stares of apprentices and Cecilia’s palace entourage, marched through the large double doors at the opposite end. Once outside they took the steps to the roof where Leonardo opened a small wooden shed and ushered her inside. Cecilia found herself looking at a large, complex wood-framed construction.

‘What is it? she asked.

‘It’s an ornithopter, from the Greek meaning bird wing. I intend to see if a man can fly by aid of such a device.’

Central to the ornithopter was a large plank to lie upon and from this position operate the numerous pulleys attached to two foot-pedals. The mullioned wings were made from willow, for its lightness and flexibility. The wings were covered in the finest linen available. Leonardo deemed it necessary for the fabric to be thin enough to allow air to pass through. Cecilia attempted to lift one end of a wing up, an act that required a great deal of effort.

‘It is not possible for a man to fly by means of this apparatus, Leonardo. No man, save Hercules, could generate enough power to lift the ornithopter off the ground if he was strapped into it.’

‘Regrettably, I am aware of this.’

‘I am sure the mathematician Luca Pacioli would be willing to assist you in your efforts. I will introduce you to him tonight.’

It was early in the evening when Leonardo arrived to deliver his inaugural address to the group of intellectuals and academics that Cecilia hosted quarterly. He knew several by name including his friend Franchino Gaffurius, the head of music at the Duomo, a handsome man with shoulder-length brown hair and luminous brown eyes. In honour of their friendship, Leonardo had painted Franchino, who held in his hands a section of music he had composed, a Mass in honour of the city’s patron saint, Saint Ambrose. Also present was Donato Bramante, architect to Il Moro, who was currently engaged in the final stages of construction for the Duke’s personal chapel of Santa Maria delle Grazie. Their paths often crossed in work matters.

A delighted Cecilia introduced Leonardo to the ten men present. Il Moro’s artist in residence oozed confidence as he nodded politely to each man before he began his presentation.

‘Gentleman, I am honoured to speak to you this evening on a subject of great importance to me: flight. Yet if man is to understand the nature of flight, he first need comprehend the art of swimming. Have you ever noticed,’ he asked his audience, ‘how the hands of a swimmer when they strike the water, cause the body of the swimmer to glide forward in a contrary movement? I, therefore, assert it is the same with the wings of a bird in the air. The atmosphere is an element capable of being compressed within itself when it is struck by something moving at a greater rate of speed than its own velocity.’

Several murmurs of approval emanated from the group and one or two caught Cecilia’s eye to indicate their guest had thus far impressed.

‘My learned colleagues, my conclusion is – a man suitably equipped with a mechanical device could, through correct design and construction of an ornithopter, overcome the resistance of the air and rise above the ground.’

‘Impossible!’ proclaimed Professor Tedesco, a rotund bald gentleman who was also appointed to the Royal Court as its Professor of History. ‘I have never heard anything so ridiculous!’ he said, seeking approval from his colleagues.