Leonardo's Swans (41 page)

At every major intersection of the city, the local magistrates would take the duchess’s bier from its last bearers and carry it through their quarter. Your Excellency, I can report that her body was handled from the Castello to the crypt only by loving hands. Whenever the magistrates changed guard of her casket, six new pairs of eager and tender hands covered in fine leather against the cold reached out to cradle this young woman whom they so adored. Citizens of every rank and class turned out to pay their respects. Countless numbers of gentlemen and ladies, laborers, merchants and their wives and children all braved the cold January evening to honor her. It seemed to me that the very winds calmed in every quarter out of respect for the duchess, whipping up again as soon as she was passed into another section of the city. Every shop was closed as if it were Christmas day. Even the beggars and prostitutes abandoned their trades during the procession. Many a haggard man in tattered clothing and a woman with too much rouge upon the face was seen in uncharacteristic lament, with no thought to capitalize economically upon the event, as the duchess’s body passed through their neighborhoods. I have never seen the lowest echelons of society put aside thoughts of the coin and pay such respect.

Finally, long after the sun had set on this short winter’s day, the magistrates reached the gates of the Santa Maria delle Grazie, where six ambassadors from other Italian cities received the duchess’s bier and carried it into the church, laying her upon the steps of the altar. The church was draped in reams of black silk, which was very dramatic against its stark white marble. A thousand wax tapers lit the church in her honor. The cardinal himself received her and said the whole of the Mass. The duchess’s favorite singers, including Cristoforo Romano the sculptor, sang the Requiem in voices that were inspired by the Heavens. Never have you heard such singing, exquisite in its sadness. I tell you, her soul was sent to God by the very voices of angels. After the prayers were made for the Lord to take her soul—though who can doubt Beatrice’s position at the side of the Lord?—and the last, though not final, tears were shed, the body was put into a magnificent sarcophagus, supported by great marble lions. And there, under Donato Bramante’s newly finished cupola—one that Beatrice herself so admired—she will rest until the marble tomb Ludovico has commissioned from the hunchback artist, Solari, is ready to be laid over her.

Your Excellency, I must not forget to mention that as the funeral party entered the church, I saw none other than the Magistro standing at the gates of Santa Maria delle Grazie. They say he is putting the final touches on his mural of Our Lord’s Last Supper. It has taken him these two years to find the proper model for Judas, but word has it that he found and spied on a poor unsuspecting Jew in the section of the city where they live and followed the man until he felt his features indelibly impressed upon his imagination. Then he made a series of sketches from memory and is now painting that hapless man’s face upon the wall, forever to be immortalized as history’s greatest traitor. You have never seen a sadder expression than the one on the Magistro’s face as he watched the duchess’s corpse enter the church. He stood just out of the light of a torch, but I could make out his features, which seemed to carry the weight of the event in progress. Is it not lovely to imagine Beatrice laid to rest so near the Magistro’s mural, almost as if she can gaze upon the face of Jesus, an activity which gave her so much pleasure and comfort and consolation in her last days?

Ludovico did commission the Magistro to make a portrait of Lucrezia Crivelli. I tell you this not to be indiscreet but because I am certain that as gossip spreads faster than weeds, and as you trouble yourself to keep abreast of the current works of the great masters, you have already heard this news. I have not yet seen it, but I hear it is not nearly as nice as the one he made of me so many years ago. I like to think that the Magistro approved of me and of my liaison with the duke, since there was no wife at that time to suffer injury from our affections. Perhaps the Magistro, along with the rest of Milan, so disapproved of Ludovico’s affair that he allowed his disaffection to creep into the portrait. This might be fanciful thinking, that an artist the caliber of Leonardo would let the human failings of others infiltrate his work, but it is a woman’s thinking, nonetheless, and I cannot help but hope that it is at least partially true. I believe that all of us may anticipate a stunning portrait of dear Beatrice on the wall opposite the Last Supper, a final tribute from a devoted court artist to his patron.

Though it has been some weeks since the duchess’s death, the duke’s demonstrations of grief continue. Hundreds of Masses for her soul are said daily throughout Milan and the rest of Italy. He has set aside his differences with the prior at the Santa Maria delle Grazie and now patronizes that church above all others. I hear that the path between the Treasure Tower and the church sees a daily parade of gold.

All the games and horse races in the foreseeable future are canceled. When I think upon how much Beatrice adored these events, I am not certain that it is right and proper to cease the celebrations, though I know it is out of honor for her memory. I suppose it would be far too painful to see the seat next to the duke empty of the exuberant spirit and the enthusiasm which she lent to every festivity.

Your Excellency, please accept all my condolences and my deepest hope that this missive will alleviate a small portion of your sorrow. I remain, one who will always be grateful for your friendship,

Cecilia Gallerani, Contessa Bergamini

Chapter Nine

XVI * LA TORRE CADENTE
(THE FALLING TOWER)

Let those who are in high places take warning, and let them remember that when Fortune sets you on top of her wheel, she may at any time bring you to the ground. And then the closer you have been to Heaven, the greater and the more sudden will be your fall.

—A VENETIAN CHRONICLER

IN THE YEAR 1499; IN THE CITY OF MANTUA

G
OD
is punishing her. That is all there is to it. One would think that God would tire of heaping death and misfortune upon Isabella, but that does not seem to be the case. She has been sure that she brought on all the deaths by praying so hard to God to allow her second child to be a boy. She was disappointed when the child had turned out to be female, but two months later, when the infant died, Isabella realized that the death was her special brand of punishment, carefully designed by the Lord to take His vengeance upon her arrogance for desiring something different than what He had planned for her. The sudden deaths of Bianca Giovanna and Beatrice followed, further proof of God’s retribution. Wrapped in black for so long, gliding like a crow through the palace, with each death extending her period of mourning, Isabella wondered if she would ever wear color again. Beatrice’s death had been so shocking that Isabella had needed the reams of black cloth to remind her that her sister was not merely a letter away. Bad fortune comes in groups of three, however, and Isabella was also confident that God had doled out enough misery. But God does not seem to be at all finished with Isabella d’Este; the horrible and sad death of Beatrice was not the end of sorrow but the beginning of the end of everything. For what seems to be racing toward its death now is her marriage.

What has she not done for Francesco? She elevated the House of Gonzaga by entering into it by matrimony. She has attended to him lovingly through his many strange illnesses and fevers. She has governed all of Mantua, down to the smallest detail, to the praise of its councillors, because Francesco has no patience for the minutiae of administration, preferring to spend his time at the stables or on military affairs. She has brought the finest artists of the day to adorn their buildings and churches. She has charmed heads of state who consider her husband too egotistical and not refined enough to dine with them. She defended his honor, even while his closest confidants informed her that he had a growing reputation as a disloyal scoundrel who spewed all his secrets when in his cups. Francesco’s exploits as the commander of the army that threw the French out of Italy grew exponentially every time he recounted the tale, annoying anyone who had to listen, but severely angering the Venetians. Why, oh why do men always believe the legends that spring up around their victories? Especially when these legends are concocted by other men merely to preserve or consolidate their own power? Both Ludovico and the Venetians had encouraged the poets of Italy to write great ballads of Francesco’s victory over the French. But that was to demonstrate to the people that their benefactors had saved them. Privately, both ruling parties were disappointed in their captain general’s performance—Ludovico, because Francesco had failed to annihilate the French entirely, and the Venetians, because after the war Francesco had shown too much mercy upon the French. Francesco, however, ignored the motives behind the poems and ballads sung in his honor and took the words unto his very bosom, mouthing them all over Italy whenever he had too much to drink.

Moreover, since Beatrice’s death, Isabella has played peacemaker between Ludovico and Francesco, whose contempt for each other has become more public every day. She had just taken off the mourning clothes a few months earlier, ready for life again, when she received a letter from Ludovico, accusing Francesco of making secret overtures to the French King Charles. “I have incontrovertible evidence in my very hands,” Ludovico wrote. “And if not for my love and respect for you, I would turn the traitor over to the Venetians immediately.”

Though Ludovico did not betray Francesco, the Venetians found out anyway and fired him as captain general of the army.

Isabella was devastated that her husband was engaged in political intriguing behind her back, and further dismayed that he was directly betraying both Ludovico and the Venetians, his benefactors. “How on earth do you expect us to live?” she had screamed at Francesco. “We will be crushed between these two great powers. You are going to be the death of the Houses of Gonzaga and Este and of Mantua itself!” She tried to mend things with her brother-in-law by sending soothing letters and a steady flow of gifts—fresh fish that he purported to adore from their Mantuan lakes, carp bred in their ponds, artichokes, and flowers. The fish, packed in ice brought down from the mountains, was difficult to ship, but Isabella spared no expense in cultivating Ludovico’s continued patronage.

But Ludovico surprised both the marquis and the marchesa by seeing a way to turn Francesco’s misfortune with the Venetians to his own benefit.

The French King Charles had died very suddenly after hitting his head on a doorway. Who had taken the throne but Louis of Orleans, Ludovico’s sworn enemy. Louis’s first announcement as king was that he was going to reconquer Italy for his two sons, making one of them the King of Naples and the other, Duke of Milan. Ludovico took the threat seriously and realigned with Emperor Max. But who would lead the new Milanese-German army? Ludovico had insulted Francesco after the last war, chastising him for allowing Charles to escape. And Francesco had threatened Ludovico in return by having secret dialogues with the French. Now, with the Venetians against Francesco, Ludovico saw his opportunity. He wrote to Isabella, informing her that he wished for Francesco to once again lead the Milanese-German army, and he was coming to Mantua to discuss the details. Oh, and he would be accompanied by
an entourage of one thousand
. Would that be too terribly much trouble for her?