Leonardo's Swans (46 page)

“Not to worry. I’ve a small house where you will be comfortable. You may have it all to yourself, depending upon how many appear from Milan in the coming weeks.”

Lucrezia bows. “You are the essence of kindness.”

“I expect to soon begin negotiations with King Louis for—well, for many things. I will recommend both of you to him, and I will negotiate with his councillors for the return of your estates and your personal property.”

Now both of the mistresses of Ludovico bow to the sister of his wife. What a strange world I find myself living in, Isabella thinks. What would Beatrice make of it all? But she remembers Beatrice’s passionate campaign for Ludovico’s investiture of the title of duke—her sudden shift in loyalty from her beloved Neapolitan grandfather to her husband. Beatrice would have understood everything, even taking in Ludovico’s mistress and bastard son. Did Beatrice not do as much herself for Cecilia at one time?

“But our exquisite city!” Lucrezia looks at Isabella as if pleading with her to change events that are well under way.

“The past is gone, my dear,” Isabella says, realizing that she sounds more pitiless than the heaviness in her heart would indicate. “All we have is the present, and how we conduct ourselves will determine our futures. My father and brothers and my husband are at this moment in the company of the French king. They have taken him already on a hunting expedition, believe it or not, on Ludovico’s lands, where they made sport in the recent past in the company of the duke. I received the letter this very morning. So you see that if the Houses of Gonzaga and Este, two of the most ancient in Italy, have suddenly become French, then you all have the ability to become French. Yes?
Oui? Que pensez-vous du miracle?
”

Lucrezia lightly touches the ivory of the clavichord. “Is this the instrument from the Castello or a copy?”

“It is the very one. It took me more than a year after my sister’s death to procure it, but I wanted to have a memento of her. We both love music so much.”

“I recall that the duchess could not play it, and was forever inviting musicians to court to play it for her. She took great delight in its sound.”

“Did she?”

“Your Excellency, forgive me,” Lucrezia says, blushing again. “Of course you know these things.”

“My sister loved music and song, though she did not successfully produce either and was constantly demanding to be sung
to
and played
for
. I obliged her throughout our childhoods. Shall we oblige her now?”

Isabella begins to play a melody that all of them would know, one that Beatrice would often request. The two sisters sang it together, usually at the end of an evening, for its lyrics and melody proved rather serious for most parties. Isabella plays one verse and then signals for the others to join in.

How sweetly the three of them sing together. Isabella wonders if the other two have worked as hard as she has to improve their voices. Beatrice never wanted to practice her singing. She liked to chirp along as Isabella played and carried the song. She loved the fun of it. Was there something in mastering the art of singing that is responsible for the three survivors harmonizing like birds who have long shared the same nest, while Beatrice lies in her grave? It seems impossible, yet that idea slides seamlessly into the next, the one that Isabella has turned over and over in her mind for years, but which now calls for fresh examination: What might a marriage between Ludovico and herself—coolheaded and judicious—have produced? Beatrice could enchant Ludovico. She could fuel his ambitions and do his bidding. But she could not control him. Give her credit: Beatrice had been able to represent her husband in matters of diplomacy in a way that her candor and warm nature could cover for his duplicity. But Isabella could have steered him along the path to ever-increasing greatness. Ludovico needed more than a girl with spirit, more than a woman who would do anything to please him. He needed a cool head and a firm hand to help him through the difficult times.

Cecilia’s voice rises to take the high note on the last verse while Lucrezia takes the low, coming just under Cecilia’s lovely trill and repeating the words in a mournful register. Now all three women have tears in their eyes. Isabella wonders what is motivating the tears of the others. Loss of Ludovico and his patronage? The uncertainty of exile? Sadness at the death of the young duchess, wronged by at least one of them? Or relief that through the seeming misfortune of their lesser births, they have escaped Beatrice’s fate? Isabella’s tears are for her sister’s fate, but also they are new tears over an old question. Would the entire world have been different if Ludovico had not been so damned pleased with Cecilia and had sent off for a wife just a little sooner? It was a bad choice that bespoke of laziness, lust, arrogance, and a lack of respect for political realities. As if all the world would wait upon his personal desires.

There are no small enemies and no small choices. How often had her father drilled that idea into her young head? One must be eternally vigilant in one’s thinking.
From what seems a small, light thing, there proceeds a great ruin.
Where has she heard that before? Not from her father, she is sure. But she is sure of its wisdom.

Isabella realizes that in her contemplation, she has dropped out of the singing and rejoins the sweet duet. The three survivors of Ludovico’s affection sing their final verse to the one who could not weather his love. Beatrice’s young and blameless face looks back at them, passing no judgment. But Isabella doubts that Ludovico will take that stance. He will blame the French, King Louis, Francesco, the Venetians, her father, even herself. He will blame God, Fortuna, whomever it crosses his mind to abjure. But did he not seal his own fate with his self-indulgence and his foolishness, which had begun long, long ago? And did her sister not design her own demise when she abandoned her senses and decided to love him?

Perhaps la Fortuna is not so fickle after all.

FROM THE NOTEBOOK OF LEONARDO:

Write letter to French commander about protecting property rights to vineyard.

Have the boxes of books ready in the morning for muleteer. (Use some bedding to pack and protect.)

Don’t forget to pick up small stove from refectory.

Take sheaths of paper and box of colors belonging to Jean Perréal and do not forget to ask him for his method for drying color and get the recipe for making white salt and colored paper.

Take boxes of seeds, including lily and watermelon.

Send savings to the bank at Monte di Pietà in Florence for safekeeping.

Note to Bramante. Will try to meet him in Rome.

Send Salai with word to Luca Pacioli to be packed and ready in the morning.

The Saletta is unfinished. Bramante’s building projects—unfinished. The Castello is a prisoner; the duke’s revenues are seized. The duke has lost his state, his possessions, and his liberty. And none of his projects have been completed.

By the time the Magistro arrived in Mantua, Isabella had taken in so many refugees from Milan that she had to scramble to find quarters for him. But she would have thrown her own mother—
God rest her soul, and Lord Jesus forgive me, but you know it’s true
—out of her chambers to accommodate so great an artist. She had arranged temporary quarters for him and his travel party, promising him a lovely home either in town or in the countryside if he would remain in her service. But the Magistro had already found a new employer.

“I am on my way to Venice by request of the signory. One of Duke Ludovico’s last strategies was to incite the Turks to attack the Venetian frontiers to distract the army. The Turks would do anything to prevent the French from crossing their country again on another Crusade, so they have begun to plague the Venetians with great enthusiasm. I will demonstrate to our friends in Venice how to wipe out the entire barbarian army by flooding the valley they occupy. In addition, the signory has asked to see designs for my inventions to fight the enemy in vessels that sail below the sea’s surface.”

“How ingenious,” Isabella said. “Would you be so kind as to show me the designs? I am most curious.”

But the Magistro affected a grave look. Lowering his voice, he answered her. “I cannot, Your Excellency, though nothing would please me more than to indulge your curiosity. I must not divulge these designs because of the evil nature of men, in whose hands it might cause much murder and mayhem on the seabed. As we speak, I have lawyers drawing up contracts in secret. A motto to live by is this: Do not teach anyone, and you alone will excel.”

Strange and mysterious man. So he was on his way, with no intention to remain in her service.

“I see that you have made your own plans. But before you leave us, may I remind you of the long and illustrious career Andrea Mantegna has enjoyed under our patronage. We are very stable here at Mantua, not to mention the constancy of rule of my own family at Ferrara. My husband and my father are at this moment entertaining the King of France. You would be protected here, allowed to concentrate on work, and I assure you, without cares of money.”

“Only the demands of the Venetian government would allow me to dare to disappoint you, Your Excellency. My strongest desire would be to serve you; however, I have committed to the signory. There is nothing we can do.” He said it without sounding as if he was patronizing her, but Isabella was certain that that was precisely what he was doing.

“Do say you will consider the idea. Perhaps when you have finished your service to the Venetians, you will return to us?”

“I am honored by the suggestion. It will be utmost in my mind at all times.” He bowed formally, signaling that it was time for him to leave her presence, or rather, signaling that the conversation concerning his employment in Mantua was over. As she looked at the top of his graying head of hair and through to his scalp, she thought that what he had said was incontestably proper but unlikely in the extreme to contain any element of truth. What a perfectly cagey man.

Nevertheless, she would not allow him to get away without sitting for him. She did sense, however, as she had with Leonardo so many years ago, that one must be patient with him. Charming, but no lover of women, he would neither be manipulated nor would he give in to demands. So she waited, housing his small entourage and indulging his requests. His demands were two: he wished to visit the singer Atalante Migliorotti, with whom he originally traveled to Milan before entering Ludovico’s service, and he wished to study the frescoes of Andrea Mantegna in the wedding chamber of the Mantuan Castello. Mantegna had painted the walls and ceiling of the chamber in a way that appeared to open the room into the outdoors. The domed ceiling was transformed into a painted sky from which ladies and putti appeared to be looking down into the room from above. The Magistro spent hours in the chamber, studying for a very long time—according to the report Isabella received—the hind of a dog, replete with long tail and saggy testicles. It reminded Isabella of Ludovico’s remarking on the fact that Leonardo had spent more time looking at horses’ asses than any man in history. Perhaps the Magistro had an ambitious project planned around canines. Or perhaps he was indulging his fascination with anatomy, be it human or bestial.