The Book of Duels (18 page)

Ephram of Gath, 17,

Only Son of Mutawadd’i, Philistine Slave, & Shield Bearer

 

I
have stood beside Goliath each of these last forty days, his armor bearer, his boy with spear and shield—I have no choice in this state, I have been made his indentured servant—true, I stole a sack of acma to feed my starving child and I was caught bread-handed and the priests punished me thus—we have thousands more men than they but our courage has flown and we do not march on their army, instead we parade this one hulking hector to shame them into submission and who can fault them their fear—then comes the boy, unarmed save a sling in his hand and a song on his lips, and he is ruddy and goodly to look upon and everyone goes so quiet, verily, you can hear his footfalls in the sand and he calls to Goliath with a wave of his hand and Goliath turns and I hand him his spear and I hand him his shield and his sword is sheathed and his shadow is long through the valley—the wind kicks sand into my eyes and the boy whips a stone that catches my man in the leg and shatters his knee, but before he hits the ground, the boy has rushed upon him and unsheathed Goliath’s sword and, in one poetic gesture, brought it down upon his neck and, in this endeavor, severed the giant’s head and freed me as well and the clouds part and a great stalk of light strikes me full on and I fall prostrate and repent my many sins and this boy touches my spine with the tip of the sword and I right myself, speechless, as he hefts Goliath’s head by its hair and his army rushes forth on all sides like floodwaters bursting a river’s bed and my godless army flees, impotent and ashamed—I embrace this boy’s legs and kiss his feet for I have found my king and I have found my God.

Dueling Visions of
David
: Donatello v. Michelangelo v. da Vinci

Florence, Italy,

1440–1505

For the Lord seeth not as man seeth; for man looketh on the outward appearance, but the Lord looketh on the heart.

I Samuel 16:7

Donato di Niccolò di Betto Bardi

(a.k.a. Donatello), 54, Creator of Bronze
David
, 1440

 

H
e need not be muscular nor strong as the classical nudes but in fact can be effeminate and small as Giovanni when he sweeps the shavings from the studio floor—his sandals and hat are comely as are his long curled locks and his jutting round belly, so like a woman fresh with child, and my
David
is a child too, a shepherd from the field—it is not his might and brawn that win the day but rather his courage and faith that God invested within him—even the meek can inherit the earth if God is but within them—I have made him proud over the vanquished villain but I shall not circumcise him no matter the Judaic law because Giovanni’s lovely member is still intact and often on display as he models for clay drafts in my drawing room, the light coming through the high windows as dust motes dance about us, and we are done for the day, the drawings have been made and the models completed—the room is clean although we are lousy with sweat and debris and I towel him off and he towels me off and we lie beside one another on the featherbed above the straw mattress, where I often go for inspiration, and we close about us the curtains, and though the Florentines have banned
luxuria
, I shall not be bound by their laws or their art and so I have created something new, something built upon no known paradigm, and the Medicis can refuse their patronage, rescind their money—they can take this bronze back and melt it down, bust it, hide it away forever, but I will know what I have created here and I will be my own
man despite the thousands they’ve persecuted for love—the smoke from my tinderbox envelops us as we ignite a fine fire and recline, warm and safe in my studio, and as far as I’m concerned, the Medicis are the giant, the powerful, the obese, and I am the mere naked boy who has conquered it, put my foot on its decapitated head, and yawned, even as its beard tendrils tickle my leg and beg my attention.

Michelangelo di Lodovico Buonarroti Simoni

(a.k.a. Michelangelo), 29, Creator of Marble
David
, 1504

 

A
s a child, I hiked among the snow-dappled ash and maple and beech of the Alps and ran my hands over the contours of rock and thought,
Rain is the greatest artist
, but now I see that idea as but the folly of youth, my enormous ignorance alone saved me from blasphemy—rain is but a tool wielded by the Great Practitioner, just as I use mallet and toothed chisel—those behemoth rock formations unknown centuries in the making, chipped away one wet drop at a time—oh, the patience of the Creator!—the images they hold still not apparent to us mortals—and that is the hell in dying—all that unfinished work I will never live long enough to realize—so when I saw my
David
trapped within the Meseglia stone, I knew it was my God-given duty to carve and coax him free, to birth and deliver him, and by pitching large portions of unwanted stone, I began to take away everything that was not of his form until this final figure remained, coolly posing in contrapposto just before he enters battle as I did with my mentor, old Ghirlandaio, who refused my wages but whom I have conquered and surely surpassed—my
David
lives forever on the hinge, a coil of potential movement, the moment before his immortality—here is a man who has made a conscious choice and will soon spring into conscious action like I with hammer raised over rasps and rifflers, abrading the stone into folds, and with a sand cloth I made him fine and smooth and polished him until the marble was as silken as a woman’s
armpit hair and about me there lay chunks of debris and white powder fine as ash—

I think of the many friends I have lost to the grave due to plague or war, the many I have forgotten because of my negligence or overindulgence, my family back in Caprese—my mother and father to whom I send every cent I earn—and Sofia, sweet Sofia, who took to a nunnery in Rome rather than to my adulterous bed—now, in the middle of all these people come to crowd about the Palazzo della Signoria just to see my statue, I am left with these fading images and I am become more wholly at home in the realm of God—I exist as though a spirit until I find myself with pitching chisel in hand and then I am made God’s errand boy again, sent to find the figures hidden in the stone, and with each stroke I earn my place in Heaven where God’s hands will envelop me, hide me for eternity, where only He, the ultimate artist, will be able to divine my self secreted within the stone.

Leonardo di ser Piero da Vinci

(a.k.a. The Renaissance Man), 53, Creator of Various Charcoal
Davids
, 1505

 

I
know he knows of my trials, the attempts to put me in chains with claims of sodomy—even though I was acquitted, he looks at me askance as if he sees me as Donatello’s
David
, effete and limp but a hero nonetheless, because I’ve seen him admire my
Annunciation
, my
Last Supper
, my
Vitruvian Man
, with as much intensity as I have attended his sculpture, stood at its feet night and day and run my hands over its marble until I felt its warm bones beneath and its blood quick in the veins, and any man who could make that perfect male form must also have within him the same love and longing as I—yet no matter how long I sketched his sculpture I could not find its grace.

Would that I were craftsman enough to complete the triumvirate—three
David
s of Florence facing south and staring down Rome, the giant—instead I merely sat scribbling these drawings and that is my shame—I cannot meet his measure—oh, that I could give my
David
the supple, fluid qualities of Donatello’s—whose body is nimble and shows God’s good grace—and the hard, torqued strength of Michelangelo’s—whose body is perfect, thereby reflecting the perfection of his character—I had such a plan to put mine between the two, the bridge between the thought and victory, the stone just leaving his sling, his body twisting like this smoke about me, the man in action.

Yet I have set each of my charcoal sketches afire though I know paper cannot burn—it must first be altered in substance, changed from solid to gas, so then it may burn—I do not
mention these ideas for fear they’d incarcerate me for heresy but I’ve witnessed long enough my studies transforming into ghosts of their former selves, spirits that ignite and vapors that flame—fifty-one studies in all going up in the blackest smoke, twisting and twirling like David in action, phantoms rising out the chimney, and so I burn them all but one, my love letter to Michelangelo.