Leonardo's Swans (20 page)

“What do we care what the gossips say? We are certain of our affection for each other.”

“But my lord, we must be more careful in our actions. Oh, not on my behalf. But I believe that we might be expecting an addition to our family sometime early next year.”

Ludovico stands, fingers white and tense on the table. He appears to be balancing himself. His lips slowly spread into a smile.

Beatrice raises a finger, signaling him to listen to what she has to say. She continues: “This would be the time to present ourselves in the best possible light, as an entirely devoted family, impenetrable and unable to be breached from the outside. This news will certainly strengthen your position with the people of Milan. I mean, what with a legitimate heir on the way.”

Ludovico shakes his head. “You are a wonder,” he says, rushing around the table to embrace his wife. She loves this feeling of being engulfed by him; loves smelling the scent he uses imported from eastern lands that makes her think of incense and spices; and loves crushing her face against the soft velvet of his robe. She feels that, for the first time, he is hugging not just her but the life that is stirring deep inside her.

“Let us wait a few more weeks before making an official announcement, my love, just to be certain that it’s true.”

“Very well,” Ludovico says, “though suppressing such news will be difficult.” He raises his hands as if issuing a proclamation. “Well then, the matter of sitting for the Magistro is closed.”

Beatrice wonders, however, if beneath the surety, he is already trying to invent the excuses he will have to give to the persistent Isabella. “Perhaps,” he begins ponderously, as if he is making an agreeable argument for himself, “if we do not distract him with portraiture, he will set his mind to completing the horse.”

Chapter Five

III * L’IMPERATRICE
(THE EMPRESS)

JUNE 1493; IN THE TERRITORY OF MANTUA

I
SABELLA
sits in the June heat gently rocking in the bucentaur at the intersection of the Po and Mincio rivers, wondering what reversal of fortune has brought her to the point where her sister has risen so far above her that she cannot deign to stop for a few days to visit Isabella’s home, but insists on dragging her out into the river in order to get a glimpse of her and catch up on the latest news.

I would most willingly visit you at Mantua on my way home from Venice, but my husband is extremely anxious for me to return to him. I must beg you to let me enjoy the sight of you in the bucentaur. You must not insist that I take the time to land.

The ostensibly innocent words might as well have been sent with one hundred arrows straight to Isabella’s heart. It seems that, these days, Beatrice cannot deliver enough slights to her sister. Whether or not it is intentional, each triumph in Isabella’s life is immediately overshadowed by Beatrice’s latest victory. Isabella does not want to be disagreeable toward her sister. Perhaps her sensitivity is a result of her pregnancy, for Isabella is finally expecting a child. But it is only the second month, and she wakes each morning with a queasy stomach and the absence of desire to leave her bed. She should have insisted that Beatrice come to Mantua instead of agreeing to this damned river meeting. Though the Po is calm, every ripple of the gentle waters threatens to make her sick. But Beatrice was adamant that the sisters had to meet and talk, and that it had to be in this inconvenient and hurried way.

Isabella’s woes with her sister had started a year ago when Ludovico had seemed to fall in love with—of all people—his own wife. The first sign had arrived in the form of a letter from him at the summer’s end, giving Isabella all manner of reasons why he could not arrange for Magistro Leonardo to paint her.

You know how I live to please you, my dear, but I am having tremendous difficulty moving the Florentine to work on the horse commission, much less interest him in portraiture. I broached the subject of making your portrait with him, and he replied that he was in the midst of a study on the human eye and would return to painting faces once he has finally understood the mechanics of sight! You know how difficult he is . . .

This nonsense was preceded by a summer of letters from Beatrice, describing in great detail how close she and her husband had grown in recent times; they were despondent when absent from each other’s company, even for an hour. She wrote on and on, ad infinitum and ad nauseam, about how they spent day after day in the pursuit of the various pleasures that Ludovico had designed for them—hunting, fishing, riding, falconry,
and buying extravagant things just to make me smile
, Beatrice had written most cloyingly. It seemed that Ludovico could not fulfill just one of Isabella’s small requests anymore, so busy was he showering his wife with affection and finery. Isabella wrote to Ludovico asking him to send the sculptor Cristoforo Romano to Mantua to make a bust of her. He had done a lovely bust of Beatrice a few years ago, making her much more beautiful than she had ever appeared. Isabella did not say that she wished for Cristoforo to be her consolation prize for having to delay being painted by Leonardo for God knew how long, but she hoped Il Moro would have seen it that way and would send the sculptor to her immediately. But suddenly, Beatrice decided that she wished to make a short trip to Genoa, and she could not do so without the company of her favorite singers, Cristoforo being the most treasured member of her choir.

Finally, after this supposed summer of bliss that the two lovebirds spent together, Beatrice delivered the
coup de grâce
, writing to announce that she was pregnant and wishing for the company of her sister—as if Isabella, who had yet to become pregnant, wanted to see Beatrice in the exalted condition of carrying Ludovico’s first legitimate child.

It was all very puzzling to Isabella, with whom Ludovico had been conniving for the better part of a year to arrange a visit so that the two of them could be together. She wondered if this newfound affection between husband and wife was a figment of Beatrice’s hopeful imagination. She would have to find out for herself. After a hundred delays—most of them curiously furnished by Francesco—Isabella left Mantua with her extravagant new wardrobe. She’d spent the previous year pestering Francesco into spending the money for its construction, and watching it being packed into trunks, felt the enormous sense of satisfaction one feels in persevering to achieve one’s goals. She kissed Francesco goodbye and, days later, was all the way to Cremona when she realized that she’d forgotten her most fetching plumed hat. She promptly sent a sulky messenger back to Mantua to retrieve it. She was not about to ruin the effect of a fine, bejeweled costume by wearing a mismatched headpiece. “You’d better sneak it out of my rooms,” she had told him. “I do not want the marquis to think I am frivolous.” But what she really did not want her husband to know was that she paid a man several days’ wages so that she could have the right hat, at the right time, on her head.

Isabella knew that she was going to Milan with fiendish thoughts on her mind, but she couldn’t help it. One couldn’t stop thoughts from arriving in one’s brain. She hoped to find Beatrice big and fat in her pregnancy so that she, Isabella, could look more beautiful in Ludovico’s eyes—that is, if he was not already beside himself with the wanting of her. Oh, she had no intention of succumbing to his advances. She had already worked out in her mind the scenario by which she would refuse intercourse with him. She would tell him that the Gonzagas were expert breeders, known throughout the world for their fastidiousness and genius in breeding perfect horses and dogs. Did Ludovico not think that Francesco would not see the signs of another man’s features in his own child’s face, should their affair lead to pregnancy? But she had no opportunity to play the rehearsed scene.

She arrived to the news that the duke and duchess were in conference with the Magistro. What luck, she thought. She would use the opportunity to directly schedule a sitting with Leonardo, avoiding the intermediaries. This time, he could not use Ludovico’s demands upon him if Ludovico were there to release him to her. And surely Ludovico would do that for her. Beatrice, pregnant and secure with her husband, would surely support the idea.

Over the protestations of the duke’s secretary—“They will cherish the surprise of my arrival,” she assured the man—Isabella outpaced Ludovico’s staff and entered the parlor unannounced.

Isabella perceived the inhabitants of the room as if players in a tableau. Ludovico’s hands were in midair in the universal gesture of frustration. In one hand, he held a piece of parchment that fell limp over his fingers like a handkerchief. The Magistro had his weight on his back foot as if in a reluctant bow, his chin slightly tucked and eyes downcast like a proud Spanish don who had just suffered a slight to his dignity. Beatrice’s hands were pressed together at the chest, as if she were making a silent prayer for conciliation between the two men. A skinny boy, presumably the Magistro’s servant, cowered by the hearth. The conversation was hushed now, but the tension from whatever was last said hung in the air. All faces turned toward Isabella, each registering the surprise of her intrusion. No one moved but remained frozen. Finally, Ludovico spoke.

“What a charming surprise,” he said, placing the parchment on a table with what appeared to be a series of drawings, which Isabella hoped were renderings and plans for one of the Magistro’s great works. She so loved to see works of art in the planning stages.

Beatrice, plump, robust, and glowing, moved quickly toward her sister, embracing her. The Magistro, Isabella saw over Beatrice’s shoulder, was making great circles with his arms as he bowed low and formal, showing her the top of his head. She noticed that his lush suede shoe, toe pointed directly at her, was decorated with jewels.

“How dreadful of me to interrupt your conference,” Isabella said.

“Nonsense,” Ludovico said. “It is wonderful to see you safely arrived. In fact, being a renowned patron of many artists, perhaps you can assist me in this discussion with our great master.”

Ludovico took his sister-in-law from his wife’s arms and kissed both her cheeks. Beatrice was uncharacteristically quiet, perhaps grateful that Isabella had arrived to mediate. She withdrew behind Ludovico and Isabella, sitting on a chair with a small sigh, relieved of carrying the weight of the baby in her belly. Isabella registered this fact, hoping that Beatrice’s pregnancy would be keeping her more sedentary than usual and unable to interfere with any of her sister’s schemes.

Ludovico spread the drawings on the desk for Isabella to see—dozens and dozens of sketches of every conceivable element of a horse’s body from snout to tail. Flaring nostrils, open mouths revealing fierce teeth, prancing legs, sturdy flanks, even muscular rear ends with long flouncing tails jumped at her from the page.

“Ah, studies for the great equestrian monument,” Isabella exclaimed.

The most startling of the sketches was of a horse rearing up on its hind legs, front legs scrambling violently in the air, with a rider clinging fiercely to its back.

“Why, it looks as if this creature might come to life, throw its rider, and gallop off the page,” Isabella said. She scrutinized the Magistro’s face for a reaction to the compliment and was happy to see a modest smile break across his face, as if she had scored a point for a team on which both of them might be playing.

“Yes, true enough,” said Ludovico. “Lovely drawings, all. But our maestro will not begin sculpting the horse in earnest unless he can figure out how to accomplish the impossible, which is to make a colossal bronze of the animal rearing on its hind legs. I am told by everyone that this cannot be achieved!”

“Everything might be achieved with time and inquiry,” Leonardo said.

Ludovico riffled through the drawings for a particular one, and finding it, waved it in Leonardo’s face.

“And what does this have to do with your interminable goal of making the horse stand on its rear legs while synchronizing its front legs in perfect motion and harmony?”

The Magistro stiffened against the anger hurled at him. He stood slightly taller, Isabella noticed, rather than cowering before his benefactor.

Isabella took the drawing from Ludovico. It appeared to be an architectural plan for equestrian stables.

“With your permission, Your Excellency?” the Magistro said, taking the drawing from Isabella and placing it on the table. He pointed to what appeared to be a system of chutes. “This is a design for what I believe would be the perfect stable. Here, the hay would flow automatically from the lofts above, freeing up the stable attendants for other labors. Never again would one have to worry over feeding times. The troughs are replenished with pumps, a system of plumbing that would rival the finest of baths in castles and palaces. Clean water would flow freely and upon need.” The Magistro stepped back from his creation so that he could see Isabella’s response. But Ludovico interrupted before she could speak.

“But how does this get us any closer to the monument?” Ludovico asked, his shaky voice rising with each word.

“You are a forward-thinking man, Your Excellency,” the Magistro countered. “I assumed that you would like to be the owner of the most advanced and modern stables in Italy.”

Isabella was about to invite Leonardo to Mantua to show his designs to her husband, the most famous breeder of horses in Italy, who would surely appreciate his labors, when Ludovico spoke again.

“Magistro Leonardo,” Ludovico began, his efforts to control himself visible in the tightening of his jaw, “we have been more than a dozen years in discussion, you and I, over the matter of the horse. If you do not soon present me with a monument, something with hooves, a tail, and a mane, I will be forced to cancel the commission and put a living horse on a pedestal, to be changed whenever it dies from thirst, inactivity, or heatstroke!”