The Secret Supper (16 page)

No one moved. The crowd watched, entranced by the subtle pendular movement of the body, asking themselves in low whispers what had happened. God knew that men of the cloth never carried fat purses and that thieves hardly ever profit from attacking them. And if it wasn’t thieves, then who had murdered this monk? And why had he been hanged in this manner, leaving him in full sight in a public place?

Andrea Rho walked a couple of times around the corpse before questioning his subordinate once again.

“All right, Massimo. Let’s be clever about this. What would you say happened here? Has he been killed or did he hang himself?”

The young man, shoulders hunched and eyes on the ground, reflected hard for a moment on the question, as if his promotion depended on the answer. He measured his words carefully, and when he was about to reply, he stopped short. A loud and powerful voice rose from among the crowd.

“He’s taken his own life!” someone shouted from far back. “He’s killed himself! There’s no doubt about it, Captain!”

It was a man’s voice, gruff and strong, that almost made the market pillars tremble. The crowd was impressed.

“Also,” the voice continued, “I know his name! It’s Father Alessandro Trivulzio, librarian of Santa Maria! May God take pity on his soul!”

The speaker then stepped forward, making his way through the throng. The captain stood watching him in astonishment. He was an extraordinary individual, tall, robust, impeccably dressed in a cotton gown that reached down to his feet, and a mass of hair untidily bunched under a woolen hat. He was accompanied by a timorous-looking youngster, not more than twelve or thirteen years old, obviously fearful at the proximity of death.

“I see! At last, a brave man! And who are you, may I ask?” said the captain. “How can you be so sure of what you’re saying?”

The giant looked the captain in the eye before answering.

“That’s easy, Captain. If you pay attention to the body, you’ll notice that there’re no signs of violence on it except the bruising on the neck. Had he fought against his murderer or had he been attacked, his habit would be dirty, or even torn and bloody. And it isn’t so. This monk accepted death willingly. And if you look even closer, you’ll see the barrel that served him as scaffold in order to reach the beam and tie the rope.”

“You are very knowledgeable about death, sir,” the captain said ironically.

“I’ve seen more than you can imagine, and from close at hand. Studying the dead is one of my interests. I have even opened them up to explore their entrails scientifically.” The giant stressed these words, as if anticipating the horrified murmur that ran through the crowd. “Had you seen as many hanged men as I have, Captain, you’d have noticed something else.”

“And what is that?”

“The fact that this body has been hanging here for several hours.”

“Is that so?”

“No doubt about it. All you need to do is observe the cloud of flies buzzing around it. This particular kind, small and restless, wait two or three hours before descending on a corpse. Can you see how they flutter around it in search of nourishment? Isn’t that extraordinary?”

“You have still not told me who you are.”

“My name is Leonardo, my captain. And I’m a servant of the duke just as you are.”

“I’ve never seen you before.”

“The duke’s domains are vast,” Leonardo answered, stifling a laugh, improper under the circumstances. “I’m an artist and I work on several of his projects, one of them in Santa Maria delle Grazie. That is how I knew this poor soul. He was a good friend.”

As he crossed himself, the captain cast a curious eye on the stranger and felt satisfied that he was indeed someone of note in the city. Along with everyone else in Milan, he had heard of a certain wise man called Leonardo and of his extraordinary powers. He tried to remember what he had heard: that not only was he capable of trapping the human soul on canvas or creating the largest equestrian statue ever seen—in honor of the late Francesco Sforza, Ludovico il Moro’s father—but that he also had medical skills that verged on the miraculous. This man fitted the picture rather well.

“Tell me then, Master Leonardo. According to you, why would a monk from Santa Maria delle Grazie decide to hang himself here, in this place?”

“That I don’t know, my captain,” Leonardo answered in a gentler tone. “Even though I can easily interpret the external signs, the will of men is often more difficult to fathom. And yet, perhaps the answer is a simple one. Just as I often come to this marketplace to buy canvas and paints, he may have come here to buy something he needed. Afterward, a dark thought may have crossed his mind, and he decided that this was the right moment to die. Don’t you think?”

“On a Sunday?” The captain sounded skeptical. “And with the duchess’s funeral being celebrated in his own monastery? No. I don’t think so.”

Leonardo shrugged.

“Only God knows what may cross the mind of one of His servants—”

“Just so.”

“Perhaps if you brought down the corpse and searched it carefully, you might find a clue as to what it was that brought him to this marketplace. And if you think it may be useful, I put at your disposal my medical knowledge and my full collaboration, in order to discover the time and cause of his death. All you have to do is send the body to my study at—”

The Master never finished his sentence. At that very moment Brothers Andrea, Giberto and Benedetto, and I, reached the group of onlookers. The one-eyed monk was at the lead, silent, a look on his face like that of a beast about to pounce. When he saw Leonardo’s white gown close to Father Alessandro’s body, he grew pale.

“Don’t you dare desecrate the body of a servant of Saint Dominic, Master Leonardo!” he shouted out, advancing toward him.

Leonardo turned his head to us and immediately greeted us with a bow and his condolences.

“I’m sorry, Brother Benedetto. I feel this death as much as you.”

The one-eyed monk cast a glance at Father Alessandro’s body and seemed to tremble at the sight. But he was not as distraught as I was. I held the librarian’s cold, stiff hands, unable to believe that he was really dead. And what was I to think of Leonardo? What was our master painter doing there, showing such sorrow for Father Alessandro? Did this not confirm my fears that both men had maintained a close relationship? I crossed myself and swore that I would solve this matter.

“May God welcome him into His Eternal Kingdom,” Leonardo said.

“What is it to you?” shouted Brother Benedetto with sudden fury. “After all, he was nothing in your eyes but a useful fool! Admit it now, while his body is still present!”

“You always underestimated him, Brother Benedetto.”

“Not as much as you did, Master Leonardo! And what is more, I’m surprised that you should be ready to pronounce upon his death so quickly. It’s hardly worthy of your scholarly fame. Our librarian was fond of life. Why would he think of parting with it?”

I waited for Leonardo to answer, but he did not open his mouth. Perhaps he guessed what Brother Benedetto’s game was. The monks at Santa Maria would try to convince the police that Father Alessandro had fallen into an ambush. To accept the theory of suicide would have meant dishonor for the dead priest and would make it impossible for him to be buried in hallowed ground.

Carefully, we brought the body down from its improvised gallows. The librarian’s face was frozen in a curious grimace that made him look as if he were almost mischievously smiling, in harsh contrast with his terrified, wide-open eyes. Leonardo, with a compassionate gesture that no one expected, approached the dead man, lowered his eyelids and whispered something in his ear.

“Do you also speak with the dead, Master Leonardo?”

Captain Rho, standing close to the painter, laughed at the thought.

“Yes, I do, my captain. I’ve told you we were good friends.”

So saying, he reached for the hand of his young blond companion and walked off in the direction of the Vicolo del Gallo.

24

Even now, I can’t explain my reaction.

Seeing Master Leonardo walk away among the crowd, I remembered Father Alessandro’s advice: “The person you least imagine may give you your solution.” And if the riddle of the Soothsayer’s identity were in the hands of his worst enemy? What could I lose by consulting him? Would my sleuthing be affected by exchanging a few words with the blue-eyed giant dressed in white?

I decided to give it a try.

I left Brothers Andrea, Giberto and Benedetto, who were rolling up their sleeves and carrying away the mortal remains of Father Alessandro. After making my poor excuses I hastened toward the alley where I had observed Leonardo disappear. But when I turned into it, I could no longer see him and proceeded to run up the steep cobbled street.

“You take great pains to overtake a poor artist.” It was the Master’s deep voice, coming from somewhere behind me. He had stopped to scrutinize a vegetable stand and I had passed by him without noticing his presence.

Leonardo and the youth both grinned at me, their pale eyes and their smiles identical.

“Let me see if I can clarify,” Leonardo continued, as he examined some garlic. “The Father Prior’s lackey—the one-eyed Benedetto—sends you to ask me if I know anything about the librarian’s death. Am I mistaken?”

“I’m afraid you are, Master,” I answered, approaching him. “It isn’t Brother Benedetto who sends me, but my own curiosity.”

“Your curiosity?”

I felt my stomach muscles tighten. From close by, Leonardo was far more handsome than he had seemed up on the platform. His forthright features declared him a man of principle. He had thick, strong hands, capable, no doubt, of ripping out a tooth if necessary or of lending life to a wall with his magical designs. When he looked at me, I had the impression that it would be impossible to lie to him.

“Allow me to introduce myself,” I said, somewhat out of breath. “The truth is, I don’t belong to the community of Santa Maria. I’m only a guest there. My name is Agostino Leyre. Father Agostino Leyre.”

“And why are you here?”

“I’m in Milan for only a short time. But I didn’t want to let the occasion pass without telling you how much I admire your work in the refectory. I would have liked to see you under more auspicious circumstances, but God provides as He will.”

“The refectory, indeed.” Leonardo cast his eyes down. “Too bad that not all the brothers share your point of view.”

“Father Alessandro admired you.”

“I know, Father, I know. The father librarian helped me during several difficult phases of my work.”

“Was that what Brother Benedetto meant when he said that he’d been your useful fool?”

Leonardo observed me closely, as if deciding what language to use with the man standing before him. Perhaps he had not yet identified me as the inquisitor of whom no doubt his apprentices had already spoken. Or if he did, he tried not to let me know.

“Maybe you’re unaware, Father, but the librarian helped me greatly in achieving one of the most important characters of my Cenacolo. And he was generous and unselfish enough to model for me without accepting anything in exchange, except the hardships he had to endure as a result of his gesture.”

“Hardships?” I asked. “What hardships?”

Leonardo raised his eyebrows at my astonishment. I suppose he could not understand my overlooking a detail of such importance. And in a remarkably calm voice he deigned to enlighten me.

“An artist’s work is harder than what people imagine,” he said in all seriousness. “For months, we roam about searching for a certain gesture, a profile, a face that will fit our idea of a subject and serve as our model. I needed a Judas. A man with evil stamped on his face, but not any evil. I needed an ugliness both intelligent and awake, that would reflect the internal struggle of Judas to fulfill the mission God Himself entrusted to him. Because you’ll agree that without Judas’s treason, Christ would have never achieved his destiny.”

“And did you find him?”

Leonardo drew back in surprise. “Don’t you understand? Father Alessandro was my model for Judas! His face had all the features I was after. He was an intelligent but tormented man, and his hard, sharp traits were almost offensive to look at.”

“And he allowed himself to be portrayed as Judas?” I asked, astonished.

“Very willingly, Father Agostino. And he was not the only one. Other monks in this community sat for my composition. But I chose only those with the purest features.”

“But Judas—,” I protested.

“I understand your astonishment, Father. And yet, you should know that our librarian knew exactly what he was risking. He was aware that no one in his community would ever look at him in the same way again after he’d lent himself to something like this.”

“Understandably so.”

Leonardo paused as if debating whether to continue the conversation. Taking once again the boy’s hand in his, he added, as an afterthought:

“What I couldn’t foresee, and far less, wish, was that Father Alessandro was to end his days just like Judas himself: hanging from the neck and all alone, far from his brethren and despised by them all. Or had you not noticed that strange coincidence, Father?”

“Not until you mentioned it.”

“You’ll soon learn, Father Agostino, that in this city nothing happens just by chance. Don’t ever forget it. All appearances here are deceiving. And truth lies where you least expect to find it.”

I did not have the courage to ask him about his conversation with Father Alessandro on the night of his death, nor whether he had heard of a certain fierce enemy of his that some of us knew as the Soothsayer. Uneasily, I watched him walk away and disappear uphill.

25

Luini wanted very much to run away, but his willpower failed him once again. Even though his conscience was loudly begging him to escape from the clutches of the girl, his flesh was already enjoying the advances of Donna Elena. What do I care about conscience? he thought, and regretted the thought a moment later.

Never before had the master painter found himself in such a fix. One of the most desirable young women in the duchy was leading him down the path of passion without his having had even to open his mouth. Crivelli’s daughter was a beauty, a Magdalene with certainly the most angelic face he had ever seen. And yet Luini could not avoid feeling as Adam had felt, dragged to his perdition by the hand of a lustful Eve. He had the impression of digging his teeth into a poisonous apple whose juices made him lose his zealously guarded innocence. For, strange as it may seem, Master Bernardino Luini counted himself among the few who still believed that the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil had been hidden by God between a woman’s thighs, and that eating from its fruit, even once, meant eternal damnation.