Painting Mona Lisa - Jeanne Kalogridis 3 стр.


The penitent pushed forwards until he stood alongside Baroncelli; he then raised his face to stare upwards at the dizzyingly high cupola overhead, rising directly above the great altar. The mans burlap hood slipped back slightly, revealing his profile. For an instant, his lips parted, and brow and mouth contorted in a look of such hatred, such revulsion, that Baroncelli recoiled from him.

Slowly, the bitterness in the penitents eyes eased and the muscles in his face relaxed to the point that his expression resolved into one of beatific ecstasy, as if he could see God Himself and not the great ceilings smoothly curved marble. Francesco noticed, and he watched the penitent as though he were an oracle about to give utterance.

And give utterance he did. He is still abed. And, coming back to his senses, the man carefully drew the hood forwards to conceal his face once more.

Francesco clutched Baroncellis elbow and hissed. We must go to the Medici Palace at once! Baroncelli was not given to superstition, but could not disobey his employer.

Smiling, Francesco steered Baroncelli to the left, away from the distracted Lorenzo de Medici, and past a handful of Florentine notables that comprised the first row of worshippers. They did not use the nearby northern door that led out to the Via de Servi as their exit would more likely have drawn Lorenzos attention.

Instead, the pair moved down the outermost aisle that ran the intimidating length of the sanctuary past brown stone columns the width of four men, which were connected by high, white arches framing long windows of stained glass. Francescos expression was at first benign, as he passed acquaintance after acquaintance in the first few rows, nodding greetings as he went. Baroncelli, dazed, did his best to murmur salutations to those he knew, but Francesco pushed him along so swiftly, he scarce could catch his breath.

Hundreds of faces, hundreds of bodies. Empty, the cathedral would have seemed infinitely vast; filled to capacity on the fifth Sunday after Easter, it seemed cramped, crowded and airless. Each face that turned to meet Baroncelli seemed filled with suspicion.

The first group of worshippers they passed consisted of Florences wealthy: glittering women and men weighed down by ostentatious displays of gold and jewels, by fur-trimmed heavy brocades and velvets. The smell of the mens rosemary and lavender water mingled with the more volatile, feminine scent of attar of roses, all wafting above the base notes of smoke and frankincense from the altar.

Francescos velvet slippers whispered rapidly against the inlaid marble; his expression grew sterner once he moved past the aristocracy. The aroma of lavender increased as the two men walked past the rows of the richest merchants the men and women dressed in silks and fine wool, embellished with a glint of gold here and silver there, even the spark of an occasional diamond. Unsmiling, Francesco nodded once or twice, to lower-ranking business associates as Baroncelli struggled to breathe; the onrush of faces witnesses, all of them triggered a profound panic within him.

But Francesco did not slow. As they passed the middle class tradesmen the smiths and bakers, the artists and their apprentices the smell of fragrant herbs gave way to perspiration and the fine fabrics to the coarser weaves of wool and silk.

The poor stood in the final rows at the back: wool carders, unable to muffle their coughing, fabric dyers, with darkly stained hands. The garments here consisted of tattered wool and rumpled linen, perfumed with sweat and filth. Both Francesco and Baroncelli involuntarily covered their mouths and noses.

At last, they made their way out of the huge open doors. Baroncelli took a great sobbing gasp of air.

No time for cowardice! Francesco snapped, and dragged him down into the street, past the clawing arms of beggars planted cross-legged on the church steps, past the slender, towering campanile to their left.

They made their way through the great open piazza, past the octagonal Baptistery of St. John, dwarfed by the Duomo. The temptation to run was great, but too dangerous, although they still made their way at a pace which left Baroncelli breathless despite the fact that his legs were twice the length of his employers. After the dimness of the Duomo, sunlight seemed harsh. It was a gloriously beautiful, cloudless spring day, yet to Baroncelli, it seemed ominous all the same.

They veered north onto the Via Larga, sometimes referred to as the street of the Medici. It was impossible to set foot upon its worn flagstones and not feel Lorenzos iron grip upon the city. The wide street was lined with the palazzi of his supporters: of Michelozzo, the family architect, of Angelo Poliziano, poet and protégé. Further down, out of sight, stood the church and convent of San Marco. Lorenzos father, Cosimo, had rebuilt the crumbling cathedral and founded the convents famous library; in return, the Dominican monks revered him, and provided him with his own cell for those times he was given to contemplation which was not often.

Cosimo had even purchased the gardens near the monastery and Lorenzo had transformed them into a sculpture garden: a luxurious training-ground for young architects and artists.

Baroncelli and his co-conspirator approached the intersection with the Via de Gori, where the cupola of Florences oldest cathedral, San Lorenzo, dominated the western skyline. It had fallen into ruin, and Cosimo, with the help of Michelozzo and Brunelleschi, had restored its former grandeur. His bones rested there now, in the marble tomb set before the high altar.

At last, the two men reached their destination: the rectangular grey bulk of the Medicis palazzo, sombre and stern as a fortress the architect, Michelozzo was given strict instruction that the building was not to be ornate, lest it roused suspicion that the Medici considered themselves above plain citizens. Yet the modest design still emanated sufficient magnificence to be suitable for entertaining kings and princes; Charles VII of France had dined in the great hall.

It struck Baroncelli that the building resembled its current owner: the ground floor was made of rough-hewn, rustic stone; the second floor, of even brick and the third was crafted of perfectly smooth stone, and capped by an overhanging cornice. The face Lorenzo presented to the world was just as polished; yet his foundation, his heart, was rough and cold enough to do anything to maintain control over the city.

It had taken barely four minutes to reach Palazzo de Medici, which dominated the corner of the Vias Larga and Gori. Those four minutes passed as though they were hours; those four minutes passed so swiftly Baroncelli could not even recall walking down the street.

At the southern corner of the building, closest to the Duomo, stood the loggia. It was covered from the elements, but broad archways offered its shelter to the street. Here, citizens of Florence were free to meet and converse, oft-times with Lorenzo or Giuliano; a good deal of business was conducted beneath its stone ceiling.

On this Sunday morning, most folk were at Mass; only two men lingered in the loggia, talking softly. One of them wearing a wool tabard that marked him as a merchant and possibly one of the Medicis own bankers turned to scowl at Baroncelli, who ducked his head, nervous at the prospect of being seen and remembered.

A few steps more, and the two conspirators stopped at the thick brass doors of the palazzos main entrance on the Via Larga. Francesco pounded adamantly on the metal; his efforts were finally rewarded by the appearance of a servant, who led them into the magnificent courtyard.

A few steps more, and the two conspirators stopped at the thick brass doors of the palazzos main entrance on the Via Larga. Francesco pounded adamantly on the metal; his efforts were finally rewarded by the appearance of a servant, who led them into the magnificent courtyard.

Thus began the agony of waiting while Giuliano was summoned. Had Baroncelli not been in the grip of fear at that particular moment, he might have been able to enjoy his surroundings. At each corner of the courtyard stood a great stone column, connected by graceful arches. On top of those was a frieze, adorned with medallions depicting pagan scenes in-between the Medici crest. They had been sculpted by one of Donatellos students.

The famous seven palle or balls of the Medici crest were arranged in what looked suspiciously like a crown. To hear Lorenzo tell it, the palle represented the dents in the shield of one of Charlemagnes knights, the brave Averardo, who had fought a fearsome giant and won. So impressed was Charlemagne that he allowed Averardo to design his coat of arms from the battered shield. The Medici claimed descent from the brave knight, and the family had borne the crest for centuries.

The cry Palle! Palle! Palle! was used to rally the people on the Medicis behalf. Of Cosimo the Elder, it had been said that he had branded even the monks privates with his balls.

Baroncelli let his gaze follow the path from one medallion to the next. One scene showed Athena, defending the city of Athens; another remembered the winged Icarus soaring for the heavens.

At last he dropped his gaze to the courtyards centrepiece: Donatellos bronze David. The sculpture had always struck Baroncelli as effeminate; long curls spilled out from beneath Davids straw shepherds hat; his naked, curving form bore no masculine muscularity, and his genitalia were markedly small. (The fact had led to much speculation about the size of the Medicis privates.) Indeed, one elbow was crooked with the hand resting on the hip in a girlish posture.

However, on this day, Baroncelli drew a totally different impression from the statue. He could see the coldness in Davids eyes as the boy stared down at the head of the slain Goliath; he saw how he gripped the great sword in his right hand.

Which role shall I play today? Baroncelli wondered. David, or Goliath?

Light and shadow conspired to distort both beautiful and mundane images, and impregnate them with hidden meaning. Above him, Athena struggled with Poseidon over Athenian souls, and Icarus, winged and filled with optimism, would soon plunge to his death.

Beside him, Francesco de Pazzi was pacing the floor with hands clasped behind his back, and small eyes glaring downwards at polished marble. Giuliano had best come soon, Baroncelli reflected, or Francesco would begin muttering to himself.

But Giuliano did not appear. The servant, a comely, well-trained youth, as well-oiled as every part of the Medici machinery, returned with a look of practised sympathy. Signori, forgive me. I am so sorry to tell you that my master is currently indisposed and cannot receive company.

Francesco leapt forwards, and barely managed to replace his fright with jovialness in time. Ah! Please explain to Ser Giuliano that the matter is most urgent. He lowered his tone as if confiding a secret. Todays luncheon is in the young Cardinal Riarios honour, and he is sorely disappointed that Ser Giuliano will not be attending. The Cardinal is at the Duomo now with Ser Lorenzo, asking after your master. Mass has been delayed on this account, and I fear that, should Ser Giuliano fail to come with us now, the Cardinal will take offence. We would not want him to report this to his uncle, the Pope, when he returns to Rome

The servant nodded graciously while wearing a small frown of concern. Baroncelli sensed he was not quite convinced that he should further disturb his master. Francesco clearly sensed the same, for he pressed harder. We have come at the behest of Ser Lorenzo, who bids his brother come, and swiftly, as we are all waiting

The youth gave a quick lift of his chin, signalling his understanding of the urgency. Of course, I will relay all that you have said to my master.

As the lad turned, Baroncelli gazed on his employer, and marvelled at his talent for duplicity.

In less time than either he or Francesco expected, footsteps sounded on the marble stairs leading down to the courtyard. Soon Giuliano de Medici stood before them, in a tunic of pale green velvet embroidered at the neck and sleeves with gold thread. Though his brothers features were imperfect, Giulianos were without flaw. His nose, though prominent, was straight and nicely rounded at the tip; his jaw was strong and square; and his eyes were large and golden brown, framed with lashes that were the envy of every Florentine woman. Delicate, well-formed lips rested atop even teeth, and his hair was full and curling, parted down the middle and brushed back to better show his handsome visage.

Giuliano was always smiling and laughing. At twenty-four, life was good to him; he was young, lively and fair of face. Yet his good nature and sensitive character were such that he never made another feel inadequate. Indeed, his jocular demeanour and generous nature made him generally loved by Florences citizens. While he might not have shared his brothers painful brilliance at politics, he was astute enough to use his other attributes to gain public support. Were Lorenzo to die, Giuliano would have no difficulty in taking up the reins of power.

Over the past few weeks, Baroncelli had tried hard to despise him, and failed.

The faint morning light that had begun to paint the bottoms of the columns revealed that today Giulianos glory was sorely dimmed. His hair had not been combed, his clothes had obviously been hastily donned and his eyes were noticeably bloodshot, as though he had not slept. For the first time in Baroncellis memory, Giuliano did not smile. His manner was sombre, and he moved slowly, like a man weighed down by heavy armour. Icarus, Baroncelli thought. He has soared too high and has now been scorched.

When Giuliano spoke, his normally melodic voice was hoarse, almost as rasping as his brothers. Good day, gentlemen. I understand Cardinal Riario has taken offence at my absence from Mass?

Baroncelli felt a strange sensation in his chest, as if his heart was flipping over. Giuliano looked like a beast resigned to the slaughter. He knows. He cannot possibly know. And yet he knows

We are so sorry to disturb you, Francesco de Pazzi said, his hands clasped in an apologetic gesture. We have come at the behest of Ser Lorenzo Despite the business rivalry between the Medici and the Pazzi, they were related by the marriage of Giulianos elder sister to Francescos brother Guglielmo. This called for a public show of cordiality, even affection a fact Francesco was relying on now.

Giuliano released a short sigh. I understand. God knows, we must take care to please Lorenzo. A glimmer of his old self returned, and he added with apparently genuine concern, I only hope it is not too late to reassure the Cardinal that I hold him in the highest regard.

Yes, Baroncelli said slowly. Let us hope it is not too late. Mass has already started.

Let us go, then, Giuliano said. He gestured for them to move back towards the entryway, and as he lifted his arm, Baroncelli noticed that Giuliano had dressed so hurriedly that he wore no sword at his hip.

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