The Competition Read online

  His mentor, his teacher, his surrogate father never blinked, never broke his confounded stare. A furrow formed between Verrocchio’s pinched peppery brows.

  “Have you not endured enough, my friend? After what you have been through, do you really wish to call such hazardous attention to you?”

  “What makes you think it will be hazardous?”

  “What makes you think the world will accept women as artists?” Botticelli scoffed.

  “Is not the furthering of our vocation worthy of it? Should not the greatest art be made regardless of who makes it? We have been part of monumental change; we have changed the very nature of painting and sculpture. Does your vision truly stop there? Is not the work, the craft, no matter who may do it, the most important thing of all?”

  “Great art, by women,” Botticelli sniffed with a self-righteous chug of wine. “It’s absurd.”

  Leonardo pounded a fist upon the table. “I assure you it is not. If you had seen what they have already done, you would become a believer too.”

  “Isn’t it enough that we have to compete with each other? Now we have to compete against women as well?” Botticelli spat pugnaciously.

  “Think of how many will be angered by this.” Verrocchio allowed his gaze to rove about the studio, touching on the many men at work, at study. “You think any of these men’s ilk will allow it?”

  “It is not for them to decide, is it,” Leonardo answered. “Il Magnifico gave the women his permission to bid.”

  “Lorenzo?” Botticelli sat up, closed cynical expression replaced with one of open astonishment. “Lorenzo knows and approves?”

  “He does.” Leonardo saw no reason to tell these men of Lorenzo’s skepticism; for him it was yet another hurdle, not one to overcome, but to extinguish. He had no doubt Sandro and Lorenzo would laugh together over it, perhaps laugh at him. He cared not a whit. Leonardo knew to whom the final act would belong. “The women have already submitted their proposal. It is—”

  “Do you speak of the Cappella Serristori in Santo Spirito?” Verrocchio asked, refilling his own goblet. Of course the man would know of it; he knew of every commission, all work underway in his city. “It is scenes of the Legend of the True Cross, sì?”

  Leonardo nodded. “It is.”

  “It is a difficult piece.”

  “And yet their preliminary sketches are…” Words failed him. Leonardo looked upward, sideward, as if the word he searched for hung in the air. “They are masterful; there is no other way to say it.”

  “How much of them are your own?” Botticelli quipped.

  “Not a one,” Leonardo answered, without sparing him a glance. “I am there to advise, to teach, not to do. One does not learn without doing.” Gladness crossed his face, a telling turn of the lips, a silent acknowledgement of what he had learned by teaching.

  He captured Verrocchio’s gaze with an unflinching stare. “I understand now, maestro. I understand the thrill you feel every time you instruct only to see the instruction become brilliant performance.”

  The old man tilted his head to the side, eyes glazing perhaps as the faces—the years and years of work—of his greatest pupils passed through his mind: Perugino, di Credi, and, of course, Ghirlandaio. “It is a blessing as much as the gift itself,” he acknowledged.

  “Then perhaps you may care to be more blessed,” Leonardo said, teasing. “And yes, perhaps for you as well, Sandro.” He notched his arrow, released the string. “I need your help. They need your help.”

  Neither man across the table from him spoke. They simply stared, their silence demanding he continue.

  “I will, at some point, have to journey back to Milan.” Leonardo leaned toward them, hands splayed upon the scarred wood table between them, closing the gap. “While I am gone, they will need guidance. And I can think of no one better than the two of you.”

  Verrocchio flounced back in his chair.

  Botticelli raised his goblet to his mouth. “How much have you had to drink, Leonardo? Either you need less, or I require more.”

  “I need nothing,” Leonardo rejoined. “They need you.”

  “Do you realize what such involvement could do to us? To my studio?” Verrocchio muttered.

  “To our reputations,” Sandro chimed in.

  “I do.” Leonardo sat back, twining his arms together across his chest. “I know that to be a part of great change, meaningful evolution, could only lift the reputation of any man—any person—to loftier heights.”

  Both of the men before him had already accomplished such a feat, had been the leaders of the epic progression in art now taking place. He knew they were drunk on it. Like any drunk, they always wanted more.

  “Before you answer, I request just one thing.” Leonardo leaned toward them once more. “Come to their studio. Come and see for yourself what they can do.”

  Botticelli looked down at him, down his long and thin nose, but said nothing.

  The silence, the magnitude of the request, hung above them like a rain cloud about to burst.

  “I will go,” Verrocchio said simply after a time.

  Botticelli studied his maestro. He sat back, grabbed his goblet, and blew out a breath that rattled his lips. “And I shall accompany you.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  “Fate may write the fortune; only we can seal the wax.”

  The women were the first to arrive and they arrived en masse. Dressed in their finest (or borrowed fineness), they would face this personal and professional gauntlet as one, no matter the outcome.

  The six women and their maestro hovered before the closed door to the grand ballroom in the Serristori palazzo. The maggiore duomo was kind enough to bring chairs for Lapaccia as well as Fiammetta, which he placed at the feet of two of the many statues lining the long hallway.

  A knock sounded on the outer door. From its cracked opening the sound of male voices blared. The fraught moment became even more so.

  “Dio mio.” The words slithered out from between Isabetta’s teeth. She was the first to see the new arrival.

  Piero del Pollaiuolo entered the foyer, his older brother Antonio right beside him. Seeing them, both men skidded to a stop. Two pairs of matching narrowed eyes targeted the women before them.

  “Da Vinci,” Piero greeted Leonardo and Leonardo only. Almost of an age, their paths had crossed on many an occasion. Leonardo was ever a threat to the brothers’ own notions about themselves.

  “Piero, Antonio, buongiorno,” Leonardo replied, quietly polite as ever.

  The two men didn’t move, save to look at each other.

  Antonio turned away first, pushing past the maggiore duomo. Jostling the man against the wall, he tossed his words over his shoulder. “Come, brother. Tell your master we will wait outside.” The last command he huffed to the doorman.

  “Well,” Fiammetta harrumphed, crossing her arms beneath her large bosom. “I never.”

  “You must get used to it, madonna,” Leonardo counseled. “Here you are no contessa, only an artist. No, not even that, merely a female forgery of one in their eyes.”

  Voices within the ballroom silenced them, their need to overhear far greater than the need to argue. More than one of them leaned in close to where the two large doors met.

  “They are not alone,” Isabetta muttered at the others.

  They realized that if Antonio and Fabia were not alone in the room, they would not be the only ones to judge the proposals, to make the decision.

  “Who could it be?” Natasia asked of them all, pulling her ear away from the sliver of space between the doors.

  “I fear I may know.” Leonardo sounded worried, a rare sound. “It may be the Opere.”

  “Dio mio,” Isabetta moaned.

  The Opere were a group of four to eight men—each called an operai—elected or appointed to oversee both civic and ecclesiastical building projects, including whatever artworks such projects might entail. It was not unheard of for private patrons to seek their guidance whe
n making decisions on their own personal ventures.

  “I am not surprised,” Viviana whispered, as if the statues hovering all around them might tattle. “Antonio is not a decisive man. His concern is for his status and little else.”

  “So not only do we bid against the Palloiuolo, but we will be judged by a group of men they have undoubtably worked with before.” Isabetta paced the small foyer. The men’s work, especially Piero’s Coronation of the Virgin on the altarpiece in the cathedral at San Gimignano, finished last year, many considered as some of the finest frescoes in the city.

  “These men know nothing of art,” Fiammetta grumbled. “The Opere are engineers, builders, nothing more.”

  “That may well be,” Lapaccia said, “but it is Serristori’s right to have them present.”

  “Then we will just have to be that much more persuasive,” Mattea said without a hint of worry, standing tall in one of Natasia’s discarded gowns that she had altered to fit; its deep red color crept up to her cheeks.

  The group took solace from their youngest member, from her strength in the face of adversity. It did not last long. Voices from outside the palazzo slithered toward them as malicious mutterings.

  “I cannot make out what they are saying,” Natasia whispered.

  “Or who is saying it,” Viviana chimed in.

  “I will see.” Leonardo left them before they could object. He returned just as swiftly.

  “A Pietro,” he said.

  “Who?” more than one owl-eyed woman hooted.

  Leonardo dropped his chin. “Perugino.”

  “Dio mio.” Isabetta again.

  “Can you think of nothing else to say?” Fiammetta turned on her.

  Isabetta gave a snide look. “Che cazzo.”

  Fiammetta blanched; she was not alone.

  “Does that not please?” Isabetta asked with a flutter of pale lashes.

  “I—”

  The door to the ballroom opened; another liveried servant stood in the threshold.

  “All artists may come in now,” he declared.

  As Leonardo predicted, seated on either side of Antonio and Fabia were four members of the Operai, as signified by their red robes. To a one they were either bald or gray haired, with curled backs, or bulbous bellies, or both. Viviana saw one thing and held onto it: the bright smile Fabia sent their way as greeting. Viviana returned it with a dip of her head.

  As the other artists joined them, as they all took a place around the mammoth table covered in embroidered silk and topped by four ornate brass candelabra, Antonio nodded at each of them. More than one noticed the small bow of his head directed at Leonardo da Vinci, the only bow offered. How grateful Viviana was for the maestro’s presence.

  “We,” he began, voice echoing off the frescoed coffers of the high, vaulted ceiling above, turning to the members of the Opere as well as his wife, “have been studying each of your bids for a few days now, every aspect of them. We have but a few questions, if you do not mind.”

  No objection came.

  “To the Palloiuolo brothers, why is it you only have members of our family in The Death of Adam?”

  Antonio looked askance at his brother; no doubt it was Piero who had rendered the sketches.

  “Signore Serristori,” Piero bowed his head in greeting before answering, “we thought it would bring greater attention to you if you were all present in one portion of the whole fresco, rather than spreading your likenesses throughout.”

  “But that is not what the commission conditions called for,” Fabia spoke up; softly, yes, but firmly. “And another group has included members of both our families and in all three scenes.”

  Piero did not look at her. His frustration with the female sex extended to her as well. Viviana knew Fabia spoke of their sketches, for they had indeed done what she said.

  “Signore Perugino,” Antonio turned his attention, “your proposal states completion in nine to twelve months. Do you not consider that an extended period of time for the breadth of the work?”

  The bulbous man’s loose jowls waggled as he shook his head. “Not at all, signore. It is quite acceptable for a project of this magnitude.”

  Isabetta leaned to her left, closer to Viviana. “He is frightening.”

  “Perhaps he is frightened,” Viviana muttered. “Now hush.”

  “How many artists will you put on the project?” Antonio sent another question Perugino’s way.

  “Three,” della Francesco replied.

  “Only three?” Once more Fabia engaged. “The Disciples number six, plus Maestro da Vinci himself.”

  “Disciples?” Piero Palloiuolo snorted, “What…who are disciples?”

  “We are,” Isabetta blared the answer, cords of muscle bulging in her neck, before any could stop her. “We are Da Vinci’s Disciples.”

  “Oh good Lord, spare us,” Piero denounced.

  The other male artists sniggered, a few of the Opere as well.

  “I understand your envious laughter,” Fiammetta said with every ounce of haughtiness she possessed. She turned to Lapaccia beside her. “Who would not be envious if they could not call the great da Vinci their own maestro?”

  “Quite true,” Lapaccia answered, as if they sat alone at a café lost in their own discussion. The snickering evaporated like the steam from a pot of boiling water.

  Antonio turned to Leonardo. “Am I to understand, maestro, that you will be overseeing the project but not participating in it?”

  “That is correct, signore,” Leonardo stepped forward. “These women are extraordinarily gifted. My tutelage is all they require.”

  Fabia smiled again. Two Operai nodded thoughtfully.

  Antonio leaned toward his wife, whispered. The Opere leaned in, joined in the murmuring.

  With a nod of Antonio’s head, they separated. He addressed the artists before him as one.

  “I believe we have all the information we need. You will hear from us in a few days’ time.”

  “This,” Antonio Palloiuolo suddenly hissed, a sharp, swollen jointed finger pointed at the women, “is a travesty, a mockery of my profession.”

  Before anyone—including the quick-to-quibble Isabetta—could respond, the elder Palloiuolo flung open the doors and stomped out. His brother swiftly followed, as did Pietro Perugino and the other two men accompanying him.

  “What a—” Isabetta began.

  The sharpness of Viviana’s poking elbow cut her off.

  “We are so very grateful to you, Signore e Signora Salvestro, and to you as well,” she nodded to the men of the Opere, “for the wonderful opportunity you have given us. You do not know how much it means to us. Grazie tante.”

  “Prego, signora,” Antonio answered graciously.

  The women and their master began to file out of the room. Fiammetta stopped at the egress.

  “Make your decision wisely,” she said, a weighty pronouncement, but one offered courteously. “History is watching.”

  • • •

  “I am for a pisolino,” Lapaccia informed them outside the palazzo door. “I grow tired.”

  They had been in the Salvestro home less than an hour, yet it felt as if the entire day had passed.

  “I will see you home.” Natasia took her arm.

  “And I,” Fiammetta said. She had no choice; the three had come in the same carriage.

  “I must see to some correspondence.” Leonardo bowed his head. “I will see you anon.”

  The group split, the remaining three making for the studio on foot.

  The day had grown dreary, threatening to rain upon their lifted spirits. They defied it with their lively chatter, their chirps of hope, their twitters of what may lay ahead. Unlike the rain, which held off, a cry brought a drenching.

  “You must stop now!”

  “Keep walking.” Isabetta pulled them closer, Natasia on one side, Viviana the other.

  They moved with tight, jerky motions.

  “Look natural,” she demanded o
f them and herself.

  How does one look natural when one’s natural state is fear? The thought tumbled around in Viviana’s head.

  • • •

  The decision came but two days hence. Viviana found it slipped beneath the door to her palazzo. She did not recognize the crest upon the wax; it made no matter. With it clasped to her bosom, she ran up the stairs, through the short hall, and into her salon.

  Viviana’s hands shook as she took up the small blade used to pry off the seal. Whatever this message may bring, she would face it fully aware.

  With a firm grip and precise movements, she released the wax and opened the parchment.

  Greetings to the Members of Da Vinci’s Disciples,

  Viviana put the missive down on the desk; her fingers seemed no longer able to grasp it.

  My wife and I are agreed and eager to thus award the Santo Spirito chapel fresco to the Disciples of da Vinci. It is well and good we have found your particulars and feel only the strongest hopes for their completion. However, ’tis not to be fully decided and adhered to in any manner until permission from Lorenzo de’ Medici is obtained without objection. To that end, I have secured an audience with Il Magnifico two days hence. It would be of great preference if members, though not all are required, of your assemblage could be present at said audience. If so required, you as of yourself will move and persuade him thereunto, and of that he shall do, and shall answer and dissuade thereupon, any demurrals or contrary conditions he shall hold.

  Please respond with all due haste as to your agreement of such noted above.

  Thus I commit to you God’s good grace,

  Antonio di Salvestro de ser Ristoro of the Serristori

  Viviana flung herself back in her chair. “All due haste,” she said to no one but herself. She took up quill and ink, pulled a sheaf of her finest parchment to her, and leaned over it.

  “Nunzio!” she cried, even as the tip of the quill met with the parchment, as the words tumbled from mind to paper.

  Though formerly her deceased husband’s valet, Nunzio, getting on in years, had stayed with the household after his master’s demise. He served Viviana with the same dedication—and a lighter step.