Robert Harris - Leonardo and the Death Machine

He emphasised the word ‘painter’ as though he were announcing that the weekly delivery of garden manure had arrived.

The girl bobbed her head and scurried off.

“I believe you know the way,” Tomasso said to Sandro.

“You’d think he was the master of the house,” said Leonardo, as Sandro led the way up a flight of steps.

“We artists are an insignificant group compared to the bankers, merchants and clothmakers who run the city,” said Sandro. “Our job is simply to serve the needs of the rich, the same way a cook or a tailor does.”

They entered a spacious room on the topmost floor where the sun slanted through the westward facing window. The chamber itself was panelled in polished oak. On one wall hung a tapestry depicting the Labours of Hercules while under the window stood a large chest decorated with pictures of a deer hunt.

Near the centre of the room stood an easel on which there was a small picture about one foot square. Leonardo walked over and examined it. The chestnut hair, coiled in the latest fashion, was almost finished, as were the delicate ears. The eyebrows had been sketched in, and there were the faintest lines of a nose, but the rest of the face was blank.

“It’s quite good, as far as it’s done,” Leonardo said.

“Whatever you do, don’t spoil it,” said Sandro anxiously. “Make sure you follow my style. Never forget that the way to please your subjects is to bring them to perfection in the portrait. Imagine they have been carried up to Heaven and paint them as they would appear there.”

“I don’t know what people look like in Heaven,” said Leonardo. “I can only paint what I see.”

Sandro began unpacking his art supplies and setting them out on the table to the left of the easel. “You will have to mix the paints on the palette,” he said. “My wrist is plaguing me like a wound today.”

“Leave it to me,” said Leonardo.

He set to work preparing the various hues and colours he would need to complete the portrait. Sandro pestered him throughout the whole process, giving him unwanted advice about the use of white lead and viridian green.

Leonardo lifted up the palette. “If you don’t stop fussing like a fretful mother, I’ll crack this over your skull,” he warned.

It was at that moment that Lucrezia Donati walked into the room.

Leonardo’s heart missed a beat. He wondered at once if any portrait could do justice to those dark, almond-shaped eyes, which grew wide at the sight of the raised palette. In the next instant they crinkled with mirth as Lucrezia laughed.

“What is going on? Has a war broken out?” she inquired. “Is there not enough uproar in the streets without our artists turning on each other?”

Lucrezia’s mouth was as animated as her eyes, changing shape rapidly with every syllable she spoke. A thousand different expressions could be glimpsed beneath the surface of that beautiful face.

Leonardo managed to tear his gaze away from her. He tilted the palette towards the window and squinted. “I was just holding it up to observe how the colours catch the light,” he said.

“Yes, it’s very important how the colours catch the light,” said Sandro, placing a finger on the edge of the palette and pushing it gently down towards the table.

The slave girl Fresina entered behind her mistress, carrying wine and sweetmeats on a tray. She placed it on a small side table by the door and Lucrezia dismissed her with a wave.

“She has very unusual colouring,” Sandro noted, following the slave girl with his gaze as she left.

“How like an artist! Couldn’t you just say you find her very pretty?” Lucrezia mocked him gently.

Sandro’s face reddened and he cleared his throat nervously. “Where does she come from?”

“From Circassia, on the far shore of the Black Sea,” Lucrezia replied. “Father purchased her at the market in Venice. He says Circassian slaves are better behaved than Tartars and work harder than Russians. And their women are renowned for their beauty.”

There was only one thought on Leonardo’s mind and he couldn’t help blurting it out. “The only beauty that concerns us today is that which stands before us.”

Lucrezia’s long eyelashes fluttered in amusement. “That was very gallant,” she observed, “and you actually sounded as if you meant it. Is there a knight out of the old romances hidden beneath that humble garb?”

Leonardo felt a flush come to his cheek and hoped Lucrezia was not aware of it. He removed his cap with a flourish and bowed. “Leonardo da Vinci.”

“And what brings you here today, Leonardo?”

“He is a pupil of my good friend, the artist Andrea del Verrocchio,” Sandro interposed. “Andrea has asked me to help him develop his technique.”

“In what way?”

“Maestro Sandro Botticelli has kindly agreed to allow me to make a small contribution to his portrait of you,” said Leonardo.

“A very small contribution,” Sandro emphasised. “A few background details, no more than that, but enough to improve his handling of draperies and woodwork.”

“Is that what he’s going to do now?” asked Lucrezia.

“Why, yes,” said Sandro. “We were just preparing the paints when you came in.”

“In that case, you won’t need me.” She turned to the door.

“Oh, but we do!” Leonardo exclaimed. “A portrait must be whole, the subject reflected in the background and all the surrounding objects.”

“Exactly,” Sandro agreed. “Never underestimate the importance of harmonising the shades of the room with the lovely colouring of the subject.” He steered Lucrezia towards the small seat by the wall and sat her down.

“Now if you would just resume the pose of yesterday.” With a gentle finger he tilted her head away from the canvas.

Leonardo was relieved: it was vital that she not be aware he was actually painting her face. Quickly, he finished mixing the colours and set about completing the line of her nose which Sandro had left unfinished. Sandro was doing his best to distract her with amusing talk.

The work was more challenging and more wonderful than Leonardo could have imagined. He had made copies of paintings as part of his training, and he had painted original landscapes of his own. But even in repose there was such energy in Lucrezia’s features that painting her was like trying to capture the hundred different moods of the sea or the flight of a lark across the sky.

By the time he reached her chin, Lucrezia was growing impatient. “This is taking a long time for a few insignificant background details,” she said.

“Alas, he is a slow worker,” said Sandro dolefully. “The left hand, you see. No, do not look! It is important that you keep your head absolutely still.”

Lucrezia sighed deeply and maintained her pose.

“I will check his progress,” said Sandro.

He came to Leonardo’s side and frowned at the portrait. “This here,” he said in a low voice, “it’s too dark.” He was pointing at the lips.

“This is exactly as I see it,” said Leonardo tightly.

“It’s not right,” Sandro insisted. “Here, let me show you.”

Forgetting his injured arm, he made a grab for the brush. Leonardo fended him off and there was a brief struggle, ending with a cry of pain from Sandro. He jerked back, his teeth clenched in agony, but he did not move fast enough to hide the bandage on his wrist.

Lucrezia jumped up and ran to him. “What is the matter? Have you hurt yourself?”

She gently took his forearm and eased it away from his body. Sandro was helpless to resist.

“It’s nothing. He’s fine,” said Leonardo, trying to steer her back to her seat.