David

  Giuliano and Antonio da Sangallo were not thinking of art; they were taking measurements and sketching a contraption to transport the Giant those few hundred yards that I could stride in less than ten minutes.

  Over the next few months I saw the wooden cage grow. David was going to travel suspended by ropes within his protective house of wood and the whole structure would be pulled by more ropes passing through winches. How many men it would take to pull it through the streets was eventually settled at forty and the Operai started searching out the strongest and fittest men in Florence to do the job.

  I always thought I would be one of them, right up till the night we moved David. But things worked out differently from what I expected.

  Clarice had indeed had a second son and Altobiondi was delighted. He was taken to the Baptistery two days after his birth and given the names Cipriano Francesco di Antonello di Niccolò de’ Altobiondi.

  Was it the birth of little Cipriano that first planted the suspicion in Antonello’s mind that Davide was not his real son? The new baby was said to look very like his father, with a mop of straight black hair and strong features. While his two-year-old brother had fair curls and was already tall for his age.

  In fact, the night of Cipriano’s birth, when Davide had been brought out to be caressed and admired by the compagnacci, one of them had commented on his resemblance to me.

  It was only a throwaway remark – something like ‘That little boy could be your baby brother, Gabriele.’ But had that been enough, followed by the birth of a son that was his exact image, to start Antonello wondering? Even though I had hoped for a boy, I now realised the dangers of comparing son with ‘son’.

  I don’t know, but I believe that night saw the beginning of a chain of circumstances that led to the worst moments of my life.

  I began to sense a coolness towards me when I went to the Altobiondi palazzo. And Gherardo was no longer as friendly towards me as he had been at del Giocondo’s. He and his three friends often seemed to be whispering together and to stop if I came near.

  But it was Grazia who really alerted me to the new danger I was in. The women’s network had brought alarming news.

  ‘Altobiondi has been questioning his wife about her life before they married,’ Grazia told me. ‘And doing his sums about Davide’s arrival.’

  It seemed at first as though the premature birth of Cipriano had confirmed Clarice’s original story that Davide had come before his time. She was just a woman whose babies came early and Altobiondi was reassured that he was the boy’s real father.

  ‘But the new baby is so much more like him,’ said Grazia, ‘that no matter how much she assures him that the first boy takes after her late mother, who was tall and fair, he has begun to suspect that he was gulled.’

  I was now seriously alarmed. All Antonello had to do was question the servants and he would find out that I had been a regular visitor to the house before Clarice accepted his proposal – indeed that I had even lived there for a few weeks when I first came to the city. I wouldn’t put it past Vanna or the snooty manservant to betray their mistress.

  So I was thoroughly uncomfortable on the Via Tornabuoni.

  And hardly less so at San Marco. Daniele had been disgusted with my failure to kill the Cardinal. I could hardly think about it. I wasn’t an assassin! I was a stonecutter or, at most, a stone-carver, learning a few techniques of sculpture from his master and milk-brother.

  Gianbattista and the others were more understanding.

  ‘He had a taster.’ ‘The horse pulled me away from the Cardinal.’ ‘Giovanni’s bodyguard stayed too close to him.’

  They accepted my excuses. But I knew I could have done it if I had been prepared to die in the attempt.

  I had almost stopped going to pose for Leone too; my visits to Visdomini’s were the occasional ones as Grazia’s accepted follower – a below stairs existence, cut off from the aristocrats. I still saw Visdomini sometimes at Altobiondi’s and he was civil –warm even – but I was uneasy.

  My life had contracted to the workshop near the cathedral and the problems of transporting my colossal image to the Piazza della Signoria. The Sangallo brothers practically lived with Angelo and me in those days in the workshop. And by the month of May we were ready to move the marble statue.

  On the night of the fourteenth, we had our team of forty strong men primed with wine. Angelo had told me he didn’t want me to be one of them; he wanted me to help supervise the operation, with him and Giuliano and Antonio da Sangallo.

  We started by breaking down the brickwork above the door of the workshop and then slowly, slowly the Giant moved out into the Piazza del Duomo.

  It was midnight. The square was alight with torches and full of people watching David emerge from his prison. The workmen had to lay fourteen greased wooden planks in front of the wheeled cage, then pull the structure forwards and run back to retrieve the planks from behind and lay them in front again.

  It was painstakingly slow. It reminded me of the lizzatura – the method whereby blocks of marble were slid down the mountainside from the quarries in the Apuan Alps. Only there they had the slope to help them move. Had the original block that David had been hewn from made its stately progress down the mountain in that way? Probably. But this finished figure gave nothing away. He stood staring sternly over his left shoulder at the crowds in the square, who seemed stunned by his presence.

  I was busy running back and forth, checking the placement of the planks and did not at first notice the tensions building up around us. The men were all sweating, even though we had chosen the coolest time of day to start the movement off.

  And we had travelled only about twenty yards when the attack came.

  Stones hurtled through the air, landing on the workmen and me and a few falling inside the wooden cage.

  There were shouts of ‘Palle! Palle!?’ – the cry of Medici supporters for over a century. But this was one occasion on which I could not pretend to be one of them.

  I saw Angelo leap awkwardly up on to the structure and slip between the bars so that he was inside with his David.

  Stopping only to tell Antonio da Sangallo to summon the City Watch, I followed him, squeezing between the bars with a lot more difficulty. It was eerie inside the crate with the noise from the piazza dampened down and no one but me, my brother and the silent marble giant.

  He had one arm round the statue’s right leg, its massive right hand brushing the top of his head, and he was sobbing.

  I thought at first it was from rage and fear for his masterpiece but then I saw that his other arm was dangling down uselessly at an angle. It was pain that caused the tears to stream down his face.

  ‘It’s broken, Gabriele,’ he moaned. ‘One of the stones hit me. I won’t be able to finish the David now.’

  Chapter Twenty

  A Man of Marble

  My mind was working faster than it ever had before. I understood straight away that if Angelo were to be seen injured in public it would represent a great victory for the pro-Medici party. But he could not be left to suffer like that.

  ‘Stay here,’ I said, squeezing out through the bars again. ‘I’ll fetch help to you.’

  Outside in the square there was total chaos. Men were shouting and jostling, the Watch were making their slow way through the crowds, some people were running away, others chasing them. Torches were snatched from brackets on walls and carried through the streets above heads. Whooping cries disappeared in the distance up alleys and byways.

  I ran back to the workshop. It took only seconds, even though men had toiled for ages to get the statue the few feet it had travelled. There were lots of pieces of wood lying about the floor and I quickly chose two without too many splinters and dashed back to the stranded cart.

  The pullers had broken off from their work to fight with the stone-throwers or at least the men they took for stone-throwers. The Watch were having trouble separating and restraining them. I dodged between them, worrie
d in case they’d think my bits of wood were weapons.

  ‘Quick!’ I hissed at Antonio da Sangallo. ‘Come in with me.’

  He squeezed in more easily than I did, being a good deal slighter. Angelo was as I had left him, but his eyes were tightly closed as he grappled with the pain.

  I had seen a lot of men with broken limbs in the quarry. And Angelo was lucky: his arm was broken but not crushed by a heavy weight of marble. But it was going to hurt a lot more while we set it and there was no chance of getting a surgeon to him in all that mayhem. And we needed to keep his injury secret.

  Sangallo saw immediately how it was. Miraculously, he had a small flask of spirits in his jerkin and he offered it to Angelo, who gulped at it eagerly. Then I tore the bottom of my canvas shirt into strips and we gently laid his forearm on the first piece of wood. Any movement was agony for him, and it was a hard thing to do.

  I was glad that Sangallo knew what he was doing. I left it to him to pull the arm straight and align the bones, while I gripped my poor brother by the shoulders. After one stifled scream, he fainted, which was a great relief to both of us. We bound the arm firmly between the two splints and, by the time he came round, it was all over and we poured more spirits down his throat.

  There wasn’t much left of my shirt by the time we made him a sling to carry the arm in. Then Sangallo took off his cloak and put it round Angelo’s shoulders. Apart from his extreme pallor, he now looked normal and no one would see his complexion by torchlight.

  ‘Get him home, Gabriele,’ said Sangallo. ‘When the madness has died down outside, Giuliano and I will continue to supervise the movement of the statue. We know what has to be done, after all.’

  Angelo was too weak to protest. Getting him out through the bars was tricky, with his arm in a sling. But no one in the crowd was looking at us. Slowly, I helped him away from the noise and fighting by the cathedral and led him back to the house in Santa Croce.

  It was a slow progress, with many halts. And a cold breeze was chilling my middle where the bottom of my shirt used to be.

  ‘You and Antonio have fixed my arm,’ Angelo said, his voice slurring with pain and drink. ‘But who will fix my David?’

  ‘We will worry about that in the morning,’ I said. ‘For now you must rest and we must keep your injury a secret.’

  Next morning I left him sleeping, told the housekeeper not to disturb him and ran back to the city’s centre. The statue had progressed as far as one block along the Via del Proconsolo but that was more than I had expected. The wooden crate was now surrounded by armed guards. There was no sign of the pullers, but Antonio and Giuliano were sitting on the winches eating what looked like a breakfast of Gandini’s finest pastries, while David glared off into the distance.

  ‘How is he?’ asked Antonio, quickly finishing his mouthful and brushing crumbs from his jerkin.

  ‘Asleep,’ I said. ‘What happened after we left?’

  ‘It was a long time before we could get moving again,’ said Giuliano. ‘But the men worked well, till after dawn. We sent them home for a few hours’ sleep and the promise of a bonus for risking injury.’

  ‘Who set the guard?’ I asked.

  ‘We told the Operai they had to, or there was a risk of the Master’s work being destroyed,’ said Antonio.

  ‘And you’ve both been here all night? You must be exhausted.’

  ‘You don’t look very fresh yourself,’ said Giuliano. ‘Go to the baker’s and get yourself some breakfast. Then you can take over from us while we have a few hours’ rest.’

  I didn’t need much urging. Gandini’s was full of people and gossip, as it always was in the early morning. And today there was only one topic.

  ‘They’ve arrested three of the vandals,’ said Gandini, who was a staunch republican.

  ‘Who?’ I asked, but the answer surprised me.

  ‘Vincenzo di Cosimo Martelli,’ said the baker, counting off on his fingers. ‘Filippo di Francesco de’ Spini and Gherardo Maffei de’ Gherardini.’

  Monna Lisa’s cousin and two of his friends!

  ‘They would have flung Raffaello Panciatichi in the Stinche too,’ someone added, ‘but he escaped by climbing a water-pipe and running away across the rooftops.’

  Raffaello was another of Gherardo’s close friends so I easily believed it. These were the younger members of the Altobiondi set, who had only recently joined the compagnacci, but they were all from families with a long record of support for the de’ Medici.

  But was this just something they had cooked up together as no more than a prank? Or was it the first skirmish in a war against the marble Giant?

  ‘And even the three who are in the Stinche will be out soon,’ said Gandini. I had walked within feet of the prison on my way from Lodovico’s house to the cathedral. ‘Their fathers will pay their fines – that sort never serve much time behind bars.’

  Gandini was right: a few hours to cool their heads and the young conspirators would be free again.

  ‘Was anyone hurt?’ asked one of the customers.

  ‘Not seriously,’ said the baker. ‘There will be a few sore heads this morning, though, and the odd black eye.’

  Thank goodness no one knew about the injury done to my brother.

  I was soon back with the marble giant and relieved to see that the pullers were back from their break and were laying the greased planks in front of the cage again. It was a huge responsibility overseeing their labours, but the men knew me and were willing to let me direct them.

  We worked all day and were nearly at the Bargello when we stopped. I set the guards to watch and let the pullers go home for a good night’s sleep. The day had passed without incident but I had been anxious the whole time, wondering if there would be another attack.

  By the time I got back to Lodovico’s house, I was worn out and starving hungry; I hadn’t stopped for any food since breakfast. But I had to go and see Angelo first of all.

  He was sitting up in bed looking very pale. He had a gash on his forehead that I hadn’t noticed by torchlight the night before. He held his arm stiffly across his chest.

  ‘What has happened?’ he asked, gripping my arm with his left hand. ‘Tell me the statue is unharmed!’

  ‘Unharmed and guarded day and night,’ I said.

  He relaxed his grasp. ‘And did they come back?’

  ‘Not today. Three of them were caught and put in the Stinche but a fourth escaped.’

  ‘Who were they? Arrabbiati?’

  ‘Compagnacci, rather,’ I said. ‘All from old families – I’ve met them at Altobiondi’s. Just young hotheads.’

  Angelo laughed, looking relaxed for the first time since the attack.

  ‘You sound like a disapproving greybeard,’ he said.

  ‘Well, I do disapprove,’ I said. ‘Whatever they think of David as a republican symbol, can’t they see what a great work it is?’

  ‘What are we going to do, Gabriele?’ said Angelo. ‘There is still quite a lot of finishing to do on the statue and all the gilding. And the men need me there to supervise the hoist when we lift it on to the plinth – that’s if it even reaches the piazza in one piece.’

  ‘Let me get something to eat and then I’ll think about it,’ I said. ‘You know my mind’s no good when I’m hungry.’

  ‘I’ll come with you,’ he said. ‘I think I could eat something now I know the statue is well guarded.’

  We went down to the kitchen and roused the housekeeper, who had cleared away supper hours before. Somehow she found enough bread and cheese and meat and olives to satisfy the worst of our hunger. Though her eyes widened to see Angelo’s arm in a sling. He put his fingers to his lips.

  ‘No one is to know I’ve been injured, Marta,’ he said and he gave her a gold coin. She then found some stewed pears and cream for us.

  After we had eaten and retired to his room with a couple of cups and a second bottle of wine, he looked at me quizzically.

  ‘Well?’ he asked. ‘Hav
e you had enough food and drink to get your mind working on our problem?’

  ‘There’s only one thing to do,’ I said. ‘I’ll finish the statue for you.’

  He looked horrified.

  ‘I mean under your supervision,’ I added hastily. ‘It will only be what I’ve done before, polishing and refining. And I can do the gilding if you show me exactly what to do. No one need ever know.’

  ‘But they’ll know I’m not there,’ he objected.

  ‘You can be there,’ I said. ‘I’ve thought it all out. I’ll go on supervising the move, with the Sangallos and you can come down – with a cloak to hide your arm – from time to time and make a noise about how things are to be done.’

  ‘I can do that,’ he said drily.

  ‘Then, as soon as the statue is in place, you and I can put the word about that we are more or less living inside the wooden frame with the statue. All you have to do is poke your head over the scaffolding from time to time and no one will know it’s not you working on the final stages. Except the Sangallos, and they can be relied on.’

  ‘You are an extraordinary fellow, Gabriele,’ said Angelo, after a pause. ‘I think you have it. How long do you think it will take for my arm to heal?’

  I shrugged. ‘At least six weeks, I should think. But you will soon be able to do a few things with it. Does it still hurt?’

  ‘Like hell,’ he said cheerfully, ‘but the wine is helping. And so is your idea.’

  It took nearly four days to get the statue to the piazza. At midday on the 18th of May, we had it in front of the Palazzo and the crowds in the square had to be seen to be believed.

  Angelo was there, a long loose cloak covering his injury, shouting orders as if he were in the best of health. In all the confusion, no one would have noticed that his right arm was useless.

  The Signoria had decided that the Judith bronze had to come down and it had already been moved to the Loggia; David was to be set up in front of the doorway after all. With all his other worries, Angelo no longer seemed to care much that the statue would not be in his preferred position. Now the task was to hoist the Giant up on to his plinth without breaking him.