Leonardo's Swans

  “Your Excellency is either not well or is joking.”

  “Then I really must ask you to leave.”

  He looks stunned by her command, turning to Ludovico who confirms with a nod that the astrologer and medicine man is no longer needed in the room. With emphatic clicking heels and no further discussion, he leaves them alone.

  “You gave us quite the scare,” Ludovico says, taking the cloth from her brow and kissing her forehead. “Thank God you are not harmed.”

  He says this not as if it is the beginning of a conversation but as if he is winding up his business with her so that he can leave the room. Beatrice feels fury rise up within her. Does he have Cecilia hidden somewhere at Vigevano?

  “My lord,” she says, “I wish to tell you about my terrible dream.”

  “What dream is that, child?”

  Child. Soon he will no longer think upon her in this way.

  “I dreamed—oh, it was frightening and ridiculous,” she begins, trying to achieve just the right rhythm and tone for what she is about to say. “I dreamed that you were in secret conspiracy with the French King Charles against my grandfather Ferrante. You know that this arrangement would cause me terrible pain, because I grew up in his court. I know that he is not a well-liked man, but I sat on his lap and pulled on his beard all during my childhood, and he loves me very much. In my dream, you were going to war with Naples. This angered my cousin Isabel of Aragon, so she appealed to me to throw my lot in with her, and with the House of Aragon, and against you, my own husband!”

  Beatrice gives Ludovico a little smile, as if to say, isn’t that silly? She waits for him to speak. He looks at her gravely.

  “And how does this go in your dream?”

  “Not well, my lord, at least not for you. Because I did join with Isabel and the kingdom of Naples—which isn’t so far-fetched because my mother is of the House of Aragon—so of course, Ferrara supported me, as it would support one of its princesses. And since Ferrara supported Naples, then Mantua was not far behind. And the worse part was that Mantua gave Venice a good reason to attack Milan, because Francesco is captain general of their army, and they would naturally support him. The Venetians would love to do you in, my lord, and that is not just a fiction of my dream!”

  Ludovico seems keenly interested in what his child-bride is saying. She wonders if she has ever before so thoroughly captured his attention. He sits on the bed and speaks to her, slowly and deliberately. “Tell me, Beatrice, exactly how does this fantasy play out? You flee to Naples with Isabel of Aragon?”

  “Oh no, my lord. We send for their army. My uncle Alfonso rides at its head, because, as you know, he deeply hates you. No, we do not leave Milan, but the army comes here and rescues us! Oh, it’s very exciting. The Neapolitan army rides up from the south, and the Venetians, backed by Ferrara and Mantua, attack from the east, with Francesco commanding them. You wouldn’t believe it, but he sits on his horse at the walls of the Castello screaming at you for trying to take his wife.”

  “Now why would Francesco engage in such nonsense, even in a dream?” A little smile cuts across Ludovico’s face, yet his eyes are very serious.

  “He’s terribly jealous, and if a man even talks to Isabella, much less corresponds with her regularly as you do, he takes great offense. At any rate, in my dream, the French do not come to your rescue, and the armies of Italy demolish Milan.”

  Beatrice waits quietly. Does he see through her ruse? She realizes that a better woman would have confronted him directly with Isabel of Aragon’s accusations, and with his clandestine lust for her sister, but this is as direct as she can be. Her mother has a saying about attracting flies with honey, but at this moment, she cannot remember it, only its moral.

  Ludovico does not jump to his own defense, but speaks with measure. “Surely you know that your sister depends on me for advice. The marquis leaves so many functions of government to her, and she is barely eighteen years of age.”

  “Oh I understand that, my lord, and I would die rather than deprive my sister of your good counsel. But there is no controlling the thoughts of a man like Francesco. He is not in possession of good reason when it comes to his wife.”

  “That is what they tell me,” Ludovico sighs. The mocking she had expected in his voice is not there. “That is quite the terrible dream. Did I die?”

  “I do not remember, exactly,” she goes on, now more confident that her tactic is working; he is neither yelling at her, nor laughing at her, nor walking away from her in anger or disgust. “But after the armies captured the Castello, they took you away and left the city to Gian Galeazzo and Isabel of Aragon, with my uncle Alfonso as governor. It was what Isabel wanted all along, to get rid of you so that she could be the true duchess. She kept saying in the dream that you would collude with the devil himself to become the Duke of Milan.”

  “And you believe that, Beatrice? Either in your dream or in your waking state?”

  She waits. She knows that when she is playing a good hand of cards—good, but not infallible—she must choose precisely the right moment to call the opponent’s bluff. Because if he pulls a trump on her, she loses all. She wants no surprise from Ludovico laid on the table. She speaks slowly, trying her best to appear nonchalant. “No, my lord, I do not. Because I know that you are an intelligent man, and if you were truly intent upon becoming the official Duke of Milan, the first person you would enlist as your ally is your wife. Since you have not seen fit to make me your partner and ally in any real sense, then you could not possibly truly wish to become Milan’s duke. I do not believe what they say; I believe you are perfectly satisfied being Gian Galeazzo’s regent.”

  Beatrice cannot believe what has come out of her mouth, but she is quaking with excitement. Could her fall really have awakened a courageous and eloquent part of her brain that has lain dormant all her life? She keeps looking at Ludovico, trying to read his thoughts.

  “Let us say, for the sake of argument, that this were true; that my ambition was to become Duke of Milan. Why, exactly, would I require my wife as my partner and ally?”

  “Because, my lord, there is no one else in Italy who would not betray you for his own gain but me. Many people respect you; even more fear you. But the greatest number would like to see your ruin.”

  “And why are you not among that number?”

  “I promised my father that with our marriage, the Houses of Sforza and Este would be forever united. That is my duty to my family.”

  “Are you such an obedient daughter?”

  Her mask crumbles. She can no longer dissemble. She makes her hands into small fists and pounds on the bed. “No, my lord, I am not obedient at all! Why can’t you see that I love you and want to be your wife?”

  She puts her shamed face in her hands and begins to cry. Now he is free to laugh at her if he must. Instead, she feels his arms go around her. He holds her close, but as if he does not wish to hurt her with too much pressure.

  “I see, I see,” he says. “Little one, you must rest. The day’s events have shaken your emotions. This dream seems to have confused you, Beatrice. You should sleep. Perhaps in the morning your good cheer will have returned.”

  She is about to protest that he is wrong, that it is her love for him that moves her, when he continues, “The astrologer says that in a fortnight, the stars will again be aligned for me to sire a son. That is how you can be my partner. Rest now, and get well so that you can give us children.”

  Is he just trying to get away from her again? She has not been successful. He does not fear her alliance with Isabel of Aragon or with Naples; he does not see her as woman, wife, and partner, but as a birthing machine. If she is not that to him, then she is nothing.

  “My good cheer will not return, my lord, unless you begin to treat me as a wife.”

  “But you have everything you desire,” he protests.

  “I have everything I desire but my husband. I may as well return to my father’s house. I think you would like that.
” She rubs the tears from her eyes and looks directly at her husband. She realizes that she has shifted from astute political player to whining child in these last moments, but she is no longer in control, so she hurls angry words at him. “I believe that would please you. I believe that I will have Messer Trotti go to my father tomorrow morning with the news that Ludovico Sforza does not care for Beatrice d’Este. Then you may fight all of Italy on your own, with your beloved French at your side, as if they will be loyal to you once they have finished with you. I hope everything in my dream comes to pass. Then you will see what you lost by not loving me!”

  She tries to get up. She is sore from the fall, but she is also young and strong, and she wills herself to roll away from her husband. She stands up, staring across the bed at him, but she has risen too quickly, and she feels the blood rush to her head. Steadying her legs against the side of the bed, she uses all of her strength to stay lucid and erect.

  “Your Excellency, I have seen you handle the bow, and I assure you that I do not wish you to be against me,” he says.

  “Are you back to mocking me, my lord?” she asks.

  “Never.” He is smiling at her now, beaming, actually. There is no mockery in his face. “You are wonderful, Beatrice. You are bold and brave. One moment, a courageous woman, the next, a pouting girl. You are—oh, I don’t know—you are my tiny Amazon.” He rises slowly and walks to the other side of the bed. He takes her in his arms. She feels unsteady, and she leans against him for support. She wishes that they might remain this way forever.

  “What must we do to make certain that this terrible nightmare of yours never comes to pass?” he asks.

  She has no idea if he is softening to her or if he is trying to protect himself politically, but she does not care. She thinks the outcome will be the same: he will learn to love her.

  She grabs on to his brocade vest, clutching it, pulling him closer to her. “The fall from the horse has stirred my womb, Ludovico. We don’t need an astrologer’s calculations anymore. Make love to me now. You don’t need another woman. I am your wife. And I am telling you that any other woman trying to usurp that office will have to leave the Castello immediately. Otherwise, I will go home to Ferrara, or to Naples, or to wherever I have to go to escape this humiliation.”

  “But my dear—”

  “Say nothing about it, Ludovico, but act before it is too late. I understand that we must be generous to your child. God knows, my father was kind to his bastards. But I will not have another wife in my house. If she is in the Castello when we return, I will go first to my sister and brother-in-law in Mantua and explain my predicament, and then on to my father’s home. Whether my father chooses to avenge the disgrace I’ve suffered is beyond my control.”

  FROM THE NOTEBOOK OF LEONARDO:

  On the penis: It has some relations with human intelligence and sometimes shows an intelligence of its own. Where a man may desire it to be stimulated, it remains obstinate and follows its own path. Sometimes it moves on its own without permission from its owner, or by any thought or desire of that person. Whether the organ’s owner is asleep or awake, it does what it pleases; often the man is asleep and his penis awake, or the man is awake and it is asleep. Or the man would like it to be in arousal but it refuses. Often it desires action and the man refuses. That is why it seems that this creature often has a life and an intelligence apart from the greater organism that carries it. Yet it seems that the man is wrong to be ashamed of giving it a name or showing it off. That which those would have him cover and hide he ought to expose with solemnity, with the demeanor of a priest at Mass.

  SEPTEMBER 1492; IN THE CITY OF MILAN

  BEATRICE trots along in her new chariot that Ludovico had specially made for her. Its wood is fine and heavy, but Il Moro had one of the many artisans in his employ gilt its edges. A soft tent, the fabric of which is changed every day to match her outfit, keeps the September sun off of her face as she navigates her way through Milan’s streets.

  When she thinks on how her life has changed over the course of one short summer, she wants to sing—not softly and harmonically as one does in churches and parlors, but loudly, bawdily, like the dwarves do late into the evening during their wine-soaked orgies. She would like to take off all her heavy clothes and do handstands naked like Mathilda, showing her dimpled behind to anyone who cares to look. Sometimes she thinks that her small body is not made to accommodate such rambunctious happiness.

  She had taken a big risk, but it had paid off. She would never have made good on her threat to leave Ludovico, mostly because the Diamond’s reaction to her running back home would have been to spank her and put her in a convent.

  But Ludovico had no way of knowing that.

  Instead of being angry at her outburst, Ludovico was moved. Men adore to be adored, her mother always said, and now she had proof that it was true. That night, tears still wet on her face, back so sore from her fall that she could barely stand, she grabbed him by the vest and pulled him onto the bed. She climbed on top of him, kissing him madly, sucking on his tongue so hard that she could feel a pull deep within her womb. She remembered one of Mathilda’s little jokes that had always made her blush. If you rode that husband the way you ride that steed, all your problems would be solved. She had always been too embarrassed by the joke to ponder its wisdom. But at that moment on top of her husband, feeling his arousal pressing against her, she decided to test the theory, for no one knows quite as much about sexual matters—or enjoys the activity with as much glee—as the little people.

  Finally she understood what all the fuss was about. Men and women talked about, wrote about, sang about, dreamed about sexual passion all the time, and yet this was the first inkling Beatrice had of its power. She had undressed in front of him without modesty and asked him to do the same. Then she climbed on top of him and found that his hard penis slid with eager ease right into her slick wetness. Velvet, he had sighed, which had made her even more aroused. She thought of Mathilda, she thought of Drago, she thought of a warm spring day in open countryside, and she began to canter—smoothly and easily until she was sure of the terrain. Then she let go of all control and launched into a spirited gallop, which she continued until she felt her whole body tense. She rode faster and faster, unaware now of the creature beneath her—man, animal, who knew or cared? Finally her womb felt as if it was exploding, but instead of fearing it, she rocked more frantically to quicken her demise. In a burst of sweat and cries, it happened, and Beatrice thought that this must be the kind of ecstasy that devout nuns talk about when speaking of the passions of prayer. But this is not how the nuns advocate achieving it.

  For the next months, Beatrice and Ludovico were never apart, hunting and riding every day to exhaustion, exploring every inch of the parks of Vigevano. Game seemed to spring from every corner—hare, deer, and roebucks on the ground, and heron and other river fowl in the skies. Some days they would take a canoe and fish, netting big mackerel and delicate speckled trout from the river. Ludovico took a new delight in everything Beatrice did, whether she made Drago or one of her dogs perform a little trick, or whether she slew a buck with a single well-placed arrow. He laughed without control at her jokes and antics. He bought her surprises—pearl earrings, a rosary with a giant diamond cross, and a young white mare handpicked by Francesco from the Gonzaga stables to eventually mate with Drago. When Galeazz tried to whisk Beatrice away for a day of falconry, Ludovico advised him to start paying more attention to his fiancée and less to Il Moro’s wife. Ludovico said it in good humor, making young Bianca Giovanna blush so hard that she had to hide her face in her hands, but Beatrice sensed that he was serious. Galeazz’s days of distracting Beatrice were officially over.

  Beatrice did get anxious when Ludovico returned to Milan a few weeks ahead of her to “take care of some pressing business,” but when she arrived at the Castello, she was told in furtive, excited tones by the servants that Cecilia Gallerani and her son, Cesare, had been moved to a palazzo by th
e Duomo, and that Ludovico had arranged her engagement to Count Bergamini, one of Il Moro’s most loyal and chivalrous courtiers. The wedding was set for next month.

  Now Beatrice is driving to the workshop of the Florentine, Magistro Leonardo. Ludovico wishes her to sit for the master. Beatrice has said that she does not want to be painted by Leonardo. Oh, not so much because of what Isabella said—that it would put her on a parallel with Cecilia, for that painting was done more than ten years ago, when Beatrice was but a little brat in the nursery—but because the man always leaves her with a feeling of disquiet. She has no idea why he has this effect on her, but it is almost to the point of superstition in her mind. If the Magistro paints her, the lovely world in which she has lived the summer long will somehow be altered. She knows it makes no sense, and she does not want to insult Ludovico, who is willing to take the Magistro from his colossal equestrian statue just to immortalize her “at this point of blissful youth and perfection,” as her husband liked to say. So she has agreed to visit the Magistro to see if she can make herself comfortable with the idea of sitting for him.

  Upon entering the Corte Vecchia, she sees that the Magistro has made some progress on the statue of the horse, but the gigantic thing is being cast in pieces, and Beatrice is disturbed at the way the head lies on its side on the ground, apart from the legs, which are upright and waiting to be joined with the rest of the body. The body parts lying on the ground remind her that Leonardo is known for acquiring human bodies and dissecting them before audiences. What is one supposed to think of a man who exposes the insides of bodies? She leaves her chariot with the courtyard page and slips quietly through the open door and into his workshop. Boys are silently at work on various projects. Two are finishing the details on portraits commissioned by the nobles of Milan, whose features were undoubtedly sketched in by the Magistro and then turned over to his apprentices for completion. Beatrice knows that if she agrees to be painted by Leonardo, the master will probably complete much of the work himself, as a tribute to her position as the wife of his lord and master. But if one were merely a rich merchant or an insignificant courtier who wished for a flattering engagement portrait of one of his daughters, or a picture of his wife in her best jewelry, then the Magistro would do the main sketch, turn the details over to his apprentice, and perhaps perform a little of his own magic in the finishing touches.