Da Vinci's Last Supper

Chapter 6

In the year following the commencement of Cecilia’s portrait, Leonardo had been so preoccupied by his patron’s demands it remained unfinished. Throughout the summer he was busy overseeing the design and construction of a new well within the castello’s walls. In addition, Il Moro’s wife Beatrice d’ Este, had insisted upon a theatrical production to celebrate her birthday, to which Leonardo had been called upon to plan and make both the costumes and a great variety of props.

Compared to Cecilia, Leonardo considered Beatrice to be a plain woman of simple tastes. The daughter of Ercole d’ Este, Duke of Ferrara, she was well suited to the duteous role of Il Moro’s wife. She was however, perceptive enough to suspect her husband had a mistress hidden somewhere in the castello grounds. Her misgivings were not eased by his furious response whenever she broached him on this subject. Therefore, Beatrice’s watchfulness, combined with Leonardo’s busy schedule, meant that it was often a month or more between each sitting for Cecilia’s portrait. This situation suited Leonardo well, for it allowed his phlegmatic nature time to reassert his vow of celibacy and curb the rush of carnal inclinations she had stirred within him.

One morning Cecilia arrived unannounced in a state of panic.

‘The court is alive with gossip that Ercole d’Este has found out Il Moro has been unfaithful to his daughter. Oh my dear, what will become of me?’

‘Are you alarmed that your position is a tenuous one?’ asked Leonardo.

‘The position of any woman is tenuous but at least a married woman has some security. A mistress has none.’

‘What repercussions do you fear?’

‘Ercole d’Este has some sway with the Venetians, who still do not recognize Il Moro as the rightful ruler of Milan. Il Moro wants Beatrice and her father to embark upon a diplomatic mission to help persuade the Doge to recognize him as Milan’s rightful ruler. But if she finds out about me, she will certainly not embark upon any such mission and neither will her father.’

‘Then you need hope your presence will remain a secret otherwise he will be forced to turn you out.’

‘If he turns me out then I am ruined,’ said a teary Cecilia.

‘You will find a husband I am sure.’

‘Is that a proposal?’ she said. Cheered by the remark, Leonardo laughed and wiped the tear from her eye.

‘My dearest angel, I am not a good prospect for you. Now, enough of this chatter we have work to do. Please, take your place by the window.’

For the rest of the afternoon, Leonardo worked in silence. While he concentrated on the contours of Cecilia’s dress and the technical demands of painting the delicate folds in the material, Cecilia thought of what manner of husband Leonardo might make in the event she was turned out by Beatrice: Surely a man of such sure hands would know how to please a woman.

The morning did not progress well as an anxious Cecilia found herself unable to relax and focus her attention on standing poised as instructed. Much to the maestro’s frustration, she moaned at his constant rearranging of her posture. Resigned to the fact he was wasting his efforts, the artist put down his brush and headed towards the door.

‘Come, there is something I wish to show you.’ Together they entered the main workshop and, accompanied by the stares of apprentices and Cecilia’s palace entourage, marched through the large double doors at the opposite end. Once outside they took the steps to the roof where Leonardo opened a small wooden shed and ushered her inside. Cecilia found herself looking at a large, complex wood-framed construction.

‘What is it? she asked.

‘It’s an ornithopter, from the Greek meaning bird wing. I intend to see if a man can fly by aid of such a device.’

Central to the ornithopter was a large plank to lie upon and from this position operate the numerous pulleys attached to two foot-pedals. The mullioned wings were made from willow, for its lightness and flexibility. The wings were covered in the finest linen available. Leonardo deemed it necessary for the fabric to be thin enough to allow air to pass through. Cecilia attempted to lift one end of a wing up, an act that required a great deal of effort.

‘It is not possible for a man to fly by means of this apparatus, Leonardo. No man, save Hercules, could generate enough power to lift the ornithopter off the ground if he was strapped into it.’

‘Regrettably, I am aware of this.’

‘I am sure the mathematician Luca Pacioli would be willing to assist you in your efforts. I will introduce you to him tonight.’

It was early in the evening when Leonardo arrived to deliver his inaugural address to the group of intellectuals and academics that Cecilia hosted quarterly. He knew several by name including his friend Franchino Gaffurius, the head of music at the Duomo, a handsome man with shoulder-length brown hair and luminous brown eyes. In honour of their friendship, Leonardo had painted Franchino, who held in his hands a section of music he had composed, a Mass in honour of the city’s patron saint, Saint Ambrose. Also present was Donato Bramante, architect to Il Moro, who was currently engaged in the final stages of construction for the Duke’s personal chapel of Santa Maria delle Grazie. Their paths often crossed in work matters.

A delighted Cecilia introduced Leonardo to the ten men present. Il Moro’s artist in residence oozed confidence as he nodded politely to each man before he began his presentation.

‘Gentleman, I am honoured to speak to you this evening on a subject of great importance to me: flight. Yet if man is to understand the nature of flight, he first need comprehend the art of swimming. Have you ever noticed,’ he asked his audience, ‘how the hands of a swimmer when they strike the water, cause the body of the swimmer to glide forward in a contrary movement? I, therefore, assert it is the same with the wings of a bird in the air. The atmosphere is an element capable of being compressed within itself when it is struck by something moving at a greater rate of speed than its own velocity.’

Several murmurs of approval emanated from the group and one or two caught Cecilia’s eye to indicate their guest had thus far impressed.

‘My learned colleagues, my conclusion is – a man suitably equipped with a mechanical device could, through correct design and construction of an ornithopter, overcome the resistance of the air and rise above the ground.’

‘Impossible!’ proclaimed Professor Tedesco, a rotund bald gentleman who was also appointed to the Royal Court as its Professor of History. ‘I have never heard anything so ridiculous!’ he said, seeking approval from his colleagues.

Another man, wearing the priestly apparel of a Franciscan, stood up and spoke in a deep voice. All conversations came to a stop. ‘Gentlemen, gentlemen, why object? Doctor Mirabilis (Francis Bacon), a man of considerable intellect and fame, did he not also advocate that man could, given the proper scientific tools, fly? Therefore, I say let maestro Leonardo speak.’ His words carried weight with his listeners. Leonardo nodded politely to his rescuer and continued his theorizing on the mechanics of flight.

Leonardo presented before the Society Philosophic several of his drawings that revealed in intricate detail his various mechanisms, measurements and plans for a manned ornithopter including: how the wings emulated those of a bird and were designed to be flexible and for air to pass through the mullioned fabric; and where a man was intended to sit and operate the pulleys that would facilitate flight. Clearly evident to the esteemed company of men was the level of intelligence that had gone into each of the designs submitted. Leonardo went on to answer their questions thoroughly, explaining the workings of his machine. While others scoffed at the thought such machines would ever be practically demonstrated, others marvelled that a man noted for his art had such a grasp of science.

An emboldened Leonardo picked up his numerous diagrams and concluded his presentation by reasserting his fundamental maxim.

‘It is my belief that one day man will master the skies just as he has mastered land and sea. For once you have tasted flight you will walk the earth with your eyes turned skywards, for there you have been and there you will long to return.’

During the course of the evening, Professor Tedesco wearied of the remarkable claims Leonardo postulated. The professor huffed and puffed in his chair until finally he spewed forth his bile.

‘You are not a man of letters, are you? The boasts you make you do so without the necessary academic credentials to support them.’ The room fell silent. Leonardo’s eyes narrowed, and his voice bristled with indignation.

‘I have been invited here to speak on matters of science. I contend most strongly that no human investigation can be called true science without passing through strict mathematical tests, as opposed to fastidious reliance upon the untested words of others.’

Professor Tedesco’s face flushed crimson with anger. ‘Hundreds of years of wisdom are the basis, the rock of our knowledge. Are you so arrogant as to claim you are superior to the learned minds we have taught from antiquity to the present day?’

A thin, angular man began a long list of revered names from antiquity. Aristotle and Plato, Ptolemy and Pliny, and ending with St Thomas Aquinas.

‘It is utterly preposterous,’ said the thin man, ‘that we should be asked to lay aside our academic history and heed to your un-learned assumptions.’ Unruffled by this interruption, Leonardo rebutted the angry professor calmly.

‘Before we claim that something is a law in nature, we must first test our hypothesis many times over. Where men of learning in the past have stated such and such is a law or principle that governs nature, we should not maintain such an opinion if the truth of our experiments differs from long-established views.’

The room descended into academic squabbles. On one hand were those led by Professor Tedesco, who stuck rigidly to classical teaching and rejected as nonsense all modern thinking. While on the other, Leonardo, his priestly ally and Cecilia, who had been enraptured by Leonardo’s presentation, led the chorus for change.

When the proceedings were all but over and the debate subsided, Leonardo’s deep-voiced champion introduced himself.

‘I am Father Luca Pacioli. It is my pleasure to meet you, Leonardo. You have not disappointed.’

‘But you too, Father Luca, if I may be so bold, have a reputation.’

Luca Pacioli was considered the finest mathematician of his day, not only in Italy but throughout Europe, and recently appointed to teach mathematics at the Royal Court.

Cecilia entertained her other guests as graciously as was expected of her, but her mind was on Leonardo. When she finally approached him, he was still deep in discussion with Father Pacioli.

‘I am pleased you have made each other’s acquaintance.’ The two men smiled and bowed. Noticing a court attendant in his blue and silver regalia enter the room, Cecilia gently took hold of Leonardo’s right hand. ‘My carriage awaits. I know from the many comments passed to me that you have made a lasting impression. I hope you will grace us with your presence again. Goodnight gentlemen.’

Leonardo departed soon after, accompanied for some distance by Luca who was staying in monastic quarters to the south of the city. Together they discussed the mechanics of flight, during which the priest-turned-mathematician made it clear he would very much like to inspect Leonardo’s ornithopter. It was a suggestion wholly agreeable to its inventor and so, before the two went their separate ways, they arranged to meet at a more opportune time to exchange ideas.

While approaching his workshop, a commotion from the street caused Leonardo to realise something was amiss. Pushing his way through the melee, he demanded to know the reason a throng of people were gathered on his doorstep. An aristocratic gentleman in his early thirties sporting a fine moustache stepped forward.

‘Maestro Leonardo, I am Giovanni Visconti.’ He bowed flamboyantly. ‘I wish our meeting were under more pleasant circumstances, but a serious crime has taken place, the robbery of my young cousin, Alberto Visconti. The young brigand who committed this outrageous act has locked himself away in your private quarters.’

‘Is it Salai?’ asked Leonardo, knowing the question was foolish.

‘Indeed maestro,’ replied Giovanni Visconti. A downcast Leonardo shook his head.

‘My humble apologies,’ he said, bowing.

After some persuasion, Salai abandoned his refuge. The guilty youth was not in a position to deny involvement, for in Leonardo’s bedroom they found a cloak belonging to the robbed youth. Leonardo paid Giovanni Visconti the amount that had been stolen, with a little usury to prevent Salai being hauled before the courts and sentenced to the Duke’s fields as a mud basher.

When the crowd had left, and all the other apprentices had finally retired to bed, Leonardo sat Salai down in the kitchen.

‘What more can I do to persuade you that you need no longer steal or mix with thieves? Talk to me Salai, what is it that makes you persist with such actions?’

‘I don’t know, papa. Perhaps I am afraid that one day you will abandon me and I will return to the streets.’

‘Salai, listen to me. I am not your father, I will never abandon you.’ Tears slid down the boy’s face. ‘I’m sorry papa.’

Later that evening, her passions aroused, Cecilia flung open her bedroom door the moment she heard footsteps outside. She dragged the Duke inside, not allowing him breath before she hungrily kissed him. Il Moro needed no encouragement and sought to carry her up in his arms. To his surprise, she skilfully side-stepped him, spun him around, placed her right foot between his two feet and pushed him hard with both hands in the chest. Il Moro collapsed onto the bed and before he had time to react Cecilia lifted her white knee-length linen camisole, jumped up and straddled him.

‘My Lord, you had better satisfy me tonight or I will banish you from my room for good.’

His ardour kindled, Il Moro needed no further invitation and flung himself on top of Cecilia. Tearing off her camisole he planted a firm hand on each of her pert breasts. While he frantically made love to her, she imagined Leonardo’s artistic hands had come to take possession of her and recalled how Leonardo had gently spoken her name. In response to the sound of his voice echoing inside her mind she tossed her head from side to side, kicking up her red hair and closing her eyes. Her lover, oblivious to his mistress’s fantasies, rode her with all the gusto he could muster. She longed to scream Leonardo’s name but bit into her knuckles to stop herself from doing so. As their frenetic lovemaking reached its zenith, Il Moro grunted into Cecilia’s ear while a hand violently s*****d her chalk-white derriere. His energy spent, he collapsed on top of her, perspiring and breathing deeply.

‘If this is what happens when I neglect you, I can see the benefits of making you wait more often,’ he said. A satiated Cecilia surrendered to Il Moro’s arm too exhausted to move.

Her room was carpeted by a large Indian rug depicting men wearing coloured turbans who rode upon elephants in pursuit of a tiger. The tiger’s gold and orange stripes were a source of great fascination, along with the beautiful tropical birds that flew hither and thither to escape the clash between pursuers and pursued. By the window sat a blue and cream chaise longue, long enough to sit three people. Opposite, on the far wall was a carved Indian rosewood vanity unit with a mirror held in place by a silver border. Beside the vanity was a matching wardrobe, both were carved in ornate interlocking curves like braided hair in a style distinctly oriental in origin. A large window opened out to a balcony. This offered on one side a view of the castello, while the other a spectacular view of Milan. Cecilia preferred the view of Milan and was fond of taking in the night air whilst looking out across the city.

After his exertions, Il Moro drew his arm over Cecilia’s body and snuggled up to her, a rare gesture of affection.

‘I have news,’ he said softly. ‘For some time now, I have considered plans to have an important commission painted in Santa Maria delle Grazie but I have hesitated from making an announcement until work there was finalized.’

‘I am sure maestro Leonardo would welcome such a commission.’

‘I’m sure he would but Father Rodrigo thinks a Roman artist might be more suitable.’

‘Why pay for an artist from Rome? You have Leonardo who surpasses anything Rome has to offer.’

‘We will speak more on this another time. I will sleep in your room tonight and see what the morning has to offer.’

While Cecilia’s mind raced with the Duke’s news, Leonardo slept uneasily. The wind whistled down the street outside his window, conjuring up strange sounds that echoed in his mind and gave weight to the amnesia that regularly stole the sleep from his body. Cold loneliness seized him, just as it had done many years ago as a motherless child who rarely had contact with either his father or siblings. It had returned to him when he had been imprisoned in Florence. And again, in Milan, there were nights when he found it hard to shake off the gloom that engulfed him. Doubts assailed his mind: Lord, will I ever be commissioned to paint something worthy of my talent? Or, will fate forever conspire against me as it did in Florence? Morose and restless he rose from his bed, lit a candle and, using a quill, wrote in his journal: Oh wretched life, what must a man do to be free from your many miseries.

Lord, will I ever be commissioned to paint something worthy of my talent?Or, will fate forever conspire against me as it did in FlorenceOh wretched life, what must a man do to be free from your many miseries.