THE HOLY INQUISITION--1506-1513
Know all; but be known of none.
ASIL THE GNOSTIC.
I
In the year 1507 Leonardo definitely entered the service of Louis XII.,
established himself at Milan, and went no more to Florence, except for
small matters of business.
Four years passed uneventfully.
Towards the close of 1511 Giovanni Boltraffio, who was now a master of
repute, was working at a wall-painting in the new Church of San
Maurizio. It belonged to the ancient foundation of the Monastero
Maggiore, and was built on the ruins of the Roman circus. Beside it,
enclosed by a high fence and abutting on the Via Della Vigna, was a
neglected garden, and the once splendid but now deserted and ruined
palace of the Counts of Carmagnola. The nuns of the Monastero Maggiore
had let this house and garden to Messer Galeotto Sacrobosco, the old
alchemist, who had lately returned to Milan with Cassandra his niece.
Their cottage by the Porta Vercellina having been destroyed at the time
of the first French invasion, the pair had wandered for nine years in
Greece, the islands of the Archipelago, Asia Minor, and Syria. Strange
tales were told of them: Galeotto had found the philosopher's stone; he
had appropriated vast sums lent him by the Devâtdâr of Syria for
experiments, and had fled for his life. Monna Cassandra, by the help of
the devil, had found treasure on the site of an ancient Phoenician
temple; she had bewitched, drugged, and plundered a wealthy merchant at
Constantinople; at any rate the pair had left Milan beggars, and had
returned rich--that much was certain. Pupil of Demetrius Chalcondylas,
and also of Sidonia the witch, Cassandra appeared now a devout daughter
of the Church. She observed all fasts and ceremonies, she attended the
holy offices, and by her charities had acquired the favour not only of
the sisters of the Monastero Maggiore, but that of the archbishop
himself. Evil tongues, however, declared that her religion was a
pretence, that she was still a pagan, that she and her uncle had only
escaped the Inquisition by flight from Rome, and that sooner or later
she was certain to be burned at the stake. Messer Galeotto still
reverenced Leonardo, and considered him his master in the occult wisdom
of Hermes Trismegistus. The alchemist had collected many rare books in
the course of his travels; for the most part those of Alexandrian
scholars of Ptolemaic times. Leonardo borrowed these sometimes, and
generally sent Giovanni to fetch them, since he was working close to the
alchemist's house. As had happened before, Giovanni fell under the spell
of Cassandra, and his visits became more frequent. At first she spoke to
him guardedly, acting up to her part of repentant sinner, and expressing
a desire to take the veil. Little by little she dismissed her fears, and
became confidential. They recalled their meetings of ten years ago, when
they had both been little more than children--the lonely terrace above
the quiet Cantarana, the walls of the Convent of St. Radegonda;
especially that sultry evening when she had spoken to him of the
Resurrection of the Gods, and had invited him to the Witches' Sabbath.
Now she lived as a recluse; was ill, or pretended to be so; and when she
was not at church she hid herself in a remote secluded dark chamber,
where the windows looked out on the neglected garden, densely shadowed
by cypress trees. The room was furnished like a library or a museum.
Here were the antiquities she had brought from the East; fragments of
statues, dog-headed gods of black syenite from Egypt, mysterious stones
upon which was incised the magic word _Abraxas_, signifying the three
hundred and sixty-five celestial spheres of the Gnostics; precious
Byzantine parchments, which time had rendered hard as ivory; fragments
from Greek manuscripts, hopelessly lost; earthen shards, with cuneiform
Assyrian inscriptions; books of the Persian magi, clasped with iron;
Memphian papyri, transparent and thin as the petals of a flower.
Cassandra told Giovanni of the wonders she had seen; of the desolate
grandeur of marble temples standing on sea-worn cliffs, at their feet
the blue Ionian waves, their columns bedewed with the brine, like the
naked body of the foam-born goddess long ago. She told of her incredible
exertions, dangers, accidents. He asked her what she had sought, why she
had collected these things at the cost of so much toil, and she answered
in the words of Luigi her father:--
'To bring the dead to life.'
And her eyes glowed with the fire that had belonged to Cassandra, the
witch of days gone by.
In appearance she was little changed; she had the same face, untouched
by grief or joy--impassive as the faces of the ancient statues; the same
broad low forehead, straight fine eyebrows, firm unsmiling lips, and
amber eyes. Yet now her face, refined by illness, or perhaps by the
over-insistence of a single thought, had taken an expression calmer and
more austere than it had worn in her girlhood. Her dark hair, twined and
wreathed like Medusa's snakes, still gave the impression of having a
life of its own, still formed a frame for her pale face, and enhanced
the brilliance of her eyes, the scarlet of her lips. The charm of the
girl attracted Giovanni irresistibly as of old, and renewed in his soul
the old feelings of curiosity, compassion, and fear.
In her journey across the land of Hellas she had visited her mother's
native place, the lonely little town of Mistra, near the ruins of
Sparta, among the bare hills where, half a century before, had died
Gemistus Pletho, last teacher of the Hellenic philosophy. Telling
Giovanni of her visit to his grave, she repeated Pletho's prophecy that
after a few years the world would return to a single faith, not
differing from the ancient paganism.
'The prophecy is not fulfilled,' said Giovanni, 'though more than fifty
years have passed. Have you still faith in him, Monna Cassandra?'
'There was not perfect truth in Pletho,' she replied calmly, 'for there
was much he did not know.'
'What?' asked Giovanni; and under the intentness of her glance he felt
his heart sink.
She took a parchment from the shelf, and read to him certain lines from
the _Prometheus_, in which the Titan, having enumerated his gifts to
men, more especially that fire which he had stolen from heaven, and
which would make them equal with the gods, goes on to prophesy the fall
of Zeus.
'Giovanni, have you never heard of the man who, ten centuries ago,
dreamed, like Pletho, of reviving the dead gods--the Emperor Flavius
Claudius Julian?'
'Julian the Apostate?'
'Ay, so they called him.'
'He gave his life in vain for the Olympians.' She hesitated, then
continued in a lower voice: 'If I were to tell you all, Giovanni! But
for to-day I will say only this. Among the Olympians is a god nearer
than all others to his brethren below; a god both bright and dark; fair
as the dawn, yet pitiless as death; who came to earth and gave to
mortals--as Prometheus had done--the forgetting of death and the boon of
fire--new fire--in his own blood, in the intoxicating juice of the vine;
and, my brother, who is there among men who will understand? who will go
boldly forth and say to the world, "The love of him who is crowned with
the vine is like the love of Him who is crowned with thorns (who said,
'I am the true vine'); of Him who, no less than Dionysus, makes the
world drunk with his blood?" Have you understood, Giovanni, of whom I
speak? If not, ask me nothing, for here is a secret which we may not, as
yet, reveal.'
Of late a great audacity of thought had come to Giovanni. He feared
nothing, because he had nothing to lose. He had convinced himself that
neither in the faith of Fra Benedetto, nor in the knowledge of Leonardo,
would he find peace. Cassandra's prophecies gave him a glimpse of a new
idea, so startling as to be terrible. Instead of turning away he
approached it with the courage of despair. Day by day their souls came
closer to each other.
Once he asked her why she hid what she believed to be the truth, why she
even dissembled?
'All things are not for all men,' she answered. 'Martyrdoms, wonders,
and signs are necessary for the crowd. Only those whose faith is
imperfect die for their faith, that they may convince others, and
themselves. But perfect faith is the same thing as perfect knowledge.
Did the truths of geometry discovered by Pythagoras require that he
should die in proof of them? Perfect faith is silent; and its secret is
above profession, for the master said, "Ye know all, but be ye known of
none."'
'What master?' asked Giovanni, thinking of Leonardo.
'Basil, the Egyptian Gnostic,' she replied; and explained that the great
teachers of the early Christian ages, to whom faith and knowledge had
been one, had called themselves Gnostics, or Knowers; and she went on to
repeat to him many of their sayings, often strange and monstrous, like
the visions of the delirious.
He was especially impressed by a legend as to the creation of the world
and of man, put forth by the Alexandrine Ophites, or snake worshippers.
'"Above all the heavens is boundless Darkness, immovable, fairer than
any light; the Unknown Father, the Abyss, the Silence. His only-begotten
daughter, the Wisdom of God, separating from the Father, knew life, and
sorrow, and darkened her splendour. The son of her travail was
Jaldavaoth, the creating God. Falling away from his mother he plunged
yet more deeply into existence, and created the world of the body, a
distorted image of the spiritual world. In it was Man, formed to reflect
the greatness of his creator, and to bear witness to his power. The
elemental spirits, the ministers of Jaldavaoth, brought the senseless
mass of flesh to Jaldavaoth to be endowed with life; but the Wisdom of
God inspired it also with a breath of the divine wisdom, received by her
from the Unknown Father. And then this mean creature, formed of earth
and dust, became greater than Jaldavaoth its creator, and grew into the
shape and the likeness not of him but of the true God, the Unknown
Father. Four-footed Man raised his face from the earth, and Jaldavaoth,
at the sight of the being which had slipped from his power, was filled
with anger and alarm. He formed another creature, the Angel of Darkness,
the serpent-like Satan, the wisdom accursed. And by the help of the
serpent Jaldavaoth formed the three kingdoms of Nature; and set Man
therein, and gave him a law. "Do this; do not that: if thou breakest
the law, thou shalt die." For he hoped by the yoke of the law, and by
the fear of death to recover his power over man. But the Wisdom of God
still protected Man, and sent him a comforter, the Spirit of
Knowledge--snake-like also, but winged like the morning star, the Angel
of the Dawn, him to whom allusion is made in the saying, "Be ye wise as
the serpent." And the Spirit of Knowledge went down to men and said,
"Taste and know, and your eyes shall be opened, and ye shall be as
gods."'
'Hearken, Giovanni,' concluded Cassandra; 'the men of the crowd, the
children of this world, are the slaves of Jaldavaoth and of the serpent
Satan, living under the fear of death, bound by the yoke of the law. But
the children of light, those who _know_, the chosen of Sophia, the
Wisdom of God, transcend all laws, overstep all bounds, are free as
gods, are furnished with wings, remain pure in the midst of evil, even
as gold glitters in the mire. And the Spirit of Knowledge, the Angel of
the Dawn, leads them through life and death, through evil and through
good, through all the curses and the terrors of the world of Jaldavaoth,
to the great mother, Sophia, the Wisdom of God; and she bringeth them to
the bosom of the great Darkness, which reigns above the heavens, which
is immovable and fairer than any light; to the bosom of the Father of
all things.'
And hearing this legend of the Ophites, Giovanni could not help inwardly
comparing Jaldavaoth to the son of Kronos; the breath of Divine Wisdom
to the fire of Prometheus; the Beneficent Serpent the Angel of the Dawn,
Lucifer, Son of the Morning, to Prometheus the Titan. In all ages and
nations, in the tragedies of Æschylus, in the legend of the Gnostics, in
the history of Julian the Apostate, in the teaching of Pletho the
philosopher, Giovanni found the echoes of the great discord, the same
great struggle, which darkened his own spirit. Ten centuries ago men
were suffering as he suffered now, were contending with the same double
thoughts, were the victims of the same contradictions, the same
temptations. The knowledge that this was so solaced him, yet it deepened
his anguish. Sometimes he felt overwhelmed by all these thoughts as by
drunkenness or delirium. And then it seemed to him that Cassandra only
pretended to be strong and inspired and initiated into the mystery of
truth, while in reality she was no less ignorant, no less astray than he
was himself; and that the two of them were as helpless and lost as they
had been twelve years before; and this new sabbath of half divine, half
satanic lore was even more senseless than the Witches' Sabbath to which
she had once invited him, and which she now despised as childishness.
Giovanni became alarmed and wished to flee, but it was too late;
curiosity drew him like a spell, and he felt he would not leave her till
he knew all to the end; till he had found salvation and had perished
with her.
Now about this time there came to Milan a famous inquisitor and doctor
of theology, Fra Giorgio de Casale.
The Pope, Julius II., alarmed by the spread of sorcery in Lombardy, had
sent him with bulls and powers of committal and of extraordinary
punishments. Monna Cassandra stood in grave peril; and was warned both
by the nuns of the Monastero Maggiore and by the archbishop. She and
Messer Galeotto had already fled from Rome to escape this same Fra
Giorgio; they knew that once fallen into his hands they would find no
escape, and determined to take refuge in France, perhaps in England or
even Scotland.
Two days before their setting forth, Giovanni was with Cassandra in her
lonely room of the Palazzo Carmagnole. The sunshine, veiled by the thick
cypress branches, was scarce brighter than moonlight; the girl seemed
even fairer and calmer than was her wont. Now that parting was at hand,
Giovanni realised how dear she was to him.
'Shall I not see you yet once more?' he asked her. 'Will you not reveal
to me that mystery of which you have spoken?'
Cassandra looked fixedly at him; then drew from a casket a flat
four-cornered stone of transparent green. It was the famous 'Tabula
Smaragdina,' the emerald tablet said to have been found in a cave near
Memphis in the hands of the mummy of a certain priest, who was an
incarnation of Hermes Trismegistus, the Egyptian Horus, the god of
boundaries, the guide of the dead to the underworld. It was engraved
both in Coptic and in Greek with these verses.
[Greek: Ourano anô ourano katô
Astera anô astera katô
Pan anô pan touto katô
Tauta labe kai eutyche.]
(Heaven above, heaven below;
Stars above, stars below;
All that is over, under shall show.
Happy thou who the riddle readest.)
'Come to me this night,' she said gravely and softly, 'and I will tell
you all that I know myself--do you hear?--all, to the very end. And now
before we part, let us drink together the cup of friendship.'
She fetched a small pottery vessel, sealed with wax as in the far East,
poured out wine, thick as oil, golden-ruddy, and with a strange perfume,
into an ancient goblet of chrysolite, with a relief of Dionysus and the
Bacchantes. Going to the window she raised the cup as if about to pour a
libation; the rosy wine, like warm blood, gave life to the figures of
the naked Mænads on the transparent cup.
'There was a time, Giovanni,' she said, 'when I fancied that your Master
Leonardo possessed the great secret, for his face is as that of an
Olympian god, blended with a Titan. But now I see he aims, but he does
not attain; seeks and finds not; knows, but understands not. _He is the
precursor of him who shall come after him, who is greater than he._ Let
us drink together, O my brother, this farewell goblet to the Unknown
whom we both invoke; to the supreme Reconciler.'
Devoutly, as if performing a religious rite, she drank half the cup and
handed it to Giovanni.
'Fear not!' she said, 'this is no poisoned philtre; this wine is from
grapes of Nazareth; 'tis the purest blood of _Dionysus, the Galilæan_!'
When he had drunk, she laid her hands on his shoulders, and whispered
rapidly and solemnly--
'If you would know all, Come! Come, and I will tell you the secret,
which never yet have I uttered to any one. I will reveal the extreme
joy, the extreme sorrow which shall unite us for ever, as brother and
sister, as bridegroom and bride.'
In the sun's rays, veiled by the thick cypresses, and pale as moonlight,
just as once before by the Cantarana water in the whiteness of the
summer lightning, she put her face close to his, her face white as
marble, framed by its Medusa locks, with its scarlet lips, its amber
eyes.
The chill of a familiar terror froze Giovanni's heart, and he said to
himself:--
'_La Diavolessa bianca!_'
That night at the appointed hour Giovanni stood at the door of the
Palazzo Carmagnole. He knocked long, but none opened to him. At last he
went to the Monastero Maggiore, and there he learned the terrible news.
Fra Giorgio da Casale had appeared suddenly, and had given orders at
once to apprehend Galeotto Sacrobosco and his niece Cassandra on a
charge of black magic.
Messer Galeotto had succeeded in escaping, but Cassandra was already in
the clutch of the Holy Inquisition.
II
Next day Boltraffio did not leave his bed. He was indisposed, and his
head ached; he was half unconscious, and cared for nothing.
At nightfall there was an unwonted pealing of bells, and through his
room spread a faint but repulsive odour. His headache increased, he felt
sick, and he went out into the air. The day was warm and damp, a day of
_scirocco_, frequent at Milan in the early autumn. There was no rain,
but the roofs and the trees dripped, and the brick pavement was shining
and slippery. Yet in the open air Giovanni found the noisome odour still
stronger than in his room.
The streets were thronged, the people all coming from the Piazza del
Broletto; as Giovanni looked in their faces he fancied them in the same
state of semi-unconsciousness as himself. Presently chance words from a
passer-by explained to him the noisome odour which pursued him; it was
the appalling stench of burned human bodies. They were burning witches,
sorceresses. Perhaps--O God!--burning Cassandra!
He began to run, not knowing whither, jostling people, staggering like a
drunken man, trembling with ague, feeling the foul savour in the greasy
and yellow mist, feeling it follow him, catch him by the throat, stifle
his lungs, bind his temples with a dull and gnawing pain.
He never remembered how he made his way to the Monastery of San
Francisco and to Fra Benedetto's cell. It was empty, for Benedetto was
at Bergamo. Giovanni shut the door, lit a candle, and sank exhausted on
the pallet-bed.
In this familiar and peaceful retreat all breathed of holiness and
peace. The stench had dissipated, he smelt only incense, fast-day
olives, old books, and the varnish for Benedetto's simple paintings. On
the wall hung a crucifix and an ancient gift of Giovanni's, a withered
garland of flowers gathered on the heights of Fiesole in those days when
he sat at the feet of Savonarola.
He raised his eyes to the Crucified. The Saviour still extended his
nailed hand as if calling the world to his embrace: 'Come unto me all
ye that are weary and heavy-laden.' Was not that the one, the perfect
truth?
But the prayer died on his lips. Not though eternal damnation threatened
him could he cease to know what he did know, could he drive out or
reconcile the two truths which were contending in him. In his old calm
despair he turned away from the Crucified, and at the same moment he
fancied that the noisome mist, the terrible stench of the burning had
reached him even here in this last refuge.
And there rose before him a vision which he had seen often of late, so
distinct he scarce knew if it were reality or dream; the vision of
Cassandra in the glow of the scarlet flame, among the instruments of
torture and stains of blood; she white, virginal, firm as the marble of
a statue, preserved by the power of the Beneficent Serpent, the
Reconciler, the Deliverer, insensible to the iron and the flame and the
gaze of her tormentors.
Coming to himself, he knew by the dying candle, by the strokes of the
convent clock, that hours had passed in oblivion, and that it was now
past midnight. It was very still, and the air was hot. Through the
window were seen pale blue flashes of lightning, as on that memorable
night long ago by the Cantarana. The dull roar of distant thunder seemed
to come from below the earth. His head ached, his mouth was parched,
thirst tortured him; he remembered having seen a pitcher of water in the
corner. He rose, dragging himself along by the wall, found it, drank,
and was returning to his couch when he became conscious that some one
was with him in the cell. Seated on the couch was a figure in the long
dark habit of a monk, a hood covering the face. He was astonished, for
the door was locked, yet he felt relieved rather than alarmed. His head
ceased to ache, his senses were quickened. He approached the seated
figure. It rose, and the cowl fell back; Giovanni saw the face, marble
white, passionless, the lips red as blood, the amber eyes, the halo of
black hair like Medusa's snakes.
Solemnly, slowly, as if for an incantation, Cassandra rose, her arms
extended. The black robe fell back. He saw the glowing warmth and beauty
of her neck. Was she alive? My God! was she alive?
For the last time Giovanni murmured, 'The white sorceress!' It seemed as
if the veil of life were rent before him. He was face to face with the
mystery of the supreme union. She knelt before him.... She folded him in
her arms.... Ah! the inexpressible sweetness! the inexpressible fear!...
Delirium! delirium!
III
Zoroastro da Peretola had not died, neither had he recovered from his
fall. He was a cripple, and able to mutter only fragmentary words
intelligible to none but the Master. Sometimes he roamed about the
house, clattering on his crutches; sometimes he listened to conversation
as if trying to understand it; or he would sit in a corner winding
strips of linen, or planing wooden staves, whittling sticks or carving
tops, for his workman's hands had not lost their need of movement, nor
entirely their skill. But often he would rock himself for hours
together, a smile on his face, and his arms waving as if they were
wings, while he crooned an unending ditty:--
'Cucurlu! Curlu!
Cranes and eagles
Up they flew!
Up they flew,
Cranes and eagles,--
Cucurlu!'
And then, looking at the Master, he would weep--a sight too painful for
Leonardo to bear. He never deserted the broken creature, but cared for
him, gave him money, and whenever possible kept him in his house. Years
passed, and the cripple remained a living reproof, a mockery of his
life-long effort, his fashioning of wings for men.
Scarce less distressed was Leonardo by the attitude of Cesare da Sesto,
that one of his pupils who was perhaps nearest to his heart. Like Astro
and Giovanni he was mentally crippled, anxious to stand alone, but
overwhelmed by the Master's influence, and reduced to nullity. Not
content to be an imitator, not strong enough to be independent, he wore
himself out with fruitless fretting and impotent rage, incompetent
either to save himself or to perish. He was one of those upon whom
Leonardo was accused of having cast the Evil Eye.
Cesare was said to be in secret correspondence with Raphael, who was
working at the frescoes of the Vatican Stanze, and Leonardo sometimes
thought treachery was meditated. But worse than the treachery of enemies
was the so-called fidelity of friends. Under the name of the _Accademia
di Leonardo_, a school of young painters had grown up in Milan, a few of
them his pupils, the greater number newcomers, who clung to him like
parasites, and persuaded themselves and others that they were following
in his steps. He stood aloof, and watched them. At times disgust
overwhelmed him when he saw how all that he had reverenced as great and
sacred had become the property of the common herd; how the Lord's face
in the _Cenacolo_ was copied till it was mere ecclesiastical
commonplace; how the smile of La Gioconda was imitated, exaggerated,
vulgarised, till it became stupid, if not sensual.
One winter's night Leonardo was sitting alone, listening to the shriek
and roar of the storm; it was just such a night as that in which he had
heard of Monna Lisa's death; he was thinking of her, and thinking of
Death itself, of the last dread solitude in the bosom of ancient Chaos,
of the infinite weariness of the world. There was a knock; he rose and
opened the door. A young man entered, a lad of nineteen, with bright
eyes, fresh cheeks reddened by the cold, melting snowflakes in his
chestnut curls.
'Oh Messer Leonardo!' he exclaimed, 'do you not know me?'
Leonardo looked and recognised his little friend, the child with whom he
had roamed the woods of Vaprio, Francesco Melzi. He embraced him with
fatherly tenderness. The youth related how, after the French invasion of
1500, his father had taken his family to Bologna, and there had fallen
sick of a malady which had lasted for long years. Now he was dead, and
the son had hastened to Leonardo, remembering his promise.
'But what promise?' asked the painter, bewildered.
'Ah! you have forgotten! And I, poor simpleton, have been counting on
it! Nay, then! do you not remember? You were carrying me in the mine at
the foot of Monte Campione, and you told me how you were to serve Cæsar
Borgia in Romagna. And I wept, and prayed you to take me with you, and
you promised that after ten years' time, when I should be grown----'
'Ay! I recall it!' said Leonardo warmly.
'You see? Ah, Messer Leonardo, I know you have no need of me. But I will
be no burden to you, I will not disturb you. Pr'ythee drive me not
hence! If you drive me hence, I will not go! I will never leave you
again!' cried the lad.
'My dear, dear boy!' said the Master, and his voice shook.
He embraced him again, and Francesco clung to his breast as he had done
years ago when Leonardo had carried him into the subterranean darkness
of the forgotten pit.
IV
Since Leonardo had left Florence in 1507, he had been enrolled as court
painter in the service of the French King, Louis XII. He had no fixed
salary, but relied on the royal bounty. The treasurers frequently forgot
him altogether, nor was he able to call opportune attention to himself
by his productions, for as years increased upon him he worked less and
less. He was consequently, as of old, in continual straits and
entanglements; he borrowed wherever he could, and contracted new debts
before he had paid off the old. He wrote the same timid, clumsy
petitions to the French Viceroy and Treasurer as formerly to the
officials of Ludovico Il Moro.
'Not wishing to fatigue your Excellency's generosity, I permit myself to
request that I may receive a regular salary. More than once have I
addressed your lordship on this subject, but hitherto have been
vouchsafed no reply.'
In the ante-chambers of his patrons he quietly waited his turn among
other suppliants, though with advancing years he increasingly knew--
'How salt another's bread is, and the toil
Of going up and down another's stairs.'
The service of princes was as bitter to him as had been the service of
the republic; everywhere and always he felt himself a stranger. Raphael
had become rich and splendid as a Roman patrician; Michelangelo was
hoarding money against the evil days; Leonardo was still a homeless
wanderer, not knowing where he could lay his head when he came to die.
Wars, victories, the defeat of his friends, changes in governments and
laws, the enslaving of peoples, the chasing forth of tyrants--all that
to the generality seems important, was to him as a whirl of dust to a
wayfarer on a high road. With equal indifference he fortified the Castle
of Milan for the French king against the Lombards, as once he had
fortified it for the Duke of Lombardy against the French.
Trivulzio, the ambitious general, was intriguing against Massimiliano,
and Leonardo saw the fate of the father, Il Moro, threatening Il
Moretto. Wearied by these monotonous and arbitrary political changes,
sickened by the manufacture of triumphal arches and the mending of the
wings of the trumpery angels, he determined to leave Milan and pass into
the service of the Medici.
In Rome, however--for Giovanni de Medici, having become pope, with the
style of Leo X., had nominated his brother Giuliano as Gonfaloniere of
the Holy Church. He had already gone to Rome, and it was arranged that
Leonardo should join him in the autumn. He was to be both painter and
'alchemist' in Giuliano's service.
* * * * *
On the morrow of the day when the hundred and thirty-nine witches had
been burned in the Piazza del Broletto, the monks of San Francesco had
found Giovanni Boltraffio stretched senseless on the floor of Fra
Benedetto's cell. Clearly he was suffering, as he had suffered fifteen
years earlier, after having heard the tale of Savonarola's martyrdom. On
this second occasion his recovery was rapid; nevertheless there were
times when his unspeculative eye, his strangely impassive face inspired
Leonardo with greater fear than during his long illness of years ago.
However that might be, on the 23rd of September 1513 Leonardo rode out
of Milan for Rome to join his new patron Giuliano, with Francesco Melzi,
Salaino, Cesare, Astro, and Giovanni.