Da Vinci's Disciples

Chapter 4

“Gathering Clouds”

“Gathering Clouds”Time rules all; it does not discriminate nor exalt. They could not run from it, though they did try to hide.

Time rules all; it does not discriminate nor exalt. They could not run from it, though they did try to hide.The six women hung their voluminous smocks upon the wall pegs by the locked door. In a dance choreographed by frequency and none other, they formed a circle, each facing the back of the one before them. Then, at once and together they turned, now perusing the woman on the other side with the same intense and critical eye. They turned again, facing each other in pairs now, partners in the dance, and examined more. With eyes trained and strained for the very purpose, they scoured each other’s clothing—every inch of gown and overgown, in every slashed sleeve and every partlet covered bodice—searching for the smallest of damning evidence. A strand of a feather brush, a smudge of charcoal, a splotch of paint.

The six women hung their voluminous smocks upon the wall pegs by the locked door. In a dance choreographed by frequency and none other, they formed a circle, each facing the back of the one before them. Then, at once and together they turned, now perusing the woman on the other side with the same intense and critical eye. They turned again, facing each other in pairs now, partners in the dance, and examined more. With eyes trained and strained for the very purpose, they scoured each other’s clothing—every inch of gown and overgown, in every slashed sleeve and every partlet covered bodice—searching for the smallest of damning evidence. A strand of a feather brush, a smudge of charcoal, a splotch of paint.For these women, for this secret group, to be caught with even the slightest bit of incrimination upon their person could be the very worst thing in the world to happen.

For these women, for this secret group, to be caught with even the slightest bit of incrimination upon their person could be the very worst thing in the world to happen.It could be.

It could be.Viviana longed to tell him to go to hell, but she dared not; the words were there, hanging on the curves of her lips and the hate in her heart, but she had only ever imagined herself saying them.

“Is there nothing I can do to change your mind and accompany me?” she asked instead.

She saw the lump of him—shriveled under the coverlet of their bed—in the reflection of the mottled looking glass in front of her. Even in half-sleep, the face peeking out of the linens was a scrunched and folded mask of discontent.

“It is a great honor to attend Mass at the Duomo, as the guest of such a well-positioned family, and on such a momentous occasion. We should be enormously grateful to Conte Maffei for the invitation,” she cajoled still, hopeful yet, hating the thin tone of pleading in her voice as she tucked a stray chestnut curl back into the russet caul posed on the back of her head. “It was so kind of the Contessa to ask, given our casual acquaintance.”

Though not as casual as Orfeo thought, in their studio, as well as in society, the two women existed on the outskirts of each other’s lives. Fiammetta’s rank towered far above her own. Today was merely charity from a woman who liked to appear charitable. Viviana knew it but brushed the truth of it away, feeling nothing more than grateful for such an opportunity.

A quick glance at her attire and a stab of insecurity jabbed her, at the minuteness of the diamond chips trimming the straight neckline of her evergreen gown, the slightly worn look of the thin lace partlet above it, the smallness of the brooch hanging from the plain headband encircling her plucked brow. Sumptuary laws or no, one’s appearance reflected one’s stature and she feared hers was the truth of it, a portrait of a low-ranking noblewoman whose family’s wealth had been squandered by a lazy spouse. She was mollified, somewhat, as she donned the newly made gamurra, that the sleeveless overgown of gold and the same emerald green as her gown gave her at least the aura of fashionable flair.

,gamurra, With one blue eye upon her husband, Viviana del Marrone scurried one finger in her jewelry box, looking for the necklace. She found it quickly, for there was far less in the carved mahogany chest than there used to be. Viviana lifted her chin an inch higher as she dropped the long, Y-shaped necklace upon her bosom, a gift from her sons, young men who spoiled their mother with keen relish. It sat well upon her, beside the chain and its key pendant, that which never came off her neck.

Viviana turned and faced her husband though his head remained upon the pillow, his heavy-lidded eyes still closed. Her stabbing stare of envy was keen.

How dare you squander such freedom? Her mind chewed upon the familiar thought. Were I blessed with the freedom of a man, the paint brush I dare to hold would never leave my hand.

How dare you squander such freedom? Were I blessed with the freedom of a man, the paint brush I dare to hold would never leave my hand.She shrugged slim shoulders, brushing away her frequent companion of dissatisfaction.

“Fiammetta assured me that not only will the Medicis be there, but many other fine dignitaries as well. It was quite the impressive crowd arriving with the Cardinal of San Giorgio and the Archbishop of Pisa, was it not? And we will stand at the very front alongside them, far more forward than we would ever…,” she cloaked her words with a cough, hearing them as his easily perturbed ego would. With a light step of trepidation, Viviana moved toward the bed. “Many will envy our very privileged position. It would be a most opportune occasion to pay our respects.”

Orfeo spun round, slapped the feather ticking below him with both hands, and thrashed up.

Viviana stumbled back; her words having finally wrought a reaction, but not one she desired.

“What use have I of dignitaries, of the Medici…” Orfeo snarled, a repugnant sight. Dark-skinned face a contortion of splenetic temper. The few strands of hair left upon his head a tangled, stuck-out mess. The revealed bare torso—saggy flesh and protruding belly—quavering with his anger. “Upon their whims, they have cast me from their favor. No amount of supplication will change that. You know it!”

He stabbed the air with a stubby finger as if he stabbed her with his misplaced blame.

“How dare you toss it in my face?”

“I only thought you might try—”

“You thought,” Orfeo snarled. “You think nothing, and do not try, for you might hurt yourself.”

Orfeo flung himself back down on the bed and snapped the linens once more about the small bunch of his curled body.

“I am done. They will not let me back in the fold.” It was the mewling of a pathetic animal tainted by venomous rage.

Viviana turned to her dressing table once more, ignoring the shake of her hand as she retrieved the small, embellished drawstring purse.

If you are done, she thought as she tied the delicate emerald silk pouch to the pale pink satin band high upon her waist, it is only because you have given up, yet again.

If you are doneit is only because you have given up, yet again.Without another word or glance back, Viviana left her stewing husband to wallow in his silent discontent.