A Portrait In Shadow, page 13
Artemisia huffed, arms crossed, as she examined the rows of small tins. “Then go to a doctor,” she said. “There’s nothing you can’t get from them or from me. These things don’t work.”
“Have you bothered to try them?” a woman asked from behind them.
Artemisia turned, and her cheeks—which always betrayed her—flushed red. The stall’s keeper was a woman around a decade older than Artemisia. Her skin was tanned from time in the sun, with fine wrinkles lining her forehead like bent grass in a windswept field. She had dark hair and dark eyes, and was glaring at Artemisia.
“So, you’re a painter?” the woman asked, confirming that she had been listening to their conversation.
“I am,” Artemisia said, lifting her chin. “I’ve been training with healing magics since I was a little girl.”
The woman scoffed. “So have I.” She lifted a tin from the table and removed the lid, letting the waft of lavender fill the stall. “These medicines I make heal more than some painting produced every three years.”
Artemisia hummed skeptically.
“Your friend clearly trusts in my work,” she said, gesturing at Galileo. “He’s been here before.”
He nodded. “Your wares are the best in the city. Artemisia, you know I’ve studied bodies and magics, and the ways we have tried to heal ourselves since the beginning of time. Paintings are the most powerful, but the most unfocused and the least urgent. The energy you lay into a canvas must be a well that can be tapped for months, if not years. A doctor at a hospital might use laudanum to ease a patient’s suffering, or bloodletting to reduce a fever. But for the everyday aches, these mixtures help the body do what it wants to do naturally.” He reached forward and brushed a finger in the salve the woman was holding. He rubbed it into his hand and sniffed carefully. “Beeswax. Did you know that beeswax, like honey, never spoils? It’s one of the few eternal compositions in nature. Even San Leonardo used beeswax in his experiments to create smoother oil paints.”
Artemisia peered around the stall. The tins did not look impressive. “I suppose,” she said, unconvinced.
The woman put the lid back on the salve and set it down. “You think my work is less than yours?” she asked. “I would rather find small natural remedies for common ills than sell pieces of my soul to the highest bidder. Not all healing has to come at a cost.”
Artemisia stared at her, taken aback. She opened her mouth, but then closed it.
The woman was right, in essence. Since she had been young, a toddler wandering around her father’s studio, Artemisia had been taught that art was the process of tapping into one’s soul and pouring it into a creation. That creation was then sold to the Church or another patron, giving the artist an audience and the money to survive another day.
Even so, it was the work of saints. It was the most noble calling in the world—Artemisia was doing something important.
She tried not to think of the pile of discarded paintings growing on the floor beside Silvestrini’s bed.
“Doesn’t every job take some part of one’s soul?” Artemisia challenged. “A man in the fields sacrifices his body. Even you’ve sacrificed your time for this.”
“Yes, but artists die young,” the woman reminded her, unknowingly quoting Artemisia’s own father. “They siphon their energies into their work, and feed the elite with their lifeblood.”
Galileo was unusually quiet. She wondered if he was waiting for her response, or if he agreed with the shopkeeper and did not want to say.
“Would you say that of San Donatello?” Artemisia asked, pointing at the red behemoth of Santa Maria del Fiore that loomed over Florentine life. “He didn’t sell his soul for profit. He saved hundreds of lives.”
“Allora,” the woman prevaricated, waving her hand. “There are some exceptions. But most is hoarded by those who can afford it, at the cost of the artists—and the people who really need the help. Why should popes live to be one-hundred-and-thirty when there are children dying in villages all throughout Catholic lands? Every famous artist is well-known because they valued their legacy above healing the sick.”
The blow hit. Healing was inextricable from art, but it had never been Artemisia’s focus. She was no doctor, no selfless martyr—she wanted her skills to be admired, not tucked away in some forgotten town. She flung up her hands. “If you acknowledge that art is so draining, that it takes such a toll on the artist’s life, how can you expect us all to donate our work to every person in the world, and starve before we can even run out of magics?”
The healer merely shrugged. “I never claimed to have all the answers.”
Artemisia huffed and looked at Galileo, pointing at the woman. “You see?”
Galileo shrugged. “You both have a point.”
She narrowed her eyes at him. “You, Galileo, the man who jumps at the opportunity to debate in any forum, says we both have a point?” she asked. “Are you finally learning how to take the middle ground?”
He chuckled. “Artemisia, you know that I value your work. I’ve been studying the mechanics of art the same way I’ve studied the sun and the tides. I know the work you’ve put into building a career, and creating masterpieces of technical skill and creative integrity. But it does sadden me, at times, to know that you are devoting your life to such a select group of patrons, who do not fully appreciate you. And knowing that,” he added, turning to the healer, “I know that painting is not the only source of healing. During the Grave Age, there were more than a hundred years where all art was done secretly, and only alternative healing was acceptable. But there was a reason for the renaissance. Artists save lives, and they fight for humanity. San Donatello, to use Artemisia’s example, died creating his statue. It is too much for any artist to heal the world. But they do what they can, the same as you.”
The woman looked away. “Allora. I do not envy the artists’ job,” she said, and though neither tone nor word implied it, Artemisia thought it was a shade of an apology.
Artemisia glanced around the stall again. “My hands… ache sometimes,” she said finally. “Do you have something you would suggest I try?” The words stuck in her throat, plucked out like comb from honey, but both of her companions seemed pleased by the effort.
The woman glanced down at Artemisia’s hands, which twisted under the scrutiny, and then she decisively plucked a small tin from the table. She handed it over, nudging the lid aside and gesturing for Artemisia to smell the contents. Overwhelming, the scent was of mint, though she could also detect hints of the beeswax Galileo had mentioned, along with elderberry. “Rub this into your hands at night,” the woman said, “and then tell me that there is no power in nature.”
Artemisia and Galileo paid for their respective salves. The baiocci clanged in the woman’s apron, and she nodded to them both. Before they could leave, she added to Artemisia, “If you ever decide you want to discover healing without sacrificing yourself upon its altar, come find me.”
* * *
“I’ve never been called an angel before,” Maurizio commented, settling into the pose she had instructed. Her current commission—one of her rare requests for a male subject—was of the archangel Michael defeating Satan. Many artists portrayed Michael with delicate features, as though he were a pampered prince taking his afternoon riposo. The leader of God’s army usually looked as though he wouldn’t be out of place at one of the Medici’s salons.
Instead, Artemisia had called upon Maurizio to pose. From his work in the summer orchards, Maurizio was built with broad shoulders and thick legs, like someone who could hold his ground and grapple in the heavens against Satan.
Used to her demands, Maurizio was posing against the back wall of her studio with robes draped over his body and a prop stick in one hand. He no longer bothered to pretend to resist the various outfits she laid out for him. During winter, she provided a source of income, and after she’d shown him the result of their first finished painting together, he had decided that he enjoyed being immortalized in her style.
The Accademia still would not allow her into the anatomical theater, and she had found she learned more studying Maurizio than in their other workshops with less chance of encountering that scum Lamberti. She would train herself if they would not.
“Bend your right elbow in, and tilt your head down a bit,” Artemisia instructed. “Would you rather I cast you as Satan?” she added dryly.
“It might be more fitting.”
She laughed. “I tend to imagine Satan as a bit prettier. No offense.”
“None taken. So, to you, Michael looks like me, and Satan looks like a prince,” Maurizio said.
“Satan is silver-tongued and arrogant. Michael is the head of an army. Which do you think owns more mirrors?” He chuckled, tilting his head to acknowledge her point. “It doesn’t matter for this piece; I’m making Satan a snake.”
“So I guessed,” Maurizio said, shrugging his shoulders slightly to indicate his posture. She had him half-crouching, as though about to strike the ground with what would become a flaming sword on the canvas. “Besides, I can’t imagine you finding a second model.”
Artemisia frowned, sketching Maurizio’s outline in broad strokes. Were her financial woes so obvious? She still struggled to pay for her supplies and rent, but she was a breath away from finishing her commission for Madama Cristina. It would be her most public piece to date, bringing her fame that a half-dozen pieces for Silvestrini could not offer. “I would hire someone else if needed,” she said finally.
“But you’d avoid it as long as you could. You wouldn’t trust anyone else in your studio,” he said.
“You think highly of yourself.”
“You know, this would all be easier if you got a husband.”
It would. She could have hired studio assistants and models with no fear for her reputation. Gori would not barge into her studio if there were another man present. All she would have to do was sacrifice the independence she had fought for with blood and pain. “And your life would be easier if you got a wife.”
“I’m not picking a fight,” he said. “My life would be far worse with a wife. What I am, it’s an open secret. These things usually are. Half the men in this city have had encounters with other men—if not more. For some of them, it’s simply what’s available. Women are not permitted to have sex outside of marriage. Men are. It doesn’t take a genius to see the numbers don’t match. It’s mostly accepted, but the government would prefer for everyone to have sex that creates new citizens.”
“Has the Office of the Night caused problems for you?”
The Office of the Night, the judicial panel exclusively dedicated to pursuing charges of sodomy, was more perfunctory than malicious. After the first plague, the city’s population had been forced to fight to revitalize, and those not pursuing marriage were seen as not doing their part. With the addition of priests like Caccini who wed themselves to the Bible’s most intolerant laws, Florence had been coerced into action.
“It’s not the Office of the Night that causes the most trouble. They are just doing their jobs. They know that if they sentenced every sodomite in the city, half the workers would be locked up. They hand out fines and then look the other way. It’s more difficult for those of us in my neighborhood than the rich folk, but we survive. The real trouble is the religious fanatics, the hypocrites who want us burned at the stake. They’re not the authority anymore. The Grand Duke is strict, but not unreasonable. But men’s minds change. If enough people die in the next plague, the consequences may grow stricter. Dear Cosimo doesn’t want to rule an empty city.
“You said you saw some of our lovely ladies of the night on your way to find me in Santa Croce. Do you know why this upstanding city has municipal brothels? They know people will find ways to have sex, and prostitution is a sin, but a lesser one than sodomy. It’s one they can use.”
She frowned. “It’s only fines now, but what if they start sending people down to the burelle?” After her trial in Rome, the threat of the dungeons under Florence made Artemisia’s stomach twist with fear. “Is there a way for you to hide from them?”
He shrugged, nearly upsetting the gold cloth draped around his neck. “Of course I could hide. I’ve known men who go their whole lives never acting on their desires. But that seems to me like picking between two miseries. If you could dress as a man to get more work, would you?”
Artemisia considered that, rolling its sour taste on her tongue like a wine. “No. I’d rather fail as who I am than succeed with a mask.”
He nodded. “You understand. Though I believe you’re living a more hidden life than I. When we met, I assumed you couldn’t find a husband, but I know that’s not it. You have money, and you’re not unattractive.”
“As though you would know.”
“I prefer men, but I have eyes,” Maurizio pointed out.
“My father wanted to arrange a marriage for me when I came to Florence,” Artemisia admitted. “Some mediocre artist with no skill or personality to speak of. He thought that I needed a husband to navigate the new city—and to fight back against the rumors from Rome.” Like the ones brought to eager ears by Paul Bril.
“The ones you won’t tell me about.”
“Those,” she said. “Look, I would rather be struggling to pay my rent than having a husband I hate in my bed.”
“It seems to me that you don’t want any man at all in your bed,” Maurizio said. “I’ve known you for half a year and I’ve never known you to take a lover.”
“I’m too busy for lovers.” The thought turned her stomach, making anxiety creep up her throat.
“The other artists in the city seem to have them,” he pointed out. “Most of them seem to be on my side of things, but there are men who would understand your passion. Women, too.”
“I don’t want anyone in my bed,” Artemisia snapped. “I’d burn my bed in the forest if I could rid myself of the need for sleep.”
“It looks as though you’ve already done that,” he said gently. When she frowned, he pointed at her face before taking up the pose again. “You look exhausted, Artemisia. You’ve lost weight. I’m sure you haven’t been sleeping. You’re wasting away in front of me.”
How exhausted must she have looked for her gruff model to worry? Still, the drain from her necrotic work would be worth it in the end when she succeeded. Her body was a vessel for her art, and nothing more. If it could not keep up with the demand, she did not have time to coddle it. There was justice to be dealt.
“I’m still here,” she said. “And I’ll stay here as long as I keep doing the work.”
“The work is what’s draining you. Your hands have been trembling all day.”
She looked down. They were shaking, fiercely grasping her notebook and charcoal. The ache in her fingers was a constant companion, but the tremor had gotten worse lately. She had not yet opened the salve she had bought with Galileo in the market. To do so would feel like admitting defeat. She needed to push her way through.
She gritted her teeth and forced the charcoal against the page. When her hands stilled, it sent the tremor up her arm and into her head. She felt as though she were a bell ringing over the city, the clang rattling in the shell of her body. “I’ll be fine,” she said.
“So you say,” he said, and quieted so she could finish her sketch.
10
Events, dinners, and meetings were held nearly every night of the week at the Palazzo Pitti. Often, the Medici put the city’s prime talents in the room with ambassadors from abroad. Recently, Artemisia had shown her sketches over dessert and snared a new patron from Alexandria. Other nights, the Grand Duke hosted philosophers from across the continent to debate for everyone’s entertainment. It was always a lavish affair, a silk and gold waterfall that draped the city’s influencers in the Medici’s favor.
Tonight was the first time Artemisia was the star.
Certain artwork was forced to remain secret as a side-effect of its magics. Untargeted paintings and statues were usually kept behind locked doors until the magics were fully drained by the clients. However, since Artemisia had collected strands from Madama Cristina and pressed them into the last few layers of paint, only Madama Cristina would feel its soothing effects. For the next year—or even longer, considering how much energy Artemisia had successfully infused—Madama Cristina would sleep easily, even if the painting hung publicly in their gallery.
The effects, in truth, had started the week before, as Madama Cristina had confided to her before the party began. It was Artemisia’s intent that created the magics, and her intent that declared them ready. Once she painted on the final layer of varnish and sat to write the letter informing Madama Cristina, the magics were released. As with all art, it was a matter of will and purpose. From the kiss the Medici matron had pressed to her cheek when she had arrived, Artemisia knew the painting was successful. Like a farmer, she had spent months toiling before she could enjoy the fruit, but this success could change her fortunes.
With this success, she felt alive in a way she hadn’t since learning of Tassi’s freedom.
Madama Cristina had suggested the public unveiling. The Medici took any excuse to throw a party. Wine filled every glass around the gallery, as free and lush as Artemisia’s pleasure. Liveried servants carried trays of raw oysters, fried artichoke hearts, and pickled vegetables each speared with a small gold toothpick.
The room bustled with the Medici’s favorite politicians, artists, and merchants, milling around and enjoying the party. Tonight, they were gathered to celebrate Artemisia, making her truly part of the Medici’s collection of favored artists. Once everyone was pleasantly tipsy, Madama Cristina gathered the crowd and called Artemisia to the front. Every eye was on her, but instead of the usual scalding unease, she simply felt a swell of pride as Madama Cristina thanked her formally for the painting. When she pulled aside the cloth to reveal the shadowed figure of Artemis crouched in a wood with her hounds teeming at her feet, murmurs of appreciation rippled through the room.
