A Portrait In Shadow, page 31
Artemisia laughed. “People are blind to men’s sin. The standards are different for me.”
“Maybe they are,” Maurizio admitted, “but you have people on your side. Things will move on soon. I just wanted you to know.”
“I hope so,” Artemisia said.
* * *
Once Maurizio left, Artemisia climbed to the roof. She rarely went up during the day. The griffon tended to hunt with the sunlight and come back to sleep at night, so she didn’t expect it to be there, but she found it sitting by the chimney, staring out over the city.
The creature was striking in the light, with the sun glinting off the sable feathers of its head and neck. It stretched when it spotted her, bowing down over its front claws and pushing its sun-warmed rump into the sky. Its movements were languidly feline as it loped over to greet her.
It had grown substantially in the last eighteen months, its body finally matching its large back paws. Though still lanky with youth, it was less rawboned. It now stood tall enough that when it headbutted her in greeting, its forehead bumped into her chest. Its coat was healthy and shiny—her art kept it well nourished.
It was a sweltering day, the air still and heavy, but Artemisia felt cold. She sat on the narrow ledge at the peak of the roof, with the steep edge tumbling into space in front of her. The height did not scare her.
Caccini was out for her blood. His accusations were enormous. How would the city react? Galileo’s fall from grace had shown how quick even friends were to turn when the Church selected an enemy. If the most lauded natural philosopher in Europe was not immune to the whispers of heresy, what chance could she have?
The specter of her trial in Rome pressed down on her shoulders.
Her torture at the hands of the court had been brutal, but was only a standard part of questioning. The punishments for a guilty verdict of heresy were public and merciless. The rack was the least of the tortures they would subject her to before finally killing her. She had seen the bodies hanging from the windows of the Borgella, rotting in sight of those passing through the square below. The heads of those decapitated were often hung as well. Worse, for a crime as abhorrent as heresy, she could be burned alive.
She shuddered, imagining the flames licking her skin and the smoke flooding her lungs.
Perhaps Maurizio was right. Caccini enjoyed stirring trouble, grasping for relevance by attacking anyone he thought was vulnerable. She had never even met the man. His attention would move on soon. She had done no wrong.
The griffon sat beside her, watching her curiously. When she didn’t acknowledge it, wrapped in her own thoughts, it lay down and put its beak in her lap, closing its eyes.
Absently, she stroked its feathers. They were soft, and warm from the sun.
PART III
JUNE 2–OCTOBER 23, 1616
24
Any optimism Artemisia tried to cling to was quickly snuffed out over the next two weeks.
“I wanted to tell you in person,” sighed Signore Orlandi, folding his hands on the table. He was a patron she’d met through the Medici, a merchant who specialized in metalworking. They were sitting in the study of his large flat to the south of the Duomo. The servant who led her inside had avoided her gaze. Compared to her last visit there, when she’d been handed a hefty sack of silver scudi for her advance, the welcome was frigid.
“You’re canceling your commission,” Artemisia said, clutching the glass of wine she’d been given. Considering how much wine she’d been plied with during similar conversations over the last fortnight, it was a miracle she was ever sober.
Orlandi nodded. “I decided you should hear it from me.”
Artemisia’s smile felt sour. She had received a half-dozen letters since Caccini’s declaration of war, and a handful more personal invitations like this. She preferred the letters. If she didn’t have to force a smile, she could stomp and rage until her throat was sore. “I’ve been working on your painting for six months. Surely it’s not worth canceling. I can’t repay you for the stipend—I’ve spent it on the paints already.”
“I don’t need the money back,” he said. “I simply can no longer work with you. Caccini has a vendetta against you. He’s spent weeks dragging your name through the mud. I can’t go against him.”
“I didn’t know you were so pious,” she said with a naïve blink. “You attend Santa Maria Novella?”
“I’m between churches,” he admitted delicately, “but those who do attend Caccini’s church won’t do business with those of us still paying you. If they saw a piece by you in my gallery, I would lose my standing here. I’m sure you understand.”
“I’m the same painter I was when you hired me. I’m a member of the Accademia.”
“The Accademia’s word isn’t worth much now either. They don’t have strict enough rules as to who gets initiated. They encourage artists to make secular art instead of sacred art.” More of Caccini’s rantings. It was astonishing watching Caccini’s statements ripple across Florence, repeated as though they were new thoughts. No one in this city had a mind of their own.
“I was painting a biblical story for you,” Artemisia reminded him.
“Right, but…” Orlandi floundered. “Look, Caccini has the ear of the Medici, and they have the ear of the merchants. I’m not willing to stand against that.”
“The Medici were my first patrons in the city. They won’t condemn me.”
“So you say. I’m sorry, signorina. I’m not the man to make a stand.”
After she made it back to her studio, she found his half-completed canvas on its easel, depicting a shadowed Delilah holding a fistful of Samson’s hair. She had been adding a layer of magic and paint only the night before, and the oil still gleamed wetly in the morning light. The painting had been crafted for Orlandi, awaiting the addition of his hair to seal the bond. Even if she attempted to change course now, the work would not bind to a new owner. Art was a long process, and failed without consistency. Heart heavy, she gathered her iron and flint.
It caught fire beautifully.
Her breath caught as the magics welling inside the oil were released into the air and rushed back into her soul like filings launching toward a magnet. Incomplete and unmoored, her magics were freed from the tentative anchor of the painting. It was a shame that fire was the only way to dispel magics. It could have been a beautiful piece.
The bitter catharsis only lasted until the next morning, and the arrival of another cancelation. The news of Caccini’s attack would be rippling across Europe soon, and she was certain the letters would continue to arrive from even further afield.
How quickly the world was ready to turn on her again. More than two years building a life in Florence, and it only took one man’s accusations to topple her work like it had been built with splinters. Her hands already felt bloodied by the demolition.
* * *
When she arrived at the monastery of Cestello for the Accademia’s monthly meeting, she walked with a spine of iron. It was her first truly public appearance since Caccini had begun his attacks, and she was certain every eye would be on her. If they wanted weakness or fear to sip on like leeches, they would not find it.
Sigismondo greeted her as soon as she stepped in the door, making a quiet demonstration of welcoming her as usual. He kissed both her cheeks and murmured words of encouragement. Since the first day at the anatomical theater, he had stood by her side. Jacopo was not far behind, though his performance was less subtle. He had always enjoyed drama. He had brought her into Florence’s art world in a rapid whirlwind, and now swept back in as though he’d been by her side throughout, making sure the gathered artists knew she still had his support.
She was deeply heartened, though it was not entirely unexpected. Jacopo had been one of her father’s few friends to take her side against Tassi during the Roman trials, and that had been with her open admission of her ruination. In comparison, an antagonistic priest smearing her name now was hardly a barrier for him to crash through.
The surprise came from the rest of the Accademia. Though there were many that kept their distance from her, glaring from across the room and speaking in whispers to each other, most acknowledged her, taking her side. Despite Caccini’s slander, she was still one of them, just as she had fought to become.
“Terrible what that priest is saying,” an artist Artemisia had never spoken to said. “If all artists were expected to be saints, it wouldn’t be such a celebration when one was canonized, would it? I expect the preacher general will be handing you an apology soon. He did for Galileo, didn’t he?”
He had. And Galileo had still ended up on trial in Rome. Instead of dampening the moment, Artemisia simply nodded and let Jacopo sweep her forward.
Lamberti was one of the most obvious exceptions. He watched her with a vicious smugness that made her grind her teeth. He was working on the new fresco for Caccini’s church. She wouldn’t be surprised to learn he had painted the target on her back for his patron. She itched to yell at him, but she needed the Accademia’s sympathy.
Eventually, they settled into the seats for the meeting, but when the Accademia’s superintendent stood up to speak, the mood of the room darkened. “There are a few newly passed laws that we need to be aware of, for they will impact all of us greatly,” he said. “A new ruling has been passed on the export of paintings from Florence, both by Accademia members and non-member artists. The Church will now be in charge of approving all sales, led by Tomasso Caccini at Santa Maria Novella.”
“What?” Sigismondo hissed to Artemisia. “He can’t do that.”
“Why would the Grand Duke agree to that bullshit?” Artemisia asked. “Caccini wouldn’t understand art if someone shoved a brush through his eye.”
“Furthermore,” the superintendent continued, holding up his hands for quiet, “a law has been passed to regulate the work of artists. All initiated members of the Accademia will need to do work for the Church in equal measure to what they have been commissioned for by private citizens. Existing commissions with the Church will be paid in full, but future commissions will only be given a stipend to pay for supplies.”
The uproar across the chapel was even louder, rippling like thunder through the crowd.
“A stipend—”
“Do they understand how long it takes to—”
“Do they expect us all to starve while—”
More than one pair of eyes flicked to Artemisia accusingly.
“Why would the Medici agree to this?” Artemisia asked Sigismondo, pulse fluttering. “They commission half the art in this city. They can’t believe this is a good idea.”
“It doesn’t matter what they think. Look at what’s happening. They’re afraid Caccini will be the next Savonarola,” Sigismondo said. “They’ll be doing whatever they can to make sure that this time, the Medici aren’t kicked out of the city again.”
A famous prophet who had taken over Florence near the end of the Grave Age, Girolamo Savonarola had swayed the entire city with his words. His rise to power had been meteoric. Even after he had been put to death, there had been a cult around his name. Though his body had been burned to ensure there were no relics left to worship, there were still those who said his name with reverence. He had worked with the French to overthrow the Medici, and it had taken nearly one hundred years for the family to claw their way back to power.
“I’ve heard him speak—Caccini is no Savonarola,” Artemisia said. “He has no great mission. He’s only doing this because he wants control.” She shook her head. “And he’s using me as an excuse to do it. He’s been telling everyone for weeks that the Accademia was fooled into letting me in. He’s been undermining their authority since he got back to Florence. He couldn’t beat Galileo, so he’s turning on us.”
After answering a series of questions about the new laws, the superintendent reminded them of that weekend’s funeral for one of their recently passed members, and asked the gathering if anyone had additional issues to bring up at the end of the meeting.
Artemisia could feel eyes heavy upon her. They stung like gnats, and she gritted her teeth. The new laws would put pressure on them all, and it was clear that Caccini was behind the changes. He wanted her out of the Florentine art world, and would continue to attack the Accademia as long as they supported her. It would be a matter of a vote to kick her out.
Her patrons had been disassociating from her. Perhaps her entire career was about to die.
But no one spoke up. She was still one of them and, for now, that seemed to matter.
“I didn’t know that artist who died well,” Artemisia admitted to Sigismondo as they left the monastery. Her formal robes were heavy in the summer heat, worse now her skin was sticky and sensitive after sweating nervously throughout the meeting.
“He was young,” Sigismondo said. “I hate to hear it.”
“Art is draining for the best of us.” It would be her first funeral as part of the organization, though she had known some of her annual fee went toward the funerals of the members. Once someone joined the Accademia, it became their highest obligation and deepest affiliation—they would be interred in the artists’ chapel, rather than their family mausoleums or the potter’s field. “Maybe we’ll be lucky and Lamberti will be next.”
Sigismondo gasped. “Artemisia.”
“It’s true,” she said coolly, but he didn’t falter.
“Lamberti isn’t a monster simply because he doesn’t like you,” Sigismondo pointed out. Artemisia shot him a glare, and he shrugged. “It’s true. Even the worst men in history have had wives, children. Lamberti believes it when Caccini says that you’re a sinner and a whore because he believes that he’s neither of those things. Or he is, and he wants to think that you’re worse.”
“Sounds monstrous to me,” Artemisia said. “Men can do terrible things to people they think are below them.”
* * *
“Oh, Artemisia,” Galileo said as he sat at her kitchen table. He coughed hoarsely and rubbed his chest. He had only come into Florence from his house in the country that morning, but the travel and city air aggravated his lungs. “I’m grateful you could make the time to see me. I’ve been thinking of you often.”
“You’re always welcome when you’re in the city. I wish you could come more often. I expect the rumors have slithered their way out to you?”
“Of course,” he said. “I still have many friends in the city. Sigismondo dedicated an entire letter to the troubles. I was surprised I did not hear from you directly.”
She shrugged. “After you only just escaped Caccini’s ire yourself? I couldn’t ask for your help.”
He set his fist against the table. “If I had my way, I would redirect his arrows back to me to spare you from this. He is a master in spreading hatred. He’s like a poison, corrupting whatever he touches.” He shook his head. “I wish he had not discredited my opinion. I will argue for you as loudly as I can, but no one will truly believe that I fight for you rather than against him.”
“I appreciate that. You know as well as I do that being a revolutionary means shouldering a large target,” Artemisia said, tracing a line of woodgrain on the table. “I fear I will not fare as well as you did.”
Galileo nodded solemnly. “I can’t fault you for your nerves. You once told me that you had little faith in the court. I believed that the truth would always win. But though I may have escaped with my life from Rome, they buried the truth deep. There are those who don’t care about what is true.”
“What do I do?” she asked, voice trembling.
“Lies are louder, and there are an endless number of them. They can be deafening. I’ve seen the ways Caccini uses hate and fearmongering to obscure the truth. But what is the truth here? What does he want?”
“He left his post here to chase you to Rome, and then failed to have you condemned,” Artemisia said. “He must be looking to reestablish his name in Florence. With his gossip against me and the new laws he’s convinced the Medici to pass, everyone is talking about him again. The Accademia is furious about the new restrictions.”
Galileo tapped his fingers on the table. “He picked you for a reason. Why?”
“You did warn me he would go after an easier target once he found his footing in Florence again. Maybe I’m the Accademia’s weakest link.”
He scoffed. “Artemisia Gentileschi, an easy target? If he thinks that, he’s even more a fool than I thought. And I’ll tell you I’ve long thought him the worst kind of fool.”
“He must have been, to argue mathematics with you.” Her laugh felt scraped from her throat. Francesco was away traveling for work, and she had found little cause for laughter in the past weeks.
“You have achieved things thought impossible for a woman. You are one of the city’s most affluent and powerful artists, and the world knows your name. Not only that, but you have friends in many places. He should be careful choosing you as his enemy.”
She sighed. “I wish everyone had such faith in me.”
He smiled gently. “The most important person is yourself. You’ve stood on your own before. Don’t forget what you’ve been through to get here.”
* * *
Francesco had been traveling for the last month, ignoring the press of summer heat and venturing deep into the pulsing heart of Egypt. She had gotten letters from Alexandria and Cairo, and had imagined the scent of scorching sands and ancient monoliths still lingered on the paper.
At the end of his last letter, he had written, “Though I am far from your side, my heart is still with you. Remember me one thousandth as much as I remember you, and I am all yours.”
He had always had a way with words.
Her letters back had been short and sparse. With the growing tensions within Florence, it had felt as though writing any longer would break open the dam inside her, and she would not be able to stop her quill until the inkwell and her heart had been bled dry.
She addressed every letter to V.S., a shortening of the honorific vostra signoria. The formal address was quickly undermined in her writing, because even when she was so reticent about her life, her pen stroked out the words ‘my love’ as easily as breathing. She knew her phrasing was uncouth, but she tried to show him her heart.
