Da Vinci's Cat Read online

  Dedication

  To Virginia

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Part I: Then

  Chapter 1: The Visitor

  Chapter 2: Interesting Information

  Chapter 3: Candy, and a Friend

  Chapter 4: Rumors of da Vinci and Thieves

  Chapter 5: A Satisfying Trade

  Chapter 6: Federico Visits a Madman

  Chapter 7: A Difficult Journey

  Chapter 8: A Guest of His Holiness

  Part II: Now, and Then

  Chapter 9: Bee of Brooklyn

  Chapter 10: Miss Bother’s Friend

  Chapter 11: The Sign

  Chapter 12: You’ll Make Everything Better

  Chapter 13: Alone in the House

  Chapter 14: The Office

  Chapter 15: One Very Sloppy Page

  Chapter 16: A Plan

  Part III: Plans Fail

  Chapter 17: Fred

  Chapter 18: Bedside View

  Chapter 19: The New Servant

  Chapter 20: Heavily Guarded

  Chapter 21: The Deal

  Chapter 22: Tidbits

  Chapter 23: Troubling Reports

  Chapter 24: A Different World

  Part IV: The Untangling

  Chapter 25: An Hour’s Head Start

  Chapter 26: Everything Is Worse

  Chapter 27: The Ride

  Chapter 28: The Climb

  Chapter 29: Every Gesture Matters

  Chapter 30: The Peacock and the Hangman

  Chapter 31: A Beginning and an End

  Chapter 32: The Auction

  Author’s Note

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Part I

  Then

  Chapter 1

  The Visitor

  Federico leaped to his feet, reaching for his knife though he was still half asleep. “Papa!” he shouted. “Alarms!” A face loomed at him out of the darkness. But Federico had no knife at his waist—not even a belt—

  Oh. Oh. He exhaled, lowering his arms in relief. That face was not an enemy but only an antique statue, a gift from his mother. She lived far to the north with Papa and Federico’s sisters, in a castle with five hundred rooms. Federico, however, had dwelled this past year in Rome, in a villa that served as his prison.

  Again alarms blared—no, not alarms but trumpets, announcing the next course of a banquet. Laughter drifted through the window, and the scents of mustard sauce, mutton, onions, spicy oysters, fish roasted with citrus. . . . Musicians tootled and twanged. Between the slats of the shutter, Federico could see a courtyard graced with tall marble sculptures and slim cypress trees, and a table crowded with diners. Even now a jester backflipped along the tabletop, flicking the candles with his toes.

  Federico himself should be out there with the other guests, hooting at the jester’s antics. But this afternoon he’d gone to bed with a headache. Now the trumpets had startled him awake, his headache replaced by irritation and no small amount of hunger.

  He could, he supposed, slink down and join the meal. But a gentleman did not slink. A gentleman made an entrance at the proper moment, to the approval of the crowd. To show up like a fretful child after a nap? Besides, he wasn’t a child. He had eleven years. He was almost a man.

  Glumly Federico studied the scene: the flickering candelabras, the glint of crystal and silver, the bowls of perfumed water and floating petals. Gems twinkled on the guests’ fingers, on their caps, in their hair. Once more the trumpets sounded as footmen carried in a platter with a roasted boar’s head coated in gold.

  The sight of the boar doubled Federico’s hunger—the cherry sauce smelled so good! He must eat. But what? Not his elegant silk bedspread, or the portrait of his father in shining black armor, or his schoolbooks and pens and ink . . . The travel chest might contain something. It was nearly the size of a coffin, meant to hold all the items needed for a long stay such as his.

  Federico dug through the layers, careful not to snag his rings. There: a pot of sugared almonds. They only took the edge off his appetite. He frowned as he swabbed out the last of the sugar. At home, he could sneak to the kitchens for candied lemons or spiced bonbons in syrup. But no chef in Rome would make the effort to preserve such luxuries for him.

  Federico sighed, belly rumbling. He wanted something sweet! Fruit, even. Grapes, or figs—

  Figs. But of course. This very morning he’d seen a platter of figs in the pope’s new study. Federico had been sitting for hours as Master Raphael Sanzio painted his portrait onto the wall, and the figs were a nice interruption. He and Raphael had eaten several and left the rest on a windowsill.

  Again Federico’s belly growled, for a moment drowning out the snores of his governess in the next room. But the figs were all the way in the pope’s palace. Should he wander so late without servants or guards—without even waking Celeste?

  His stomach grumbled an answer: yes.

  Quickly Federico pulled on silk breeches and hose. They did not match but no one would see him. He strapped on a knife belt and tied a cloak round his shoulders, for a gentleman without a cloak might as well be naked. Setting a cap on his blond curls, he took up the lantern that Celeste kept burning just in case and tiptoed out the door. Federico might be a hostage, kept in Rome to guarantee his family’s loyalty to His Holiness, Pope Julius II. But that did not mean he was trapped in his room.

  The villa in which Federico resided sat on a high breezy hill, almost a quarter mile from the pope’s palace. His Holiness had recently decided to link the two buildings with a long corridor in order to impress his guests. This corridor was still very much under construction, however, and few but Federico used it. Workmen stored planking there, and unwanted furniture. At this hour the moon gaped through the half-built roof. Federico’s lantern made eerie shadows out of ladders and stacks of tiles and a man hulking by the wall—

  Federico jumped back, heart pounding. It wasn’t a man! Just a large wooden box. Thank heavens his sisters weren’t here, for they would have been frightened. But not him.

  Still, he averted his eyes as he crept past the box.

  At last he reached the end of the corridor and the heavy door to the palace. The pope’s palace, too, was under construction, every room and hallway requiring some new decoration or shape. Federico had to sidestep boxes of tools and tubs of quicklime as he made his way to the pope’s new study. He reached for the door—and sniffed. Unwashed feet, dirty clothes, greasy hair . . . He knew those smells. “Master?” he called, wrinkling his nose. “Michelangelo?”

  The study door burst open. “Who is it?” Michelangelo glared down, fists clenched. “Hmph. Federico. What do you want?”

  What a strange creature Michelangelo Buonarroti was. The greatest sculptor in the world, more talented than even the Ancients—but his pride drove away admirers and his misery drove away friends. Years of looking up to paint the Sistine Chapel ceiling had left his neck permanently crooked. Long ago he’d had his nose broken for bragging, and his father had warned him never to bathe. Michelangelo wasn’t handsome to begin with, but with his mangled face and his stink . . .

  “Good evening, Master.” Federico bowed, breathing through his mouth. Why was Michelangelo here? “I’ve come to . . . admire my portrait.” That sounded more respectable than admitting to hunger—hunger was what poor people felt. He slipped past Michelangelo into the study. Sheets covered the bookcases and the floor; rough platforms allowed painters to reach upper walls. There, on the windowsill: the platter. “Ah. Figs.” He held the platter out. “Would you like some?”

  Michelangelo
waved the fruit away. “Your portrait?” he scoffed. “Portraits aren’t art.”

  “Sometimes they are.” Federico’s eyes went to a handsome blond boy above the door—one small painted figure tucked into a scene of fifty-odd philosophers. Such a joy it is to include you, Raphael had said as he applied the finishing touches. You look wise beyond your years.

  Michelangelo glared at the crowded wall. “Everything that peacock knows, I taught him.” Peacock was Michelangelo’s name for Raphael, to mock Raphael’s fine clothes.

  Federico almost choked on a fig. “I didn’t know Master Raphael was your student.”

  “I didn’t say he was my student. I’d never allow such a thing. He simply takes. Like a hole in a bucket draining me empty. Like a leech sucking out blood.”

  “Ah.” Federico lowered the platter. Now he felt queasy.

  Michelangelo scowled at an image of philosopher Pythagorus displaying his theory of harmony. “What do you and Raphael talk about? Do you two talk about me?” Though only six and thirty, the artist’s face held lines of misery. He reeked of sweat and old boots.

  Federico risked another fig. “Mostly we talk about His Holiness. Raphael likes to hear about him throwing the backgammon table.” Federico played backgammon with the pope, and often won.

  “The peacock is desperate to see the Sistine Chapel, you know. But I’ll never allow it.” Michelangelo glowered at the wall, the figures so perfect that they were almost breathing. “Hmph.” Away he stomped, trailing stink.

  Well. That was interesting, Federico thought as he headed back to the villa. What was Michelangelo doing in the pope’s study in the middle of the night? The palace decorations were Raphael’s assignment, nothing to do with him. Federico gasped as the truth hit him: Michelangelo had been spying! The great master, secretly studying young Raphael. What a delicious bit of gossip.

  But whom could Federico tell? Celeste talked so much that she had no time to listen. The few children in the palace worked as pages or cook’s boys, far below his rank; a duke’s son did not socialize with commoners. The footmen—his tailor—the jester? The cupids painted on his ceiling? No. Though Federico knew many souls in Rome, he had no one to call a friend.

  He pondered this sad truth, gloomily chewing the last fig, as he trekked down the corridor. Somewhere in the distance the church of Saint Mary Major rang midnight, the mournful sound matching his mood. Gravel scratched beneath his slippers; his lantern barely dented the black. The stars watched him coldly. How he wished for the company of his little sisters. How he wished to be home. Not for the first time, he thought about running away. Such a crime, however, would bring his whole family shame. No, he must remain captive in Rome until His Holiness saw fit to release him—

  “Mrow.”

  What was that? Federico spun, drawing his knife. Pearly moonbeams pierced the darkness, lighting pyramids of floor tile and stacks of planks and the tall wooden box by the wall. . . . He frowned. What was that box doing here, anyway? It must have arrived this afternoon, during his nap.

  Screwing up his courage, Federico eased closer, knife in hand. The box—some kind of closet—was a fine piece, to be sure, with gems set into smooth walnut wood. Someone had paid well for the carpentry.

  A scratching, faint but insistent, from beyond the closet door.

  Federico leaped back, his mouth dry. “B-begone—”

  More scratching. Federico would give half his country for a friend right now.

  “Mrow. . . .”

  “Oh, heavens.” It was only a cat, trapped in this fancy carved closet. With a snort of relief, Federico sheathed his knife. “Come out,” he called, lifting the latch.

  A kitten thrust its way out, tail quivering. “Mrow?” A kitten as tawny as a lion, with black-tipped ears. He scooped her up, and she purred in his hands. Her amber eyes, lined in black like the kohl-rimmed eyes of Egyptians, shone in the lantern light. Her kitten teeth were no thicker than needles. “Mrow?”

  “Greetings.” Federico bowed. “I am Sir Federico Gonzaga, son of Duke Francesco II of Mantua and Lady Isabella d’Este of Ferrara.”

  “Mrow.” The kitten reached out a paw as soft as a kiss to tap his nose, and wiggled to be free.

  “Certainly, my lady. I would not detain you.” Federico set her down, and she bounced across the floor, rolling like a jester—a far better jester than the one at the banquet! He laughed, clapping. He could spend the rest of his life watching this.

  Abruptly she stopped to lick a paw as if to say Me, tumble? Never!

  She spotted a bit of feather and crouched, creeping toward it. She sprang—

  “Captured!” exclaimed Federico. “Oh, you are too clever.”

  She scrambled down the corridor with the determination of a tiny racehorse and careened back, bouncing off his ankles. “Mrow,” she boasted, her whole body purring.

  “A proper sprinter you are.” Federico petted her. “Though we need to work on your turns.”

  The kitten pranced away—and suddenly her back arched, fur bristling, as she skittered on tiptoe toward him, hissing through her kitten teeth.

  “Oh, you are fierce. I’m quite frightened.” He hid behind his cloak, to demonstrate.

  She batted at the cloak’s hem, climbing his legs—

  “Ow!” He laughed, setting her down. “These hose are silk.”

  She wandered toward the closet, batting the door. “Mrow?”

  Federico jumped to open it. Sniffing the air, the kitten toddled in.

  He closed the door with a bow—“My lady”—and threw it open. “For you.”

  No kitten emerged.

  “Kitten?” He peered into the closet.

  Nothing there.

  Federico scrambled for the lantern. “Where are you?” He knelt, running his hands along the wood. He shone the lantern into the corners, onto the door with its gems. No kitten. Only strange symbols in black ebony and white holly wood.

  He stepped back, panic rising. “Kitten?” Somewhere in the distance people laughed and strummed, but in this corridor: only silence. Silence, and the tolling bells of Santo Spirito.

  A sob swelled in Federico’s chest. “Where are you?” He should smash this closet to bits! Shatter the gems with the butt of his knife, then stomp on the fragments. Such strangeness wasn’t right. “Kitten?”

  The last notes of Santo Spirito faded to silence. The bells of Sant’Agostino began, and of Santa Rufina, for every church in Rome has its own version of midnight.

  Federico gulped lungfuls of air. Was this a dreadful prank? Witchcraft? Something evil. With great sadness he shut the closet door. “Goodbye, kitten.” It would be a long walk indeed to the villa. The lantern hung from his hand like a hundred-pound weight. Never in his life had he felt so alone.

  “Mrow.”

  He dashed back—threw open the door—

  A cat sauntered out. A full-grown cat with a coat like a lion, her eyes lined in black. She gazed up at him. “Mrow?” she asked—but with a cat’s voice, not a squeak.

  “Kitten?” he whispered.

  The cat threaded through his legs, rubbing his calves with black-tipped ears.

  He gulped. “It’s you. But how . . . ?”

  “Mrow.” She ambled toward the closet, her amber eyes winking in the lantern light. No more kitten tumbling. “Mrow?” She batted the door.

  “No!” Federico snatched her up. “That thing’s too dangerous.” Clutching her to his chest, not caring who heard his footsteps, he ran as fast as he could back to his villa.

  Chapter 2

  Interesting Information

  Federico awoke the next day filled with heartbreak. How sad that he’d dreamed of a friendly cat just for him! He rolled over, burying his face in the pillow.

  “Mrow.”

  Federico’s eyes flew open. There, on the mattress beside him: the cat’s smiling face, and her warm purr. Suddenly all was right with the world.

  The cat spent the morning with him, curled at his elbow as he
sat at his desk scratching out a letter. This is what he managed:

  Dearest Mother. I continue in my lessons.

  I hope you are doing well and also my sisters.

  Master Raphael has finished my portrait. I have a cat.

  Your devoted son, Federico

  He wanted to describe Michelangelo’s strange midnight behavior and boast about beating the pope at backgammon. He very much wanted to tell his mother of the cat, how she had grown so quickly from a kitten, how she disappeared through a closet. . . . But he could not do any of these things because the letter was in Latin, and Latin for Federico was a toil.

  “Should I say, ‘I found you in the corridor at midnight’?” he asked.

  “Mrow.”

  “You’re right. Never mind.” He studied his father’s portrait above the desk—a scowling man with bobbed hair and round beard, his black armor trimmed in red. A great warrior. Federico would be a warrior, too, someday. Warriors didn’t need Latin.

  The cat rubbed his shoulder, purring. He smiled as he scratched the cat’s ears. A wonderful notion came to him: he should give her a gift to show his love. So after Latin lessons were finished, and fencing lessons with his Señor Pedro, he made his way across the palace grounds to the stables, seeking out the saddler. A saddler crafted all sorts of leather goods for all sorts of creatures. Federico would purchase a decoration suitable for the pet of a gentleman.

  With some caution, he approached the bench where the saddler worked, under an awning to protect him from the summer sun, the air thick with the scents of beeswax and leather and horses. Normally Federico avoided the saddler, who had a scarred cheek and constant sneer. Now, though, he steeled himself. “Excuse me, Master.”

  The saddler studied Federico as if the boy was a cowhide. “Yes, my lord?” The scar on his cheek tugged away his smile.

  “I—I require a collar for a—a cat. A nice one, if you please.”

  The saddler laid down the bridle he’d been splicing to rummage through his bench. So many tools for piercing and cutting! He held up a strap of red leather trimmed in pearls. “This, my lord?”