Da Vinci's Cat Read online

  Red and white were the Gonzaga colors! Federico bit his lip to keep from gasping—any display of interest would increase the cost. “Unless you’ve something better.”

  “Nothing so fine.” The saddler turned the strap so the pearls caught the light. “For you, my lord, I ask . . . three ducats.”

  This time Federico could not help his gasp. “I haven’t got three ducats.”

  But the collar was so soft. So perfect.

  The saddler eyed him sideways. “There is, my lord, one solution. Perhaps you damaged your jousting saddle. The repair will cost three ducats.”

  “But I’ve not damaged my saddle.” Federico looked puzzled. “Have I?”

  “Let us say you did. I write your mother’s secretary. He pays me.”

  “Ah,” said Federico, catching on. “And meanwhile, the collar would be mine.”

  “Precisely.” Again the saddler’s scar canceled his smile. “A gentleman gets others to pay his expenses.”

  How rude this man was. Federico should stomp away at the insult. But he very much wanted the collar. “See that it is done,” he said finally—one of his mother’s phrases. He pocketed the collar with his nose in the air, to teach the saddler a lesson. If only Federico had a friend to witness his cleverness. But such was his life in Rome.

  Back in his bedroom, Federico hurried to present the collar to the cat, who preened at the attention. Sporting this gorgeous new adornment, she kept Federico company throughout his classes in French and oration and dance and watched like an elegant statue as Celeste dressed him for the evening’s banquet.

  “Look at you,” the old woman declared, arranging a red and white cap on Federico’s head. “As fine as your papa.” She set his dress knife on his belt and a cloak lined in red silk across his shoulders.

  “Mrow,” the cat agreed, arching her neck to show off her own colors.

  Federico beamed at their compliments.

  “You do your family proud, my lord,” Celeste stated. “One has no greater purpose than family.”

  The banquet, hosted by a cardinal and his nephew in a palazzo across the river, went very well indeed. The cardinal gifted Federico a charming silver saltcellar and even gave him the honor of carving the swan. The noblemen’s wives, glittering with jewels, each told Federico how handsome he looked and how good he was to be the pope’s guest. None of them used the word hostage. Most importantly, Federico learned that the strange wooden box in the corridor had been a present to the pope from the King of France.

  He frowned, pondering. “Does the King of France have kittens?”

  “Kittens?” a countess laughed, pinching his cheek. “I should say not, you witty boy.”

  Federico returned to the villa with his belly aching from too many tarts and his cheeks afire from pinching. The cat sat up when he entered, her amber eyes blinking. “What were you doing in a closet from France?” he asked, petting her. A closet from a king—how he wanted to study it. “Shall we go on an adventure?”

  “Mrow,” the cat answered, her pearl collar glimmering. Of course, she seemed to be saying.

  And so, making sure Celeste was asleep, Federico set off with his pet, the moon so bright they did not need a lantern. The cat lounged in his embrace, watching the corridor’s shadows with bright eyes. The statues in the garden below glowed with unearthly pallor; they seemed almost to sway in the moonlight. Moonlight flowed through the windows and unfinished roof, lighting the closet with its pearly glow.

  The closet door did not hold gems, Federico could now see—how silly he’d been. Instead, eight glass balls were set in the wood, at the tips of an eight-pointed star. The balls glowed slightly in the light. Above the star ran symbols, or possibly letters from an alphabet he did not know. It took skill indeed to inlay wood so perfectly.

  Cautiously he opened the door. “Mrow!” the cat squeaked.

  “Sorry.” He’d been gripping her a bit tightly.

  The closet’s back wall, he now saw, held eight mirrors, set to catch the light from the balls. The back of the door contained a glass globe the size of an orange.

  He touched the globe. Sloshing water had been sealed within. Several times he closed and opened the door, puzzling at the globe’s strangeness, as the cat watched from his arms. The mirrors, he reckoned, reflected light from the balls into the water. But why would someone go to such effort to move light and catch it?

  “Why not use a lantern?” he asked the cat.

  “Mrow,” she yawned.

  He shut the door, frowning. It made no sense. Once again he eased it open. Inside the globe, water swirled.

  Midnight bells broke the silence. Jerking in surprise, the cat leaped from his grip.

  “Ow,” Federico exclaimed, and “Stop!” as she jumped into the closet. He lunged after her, trying to grab her—

  And then his fingers met cloth, and a leg, for a man was somehow stepping out of the closet into the corridor.

  Federico stumbled back with a yelp of surprise.

  “How you do?” the man asked in terrible Italian. He held a cat in his arms—Federico’s cat! “I am much happy to meet you.”

  Chapter 3

  Candy, and a Friend

  The stranger was dressed like no one Federico had ever seen. His head was bare and his breeches drooped to his ankles, yet he grinned at the world as if he owned it. “Listen to bells!” he cried happily. “They ring midnight.”

  “Where’s her collar?” Federico snapped, too angry now to be frightened. He pointed to the cat. “The red collar with pearls? It cost three ducats.”

  The man peered around the corridor. “Please to tell me, what is the date here?”

  “Why, the year of our Lord 1511,” Federico answered. What a ridiculous question. “Where’s her collar?” he repeated.

  The man grinned, petting the cat. “Look what you get me into, Juno.” He caught sight of Federico’s frown. “That is her name. Juno. The queen of gods.”

  “I know who Juno is,” Federico retorted. “I read Latin.”

  “This is a nice house you have.” How ill-mannered this man was! He spoke with the rudest of accents, he held the cat as if he owned her, and he didn’t even bow.

  “It is a palace,” Federico corrected. “The Vatican Palace. It belongs to His Holiness, the pope.”

  “Oh,” said the man. “You like I look around?”

  “No.” Federico could be ill mannered, too. An idea came to him, quite brilliant. “I mean, yes. Which is to say—come.” Flipping his cloak, he led the stranger up the corridor. He’d show this nobody the meaning of importance.

  “A lot of works are going on here,” the man observed of the buckets and ladders cluttering the palace.

  “Yes. His Holiness and I have many ideas.” Federico waited, but the man did not even comment. “Here, for example, is His Holiness’s new audience room.” Moonlight caught the shining eyes of newly finished figures, the illusion of columns and trees.

  The stranger’s jaw dropped. “The paintings of Raphael!” Setting down the cat, he dashed to an image of kneeling soldiers and leaned close, studying their uniforms.

  “Those are Swiss Guards. They fight with swords and pikes, and are loyal till death.”

  “Mmm.” The man’s nose almost touched the wall. The cat wandered off, sniffing at shadows.

  “We should continue. I have more to show. This next room shall be His Holiness’s study—”

  “The School of Athens!” The man beamed at Federico. The cat curled round Federico’s ankles. “And look: you are friends with Juno.”

  Federico hurried to pick up the cat. “To tell you the truth, I haven’t named her yet.”

  The man shrugged as he turned back to the painting. “Juno is the name from her master when she was a baby.” He pointed to the rough platform edging the room. “May I?”

  “Please.” Federico lifted the cat—his cat—onto the platform and scrambled up. Suddenly he felt nervous. What if the stranger laughed? How Federico had ye
arned to show off his portrait. And yet—

  “That one is Socrates.” The man pointed to a figure. “Him I know from university.” He leaned in, studying a sandaled foot. “Oh, it is wonderful to see this so new.”

  Whatever that meant. “And this is Homer, and Pythagorus, and here . . .”

  “Here what?” the man asked, his eyes bright. “Please tell me.” He scanned the wall, admiring the draped togas, the Arab philosopher in a turban. . . . “It is you!” He gaped at the figure of a boy with blond curls, then spun to Federico. “His hair—his chin—his eyes! They are like stars.”

  “They twinkle,” Federico clarified. “Raphael said they should.”

  The man touched the portrait. “Is amazing. Is perfect. Thank you for showing this me.”

  Federico shrugged, though inside he grinned like a jester. How could he ever have thought poorly of this man? “I’m sorry, but I did not catch your name. I am Sir Federico of Mantua.”

  “Pleased to meet you, Sir Federico. Herbert Bother of New Jersey. Call me Herbert.”

  “’Erbert . . . ’Erbert Botter.” Federico worked his mouth around the strange syllables. Those irksome northern languages with their unpronounceable H names! Juno sat beside them licking a paw. Juno. Hmm. It was, he had to admit, a fine name, especially for a cat so regal. He would have thought of it eventually.

  Herbert nodded in satisfaction as he admired the wall, even wiping his eyes with a handkerchief. “You like chocolate?” He grinned, stowing the cloth in a pocket.

  “I’m afraid I do not know that word.” Federico did not want to insult the man’s Italian.

  Herbert settled himself on the platform, pulling out two lumps wrapped in paper. “You’ll like this, I am sure. It is candy.” Juno curled round him affectionately.

  “You mean sweets?” Federico plopped himself beside them. “I must confess I’m quite fond of confections.”

  “Yes. I, too.” Herbert unwrapped one and handed it over.

  Federico’s heart sank. The brown lump was nothing but poo.

  “It’s delicious,” Herbert reassured him, taking a bite. “Is called chocolate.”

  “Mrow,” Juno announced. She might have been laughing.

  Federico braved a nibble. The confection wasn’t spicy or tangy or honey-flavored; it didn’t feel gummy or chewy or hard; it did not smell of cordials or fruit. It was like nothing he’d ever tasted. It melted across his tongue like butter, but better.

  Herbert watched, grinning from ear to ear. “You do not have chocolate in 1511?”

  Federico shook his head. “I would know,” he said thickly, taking another bite.

  “In middle is surprise. Peanuts.”

  The most delectable nuts Federico had ever tasted! Chewy but not too chewy, and rich, and flavored with a scent that filled his nose in the nicest way. “Pea-nuts.” He chewed, savoring. “Choc-o-late. You are correct, ’Erbert: this is delicious.”

  They ate with their feet dangling off the platform, Herbert’s loose breeches so different from Federico’s hose. “You speak Italian very well,” Federico offered.

  “You are too nice. I lived some in Italy to study painting.” Herbert mimed a paintbrush. “As an artist, I am bad. But also I buy art to sell in my country. I buy—what is the word? Sketches.”

  “Just sketches?” Federico smiled as Juno sniffed his fingers. “Not the artists’ finished work?”

  “Yes. From all sorts of artists—” Herbert froze mid-bite. He turned to stare at the vast wall behind them. Slowly his gaze returned to Federico. “You . . .” He swallowed. “You know Raphael.”

  “Naturally. I saw him yesterday, in fact.” Federico looked pointedly at Herbert’s pocket. “The chocolate was extremely delicious.” Perhaps Herbert had another piece.

  Herbert scratched his cheek. “Listen, Sir Federico. What do you say to a business? You bring me sketches—the little garbages that artists make. I pay you in chocolate.”

  “Hmm. I might be interested.” Federico made a show of shrugging as he scratched Juno’s ears. For a few scraps of paper, he’d get the most delicious food in the world! He pointed to a stack of papers in a corner. “How much chocolate might I—might one—get for those?”

  “My golly!” Herbert jumped off the platform, startling Juno. He riffled through the pages: a foot, a hand, a curl of hair . . . all the details that make up a finished painting. “These are wonderful.”

  With a lash of her tail, Juno leaped down. “Mrow!” she complained, pacing at the study door.

  “Juno!” Federico scrambled after her. “Be careful.”

  “Is late for her. Golly, is late for you, too! Don’t your mama and papa worry?”

  “My parents do not live in Rome.” Federico sighed. “To tell the truth, I’m a hostage. My father leads the pope’s army, and His Holiness does not want the French hiring him away.”

  Herbert looked horrified. “But you are only a little one. That is terrible!”

  “It is, sometimes.” Herbert’s voice was so kind that Federico found a lump in his throat. “I miss my sisters. They would love exploring this place with me. They’d love chocolate.”

  “But who is here to keep you safe?”

  “Mrow!” Juno glared at them from the door.

  “Juno.” Federico couldn’t help grinning. “And Celeste, and my tutors.” But now Herbert had him worried. If Celeste found his bed empty . . . “I should go.”

  Herbert, too, got to his feet. “I am sorry that you are away from your family. But I am happy to meet you! You come back again at midnight? That is when the closet works. I come back, too. With chocolate.”

  “Not only chocolate.” Federico paused in the doorway. “Chocolate and peanuts.”

  “Chocolate and peanuts.” Herbert chuckled. “Until tomorrow, my friend.”

  And with that wonderful promise ringing in his ears, Federico dashed off, Juno beside him. Together they reached the corridor, leaping puddles of moonlight as they galloped.

  “Mrow,” Juno sang, sprinting ahead.

  “Wait up,” Federico called, in the manner that one called to a friend. Juno was his friend. Juno, and Herbert, however they had appeared. Two friends he had now, and the promise of chocolate!

  Chapter 4

  Rumors of da Vinci and Thieves

  Though he awoke barely rested, Federico could not stop smiling. Wasn’t Juno a clever pet, bringing him Herbert? Most cats brought only dead mice. He kissed her in delight.

  “Come, come.” Celeste scuttled in, clapping her hands. “Saints above, that cat delays you. What if you are late for His Holiness?”

  At once Federico’s joy doubled, for today would require his very best clothes. He had a ceremony to attend at the palace, followed by dinner and an opera. “I shall find a drawing or two,” he whispered to Juno, “to trade for chocolate and peanuts.”

  “What are you saying?” Celeste scrubbed his cheek. “Is this mud?” She continued grumbling but Federico was too busy dreaming of chocolate to listen. She brought him to the mirror. “Look at you,” she clucked. “An angel, you are.”

  Federico studied the image smiling back at him in the costly Venetian glass. White silk doublet, a jerkin of white brocade, a gold-threaded cloak, and his white velvet cap with diamond trim . . . He did indeed look like an angel. “Aren’t I fine, Juno?” He reached to pet her, but Celeste slapped his hand away.

  “She’ll shed on your beautiful clothes. Now hurry. We shan’t have His Holiness calling you tardy.”

  And so Federico trotted off for the palace. The sun twinkled, the buckles on his slippers twinkled, his rings twinkled—all was right with the world. He admired the pope’s garden through the windows as he strode the corridor, the marble statues gleaming between the trees. Two broad-shouldered Swiss Guards marched the grounds, their striped costumes as bright as jewels. Across the corridor, the windows overlooked the city’s red rooftops and wide lazy river.

  Federico passed a niche with a little locked door—th
e private entrance to Michelangelo’s studio. Perhaps the unhappy man toiled there even now. At least the corridor didn’t smell.

  He reached the strange closet. Though midnight was hours away, he bravely cracked open the door. “’Erbert?” he whispered, but the closet was empty. How, he wondered, had Herbert appeared here? He could not see space enough to hide a spider, let alone a full-grown man such as Herbert. He closed the door with a bit of a shudder. The King of France should send normal presents such as horses or dogs.

  Finally, Federico reached the palace and the pope’s stateroom, jammed with a tremendous buzzing crowd.

  “Sir Federico!” His Holiness roared. “Look at him,” he exclaimed to the French ambassador. Standing next to the ambassador, the pope looked like a barrel beside a reed, for he was a man of some girth. “Such a fine young fellow. He’s like a grandson to me.” The pope pretended to box. “You want to fight me, young man? You want to fight?”

  Federico forced a laugh. “That is funny.” Even joking, the pope punched hard. “I have been admiring your new closet, Your Holiness.” Federico should offer a compliment.

  “Eh?” The pope looked past him, scanning the room. A Spanish cardinal had just arrived.

  “The gift from the King of France—”

  “What? We’ll talk later.” And off the pope went, quite abandoning Federico.

  “Ze nerve of zat man,” the ambassador sputtered.

  Federico glanced toward the pope’s private office. Would anyone notice if he slipped inside? He needed to find some sketches for Herbert—

  “You like ze closet, eh?” The French ambassador interrupted Federico’s musings. “You have good taste. It was designed by Master Leonardo.”

  Federico’s jaw dropped. “Leonardo da Vinci?” This genius, as everyone knew, now worked for the King of France. But he had lived for a time in the Gonzaga castle. “He drew my mother’s portrait.” And she had been pestering him ever since to finish it. All his life, Federico had heard her complaints on this subject.

  “I have seen zat portrait.” The ambassador studied Federico. “Ze closet. . . . I tell you. Da Vinci had an idea to send things through ze air, or somezing.” He waved a hand. “But zere was an accident, and he refuse to work anymore. So ze king has only a very expensive box. Voilà, a gift for ze pope.”