The Shepherdess of Siena: A Novel of Renaissance Tuscany by Linda Lafferty Read Free Book Online Page A

Chianina’s ass, he wondered.
    Hisbreath fogged the window glass. He ran his sleeve over the pane, wiping away the vapor. His chest expanded with pride as he surveyed the most glorious public space in all Christendom, the fanned panels of red brick paving the piazza below and the Torre del Mangia rising into the sky, its crenellated white tower majestic above the brickwork.
    Siena might have surrendered its gates to Florence. It might have swallowed bitter bile as the conquerors tore down the city’s magnificent towers. But the city had never lost its pride. And never its spirit as an independent republic.
    But then his eyes fell on the Palazzo Pubblico, Siena’s city hall. There, next to the windows crowned with the black-and-white emblem of Siena, was the huge granite shield of the de’ Medici: five balls— le cinque palle —and a metal crown glinting with the first rays of the morning sunlight.
    Giorgio wiped his mouth in disgust.
    Branding our Palazzo Pubblico with their coat of arms—the final insult.
    Gradually he became aware of the sounds around him in the hall, the rasp and creak as other students set up their easels, unpacking their pens and paints.
    A gray-haired man entered the hall, two attendants following him with an easel and a velvet-draped painting.
    “Buongiorno,” Maestro Lungo greeted the class. “We have a special treat this morning. A painting by the great master Domenico Beccafumi, whose artwork is so admired in the marble floors and ceilings of the Duomo.”
    The maestro gestured to the draped painting. “I have procured this from an anonymous patron,” he said. Then he nodded to Giorgio. “Especially for Brunelli.” He winked his creased eyelid like a napping lizard.
    Giorgio started. He felt the eyes of his fellow art students. His pale eyelashes blinked, his freckled face reddening.
    “No doubt a plow horse,” sniffed a bearded young man in an ermine cloak and polished boots.
    A few of the Florentines laughed.
    Giorgio flexed the bristles of his brush aggressively against the heel of his hand. He hated Giacomo di Torreforte. He and his clutch of Florentine nobili scorned Giorgio as a peasant.
    Maestro Lungo whisked off the velvet drape, exposing the painting as he announced, “Beccafumi’s Flight of Clelia and the Roman Virgins .”
    Fifteen pairs of eyes studied the painting. The students fell silent, knowing that their first impressions would be the most powerful when they interpreted the work onto their own canvases.
    The story of Clelia was popular with Renaissance painters. The Roman women were led out of their captors’ camp by Clelia, who stole horses from the Etruscan corrals while the soldiers lay sleeping. She and the women rode the horses to the Tiber and, still mounted, swam across to the safety of Roman shores.
    Giorgio squinted hard at the painting. The vivid colors of Beccafumi, a signature flourish, brought light and life into the cold studio. Clelia, in a red and black tunic, rode an ivory-colored horse, galloping into the waters of the Tiber. The bright greens, reds, and yellows of the togas glowed eerily in the winter light. The voluptuous flesh of a half-naked virgin shone, the contours of her breasts and stomach alive on the oil-painted panel.
    “Garish,” pronounced di Torreforte, breaking the silence. He raised his chin from his white ruffled collar.
    The word echoed in the palazzo hall.
    “Positively garish! So typical of the Senese School. Maestro! Why do you choose a dead Senese when we could study Leonardo . . . or even Michelangelo?”
    A Senese student, Riccardo De’ Luca from Contrada del Drago, leaned over to Giorgio. His blue eyes glittered. “Michelangelo escaped the claws of the de’ Medici, fleeing to Rome,” he whispered. “Would that Siena had been so blessed as to escape Cosimo!”
    “Beccafumi is a great master, true to his art and his theme, Signor di Torreforte,” retorted the maestro. “You would be wise to appreciate his