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

skill and learn from it.”
    Giacomo di Torreforte’s bearded face twitched.
    “His theme? Ha!” said di Torreforte, gesturing with his palms open. “What would that be, maestro mio? Prostitutes on horseback?”
    The maestro swallowed his rage with difficulty. He, too, resented the Florentine’s insolence. Yet the di Torreforte family was deeply allied with—and distantly related to—the de’ Medici. He would have to endure the young artist’s insults.
    “Virgins, Signor di Torreforte. Not prostitutes,” he said. “The escape of the Roman virgins from King Porsena and the Etruscan camp. Clelia’s honor, her bravery—”
    “Honor! Everyone knows that only a prostitute rides astride! Look how he portrays her.”
    Riccardo felt Giorgio stiffen next to him.
    “Tranquillo,” he said, reaching for his arm. “Do not listen—”
    Giorgio shook off his friend’s hand.
    “That is a lie!” he snapped.
    The maestro gave him a wary eye. The other Senese students leaned away from their easels.
    “Whether women ride astride or sidesaddle is a question of choice, not honor,” said Giorgio. “Only a fool would turn a rider sidewise to her horse.”
    Di Torreforte smiled slowly, relishing the challenge.
    “Oh, really, villano—you country peasant! Have you ever seen a reputable painting of the Virgin Mary astride her donkey? The great masters show her dignity—and virtue—by painting her seated properly. Sideways.”
    He smirked at Brunelli, and the Florentine artists chuckled.
    Giorgio thrust out his lower jaw, debating whether to answer. He looked at his colleagues around him, then to the maestro. At last, he could not resist.
    “I have seen a painting of the great Lorenzo de’ Medici’s sisters astride their horses,” he said. “Benozzo Gozzoli, The Journey of the Magi .” He raised his red eyebrows. “The de’ Medici women seem quite at ease astride. Comfortable, even. As if they were . . . born to it.”
    The Senese students snickered. Di Torreforte whirled around. If he could identify the culprits, he would deal with them.
    “Your words smack of treason, Senese!” di Torreforte said, shaking a finger in Giorgio’s face. “Peasants like you should not cast aspersions on the de’ Medici family!”
    “Merely an observation of art,” said Giorgio. “Hardly treason.”
    The maestro took a long step forward between the two students.
    “I will remind the signori that this is an art class, not a public forum. I want no more discussion. Nessuna parola— not another word, do you hear me? Or I shall dismiss you from the accademia!”
    The murmuring stopped. The students stepped back behind their easels. Di Torreforte still scowled at Giorgio.
    “You will copy this great masterwork,” the maestro emphasized. “Begin your preliminary drawings now.”
    An intense silence fell over the studio. The students began to sketch their outlines in pen. As they started, their muscles tensed and their tendons stood out from their necks. Then gradually—ever so gradually—their tension eased as art cast its spell, demanding their focus.
    “Bravo!” whispered Riccardo to Giorgio.
    The maestro’s footsteps echoed in the long marble hall as he walked behind each student’s drawing.
    Giorgio kept his eye pinned on the painting. He dipped his pen in his inkpot, making deft lines, sketching Beccafumi’s composition.
    “ Bello forzo , Brunelli,” the maestro said, tapping Giorgio on the shoulder.
    Good effort.
    Giorgio wondered if the maestro was referring to his preliminary sketch or something else.

C HAPTER 9
    Siena, Pugna Hills
    J ANUARY 1573
    My flock of mud-flecked ewes, whose muzzles ripped ferociously at the dry grass, paused for a moment and lifted their heads at the sound of baying hounds. I pinched the end of my braid, listening.
    Deh! The hounds must have cornered their prey in the depths of the wooded ravine.
    I let out a shrill whistle through the gap in my front teeth. Dog, my Maremma shepherd,