Read Online Da Vinci's Tiger by L. M. Elliott - Free Book Online

poets—I had begun to realize that my verse stripped me as naked as the David in the courtyard. Laid bare were my misgivings, my fear that my tempestuous side might overtake my more contained virtues. What had I been thinking? Even though my poem was inspired by Plato’s analogy of man’s soul being a chariot, these important citizens could make all sorts of misinterpretations of my character from it. I could scandalize them. I could disgrace my family. Worse yet, they might not like my writing!
    â€œI—I—I fear it is inadequate, my lord. . . .”
    â€œNonsense.” Lorenzo tried to coax me to read.
    But before I could find my courage, Uncle Bartolomeo—who had been seething with impatience at my clumsy hesitation—took over. “It’s sure to be of dainty stuff, my lord. Instead give us one of your carnival songs. I can still remember following along behind a band of lusty youths shouting out one of them. Let’s see. I believe it is called ‘Song of the Village Lasses.’”
    â€œOh no, Bartolomeo! Not that one! Not at the table with—”
    But Uncle Bartolomeo was already singing.
    â€œWe also have some bean pods, long
    And tender, morsels for a pig.
    We have still others of this kind,
    But they’re well cooked, quite firm, and big.
    And—”
    â€œPeace, friend, peace.” Lorenzo held up his hands in surrender to stop my uncle continuing in his bawdy verse. He glanced in embarrassment at his mother before saying, “Now I will tell a story on you, Bartolomeo de’ Benci.” He turned toward the ambassador. “Let it never be said, Bernardo, that Florence does not have as much pageantry as Venice.”
    He looked mischievously at my uncle before beginning his story. “During Carnival 1464, Bartolomeo organized the most famous armeggeria in our city’s history.”
    An armeggeria was a carefully orchestrated mini-tournament in which youths banded together, dressed alike, paraded through the city, and then fought pretend battles against other gangs of young blades. These parties-on-horseback were all about showing off riding abilities and lances, without getting hurt.
    â€œFor this brigade,” Lorenzo continued, “Bartolomeo amassed four hundred men!”
    â€œFour hundred riders?” Bembo asked in surprise.
    â€œNo, no, my lord, four hundred men total,” Uncle Bartolomeo explained. “Florence allows us only a maximum of twelve riders—for fear more might cause mayhem in the streets. I gathered nine riders to my brigade. But each rider, out of honor, was allowed nine other youths around his horse and thirty liveried torchbearers. Then, of course, we needed musicians and pages. Luigi Niccolini was one of my riders.” He pointed to my husband.
    Luigi beamed. “Yes, that was quite the day.”
    I felt my mouth pop open in amazement. My husbandhad been part of that riotous group? I was seven years old when that party descended on our palazzo, eating and drinking all our stores and leaving wreckage that took days to repair. My mother had locked her children into her bedroom for safety so drunken revelers would not trample us.
    â€œWhat a spectacle, yes?” my uncle bragged. “Oh, the sweetness of the music from the trumpets and flutes. Do you remember the applause of the people as we passed?”
    â€œIndeed,” Luigi said.
    â€œAnd what, pray tell, was the aim of this enormous armeggeria ?” Bembo asked.
    â€œTo declare my chaste love and complete devotion to Marietta di Lorenzo degli Strozzi!” Uncle Bartolomeo blustered, as if offended that Bembo did not already know the legend of his exploits. “Once my entire armeggeria arrived at the Strozzi palazzo, and La Bella Strozzi appeared on her balcony; we each galloped at the lady’s gate and broke our lances upon it. But the best was the float the pages pulled at the end of our parade. You should have