Chapter Text
He is still wide-eyed, but the giddy elation of the first-timer is slow in coming, and he reprimands himself for it. Where is his bubbly enthusiasm? Hasn't Ferrara been different from Venezia, and Bologna different from Firenze? Town after town, hamlet after hamlet in the sun-baked Padanian plain, down through fertile Aemilia and touching Romagna, winding down the mountain passes into the Mugello, every bend of the road reveals fresh marvels, tempts him with other ways to live, other ways to be.
He can easily see himself here, under a blue sky, with figs and apricots growing into his mouth. Surrounded by art and craftsmen, valued by patrons, a true gentiluomo.
Or is that an illusion? Perhaps artists are treated every bit as measly here as they are back home. Right now, at least, he has the impression his standing is debatable. He's been sitting around the guard room of Firenze's San Lorenzo gate for the better part of the afternoon, trying to get hold of a person with authority. All they will tell him, time and time again, is that his papers aren't in order and that he has to wait for the captain.
He can’t say how long he has been held, but the sun hangs low now, the birds are shrill, so he figures it must be around six o’clock when, at long last, there are steps. He feigns boredom, disinterest even: he doesn’t look up at the person crossing the room, but he does take note of the feet, the boots, the legs that walk past him. High riding boots of black Cordoban, dark grey stockings, breeches of grey and black. Nothing fancy; an ensemble of quality that has seen hard use.
His eyes travel a little higher, taking in the male figure that stands with his back to him. The man is tall, his shoulders athletic, although that could be the cut of his farsetto underneath a sober black cioppa. No mantle, no hat or cap, but the very good rapier still designates a figure of note. The man is reading something - his own papers, going by the seals - and holds the parchment into the evening light.
When he turns and looks at him, it is with puzzled, amused eyes. "Alberta? Really, is that you?"
Miquel de Corella.
Don Michele Coreglia, in the flesh.
Cesare’s Miguelito, hardened by battle, looming in a darkening room, about to tear out his throat like he promised twelve years ago.
He grips the edge of the bench he’s sitting on.
Miquel peers at him. "What’s with the…" - he motions at his own hair and chin, then waves derisively - "what’s with the undergrowth? You look like something from the woods. Small wonder they didn’t let you in. It’s not Carnival."
You once held a knife to my neck, he thinks. You once left the room like a bawdyhouse mistress because His Eminence, the Cardinal of Valencia, wanted some. You act as if we were familiar, yet I do not know you, beyond what you were back then.
"Don Michele." He rises, bows politely. "I’ve been held here all day. What can I do to help clarify the matter?" Is it money? Should he discreetly finger and fondle his purse? It had helped in Castel Bolognese, and in Firenzuola.
Swirling his documents, Miquel shrugs. "I wouldn’t worry too much. The men at the gates think that either the Pope or the Medici are going to descend on them any day. They are nervous, and not everyone can read. You looked suspect to them, that’s all." He sits, half-perched on the desk. "Where are you staying?"
"Umm. I haven’t decided yet." He rummages for another paper, passes it to him. "Messer Giorgio da Castelfranco recommended some places."
Perusing the list, Miquel snorts, then dips a quill and starts to cross out addresses. "Don’t go there," he says. "It’s teeming with vermin. This place… no. They’ll rob you blind. And people died at Del Sole from rotten food the other day." That leaves two hostelries. Miquel glances up. "Pass them my regards, they’ll give you good rooms."
"Thank you, Don Michele, that is most kind." Bile rises in his throat. He will need to vomit the moment he gets out of here, retch fright and anger into the next Florentine gutter. "May I go?"
"You may." Tired smile. Miquel rises. "Piero," he calls into the front room, "give boar man here back his things. See that he isn’t molested." He walks back to his desk, not to turn again. "Close the door behind you."
__________________
Remember Alberto Mio, that figment of my mind that had Albrecht Dürer, Cesare Borgia and Miquel de Corella meet in Venice, in the geopolitical hothouse that was the autumn of 1494? That first Venice trip of Dürer's has long been art historic lore yet it's not verifiable; he might not have gotten farther than Lago di Garda, that one time. Which didn't stop me from throwing him, Cesare, Micheletto, Giorgione, Bellini and assorted altri together for a chance encounter that would have, ahem, consequences.
Dürer's 1505-1507 trip to Venice, however, is factual. It is described gorgeously in a sheaf of very interesting (and, at times, hysterically funny) letters to his Patrician buddy Pirckheimer, back in Nuremberg. Here, he mentions plans to travel to Bologna to learn more about perspective in painting, perhaps continuing on to Florence, and possibly even Rome (some experts surmise he was hoping to meet Bramante there).
Going by his letters, one may assume this trip was one of the happiest times of his life. He was respected and belly-rubbed, his art was in high demand, every day was a discovery, he bought new and costly clothes and tried to learn to dance, he fraternised with all sorts of members of the artistic guilds, even though he often remained wary of them (these Italians, y'know! Poisoners, all! And everyone has the French Disease!). His social and sexual life must have been thrilling; his letters to the connoisseur Pirckheimer mention the strapping young lads and soldiers that, supposedly, were also quite to Pirckheimer's taste.
The Venetian Doge tempted Albrecht to stay in Venice, offering him a solid annual stipend of 200 ducats - in today's money, something around 40.000 Euro in gold, but with a contemporary purchasing power of around 120.000 Euro. And yet, in early 1507, Albrecht returned home. He came back a richer man: bursting with new colour and light, with new impressions, new methods, new and intensified contacts. He had probably met most of the big northern Italian Renaissance artists, or at least seen some of their most high profile works. NO artist works in a vacuum, ever.
Why am I telling you this?
Because, between the late summer of 1505 and late autumn of 1507, Miquel de Corella is in Florence, in the employ of the City. LOOK, I don't even have to invent this! Fact is: he's been caught, tortured, dragged before the Roman courts for a show trial, thrown into prison - and in the summer of 1506 he is in Florence, while Cesare still is in prison in Spain.
Fact.
So. Everything else? This all totally happened, too, in my mind. Yup.
I've been working on this tale since summer 2021, it's currently some 15K (which, for my writing habits and style, is pretty much Tolstoy-sized) and it's nowhere near finished, but if I don't start posting it soon I'll be going spare. Who knows how much time we've got left.
With that, I give you 'Il Vostro Cuore', a work of as yet indeterminate length and quality.