now?”
“In spite of working on hallowed ground and under the supervision of men of God, you didn’t intend to depict Christ’s first Mass in your Last Supper, did you?”
The Master arched his thick blond eyebrows in astonishment. Marco d’Oggiono went on:
“Don’t pretend to be surprised. Jesus is not holding up the Host in his hand, nor is he instituting the Eucharist, and his disciples are neither eating nor drinking. They are not even receiving His blessing.”
“Well, well,” Leonardo exclaimed. “You’re on the right path.”
“What I don’t understand, Master, is why you’ve painted that knot at the far end of the table. The wine and the bread are mentioned in the Scriptures; the fish, even though none of the evangelists mention it, can be understood as a symbol of Christ Himself. But who ever heard of a knot in the tablecloth of the Last Supper?”
Leonardo extended a hand toward Marco, calling him to his side.
“I see that you’ve tried to penetrate the mural. Well done.”
“And yet, I’m still far from your secret, am I not?”
“The arrival should not matter to you, Marco. Concern yourself with traveling the path.”
Marco opened his eyes wide.
“Haven’t you heard me, Master? Aren’t you worried that an inquisitor should have come to this monastery asking about your Last Supper?”
“No.”
“And that is all?”
“What should I say to you? I have more important things to worry about. Like finishing this Last Supper—and its secret.” Leonardo stroked his beard with an amused gesture before continuing. “You know something, Marco? When at last you discover the secret I’m painting and are able to read it for the very first time, you’ll never be able to stop seeing it. And you’ll ask yourself how you could have been so blind. These, and no others, are the best guarded secrets: the ones that stare us in the face and which we are unable to see.”
“And how will I learn to read your work, Master?”
“Following the example of the great men of our time. Like the geographer Toscanelli, who has finished designing his own secret under the eyes of the whole of Florence.”
The disciple had never heard of Leonardo’s old friend. In Florence, they called him “the Physician” because, even though he had spent years earning his living drawing his maps and was a passionate reader of the writings of Marco Polo, he had long ago been a medical doctor.
“But I’m sure you know nothing of all that.” Leonardo shook his head. “So that you don’t accuse me again of not teaching you to read secrets, today I’ll tell you of the one Toscanelli left in the Cathedral of Florence.”
“Truly?” asked Marco, eagerly.
“When you return to that city, don’t forget to pay a visit to the enormous dome that Filippo Brunelleschi built for the Duomo. Walk quietly under it and fix your eyes on the small opening in one of its sides. On the feasts of Saint John the Baptist and of Saint John the Evangelist, in June and in December, the midday sun streams through that hole from more than two hundred sixty feet above ground and lights up a strip of marble that my friend Toscanelli carefully placed on the floor.”
“And why did he do that, Master?”
“Don’t you understand? It’s a calendar. The solstices marked there signal the beginning of winter and of summer. Julius Caesar was the first to note this and to establish the duration of a year as 365 days and a quarter. He also invented the leap year. And all by observing the sun’s progress along a strip like that one. Toscanelli, therefore, decided to dedicate the device to him. Do you know how?”
Marco shrugged his shoulders.
“Placing at the beginning of his marble meridian, in an unusual order, the signs of Capricorn, of Scorpio—and of Aries.”
“And what is the relationship between the signs of the zodiac and the dedication to Caesar, Master?”
Leonardo smiled.
“Therein lies the secret. If you take the first
“In spite of working on hallowed ground and under the supervision of men of God, you didn’t intend to depict Christ’s first Mass in your Last Supper, did you?”
The Master arched his thick blond eyebrows in astonishment. Marco d’Oggiono went on:
“Don’t pretend to be surprised. Jesus is not holding up the Host in his hand, nor is he instituting the Eucharist, and his disciples are neither eating nor drinking. They are not even receiving His blessing.”
“Well, well,” Leonardo exclaimed. “You’re on the right path.”
“What I don’t understand, Master, is why you’ve painted that knot at the far end of the table. The wine and the bread are mentioned in the Scriptures; the fish, even though none of the evangelists mention it, can be understood as a symbol of Christ Himself. But who ever heard of a knot in the tablecloth of the Last Supper?”
Leonardo extended a hand toward Marco, calling him to his side.
“I see that you’ve tried to penetrate the mural. Well done.”
“And yet, I’m still far from your secret, am I not?”
“The arrival should not matter to you, Marco. Concern yourself with traveling the path.”
Marco opened his eyes wide.
“Haven’t you heard me, Master? Aren’t you worried that an inquisitor should have come to this monastery asking about your Last Supper?”
“No.”
“And that is all?”
“What should I say to you? I have more important things to worry about. Like finishing this Last Supper—and its secret.” Leonardo stroked his beard with an amused gesture before continuing. “You know something, Marco? When at last you discover the secret I’m painting and are able to read it for the very first time, you’ll never be able to stop seeing it. And you’ll ask yourself how you could have been so blind. These, and no others, are the best guarded secrets: the ones that stare us in the face and which we are unable to see.”
“And how will I learn to read your work, Master?”
“Following the example of the great men of our time. Like the geographer Toscanelli, who has finished designing his own secret under the eyes of the whole of Florence.”
The disciple had never heard of Leonardo’s old friend. In Florence, they called him “the Physician” because, even though he had spent years earning his living drawing his maps and was a passionate reader of the writings of Marco Polo, he had long ago been a medical doctor.
“But I’m sure you know nothing of all that.” Leonardo shook his head. “So that you don’t accuse me again of not teaching you to read secrets, today I’ll tell you of the one Toscanelli left in the Cathedral of Florence.”
“Truly?” asked Marco, eagerly.
“When you return to that city, don’t forget to pay a visit to the enormous dome that Filippo Brunelleschi built for the Duomo. Walk quietly under it and fix your eyes on the small opening in one of its sides. On the feasts of Saint John the Baptist and of Saint John the Evangelist, in June and in December, the midday sun streams through that hole from more than two hundred sixty feet above ground and lights up a strip of marble that my friend Toscanelli carefully placed on the floor.”
“And why did he do that, Master?”
“Don’t you understand? It’s a calendar. The solstices marked there signal the beginning of winter and of summer. Julius Caesar was the first to note this and to establish the duration of a year as 365 days and a quarter. He also invented the leap year. And all by observing the sun’s progress along a strip like that one. Toscanelli, therefore, decided to dedicate the device to him. Do you know how?”
Marco shrugged his shoulders.
“Placing at the beginning of his marble meridian, in an unusual order, the signs of Capricorn, of Scorpio—and of Aries.”
“And what is the relationship between the signs of the zodiac and the dedication to Caesar, Master?”
Leonardo smiled.
“Therein lies the secret. If you take the first
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