The Marriage Portrait(10)

In the schoolroom, the teacher was asking about Agamemnon and the wind. Lucrezia laid her head on her arms and whispered a silent warning to the girl in her drawing, who was called Iphigenia, which was not a name Lucrezia had ever heard. Beware, Lucrezia mouthed to her, beware. It was unbearable that Iphigenia’s father tricked her into the sacrifice by telling her she was about to be married. To Achilles, the heartless but brilliant warrior with a sea nymph for a mother. Iphigenia walked blithely to what she thought was a marriage altar but turned out to be a sacrificial altar. Agamemnon slit her throat with a knife.

Lucrezia didn’t wish to think about this, didn’t want the image of the unwitting girl, the glint of the knife, the eerily calm and hot sea behind, the duplicitous father, the flood and foam of blood over the altar. It would return to her, she knew, this story, in the dead of night. Iphigenia, with her slit throat, like a vibrant scarf, would shuffle up to the bed where Lucrezia lay, and she would paw at the blankets, wanting to touch Lucrezia with her cold, bloodied fingers.

Lucrezia, almost whimpering, pushed her drawing underneath a desk book and pressed her eyelids until bursts of colour shot across her vision; she could hear the tutor saying the words “Iphigenia” and “sacrifice” and “daughter,” and also: “What is the matter with her? Is she ill?”

Maria was quick with her answer: “Oh, don’t pay her any mind. It is just what she does to get attention. Mamma says to ignore her when it happens and then she will stop.”

“Is that so?” The tutor’s voice was uncertain, not at all as it was when he spoke of the Greeks and the Trojans, their ships and sieges. “Should we call for the, ah, the nurse?”

Lucrezia removed her hands from her eyes. The scene before her was so bright that for a moment she could not see anything. But then she made out her siblings and the antiquities tutor, who were all looking at her.

And behind him, Lucrezia was the first to see, stepping into the room, their father.

Lucrezia’s first thought, on seeing him was: Tigress, he has a tigress, hidden in the basement. Isabella immediately sat up straighter, her back like a rod. Giovanni applied himself industriously to his slate. Francesco put up a hand.

“Yes, Francesco,” the tutor said, in a neutral tone but Lucrezia could see the flush on his cheeks, the stiffness in his shoulders: he knew as well as the children that Grand Duke Cosimo I, ruler of Tuscany, was in the room.

Their father was particular and passionate about the classical world. He himself had engaged this antiquities tutor for them. They must all, she had heard him say, be educated in Greek and Roman history from the age of seven—daughters as well as sons. The Grand Duke owned, this tutor had told them, an impressive collection of ancient manuscripts, lately come from Constantinople: the tutor had been allowed to see them, even to handle some, this last part said with a shy pride.

Cosimo stepped further into the room, hands behind his back. He strutted between the desks, looking down at what the children were writing. He laid a hand to Francesco’s head, he nodded at Maria, he patted Isabella’s shoulder; he passed Lucrezia’s desk on slow, deliberate feet. She saw the curled-up toes of his shoes, the frilled edge of his shirt cuff. She made sure that her sketch was out of sight. He walked to the window and stood there for a moment, before saying: “Continue, please, signore.” He smiled, revealing all his even, white teeth. “Pretend I’m not here.”

The tutor cleared his throat, brushed a quick hand against his beard, then pointed once more at the map of Ancient Greece.

“Isabella,” he began, and Lucrezia was interested by this choice—had he deliberately chosen Cosimo’s favourite for questioning? Did he know that there was no probable way that Isabella could answer? Would he give her an easy question?

“Could you tell us, please,” the tutor continued, “how Agamemnon was drawn into the Trojan war? What was his connection to Helen of Sparta?”

Lucrezia considered Isabella’s back: the conscientiously straight spine, the neat tuck of hair, the elbows held close to the body. She looked at their papa, standing by the wall, raising himself on to his toes and down again. A plan, sudden and brilliant, sprang into her head.

“Isabella?” the tutor was tapping the cane against his thigh. “Agamemnon’s connection to Helen?”

Lucrezia leant forward, as if to reach for her stylus. She cupped a casual hand around her mouth and whispered towards her sisters’ backs: “Helen was married to his brother, Menelaus.”

She sat back. Isabella seemed to cock her head in surprise. Maria half turned to glare at Lucrezia with a wary, disbelieving frown. Then Isabella said, in a clear voice: “She was married to his brother…Meena-something.”

Lucrezia watched. The tutor smiled, visibly relieved; her father nodded as the tutor praised Isabella, saying how wonderful her answer was and that the name was pronounced “Menelaus” and here is how you write it in Greek and would they all copy this down on their slates, please?

Lucrezia quickly took down the Greek characters and, as she finished, she leant forward again.

“Maria!” she whispered. “Isabella! Papa has a tigress. She arrived in the night.”

Again, Maria turned towards her, then thought better of it. The tutor was walking among them, inspecting their slates, pointing out where Giovanni could perfect a letter here, a curve there. Their papa was looking towards the door again. Lucrezia held her breath. Was he leaving?