The Spring of the Ram - Dorothy Dunnett [41]
By the float of St Anne, Nicholas was gazing, neck twisted, at Godscalc’s glistening wheel. He said, “That’s a pity. It’ll simply attract other leopards.” Above one ear, with the patience of Salome displaying the platter to the Tetrarch of Galilee, he was still sustaining his head. No one took it; but the younger artisan, who had joined the first, leaned over and looked at the lion, and Nicholas. The newcomer’s face, which was dirty, was encircled by a wool vizored helmet, and his arms, wet with rain, were corded and hard as the legs of a whippet. He said, “No, no, no. Keep the head. It’s copied from his Marzocco, that’s what he’s saying. The Marzocco; the lion: the civic symbol of Florence in the Santa Maria Novella. His. That’s his sculpture.”
The old man said, “I have told him. It is my design. Mine. I require to be paid.”
Nicholas lowered his arms. “Monsignore is a sculptor!” he said.
The younger man said, “Maestro, the procession must move. We can’t keep her dry any longer.” He and the older man both turned and looked at the St Anne, down whose gilded bosom the rain was now flowing.
Nicholas said, “Maestro! The Marzocco lion! I should have known!”
“No matter,” said the sculptor over his shoulder. He frowned at the St Anne.
“Your doors,” said Nicholas wistfully. “The gates to Paradise, someone said.”
“That was Ghiberti,” said the younger man, frowning at Nicholas.
“Your dome!” said Nicholas quickly. “An unsupported miracle of miraculous structure!”
“You speak of Brunelleschi,” said the younger man. He glanced, with apology, at the sculptor’s back.
Nicholas looked at the statue. He lowered his voice. “Not that?” he said.
“That is the master’s,” said the man in the helmet. “But,” said Nicholas.
The bearded man turned. “But what, born of a pig?”
“The head,” said Nicholas. His voice was humble. “The head? The torso? And the length from the knee to the ankle…”
“What of it?” said the sculptor. “Damianus. Vitruvius. You have never heard of them.”
“But look at the geometry,” Nicholas said. “If you went by Damianus and the Optics alone, you needed a base one foot ten inches shorter.”
Godscalc lifted his head from his hands and looked across at the profile—agreeable, innocent, friendly—of his unassuming friend Nicholas. No one spoke. Then the younger man in the grey helmet said softly, “Given the dimensions of the Via Larga perhaps. But not in the Piazza San Marco.”
“Forgive me,” said Nicholas. “But the Medici are your patrons. They will be riding alongside.”
“On tall horses,” said the sculptor. He was looking at Nicholas.
“No. On palfreys, because of the gout. An angle of twenty to twenty-five degrees, I should say, whereas you’ve compensated for sixty. When you make a fountain—”
“Judith and Holofernes,” said the old man. He was still looking at Nicholas.
“—when you made that, you allowed for no distortion at all because the spray keeps spectators at the distance you want. But what if they narrowed the bore of the waterpipes? You can’t think of everything. You can’t allow for optical corrections in terms of alternative angles. At least—” He stopped, his eyes unfocused.
“What?” said the helmeted man. He put up a hand and slowly pulled off his cap. Underneath was a shock of carroty hair.
“Alternative angles. Of course, you can allow for alternative angles. And you could do it with colour,” said Nicholas. He shoved his head under his arm and picked up his tail, which was trailing. His hair had frizzed in the wet and his face was fresh as an apple with a split down the side. He said, “I think you could do it with colour. Nice to have met you.”
“God damn it,” said the