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“This is Zephyrus, the god of the west wind, trying to abduct the flower goddess Chloris.”
The flower goddess was completely naked, draped in a thin veil, like the earth as snow began to melt.
She opened her mouth as if to gasp, but a string of flower petals spilled out instead.
“And her?” Hedy pointed to the woman in the center, who was still just a sketch.
“She is... Venus.” Botticelli lowered his eyes, his voice becoming much gentler.
But the look in his eyes wasn’t as if he were gazing at some distant deity; it was as if he were remembering a lost loved one.
Some secrets, buried too long, began to stir in his heart again.
My Venus…
Hedy suddenly realized.
She had always found his name a little familiar, and now, it clicked.
In this era of Christian rule over Europe, there was one artist who always poured his heart into the legends of paganism.
His Christian and holy father paintings were all made to please those in power.
But in the end, the immortal legend left behind was not in those works, but in the Venus he painted again and again.
In his lifetime, he painted the birth of Venus, Venus with Mars, and countless gods from Roman mythology.
And now, what Hedy was witnessing... was La Primavera.
In the painting, the gods and spring came to life.
The Three Graces shimmered as they danced with raised arms,and countless roses and daisies bloomed in their wake.
Botticelli—he was the pioneering artist who had created such a masterpiece.
She had not only been Da Vinci’s servant but had also met such a trailblazer.
At this moment, a wave of emotions gathered together, and Hedy found herself at a loss for words.
She was standing at the very center of the Renaissance vortex.
“You’re painting pagan myths…” she whispered, “She’s so beautiful.”
It was he who had given Venus her true and gentle face, giving the goddess of beauty her clearest definition.
“The Medici family needs new myths,” Botticelli said, applying paint with a calm tone. “Lorenzo really likes this one.”
Hedy had gradually gotten used to helping Da Vinci with the paints, and now she instinctively lent a hand.
Even though Botticelli didn’t speak, she knew exactly when to add whole egg or egg whites, and whether to mix in something else.
There was even a bottle of ox bile on the low table—likely a gift from some stubborn person.
Though Da Vinci was cautious about politics and disputes, he was always open and tolerant in the face of art, and this was no different when it came to Botticelli.
"By the way," Hedy thought for a moment before tentatively asking, "Why... are you called Botticelli?"
"Did he tell you my name?" Botticelli glanced at her with a smile, continuing to apply color. "My brother was round and a bit short, so the neighbors used to call him Botticello (which means 'big barrel' in Italian)."
