“For you, yes. Except that eating a bit of meat would do you a lot of good. You’ve grown much thinner since I arrived. You must have lost ten pounds in three months.”
“Three months and it feels like ten years,” the man said, still searching. “Besides the fact that I don’t eat the flesh of dead animals—never have, never will—what’s making me thinner is this blasted equestrian statue. That and being unable to find those damned plans—where the devil have they gone?”
“Plans don’t just walk away, son.”
“Whereas mothers don’t do it often enough, Caterina, Mother. So why don’t you just get off my back, stop breaking my balls, and let me search in peace?”
“You never used to be so vulgar when you were young. Or so stingy.”
“How would you know? You weren’t around. As for being stingy, they’re making me like that. I haven’t seen a payment in two months. Excuse me.” He waved his mother aside, headed for the henhouse, and started rummaging in the cages.
“I didn’t use them to clean the henhouse,” Caterina said patiently.
“I wouldn’t be surprised if you did,” the man replied, getting back on his feet and adjusting his belt. “As if it never . . . Hold on a minute, I just thought of something.”
His right hand still on his belt, he raised his left hand to the collar of his pink outfit, tugged on it, and pulled out a notebook crammed with folded sheets, some large and some small. He placed it on the table, opened it very carefully, and took out two sheets of yellow parchment containing drawings of horses with sentences and other objects around them. Almost immediately, he put a hand to his face and rolled his eyes.
“So you had them on you?” Caterina said, snickering.
“I must have put them there two days ago, before I went to the castle,” he replied, looking at his mother as though trying to work out if she was angry. “Forgive me, Caterina.”
“You could actually call me mamma sometimes.”
“Sorry, mamma. I lose so many things, there are times—”
He was interrupted by the rapping of powerful knuckles on the door.
Caterina turned, but he nimbly got in ahead of her and went to open. Not that he was ashamed of his mother, oh, no. Well, maybe just a little. It depended who the visitor was. It could only be one person at this time of the morning.
The man in pink opened the door and there in front of him was a slightly shorter, much older figure, dressed in black brocade, his head uncovered, his hat already in his hand as a sign of deference. A manservant, one of the important ones, but a manservant nonetheless.
“Messer Leonardo da Vinci?” the elderly man inquired.
“At your service,” he replied.
TWO
Oh, Messer Leonardo, what a pleasure to see you.”
Standing almost in the center of the large courtyard known as the Piazzale delle Armi, Ludovico il Moro beckoned to Leonardo to come forward. Beside him, ultra-thin and fierce-looking, the Duchy’s tax collector, the Most Excellent Cavaliere Bergonzio Botta, with a large ledger under his arm, as always.
“I am Your Lordship’s servant,” Leonardo replied warily. You never quite knew the reason Ludovico summoned you. It could be enthusiasm, like the day after the Festa del Paradiso, when the Lord of Milan had showered Leonardo with praise and accolades in front of the whole court, or it could be the exact opposite.
“Come, come forward,” Ludovico said, smiling serenely. “Signor tax collector, I think the chamberlain is calling you.”
Which wasn’t even a particularly Renaissance way of asking the tax collector to get lost because the Lord of Milan wanted to have a private chat with Leonardo. After a bow from which he began straightening up while already walking backwards, Bergonzio Botta turned and walked off in the direction of Santo Spirito. Ludovico was silent for a moment, glancing around without letting his eyes come to rest on Leonardo, then slowly set off for the wide south entrance and beckoned Leonardo to follow him.
“Your Lordship seems particularly cheerful this morning,” Leonardo ventured to say, trying to assess the mood of the man who paid his salary.
“I am, Master Leonardo, I am,” Ludovico replied, still smiling, still walking. “And do you know why?”
“I hope Your Lordship will be kind enough to share the reason for his happiness.”
“It’s no secret,” il Moro replied. “Not anymore. Emperor Maximilian is going to do us the honor of marrying our beloved niece, Bianca Maria, on the occasion of Christmas. The House of Sforza will be united with the Emperor, Master Leonardo.”
Now here’s the thing. Ludovico had spent months trying to palm off Bianca Maria Sforza as a bride to Maximilian, Emperor of the Holy Roman Empire, flattering him with constant overtures of friendship and above all with an awesome dowry. In court circles the figure of four hundred thousand ducats was being mentioned, in other words, more than half the annual income of the entire Duchy. This is rather as though the current Italian Minister of Finance had promised his daughter in marriage to the President of the United States, and offered half the peninsula’s tax revenue—amounting to billions—as a dowry.
“We shall leave with the wedding party in early November. And it certainly won’t be difficult to organize the bride’s departure, or to assemble our loved ones, our darlings, our retinue here in the castle. As a matter of fact, it will be very easy. And do you know why?”
Ouch! Ouch!
Ludovico il Moro had been educated to a particularly high standard even for a nobleman of the time, but without any particular emphasis on Greek philosophy. Even so, he seemed to have assimilated without any difficulty the techniques of Socratic dialogue, the purpose of which was to get your interlocutor to spit out the desired answer simply by cornering him. When il Moro starts giving you these little kisses on the neck, these hints, they would say at court, be careful: he’s about to lift up your robe from behind.
“No, Your Lordship.”
“Because we have this splendid courtyard at our disposal,” Ludovico said, his sweeping gesture indicating the Piazzale delle Armi with the castle all around. “This large, spacious, splendid courtyard, and, right in front . . .” Now at the door, Ludovico indicated with his open hand the wide expanse in front of the drawbridge. “Right in front, you see, there’s an even larger square, perfectly leveled, clear, without any embellishments. In other words, Messer Leonardo, completely empty.”
And il Moro’s gaze traveled from the square and came to rest on Leonardo. His mouth was still smiling. Not his eyes.
Four years had elapsed since the day Ludovico had officially entrusted him with the task Leonardo had boasted he could bring off better than anyone else. And ten years since he had sworn he could do it.
Ten years earlier, Leonardo had appeared before Ludovico il Moro with a long letter in which he claimed he could engineer bombards, dig underground rivers and moats, build unassailable castles. Only at the bottom of said letter did he mention that he could also paint a little. This was remarkable, since da Vinci had been called to Milan in his capacity as a musician, player of a lira da braccio of his own invention. But one sentence in particular had struck Ludovico il Moro.
I will create a bronze horse that will stand in immortal fame and in eternal honor of the happy memory of His Lordship your father and of the illustrious house of Sforza.
This promise had led to a court appointment, thanks to which Leonardo had obtained lodgings, the two-story studio in Corte Vecchia, next to the Cathedral, where he worked, and—theoretically—a substantial salary. Over the years, though, that same promise had come to seem like boasting, according to some people. And these people included il Moro.
“It’s been three years, Master Leonardo, since you assured me you were once again dedicating yourself heart and soul to your study for the monument in memory of my father,” Il Moro went on, still looking at Leonardo. �
��You have repeatedly assured me that work on this monument was already under way, so much so that I expressly had this large area in front of the castle—where we are now standing—cleared and leveled.”
“I am delighted to inform Your Lordship that the clay model of the horse is almost ready and can be exhibited on this very square at the end of next week.”
“The clay model?” Ludovico raised an eyebrow. “Really?”
“An actual-size clay model, Your Lordship. Seven meters, taller and more imposing by far than any other equestrian monument. In faith, the model will be exhibited here in less than ten days.”
“Oh, this is excellent news. Splendid. Marvelous. Now tell me, do you intend to pay homage to my father with a terracotta monument or do you plan to go further and give him a nice bronze coat? We’re not in your sun-kissed Tuscany here, Master Leonardo. Our winter nights in Milan are freezing, you know. I wouldn’t want my father to catch cold without an appropriate metal cloak.”
Ludovico il Moro was no fool and knew only too well that glazing an object over seven meters high in molten bronze was not easy. By that we don’t mean that he knew what technical and engineering difficulties were involved, but simply that he was aware how hard it was to make bronze objects that would be both light and sturdy. Specifically, what Ludovico il Moro mainly had in mind were cannons. Cannons the French army could produce and he couldn’t.
“Initially, Your Lordship, I thought of casting the molten metal into the mold with the horse lying on its back and its legs up in the air. This would have gotten around the problem of water bubbles turning into air because of the intense heat, escaping while cooling, and spewing all over the surface of the bronze, because—”
“It sounds like an excellent idea. If I understand correctly, the steam from the water would escape through the hooves. Why not do that?”
“Your Lordship has understood perfectly well. Unfortunately, your beautiful city is not cold and humid only above the ground, Your Lordship, but also beneath it.”
“What do you mean?”
“That if we dig a hole large enough to be filled with the shape of our horse, we will hit the water table that runs under Milan, Your Lordship. Flesh and blood horses can swim, but water could cause serious harm to a horse made of bronze.”
Il Moro looked at Leonardo for a moment with eyes like ice. Then, an instant later, his mouth tightened and, one second after that, the Lord of Milan allowed himself a smile.
“I hold you in high esteem, Leonardo, you know that,” Il Moro said, turning to look at the square. “I have the highest esteem for you as an engineer, a painter, a master of uniforms and costumes, and, last but not least, I have great respect for your wit.”
“Your Lordship is too kind.”
“I’m beginning to think so,” Ludovico said curtly. “If I were not too kind, I would have thrown you out on the street by now.” As he said this, he looked up at an arch in the castle, through which a blond young man was walking. Even at a distance, he looked like a strapping, well-built youth, the kind that, rumor had it, appealed to Master Leonardo. “Ah, here comes Count Galeazzo. Tell me, how is that other business going?”
These last words of Ludovico’s had been uttered casually, and at much lower volume.
Leonardo, in answering, also spoke softly. “All is as you wished.”
“Good, good,” Ludovico said, resuming his usual tone. “So you say ten days. I’ll take that as a promise.”
* * *
“My humblest respects to Your Lordship.”
“Greetings, Galeazzo. How is my beloved Bianca?”
“As beautiful as a phoenix. She is almost a woman now,” Galeazzo Sanseverino said, squeezing his father-in-law’s forearm in the ancient gesture that meant I have no weapon in my hand, for now.
Not that this gesture was necessary between the two of them. Back in the times of the war between Milan and Venice, Galeazzo Sanseverino had taken il Moro’s side against his own father Roberto, and that’s not the kind of thing you forget. Ludovico trusted Galeazzo so much that he had given his eldest illegitimate daughter, Bianca Giovanna, in marriage to him when she had just turned eleven. His mention of “almost a woman” did not refer to Galeazzo being a pedophile. Back then, eleven was considered old enough for many things, including bearing children, if nature allowed.
“You, on the other hand, look worried, Ludovico,” Galeazzo said, addressing his father-in-law by his first name as he always did when there was nobody else present.
“As usual, Galeazzo.”
“You weren’t before you met with Master Leonardo.”
Ludovico looked at his son-in-law, who held his gaze with candor.
Galeazzo Sanseverino was one of those people who seemed to have inherited everything from their parents, except their name. He certainly was handsome, anybody could see that. Strong and brave, too, unlike Ludovico, as all the Milanese who had attended the great tournament held to celebrate Ludovico’s wedding to Beatrice d’Este had been able to observe. On that occasion, Galeazzo had unseated, skewered, or defamed all his opponents, breaking twelve opposing lances out of twelve with an ease than can only be described as disarming.
True, Galeazzo was also clever and rather cultured, all you had to do to realize that was talk to him for a while. But above all, Galeazzo Sanseverino had exceptional diplomatic skills: that was something only il Moro and few others knew. The kind of son-in-law every father dreams of for his own daughter, provided that father is living in the late 15th century, apart from one tiny snag: the one thing he had not inherited from his parents—their name. Galeazzo was the son of a mercenary, and some problems of birth are hard to remedy.
There could not have been two other men in Milan who understood each other better than Galeazzo and Ludovico. Both were fighting to earn titles they had not had by birth but were certain they had earned by ability.
“You’re right, dear Galeazzo. I’m afraid I’ll never see that accursed equestrian statue. Moreover, Master Leonardo has stopped making any reference to my father. He only ever mentions ‘the horse.’ It seems almost secondary that it should be carrying Francesco Sforza on its back.”
“If you’re worried about the rider, let me reassure you. Do you remember how Master Leonardo put me in the saddle?”
“I’m still amazed at the way you managed to stay in the saddle,” Ludovico said, smiling. “With that winged serpent sticking out from behind your helmet . . .”
Galeazzo smiled. His entrance at the joust, in armor made of gold scales, had been one of the most triumphant and absurd moments in his life. And that helmet that turned into a winged reptile, its tail uncurling from the back of the crown and forming a large spiral in the air before touching the horse’s rump, probably weighed a hundred pounds alone.
“Actually, the serpent’s paws rested on my steed’s rear end. So it was the horse itself that held my head up. Everything in perfect balance. Leonardo is an expert at that kind of thing.”
“Perhaps,” Ludovico said, looking doubtful. “All right, we shan’t worry about the rider. But as far as the horse is concerned—”
“He spent months in my stables, studying my Sicilian thoroughbred. He measured every bit of it.”
“Every bit of it?” Ludovico said, snickering. “If I know Master Leonardo, I imagine he must have taken great pleasure in lingering over some of the bits in particular.”
“Ludovico,” Galeazzo replied, in earnest, “Leonardo knows what he’s doing.”
“Yes, but the problem is that he won’t do anything he doesn’t know how to do,” Ludovico said, his face turning as dark as his nickname. “I’m not worried about his being able to sculpt a beautiful horse, but I doubt he can cast one. I heard he’s spoken to the greatest experts in that art, like Sangallo and the engineer Francesco di Giorgio, and that both have expressed doubts. We’re going to need the skills of
the French. That’s right, the French. No one is better than they at the art of casting.”
“And that’s all they’re best at,” Galeazzo replied circumspectly, sensing that il Moro’s thoughts were taking an entirely different direction.
“But it’s more than enough, Galeazzo,” was il Moro’s curt response.
The two men fell silent, as though a glass wall had suddenly dropped down between them—an entirely hypothetical description, since such panes of glass could not be manufactured back then, or else why the hell would they have needed to plug their windows with cloths dipped in turpentine? But, although separated by silence, they were both thinking the same thing.
It’s no use having valiant knights like Galeazzo Sanseverino, or ones drunk enough to throw themselves into the breach with total recklessness, if what you have arrayed in front of you is a battery of cannons capable of shredding them like confetti. Bearing in mind that il Moro didn’t even have valiant knights like the aforementioned.
In the Italy of city-states, that terrible jigsaw puzzle of towns, castles, and fortresses that spent their time waging war against one another, city dwellers and peasants would seldom take part in battles, and when they did they generally played the parts of victims. No city had a regular army composed of patriots ready to give their lives for the blessed land of their birth. War was entrusted entirely to companies of mercenaries and their captains; people like the Englishman John Hawkwood, known as Giovanni Acuto, one of the undisputed champions at fighting on behalf of a third party. Now, he did have an equestrian monument worthy of his feats, and a seven-meter-high one at that. (Although it should be pointed out that the work known as Equestrian Monument to Giovanni Acuto was in fact a fresco painted by Paolo Uccello in the church of Santa Maria del Fiore, and was only in 2-D.)
The Measure of a Man Page 3