The Measure of a Man

by Marco Malvaldi

  “I’ve been told that you lend money with interest, even large sums,” Leonardo said, trying to remind Portinari of the essence of his work.

  “That’s true, Messer Leonardo.”

  “I know that this year you’ve lent our lord Ludovico almost ten thousand ducats. Rest assured I shan’t be asking you for such a sum. I just need a small endowment to see me through until the end of the year, when I’ll be receiving various payments. I’m still owed twelve hundred lire by the Confraternity for a painting.”

  “The one they call the Virgin of the Rocks? I’ve seen it. A wondrous work. You’re a genius, Messer Leonardo.”

  “You’re very kind, but you see, geniuses have to eat too. And so do their apprentices. Not to mention their mothers.”

  “Then what they say is true? The Caterina who just brought us this excellent meat is your mother?”

  “As true as the fact that Christ died on the cross,” the aforementioned lady said, entering the room. “Excellent meat, indeed. And my beloved son won’t even try it. Would you like some more wine?”

  “No, thank you kindly, signora.”

  Portinari waited a few seconds after the woman had left.

  “Do you know how a bank works, Messer Leonardo?”

  “Of course, I do. You borrow at twelve percent and lend at fifteen. And the remaining three percent is your income.”

  “It’s a little more complicated than that. The fact is, I manage the money of a large portion of Milan. All the storekeepers on Via degli Armorari are my clients. I even have clients among the carders of Lodi.”

  “I’m delighted to hear it. It means your business is doing well, so you can lend five hundred ducats to an artist who is a fellow townsman of yours.”

  “My business is indeed doing well. I manage a very large amount of money. Much larger than I actually possess. You see, Messer Leonardo, a bank is like a juggler. It keeps other people’s money up in the air, and every time I touch a coin that belongs to somebody else, a little of it rubs off on my hand. But even when I keep ten dishes in the air, I only ever hold one in my hand, and that one isn’t even mine.”

  Which, objectively speaking, was actually true. Although it had a turnover of about one hundred thousand ducats, the branch’s capital was about one tenth of that—barely ten thousand. The fact remains that this was the little speech Accerrito Portinari churned out whenever he had to refuse someone a loan. At this point, Accerrito usually explained to the wretch of the day that he couldn’t just lend money to anybody, it had to be in in return for specific guarantees. His present interlocutor being a genius, he naturally had no need to say that explicitly.

  “You’re telling me you can’t just lend money to anyone who comes along,” Leonardo said, still smiling. “I understand you. But I’m not anyone who came along. You know me well. I have much more than my modest clothes to offer you as guarantee. I have my studio and my paintings. You know me well, Messer Accerrito.”

  “Which is why I could never behave like a usurer with you, Messer Leonardo. Five hundred ducats, and you’re offering me as a guarantee paintings that are worth ten times as much.”

  “If anyone had the means to buy them, of course,” Leonardo said, shaking his head. “You’re quite right, my works are valuable, and that’s why few can afford them.”

  “True. This isn’t Florence, where people like beautiful things and pay good money for them.”

  “Trust me, they like them here too. But people don’t have the money, so they borrow the funds to buy them. Everybody borrows here, even the Duke.”

  Accerrito Portinari gave a malicious half smile. “Which duke are you referring to, Messer Leonardo? Be careful, here in Milan nothing is clear. Do you mean the Duke of Bari—that is, Ludovico il Moro—or the Duke of Milan, the dear Gian Galeazzo? By the way, did you know you’re mentioned in a new poem on that very subject? I heard it sung on the Navigli the other day.”

  And in a lovely tenor voice Portinari sang:

  Leonardo was summoned as a matter of urgency

  By Gian Galeazzo, stark naked, and Donna Isabella.

  What we need, and it’s quite an emergency,

  Is a machine to harden my husband’s little feller.

  The unfortunate conjugal situation of Gian Galeazzo Sforza and Isabella of Aragon was, given the lack of privacy mentioned earlier, known to all Milan. For many months now, Duke Gian Galeazzo, who was not yet twenty, had been unable to consummate his marriage to his lawful wedded wife Isabella, although it was unclear whether this was because of actual impotentia coeundi—as court physician and astrologer Ambrogio Varese da Rosate maintained—or because of an inopportune, unfavorable alignment of the stars—as the young duke himself swore again and again—or because Gian Galeazzo felt physical attraction only for the well-built page boys with whom he would linger behind heavy drapes—as the rest of the city, including the suburbs, claimed. Be that as it may, the marriage had not been validated with a proper little fuck as God intended, which was why Ludovico il Moro and Cardinal Ascanio Sforza had used their influence to force Gian Galeazzo to fulfill his duties. It is a mortal sin not to consummate a marriage, his uncles told him quite brutally, so if you don’t want to go to hell, make sure you overcome your natural bashfulness with regard to pussy and do your duty, or else the marriage will be annulled, your bride’s dowry will have to be returned, and we’ll lose tens of thousands of ducats, not to mention losing face.

  In the meantime, Caterina had come into the room and started clearing the few dishes from the table. Barely ten seconds: long enough to hear Portinari’s song and notice that her son’s facial expression had changed to one of concern.

  “Alas, that is not in my power, Messer Accerrito,” Leonardo said, looking away. “I have various mechanisms to increase a person’s strength, but I certainly can’t change his will or inclinations. And even if I could, I assure you I wouldn’t want to.”

  “Come now, Messer Leonardo, don’t make that face. Everyone knows by now that Gian Galeazzo’s a buggerer, even the French, so it’s hardly a state secret. And while we’re on the subject, Messer Leonardo . . . you know it’s burning at the stake for sodomites in this city. Galeazzo Maria instituted that law and it’s never been repealed. This isn’t Florence, where certain things are tolerated.”

  “What are you trying to say, Messer Accerrito?”

  “I’m merely trying to give you a piece of advice. People talk. We’re not in Florence here. Ah, my beautiful Florence . . . I don’t know about you, but I miss it so much . . .”

  “Can I ask you something, Messer Accerrito?” Caterina said in a garrulous tone.

  “Please do, Donna Caterina.”

  “If you’re so homesick for Florence, why don’t you go back there?”

  * * *

  “Because it’s doesn’t seem opportune, that’s why. You need me. Massimiliano needs me. Whenever I don’t see him for a few days I find him altered.”

  “Thank you for your concern,” Ludovico il Moro said, “but I still think it would be of great comfort to your father and sister if you returned to your birthplace for a while. And to you, too.”

  Without looking at Ludovico, Beatrice went to the child. Under the stern eyes of a woman dressed in black and the attentive gaze of a man in red, the little boy was crawling, dirtying his hands with the aromatic herbs the servants had strewn on the floor to mask the stuffy smell that prevailed in the bedrooms.

  “Come, Massimiliano . . .”

  Beatrice nimbly reached out with her arms, lifted the child in the air, and held him out in front of her, at arm’s length. The woman in black simply watched the babe being picked up, although this in no way discharged her of her own responsibility. She was Teodora, Massimiliano’s nurse, and she took care of him twenty-four hours a day, including the three or four minutes when he was allowed into the presence of his parents.
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  Beatrice d’Este was eighteen years old at the time, but a modern observer would have thought she was twice that. It was partly the child, and partly the double chin and baby fat that had refused to go away after his birth, and which the Duchess of Bari usually tried to conceal by wearing large, loose dresses with gold and silver vertical stripes: for although, as previously mentioned, being slightly overweight was the mark of an elevated social status, even back in those days it was something men could allow themselves much more than women.

  That day, however, the Duchess was wearing a brown cloth dress with puffed sleeves, and, on her head, instead of the usual pearl ornament, she had a black silk cap with long white veils. She was in mourning, her mother, Eleanor of Aragon, having recently died, which was the reason Ludovico il Moro had been trying to persuade his wife to visit her family in Ferrara for the past few days, hoping she might find some peace.

  “My father would find comfort enough if only you gave him what you promised. As for my own comfort, I can assure you that all I want is to be the wife of the Duke of Milan.”

  “Beatrice, my most beloved wife, you know perfectly well that the decision is not entirely up to me. Putting your father in command of the French troops would seem the ideal choice to me, too, but the stars do not appear to agree. I was discussing it with Magistro Ambrogio only this morning. Isn’t that so, Magistro?”

  “The stars have spoken quite clearly, Your Lordship,” Ambrogio said in a deep, dark voice that seemed to come straight up from the floor. It was the voice of a man who knows that what he says derives not from his own beliefs, but from his knowledge. Or at least, so he believes. “Mercury is under the malign influence of the stars, and this is a terrible moment for those whose fate is tied to that planet, such as those born under the sign of Scorpio.”

  “Pietrobono, on the other hand,” Beatrice cut in, her voice rising an entire octave, “says that October and the cold, damp weather are ideal conditions for the strength of Scorpio to express itself. My father is therefore at a moment of maximum vigor.”

  Almost surprised, Magistro Ambrogio raised an eyebrow and directed his gaze to the Lord of Milan.

  I am Ambrogio Varese da Rosate, the gaze said. Physician, pediatrician, astrologer, dentist, and Your Lordship’s political and military advisor. Is your wife really confusing me with some common or garden variety Pietrobono?

  After a moment’s silence, Magistro Ambrogio looked again at Beatrice. “The moment is most inauspicious for your excellent father, Your Ladyship, as demonstrated by the recent loss of your most beloved mother. An irreparable loss for him and for the Duchy, and entirely sudden and unpredictable, except for the stars and those who can read the stars.”

  This was one of the things that Magistro Ambrogio, being a thoroughbred astrologer, excelled at: remembering, and reminding others of, all the events that confirmed, or had confirmed, his predictions, and downplaying or failing to mention those he had resoundingly screwed up.

  Il Moro got to his feet. He too looked at his wife, who kept staring at Magistro Ambrogio like someone who would have known exactly how to reply to him if, as usual, there hadn’t been other people in the room.

  “Moreover, my most beloved wife, you must appreciate the fact that I cannot make this decision without consulting my allies. In this war, we cannot ignore the wishes of the French. On the contrary . . . Ah, dear Galeazzo, greetings. Come in, come in. Did you hear what I was saying?”

  “I did, somewhat,” Galeazzo Sanseverino replied like the gentleman he was, seeing that he had been standing in the doorway for five minutes, waiting for permission to enter. Although they were friends, it was the other who was lord and ruler of Milan. “Unfortunately, we’ll need to convince our allies, and that won’t be easy.”

  He stretched out his gloved hand, in which he held a letter that smelled strongly of incense. A letter from France. Not because the French usually scented their letters, but because Magistro Ambrogio, fearing the plague, had given orders that all missives from filthy places prone to contagion, like the countries beyond the Alps, were to be fumigated.

  Ludovico took the letter, opened it, and read it attentively, while behind him, pretending to play with her son, Beatrice tried to look over his shoulder.

  “It’s from the Duke of Commynes. He informs us that he is going to cross the Alps and will be in Milan in the next few days to meet with His Most Christian Majesty’s inspector, Perron de Basche. He asks for hospitality during his stay in Milan.”

  “Who is this Perron de Basche?” Beatrice asked in an uninterested tone as fake as a three-sesterce bank note.

  “He’s the inspector appointed to travel the length of Italy from Naples on up in order to assess the strength of the Neapolitan army and the condition of the allies. We’re preparing for war, my dear Galeazzo.”

  “So it would seem. We should discuss this. Shall I wait for you at the stables?”

  “There’s no need, my dear Galeazzo. I have no secrets from my wife.”

  Galeazzo’s noble face did not betray an ounce of his disappointment at having to remain in the room. Since her mother’s death, Beatrice had taken her meals in her room, in the presence of Ludovico and Galeazzo, in a grim, silent atmosphere—although this morning Duchess Beatrice was much more cheerful than she had been over the previous weeks. Galeazzo, a man of action, an outdoors man, couldn’t bear any more of this mourning period and was trying in every way possible to avoid the Duke and Duchess’s apartments and the oppressive cloud that hung over them, and not just metaphorically: what the olfactory atmosphere in that room must have been like—well, the very fact that Galeazzo preferred the stables surely says it all.

  “Whatever the case may be, our concern, for the time being, is where to lodge them. I think it would be appropriate for them to stay here in the castle.”

  “And we’ll have to give them a proper welcome, don’t you think?” Beatrice said, all chirpy again and glimpsing an opportunity to wear something sparkling instead of mourning clothes. “We’ll have to throw a lavish feast to honor our ally. Something like what Botta did, remember? With all the pagan deities announcing the courses . . .”

  While his wife talked, Ludovico was thinking, rubbing his mouth and nose with his joined hands, as though praying to his own brain to come up with an idea.

  “I don’t know, my dear wife. The French have rather coarse tastes. They do not possess the refined palate of the Milanese or the Neapolitans. I was thinking . . . do we have a French-speaking dwarf?”

  “What a splendid idea!” Beatrice exclaimed, smiling at the child and cheerfully lifting him up again. “Of course, a lovely spectacle with dwarves and jugglers! Well done, Your Lordship. You’re so, so clever. That would be perfect for the French. See how intelligent your papà is, Massimiliano?”

  Massimiliano (a.k.a. Ercole Massimiliano Sforza, eldest child of Beatrice and Ludovico, although his mother always used his middle name, and if you suspect she did so in order to pander to the Austrian emperor, then you’re quite right) gave a happy gurgle and looked at Galeazzo Sanseverino, who was also smiling.

  “I think that’s an excellent idea,” Galeazzo said approvingly, turning back to il Moro and nodding enthusiastically. “Our chamberlain should be told. Shall I call him?”

  “Yes, Galeazzo. We must honor our guest as is fitting. We don’t want to appear rude, do we?”

  * * *

  “You were rather rude, Caterina.”

  “You’re right,” Caterina said, still moving about the room, “but when someone’s rude to me I’m rude right back.” Accerrito Portinari had only just left, with goodbyes shorter than the hellos on his arrival. “You invite him to lunch, feed him the best veal in Milan, and that usurer not only denies you any damned help at all, but starts talking about burning at the stake? Usurers should be burned at the stake too, doesn’t he know that?”

  “Too? And
who else?”

  For a few seconds, she continued to pace around, cleaning here and there with a rag. Then, not without effort, she sat down opposite her son.

  “I’m no fool, Leonardo.”

  “I know that only too well, Mother. I’m your son. If a black man impregnates a white woman, the child is born gray. But if the child is born black, then both parents must have been black, don’t you think?”

  “Listen, Leonardo. When you were in Florence, I heard you’d indulged in some licentious acts, but I paid no heed. People can be nasty, even about their own kind, so imagine with the son of a servant. But now that I’m here I see—”

  “What do you see, Mother?”

  “I see that boy, Salaì, loitering about the house. He doesn’t paint, he doesn’t prepare the colors, he does nothing, actually, but he lives with you in your own home.”

  “It’s not true that he does nothing, He’s a highly-skilled thief.” Leonardo looked at Caterina with a raised eyebrow. Just then, Salaì popped his head through the door, probably sensing that he was being talked about. “Joking aside, Mother, when a boy joins a workshop he always starts with the most menial tasks. When I first joined Verrocchio, I’d clean out the hen coops.”

  Yes, you heard correctly. In those days, every artist had a henhouse, and not for nutritional reasons. In Leonardo’s time, the technique of oil painting had not yet been fully mastered: in 15th-century Florence, tempera was often used, which meant mixing—temperando in Latin (Leonardo knew no Latin, but the technique worked all the same)—the pigments with a binding agent like egg yolk, which, once dry, would form a protective protein lattice that would cling to the surface and trap the colors in aeternum. Since it would take four hundred and fifty years before the nearest supermarket was opened, every artist—in order to have fresh eggs available—did the most obvious thing, that is, kept a henhouse at home. And that’s where an apprentice would normally begin: keeping the henhouse clean. Only later would he graduate to tasks better suited to his talent: breaking the eggs, skinning rabbits, grinding pigments, and so forth. It would take quite a while before he could lay a brush on a board.