The Measure of a Man

by Marco Malvaldi

  “That’s too bad.” Robinot seemed absorbed in thought for a moment. “Will there be a performance during dinner? Acrobats, jugglers, mummers, jesters? Could he be engrossed in watching them?”

  “Possible, but difficult. From what I know, the staging of such entertainment is often assigned to him. As a matter of fact, he usually goes around the tables and entertains the most honored guests with his jokes. He’s an extremely affable man. Actually, I think he’s the most affable man in all of Milan.”

  “Where Bacchus can’t go, Venus flies to the rescue,” Robinot said. “Could you bring to dinner a whore he doesn’t know, perhaps from outside the castle?”

  The Duke of Commynes shook his head. “I couldn’t, and it wouldn’t be any use anyway. I couldn’t because at dinners with ambassadors il Moro admits only women from his court. And it wouldn’t be any use because Messer Leonardo has Venetian tastes and isn’t tempted by women, period. Perhaps not by men either, so they say.”

  “All right. In that case, Duke, you need to make him talk. When he approaches you, you must try to make him talk, and agree with him even when he talks the greatest nonsense in the world.”

  “Messer Leonardo is unlikely to talk nonsense,” Perron de Basche remarked, looking up at the ceiling.

  “Better still. Try to win him over in any way you can, Duke.” Robinot smiled, which made him look even more unsightly. That happens when more than twenty of your thirty-two teeth are missing. “When people talk, they forget about the rest of the world. You could pull out one of their molars and they wouldn’t even notice if they’re busy talking about themselves. All men are like that, all of them. And if this fellow is a man, then there has to be some way of tricking him. Even if his name is Leonardo da Vinci.”

  * * *

  “Leonardo da Vinci?”

  “He’s still inside, Captain,” the guard at the door of the room said, standing aside.

  Without a word, Galeazzo walked in and saw Leonardo standing by the table, grave-faced.

  “My respects, Messer Leonardo. Have you finished examining the corpse?”

  “Just this minute, at His Lordship’s request,” Leonardo replied, still with that grave expression on his face. It was unusual to see him looking so grim.

  Galeazzo Sanseverino looked around. On the table, the corpse lay dismembered, its chest cavity open and the organs lying around it, like garments pulled from a drawer in haste. A sight that would have made anybody’s stomach turn, and indeed poor Salaì looked pale and deeply upset.

  “So, young Giacomo, men aren’t so beautiful on the inside, are they?”

  “No, Signor Galeazzo,” the boy replied, walking past him with a quick bow.

  “Please don’t throw up on me, I’m wearing new clothes.” Galeazzo watched as the youth, looking like death warmed over, put away the tools. The little rascal. It had been two or three years since he had filched his pouch, with half a lira inside it, but Galeazzo Sanseverino was not the kind to forget something easily, whether it was good or bad. And that little rascal, likeable as he was, was definitely on the bad side. “So, Messer Leonardo, what can you tell me? What disease killed this poor wretch?”

  “What can I say, Captain?” Leonardo replied, wiping his hands with a rag. How they had managed it wasn’t clear but, whereas Salaì was covered in blood and other things from top to toe, Leonardo was still as neat and clean as when he had first walked in. “What disease, you ask? It’s a disease that’s very difficult to avoid, Captain.”

  “That?”

  “Worse, Captain. Much worse. Human wickedness.” Leonardo threw the rag down on the table, next to the corpse. “This poor man, you see, was murdered.”

  “Murdered?” Galeazzo said in surprise.

  “Murdered. Suffocated, to be precise. Death by lack of air in the lungs.”

  “But if you will excuse me, Messer Leonardo, that’s impossible. I have more than once seen what a strangled man looks like, and they certainly don’t look this peaceful.” Galeazzo failed to mention that he had strangled a couple of gentlemen himself—it didn’t seem relevant at the moment. “Their tongues, eyes, faces—”

  “Forgive me, I may have been unclear. I didn’t say strangled or throttled. I said suffocated.”

  “Of course, Messer Leonardo. But even so, if something had been rammed down the poor man’s mouth, his eyes would have been twisted, and—”

  “No, no. Nothing like that. There’s no trace of fiber between his teeth, nor was his mouth forced open. And there are no bruises. Forgive me, Captain, but I think something different happened.”

  “Something different? What, for Heaven’s sake?”

  “Ah. What, you ask me? Well, it’s not at all easy to explain. I think we should go together to His Lordship.”

  FROM THE WRITING DESK OF GIACOMO TROTTI

  To Ercole d’Este, Duke of Ferrara, ferre

  My Most Illustrious and Highly Esteemed Lord,

  A sumptuous dinner cum much pomp was held last evening to welcome the French ambassadors, id est the Duke of Comminè et a certain Signor Perrone de’ Baschi, et large quantities of food and wine were served that were a pleasure to behold, et indeed a large number of peasants came to the castle to watch and cheer.

  Giacomo Trotti put down his pen and massaged his hand by rubbing it against his thigh. It was late October and already very chilly at this time of day, so removing his gloves in order to write was quite a torture.

  The ambassador of Ferrara liked to wake early in the morning and write to his master about the previous day’s events with a cool mind and detached calm. A low-key, informal letter that would be dispatched by that morning’s horse post at about the time of terce. That is why the letter had been marked ferre, carry, and not cito, make haste.

  Between courses, a few young men performed ball games and leaps, and the dwarf Catrozzo made everyone laugh uproariously, both voluntarily et etiam involuntarily, because in order to jest with the jumpers, he had to climb on the table using the sleeve of one of the French party, who let go of him abruptly, causing Catrozzo to fall off the table and go crashing to the ground, much to the hilarity of the guests.

  The Duke of Comminè sat beside Leonardo di Ser Piero and talked of many things in genere et in spetie, chiefly about matters of money. Comminè wished to know how much Leonardo was being paid, etiam how often, et I think this was a way of finding out about the state of His Lordship Ludovico’s affairs et how he would be able to wage war.

  The ambassador of Ferrara put down the goose quill again, got up from the writing desk, went to the window, and pushed the cloth aside.

  Outside, the pink dawn was caressing the darkness away, tinging it with blue, apart from a few meaningless clouds here and there.

  Giacomo Trotti had never understood how some people could predict the weather by looking at the sky, how they could say “it’s going to rain tomorrow,” “it’ll be sunny again in two or three days,” or “it smells like snow.” To Trotti, the clouds, the sky and the winds were silent details, whose dynamics had uncertain, deceptive, and unavoidable consequences.

  What Trotti was good at was reading men.

  Grasping their intentions. From the way they moved. From what they said and how they said it. Especially by how these two things compared, whether they matched and were appropriate to the context.

  And Trotti would have bet his life that the two Frenchmen were there to ask for a loan. The repeated compliments, the forced admiration, all that praise that seemed to leave large oily stains on il Moro’s clothes. Besides, it was no secret that what Ludovico could not achieve with his power he achieved with his money. As for the rest—the embassies, the preparations, the speeches of the aides-de-camp—they were just excuses. These men were here to beg for money, no doubt about it. But it was still too soon to unsettle Ercole or to alarm him about the financial affairs of his son-in-law
and beloved daughter. Tomorrow, if he turned out to be correct, he would be more specific.

  At one point during dinner, Messer Leonardo took offense, perhaps because the interrogation had become annoying, or perhaps because the henchmen of Comminè spilled a bucket of wine on his favorite garment, et then made matters worse by trying to help him clean himself, so much so that I heard cum clarity Messer Leonardo, who is usually gentle and sweet-natured, speak words to him that I believe are used in Tuscany, telling him to go to a place that decency and my respect for Your Excellency prevents me from naming.

  I also had the impression that Ludovico was equally cold toward Leonardo, something for which I do not know the reason, although I can hazard a guess that it might be in connection with the ongoing issue of the famous bronze horse, which has caused a deterioration in relations between the two men.

  Once again, Giacomo Trotti looked at the sky. The clouds might have moved, or maybe not. Later, it might rain, or maybe not. At any rate, there was nothing he could do about it. Where men were concerned, though, he could intervene. He could hear, listen, understand, wait, and act. Or, even better, let them act. All it took was a word here, a nod there, a well-timed silence. A kind of social lubricant, that was what Giacomo Trotti considered himself to be. Not a pottery vase among iron vases, which could be crushed at any moment, but oil between two parts of a machine, of a mechanism, one of those levers Messer Leonardo was so good at devising. And because he was so fluid, not only did he not crumble but, on the contrary, he was able to make it possible for both parts of the machine, each solid and powerful in itself, to work in tandem, however different their functions.

  Rather like money. Money, too, had always been a lubricant for Giacomo Trotti. A convenient remedy for making a trade more equal. I have something worth ten, you have something worth six, give me four and the deal is done. That’s why it works. That was how Trotti had always viewed money. And when money runs out, the mechanism breaks down. Which was probably the reason for the frostiness between Ludovico and Leonardo da Vinci.

  But there might be another reason for this regrettable situation. Fertur that the body of one Rambaldo Chiti, a painter, was discovered at the castle et that Chiti died of a divine curse. This could well be causing great distress to Ludovico, who, as Your Excellency knows, is prone to superstition and to seeing ill omens everywhere. Whatever the reason, the atmosphere in the castle is not good, and although the dinner included an abundance of wine, it lacked merriment and ended much earlier than usual.

  After dinner, I saw Ludovico lead Beatrice away with caresses and demonstrations of affection and your Most Illustrious daughter reciprocate as she happily followed him to the Rochetta rooms. Countess Bergamini, also—as Your Excellency recalls—known as Cecilia Gallerani, was not at the dinner, nor have I seen her of late. The castle is so large and so well guarded that I do not always have the opportunity to keep a close eye on its master or what is around him.

  And that’s pretty clear to those who get it. I haven’t yet been able to ascertain, my dear Ercole, whether your daughter is being cheated on, but rest assured that if il Moro wants to cheat on her, he will. Regardless of me, of your daughter, or of you, Ercole, Duke of Ferrara.

  As ever, I commend myself to your benevolence.

  Mediolano, XX octubris 1493

  Servus Jacomo Trotti

  SIX

  Messer Leonardo, what a pleasure to see you.”

  “Countess, Cecilia, the pleasure is mine. Thank you for taking the trouble to see me so quickly.”

  Walking beneath the open galley, Cecilia had now come close enough to Leonardo to realize that he was frowning. Around them, the inner courtyard of Palazzo Carmagnola was peaceful and quiet, the exact opposite of the Piazzale at Porta Giovia.

  “Don’t mention it,” Cecilia Gallerani said, taking Leonardo’s stiff, cold hands in her own, which were warm and soft. “Rather, I hope there is nothing alarming about the reasons for your visit. I was expecting you tomorrow, for the music. What brings you here with such urgency?”

  “I would rather discuss it in a secluded place, Countess.”

  “Is it something that happened at the castle?” Tersilla asked. She was one of Cecilia’s ladies-in-waiting, the most affable in manner but also the most petulant.

  “Tersilla, don’t annoy Messer Leonardo . . .”

  “It’s about that man found dead in the Piazzale delle Armi, isn’t it? Is it true he died by the wrath of God?”

  “Who told you these things, Tersilla?”

  “Everybody knows,” Tersilla said with a shrug. “It’s all anybody was talking about here in the Broletto today, and Friar Gioacchino also mentioned him in his sermon. They saw Magistro Ambrogio cross the castle in a huge rush, getting dressed as he went.”

  “You see, Messer Leonardo, it’s as I’ve always told you,” Cecilia said, chuckling. “It’s impossible to keep a secret in the castle. There are always too many people about, too many people haunting the place. When I was still living at the castle, there was even an ape who would wander about the Piazzale delle Armi dressed as an armiger.”

  “He’s still there,” Leonardo said. “His Lordship says he’s more disciplined than half his servants, and from what I hear he has a point.”

  “Come, then. Tersilla, Messer Leonardo and I are going into the blue hall. Do not disturb us for any reason.”

  “As you wish, Countess.”

  * * *

  “So, Messer Leonardo,” Cecilia said, chuckling again. “Did someone die in the castle by divine will?”

  “Far from it,” Leonardo replied, sinking into the highly uncomfortable wood and fabric seat he preferred, for reasons that were somewhat unclear, to the soft leather armchairs available everywhere else in the hall. “It’s convenient to invoke divine wrath whenever there’s something we don’t understand. We used to do it about eclipses, thousands of years ago. Then we learned that the motions of the stars can be predicted. But then, since we didn’t understand anything and couldn’t predict anything other than the motions of the stars, we convinced ourselves that from the motions of the stars we could work out men’s destinies. It’s rather like that joke about a man searching in a puddle in an alley beneath a torch attached to a wall. What are you looking for, my good man? I’m looking for a ducat I lost, he replies. And did you lose it in that puddle? No, he replies, I dropped it over there, in a puddle in the middle of the alley. So why are you looking for it here? Because there’s light here, the man replies, pointing to the torch.”

  Cecilia gave an affected laugh, her hand on her throat. Then she looked at Leonardo. “Do you have something against the Duke’s astrologer, by any chance?”

  “A pompous ass,” Leonardo replied. “Only good at spouting hollow words. And I’m also afraid I’ve committed a grave indelicacy.”

  “So tell me. Tell me about the dead man. First of all, what did he die of?”

  * * *

  “He was murdered, Your Lordship.”

  “Murdered?”

  “Suffocated, to be precise.”

  Ludovico glanced at Galeazzo, who returned a blank look.

  “He doesn’t look like a strangled man.”

  “Of course not. The man was suffocated by mechanical constriction.”

  “Please explain this fully, Messer Leonardo.”

  “You see, Your Lordship, a man breathes by mechanically letting the air into his thorax, in other words by expanding his chest and increasing its volume.” Leonardo put his hands on his chest and took a deep breath, emphasizing the movement of his ribs with his palms. “The movements of water and air are similar in nature, as both tend to fill any receptacle you place around them. But there’s a difference between air and water: one can be compressed, squashed, reduced in volume, while the other cannot. You can blow a little into a pig’s bladder, tie it with a string, and squeeze it in your hands
until it grows so small it becomes very resistant to more compression and you can’t go any farther. But that’s not possible if the bladder is full of water. And just as air can be squashed, so a body full of air can be compressed. But if there’s an orifice through which it can escape, the air is expelled and never gets back in.”

  After thinking this over for a moment, Ludovico looked at Leonardo again. “I don’t think you’ve fully explained yourself, Messer Leonardo.”

  “I think that poor wretch’s chest was constricted in a corset, a doublet, which compressed and squeezed his chest so tightly that it expelled all the air from his body and prevented him from broadening it to let more in.”

  “What leads you to this conclusion?”

  “When I dissected the body, I saw that the ribs and ribcage were fractured. Not in the bones, but in the soft joints that link the ribs to the spinal column and to the bone that acts as a shield to the heart. As if something had pressed in on him from all directions.”

  Ludovico joined his hands, raised them in front of his mouth, and rubbed them together. A few seconds later, he looked up again. “And can one die from something like that?”

  “Yes, Your Lordship, just as one can die by drowning or in any other accident that deprives one of air.”

  “Magistro Ambrogio, what do you think?”

  Ambrogio da Rosate lifted his chin almost imperceptibly and indicated the vault of the ceiling with his hand. “The stars point to a death from disease, Messer Leonardo. The position of Mars leaves no room for doubt.”

  “I am happy for you that you are able to read so many things in the stars, Magistro Ambrogio,” Leonardo said, opening his hands. “The stars barely show me where north is.”