“Your observations concern the body, a mere mortal object,” Ambrogio replied gravely. “Mine concern the stars, the first and most obvious manifestation of the Eternal. I hope you’re not trying to compare what you see in a body with what you see in the stars.”
“Forgive me, Magistro Ambrogio, but yesterday you, too, examined the body to see if there were any signs of disease or violence.”
“Since we have the body, it’s the first thing to do to get an idea of what happened. But in order to obtain certainty, and to connect the past and the future, it’s necessary to consider the stars. The stars never lie.”
If Ambrogio da Rosate and Leonardo had been alone at dinner, Leonardo would probably have launched into a disquisition on the peculiar etymology of the verb “to consider,” which in fact, with his poor knowledge of Latin, he had thought might be translated as cum sideribus: “with the stars.” But since they weren’t in a pub, but in front of the Lord of Milan, and since that crimson-clad clothes horse thought he could disparage his science, Leonardo took it very badly. Where knowledge was concerned, Ser Piero’s son held it in much higher esteem than he held himself.
“I understand.” Leonardo turned to Ludovico with the air of someone forced to hear that the moon is made of cheese. “Like that Dominican friar who told His Lordship your brother was born under the influence of the stars and predicted that he would conquer the Peloponnese, Asia, Africa, and the whole of Mare Nostrum. What was his name? Annio da Viterbo?”
As everybody knows, Leonardo was a genius. It therefore did not take him long, barely one billionth of the time Jupiter takes to complete a revolution around the sun, to realize that he’d just committed the mistake of the century.
To remind Ludovico il Moro that his brother, Galeazzo Maria, had believed in the horoscope provided by an astrologer monk who’d told him he would conquer the world was not a clever move, especially since the same Galeazzo Maria had been stabbed to death less than three years later in that same Milan from which he had never budged.
“If you wish to do true honor to the memory of my family, you would do well to hurry up and finish the monument I commissioned you to build several years ago, rather than doubting the words of Magistro Ambrogio.”
* * *
“So he didn’t believe you?” Cecilia shook her head gracefully. “My poor Leonardo, you really did say the wrong thing at the wrong time. When will you learn that there are certain topics Ludovico can’t abide?”
“I don’t think I ever will, Countess Cecilia. That’s why I’m here to ask for your help.”
* * *
“So why doesn’t he put my father in command of the troops? Ercole is the bravest, most valiant man south of the Alps and, from what I hear, north of them, too. Of His Most Cretinous Majesty King Charles’s henchmen, only the Duke of Orleans is a worthy warrior.”
“My Lady, I would advise you to speak more softly when you touch on subjects pertaining to foreign policy.”
Beatrice d’Este stopped abruptly, looking slightly vexed. Of course, Trotti was her father’s ambassador in Milan, a prudent, experienced man, but Beatrice was unable to appreciate these qualities. All she could see was a bald, annoying little old man who was always feeling the cold, always agreed with everyone, but then did what he pleased.
“I am in my palace, after all.”
Not quite your palace, my girl, Trotti thought. If you were the mistress of the place, you’d live in the large east wing, not here in the Rochetta, in these tiny rooms filled with luxuries but no light. And where it’s freezing cold.
“That’s precisely what worries me, my Lady. We’re in the Castello Sforzesco. Here, even the floors have ears.”
“In any case, you said you will shortly be having an audience with my husband. Why don’t you ask him straight out to appoint my father commander-in-chief?”
Giacomo Trotti looked at the girl like someone who knows he can turn to a person of superior intelligence. “My Lady, you know only too well that in matters such as these, the most important thing is to keep a balance between the powers at play, so that the outcome may be as close to what His Most Illustrious Lordship—the Duke your husband—wishes.
Giacomo Trotti waited for a length of time we would nowadays quantify as one tenth of a second, but which nobody back then would have dreamed it was possible to measure.
If Beatrice had been as intelligent as Trotti’s expression was trying to make her believe, there would have been no need to explain anything.
The point for il Moro was not to invade Naples but to keep the Duke of Orléans out of his noble way long enough. In order to launch and carry out the invasion, King Charles VIII needed the steadfast commitment of the Duke of Orléans, given the fact that on his own he was unable to pull a finger out of his ass, let alone win a war.
Busy crossing Italy in order to invade Naples, the Duke of Orléans would certainly not be able to wage war on Ludovico il Moro and then claim the title of Lord of Milan.
The war needed to last long enough for Il Moro to be acknowledged as Duke of Milan by Maximilian I and acclaimed by the people.
Now, as we have already said, Beatrice’s father, Ercole I d’Este, was not just any minor lord. He was a man who had waged and won wars for real. Above all, he was someone who had actually learned military strategy and tactics in Naples. Putting at Orléans’s side a worthy, intelligent, brave man like Ercole d’Este, one who, in addition, was familiar with the enemy, would considerably shorten the war. And this, given il Moro’s purpose, was tantamount to his slamming a hoe down on his own feet.
Since Beatrice was only pretending to think, Trotti continued:
“A river in flood cannot be stopped but only channeled. When His Illustrious Lordship bursts the dam of the Alps, the French river will flood Naples. And to get the waters to flow where we want them to, we need levees, not shepherds.”
“You’re very poetic, Messer Giacomo. You almost sound like Messer Leonardo.”
Trotti stood there, silent and still. One of the things he excelled at and that had made him the perfect ambassador. He always knew when it was inadvisable to expose himself.
“I don’t like Messer Leonardo. He’s always smiling. He’s always calm and cheerful like . . .”
“Like who, my Lady?”
“Like someone who knows that things will turn out well for him even if they turn out badly. Do you think he’s trustworthy, Ambassador?”
“I’m not as privy to life in the castle as you are, my Lady. I see Messer Leonardo on Thursdays, when—”
Beatrice d’Este huffed and turned away. “When you go to hear music and discuss incomprehensible things at the Milanese whore’s house, of course. I wonder what she’ll be wearing tomorrow. Probably three dresses one on top of the other. She’s so skinny, she’d look dead otherwise.”
“I can assure you that the last few times I saw the Lady Gallerani, she wasn’t wearing any new garments or adornments.”
“Do you think she’d be so foolish as to wear them when you’re around, Messer Giacomo? She may be a slut, but she’s not a fool. Keep your eyes peeled, Ambassador. I’m not asking you, I’m ordering you.”
* * *
“Then what are Your Lordship’s orders?”
Ludovico turned to Galeazzo, aware that he, too, had a good mind and that his opinion should be taken into account, although not as much as that of the ducal astrologer.
“What do you think, Captain?”
Galeazzo Sanseverino nodded, as though to show that he appreciated the attention. “If Magistro Ambrogio is right, Your Lordship, this wretch died from a disease. If so, everybody who lives near Chiti’s house will have been exposed to the same winds. It would be advisable to go to his workshop, close and bolt all the doors and windows, and evacuate all the surrounding houses as a precautionary measure.”
If, however, this w
izard has been talking nonsense, then Rambaldo Chiti was murdered, as Messer Leonardo says. And if that’s the case, it’d be worth going to his house and rummaging around to try and find out who he was, who he associated with, and why somebody decided not only to kill him but also to dump him in the middle of the castle courtyard.
“Do you think this is advisable, Magistro Ambrogio?”
`“I agree with Captain Sanseverino, Your Lordship.”
“Very well. Galeazzo, send for the captain of justice and tell him to find this poor Rambaldo Chiti’s house and close it up. But don’t move the neighboring population out. For now, this would only alarm them needlessly.”
“If Your Lordship will allow me, I should like to go with the captain of justice.”
Or, in modern lingo: Do you know how scared I am of the disease this idiot is convinced has killed the wretch? The square root of zero.
“Of course you are allowed, Messer Galeazzo. By all means go, and may God watch over you. Chamberlain, what do we have now?”
“Ambassador Giacomo Trotti, envoy of Ercole, Duke of Ferrara.”
“Good. Gentlemen, leave us, and show Ambassador Trotti in.”
* * *
“You do understand that, as an ambassador, it is my duty, not just in my own interest but on instructions from my master, to ask you such unpleasant questions.”
Giacomo Trotti stood before Ludovico il Moro, who was sitting in his high-backed chair. Even so, it was il Moro who was in an uncomfortable position at that moment. Trotti’s question was not the kind you could circumvent.
“May I ask how you found out, Messer Giacomo?”
The first rule of a good politician: Always answer a question with another question.
“The rumor is starting to spread across Milan, Your Lordship. Even this morning at terce, Friar Gioacchino da Brenno mentioned it in his sermon.”
“Friar Gioacchino?”
That’s all I needed, Ludovico thought, trying to conceal his annoyance. But Trotti noticed it for sure.
“What did Friar Gioacchino say exactly?”
Something I could send him on a visit to the papal prisons for, perhaps? Something that would teach him to bother with the Lord’s business, meaning the Lord of Milan, not the one up in Heaven?
“He said that divine wrath has struck this city, and that this death is the work and will of the Almighty, just like Lorenzo de’ Medici’s death in Florence. That the devil’s excrement, money, has taken possession of this city, and that the Almighty will chase the merchants from the temple, starting with the leader of these merchants.”
“And that would be me, according to Friar Gioacchino?”
“I would never dare suggest that. So is the unhappy news true?”
Giacomo Trotti, too, was a good politician.
“I’m afraid it is. A man, a poor painter, was found dead in the Piazzale delle Armi yesterday during lauds. Magistro Ambrogio is convinced the cause of death is natural but unknown to him. Messer Leonardo, on the other hand, claims the man was murdered. As you can appreciate, both theories worry me far more than divine wrath.”
Ludovico did not deem it appropriate to mention that the dead man had requested an audience the day before turning up dead. As a reason to worry, a corpse in the courtyard was already more than sufficient.
“I understand you well, Your Lordship.”
“I know you are a clever, careful man, Messer Giacomo. That is why I should like your opinion.”
“I am at your Lordship’s service.”
“At the banquet yesterday, I saw Messer Leonardo talking with the two French ambassadors, and at a certain point I had the impression he became angry. That’s quite unusual for Messer Leonardo. Do you know what they were talking about, or what happened?”
“Nothing serious, Your Lordship. One of the envoys in the Duke of Commynes’s retinue spilled a large quantity of wine over Leonardo’s clothes in a truly odd way, almost as though on purpose rather than out of clumsiness. Until then, the conversation had been about money.”
“Money?”
“Apparently, the French were very interested in how much Leonardo earns, and how Your Lordship pays him.”
“Ah.”
“If I may be so bold, Your Lordship . . .”
Ludovico opened his arms in a gesture of impatient welcome. “As a matter of fact, I would appreciate it, Ambassador. You know how much I respect your judgment.”
Giacomo Trotti closed his eyes and gave an almost imperceptible bow. Then, having cleared his throat, he said, “Winter is almost upon us, which is not the best time to start a war by crossing the Alps. I think the French gentlemen are here primarily to ask for money. Their questions, I believe, are just a way of finding out how much Your Lordship is able to draw from the treasury to lend the French for their war effort.”
Ludovico smiled. Whenever the ambassador of Ferrara opened his mouth, he spoke sense. And in this case, as Ludovico knew perfectly well, Trotti was absolutely right.
“I think as you do, Messer Giacomo. But there is another possibility, and I would genuinely like to make sure I am not wrong.”
“If I understand correctly, Your Lordship requires my humble services to get to the bottom of this conundrum.”
“Precisely, Messer Giacomo.” Ludovico leaned his torso and head out of the chair, reducing the distance between himself and the ambassador. “In not just my interest, but ours, I have a mission for you.”
* * *
“Do as you see fit. Meanwhile, you’ve been given a mission and all you’ve managed to do so far is make yourself look ridiculous.”
“You’re right. You’re absolutely right, Duke.”
“I don’t care about being right!” The Duke of Commynes slammed a hand down on the table, probably causing himself an injury, but not letting it show. “I need that notebook, Robinot.”
Robinot stood before the duke, head down, having removed his cap in deference and then put it back on again in obedience (“oh, do cover up that worm-eaten skull of yours, you’re repulsive” were the duke’s exact words). Behind him, listening without the least intention of opening his mouth—grateful for once that he wasn’t the one speaking and that he was of less consequence—stood Mattenet.
“But of course, of course. As I was telling Your Lordship, it’s always a matter of trial and error. Now we can rule out being dextrous in a crowded place, and we must act in the dark.”
“That may well be the case, Robinot,” Perron de Basche added, snickering. “Partly because Leonardo is hardly likely to let you anywhere near him again if he recognizes you. What on earth possessed you to use the rabbit?”
* * *
“I’d heard that live rabbits are used at elegant banquets to wipe one’s hands, so when I saw them in the hall and saw other guests do that, I thought I could use one to distract Leonardo. I thought he would—”
“You thought it would be a good idea to rub Messer Leonardo with a live rabbit to wipe away the wine. I saw you. As a matter of fact, many people saw you.” It wasn’t clear whether the Duke of Commynes was more annoyed by the lack of notebooks or the lack of good manners. “Rabbits can be patted, Robinot, which is how you wipe the grease from your fingers, but they can’t be used as cloths, for God’s sake! It would be like cleaning your teeth with a fork! Now get out of here and try to think of something better.”
“By Your Lordship’s leave . . .”
The two petty thieves left, closing the door carefully behind them. Perron de Basche turned to the duke.
“So you also agree that we absolutely have to get our hands on that notebook.”
The duke, who was blowing on his hand, nodded before replying. “Without a doubt. I had the distinct impression yesterday that Messer Leonardo cannot be corrupted in any way. He works for il Moro, period.”
“Or els
e he knows that, for all our promises, we couldn’t pay him as much as Ludovico pays him,” Signor de Basche remarked. “Which brings us back to our primary aim. We have to put our request to Ludovico. We need thirty thousand ducats, and we need them quickly.”
SEVEN
Horse. A beautiful horse. It almost looks like Galeazzo’s Sicilian. But this one’s more beautiful. The legs are too thin. But the muscles are well in evidence. It’s the muscles that give the impression of movement. The muscle tense, the leg flexed, making for strength. And the proportions. If you make the horse’s leg as long as it actually is, the statue will look motionless. Remember, you must make it a little longer than in real life. The back leg shorter, contracted, pushing. The front leg longer, thrusting. But that’s design. Muscles are art. The horse has to be smooth, and the muscles well in evidence. Today I’m going to try sand with rabbit hair and egg yolk. Hmm.
“Everything alright, Messere? Forgive me, I was lost in thought . . . Oh, is it you, Ambassador? What a surprise! I hope you didn’t hurt yourself.”
“Not at all, Messer Leonardo, not at all,” Giacomo Trotti reassured him, having just been almost mowed down by a Leonardo da Vinci in full stream-of-consciousness mode while crossing the street and having avoided falling on the ground only by some miracle. After all, he was a seventy-year-old man, albeit well-padded, who had collided with a rather robust forty-year-old. “What about you, are you all right?”
“Perfectly all right. It is I who must apologize, but you know how it is, I sometimes get distracted and don’t look where I’m going. It’s fortunate I collided with you and not with one of those carts that scamper around everywhere. It did happen to me once. I was practically run over by a cart and to top it off was insulted by the lady driving it. The height of embarrassment, I can assure you.”
“Don’t give it a second thought.” Trotti put a hand on Leonardo’s arm. “It happens to me too, more often than it should to a man my age. Where are you going, somewhere nice?”
The Measure of a Man Page 9