The Measure of a Man

by Marco Malvaldi

  “Not far from here, near the animal market.”

  “I’m going that way too. Will you allow me to walk with you?”

  “Gladly.” Leonardo smiled. “Perhaps if there are two of us, we’ll be more careful.”

  Trotti also smiled, internally. The first problem, making contact with Leonardo in such a way that it would appear accidental, had been solved. Ludovico had said it explicitly: Make sure he doesn’t feel he’s being investigated.

  “Do you need to buy an animal?”

  “No, not at all,” Leonardo replied, apparently lost in his own thoughts again. The man had an almost disturbing tendency to become distracted. “I’m going to see an old friend from whom I think I can obtain something I need. And who won’t charge me very much, since this stuff is usually expensive.”

  “Well, good-quality stuff always costs a lot. Living in Milan, one always has less money than one would need. When I lived in Ferrara, I would spend in a week what I spend here in a day.”

  Coming from Trotti, this might sound as if it had no ulterior motive. The ambassador of Ferrara was known to have few equals—Gallerani’s husband included—as a miser. But, in actual fact, Trotti was trying to bait the hook.

  I want to know if Leonardo can be corrupted, Ludovico had told Trotti loud and clear. I suspect—in fact, I’m certain—that the French want his plans and there are many reasons why Leonardo might complain about the money he isn’t receiving from me or from others. They could buy them, or they could buy him. I want you to find out if it’s possible. Go, ask, interrogate. Discreetly but skillfully, you’re good at that.

  And that’s exactly what Giacomo Trotti was doing.

  * * *

  “Money wouldn’t be a problem,” Leonardo said. “I mean it wouldn’t if I had enough of it.”

  “Apparently nobody has enough,” Trotti remarked. “Even the two French gentlemen who arrived yesterday keep complaining about it.”

  “Don’t mention them,” Leonardo replied, shaking his head. “They spent half of last night’s dinner talking about money and how much I earned.” He chuckled. “I’d earn a sufficient amount, I told them, if I didn’t have to keep buying new clothes to replace those stained with wine thanks to other people’s clumsiness.”

  Leonardo smoothed the front of his garment with that compulsive gesture Trotti had often seen him make, as though he were afraid he was still dirty.

  “Too much importance is given to money, Messer Giacomo. Many people are so sure it has a substance of its own that they keep it at home and constantly admire it as though it were a painting or a jewel. But money is not a substance, it has no body of its own.”

  Meanwhile, they had reached the square next to the Cathedral site. It was here that the animal market was held. All kinds of creatures, from hens to cows, from rabbits to little birds, along with an abundance of species not for sale, such as flies. Leonardo slowed down and looked around. Good old Trotti, who was losing his breath, managed to pump more air into his organ pipes.

  “So what’s money for you, then?”

  “Good question. You see, Messer Giacomo, I am an omo sanza lettere, an unlettered man who knows no Latin, and when I start to explain things I often end up getting lost in a maze. So I’ll start with an example, if I may.”

  Saying this, Leonardo deviated slightly from his path and walked up to a seller of little birds, who was carrying his merchandise in cages hanging from rods, like balancing poles, and was hunched over under the weight of all these birds and, above all, their cages.

  “Good day to you, my good man.”

  “Your humble servant, Messere,” the man said in a voice that resembled that of his merchandise. “Matteo, the bird man, is here for you. What are you looking for? We have green and yellow parrots, or, if you like music, we have nightingales that sing better than any musical instrument.”

  “Wonderful,” Leonardo said, looking as sincere as he could. “Now, Messer Giacomo, do you think it’s fair for such splendid natural creations to be in cages, helpless, just so we city men can enjoy their song? Tell me, my good man, how much do you want for this pair of nightingales?”

  “Five deniers for these, Messere. But it’s money well spent. They have voices like angels.”

  “I don’t doubt it, my dear man,” Leonardo said, putting his hand in his pouch. “Here you are.”

  “And here you are,” the man replied, untying the cage with the two nightingales from the pole and handing it to Leonardo. “You’ll need to build them a larger home if you want to keep them in your house.”

  “Don’t worry, Messere. There’ll be no need.”

  He opened the cage and proffered a finger to one of the little creatures, which immediately climbed onto it. Leonardo pulled out his hand and raised it, like an inexperienced falconer trying to train a toy hawk. All at once, the bird took off, flapping its wings and circling over the crowd before vanishing above the houses just a few seconds later.

  Giacomo Trotti turned to Leonardo, who had been looking up, following the bird’s flight with a mixture of complicity and glee. Meanwhile, seeing that the cage was open, the second bird had also left without anybody noticing.

  “Marvelous, isn’t it? I’ve always dreamed of devoting myself to the study of bird flight. I may be able to get down to it one day, once I’m done with this blessed bronze horse. So, Messer Giacomo. Did you see?”

  “Yes, I saw. You spent five deniers for nothing.”

  “For nothing? Forgive me, my friend, but I gave a pair of nightingales their freedom and was able to observe and experience all that derived from that. Their happiness, my happiness, and your astonishment. In such a situation, in which thoughts turn to hope, I transformed thought into flight, almost as if I were God Almighty. Do you think that a trifle?’

  “You’re right, of course. When a man buys good wine, he certainly doesn’t buy it so that he can keep it and look at it. One doesn’t buy wine as such, one hopes to buy wellbeing, the pleasant feeling of intoxication.” Giacomo Trotti nodded pensively. “I understand you, Messer Leonardo. You think the way I do. Money is an ambassador, a fluid. A means to obtain what one wants. At this point, though, forgive me, but you can’t tell me you don’t care about the amount of money. Even in your case, the more money you have, the more possibilities of doing whatever makes you happy.”

  “My dear Trotti, I don’t think I’ve been clear enough. Just now, that bird seller and I concluded a transaction. I gave him five little pieces of metal, and he gave me two nightingales. We both agree on the meaning of those five little pieces of metal. You see, money is a language. It works not because it has a nature of its own, but because we humans all agree in granting it the same power. And it’s a more powerful language than all our words and sentences.”

  “Naturally, because everybody understands it.”

  “On the contrary, it’s because it’s a secret code.”

  “A secret code?”

  “Of course. Think about it, Messer Giacomo. Try shooting an arrow at the heart of a man or an ape. The same thing happens. Both the man and the ape die. Try giving them food, a piece of fruit for example. Both the man and the ape will eat it. But try putting a ducat in the ape’s paw and expect it to give you back the same fruit you gave it earlier.”

  “It would tear my arm off.”

  “Almost certainly. And yet if it understood what it had been given, it’d be able to buy a hundred similar pieces of fruit.” Leonardo stopped and turned to Trotti. “Money, like language, is a secret code through which people reach agreement, and it’s totally incomprehensible to anybody who isn’t human.”

  “Like the language of nature, you mean.”

  “Even more powerful, because even more secret. You can train a dog by resorting to language. You can say ‘down,’ ‘sit,’ and other words. But try giving it a ducat and it’s bound to swallow it.”
Leonardo turned determinedly onto Via degli Armorari, with the relaxed gait of one who has almost reached his destination. “And that’s why we humans are the most powerful beings alive, and why we have dominion over all the other animals in creation. Lions, pigs, apes, dogs . . .” He smiled. “. . . and even horses. And yet horses have the upper hand over us in the end. Worth thinking about, for the time being. I’ve arrived, Messer Giacomo.”

  Giacomo Trotti looked around.

  At the time we are referring to, Milan was one of the manufacturing cities par excellence. All sorts of things were manufactured there.

  Fabrics, brocade in particular, woven with fine gold thread, but also any other kind of Lombard silk cloth or wool from the Cotswolds, which, after being processed in Milanese workshops, acquired beauty but kept its warmth and softness.

  Garments, from the humblest rags of servants to the cioppa and camora worn by ladies of the court, to the high fashion of dukes and duchesses, whose clothes were designed by the finest artists, including Leonardo, who had himself created those worn by Beatrice at the famous Festa del Paradiso.

  Stackable, convertible furniture, such as writing desks that turned into dining tables, carrying dark wood inlays with the warning NE GRAVIORA FERAM—don’t overload me with heavy stuff.

  And, above all, armor. Every kind of armor and arms, whatever the shape or use, and not necessarily for martial purposes, in fact almost never. It’s true that back in those days, arms and armor were objects of high fashion and not just of war, and they were commonly worn in the city center during a parade. An object created with quite another intention would be shown off just for the pleasure of displaying the extent of one’s wealth and suggesting a superior attitude toward exploration and bravery: a little like driving an SUV in a restricted traffic area nowadays.

  Consequently, many successful craft workshops had blossomed in a very specific area of the city, and, thanks to their good taste, these craftsmen had imposed the prestige and exclusivity of Italian-made brands even on the complicated world of halberds. This was the area in which Leonardo and Trotti now were: Via degli Scudari, the absolute kingdom of luxury arms dealers.

  Now it’s true that Leonardo was a forerunner of dandyism, and could hold his own in terms of elegance, but Trotti really couldn’t picture him in armor.

  “Are you planning to buy yourself a suit of armor, Messer Leonardo?”

  “Oh, no, of course not, Messer Giacomo. I’m here to talk to an artisan who’s an expert on metals. Are you busy?”

  “On the contrary, I’ll be glad to accompany you.”

  “In that case, let’s go. Come.” And Leonardo slipped into a dark doorway that led to a small open gallery, from whose cell-like rooms came a whiff of acidic heat and the clang of mallets striking iron. Leonardo looked into the first of these rooms.

  “I’m looking for Master Antonio.”

  The youth at the anvil, covered in soot and sweat, squinted to make out the visitor’s identity. Having recognized him, he put down his mallet and left the room without saying a word.

  A few seconds later, from the room in the center of the gallery, there emerged a giant of a man, as massive, Trotti thought, as a four-seasons wardrobe, dressed in green and gold, who came toward Leonardo with a broad smile on his face.

  “Messer Leonardo, what an enormous pleasure! To what do I owe the honor of your visit?”

  “It is you who honor me with your welcome, Master Antonio.” Then he turned to his companion. “Giacomo Trotti, Ambassador of Ercole, Duke of Ferrara. Master Antonio Missaglia.”

  Giacomo Trotti bowed.

  So did Antonio Missaglia.

  It was said that Milanese armor manufacturers had become dominant throughout Europe. Thanks to their good taste, it was said, but not exclusively: it was also by virtue of efficient technological solutions and good old-fashioned competition. Even back then, there were such things as brands, and every armor manufacturer would conspicuously impress his stamp on the metal. And the most prestigious by far was that of the Missaglias.

  Missaglia garments would be paraded by the kings of France, Maximilian I, the Aragonese sovereigns of Naples, and many other parvenus with no kingdoms to defend or tournaments to fight, but only money to spend. Hearing “May I present Antonio Missaglia” in 1493 Milan was like hearing nowadays “Let me introduce Giorgio Armani.”

  “It’s a pleasure and an honor,” Trotti said. “I didn’t realize you two were acquainted.”

  “Messer Leonardo has done me the honor of his friendship since shortly after he moved to Milan, Your Excellency,” Missaglia replied, displaying a large arc of black teeth through his white beard. “In fact, I feel somewhat ridiculous being called master by him. If there’s a master here, it’s him.”

  “You’re far too kind, Master Antonio,” Leonardo said with a half-smile, as though to let it be known that he agreed with this point but didn’t wish to insist on it. “Master Antonio has taught me many things about metals, how to forge them, how to hammer them. We made Galeazzo Sanseverino’s armor together.”

  “An almost mint gold suit of armor. You thought it, I made it.” Antonio Missaglia laughed like someone who has gotten away with murder. “And luckily somebody paid for it.”

  “And who put in the most work?” Trotti asked, looking around.

  “Oh, it was easy for me. Working with gold is a dream in comparison with iron. But keeping a rider in his saddle with all that weight is no small feat. Gold is soft and easy to hammer. But it’s heavy. Heavier than iron and bronze, which weigh more or less the same.”

  Trotti raised a finger, like a schoolboy. “Excuse me, Master Antonio, but since I have this rare opportunity to ask you questions, there’s something I’m curious about. May I . . . ?”

  “I hope I can answer you, Your Excellency.”

  “I’ve always heard it said that cannons for use in war cannot be made from iron because they’d be too heavy and difficult to transport. But you now tell me that iron and bronze weigh the same. So I don’t understand how these two things can be reconciled.”

  “Bronze may weigh the same, but it’s much stronger.” Missaglia raised a hand that in shape and size looked like a chopping block. “You see, Excellency, you have three choices.” Missaglia took a thumb the size of a ham between two fingers. “Primero, you can make a cannon from inch-thick bronze, transport it with horses, and use it in battle.” Missaglia grabbed his forefinger. “Secundo, you can make a cannon from inch-thick iron, transport it with the same effort, but you couldn’t use it in battle. It would explode in your face at the first shot.” Missaglia squeezed his middle finger. “Terzero, you can make a cannon from two-inch-thick iron and use it in battle but it would be very costly to transport it onto the battlefield. It would be much heavier than a bronze one of the same size. Moreover, bronze melts and becomes liquid much more easily. You need half the heat or almost. Bronze is a great material but it can’t be used for armor. It’s too hard to hammer. It’s fine for cannons, though. And for statues, am I right, Master Leonardo?”

  Just for a change, Leonardo was lost in his own thoughts, his brow furrowed, his eyes downcast. Quite justifiably, no doubt, since what Massiglia was saying was something he knew only too well. After a few seconds’ silence he roused himself, and the deep furrow on his brow faded.

  “You’re quite right, Master Antonio. And that’s why I’m here. You see, I’m doing a few little tests for the casting of the monumental horse in memory of His Lordship the late duke, and I need a small quantity of copper to melt into bronze. Three or four sheets at most.”

  “Anything you need, Master Leonardo. Do you also require tin to bind it?”

  “No, I still have enough for another two or three castings. The thing is, Master Antonio, I need you to give me this copper on credit. I don’t have the money to pay you right now, but I’m expecting a large sum from the Confraternity
for the panel and—”

  As Trotti took a few steps away to lessen the embarrassment, Missaglia raised his hands, casting a shadow over a hectare of courtyard behind him.

  “Oh, for goodness’ sake, Master Leonardo. For you, this and more. As long as you promise not to pay me in lead.” Missaglia laughed, but stopped immediately on seeing Leonardo turn the color of wine. “I’m jesting, of course, Master Leonardo. I’ll send for some copper right away. In Milan, it’s other people who are bad payers. Do come back whenever you wish, you’re always welcome here.”

  * * *

  “Oh, Galeazzo, welcome. Have you been to that poor fellow Rambaldo Chiti’s abode?”

  Ludovico il Moro was sitting on the bed, playing cards with Beatrice, who, judging by the mound of little silver deniers in her lap, was winning. And, judging by His Lordship’s face, this wasn’t due solely to his wife’s luck and/or skill.

  “As Your Lordship instructed.” Galeazzo lifted his chin, and it was almost impossible not to notice that his eyes were glistening. This was almost more evident than the large wooden chest he was holding, and which seemed to weigh a great deal. “We closed and bolted the doors and windows and piled the clothes and blankets we found in the house into a cart that’s just outside here.”

  “Good.” Ludovico slowly put down a card, and Beatrice snatched it at lightning speed and slipped it in among the ones she had in her hand. “Now make sure to burn them with wood and coal, aromatic herbs and incense. Magistro Ambrogio says these things are essential for removing the contagion, which goes way up high with the smoke and can’t be carried on the winds anymore.”

  “We’ll do that. But I think you’d like to know what else we found and how we found it.”

  “I don’t follow you, Captain.”

  “First of all, Rambaldo Chiti’s home was very poor. Very poor, like its owner’s clothes and his few possessions. But these few things were in such a mess, in such a state of upheaval that it’s impossible to think someone could live in a place like that. It was worse than a whorehouse on a drunken night, if I may be allowed to use such a licentious expression in Your Lordship’s presence.”