Cecilia laughed too, in her elegant, ladylike way, relieved not to have to intervene in light of the turn the conversation had taken.
Father Diodato laughed, covering his mouth and blushing, like someone who shouldn’t be joking about some things even though everyone else does.
Josquin des Prez laughed, his eyes narrowed and his mouth open, giving Leonardo, who was also laughing, a slap on the back.
Only Friar Gioacchino was not laughing.
“You see, Brother Gioacchino, musical intervals give sensations that come from their proportion. Depending on the length of the string or pipe that produces them. That’s where harmony is born. It’s not the actual sound that gives a sensation but their relationship and the concordance in their relationship.”
“If you were right, Messer Leonardo,” Father Diodato said—beside him, Friar Gioacchino looked like a dog about to snarl—“then the most sublime sound of all should be the one that corresponds to the name of Our Lord. Deus. De-us. Re-Ut.”
“If the name of Our Lord were the same in every language in the world, I might agree with your theory. But in the Semitic language, that in which Our Lord God revealed Himself to men, there are actually no vowels.”
“That means words and music are distanced from each other,” Friar Gioacchino said in a trenchant tone. “And the Lord, who has chosen to distance us from animals by giving us the power of speech and the task of giving names to everything in creation, certainly did not tell us to make music. Man is the master of creation because the Almighty has given him speech and certainly not because he can play a lyre. Even a dog can draw sounds from a harpsichord if it walks over it.”
“You can also draw sounds from your own larynx, for that matter.”
“Those are sounds, not words.”
“Or else they are words we do not understand. No, Brother Gioacchino, I agree that the power of speech allows us to dominate the world, but not that it’s a gift from the Lord or that it’s what distinguishes us from animals. If that were the case, then why would the Lord have given us something that makes it possible for us to lie?”
Leonardo opened his hands, like someone saying something simple and true.
“Animals don’t lie. Men do. That’s the true power of our speech, that’s what truly distinguishes us from beasts. We can lie. Or rather, we can say things that don’t exist. And speak of things that don’t exist. I can draw a dog with eight legs, or a man with two heads, but to do so I don’t need to have seen them or know they exist.”
Leonardo continued, raising his index finger, while Friar Gioacchino watched him as though the artist were suggesting painting Christ in a mini-skirt:
“A great philosopher, a German named Nicholas of Cusa, says that this ability makes man similar to God: this ability to invent things that didn’t previously exist and give them a meaning. Every man can give shape, in his own head, to objects that don’t exist and persuade others that such objects exist or will exist. Think of dragons, or unicorns.”
While Leonardo was speaking, Friar Gioacchino stood up, his face even uglier than the one he normally wore.
“So, Leonardo, are you saying the Lord has given us the ability to lie? That the Almighty’s greatest gift to His creation is the lie? That, Messer Leonardo, is blasphemy. Take back what you said.”
“I’ve no intention of doing so, Brother Gioacchino. Say something, then take it back? It would be like digging a hole then filling it again. I already have so little time to do all the things I have to do that wasting it like that would be a sin, don’t you think?”
Friar Gioacchino turned to his prior, contempt coming out of his ears (along with hair). “Forgive me, Father, but I have no intention of staying in the same room as a coarse blasphemer.”
There was a moment of oppressive silence, interrupted by a servant who appeared at the door.
“Countess . . .”
“Yes, Corso?”
“The musicians of the ducal chapel and the ambassadors of His Most Christian Majesty are here. The Duke of Commynes, Signor Perron de Basche, and two gentlemen whose names I don’t know.”
“Thank you, Corso. Show them into the music salon.”
* * *
“Leonardo, Leonardo, when will you learn to keep quiet?”
Some embroidery in her lap, Cecilia Gallerani was looking at Leonardo and shaking her head. Leonardo was sitting opposite her in his usual little armchair made of wood and canvas, hands joined and resting on his closed knees. Besides them, only Tersilla was in the room. The two clerics had left without a word, Friar Gioacchino with his chin up and Father Diodato apologizing to the hostess, while Josquin des Prez had relocated to the salon to welcome the musicians and the French envoys, with a cocktail of haste and courtesy in equal measure.
“I apologize profusely, Countess, I would never have thought that such intellectual discourse could be taken as a blasphemy against the Almighty. I have been frequenting your salon for months, and I have always appreciated the profound candor and composure of your guests when speaking of philosophy. In fact, I had assumed that Father Diodato was not a newcomer to your gatherings.”
“That is indeed so. This wasn’t his first time, and he has always shown himself to be a man of intelligence, as well as a staunch defender of the Holy Roman Church, although never inclined to bigotry. Perhaps it was my fault, but I was eager to meet that Friar Gioacchino everyone in the city is talking about. And I wasn’t the only one, was I, Tersilla?”
“Not at all, Countess. At the Broletto, his sermons were all that people were talking about. But I didn’t think he would be so . . . so . . .”
“I know, I know,” Leonardo said, turning the palm of his hand upward. “It always satisfies our sense of justice to hear attacks aimed at the wicked, as long as those deemed wicked are other people. But he’s precisely the kind of Christian who hasn’t read the parable in the Gospel and who, blinded by the beam in his own eye, chose to see the mote in my reasoning. As though there weren’t already enough wickedness within the walls of Milan without the need to make up some more.”
“Are you referring to that poor man who was smitten by divine wrath?”
“Divine wrath had nothing to do with it, my dear Tersilla. That man died suffocated at the hand of man, and for less than noble motives, I believe. Just as I believe the thing may drive me to ruin unless I can find an explanation for that act.”
Tersilla blushed deeply while Cecilia shuddered—a verb that must always be used when describing a lady’s reaction in a historical novel. Especially if it is set during the Renaissance.
“Are you serious?”
“Alas, Countess, the man who was deprived of his senses was a wretched workshop apprentice of mine.”
“An apprentice of yours?”
“He used to be. His name was Rambaldo Chiti.”
“Rambaldo Chiti. I don’t know him. Did you ever mention him to me?”
“Not by name, Countess.”
“Now I understand. He was that villain who paid with fake coins on your behalf, wasn’t he?”
“He and none other, Countess. I have reason to believe that, as I may already have told you, he continued with that evil trade of his and counterfeited a letter of credit that was found in his possession. That’s why I was at His Lordship’s after dinner today, with the Most Illustrious Bergonzio Botta.”
“Most Illustrious, Messer Leonardo?” Tersilla said, her eyes narrowed. “Forgive me, but using such words for one of those predatory dogs who make a living from scraping every penny they can from the pockets of artisans with heavy taxes—”
“Tersilla!”
“Forgive me, Countess, but that’s what the city calls them. Predatory dogs. If they were decent people, they wouldn’t need to travel with escorts.”
“Please leave us, Tersilla.”
“As you wish, Cou
ntess.”
Tersilla stood up, eyes shining and bosom heaving, gathered her skirts, and left the room, quietly closing the door behind her. Cecilia leaned slightly toward her guest.
“Forgive my lady in waiting’s boldness, Messer Leonardo. She’s a good young woman who’s had unpleasant experiences in her family. A year of floods that ruined a harvest, and her dowry went up in smoke. I took her in with me to look after little Cesare. My little emperor, as I call him.”
“I understand. And how comes it that you relieved her of this duty?”
“How do you know I did?”
“Your Cesare, Countess, has just turned two. A child that age needs his nanny at every hour of the day, and yet for some months now I’ve seen Madamigella Tersilla tending to you and not to him.”
Yes, indeed. Cesare Sforza, the illegitimate son of Cecilia and Ludovico, had turned two only in May. True, they said he was a precocious little tot, so much so that when he turns six his father will try to get him appointed Archbishop of Milan, but four years earlier little Cesare wasn’t doing much beyond eating and the opposite, and anybody given responsibility for his wellbeing had to be on duty from lauds to vespers.
“You’re right,” Cecilia said, blushing slightly. “You see, Tersilla is a good young woman, although a little bit of a flirt with men, but she comes from a family outside the walls and grew up somewhat coarsely. She often speaks in a licentious and at times imprudent manner, as you heard. I don’t wish my little boy to grow up hearing vulgar words like those you’ve just heard, and for which I once again beg your forgiveness.”
“I don’t see why sincerity should require forgiveness. Everybody here in Milan can see that the Duchy has increased taxes excessively, and as for the new duty on salt . . .”
Cecilia sighed, as a woman might sigh on seeing her former high school sweetheart walk by with his wife, a pot belly, and a comb-over. “You will never hear me speak ill of His Lordship Ludovico il Moro, Messer Leonardo. Let us get back to you, please.”
“I apologize, Countess. I didn’t mean to . . . Anyway, the thing is, the banker whose letter was counterfeited was a friend of mine in Florence and—”
“Was? Is he dead?”
“Yes, Countess, he died last summer. For Chiti to have faked his signature and handwriting, someone here in Milan must have had a sample, a letter of credit that could have been used as a model. Botta and I tried to make a list of the people here in Milan with whom he wrote to me that he’d had dealings. You probably know some of them yourself: they’re wool workers or carders, like Giovanni Barraccio and Clemente Vulzio—”
“I know Barraccio well. I get blankets and cloaks from him.”
“—or else jewel and gemstone merchants, like Candido Bertone, or traders in needles and tools for working brocade and silk, like Costante at Porta Ticinese. Anyway, we’re trying to find out if any of these people have mislaid one of these letters or had one stolen from them. This very day, the captain of justice will call on these people and ask them for an account of their credit transactions, and tomorrow go to Accerrito Portinari’s bank to look at the books and see if they match.”
“And what about you?”
“Right now I shall come with you to listen to some good music and try to take my mind off things.”
* * *
“It’s no use. He won’t take his mind off it.”
“If he won’t take his mind off it, then we must think of something else,” Robinot said. “In the meantime, keep an eye on him.”
Around them, the music room was enveloped in the confident, powerful harmonies produced by the singers of the ducal chapel—high and low waves that each member added to and subtracted from in an ebb and flow that became one vast sea of sonorous beauty, thanks to Josquin’s confident direction.
Behind him as he led the singers, seeming almost to compress and shift the air as he wished, more than twenty people sat with rapt attention, although some more than others. Among the less attentive ones were Leonardo, who clearly was attending the concert more in body than in brain, and the Duke of Commynes’s two henchmen, who, at an appropriate distance from their master, were discussing their objective in low voices.
“I still think we could do it the old way,” Mattenet said, although there was doubt in his tone. “A nice dark alley and . . . whack!”
“Listen, you shit-filled brain, I’ll whack that thing dangling between your legs,” Robinot said, still muttering through his half-open mouth. “You heard our master Commynes. He mustn’t be hurt in any way.”
“Our master Commynes can talk. I’d like to see him in our shoes. Instead of which, there he is, between two beautiful ladies. Do you see the one on the right?”
Robinot glanced over at his master and saw Tersilla, sitting next to him, her little foot swaying lazily from left to right.
“Yes, I see her.”
“She’s undressing me with her eyes.”
“Forget it. We need to think about work.”
“I am thinking about it. And she’s thinking about it too. How much longer is this thing going to drag on?”
As though to confirm Mattenet’s words, the young lady turned and threw the young Frenchman a very Italian look, which spoke without the need for words. Then, after a languid moment, she turned back toward the singers.
“What did I tell you? Did you see that?”
Robinot turned and looked at his sidekick. Tall and straight, with broad shoulders, narrow hips, and all his teeth still in his mouth, displayed now in a young, mocking smile. All in all, a fine-looking youth.
Robinot studied him for a moment, then let his eyes wander slowly around the room, a slow, ravaged smile spreading across his face.
Just then, the music came to an end and applause washed over the musicians. Josquin bowed to the small but densely-packed group of listeners.
While everybody was applauding, Robinot went up to the Duke of Commynes, brought his mouth close to his ear, and whispered something. Almost immediately, the duke turned to his repellent aide, smiled, and nodded slowly. Then, drawing his lips close to Tersilla’s ear, he whispered into it. The lady in waiting, casting a fleeting glance in Mattenet’s direction, blushed and covered her face with her fan, although she was unable to conceal her smile.
Meanwhile, the Duke of Commynes also looked, and nodded with even more conviction, as though proud of his second aide’s handsomeness.
Robinot rubbed his hands and returned to his companion.
“Well? What did the Duke say?”
“I’ll tell you now.”
* * *
“No.”
“It’s the only way.”
“Not on your life.”
“The Duke agrees. He thinks it’s a brilliant idea.”
“That’s good of him! It’s easy to be a hero when it’s someone else’s hide on the line. No, no, and no.”
“Listen, these are the Duke’s orders. The Duke has given me his word that if you come back with the notebook, the lady in waiting will be yours.”
“And if I come back without the notebook?”
“Then it’ll mean Messer Leonardo will have screwed you twice. And the third time the Duke will do it himself.” Robinot nudged his accomplice with his elbow and handed him a goblet full of wine. “Come on, stop making a fuss. Leonardo’s alone. Use your charm and ask him if he’d like company on his way home.”
Mattenet looked around. A few meters away, the Duke of Commynes met his gaze and raised an eyebrow, then turned his eyes to Leonardo, who was alone, his back against a pillar, looking thoughtful, like someone who has better things to do.
Mattenet took the goblet without enthusiasm, raised it to his lips, emptied it in two gulps, and returned it to his companion without looking at him.
“When I come back, I’ll kill you.”
TEN
&nb
sp; Do you really run the risk of losing all this?”
“Alas, yes, Messer Leonardo,” Father Diodato replied, eyes downcast. “I don’t know when exactly it’ll happen, but we’re in the Lord’s hands. And His Lordship’s.”
Leonardo nodded slowly, still looking at the frescoes in the large refectory. Just to make it clear, they were nothing special, what we would nowadays call “late 15th-century Lombard school,” more appropriate for a degree thesis than a paying public. Bernardino Butinone and Bernardo Zenale, as well as the odd niche and makeover by a spurious hand that Leonardo was able to recognize with just one look, and no desire to give it a second.
And yet it was obvious that the good Father Diodato was worried. Not so much at the thought of losing the frescoes, which he had partly commissioned himself, but at the prospect of losing the pictorial support—in other words, the building.
“His Lordship’s new law is very clear,” Father Diodato continued. “Anybody wishing to expand and enlarge his place of commerce or manufacture may expropriate the buildings adjacent to his own establishment, unless they are already a part of other places of commerce or manufacture.”
“But you’re also in commerce, unless I’m mistaken,” Leonardo said, his eyes still wandering over the frescoes. Recent frescoes.
Leonardo didn’t like the fresco technique. Too quick, too decisive. It didn’t give you time to think again, to correct, to add shade and gradation.
“Oh, very little,” Father Diodato said. “We’re small-scale artisans. We produce brandy, and pigments for painting, as well you know. Fortunately, when our fellow brother Eligio da Varramista led a secular life, he was accustomed to keeping double-entry books, and he keeps a close watch on every item of expenditure in order to avoid wasting money. And Friar Eligio is much more careful and punctilious in his practice than any other of our brothers. But our Congregation was created precisely to oppose the commerce in everything inside the Holy Roman Church. We’re too small as merchants, and of too little importance as a religious Congregation.”
The Measure of a Man Page 14