The Measure of a Man

by Marco Malvaldi

  “The worst should be over, Your Lordship.”

  “I know from experience that when the first German mercenary dies of the plague, we have plague. I need someone who can counsel me. And to think that Magistro Ambrogio had foretold a day filled with success.”

  “The day is not over yet, Your Lordship,” Trotti said with a knowing air.

  “You’re right, Messer Giacomo . . . Yes, what is it?”

  “The Duke of Commynes and Signor Perron de Basche,” Bernardino da Corte announced in a trembling voice. “They’re asking to see you, Your Lordship.”

  “Now’s not the time,” Ludovico said curtly.

  “If I may be so bold, Your Lordship, I think it might be a good idea to receive them,” the castellan said, looking to his left with an alarmed and apparently slightly disgusted expression.

  “Very well, show them in.”

  The Duke of Commynes’s form was revealed in the doorway, lingering on the threshold.

  “Duke, my respects. Please come in. I wanted to speak with you.”

  “And I wanted to speak with you, Your Lordship,” the Duke said, reaching out with his left hand for something behind the door. “I wanted to speak with you about this.”

  And, having taken the object in question, the duke came into the room, dragging it along the ground behind him, while Bernardino da Corte watched the scene with a look that was decidedly more disgusted than frightened.

  Giacomo Trotti was right. The day wasn’t over yet.

  I hope my readers will now forgive me, but the duty of a chronicler is to be specific, even if the scene to be described may seem utterly incredible as well as vaguely repulsive.

  The object the Duke of Commynes was dragging was actually a dwarf covered in shit.

  * * *

  “I’d like you to explain this to me,” the Duke of Commynes went on, literally dragging the dwarf toward il Moro. The dwarf glided across the floor, leaving skid marks on it.

  Ludovico followed the dwarf’s arrival with his eyes. This was not some random dwarf, but an old acquaintance of ours, good old Catrozzo, who had performed for Charles VIII’s ambassadors on the first evening.

  A dwarf who spoke French, as Ludovico had asked Galeazzo Sanseverino. Both essential characteristics for lodging in the wide, square-based leg that held up the table in the ambassadors’ room, the one with HERCULES DUX FERRARIÆ ETCETERA ETCETERA written on it, and listening, undisturbed, to the conversations of the two French legates and their henchmen. It was something Ludovico usually did with the diplomatic envoys of various Italian cities, placing a dwarf inside the wooden cavity then letting him out surreptitiously to relate private—or supposedly private—conversations and recompensing him in some way.

  The day before, having heard an account of the Frenchmen’s conversations from this analogue equivalent of a wiretap, Ludovico had rewarded him by sending him into the kitchens and giving him carte blanche with the cooks; good old Catrozzo had filled his belly with prunes in syrup, dried figs, dates, and other delicacies intent on waging war on the large intestine. Consequently, that morning, after taking up his position inside the table leg, the dwarf had felt a slight discomfort in his stomach, which had gradually turned into an unbearable pain, and what had first seemed like no more than harmless flatulence had been transmuted into a genuine disaster.

  Alerted by the unequivocal smell, the two ambassadors had looked at each other with mutual suspicion; but once they had ascertained that neither of them had a problem, it hadn’t been difficult to locate the origin of the warning signal. And so it was that, having established the presence of a human being by inserting a sword into a joint in the wood and hearing screams, the two men had pulled poor Catrozzo out of the leg, although not without a long and filthy struggle.

  “I’ll explain it to you immediately, Duke,” Ludovico replied, pointing to Catrozzo, who was lying on the floor motionless but trembling. “It seems obvious that I didn’t trust the two of you.”

  Ludovico got up from his chair, once again revealing himself at his full height.

  “I didn’t trust you, and I was right not to, judging by the fact that someone was planning to rob Leonardo da Vinci, an engineer in my service, of his private writings.”

  “Nobody ever imagined doing such a thing,” Perron de Basche said boastfully. “The dwarf misunderstood.”

  “Then tell me, where are your two attendants?”

  The two Frenchmen, the real one and the adopted one, looked at each other. It’s never a good sign, Trotti thought, when it’s not clear which of the two has to speak.

  “Who, Robinot and Mattenet?” the Duke of Commynes said. “They’re not back yet. They must have been making merry last night. In fact, I hope they haven’t gotten themselves into any trouble.”

  “Indeed not. They’re safe underground, in a warm, comfortable cell.”

  Perron de Basche and Commynes looked straight into Ludovico’s face.

  “They’re under arrest,” il Moro continued calmly, “given that last night they assaulted Leonardo, in my city, not far from my castle, and tried to snatch something he had on him. His notebook, I imagine. It was only the intervention of Leonardo’s personal bodyguard and two of my specially appointed guards . . .”

  Trotti gave a little cough to conceal a laugh.

  “. . . that prevented Leonardo from falling victim to his assailants.”

  Now the two Frenchmen were avoiding each other’s eyes. There was a few seconds’ silence, a heavy silence—a smelly one too, since Catrozzo was still where he’d been put.

  “Your Lordship, as you can understand, I must confer with my legate,” the Duke of Commynes said, looking as noble and respectful as he could.

  “I’m in complete agreement with you,” il Moro said gravely. “I think it might be best for all of us if you did so outside the walls of this castle.”

  * * *

  “Just outside the castle walls, can you imagine, Caterina? But they hardly had time to touch him, the scoundrels. I was ten paces away, and I got there right away. There were two of them, but they weren’t expecting it. I gave the first one a blow with the sword handle right here”—Salaí, having first mimicked holding an imaginary weapon in his hands, indicated the nape of his neck—“but the second one grabbed the handle and pulled the sword away from me. He was bigger than me, and stronger, but I did like the goat in my surname and busted him with my head, right in the stomach—”

  “Butted. You butted him in the stomach,” Caterina said, removing the wet cloth from Leonardo’s head and replacing it with another, soaked in icy water.

  Leonardo was lying in bed, silent, with his eyes shut. It hadn’t been an easy day, the one that had just passed. And now he was at home, in his own bed, so the only thing he would have wished for was some peace and quiet.

  “It’s the same thing, what matters is that he got it in the stomach. He must have thrown up everything he had in him, even his mother’s milk from when he was a child. Then—”

  “Giacomo, please,” Leonardo implored, in a tired but authoritative voice. “I was there too, last night. You may have dealt the blows, but I took them. Let’s not talk about it anymore, I beg you.”

  “Anyway, when the guards arrived, you should have seen the commotion! Everybody punching everybody, screaming, shouting, attansión! stop right there! sacré, merde! But if I hadn’t been there—”

  “Truly, young Giacomo,” Caterina said, putting a hand on her son’s forehead, “if you hadn’t been there, it would have been awful.”

  “If it had been light, young Giacomo,” Zanino said, “you’d have taken so many blows, you’d have had to ask your mother for help to count them in Roman numerals. You’re a boy, the others were soldiers.”

  Zanino da Ferrara was one of the many apprentices of Leonardo who, on hearing of his misadventure, had left the studio a
nd the workshop and rushed to the house to make sure of their master’s condition.

  “And alzo, master,” Giulio the German, the last to arrive in Leonardo’s house, said, “if you hadn’t come back from ze castle zo late, maybe nobody vould have attacked you.”

  A large, bearded man, who had turned up one day at the master’s house saying that he had come to serve and to learn. And what can you do? Leonardo had asked him. I verk iron vith fire, the man had replied, hammering the air with blackened hands. And Leonardo needed blacksmiths, or people who knew even the slightest thing about working metals, like he needed air. So all right, then, come, Giulio the German, nobody is indispensable but everybody is useful.

  “The master was working, not having fun,” Zanino replied with bad grace. He hadn’t liked the coarse bearded fellow ever since he’d arrived. Besides, Leonardo already had an expert on metal in the house. Him. And then there was Master Antonio, and, when needed, Sangallo . . . What could the master possibly want with this barbarian?

  “Working is for daytime, nighttime is for sleeper,” Giulio stated, Teutonic even in the content of his speech.

  “Sleeping, actually,” Salaí said, happy to be able to correct someone too. “And anyway, you know the master sleeps and works in his own time. He goes to bed for an hour when he feels like it, then works for four.”

  “Nobody knows better than you when the master goes to bed, right, young Giacomo?”

  “Listen, metal expert my ass, if you want to see how hard the iron in my sword is, just keep it up and—”

  “Enough!”

  Leonardo bounced up so quickly that the wet compress flew out through the window. It was such a strange scene that at any other time it would have been comical; right now, though, there was nothing to laugh about.

  “Enough, for Christ’s sake!” Leonardo said, getting out of bed, while everybody else in the room quieted down instantly.

  Everyone knows that Leonardo was sweet-natured. And, like all sweet-natured people, he seldom got angry. But when he did get angry, he was scary.

  Downstairs, somebody knocked at the door, and Caterina took the opportunity to go see who it was. Meanwhile, Leonardo had launched into a rant.

  “I’ve been accused, humiliated, attacked, and now I can’t even rest in my own home! Out of here!”

  “I’m sorry, master, if—”

  “Out! For the love of God, out!”

  Caterina’s voice came up from downstairs. “Leonardo, you have visitors—”

  “More?” Leonardo cried, out of control by now, heading for the door. “Who’s come to break my balls now?”

  And, with the menacing expression of a man unwilling to take it anymore, he leaned over the wooden banister and looked down.

  And that is how, perhaps for the first time in his life, he had the opportunity to see Ludovico il Moro from above.

  * * *

  “Your Lordship must forgive me, I would never dare address Your Lordship so crudely.”

  Ludovico closed the bedroom door behind him. His head was practically touching the ceiling. He looked around, took the only chair in the room, and sat down.

  “Let’s not look at the form, Leonardo, let’s look at the substance. I’ve come here with a request.”

  Leonardo, who had sat back down on the bed, said nothing.

  “It’s a request I am making as regent of the Duchy of Milan, not as your patron. You may agree or refuse.”

  Leonardo smiled, but his breath rose from his belly to his chest. This was no hint, no kiss on the neck, rather it was soap on the rope of the hanged man.

  “But if you refuse, you will give me reason to believe that my trust in you is misplaced. Last night, you were assaulted by henchmen of the French ambassador. Do you know why they tried to rob you?”

  “Yes, Your Lordship, I think I do. They wanted my notebook.”

  “They wanted your notebook?”

  “Yes, Your Lordship. They’d already made one rather clumsy attempt in the past few days, and maybe, now that I think about it, even a second one.”

  “And why do they want this notebook? How come this damned notebook is so important? What’s written in it?”

  “Nothing that matters to anybody else but me.”

  “Then why do other people want to get their hands on it?”

  “Your Lordship is asking too much of me. I can’t possibly know what other people think.”

  “You’re right, Leonardo. In that case I’ll tell you. The French ambassadors, urged on by Louis, Duke of Orléans, believe that what you conceal in your notebook are the plans for a secret weapon. A warlike automaton to defend the city boundaries.”

  Leonardo smiled and shook his head.

  “The ambassador of Ferrara, Giacomo Trotti, thinks it contains the secret of transmuting base metals into gold, and that’s the reason the Duchy is so wealthy.”

  This time, Leonardo laughed heartily. “Your Lordship, this business of transmuting base metal into gold is something I’ve never dreamed of wasting my time on. I understood a long time ago that perpetual motion and the dream of King Midas are fairy stories, and I don’t concern myself with them.” Leonardo made himself more comfortable on the bed, trying to alleviate his unease. “But what concerns me more is what Your Lordship thinks. What, in Your Lordship’s opinion, could possibly be in my very private notebook?”

  “That’s why I’m here, Leonardo. If what I think is false, then it does me no honor, but if it’s true, then it would do great dishonor to you. I don’t want to tell you. But I would like you to show it to me.”

  “I will show it to Your Lordship, and only to you, if Your Lordship agrees to tell me what he expects to find in it, or hopes not to find.”

  Ludovico looked toward the window and spoke in a subdued tone, almost a murmur. “I hope not to find one or more letters of credit signed by Bencio Serristori or other Florentine bankers, to be used by you or other members of your workshop in the manufacture of fake letters of credit.”

  Leonardo was quite still for a moment. Then he slowly pulled on the leather strap of his tunic and loosened the buckle. Then, still slowly, he slipped his hand between his shirt and his body and took out a small, thick notebook filled with sheets of paper, some more yellowed than others.

  “As you wish, Your Lordship.”

  Ludovico put out his hand and took the notebook.

  Before he could open it, however, Leonardo spoke again.

  “You have asked me for this notebook as Lord of Milan, Your Lordship, and not as my patron. You made an important distinction, and I mean to make one of my own before you start reading.”

  Leonardo touched the notebook in Ludovico’s hand, delicately and with care, the way a mother adjusts the blanket around her newborn baby in the arms of an old-maid aunt.

  “As Lord of Milan, you welcomed me. As a patron, after reading my letter of introduction, you gave me your trust. You gave me your trust after reading the things I wrote you. Now you mistrust me before reading things I have written for myself.”

  Leonardo pushed his hands down on the bed and got to his feet in front of il Moro.

  “As a citizen, Your Lordship, I am confident that you will be fair in administering justice and in recognizing that everybody has an equal measure of merits and faults. As an artist, Ludovico, I trust you will be able to understand that I am a free man, and that I am bound to a patron of mine not only if he recognizes my abilities but also if he recognizes my work in its true measure.”

  And, delicately lifting the cover of the notebook in Ludovico’s hand, he opened it.

  There was something strange in it.

  Letters.

  Not letters of credit, but actual letters. With the date at the beginning and a signature at the end. Filled with drawings, as Leonardo’s letters were.

  But . . .
/>   “But they’re written from right to left.”

  “That’s the way I always write.”

  “So these are your letters? The drafts of your letters?”

  “I’ll explain while you read, Your Lordship. Here, look in this mirror. If you need a light, I’ll have one brought to you right away.”

  * * *

  “How long have they been up there?”

  “Nearly two hours.”

  Caterina swallowed enough saliva to reach the second liter of the morning. Having the Lord of Milan in her home was not an everyday event to start with. But realizing that the Lord of Milan had come for her son, and that he might leave with her son, and that the four armed guards waiting in her kitchen might be there for that reason, did nothing to reassure her.

  At last, the door opened.

  Ludovico il Moro was the first to come out, with an expression on his face that was truly scary. He was clearly disappointed, but more than disappointed, he was angry.

  Behind him, Leonardo. Clearly worried and contrite, but more worried than contrite.

  Ludovico came down the stairs, slowly. He waited for Leonardo to reach the ground floor too before he spoke.

  “You’ve disappointed me, Leonardo. Once again, you’ve disappointed me. Are you aware of that?”

  “I realize that, Your Lordship.”

  “Good. Then let’s go. I’d like to conclude this business quickly.”

  And, having made a sign to the guards, he set off. The guards closed in around Leonardo.

  “What’s happening, Your Lordship?”

  “Your son must come with me, Madonna Caterina.”

  “So you’re arresting him?”

  Ludovico turned. For the first time that day, he smiled.

  “Absolutely not, Madonna Caterina. I need your son as a witness. He’s vital to me in a legal case. He’ll be back home this evening, if not sooner.”