TWELVE PLUS ONE
(THE MASTER OF THE HOUSE IS VERY SUPERSTITIOUS)
The Room of the Chevrons was never an inviting or welcoming place, which was quite deliberate. It was gloomy, dark, cold, and menacing, so that anyone who was admitted to implore a favor or ask for justice would not waste time chatting, and anyone called to account before the Secret Council chaired by Ludovico il Moro would be intimidated just enough to provide a nice confession, which, during the Renaissance, was the kind of evidence preferred by courts everywhere. Whatever the reason for being admitted, entering that room was not pleasant.
What made the situation even worse for those who now found themselves there was the fact that the reason was unclear. In fact, various people had come before the Council today, and for various reasons.
Accerrito Portinari, director of the Medici Bank’s Milanese branch, who, as a petitioner, had brought before the Council the bearers of a number of letters of credit he considered to be fake.
Clemente Vulzio, Candido Bertone, Riccetto Nannipieri, and Ademaro Costante, the bearers of these letters, whom Accerrito was bringing to the Council as defendants, but who claimed to be accusers eager for justice, in so far as Portinari was refusing to pay them the sums stipulated by the letters each of them had presented—a total of five thousand ducats, not exactly a trifle.
Father Diodato da Siena, together with his fellow friar Eligio da Varramista. In fact, it was the latter who had been summoned, on the advice of Bergonzio Botta, as an expert in promissory notes and letters of credit, being a former banker converted to faith on the road to Milan, a case that was not so much rare as unique of a person moving to Milan in order to stop devoting himself to high finance. Father Diodato was there simply as a companion, because letting one of his fellow friars go out into the big wide world on his own and letting him speak without himself being present just didn’t seem right.
And, finally, the councilors. Seven rather than the usual six, since among them sat Leonardo da Vinci. Seemingly, the person most out of place in that room.
* * *
“So, Messer Accerrito, you claim that the letters brought by these gentlemen are fake and you have stated your reasons.” Ludovico turned to his left. “While you, gentlemen, claim that these letters are authentic, signed by Bencio Serristori in his own hand on the stated dates. Do you confirm your statements?”
“I confirm,” said Vulzio, a small red-headed man with a face ravaged by smallpox.
“I confirm,” echoed Bertone, a tall, muscular young man with a strong Sienese accent.
“I confirm, as God is my witness,” Nannipieri, a stout fellow, hunched over from too many hours spent at the loom, added his voice to the chorus.
“I confirm,” came the final repetition, from Ademaro Costante, an extremely thin forty-year-old whose main source of protein was probably the fingernails of his right hand, which he hadn’t stopped chewing for a second since he had entered.
“Friar Eligio, what is your opinion?”
Friar Eligio was a totally bald little man, except for a tuft of hair the color of a dead rat bursting out of his forehead and reaching for infinity. After nodding a few times, as though to remind himself that he was sure of his own opinion, he produced a voice as thin as the thread of a spider web.
“The letters are written on extremely fine Florentine paper, the same kind I used to employ when I dealt with exchange at the Medici Bank,” he began, while everybody in the room listened hard. “The letter is drafted according to the rules of the bank, with date, sum, estimate of the exchange at destination, and specification of the banker of destination. I have no reason to suspect that it’s false.”
“Then why are we here? Why won’t you give us our money? Who suspects these letters are false and why?”
“You’re right, Messer Riccetto,” Ludovico said, with a compliant air. “Galeazzo, would you care to explain?”
“A few days ago the body of a man who had died a violent death was found here, in the castle courtyard. His name was Rambaldo Chiti, a painter and artist, born in Milan.”
“Peace be with him,” Nannipieri said curtly. “And what’s that to us?”
“In the house of the aforementioned Rambaldo Chiti, the captain of justice and I personally found equipment for minting fake coins, as well as a letter of credit signed by Bencio Serristori, which was also, beyond any doubt, a fake.”
“Forgive me, Your Excellency,” Friar Eligio cut in, “I should like to know, out of curiosity if nothing else, how you can be so certain. It’s not easy to prove that a letter of credit is fake. I know that from experience. Many times, in my secular life, I had to hand over pure gold florins in exchange for a suspect letter.”
“This letter was allegedly written in Florence by Bencio Serristori, but was dated June twenty-fourth.”
“Ah,” Friar Eligio said, relieved. “In that case there’s no doubt whatsoever. Nobody works on the Feast of Saint John. Therefore, the forger is definitely not from Florence. Although if I may be so bold . . .”
“Do go on, Friar Eligio.”
“This Rambaldo Chiti whom you say was murdered was allegedly also the forger, is that it?”
“We believe so, yes. Messer Leonardo?”
Sitting with his hands on his lap, Leonardo slowly nodded. “I had Rambaldo Chiti in my workshop for a couple of years and had personal experience both of his great talent for painting and of his fraudulent, iniquitous nature. He paid a friend and customer of mine in fake money after getting real money from me, and the fake letter was found in his hiding place, where he kept a pipe for melting and equipment for minting fake ducats. There is no doubt about this.”
“Thank you, Messer Leonardo.”
“Very well,” Vulzio said with an air of defiance. “Very well, Your Lordship. Chiti was a forger. But that has nothing to do with the letter in my possession, which is dated June sixteenth. I can assure you that on that day Bencio Serristori was still alive and capable of writing.”
“Correct, Messer Clemente. On June sixteenth, Bencio Serristori was, indeed, still alive. This detail is relevant since Messer Bencio died at the beginning of July.”
“Then what reason could there be to doubt the authenticity of our letters?”
“So you guarantee that your letters are true and authentic?”
“I guarantee that mine is, obviously, since I personally saw it being drafted,” Vulzio grumbled. “I don’t know about the others, but I see no motive for suspicion.”
“Is that so? Your letters are authentic? Very well, gentlemen, our beautiful city is founded on its credit system, and if the letters are authentic, I myself can rule that Messer Accerrito pay them in ready cash. If Messer Portinari does not intend to pay them, not only will I put him in jail, but I will pay them myself. Messer Portinari, do you intend to pay these letters?”
“Not one penny.”
“Well, in that case, gentlemen, if you agree, the situation becomes my responsibility. Messer Accerrito, kindly come here.”
Accerrito Portinari went and stood before il Moro, who began writing a note on a snow-white sheet of paper. Once he had written it, Ludovico turned the sheet toward Portinari and said solemnly:
“I hereby take upon myself your debts toward the gentlemen present here today, in accordance with the conditions stated.”
Accerrito looked at the piece of paper and felt his blood rush to his face, then drain away.
“But Your Lordship can’t—”
“You had better sign it, Messer Accerrito, for your own good.”
The four men looked at one another with glistening eyes as Accerrito Portinari signed, silently, the quill shaking in his hand. Once he had signed, Ludovico called the castellan and handed him the paper. With a bow, Bernardino da Corte took the document, walked out the door, and disappeared.
“Well, now, Your Lordship
, when will we have our dough?”
“Dough, Messer Riccetto?”
“The lettuce, come on, the money. You just said you’d be paying, being such a gentleman.”
“All in good time, Messer Riccetto,” Ludovico said calmly, “all in good time. You see, as Accerrito Portinari explained to me yesterday in great detail, and as was just confirmed by Friar Eligio, it’s often better for the bank to pay a fake letter rather than spend money and risk the life of a courier in order to verify the authenticity of the document.”
Ludovico opened his hands wide.
“But what the banks can’t do, I, on the other hand, intend to do and must do. I cannot pay Duchy money, which is taxpayers’ money, for fake letters of credit. Just a moment ago, as you saw, I gave Messer Bernardino a paper countersigned by Accerrito Portinari.”
“The paper with which you pledge to pay his debt,” Clemente Vulzio said.
“No, Messer Clemente. That’s not exactly what is written on the paper.”
Clemente Vulzio turned to Portinari, who lowered his eyes, then back to Ludovico.
“What I actually wrote was a request to inspect the registers of accounts. The signature was necessary in order to obtain authorization to take delivery of Bencio Serristori’s registers of accounts at the Medici Bank in Florence, on behalf of the Regent of the Duchy of Milan, Ludovico Maria Sforza, and with the permission and approval of the Medici Bank’s representative in Milan.”
Ludovico indicated the door through which the castellan had left.
“Having read the note, Messer Bernardino is, as we speak, instructing a courier to leave for Florence with the signed permit. The courier will be back within a week at the most. In the meantime, you will be my guests.”
And Ludovico made a sign to Galeazzo Sanseverino.
The latter made another to the captain of the guard.
And the guards left their posts beside Ludovico’s chair and went and took up position around the supplicants, turning them into defendants.
* * *
“As Messer Leonardo explained earlier, he knew Rambaldo Chiti well, and on that there can be no shadow of a doubt.” Ludovico’s tone had altered slightly after his men had taken their positions. “But others here knew him and had the opportunity to become acquainted with his skills and talent. Isn’t that so, Father Diodato?”
Father Diodato looked at Ludovico with an untroubled expression. “I?”
“You, Father Diodato, you.”
“I think you’re making a mistake,” Father Diodato replied serenely. “I’ve never been even remotely acquainted with the gentleman you mentioned earlier.”
“Really? Do you agree, Messer Leonardo?”
“I cannot, Your Lordship,” Leonardo said in a level tone. “There is tangible evidence, quite visible evidence, in fact, that Father Diodato knew Rambaldo Chiti, even though he claimed the opposite in my presence.”
“Indeed? And where would this evidence be?”
“On the walls of your refectory, most excellent Father. It was Rambaldo Chiti who provided the frescoes for the niches. I recognized his hand.” Leonardo stood up as he spoke. Not to display his height, as Ludovico so often did, but to relieve the tension. “I’ve had dozens of apprentices in my studio, and I could recognize each and every one’s stroke, the weight of his brush, the tendency toward a particular color combination, and the proportion between tension and looseness in his hands. Especially in the talented ones like Rambaldo Chiti. So I wonder why you claim not to know him, when he worked for you.”
“Is that what you’re relying on, Your Lordship? On the artistic judgment of a painter who claims he can carve giant horses of which we still haven’t seen a trace?”
When someone makes a specific accusation against us and we respond with a personal insult, it usually means we don’t have any counter-arguments. This observation would be formalized in a philosophical theory only a few centuries later by Arthur Schopenauer, but Ludovico il Moro had grasped it a long time ago.
“Yes, I do, Father Diodato. As far as I am concerned, Leonardo’s word in matters of painting cannot be called into question. But I wouldn’t wish to impose my opinion on you. Friar Eligio, I presume you have the financial registers of the monastery with you?”
“Yes, Your Lordship, I brought them with me, as requested.”
Ludovico put his hand out and Friar Eligio passed him the large book. After placing it on his lap, Ludovico carefully opened it and began to run his finger down the pages.
The ostentatious opening of a register, in schools of every kind and level, has always caused a certain amount of unease among pupils. Now, Father Diodato was certainly no schoolboy, but it was very evident that, in consequence of Ludovico’s action, the Jesuate had turned pale and his hands, folded over his white habit, had tightened around his leather belt.
“Here, Father Diodato. Could you explain to me how it is that on the twentieth of July this year, you instructed Friar Eligio to pay Rambaldo Chiti the sum of fifteen ducats for painting frescoes on the niches in your refectory?”
“I couldn’t remember his name,” Father Diodato said, trying to keep his voice as steady as possible, but not really succeeding. “You know, I see so many people.”
“I know, I know. You know many people.” As he spoke, Ludovico calmly continued leafing through the register. “Moreover, your monastery is a renowned producer of pigments and you yourself are a man of refined and cultivated tastes. A man like you is bound to know many people. For example, did you know a man named Giovanni Barraccio?”
“No . . . I don’t think so . . .”
“Really? For a man of culture, Father Diodato, your memory is truly unreliable.” Ludovico put a finger on the register, on the back of the page he had reached a little earlier. “It says here that on the first of August you gave instructions to pay a thousand ducats to a certain ‘Gio. Barraccio, wool trader.’ Did you buy a thousand ducats’ worth of woolen cloth, Father Diodato, or don’t you remember?”
Father Diodato did not reply. Eyes downcast, hands tight and trembling on his leather belt, he kept silent, and it was clear that he would not reply.
Lifting his head from the register, Ludovico looked at Friar Eligio. “Friar Eligio, would you care to enlighten me?”
Friar Eligio was no fool. Having tried in vain to meet the prior’s eyes, he spoke in an even fainter voice than before. “Your Lordship, it wasn’t wool that was bought. Messer Giovanni Barraccio came to us with a letter of credit of the value of a thousand florins. He wasn’t very familiar with such an instrument and had heard that the banker who had issued it was dead. He was worried that the death might invalidate the document. I explained to my prior that this was not the case, and that we could make a good deal by buying the letter from Barraccio at the mint rate rather than at the exchange rate, a thousand ducats for a thousand florins, and send the bearer of the letter to exchange it at Messer Accerrito’s bank. So I paid Barraccio a thousand ducats, obtained the letter and gave it to my prior, who said he would deal with it himself.”
“Messer Accerrito . . .”
“Never! I’ve never exchanged a letter from Giovanni Barraccio and then made it payable to Father Diodato at the monastery of Saint Jerome of the Jesuates.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, I am, and I’m prepared to bring you my registers!”
“I believe you, Messer Accerrito. Bring the registers, so that we may conduct the investigation properly and look for some consistency in what happened, but I believe you. I believe you because I am entirely convinced that this letter was never taken or exchanged, but that it remained in the hands of Father Diodato da Siena, who then gave it to Rambaldo Chiti to be used as a template for producing fake letters of credit. Letters of credit given to you gentlemen here before me so that you could take them to Messer Portinari’s bank and cash them.” Slow
ly and majestically, Ludovico stood up from his chair. “I repeat, gentlemen, the offer I made you earlier. At this very moment, one of my couriers is on his way to Florence to fetch the records of Bencio Serristori. Within a week at most, he will be back with these records, which will be identified and examined by Messer Accerrito Portinari. The first of you to confess can leave this room immediately after providing a full explanation. For the others, the sentence for anyone circulating fake money is to have his hands cut off at the wrist.”
* * *
The air in the room grew stifling. A few seconds of indescribable slowness went by before Riccetto Nannipieri raised his hand.
“Your Lordship . . .”
“Yes, Messer Riccetto?”
“The letter of credit I took to the bank was given me by Father Diodato da Siena, on the fifteenth of September last.”
“How much did you pay for it?”
“Thirty ducats, Your Lordship.”
“It sounds like a reasonable sum. Did Father Diodato tell you anything else after he gave you the letter?”
“He said I should use it on the last day of October, after Your Lordship had left.”
“Then why did you use it today?”
“Because he’s an idiot!” Father Diodato exploded.
* * *
“Because after Rambaldo Chiti died and an enquiry was launched into his death, I was afraid somebody would discover the fake letters. I myself had turned Chiti’s lodgings upside down, looking for where he worked, but I didn’t find anything.”
Father Diodato was literally shaking with anger, a vein as thick as a vine swelling on the side of his neck.
“But then, at the Countess’s house, I heard Leonardo say that a letter had been found that had been recognized as a fake, and my blood ran cold. The thing had gone belly-up, everything had gone belly-up. There was no way it would end well, it was too risky. But this cretin, these cretins, decided to make a profit. They decided to go all the same, and then hide out in Tuscany with their dirty money. You’re cretins, all of you! Cretins!”
The Measure of a Man Page 19