“I knew that Tersilla and Father Diodato had a soft spot for each other, but I would never have believed that he could have told her to do something like this.”
“So you knew?”
“I knew, and didn’t know.”
Cecilia was holding her hands in front of her lap, one behind the other. Countess Cecilia Gallerani Bergamini was barely twenty, but seemed already to have lived more than one life, judging by the way she moved and spoke.
“Tersilla’s family was ruined by Botta some years ago. Taxes are heavy on those who own extensive lands if those lands do not yield as they should. There was a flood, the crop was destroyed, the seeds rotted. But Botta and the Duchy still wanted their taxes and these were taken from her dowry. I took her in because in many ways I saw myself in her. We’re both merchandise that has expired before its time.”
Cecilia looked around, as though she did not deserve what she had, but didn’t want it either.
“I loved il Moro and was loved by him in return when I was sixteen years old, Messer Leonardo, after a promise of marriage had been broken because I lacked a dowry and I was almost sent off to become a nun. A woman’s life isn’t easy, even when she’s young. Then we grow old and invisible, or bothersome.”
Leonardo nodded gravely, looking at the portico. “But il Moro wasn’t to you what Father Diodato was to Tersilla. He made her kill a man. And he himself killed the wretched Barraccio, who trusted him because he thought he’d gotten him out of trouble.”
“And how has il Moro been with you, Leonardo? How did you manage to regain his trust?”
Leonardo continued looking at the histories of Milan painted on the walls around them. “I don’t like fresco,” he said after a moment or two. “It doesn’t allow you to correct, to amend errors. Because all of us commit errors. I could never paint a fresco. I’ve actually been asked but I don’t know whether or not to accept.”
“So you commit errors too?”
“Constantly, Countess. Constantly. But I hide them from everyone except myself. Only il Moro accidentally discovered one of my errors.”
“What error, Leonardo?” Cecilia asked, slightly incredulous.
“The most serious of all, from his point of view. The equestrian statue.”
“The horse?”
“The horse, Countess. I miscalculated the amount of bronze needed to cast it. The way I’d planned it, that horse wouldn’t stand up. And il Moro, as I said, discovered it by reading my own notes. By an irony of fate, now that the clay model is finished . . .” Leonardo sighed. “I’ll have to start all over again.”
* * *
“Please explain something to me,” Cecilia said, in the tone of someone who changes the subject and is a past master at doing so. “You must forgive me, but Tersilla has been in my house for two years and I can’t fathom how you suspected her. What made you think of her?”
“Actually, Countess, my original thought was that it had been a woman. You see, one question that troubled Messer Galeazzo was: Why abandon Chiti’s body in the middle of the Piazzale delle Armi? What troubled me was: How? How could someone dump something like that without anyone noticing? It could have been done, I decided, if the body had been transported on a cart.”
“But Ludovico’s guards don’t just let every cart into the castle—” Cecilia began, then broke off. She had understood.
“Precisely. Not every cart. A few. Yours, for instance. A cart like yours, driven by a pretty girl who, in the dark, even looks a little like you, is possibly something that encourages one to turn a blind eye. Countess Gallerani can come into the castle any time she pleases and His Lordship will always receive her, so it may be better to pretend not to have seen her come in, don’t you think?”
Cecilia nodded, slowly, as the two of them continued to walk around the courtyard.
“That made me realize that it couldn’t have been just any woman, but one woman in particular.” Leonardo pointed his left index finger at the palm of his right hand. “Tersilla, who could use your cart. Tersilla, who had a chest I myself designed, which can be handled easily and which amplifies one’s strength when opening and closing it. The images in my mind were consistent, they held together like stones forming an arch, not a heap. I then went on to the why, taking it for granted that the how was as I’d put it together in my head.”
Leonardo stopped.
“The why was unclear to me until I understood the intention of Father Diodato, or of someone through him. To provoke a financial crisis, a crisis of money. More generally, to provoke a crisis and turn Milan against herself. Anything that scares people encourages a crisis. Like divine wrath, or the possibility of pestilence or, worse still, a disease we don’t yet know.” Leonardo opened his arms. “That’s why Rambaldo Chiti was left in the castle. Given Magistro Ambrogio’s uncertain grasp of medical science, the body of a man who had died for an unknown reason could not help but increase the fear. That’s why, once Rambaldo was dead—”
“I’m sorry, Leonardo, I must ask you this too. Why kill him?”
“It was necessary for the safety of the conspirators, Countess. Rambaldo Chiti had requested an audience with il Moro the day before he was murdered. He was probably hoping to save his life by confessing. He was a skilled forger, but deluded and foolish about the ways of the world. If he had managed to speak with il Moro, not only would the conspiracy have failed but the conspirators would have been arrested, tortured, and killed.”
Leonardo opened his arms slightly.
“Father Diodato somehow came to know of this. I think it was through Father Francesco Sansone, the General of the Franciscans. Jesuates and Franciscans speak to one another, are both poor in Christ, and their communities are driven by the same noble principles, in speech at least.”
* * *
“Yes, yes, truly a fine speech,” Caterina said, putting on the table a roast capon as large as any Christian, whether a Franciscan or a layman. “I’m very happy that His Lordship Ludovico has thanked you, paid homage to you, excused you, and so forth. But when is he going to start putting his hands in his pockets?”
“He’s already started, Caterina,” Salaì said, holding out his plate and receiving a hard rap on the knuckles. “Ouch!”
“The older ones first, young Giacomo. Leonardo, shall I cut you a tiny piece?”
“Mother, are you also an alchemist? Did you obtain this capon with the philosopher’s stone, or by touching a pumpkin, or is it an animal, born then slaughtered?”
“Oh, Leonardo, how stubborn you are. What were you saying, young Giacomo? Who’s started?”
“The friars of the Confraternity of the Immaculate, Caterina. They paid today. One thousand, two hundred lire to the master, and four hundred to Master Ambrogio.”
“What’s Master Ambrogio got to do with it? That pompous ham of an astronomer who confuses a fart with a south-westerly wind and only looks to the stars? What did he do?”
“Not Magistro Ambrogio Varese da Rosate, Caterina,” Leonardo said. “Master Ambrogio de Predis, who was my worthy assistant and painted the angels in the work I did for the Confraternity.”
“Oh, yes. Because, you know, according to Magistro Ambrogio Varese, the wretched Chiti died from sleeping. If you hadn’t been there, son, to recognize not just the disease, but also the diseased . . .”
“I think that’s why the conspiracy failed, Caterina.” Helping himself to a large piece of roast capon, Zanino da Ferrara put it on his plate and began working on it with his knife. “There are three hundred thousand souls in Milan. Good old Father Diodato must have thought nobody would recognize the living man in the dead man, not if he was found far away from his own district. He didn’t take into account our master, who used his hands and his eyes.”
“And I was damn lucky not to land on my ass,” Leonardo said, quite deadpan.
A full minute’s laught
er followed, the kind that explodes when both mind and belly are free of anxieties.
“You manage to joke even at the most terrible moments, master,” Zanino said. “That’s another thing I envy you.”
“I wasn’t joking at all. You said it yourself, Zanino, Milan has a population of three hundred thousand. I would never have expected to come across Rambaldo Chiti again.”
“And did you recognize him right away, master?”
“No, not right away. One doesn’t always recognize the living man in the stillness of death. But almost right away, yes.”
“But you didn’t tell il Moro right away.”
“No, I didn’t.”
And Leonardo turned to Salaì, who was finally filling up his plate and acting as though this conversation didn’t concern him.
Chiti hadn’t been the only one to use fake money the previous year, and everyone knew that. But Chiti was an adult, and he’d been the brains. Salaì was practically a child, and had grown up considerably since then. He’d also been sufficiently punished, and had learned his lesson.
Leonardo remained silent for a moment, then shook his head.
Zanino misunderstood his silence. “So do you plan to stay in Milan, master, in il Moro’s service?”
“You’re the second person to ask me that question today, Zanino.”
“Good, master.” Zanino wiped his mouth with his napkin. “It means you’ve already thought of an answer.”
“Yes, Zanino. I’ll answer you as I answered this morning. If you remain alone, I began, you will always be your own.”
* * *
“Are you alone, Your Lordship?”
Ludovico il Moro stood motionless at the window of his own room in the Rocchetta. At Galeazzo Sanseverino’s slight but resolute touch, he barely turned his eyes, although his gaze remained elsewhere.
“Ah, Galeazzo. Come, dear friend. How are you?”
“I’m not sure, Your Lordship. I tried to put my head around the Most Illustrious Duchess of Bari’s door, but all I got was a scream and a silver pitcher.”
“I see. Do close the door, Galeazzo.”
Which he did, gingerly.
“She’ll soon get over it, Ludovico, trust me,” Galeazzo said, moving to first name terms, as always. “It’s just the way it happened that upset her. She’ll soon get over it.”
“You think so? I don’t know, my friend, I don’t know, Galeazzo. Trust is something you build up over a long period and can lose in a single toss of the dice. I may be able to regain my wife’s respect, but never her trust.”
Ludovico looked at Sanseverino as though not completely able to focus on him—not that he cared much.
“You asked me just now if I was alone and I didn’t answer you. Yes, my friend, I’m alone. Messer Leonardo once said to me, ‘If you’re alone, you’ll always be your own.’ But you see, Galeazzo, even when I’m alone I’m not my own.” With a movement of his chin, Ludovico indicated the city stretching outside the window. “Even when I’m alone, I’m here, and see everybody. I’m a man who can see farther than anybody else, and at the same time I’m an easy target.”
Ludovico started walking around the room, moving into the middle.
“At times like this, I feel like one of those men sentenced to quartering, who are tied to four horses, one horse to each limb, and each horse moves forward, and the poor wretch can’t indulge all of them and so is torn to pieces.” Ludovico opened his right arm and indicated his left leg. “On the one hand, I have my duties as a husband and father, and on the other my passions as a man.” Ludovico opened his left arm wide and stretched his right leg, forcing it. “On the one hand, there are the interests of the State, the wellbeing of Milan, and on the other the alliances with the league I have formed. With Venice, with Florence, with Ferrara. Especially with Ferrara. We have to trust one another, and yet each of us aims to expand his own power, and we all know it.”
Ludovico relaxed his limbs and began walking around the room again.
“And I, my dear Galeazzo, can’t trust anybody. I can’t confide in anyone, either in here or out there, as you’ve seen. That’s the reality, Galeazzo. I was wrong to trust Trotti, I was wrong to trust the dwarf, and I was wrong to confide in other people.”
“Not everyone, Ludovico, not everyone. There’s still somebody you can trust, in here, and you know it.”
Ludovico stopped and looked steadily at his son-in-law. “Yes, Galeazzo, you’re right. There is one person. And I think right now I need his advice before anything else.” Ludovico put a hand on his son-in-law’s shoulder, while Galeazzo almost imperceptibly straightened his back, which was already as straight as a marble pillar. “Thank you. Are you coming too?”
“Where?”
“To the astrologer’s room.”
“The astrologer’s room?”
“I know, I know, I usually send for Magistro Ambrogio, but I don’t want to waste any time. I need to know what the stars say, and I need to know now.” Ludovico stepped resolutely to the door and opened it. “It’s best I go right away in person. So, are you coming too?”
“No, Your Lordship. I think it’s best you go alone.”
* * *
“If you’re alone, you’ll always be your own. That’s what I used to say.” Leonardo shook his head. “But in order to be alone the way I mean, you have to be among people. Of all the jails I can imagine, I think the desert is the worst.”
“I don’t understand you, Leonardo.”
Leonardo looked at Cecilia then resumed speaking, his eyes on the ground. “It’s true I’ve had offers. From various lords, and from various places. But for the time being, as far as I’m concerned, Milan is the best place to work because it’s the best place to live.”
Leonardo had now stopped and sat down on the low wall that enclosed the courtyard, between the pillars. Cecilia stood next to him, looking in the same direction and listening.
“I think I may say without false modesty, Countess, that I am a man of intellect and skills. And I think those skills came to me by birth and by upbringing. By birth because I am the fruit of a free love like that of my parents, a love devoid of obligations or interests of State. And by upbringing because I never needed to worry about my safety or my survival. Cared for by my mother, then by my father during my childhood, I had everything I needed. I suffered neither hunger, like the poor, nor solitude, like the nobility. I was able to grow up in peace, free but not just free.”
Leonardo waited for a moment, almost wondering if he was talking too much. Then, seeing that Cecilia said nothing, he continued.
“In order to grow up well we need freedom and tranquillity. In a word, trust. But we also need rules and respect for rules, otherwise the strong overpower the weak, the cunning deceive the foolish, and there is no more freedom.”
Cecilia smiled and gave Leonardo a sideways glance. “And do you mean to keep growing? You’re over forty, Messer Leonardo.”
“There’s so much I don’t know, so much I can’t do, Countess, so much I don’t just intend to do but must do. And Milan is the ideal place for me. You’re here, with your salon and the lovely people who speak there. There are the people who work here, who encounter problems every day, and for me every single problem is the source of ten possible solutions.”
“And there’s Ludovico il Moro putting pressure on you.”
“Stimulating me. Forcing me to finish my work. If it weren’t for il Moro, I wouldn’t finish any of it. I’m not like Bramante, who starts three projects, finishes six, and claims payment for ten.” Leonardo also smiled, then turned serious again. “You need both things in my trade. Freedom and stimulation in good measure, depending on the size of the fire. As with fire, blowing on a candle extinguishes it but giving air to a hearth rekindles it, and the wind blowing on a building on fire fuels that fire, makes it grow and grow. In th
e same way, for the time being, Milan is the best place for me, and Ludovico my best patron.”
* * *
“Excuse me, Leonardo . . .”
“Yes, Countess?”
“About patrons. You used the word and I was struck by it. And even earlier, you said ‘Father Diodato, or someone through him.’ Why? Whom do you suspect?”
Leonardo shook his head. “You’ve had Father Diodato in your salon, Countess. I’ve spoken there only once. Did he seem to you such a refined intellect as to think up such a machination?”
Cecilia raised an eyebrow. Perhaps not, her face said.
Leonardo spread his hands. “That’s one of the things that surprised me, as a matter of fact. Here too, I’m only constructing theories in my mind. But I fear Father Diodato was just a thick skull well trained by somebody else.” He sighed. “Who that other person was, I neither know nor am able to find out. Nor do I know what fate awaits your Tersilla. Or perhaps you already know something more?”
As it happened, Cecilia had wrung her hands when Leonardo mentioned that name. But she shook her head.
“No, I don’t know either. I can only hope.”
THREE LETTERS, TO END WITH
To Ercole d’Este, Duke of Ferrara, ferre
My Most Illustrious and Respected Lord,
Today at lauds, Father Diodato da Siena was taken from the prison at Porta Giovia et led into an open field, et ivi his head was severed from his body. A prayer.
Fertur, but these are palace rumors, that the whore Tersilla has been tonsured and sent to be a nun in a convent outside the city. They also say that Ludovico did not send her to her death at the express request of Cecilia Gallerani, Countess Bergamini, who left Mediolano two days ago for San Giovanni in Croce, to be with her husband, Count Carminate.
The Measure of a Man Page 21