by Tony Bulmer
The master was deaf to his entreaties as usual. But that was no surprise. The master was a man of rampant obsession, squandering his talents on the wildest of schemes. Of course Salai had warned against such adventures, but the fates had forced their hand in the matter. Salai blamed the philistine French and their monstrous need for conquest. Their behavior was the curse of Europe, if it hadn’t been for Charles VIII and his brutish roughians they could still be in Milan, enjoying the good life at the court of Ludvico il Moro, instead they had been forced to flee for their lives. It was all most upsetting.
A full strength battalion of cavalry rumbled past at a canter, kicking up dry clouds of dung-scented dust. Oh—the intolerable clatter of war. Salai’s bottom lip quivered as he choked back the intolerable nausea, his fine clothes all covered in the grime of the battlefield, how much longer could this last? How many intolerable months would they be forced to tread the fields, like itinerant ditch-diggers? A dry sob of despair welled up in Salai’s throat and he washed it back, with a mouthful of wine. It was the one consolation of marching with the Papal army, the common soldiery knew how to source wine. Surely the skills of the vineyard were the only thing that the stinking peasants in this part of the world had any proficiency at?
Meanwhile, the master busied himself with his maps and his plans, building an empire for the bastard son of a Borgia Pope. The whole enterprise seemed so pointless. Why would a man of art and culture waste time as a despots lap dog, when they could be enjoying the ribald pleasures at the monastery of Santissima Annunziata, or walk as princes in the court of Florence it’s self. Salai closed his eyes and imagined the sumptuous pleasures that awaited him there. Only a matter of time until they got off this cursed hillside—a month maybe two, the master had said, but he always spoke that way, with the enthusiasm of the terminal optimist. Salai pouted and slurped wine, looking down into the valley below, as a thousand sweat-soaked laborers went about their work. Progress was slow, at this rate they would be lucky to be finished by autumn, what use would a dam full of water be then, as the cold, rain-filled seasons approached.
“Why so down cast master Salai, surely the task at hand would uplift the most melancholy of spirits?”
Salai frowned, his bottom lip turning downwards, ‘Surely it is only gypsies and beggars who would savor life in a tent,” snapped Salai, And I would thank you Signore Machiavelli, to refer to me by my given name, Gian Giacomo Caprotti da Oreno.”
Machiavelli smiled without humor, “And a remarkably fine given name it is master Salai, but somewhat of a mouthful when describing a young man such as yourself, wouldn’t you agree?”
“Misplaced familiarity can often be misinterpreted for lack of respect, wouldn’t you agree, signore Machiavelli?”
Machiavelli pursed his lips and nodded thoughtfully. He turned, looking down the hill at the glistening torsos of the men who toiled in the heat of the day, building the dam for the city of Florence. A second troop of cavalry thundered past, their lances glistening in the sun as they rode hard, towards the encampment of the Papal army. Machiavelli said, “I hope you will forgive me master Salai, misplaced familiarity was never my intention, quite the reverse in fact. I was hoping to seek your council.”
Salai turned abruptly, “My council sir?”
“I understand signore Salai, that you have your masters ear. An enviable position for one as young as yourself, wouldn’t you agree?”
Salai stared at Machiavelli, seeing within him a dark, monstrous creature. Not quite believing the power of his own senses, Salai looked harder and the vision dissipated, like ripples on a pond, leaving only this pallid, long necked bureaucrat, with an annoying reedy voice, so insistent and self-assured.
“Il Saliano,” continued Machiavelli in an unruffled tone, “Nicknames are so unkind wouldn’t you agree, master Salai?’
“An affectionate moniker bestowed for youthful indiscretions, and used only by those of my closest acquaintance,” replied Salai curtly.
Again Machiavelli pursed his lips and nodded, as though giving this comment his most careful consideration. “Youthful indiscretions you say? I understand completely—why only the other day I was talking to a young gentleman of an aristocratic persuasion, who spoke with great authority, on a very similar subject. Perhaps you know him master Salai. He is a very beautiful young man, not dissimilar to yourself.” Machiavelli’s voice had an ugly mocking tone now.
“A man of nobility? Perhaps I have heard of him, if he is as you say, a gentleman of quality.”
“Quality and reputation certainly. A relation of Lorenzo de Medici, no less, his name is Leonardo Tornabuoni.’ Machiavelli’s long neck craned closer. His face had a gloating reptilian quality. “You are familiar with the name master Salai?”
Salai blanched, “The Medici reputation for godlessness goes before them. Little wonder they are out of favor in the city of Florence.”
Machiavelli broke a smile, his tiny teeth glistening unpleasantly. “Florence is but a microcosm to the wider world master Salai. As recently as last week, I was in the Holy City of Rome, a place where the reputation of the Medici is as strong as ever it was. Not only that, I have heard tell, that Lorenzo de’ Medici was, until his most unfortunate demise, a close confidant of the Holy Father himself. Quite a coincidence wouldn’t you agree master Salai, as your masters Patron Cesare Borgia is the bastard son of the Borgia Pope.
Machiavelli paused for effect, absorbing the white-faced panic that was overtaking the countenance of the da Vinci protégé. “Sin is a messy and unpleasant business master Salai.”
“I wouldn’t know signore Machiavelli, I would have to take your learned counsel on such matters.”
“What a bright young man you are master Salai, as bright as you are handsome. But I fear such attributes would offer little protection for a capital sin such as sodomy.”
“I know nothing of such sins, and I am shocked that you would suggest otherwise signor Machiavelli,” breathed Salai, his voice quiet and tremulous. “That you should even pass mention of such an abhorrent crime in my presence beggars belief.”
“Forgive me master Sali. Ugly rumors spread easily, and unless one has friends in high office to quell such slanderous talk, the results can be most unfortunate.”
Salai gave Machiavelli a cold, wordless stare, but the bureaucrat just smiled, his pendulous neck thrusting forward as he talked.
“Your master for example—a fine man of unblemished reputation, who many consider a genius.”
“Indeed he is a genius, sir, perhaps the greatest genius of our time,” hissed Salai coldly.
“Of that there can be no doubt,” agreed Machiavelli from behind his glistening smile. “But cruel and unjust gossip follows even the greatest of men, why only a few short years ago master da Vinci was accused, quite unjustly as it turned out, of frequenting the abode of one Jacopo Salterelli, a young man of the most unsavory reputation. Unfortunately for your master the affair unraveled in a most unseemly, and very public manner, most unbecoming for a man of his stature. Why, it is a matter of public record that your master was ‘party to many wretched affairs and consents.’ Luckily, your masters friends were able to correct this most injudicious of libels.”
“Friends are important signor Machiavelli, but the problem is that they always seek favors.”
“Come, come, master Salai. True friends exchange favors.”
“What manner of favors do you speak of signor Machiavelli?”
The bureaucrat gave Salai a humble look that might have been misinterpreted as embarrassment to a lesser observer, but Salai had known Florence’s greatest ambassador for some considerable time. He knew that Machiavelli was a cold-hearted man of power who would prostitute his own mother if he thought it would do him good.
“I pride myself in my skills as an observer master Salai and I have noticed these past weeks you are growing sick with ennui. One would have thought you would be uplifted as we toil on this most prestigious and worthwhile of project
s, so skillfully executed with the aid of your master the great Leonardo da Vinci.”
“I am a man of the city signor Machiavelli. The itinerant life of a peasant laborer does not come easily to me.”
Machiavelli nodded thoughtfully, looking down the hill towards the great dam that was taking shape in the valley below them. “I am surprised master Salai that you would suffer so long in silence. It is a sign of your fortitude, that you would needlessly torture yourself thus. Enduring such privation is clearly affecting your health. You should have come to me sooner on this matter, for I have a perfectly crafted solution that will meet all your needs and desires.”
“How so signor Machiavelli?”
“There is a matter of the greatest artistic urgency that I need attending to in the city of Florence.”
“What is the nature of this matter of which you speak?”
“I am almost embarrassed to mention this, master Salai, but my master Piero Soderini, the Galfoniere of the mighty Republic of Florence, is seeking the assistance of an artist of great repute to decorate the Salone dei Cinquecento in the Palazzo Vecchio, the council chamber at the heart of our great Florentine capital. I was hoping that you perhaps knew of such a man?”
“A man experienced in the art of the Fresco?”
“Naturally. Since the untimely departure of the Medici, Florence has been possessed by the dark grip of philistinism, in the shape of the Dominican friar Savonarola. His Bonfires of the Vanities reduced the cultural heritage of our once great city to ashes. Fortunately, Galfoniere Soderini is a man of great cultural vision, who seeks the reinvention of our great city—a re-birth. One might almost call it a Renaissance, if one was so minded.
“An admirable ambition signore Machiavelli, and as you have so astutely guessed, I am ideally placed, to assist your master with his plans.”
“How so master Sali?”
“In addition to being one of the greatest most creative architects and engineers in the whole of the modern world, my master Leonardo Di Vinci also happens to be one of the greatest exponents of the art of Fresco, but surely you have heard of this?”
Machiavelli gave Salai a look of surprise that cloaked a bitter and deep-seated hatred of everything the young man knew or believed. “Naturally, I have heard that your great master has skills as a painter, but I would never have dreamed that he would be able to return to Florence—his home town—to execute a work of such great artistry.”
“But wait,” gushed Salai, I foresee an intractable problem that stands in the way of our great designs…”
Machiavelli nodded. “You are an astute business man, and I can assure you that you shall be quartered in the finest rooms of the palace of Florence, and in addition you will find all its luxurious comforts at your disposal.”
“Indeed?”
“Indeed master Salai, not only that, both you and your master will be richly rewarded for your services to the great Republic of Florence.”
“News most welcome, but the problem of which I speak is more insoluble than even a man of your great talents would be able to resolve signor Machiavelli.”
Machiavelli smiled.
“I speak of commitment sir, and my masters contract of service to the Papacy.”
“Commitment is an honorable attribute master Salai, much admired amongst the very young and the feeble minded company of women. However, the future is the birth right of strong minded Republicans everywhere. As for the Papacy, it long since transcended the kingdom of God into the whorish world of men and the Borgia Pope is no exception to this rule. In fact, it is my experience that he will dance like a dog at the circus for the merest sniff of Florentine gold.”
“Heresy signor—I would remind you that my master and Cesare Borgia are the closest of confidants.”
“A mere affection—a whoreish marriage of mutual convenience. I would remind you master Salai that a Prince’s fortunes can turn on a pinhead, especially if that Prince is injudicious in his political ambitions. I would remind you also, that the great republic of Florence is in the ascendancy, whereas the influence of the Borgia Pope diminishes daily. You would be well-advised, master Salai, to make wise choices when considering your future allegiances.”
“You present a convincing argument signor.”
Machiavelli’s dark eyes burned into Salai, an expression of barely concealed contempt twisting across his thin mouth, “So it is agreed. You will offer good council to your master on the rich advantages that the Republic of Florence has to offer men of talent and great principal.”
“I will provide persuasive argument to that end Signor, but just so that I might know, what color is Florentine Gold?”
Machiavelli broke a laugh. “You are indeed a friend of the most steadfast kind master Salai. Behold, a purse of monies to spend as you will. I will prepare Galfoniere Soderini, for an audience with your master. Take care young prince, that your council is sound, as the tongues in Rome wag ever more readily than those in Florence.
Salai gave Machiavelli a sullen look. Then, as he glanced inside the calfskin purse his expression lit up, a marvelous golden smile spreading wide across his face.
THE FINE ART OF MURDER 06
The City of Florence 1503
On height of the scaffold, the sculptor cut an impressive figure, forthright and regal, dominating the workspace like a lion. He examined the giant statue, his bearded cheek brushing close to the sumptuous surface of the marble. He assessed the work—then made the finest, and most intricate of adjustments. He stood proud, giving the work a tilt of his head. He furrowed his brow. No. No. No!
Pacing first one way, then the next, like a caged animal, the sculptor weighed his options. Thinking not of the next stroke of the chisel, but the flow of the marble many strokes hence. Mere perfection would not suffice—such work was an obsession, a sacred duty— a tribute to the Lord God Almighty.
Before moving close to the marble, to make another cut, the sculptor ran his hard, calloused hands over the marble, getting a feel for the velvet surface. He paused momentarily, then began his work again, this time with renewed vigor. He drove forward with the task, abrading the surface of the glistening marble with rasp and pumice stone, as though he were a man possessed. Now he felt the flow— a divine force flowing through him, driving him forward with his sacred task. He worked with a propulsive rhythm now, moving with broad sweeping strokes, his black monk-like robes hanging ragged and dusty with his labors.
As he worked close to the giant marble statue, a figure dressed in the finery of government office approached and quietly assessed the work from the floor of the studio below. Then, after much contemplation the figure spoke.
“II Divino—my divine boy. The work progresses apace, the guildsmen of the Arte della Lana will be justly impressed.”
Wordlessly, the sculptor examined his work through thin eyes, his brutally disfigured nose drawing a deep, resilient breath as he did so.
But the visitor was not to be distracted—indeed, the sculptors ambivalence drew further praise,
“A sense of Contrapposto to surpass anything found in the empires of the ancients. Why, even the great Donatello could not offer such mastery in the medium of stone!”
The sculptor drew a further breath, swallowing down the effusive praise as though he had bee forced to swallow a draught of some abhorrent elixir, formulated by a market store apothecary from the low end of town.
Then, finally, after much consideration, the sculptor spoke, low at first, his voice gaining in volume until it matched the hellfire roar of a pulpit orator,
“And David struck the Philistine on the forehead; the stone sank into his forehead, and he fell on his face to the ground.”
“Scripture! And it is not even Sunday. A rare treat master Buonarroti, you truly deserve your illustrious moniker—for your nature is indeed divine.”
Machiavelli twisted his long neck upwards, assessing the effects of his flattery, knowing that no measure of praise, no matter how effusive c
an overwhelm the sensibilities of genius—or great vanity.
“What is it that you want you servile maggot? Can’t you see that I am working?”
Machiavelli smiled, “And an exceptionally fine job you are doing my divine boy—why, the stone is so finely carved, one could almost imagine it coming to life! If only the Republic had an army of such stature, our enemies would quake with fear!”
The sculptor spun on his heels, facing down his visitor. “This statue is not made of stone, but the finest Carrara marble, you philistine cur!”
Machiavelli nodded sagely. “I am sure that not even the great Leonardo da Vinci could have done justice to such a subject.”
“Da Vinci? That dog is nothing more than a dilettante pretender to the throne of Donatello, and a traitor to the great Republic of Florence. I hear he digs ditches these days for Cesare Borgia that bastard son of the Spanish Pope.”
Machiavelli feigned surprise, “There are those master Buonarroti, who would argue that da Vinci is the greatest artist that the world has ever seen.”
“Pah! Imbeciles all.”
A natural conclusion Il Divino, especially when you consider the many great masterpieces you have carved. But what of the masterworks of da Vinci—the great horse of Milan, created for Ludvico Sforza, or the fresco of the Last Supper in the great convent of Santa Maria delle Grazie?”
“Milan is also famous for the plague and the syphilitic ramblings of French kings.”
“Il Divino, you have a sense of fun that is equaled only by your great talent as an artist, but in order for a young man such as yourself to scale the lofty peaks of distinction that the illustrious personage of Leonardo da Vinci has scaled, you will need to effect a subterfuge by which your talents might be compared.”
The sculptor stood before his work and gesticulated dramatically, “Behold signor Machiavelli, I give you The Statue of David, a work of more might and moment than anything that bastard son of a peasant could even contemplate. When this great work stands in the Piazza della Signoria, in front of the Palazzo Vecchio, men will come for untold centuries to marvel at its omnipotence, and when they do, they will speak the name of the divine hand who created it.”