by Tony Bulmer
Salai gave Lucretzia Sfarzoso a sour look, before turning back to his master. “What manner of action do you suggest to extricate our selves from this ignoble predicament?”
“I suggest we take a stroll to the Salone dei Cinquecento, to assess the divine work of our young friend Michelangelo, after which you will assist me in the further progress of the fresco of the Battle of Anghiari, followed by a sumptuous dinner at the table of Galfoniere Soderini, which I will augment with a recital of great tunes of the age, played upon my faithful lyre.
Salai pulled a face, “I think we should get out of town as soon as possible.”
“But what of my beautiful portrait?” squealed Lucretzia Sfarzoso indignantly.
Leonardo da Vinci gave her a reassuring smile, and gently eased the strap of her dress back onto her shoulder, with the handle of his paintbrush, “Fear not Signora for your portrait will be completed within the week.”
Salai looked to the heavens, and sucked his teeth loudly, to sound out his disapproval.
THE FINE ART OF MURDER 12
1504
In the gloom of late autumn, the chill hall of the Salone dei Cinquecento hung heavy with wood smoke. To combat the frost bitten air, Leonardo da Vinci had commissioned the lighting of braziers, to warm the room. He hoped that the elevated temperatures would hasten the drying of his great fresco of the Battle of Anghiari. Work on the painting was much advanced. But there had been many problems. Problems very similar to those that had occurred in the painting of his fresco of The Last Supper of Christ in the dining hall of the Santa Maria delle Grazie, in Milan.
But these problems were much worse.
Not only was the paint taking weeks, and months to dry, impeding the steady progress of the great under painting. Worse, the plaster ground of the great hall, was having a most unfortunate reaction with the applied pigments, resulting in a bubbling and flaking of the painted surface, quite unlike anything he had encountered before.
A reaction of chemical compounds, no doubt. But how could this reaction be isolated and neutralized?
Da Vinci spent long hours in his apartment, experimenting with the alchemical arts in a valiant and unending struggle to conquer the dark and elusive secrets that were so cruelly besetting the grand project.
Salai had been little help of course. His extravagant habits and lavish tastes were proving quite ruinous to their rapidly dwindling purse of monies, the cursed boy had been gadding around town, spending money as though he were the King of France. Da Vinci had tried reason and admonishment, he had even tried putting him on an allowance, all to no avail. And now, with all his attempts at restraint in ruins, it seemed that this sallow young man of long acquaintance had now strayed irrevocably from the path of reason into the realm of stubborn and high-minded extravagance.
In addition to these most taxing travails, the poisonous company of Michelangelo Buonarroti had proven to be more taxing than even the sanest and even tempered of men could contend with. The daily presence of Michelangelo in the Salon dei Cinquecento cast a cloud of trepidation over the many craftsmen who toiled there, so that the décor of the great hall might be completed to schedule. This miasma of ill-will had created yet another role for da Vinci—that of diplomat and honest broker in the myriad confrontations and petty squabbles that his quick-tempered contemporary provoked.
Needless to say, Salai had taken a virulent dislike to the young sculptor, wasting no opportunity to torture him with spiteful argument and the cruel attention of his biting sarcasm. Michelangelo in turn, had taken to screaming profanities and throwing whatever objects came to hand, whenever Salai passed by. Da Vinci had been forced to break up fights between the two, on a number of occasions and now, as the long months of work on the project drew into years, a desperate stalemate had fallen over the great battlefield inside the Salone dei Cinquecento.
In the mornings Michelangelo worked on his fresco, in the hours that the light cast through the high windows of the chamber onto his painting. Work had been slow, as he obsessed over every detail consulting his preliminary drawings at length and repainting sections he was unhappy with many times.
As the sun arced around the building, da Vinci began work on his side of the great hall. After long months of experimentation and lengthy consultation with the wisest apothecaries in town, he felt a sense of satisfaction that he had formulated a paint that would adhere to the walls satisfactorily, without either bubbling or cracking. He therefore instructed his assistants to paint the entire wall in a clear glaze, that would not only bind the existing work to the wall but prime the work surface for future work. The excitement amongst observers was almost tangible, because as it covered the wall, the new glaze brought out the fresco in a glorious fusion of color.
It was a most fortuitous day, because as the final brush strokes of the new glaze were applied to the grand fresco of The Battle of Anghiari, Leonardo da Vinci realized that now at last, the end of this great project was finally in sight. Soon he would be released from its cursed grasp—released, so that he might unleash the full power of his creative power. How he dreamed of that day of empowerment—free at last from the dull caprices of the nobility and their cursed demands of vanity—hoping they might gain redemption through art, despite their worldly ways, the very idea was preposterous, absurd!
The whole enterprise had been a mistake—he knew that now. He should never have returned to Florence. He had hoped that his triumphant return to the city of his formative years would be a fruitful one. But the unpleasant reality had been quite different from what he had hoped.
Da Vinci had planned to finish the artistic commissions in short order, and move forward with his projects of science—that was where the true future of mankind lay—what a future it would be, a world of machines attending to the labors of all mankind.
But it had not come to pass—his grand ideas of science remained trapped in his sketchbooks, while the hollow vanities of his patrons had been released into the world. To what end? How could the world move forward when held by such constraints?
As the assistants finished, their final brushstrokes Da Vinci stood back with satisfaction and admired the dynamism of the grand battle scene. It was his most ambitious work to date, a work that would adorn the grand chamber for many decades to come, no doubt advertising to all who visited the city of Florence that Leonardo da Vinci, grand creator to the ambition of man was a native son and honored citizen.
As he stood taking in the scene, da Vinci hardly heard the approach of the quiet footsteps behind him.
A soft voice said, “You are to be congratulated signor da Vinci, for all our differences, this is truly the greatest work of art that the world has ever seen.”
Da Vinci smiled happily. “Thank you Michelangelo, it is most gracious of you to say so. Tell me, how goes the work on your great statue of David?”
“The Ministry of Works have given instruction for it to be brought from the workshops of the guildsmen, so that it might be placed before the palace, this very week. I trust that you will be in attendance for the unveiling?”
“Naturally Signor, I look forward to the occasion with great excitement, if there is any way that I can be of assistance, please let me know.”
“I thank you for the kind offer, but I scarce believe that will be necessary, tell me, is your work done here for today?”
“I think so, I have the portrait of the Giocondo to attend to.”
“Ah, Monna Lisa—but surely the light is against you on a day such as this?”
“It may be against me my divine friend, but the muse is with me, I would be foolish indeed where I to ignore her call,” Da Vinci turned back to the great fresco and said, “I have to attend to my labors with the greatest urgency. Perhaps you would do me the honor of supervising the workers, while they build fire in the braziers, I would have my boy Salai supervise the task, but I fear he has wandered off once again.”
Michelangelo nodded, “You can rely on me to take care of this.”
“Thank you my divine friend, I have already given them precise orders to prevent the over stoking of the heat source, it is vital that drying time of the paint remains constant.
Again Michelangelo nodded. “Attend to your business signor da Vinci, and may the Lord go with you.”
Michelangelo watched as Leonardo walked away, with his white hair and flowing beard, he looked old enough to be a grandfather. So frail and weak, who would have thought that such a figure could be considered so highly—with his wild schemes and ungodly ideas. Michelangelo turned his attention back to the grand painting of The Battle of Anghiari, and considered it carefully as the workmen toiled.
“Build those fires high you hear me, build those fires high.”
Michelangelo turned, and headed into the night.
THE FINE ART OF MURDER 13
The home of Lucretzia Sfarzoso 1505
The home of Lucretzia Sfarzoso on the Piazza della Signoria was grand beyond her means. For many years, the substantial upkeep of the building had been met by a collection of wealthy suitors, but now, as the list of suitors dwindled, it had become necessary to sublet various rooms to lodgers.
But, in her grand third floor apartment, with the balcony overlooking the Palazzo Vecchio, it was easy for her to pretend that the good old days had never gone away.
It had been a delightful past alright, a time when princes and diplomats and gentlemen of good breeding had come to pay tribute, at all times of day and night. They said she was a legend, the greatest courtesan west of Asia-minor. How amusing it had been to see their awe-struck faces.
But now things were different.
The affliction had seen to that.
The apothecary had been consulted, of course. He had given her a specially prepared tincture of Quicksilver. He said the cure would come soon, but of course it never did—just more medicine, then even more—until at last, her hair fell out, and then her teeth—such a cruel punishment, for a woman who traded on her looks. The apothecary said such peripheral symptoms were to be expected only in extreme case—but this, he said, was the most virulent case of the French Pox he had ever seen.
The early stages of the affliction slipped away so quickly that business was hardly affected at all. But it became clear as the months passed, that word of her condition was spreading as quickly as the Pox.
Soon, very many of her gentlemen callers no longer took the trouble to visit, a most disturbing turn of events. Once she had been at the very epicenter of the Florentine social scene, but now, she realized grimly, that her irresistible company was no longer quite the draw it had been in the old days. And worse, people had begun to talk behind her back—she could tell by the scandalized glances she received in the market place and the sotto voce asides that drifted her way as she passed. At first, it didn’t matter too much, but as the months went by, it became almost impossible to go outside the house, without some kind of unpleasantness. Her treatment in the town was a humiliation to be sure, the beginning of a wretched dissent, that neither anger, nor apology could mitigate.
She imagined it would be possible to circumvent her disgrace, but it quickly became clear that this would not be possible. One night at the theatre, she came across the ambassador to France and he snubbed her quite cruelly, as though they had never even met. Granted, he had been with a young woman purporting to be his wife at the time, but in times past he would have given her a lewd wink at the very least—and now—nothing. She consoled herself with the knowledge that he was a shameless philanderer, who changed partners more regularly than he did his trousers. But such consolation would do nothing to aid her dwindling finances.
Ostracized from society.
It was all so sordid and humiliating.
Reduced to taking money from lodgers, and low rent lodgers at that.
It was all too upsetting.
Why, even dear Niccolò, the stoutest and most reliable of all her clients, a man she could almost call a friend, had been visiting her less these days. He was a man of shifting allegiance, she had always known that, but he had always been loyal to her, even if he did have to return to that frowsy little wife of his to keep up appearances.
But now, even Machiavelli had deserted her.
It was with this grievous sense of disquiet foremost in her mind, that Lucretzia began to consol herself ever more frequently with the comfort of strong drink.
If Machiavelli had deserted her, she decided, she was finished for sure.
And so it was, that Lucretzia Sfarzoso remained in her apartment, devoid of all company—relying upon her maidservant Stefania for all her wants and needs.
During this time of solitude, many wild ideas flashed through her mind. Perhaps if she leapt over the balcony to her death, on the cold hard cobblestones below, her adoring public would be overcome with guilt, and love her once again? Perhaps, if she took up the sharpened dagger she kept by her bedside and drove it deep into her broken heart, some measure of sympathy would come her way? And then there was always poison, perhaps a draught of Cantarella, mixed by the apothecary would bring her the release she desired? The fantasy gave her pause, for there was no doubt such a fate would also bring damnation, in the fiery pits of hell. The prospect sapped her courage, and her resolution too—what if she took such action and survived—how much worse would her existence be, living in the knowledge she had damaged herself irreparably.
It was no use. A slow descent in to suffering was the only real option she had.
But, Lucretzia knew that she had the fortitude to manage her suffering. She was a woman after all, and therefore more stout hearted than any man. What worried her more was the endless melancholy of being alone with her thoughts, banished and shunned by those who had once envied and admired her.
The cruel solitude was almost too much to bear, and it was made evermore poignant by the proximity of the balcony to The Piazza della Signoria. Every day, as the shutters were opened and the endless sunlight cut into the room, the myriad sounds of the market place below reaching up to her, like aromas from a bakers oven, so mouthwateringly real and tempting, one could almost snatch them from the air. Lucretzia watched from above, taking care that she couldn’t be seen. And so the days passed into weeks and the weeks into months, until it seemed that life had always been this way—a solitary routine, without variation. Watching, waiting, breathing, sleeping—or at least enduring the humid nightmares that passed for sleep, as day by day, the multitude pains of the affliction wrought control of her body.
They said when the pain stopped, the madness would take hold—an endless enduring madness that would spiral ever downwards, until the merciful arms of death rose up to snatch her soul. Perhaps hell wouldn’t be such a bad place, it seemed as though all the best people were going there, thought Lucretzia, staring absently at the wall.
The painting stared back at her, mocking her, with its ghoulish little smile.
The face that had once been hers—immortalized by the great Leonardo da Vinci the man who had painted Jesus Christ himself!
Lucretzia almost laughed. Such vanity, such ludicrous vanity, and now such conceits had been thrown like so many rose petals, to the winds of misfortune. Lucretzia sat and pondered her fate. The affliction must have been eating at her soul, even as she sat before the great da Vinci, imagining the endless accolades such a portrait would bring. In reality it had brought her nothing. She felt hot tears of emotion well up. Perhaps if there was no future, the past should be destroyed as well? She reached out, grasped the dagger that lay on her nightstand, and advanced towards the picture. As she came closer the eyes of her younger more perfect self followed her—challenging her progress—and now what was this—the smile had disappeared? Perhaps this painting had life beyond her body? Could she really destroy such an entity—or would she be destroying herself?
“Signora, a gentleman to see you—Signor Machiavelli.”
Lucretzia Sfarzoso turned, the dagger in her hand.
She let it fall to her side,
then dropped it onto the floor.
“I thought he would never come.”
“Well he’s here. Shall I send him away?”
“Give me a moment to prepare myself Stefania, and then show him in, we will have wine on the balcony like once we did.”
Stefania pulled a face and turned wordlessly for the door.
When Machiavelli entered the room, Lucretzia Sfarzoso, was already sitting on the balcony, her head propped on one hand in dramatic repose. He paused for a moment absorbing the scene. “Perhaps I am disturbing you my lady?”
“Only by your unforgivable lack of compassion Niccolò, my only surprise is that you are here at all, did you perhaps take a wrong turn on your way to the offices of high government?”
“I am relieved to discover that, despite circumstances, your spirits remain high, my Lady.” Machiavelli moved out onto the balcony and surveyed the view. “I am relieved also that you still find time to absorb the healthful properties of the morning air from this tower of self imposed solitude.”
“What is it you want Machiavelli, I cannot imagine you would be visiting unless there was some higher purpose to this little house-call—”
“Frankness is an attribute I greatly admire, my lady—but we are old friends, let us set brusqueness aside and talk candidly of your condition, as I will be travelling soon to France, on the business of our fair Republic, and have no knowledge of when I might return.”
“Then you must join me in a glass of wine and a toast of farewell, for I cannot imagine we will meet again.”
“You might be surprised my dear Lady—old friendships are often rekindled in the most unlikely of places.”
“Then perhaps I will see you in hell dear Niccolò, for it is there that I am surely headed.”
“If that is so Signora, then our allegiance of the flesh will have condemned me to a similar fate.” Machiavelli sat then, at the table next to her, and looked out over the Piazza della Signoria, to the Palazzo Vecchio beyond. As they sat in silence, Stefania arrived with a decanter of wine and two glasses. She set the glasses down and poured out two half glasses, before breezing away without further ceremony.