Oil and Marble

by Stephanie Storey

  Leonardo

  Sitting cross-legged across the street from the Basilica di San Lorenzo, Leonardo was sketching a floor plan of the church’s back dome and rounded chapels when a shadow fell over his drawing. He glanced up to see Salaì blocking the sun.

  “The best teacher for designing a building is nature,” Leonardo said. “Just look at this plan and tell me it doesn’t look like the petals of a flower. The fundamental components are all the same.”

  “Master?” Leonardo could hear the nervousness in Salaì’s tone.

  “If you have come to tell me the friars are looking for me, I know. They have been after me like badgers for weeks. Tell them I’m out purchasing pigments. That the color is coming. Soon.” He turned the page sideways and drew a cross section of the dome.

  “This came for you.”

  Leonardo looked up to see Salaì holding out a letter emblazoned with the papal army’s gold seal. It couldn’t be a warrant accusing him of attacking Borgia’s men with a bag of flying rocks. Could it?

  He took the letter and broke the seal.

  A quick scan told him he had nothing to fear. Cesare Borgia did not want to arrest him; he wanted to hire him. His men had found Leonardo’s name among the wreckage of his flying machine, and, recalling the maestro’s multi-barreled firework launcher in Mantua, the commander now wanted Leonardo’s ingenious mind for himself. Borgia described grand visions of controlling the entire peninsula and beyond, with a territory the size of the former Roman Empire in mind. Il Valentino would pay Leonardo a handsome salary and give him the title of Chief Military Engineer for the Papal Armies if the master would help him achieve his goals.

  As Salaì read the letter over his shoulder, a smile simmered on Leonardo’s lips. “Oh no, Master,” Salaì groaned. “You can’t work for Cesare Borgia. It’s one thing to turn traitor on Milan and Il Moro, but Florence?”

  “This is a wonderful opportunity,” Leonardo said, folding up the letter and slipping it into his pocket, “and I would be a fool to pass it up.”

  The second chancellor to Florence, Niccolo Machiavelli, was the youngest diplomat on the city’s payroll, yet trusted with the most delicate negotiations. That past summer, he had traveled to France to meet with the king, and now he was to lead peace talks with Cesare Borgia. The city’s future rested on the young man’s conciliatory skills. A wily diplomat known for manipulating his unsuspecting opponents, Machiavelli was the man whom Leonardo wanted to see next.

  “But, master, I don’t trust that man,” Salaì said when Leonardo told him about his plans.

  “I don’t either. That’s why I want him on my side.”

  Inside the Palazzo della Signoria, a guard escorted Leonardo to an upper floor and into the small, cluttered office of the Chancery. Maps, letters, and treaties hung on the walls. Medals, flags, and exotic ceramics, all collected from various foreign nations, littered the desk and shelves. Books were stacked everywhere: on tables, chairs, the floor.

  From behind a mountain of papers, Machiavelli watched as Leonardo entered. Then, with a simple flick of his eyes, the diplomat excused the guard, who immediately departed. “I don’t believe I have ever had the honor of hosting you in my office.” Machiavelli stood. He wore plain black clothes resembling a religious cassock, but a ruby ring twinkling on his pinkie exposed his worldly tendencies. “What brings Florence’s most unique mind to my doorstep?”

  “I’m afraid I have some disturbing news, Signor Machiavelli.” As Machiavelli listened silently, Leonardo told his version of the story: he was out testing his latest flying machine when two Borgia horsemen attacked. Leonardo shot rocks to chase them away, but the soldiers made off with his aerial screw. “They were scouting the area,” Leonardo said, “and now they have a prototype of my greatest invention. So unless you want Borgia to be the first to fly, Florence needs to hire me to defend her. I can design miraculous weapons of war, signore. Your army will be outfitted with the most ingenious machines on earth. Imagine if you could fly over enemy territory, dropping fire from the skies.”

  Machiavelli held Leonardo’s stare, but said nothing.

  “I have something else you want,” Leonardo continued, pulling the letter out of his pocket. “A letter from Borgia.”

  Still no reaction from the implacable diplomat.

  “It contains insights into his military intentions. Information Florence needs.”

  Machiavelli held out his a hand, a silent request.

  Leonardo clutched the paper. He was not naive enough to hand over the note so quickly. As long as he was holding it, he held the power. “I’ll give you the letter, if you’ll help convince the city to hire me as military engineer. Florence needs protecting, signore, and I am the best person to help.”

  Machiavelli dropped his eyes to the floor and then raised them again to meet Leonardo’s. It was almost like a nod. “Now, the letter, please.”

  Did they have an agreement? Machiavelli tapped his fingers impatiently. Leonardo considered pressing for a verbal commitment, but did not want the diplomat to think he didn’t understand the subtle communications of a high-powered negotiation. He handed over the letter.

  With long, bony fingers, Machiavelli opened the paper and scanned it. “You will show this to the city council,” he said, handing the letter back. Leonardo did not know whether it was a request or an order.

  “And you’ll convince them to hire me.”

  “Your city needs you, Maestro Leonardo.” Machiavelli extended his hand to shake. “I’ll arrange a meeting with the men needed to approve the hire, and then I’ll personally sit down with you to help craft a presentation. Together, we will prevail—for you, for me, and for Florence. Agreed?”

  Leonardo’s mind whirled with all of the wonderful new inventions he would design. He had calculated correctly. This was going to be a fruitful relationship for both him and Florence. He shook Machiavelli’s hand. “Agreed.”

  Over the next week, the men met to prepare for their presentation to the city council. The more time Leonardo spent with Machiavelli, the more the Master from Vinci trusted the diplomat’s agile mind. The young man pondered political machinations the way Leonardo thought about the mysteries of the universe. Negotiation is a dance, Machiavelli explained; always move with the music and follow your partner’s lead.

  On the day of the presentation, the city council arrived in Machiavelli’s office. The current gonfaloniere of justice had only been appointed two weeks before and still looked uncomfortable in his cloak of power. That was a good sign, Leonardo thought. The unsophisticated landowner would be easily manipulated by the brilliant diplomat.

  Machiavelli made perfunctory introductions and then rolled out a large map of Florence and the surrounding area, including the territories of Romagna, where Cesare Borgia was attacking. As Machiavelli described the threats, he lowered his voice so everyone was forced to lean forward to hear him. “Now,” he said, closing out his portion of the presentation, “please, tell us your plans, Signor da Vinci.”

  Odd. Machiavelli usually called him Maestro, and rarely pointed out his roots in the small town of Vinci. The change surprised Leonardo, but he reminded himself to follow his partner’s lead. “Of course, Signor Machiavelli. I have developed many plans to fight against Borgia’s encroachments.”

  “Oh, they aren’t encroachments anymore. It is his land,” the small, pale gonfaloniere said.

  “What?” Leonardo asked, startled. He’d not heard this bit of news. He glanced at Machiavelli, expecting to see his partner looking as confused as he was, but the diplomat appeared calm, as always.

  “Two weeks ago,” Machiavelli said, “the pope gave Cesare a new title. In addition to being the commander of the papal armies and the French duke of Valentinois, he is now also the Duke of Romagna. The official ruler of the land, not its invader.”

  For Florence, this was terrible news. Borgia had more control. More authority. More money. It certainly helped Leonardo’s case. Florence needed prote
ction now more than ever. Nevertheless, he felt a flicker of concern. Machiavelli had clearly known the news, possibly for two entire weeks, and had had plenty of opportunity to share it, but had not. Instead, he had allowed Leonardo to look like an ignorant fool in front of the city council. The moment had played out very dramatically, though, and perhaps if Leonardo had known he would not have been able to act so shocked. Judging by the worried murmurs of the city councilmen, Machiavelli’s plan had been a calculated triumph.

  “It’s true,” Leonardo said. “Florence is surrounded and in grave danger. We are vulnerable from every side. Limited lookout towers to the east. A deteriorating guard wall on the north. The south side open to cannon fire from nearby hills.” As he spoke, he pointed out these weaknesses on the map. “And the west side gate is regularly left open to give shelter to mercenaries fighting in Pisa. Anyone could slip in there. Not to mention the Arno, which runs right through the heart of our home and leaves us exposed to myriad attacks.” Machiavelli had advised him to lay out the threats in stark detail. Fear was the only way to convince people to take extreme measures. When fearful, people would give up their money, their land, even their freedom, all to protect their security, which, ironically, could never actually be protected.

  “And how, sir, can you save Florence?” Machiavelli prompted, just as they had planned.

  Using maps and sketches, Leonardo described his ideas for constructing lookout points on neighboring hills, mining local mountains for stockpiles of defensive stone, and even changing the course of the Arno to deprive the Pisans of their fresh water and their route to the sea. This particular idea made the gonfaloniere’s eyebrows pop up. He and the other members of the Signoria pressed Leonardo about how such a design might work. Leonardo told them enough to pique their interest, but then said they would have to hire him to learn the rest.

  He moved on, showing them drawings of armored vehicles equipped with cannon, portable bridges for crossing enemy moats, a special suit that allowed soldiers to breathe underwater so they could sneak up on an enemy encamped by a river, and of course various flying machines. “Cesare Borgia’s men stole my prototype for this contraption, but if they try to use it, they will fail. My design was not complete. But with your backing, I’m certain I can conquer the skies, as well as Borgia’s army.” He asked the council for unlimited funds and unlimited time to implement his designs. Machiavelli had encouraged him to exaggerate the costs. Cities always haggled with contractors over price, he said. Leonardo should ask for more than he needed, so when they offered less, it would still be enough. “With these plans,” Leonardo concluded, “not only can I defend Florence against a powerful and wealthy enemy, but I can also remake warfare and change the course of history.”

  The gonfaloniere asked, “What exactly did those soldiers say to you to make you think all of this was necessary?”

  Leonardo straightened his shoulders and raised his chin. If he were weak in his answer, the city would be weak in their response. “Those soldiers were scouting our land. There is no doubt.” He showed them the letter from Borgia. As the gonfaloniere read it, Leonardo asked, “Why would Il Valentino request the services of a famous Florentine engineer if he didn’t hope to use my knowledge of her defenses? Borgia has his eyes on Florence. He is planning an attack. If we do not defend ourselves, we will surrender our Republic forever.”

  “You were telling the truth, Niccolo,” the gonfaloniere said, looking up in alarm.

  Machiavelli nodded gravely. “Yes. The last time we met, Borgia told me, ‘Florence is either with me or against me. If you refuse me for a friend, you shall have me as your enemy.’” It was an impressive line. Leonardo wondered why Machiavelli had not shared it with him before.

  The council members appeared terrified. “We don’t have a choice,” the gonfaloniere said, a rasp in his voice. “We must pay Borgia off.”

  Leonardo frowned. Pay Borgia off? That wasn’t part of the plan. The plan was to hire him to—

  Machiavelli replied before Leonardo could. “War is just when it is necessary; arms are permissible when there is no hope except arms, but today, we still have hope. Protection money is our best answer.”

  The others nodded in agreement.

  “So it’s settled?” Machiavelli asked. “You’ll send me with thirty thousand florins and assurances we will pay the duke that same sum every year?”

  The gonfaloniere extended his hand. “Yes. It’s agreed.” They shook.

  “What about me?” Leonardo asked. “Don’t you need me to defend Florence?”

  “We don’t have money to do both,” the gonfaloniere responded. “Niccolo’s idea is cheaper than all the things you propose, and less bloody. And changing the course of rivers …” He shook his head. “I can’t be responsible for that kind of grandiose thinking. And with Borgia off our back, we can focus on the war with Pisa.”

  As the council turned to a map of Pisa, Machiavelli flashed a guilty but triumphant smile at Leonardo. The Master from Vinci knew that look. He had given it himself many times. It meant he had been beaten. Machiavelli had never intended to help him. He had used him to further his own agenda.

  “I can help you with Pisa,” Leonardo blurted, the cogs of his mind searching for a way to save the job.

  “All of your plans are for warding off an invasion,” the gonfaloniere said without looking up from the map. “Pisa is not invading us. We are invading them.”

  “I can develop other ideas.”

  “Excuse me a moment,” Machiavelli murmured to the others. He took Leonardo’s elbow and gently escorted him toward the door. “Thank you, Leonardo. You have been a great service to your country today. You have helped her avoid war. When peace wins, we all win.”

  Leonardo yanked his elbow away. “Except for me.”

  “All in good time,” Machiavelli said in a soothing tone. “Trust me, my friend.”

  A few minutes ago, Leonardo had never felt more bonded to another man and his word. But now … “I would no more trust a crocodile who wept before he ate me. You promised your help. You’re liar and a hypocrite.”

  “Leonardo, I assure you,” Machiavelli said, “no matter what you think, I’m no hypocrite. For I never once wept for you.”

  Leonardo left the Palazzo della Signoria to find Salaì waiting for him on the front steps. Leonardo shook his head to forestall any questions. There was no job. There never had been. There never would be. Salaì’s shoulders drooped. He seemed to understand everything without being told.

  The two walked in silence. Florence hated him, Leonardo thought; it always had. The city government had refused his services. The cathedral had rejected his bid for the Duccio Stone. Even Santo Spirito let Michelangelo dissect while he was turned away. No one believed in him.

  Except the lady. That silk merchant’s wife who had saved his hand and trembled when he was injured and encouraged him to fly. She understood him, but it didn’t matter. He had returned to her husband’s stall a few times, hoping to see her again, but she was never there. Leonardo didn’t know whether her husband had locked her up in their house for safekeeping or if she truly were an angel sent to protect him when he was in danger. He was the most famous resident of Florence, and yet the only person who supported him was at best a complete stranger and at worst did not exist. He laughed out loud.

  “Master? Are you all right?”

  “Fly with me.” Imagining soaring through the air, Leonardo extended his arms like wings and ran in a winding path. Salaì joined in, flapping his arms and laughing. Leonardo threw his head back and ran as fast as he could into Santissima Annunziata’s piazza, feeling the wind tickling his beard and hair.

  He only stopped when he recognized a figure waiting by the door. It was that damned old notary. Leonardo stopped running. He felt foolish that the man had seen him pretending to fly. Shame curled around him like smoke.

  “Good afternoon,” Leonardo said with as much politeness as he could muster, and then tried to step arou
nd the notary to enter his studio.

  “I’m here to see you,” the notary said. He was wearing a fresh tunic. His hair had been carefully combed. “The friars called me here to discuss your contract.”

  Leonardo stared into those gray eyes. The edges of the old man’s eyelids drooped, from either disappointment, sadness, or just age.

  “I’m sorry, Leonardo,” he said.

  “For what?”

  “For …”—the notary broke eye contact—“being the one to have to tell you.”

  So this was how his commission with the friars was to end. At the hand of the notary, of course. “Actually, you look rather pleased to be here. Is that a new tunic?”

  The notary shook his head. “They have been more than generous, supporting you for two years. I was pleased that they offered you so much Christian grace. But you have yet to place even one drop of paint on the altarpiece. I cannot defend you anymore.”

  “This church is my studio, my home. I live in these walls.”

  The notary looked away.

  Did the old man want Leonardo to beg? “I have nowhere else to go,” he whispered.

  “I am sorry. Truly.”

  “Yes. You say that often.” Leonardo brushed past and opened the church door. “No matter, I will plead my case directly to the friars. They are my patrons, they …”

  “They are not your patrons anymore,” the notary interrupted. “From now on, you should address all concerns to me.”

  He let go of the door. It dropped closed. “You know, I thought of a riddle the other day I think you’ll like.”

  “Leonardo,” the notary sighed.

  “It’s clever, really it is. If only you would listen.”

  “If you need to discuss your terms of departure … you know where to find me.”