For hours, Leonardo huddled at the base of his smoldering war carriage, his face smashed into the bloody snow, until the sun went down and everything and everyone around him was dead. His body shivered with cold and dread. Every breath brought a new fear that it would be his last. His fingers and toes turned numb. As darkness lowered like a curtain, his pulse slowed until it barely made a sound. His breathing became shallow. Drowsiness poured over him and thickened around him like hardening wax. He drifted in and out of awareness. Finally, the moon slipped behind a cloud, and Leonardo used the added darkness as cover to slither on his stomach, over corpses, toward the city gates, where he waved down a troop of Borgia men. As the soldiers carried him back toward camp, he finally gave in and passed out.
A pool of blackness thicker than lava began to break apart. Bubbles appeared and burst, letting in holes of light.
Gradually, Leonardo regained consciousness and opened his eyes. It was a bright night full of stars and a glowing moon. A few men murmured and laughed, but the sounds of war were gone. He was back at Borgia’s camp, lying on the cold, hard ground and covered with a blanket. A man hunched over the flames of a small campfire and stirred a pot. Was he making dinner? Leonardo groaned and tried to sit up.
“Don’t,” the man commanded gently. “Lie down. You might faint again.” He tucked the blanket around Leonardo’s shivering body.
Machiavelli? The diplomat looked even more thin and pale than usual. His bony hands shook from fatigue and cold. He wore a tattered winter coat that was much too large for him. There was a hole and a bloodstain in the back. He had probably taken it off a dead soldier. This was not the brash, brilliant gentleman Leonardo had met in Florence. War, as it did to lesser men, had ruined him. For the last few months, Machiavelli had been in and out of Borgia’s camp, trying to convince the duke to sign a long-term peace deal with Florence. So far, Borgia had refused to sign anything and continued to collect protection money from the Florentine treasury. Leonardo and Machiavelli had been circling each other for months up at camp, but had yet to speak.
“You’ve been very ill,” Machiavelli said, then sat back down in front of the fire and served himself a bit of bread and a bowl of thick brown stew. “I thought we’d lost you.”
I thought we’d lost me, too, Leonardo thought. He was hungry and considered asking for a bowl of stew, but he did not want to request anything from Machiavelli and be indebted to him in any way. “Why?” Leonardo asked. His voice sounded gravelly and weak.
“You spoke.” Machiavelli’s smile accentuated his emaciated face and hollow eyes. “That’s a good sign. A very good sign.”
Machiavelli poured a cup of watered-down wine and helped him sip. The liquid tasted like vinegar, but it soothed him. “Why are you helping me?” Leonardo wheezed.
“You’re a great Florentine. It would be a loss for us all if something happened to you.”
“I am from Vinci,” Leonardo grunted.
“Florentine territory, maestro, and you know it. Would you prefer if I left you to Borgia men? They would let you suffer alone, I assure you.”
Leonardo didn’t respond. He didn’t trust Machiavelli. The diplomat would no doubt try to use his weakened state to manipulate him again.
“Two months ago,” Machiavelli said, his breath hanging in the cold air, “I wrote to the city council, asking for gifts to lavish on Borgia and new clothes so I could appear more respectable around camp. I received a response today.” He pulled a piece of paper out of his pocket and read it. “‘Go scratch your ass,’” he read in an archly dignified voice. “‘You can go to the devil for asking so many things.’” He refolded the note and slipped it back into his pocket. “I should turn traitor on Florence myself.”
“Don’t,” Leonardo murmured. “It’s not worth it.” If only he had chosen to stay in Florence, finish the friar’s altarpiece, paint a portrait of the silk merchant’s wife, he would not have the particles of war buried into his skin, nor gunpowder permanently embedded in the lining of his nostrils. “Every Florentine must gossip about how I betrayed them.”
Machiavelli gazed up into the sky as if giving the statement proper consideration. “No,” he said. “They do not. They don’t even mention your name. They are obsessed with that sculptor and his stone. Do you know that one time—it seems like a long time ago now—I tried to get the Duccio Stone back for you, even after it was awarded … elsewhere?” Machiavelli shrugged. “It was a fruitless ploy.”
Leonardo held his hands up toward the fire to warm them. They prickled as the heat returned. Florentines no longer loved him. They had forgotten him. “Michelangelo,” he whispered. It sounded halfway between a gasp and a prayer. “The last time you and I saw each other, you did turn traitor of a sort, Signor Machiavelli,” he said, brushing the taste of Michelangelo’s name off his tongue. “You cheated me out of my post.”
“My vow to help you, even though I knew it was a lie, was a necessity of the moment,” Machiavelli said without emotion. “And the betrayal a necessity of its own time. Although I do regret that it landed you here.” He spread his arms wide.
“You’re nursing me back to health. The debt has been paid.”
“The debt will never be paid.” His face was suddenly serious. “I may advocate that others betray their heroes, but the practice is not for me. I’ll always owe you for driving you from Florence. Bread?” He tore off a piece and offered it.
Leonardo was too hungry to refuse. He took the scrap and placed a bite on his tongue.
“But, I will admit, it was a double pleasure to deceive the deceiver,” Machiavelli said with the hint of a smile. “You had the gall to pitch a design to divert the Arno River. Do you really believe you could’ve done it?”
Leonardo nodded, swallowing the bread. “When nature and man work in concert, there are no boundaries.” He thought of his armored vehicle, strong and heavy, sinking into nature’s thick roads of mud. “It’s when they’re at odds that things fall apart.”
“You’re no military man, are you, Master from Vinci? You’re an artist,” Machiavelli declared, as though being an artist were an object he could pick up and study.
That was a misconception, Leonardo knew. Artists were not definitive or constant. Being an artist was more like being a moment in time. As soon as art was upon you, it had moved on and changed. But he was too tired to explain the difference. Instead he said, “I’m too old for war.”
“Everyone is too old for war,” Machiavelli said with a laugh. “Except for the prince, Cesare Borgia, of course. He is perpetually the correct age for battle. His ability to create loyalty in his subjects is miraculous. History will acknowledge him as a great genius.”
Would it? After witnessing the destruction Borgia inflicted on every town he invaded, any admiration Leonardo had harbored for the duke fled as fast as life vanished from a beheaded man’s eyes. “Borgia is a cruel tyrant, not someone to be revered,” Leonardo said.
“Oh, politics have no relation to morals,” Machiavelli said dismissively, spooning out a second bowl of stew and handing it to Leonardo.
Though he was a vegetarian, Leonardo didn’t ask what was in the concoction. He pushed himself up onto his elbow, dipped his bread into the gruel, and ate. White beans and tomato.
“It is always better to be feared than loved. Il Valentino will be praised in spite of his cruelty. Or because of it,” Machiavelli added. The diplomat seemed to roll the thought around in his brain as though folding and refolding a piece of paper, trying to turn that page into a castle. “Part of Borgia’s genius is using fear to his advantage. People have heard the rumors of his villainy, so when he steps up to the gates of their castles and declares that he is about to attack, his opponents quake in their courtly shoes. Their fear of him destroys them before he fires the first shot.”
“You honestly believe Borgia will be remembered as a genius?” Leonardo asked, lying back down on his pallet and staring up at the night sky. The legacy of a genius seemed such
an elusive thing.
“Of course.” Machiavelli said it as though achieving such prestige were as easy as purchasing it from the market. “He controls large masses of untamed land far away from his home at a time when maintaining any power is nearly impossible. And once he takes control of an area, he never allows an adversary to sneak in and usurp him. Cesare knows if he isn’t the most powerful man on his own land in his own time, his legacy will never survive.”
“Because unless he is the master of his own time, he can never be the master of all time,” Leonardo rephrased. For years, Leonardo had assumed that he was the greatest artist of his time, but now, the thought stuck in his brain like a blackberry seed. That seed, Leonardo thought, was in the shape of the Duccio Stone.
“Il Valentino knows that Fortune only helps those who help themselves, and he is always willing to fight for his own cause. He cuts down his enemies with cold detachment, thwarting their plans before they can take root.”
Had Leonardo allowed an opponent to take root in his own time, in his own town? Did he owe it to himself to return and eradicate the threat? Or was he being paranoid?
“And by defeating all of his opponents, Cesare Borgia declares, to everyone alive today and everyone alive in the future, that he alone reigns supreme.”
“And his legacy is secure,” Leonardo whispered. When Machiavelli explained it, it all seemed so simple. “Don’t you ever worry about praising your enemy in such a way?” His memory floated back to that rough profile, that flattened nose, that tuft of matted, dirty hair.
“You should never be afraid of praising your enemy,” Machiavelli exclaimed. For a second, the old fire rose in his eyes. “If you don’t praise them, how will you ever understand them? And if you don’t understand them, how can you defeat them? Always learn their weaknesses, but more importantly their strengths. Anyone can attack where people are weak, but a true master uses his enemy’s strengths against him.”
Michelangelo
December. Florence
Michelangelo bounded up the first flight of stairs. He had to duck his head to avoid cracking it against the low ceiling, and the tight spiral staircase made him dizzy, but he didn’t slow down. He had never been to the top of Palazzo della Signoria’s bell tower before, and he could not imagine why he had been summoned there—by an anonymous letter—or by whom.
He passed an unmarked metal door. That must be the infamous prison cell that held Savonarola before he was burned at the stake. Michelangelo kept moving. He would not allow ghosts to haunt him today. He had a good feeling about this meeting.
Ever since Leonardo had been away at war, Florentines had anointed Michelangelo their new hero. He was no longer the irascible upstart who had rudely usurped their beloved master, but the passionate prodigy toiling away to carve a treasure for their cathedral. The city was awash with rumors about David’s burgeoning magnificence. Merchants applauded when Michelangelo walked down their streets, ladies left dinners at his doorstep, and boys begged to be taken on as his apprentice. When he shopped in the market or strolled by the Arno, citizens often stopped him to ask how “our David” was progressing. They spoke as if David were already one of them.
The Buonarroti family, it seemed, were the only Florentines not supporting him. Michelangelo had stopped by the house several times, but his father refused to open the door. The only time he had spoken to a member of his family was when Buonarroto visited the shed to ask if Michelangelo had any more money. Giovansimone, he admitted bashfully, had spent the entire four hundred florins investing in a card game table at the market and had gone bust within two weeks. Michelangelo howled as if a pile of coals had been dropped down his throat. His brother had spent all of his precious earnings on a gambling stall? Surely their father, who had never approved of such games of chance, had exiled Giovansimone for the sin. Buonarroto shook his head. Giovansimone still lived at home and ate every meal at their table. So, Michelangelo pressed, could he, too, join them for dinner now? Buonarroto didn’t look him in the eye when he responded that no, he could not. Their father could forgive Giovansimone the peccadillo of losing all their money, but he would not allow Michelangelo back into the fold until he had renounced his art. Michelangelo threw Buonarroto out of his shed. He didn’t have any money to give him anyway.
Today’s meeting could change all of that. Perhaps this mysterious caller was a patron hoping to hire him for some lucrative new commission. His hope buoyed as he ascended the last step and arrived at the top of the tower.
On all four sides, arches opened onto a panorama of Florence. The city, covered in a rare layer of snow, looked white, pristine, and peaceful, as if it were a delicate relief carved from Carrara marble. Three large bells hung overhead. They were so heavy, they didn’t move even with a stout winter wind whipping through the open arches. Braving the cold, a man stood out on the narrow aisle between the archways and the cornice. His back to Michelangelo, he overlooked the city. He was short and slight, with impeccable posture. He did not wear a hat. His only protection from the cold was a layer of thinning hair and a blue cape adorned with gold stars.
Even from the back, Michelangelo recognized Piero Soderini, the politician who had thrown his support behind Leonardo for the Duccio Stone. In September, the city had elected him the first lifelong Gonfaloniere di Giustizia in Florentine history. As the new permanent leader of the city’s government, he was arguably the most powerful man in all of Florence. Why had he summoned Michelangelo to the tower? This was a sign he had truly arrived.
“Our city’s bells were hung here in 1310,” Soderini said. He didn’t look back nor give any indication that he had heard Michelangelo arrive. Michelangelo held his breath. Did the gonfaloniere know he was there or had he interrupted some private moment? Was the politician talking to him? Or to himself?
“When the bells ring, every able-bodied Florentine is to charge into the Piazza della Signoria to defend the Republic against her enemies,” Soderini continued. “They have rung many times during our history. During the siege against Pistoia, to raise troops for battles against San Gimignano, Prato, Volterra, and countless times against Pisa. They sounded during the 1378 Revolt of the Ciompi and before the decisive battle against Milan at Anghiari. They have even called the people to service during famines and plagues. Have you ever heard the bells ring, Michelangelo?”
At the sound of his name, he exhaled. Soderini knew he was there. “No, signore, I have not.” Pulling his tunic up around his chin, he walked out to stand next to the politician on the edge of the tower. “But I’ve always felt safe, knowing this building and her bells were here to protect me. And Florence.”
“This tower isn’t centered. Why not?” Soderini asked.
It was true. The bell tower was situated to the right and front of the bulky, square building below. Some said it marked the spot of an important ancient tower. Others said it was where the foundation was strongest. Many claimed it was an issue of aesthetics; an asymmetrical design was more beautiful. “Because it’s a symbol of Florentine independence,” Michelangelo said, feeling his chin rise with pride. “The Republic does not fall in line with other city-states, and this tower is proof of it.”
Soderini nodded. “When Giuliano de’ Medici was murdered in the walls of our own cathedral, these mighty bells rang.” He paused and closed his eyes as though listening to his memory of those chimes. “Florentines from all over the land rose up to bring the assassins to justice. You were alive then.”
“I was three.”
“Three?” Soderini opened his eyes and stared at Michelangelo.
“Still living in the country with my nursemaid.”
“And when Piero de’ Medici was expelled and Savonarola executed?”
“Working in Bologna, then Rome. I wasn’t here for either, signore.”
“Maybe that is what’s wrong …” He rubbed the embroidered seam of his velvet cape between his fingers, lost in thought for a moment. “Well,” he finally said. “Do you know why
we call it La Vacca?”
Michelangelo nodded. He had never heard them ring, but he had heard the stories. “They sound like a mooing cow.”
“A moaning cow,” Soderini corrected, “like a great beast emitting a low, mournful wail. It is one of the most majestic, awe-inspiring sounds you will ever hear. But somewhere, Florence lost her way.” He frowned. “When was the last time we rang our bells? When was the last time Florentines barreled into this square, voices and weapons rising to say, ‘No, you will not take us so easily, you will not take our Republic, you will not take our freedom?’ When was the last time …?” His nose, cheeks, and chin were pink, from either his passion or the winter wind or both. “Do you know why we don’t ring our bells anymore?”
Michelangelo shrugged. His father said it was because there was no need; even in this time of turmoil, Florence was safe. She was too powerful, too wealthy, and too beloved to be attacked, even by Cesare Borgia or the Medici. Machiavelli and other diplomats argued Florence could not ring La Vacca because her enemies would take the sound as a challenge and march on Florence just to prove they could. Michelangelo’s friend Granacci backed the most common, but most controversial, opinion: if the bells tolled, Florentines wouldn’t march out to the square ready to lay down their lives for their nation; they would run back to their homes in fear. The French, the Medici, Borgia, and especially Savonarola had destroyed the people’s confidence. The bells were impotent. Better to leave La Vacca silent than risk showing the world that her citizens were unwilling to fight. “No, signore, I don’t.”
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