The Measure of a Man

by Marco Malvaldi

  Whenever this English warrior was greeted with the words “Peace be with you,” he would reply, “I hope not. I’d be out of a job.” This wasn’t cynicism on his part but simple professionalism. These companies and captains for whom war was a way of life had no wish to die in battle; since they were soldiers by trade, not heroes, battles and wars between city states were generally resolved with little more than skirmishes. Most of the violence was reserved for the residents of conquered towns, who were robbed, slaughtered, and raped without the slightest chance to fight back. Obviously, after decades spent playing silly games and taking it out on the defenseless, the troops who swept across Italy had grown soft and, in the absence of stimuli and fierce adversaries, adjusted their level increasingly downwards.

  Totally unlike the French army, which, first and foremost, was made up of Frenchmen. No Dalmatian or Dutch mercenaries, in fact no mercenaries of any kind, but sturdy bunches made up of coarse compatriots of His Most Christian Majesty Charles VIII, whose language and intentions they shared. Secondly, whereas in Italy captains of fortune had grown refined and their sons had in some cases become lords or diplomats, in France the social elevator was out of order at the time and French soldiers were still soldiers—people trained to kill somebody else’s subjects whenever they came face to face with them, and not stuff it in the rear end of their own ruler.

  “We need to find out more about the intentions of the French,” il Moro said after a long pause. “We’ve been waiting for too long now.”

  * * *

  “Of course I’ve been waiting for too long!” the little man in stockings and nightdress said. “Where’s my breakfast?”

  “I’ll see to it right away, Your Majesty,” the Duke of Commynes immediately replied, heading for the door.

  “You’d better, Duke,” His Majesty said, kicking away his blankets and, in the process, a half-naked woman who looked like a prostitute. “Get dressed and clear out. We’ve got important stuff to discuss here.”

  “Sire, what the fuck . . .” the woman replied, thus revealing that she also had the manners of a prostitute, which was in fact her profession.

  “Good girl. As long as you stick to that, my dear, you’re a wonder.” His Most Christian Majesty Charles VIII started getting off the bed, not without some difficulty since the mattress was some eighty centimeters up from the floor and his stretched-out legs were barely sixty centimeters long. “But since right now we need to discuss war, politics, and other things you wouldn’t understand, put your clothes on and get out. Or else go just as you are, it’s not like you’re the kind that feels embarrassment. And while you’re at it, find out what happened to my breakfast.”

  And with a spastic little hop, His Majesty landed on the floor.

  His Most Christian Majesty Charles VIII’s first problem was that his majesty was only in his name. It was certainly not in his physical appearance, the other duke present—Louis de Valois, his cousin and Duke of Orléans—thought as he watched that improbable collection of bones and hair attempt to don a woolen caparison. Short and hunchbacked, with a horrendous nose and tufts of unruly beard that were his only evident sign of masculinity, Charles VIII looked more like a badly-assembled stool than a king.

  “So, gentlemen, now we can talk,” His Majesty said as soon as he had managed to get the caparison on without smothering himself—the most perilous enterprise he had undertaken in his entire life. “Why that disgruntled face, Duke? You look as if you’ve swallowed a toad.”

  “Sire,” the Duke of Orléans said after a little cough, “I do not think it advisable to mention so openly in front of just anybody that we’re talking about war. After all, your guest from last night is a streetwalker, and frequents all kinds of people.”

  Even you, the Duke thought but didn’t say.

  “Yes, Duke, you’re right, but the venture on which I’m about to embark is so glorious that I can’t wait to start.” With a bovine leap, His Majesty seized a halberd lying next to the bed and pointed it at an imaginary enemy. “Think about it, Duke. An order from me and our army will cross the Alps like Hannibal and enter Italy. All the Italian kingdoms will let us pass through their dominions with a nice little bow. Venice, Milan, and Florence are ready to cheer the liberator of Naples and assist us as we march into the fiefdoms of Alfonso of Aragon. We’re about to invade the kingdom of Naples without a fight.”

  Which is the only way you could manage it, the Duke of Orléans thought.

  His Most Christian Majesty Charles VIII’s second problem was the fact that he was a cretin—something the reader will no doubt have already gathered without any help. Weak in body and intellect, as Venetian ambassador Contarini had described him, the King of France not only had never taken part in a single military action in his life, he had no idea what war was. His only sources of information were the books and poems of chivalry that spoke of champions, conquests, glory, horns blown by dying knights, and from these books he had drawn the inspiration to be a great knight himself, one destined for glorious feats. To anyone with an ounce of military experience, like the Duke of Orléans, it was obvious that in a real war situation, be it at the project stage or in actual battle, His Most Christian Majesty would be the opposing side’s best ally.

  But Charles VIII, who had no experience, had convinced himself, on the basis of his reading, that in order to subjugate Italy to his will all he had to do was make up his mind and set off; something that still occurs to some of us nowadays, the difference being that instead of poems we have convinced ourselves that all it takes is the Internet.

  “Or rather,” the King went on, unaware of the Duke’s thoughts, “we would be about to invade Italy if we had already left. What are we waiting for, Archbishop?”

  Bishop Briçonnet of Saint-Malo raised his eyebrows and wondered where he should start. “The main problem at the moment, Your Majesty, is the cannons. They’re heavy, which is a good thing in battle, but a bad thing when the army needs to be on the move. We don’t yet have suitable means of transport or men to cross the Alps.”

  “Alright, then, let’s build some,” the King replied, giving proof of a genuine ability to rule.

  “We have commissioned their construction from Master Duplessis. It would cost at least thirty thousand ducats.”

  “And don’t we have thirty thousand miserable ducats? Let’s ask our ally Ludovico to loan us the sum. He promised us extensive assistance, both territorial and financial. Come on, send for Ambassador Belgioioso. Ah, it’s about time. Duke, whatever happened to my breakfast?”

  “Your Majesty’s breakfast is served,” the Duke of Commynes said, entering the room followed by liveried servants carrying platters heaped with bread, roast meats, and carafes. “I hope Your Majesty did not find the waiting irksome.”

  “Not at all, Duke, not at all. I was just in the process of summoning Ambassador Belgioioso to ask him to have his lord send us an appropriate sum of money. We need thirty thousand ducats. A trifle for Ludovico il Moro. There won’t be any problems, will there, Commynes?”

  “I sincerely hope not, Your Majesty. But it might be dangerous to take it as read. Il Moro’s financial situation may not be as thriving as it appears.” The Duke of Commynes also coughed. “From my estimation, Sire, the Duchy of Milan may yield about five hundred thousand ducats a year. But il Moro takes much more than that through taxes. About seven hundred thousand, according to my calculations.”

  At this point, Commynes no doubt meant to explain to Charles VIII that such fiscal pressure was perhaps not a sign of healthy coffers in the Duchy and that such a situation could not go on much longer. But His Most Christian Majesty decided that he had heard enough and that there was no point in listening further.

  “Very well. If he gets it, good for him. And good for us. I’ll immediately give the order to Belgioioso to put our request forward. Bishop, if you’d be so kind, pass me that tray.”

&n
bsp; * * *

  “Duke, a word . . .”

  “Yes, Duke.”

  The Duke of Commynes, having caught up with his Orléans counterpart in the long corridor, put a gloved hand on his shoulder. A familiar gesture he would never have allowed himself before the King, but which in their current location—the royal stables—was more than understandable.

  “I need to speak with you on a matter of the highest importance.”

  “Go ahead, Duke. We’re safe here.”

  “I have a concern, Duke. A niggling thought that’s been keeping me awake these past few nights, ever since Ambassador Belgioioso returned.”

  “Has the Ambassador perhaps told you there are problems? I understood everything was ready.”

  “No problem, no,” Commynes replied. “The Ambassador confirmed the existence of a league in our favor and once again reiterated that we can pass through the territory of the Duchy of Milan without fearing any kind of danger to our army. Just today I received a letter from our envoy in Italy, Messer Perron de Basche, confirming that intention.”

  “So no problem, then.”

  “No problem. But that is precisely the problem. Why would il Moro leave us free to pass through his territory? We have the better army, we could overthrow him at any time.”

  “But that is not our intention. Our objectives coincide with il Moro’s. We both want to get the Aragons out of Naples.”

  “His Majesty wants to get the Aragons out of Naples so that he can take their place,” Commynes continued, pensively. “But His Majesty will certainly not lead the troops. You will lead them, Duke, and that’s something il Moro is taking for granted.”

  The Duke (of Orléans) turned to the Duke (from that other place).

  It was no secret that Louis de Valois, Duke of Orléans, had laid claims on the Duchy of Milan by virtue of his lineage, being the grandson of Valentina Visconti, who was directly related to the true dukes whose title had been swiped by the Sforzas. If the Duke—of Orléans (sorry for specifying but they’re all dukes here, it’s a real mess)—had been free to make his own decision, he would undoubtedly have marched on Milan at the head of an army to liberate the city from the usurper and install himself in his place; the Duchy of Milan was extremely wealthy and prosperous and would have tempted anybody.

  But the Duke of Orléans was not at liberty to do whatever he liked, he had to obey the King. His King. In other words, that spidery little idiot we mentioned earlier, who couldn’t have conquered a latrine, let alone a duchy.

  So why did il Moro not fear this possibility?

  “Il Moro has every reason to fear our armed presence on his soil, and yet he clearly doesn’t,” Commynes said, voicing the Duke’s thoughts (one of the dukes, you work out which one). “I fear his confidence derives neither from diplomacy nor from finance.”

  “From what, then?”

  “There’s a brilliant man in Ludovico’s service named Leonardo. Leonardo di Ser Piero da Vinci.”

  “I’ve often heard his name mentioned. Apparently, he’s an excellent painter.”

  In actual fact, the Duke of Orléans knew perfectly well who Leonardo was. He had even met him. But it is always essential for a diplomat to appear a little more ignorant than he really is.

  “You’ve heard of him, but I’ve seen his creations. He’s not only a painter, he’s also an engineer and an inventor of instruments of war. Two years ago, I saw Galeazzo Sanseverino in a joust, and he was wearing a suit of gold armor of which, trust me, the helmet alone must have weighed more than the man inside it. And yet he moved as lightly as a feather. Several people told me there was a complex system of winches and pulleys to magnify the rider’s strength. And someone who was employed in his workshop told me of bombards that move like tortoises, and other similar inventions.”

  “What are you afraid of, Duke?”

  The Duke of Commynes looked his fellow nobleman straight in the eye. “They say Messer Leonardo has succeeded in getting a suit of armor to fight without a knight inside it, providing the impetus with large springs inside the chest that trigger various mechanisms. I don’t know if that’s true. I don’t know if it’s true that he’s designing other weapons, even more terrible ones, but I can’t rule it out. If you’d seen Sanseverino in action, you’d understand. He didn’t move like a man, there was something supernatural about him. It would be extremely dangerous to go to war through the territory of an enemy about whose weapons we know nothing.”

  As Commynes spoke, the Duke of Orléans’s mind started spinning like a water wheel on a river in flood.

  True, it would be dangerous not to know about the enemy’s weapons. But it would be extremely gratifying to have access to those very weapons. And while stealing a weapon was dangerous and difficult, stealing a plan was much less so.

  And Messer Leonardo did not build. Messer Leonardo planned. He calculated, measured, and, above all, drew with a clarity and precision never before seen. The Duke had seen the Florentine master’s drawings with his own eyes and been dazzled by them. To build a contraption based on these drawings would be much easier than stealing one already made. One of these drawings, or all of them.

  That Leonardo had a secret notebook, nobody doubted. Every mathematician and engineer at the time had one, it was their safe conduct and their fortune. If they ever divulged what they had discovered after years of study, they would no longer be the only ones capable of doing what they were doing. That’s the problem with scientific knowledge: everybody can make a profit from it once they’ve understood it.

  “You’re right. We must find out more. What does the Duke of Commynes suggest?”

  “Two of my most loyal men, Robinot and Mattenet, are in Perron de Basche’s retinue and travelling up through Italy with him,” Commynes replied. “We could instruct them to gather information.”

  “I would encourage you to do so. And, Duke . . .”

  “Go on.”

  “To avoid compromising this venture’s happy outcome, it would be best if only you and I know of our intentions.”

  “I shall have to tell Perron de Basche. Otherwise, he’ll be suspicious.”

  “Very well, tell him. But just him and no one else.”

  THREE

  Truly delicious. Whatever anybody says, to get the real taste of meat just throw it on the fire.”

  Accerrito Portinari’s right hand came to rest on the table, palm facing down at first, then facing up, miming a steak, to which his hand actually bore more than a slight resemblance.

  “One side for a minute, then the other for a minute, and there you have it. Not the way these Milanese barbarians do it, letting it simmer for a couple of hours. They torture it as though trying to make it confess some sin or other. Whereas we Florentines know that nature does things properly and that it’s a shame to ruin them.”

  Accerrito Portinari put his knife down next to his now emptied plate and looked at Leonardo with a big smile on his smug, fat face.

  “I agree,” Leonardo replied, also smiling and also putting his spoon down next to his own plate, which was half full now and which, unlike Portinari’s, contained only vegetables. “I’m glad you enjoyed Caterina’s cooking. Would you like a little radicchio?”

  “No, thank you, I don’t eat landscape. Wine and meat is all a man needs. Wine and meat, that’s eating, the rest is just to please the physician. Now, Messer Leonardo, in what way can I please you?”

  Accerrito Portinari looked at Leonardo, his porcine eyes glistening in his lard-like face.

  Being fat was a status symbol in the late 1400s: it meant you could eat more than required every day and that only a few of the calories ingurgitated were converted into manual work. As a matter of fact, in all his life, Accerrito Portinari had never had to strain a muscle to earn a living. First as the brother of Pigello, the representative of the Medici Bank in Milan, then as his succ
essor, once Pigello had passed on to a better life.

  “By doing your job, Messer Accerrito,” Leonardo replied with a half-smile.

  Accerrito’s own smile grew broad and affable. “Do you have money you’d like to invest? That’s good news indeed. You’ve approached the right man. The Medici Bank is here for you, in the form of my humble person.”

  This mention of the Medici Bank reassured Leonardo. After his brother Pigello’s death, Accerrito had had quite a few solvency issues. So much so that at one point, Lorenzo de’ Medici had decided to close the Milan branch, and the prestigious building in Porta Comasina, with its sculpted portal and its frescoes by Foppa, had even been put up for auction. But then Accerrito’s luck had changed. He had found new investors, among them a certain Giovanni Portinari, with whom he had nothing in common except for the surname—and whom Leonardo also knew—and had resumed his former activities just as his brother had done. He made loans, invested, exchanged letters of credit, and there were many things to indicate that he was doing rather well.

  “Not wishing to boast,” Accerrito went on, “we are now among the most sought-after bankers in Milan. We’re always at your disposal, Messer Leonardo. It all depends on how soon you want your money back. If it’s after six months, I could return it to you with a ten percent increase. If, however, you could wait a year, we could agree on twelve percent.”

  “And what if I wanted it right away?”

  “Right away?”

  “I have no intention of entrusting money to you, Messer Accerrito, but of asking you for a loan.”

  “Ah.”

  Leonardo’s skill at studying and evaluating human expressions was probably unparalleled in the world, but you certainly didn’t need his genius to grasp his dinner guest’s attitude. Even someone like, well, perhaps not Botticelli, but definitely a pupil of his, a Marco d’Oggiono or someone like that, would have perceived that Accerrito Portinari’s face was that of a genuinely disappointed man. It should be said that of all the aforementioned, Leonardo would have been the only one capable of painting that expression accurately, but for the moment that was of no consequence.