“The plague?”
Raising an eyebrow, Leonardo approached the body, which raised no objection.
“He doesn’t appear to have died from the plague,” Leonardo said confidently. “For a corpse, I’d say he looks quite healthy and blooming. Forgive my flippancy, Your Lordship, but prior to dying, this man was in excellent health.”
“That’s precisely our problem. He doesn’t actually look dead. Magistro Ambrogio says he has no idea what could have caused this man’s death. He rules out poisoning or premeditated murder, but what could have caused this man’s heart to stop, he says he doesn’t know.”
“Magistro Ambrogio says he doesn’t know. Ah.”
Had he been among his family members or in his workshop, he would have blurted out something about Ambrogio da Rosate usually knowing everything, but not in front of il Moro. Of all the duke’s counselors, the astrologer was the one whose word was never questioned. He continued:
“If Magistro Ambrogio, the most talented physician and surgeon in the peninsula, said that, then what could a painter like I possibly have to add?”
“Magistro Ambrogio has only seen him from the outside. I’d like you to look at the inside.”
“The inside?”
“Is it not true, Messer Leonardo, that you take an interest in anatomy and that, in order to make your paintings and your work more realistic, you usually strip the bodies even more, removing the skin and drawing what they look like then?”
Leonardo stopped breathing. But only for a moment.
In those days, human anatomy was more akin to necromancy than to life drawing. There was a vague, incomplete knowledge of where the organs were positioned, and if something was missing it was replaced by astrological symbols as useful as a screwdriver made of modelling clay. There was a reason for this: dissecting corpses was not easy. Not forbidden, but not easy either. Dissecting horses, dogs, and pigs was feasible. Dissecting a woman was not very hard: after all, as everybody knew, women had no souls, so quartering them in order to inspect their internal organs was not so unseemly or so compromising, as far as eternal life was concerned. But men were a different can of worms. Finding an intact male corpse and gutting it to look inside was neither easy nor without risk for anyone who was not a physician. Leonardo did it, but was not very happy for it to be known, partly because ecclesiastical courts were quick to misunderstand certain things.
“My knowledge of anatomy, Your Lordship, is based on the many cadavers I saw in Florence, including the similarities between men and animals, which makes me conclude that there are analogies and differences between them. You see—”
“Listen to me, Leonardo. I don’t give a damn what you do with cadavers, just as long as you don’t manufacture your own raw material from living Christians. I’m neither my brother the cardinal nor his friend who’s sitting on the throne of Rome. I am, however, the regent of this city, so I’m more concerned with the living than the dead, and with avoiding their joining the ranks of the dead. I need your help.”
“If Your Lordship will forgive me again, I already have a lot of work, including, at the top of my list, the bronze horse in memory of your father, so to me every minute is precious.”
“I understand, Messer Leonardo. You work very hard and are paid very little. By many people, myself included. Very well, Messer Leonardo. I thank you for coming so promptly, and now I will let you return to your business. This is a time of crisis, isn’t it?”
“Alas, yes, Your Lordship. It’s no time for mirth. There’s little money around and those who have it hold on to it even when they’ve pledged it.”
“I know you’re still owed a large payment by the monks of the Immaculate Conception at San Francesco Grande.”
“Twelve hundred lire, alas. Both I and the kind De Predis.”
“That’s extremely unfair,” Ludovico said, nodding sympathetically. “You will be paid tomorrow. You have my word.”
That was what Leonardo found annoying about Ludovico. He never explicitly promised anything in return for something else. He just made you feel indebted. As though wanting to reiterate that he was the master, that you knew it perfectly well, and that he would still be the master even if you did not take it as understood.
“Your Lordship is too kind. I wonder if . . .”
“Go on.”
“If you would like me to, I could at least take a look at this poor wretch, even if only from the outside. Magistro Ambrogio is wise and skilled, but his eyesight isn’t what it used to be.”
“Please, go ahead.”
With barely a hint of hesitation, Leonardo put a hand on the shoulder of the body to test its firmness. Then, with a resolute and much more expert gesture than his previous words had suggested, he put an arm around the waist of the corpse and, almost effortlessly, turned it on its back.
He studied it for a few seconds, staring at it intensely.
“No external marks,” he said.
“No,” Ludovico replied. “Externally, no marks.”
Theoretically, il Moro had said the same thing as Leonardo. In practice, there was a big difference in meaning, one that at this point was hard to ignore.
Just as it was hard not to see that something in Leonardo’s expression had altered. It was still serious, but his face no longer had the customary lightness that made those who met him happy. As though he had noticed something that had escaped the duke’s astrologer, but wasn’t entirely certain.
The two men were silent for a few more seconds.
“I shall require a few things,” Leonardo said in a practical tone, breaking the silence.
“I’ll send you my chamberlain immediately.”
“Thank you,” Leonardo replied, not weighing down his answer with unnecessary titles and possessive pronouns. “Also please have Giacomo Salaì fetched from my workshop. And don’t let anybody in apart from those two.”
FIVE
Very well,” Ludovico said in a low voice, looking around, “let those two in.”
The room wasn’t at all as bright as the one in which he had left Leonardo. In fact, it was the darkest, most secluded room in the castle. He had chosen it deliberately, hoping his guests would appreciate it.
It was a corner room, without windows, where the only ventilation was provided by a chimney flue that could barely draw away the smoke from the wood that burned there constantly, from fall to spring.
From the door, the castellan nodded, then turned, opened the door wide, and announced in a loud voice:
“His Most Excellent Lordship Philippe Duke of Commynes and Signor Perron de Basche request admission to your Lordship’s presence.”
“Come in, my dear Duke, come in,” Ludovico said, practically stepping over the castellan with his far from formal greeting, and motioning to him to leave them alone. “We’ve been very much looking forward to seeing you. How are you, my dear Philippe?”
“With God’s help and His Most Christian Majesty’s favor, very well, Your Lordship,” the duke replied, bowing slightly. “And how are you?”
“Well, very well. I must first of all apologize for the delay in receiving you properly, but we’ve had a small mishap and I’ve had to intervene personally.”
“Your Lordship is too kind, deigning to receive us in person like this,” Perron de Basche replied, in an accent that was in no way French but, rather, vaguely Umbrian. The ambassador had in fact been born in Orvieto, but had been in the service of the French for so long that he considered himself Transalpine in every respect. “You must have a thousand other things to do.”
“All of them less important than the one we need to discuss, my dear Perron and my dear Duke,” Ludovico replied, looking at the two ambassadors. “And that is precisely why I decided to receive you in this place, and alone. I am eager to hear an initial report on the situation from Signor de Basche, and this is the most secl
uded room in my modest castle. Please, let us sit down.”
And Ludovico motioned to the solid chestnut table that dominated the middle of the room, supported by a heavy central foot with a square base, and carved with floral patterns and the inscription HERCULES DVX FERRARIAE DONAVIT: a wedding present from Ludovico’s father-in-law, and one of the most gratefully received. A lord’s best friend, Ercole had said, slapping the table top. When you sit down to talk at a table like this, you can be sure people will listen.
The Duke of Commynes and Perron de Basche looked at one another. As seasoned diplomats, they both knew that it was never advisable to discuss delicate situations in detail when you’ve only just arrived and are tired, hungry, and all shaken up after hours of galloping.
Realizing their embarrassment, Ludovico smiled and opened his hands. “Needless to say, this room is at your full disposal so that you can discuss your business in private, and then relate to me in detail over the next two days how much His Most Christian Majesty requires, so that we may then talk about it properly. For now, I would like to know what the situation below the Alps is, and if it is still favorable to our purpose.”
The two ambassadors heaved sighs of relief. Perron de Basche was about to say something when the duke got in first by putting a hand on his shoulder.
“We thank Your Lordship for his hospitality. May I be so bold as to remind Your Lordship that my two aides-de-camp, Robinot and Mattenet, are in the quarters reserved for the retinue? If we could possibly meet with them . . .”
“As you wish. You may go to them in their quarters, but I think it would be more fitting to your rank that they should come to you. I will instruct the servants to allow them access to your rooms.”
“Your Lordship is most kind,” the duke said, taking a seat. “So, Perron, please deliver your report to His Lordship, and to me, too. We haven’t had the chance to exchange a single word yet.”
“Your Lordship was inquiring about the situation. I would say that it is more than favorable. Florence is just as I told you last June. The Council of the Seventy holds an ambiguous position, but that’s not what matters. What matters is the will of the people, and the people are completely on the side of His Most Christian Majesty, our king.”
“And what does Piero say?”
“Forgive my candor, but Piero is of no consequence. At the moment, the most important man in Florence is Brother Girolamo Savonarola. And Savonarola calls Charles VIII God’s envoy, who will punish anyone who soils his hands with the devil’s excrement.”
Ludovico nodded gravely.
It often happens that heads of state—powerful, enlightened men, authentic visionaries able to combine genius and common sense—are punished with an idiot first-born who has neither. Nowadays, this is usually a private matter, but in the Renaissance, when power was handed down from father to son, it could be a public catastrophe. And so when Lorenzo—not yet known as the Magnificent—died, he was succeeded by his son Piero, who was immediately nicknamed the Unfortunate. Strong but stupid: in other words, the opposite of his father.
“I don’t have much to add to what we discussed in June,” Perron de Basche continued tendentiously, as though about to proceed down the Italian peninsula realm by realm. “If the situation has altered, then it has altered for the better, as I was saying. If we want to cross Italy and enter the Kingdom of Aragon, there’s no better time. The Pope who has just died was displeased because the Aragons in Naples didn’t pay their tithes, and the new one, the Borgia, seems more interested in a woman named Vannozza than in our movements . . .”
“Good,” il Moro quickly cut in. “Duke, Signor, this is music to my ears. As sweet as the music of your Josquin des Prez. If you wish, you can soon hear one of his most recent compositions. Thank you for the time you have granted me before you have even had the opportunity to take refreshments and rest. I shall expect you at dinner this evening. We will have a rich banquet and even richer delight from our court acrobats. In the meantime, feel free to use my castle and your rooms entirely as you wish. My respects, gentlemen.”
And with this he stood up and walked to the door.
The Duke of Commynes pondered for a few seconds, then turned to his almost-countryman.
“Perron.”
“Yes, Duke?”
“What do you think?”
“We’re in for a treat, Duke. I was afraid that at dinner we’d have to listen to a rosary of motets by Josquin des Prez. I much prefer the acrobats. At least we’ll stay awake.”
“Oh, I agree, Perron. But that wasn’t what I meant.”
“What, then?”
“Didn’t Ludovico strike you as nervous?”
* * *
“Of course I’m nervous, Galeazzo. So would you be. I have a dead man who died of nobody knows what in my own courtyard, that’s already unpleasant enough.”
“What does Magistro Ambrogio say?”
“Magistro Ambrogio says it’s not the plague, but I also want to hear Messer Leonardo’s opinion. I’m not afraid of what I know, Galeazzo. It’s what I don’t know that scares me. When I see two things happen in rapid succession, I can’t help but wonder if by any chance the second was caused by the first.”
“The second? What was the first?”
“The first, I now discover, is that the gentleman who was so lacking in decorum as to kick the bucket in my courtyard had requested an audience with me only yesterday.”
“Are you sure?”
“I asked Botta to check the lists.” Ludovico opened a yellowish sheet of paper covered in tiny, precise handwriting. Typical of a miser like Botta, Galeazzo Sanseverino thought. True, paper is expensive, but this is going too far. “Rambaldo Chiti, a painter and printer. He comes to see me, and the next day he dies.”
“And is this a reason to worry? Listen to me, Ludovico. How many people request an audience with you every week?”
“Oh, many. Dozens and dozens.”
“And how many people die every week here in Milan?”
“Yes, you’re right, Galeazzo. Even so . . . Ah, here he is. Yes, yes, do come in, Magistro Ambrogio.”
Ambrogio da Rosate crossed the room majestically, his face even more funereal than usual. He looked the very image of a bird of ill omen.
“At Your Lordship’s service.”
“So tell me, Magistro Ambrogio. What do the stars say?”
“It’s a disease, Your Lordship. The position of Mars leaves no room for doubt. There’s a clear threat to the city, but it definitely does not come from war or violence. It comes from inside the city itself.”
“A disease? And what disease would that be?”
“That, the stars don’t say, Your Lordship.”
“Hmmm,” Galeazzo, said with a doubtful expression. “It seems to me that being so far up, they surely must know quite a lot.”
“Captain, Magistro Ambrogio is doing what he knows best,” Ludovico replied in a conciliatory tone.
“In other words, talking nonsense,” Galeazzo retorted. “If I were you—”
“I am me, Galeazzo,” Ludovico answered, calmly but distantly. “It is you who are perhaps not in control of what you’re saying.”
There followed a few moments of understandable awkwardness, during which Ludovico placed his hands on the armrests of his chair and Galeazzo stared at a dot on the wall to avoid meeting the eyes of both his father-in-law and the astrologer.
“Thank you for your invaluable oracle, Magistro Ambrogio. You may go now. Galeazzo, please run and ascertain the condition of the dead man. I need hardly tell you, gentlemen, not to talk about this even between yourselves, except in my presence.”
* * *
“Of course, of course. We shan’t talk about it to a living soul.”
“Good. And now it’s time to act, not talk. How do you propose to do this?”
The Duke of Commynes’s two aides-de-camp looked at each other before speaking.
“We must first see the man we need to deal with,” one of them, the shorter one, said. His name was Robinot and he was a stout little man with a woolen hat that concealed a scabby head, and who had a total of seven or eight teeth left even though he wasn’t all that old, somewhere between twenty-five and fifty, to be precise. “But I don’t think there’ll be any problems. If I understood your description correctly, he’s a man of average build man and prone to absent-mindedness.”
“And if there are any problems, then whack!” said the other one, a big, dark-haired lad with very pale skin, sky-blue eyes, and the determined expression of someone who knows what he has to do, provided he’s told beforehand. Not the sharpest tool in the box, this Jaufré Mattenet. Tall, slim, good-looking, well-built—the exact opposite of his sidekick—but also rather silly.
“Whack?” Commynes said, looking gravely at the young man. “No, my friend. If there’s a problem, you just walk away. Remember, not a single hair on Messer Leonardo’s head must be touched. You must get your result as carefully and discreetly as possible.”
“Trust me, Master Commynes,” Robinot said. “I could swipe the duchess’s bonnet and she wouldn’t even notice. So a notebook’s no problem. You see, the important thing is that its owner should be distracted, engaged in something else that draws his attention. We can even do it tonight, at dinner. Tell me, is this Leonardo a big eater?”
“No, not at all. He eats no meat and is a man of remarkable restraint.”
“I see. Is he given to drink? Does he like to pour himself one cup too many?”
“I don’t think so. And bear in mind that at formal dinners it’s the servants who pour the wine. You won’t be able to top him up to your heart’s content.”
The Measure of a Man Page 7
