The Measure of a Man

by Marco Malvaldi

  “Then tell me. I’m listening.”

  “First of all, there are the letters I sent my few peers, which I mentioned earlier. They are reputable artisans and engineers as well as conscientious people, and I trust they’ve kept my letters, just as I keep theirs.”

  “All right. And then?”

  “Secondly, I myself told you, and insisted on the fact, that Rambaldo Chiti was murdered and did not die of a disease or thanks to divine wrath, as others told you. It would be truly foolish of me, Your Lordship, to fall into a trap I myself had set.”

  “Very well, I grant you that. Is there anything else you wish to say to me?”

  “Two things. The first is that I entrust myself to the impartiality you have shown so many times, especially in the case of the two Germans in Capiago.”

  At the end of May, two Germans living in Capiago near Lake Como, Jacob de Pesserer and Jos Crancz, had been arrested with their servants, accused of being forgers. Their house had been searched and all its contents confiscated and inventoried, and the inventory examined personally by il Moro, who, with Leonardo’s help in fact, had concluded that the two men were not forgers, but alchemists. And not naive alchemists trying to obtain gold by mixing lead and urine, as was often the case, instead of using zinc bisulfide which, as everyone knew by now, was the most promising method of obtaining gold. They had a well-developed laboratory, but there were no minting dies, no mallets, no blunt objects. The two men had been released on June 11th, with an edict signed by il Moro in person, after eleven days of prison and none of torture. There weren’t many places where this happened at the end of the 15th century.

  “And the second thing?”

  “The second, Your Lordship, is that I have evidence that Chiti was not only a counterfeiter, and the letter of credit you showed me earlier is a fake.”

  * * *

  “You see, Your Lordship, the letter is signed by Bencio Serristori, Accerrito Portinari’s associate and my good friend in Florence. It’s clearly dated the twenty-fourth of June this year.”

  “Yes, I can see that. So?”

  “Well, Your Lordship, the twenty-fourth of June is the Feast of Saint John the Baptist in Florence. Nobody works on the day of the patron saint. And, from what I knew of Bencio Serristori, he would never have left home—or, above all, a lavishly set table—on the Feast of Saint John to go to the bank.”

  “Knew?”

  “That’s right, Your Lordship, Bencio Serristori died in Florence on the first day of July this year. My mother Caterina, who has recently come to stay with me, told me this along with other news she brought from Florence.”

  Ludovico joined his hands in front of his face and began rubbing his chin up and down with the knuckles of his index fingers. Not a very duke-like pose but more than essential at that moment. Ludovico was thinking.

  In order to be paid, a letter of credit had to match the specimen of handwriting and the signature every bank manager kept with him. If Chiti had forged that letter, it meant he had access to a specimen of a real letter. But where could he have obtained it?

  And, above all, where was this specimen?

  “So you knew this Signor Serristori well?”

  “As I told you, we were each other’s guest in Florence.”

  “And do you have any idea who did business with him here in Milan?”

  “There are a few I remember, Your Lordship, but I cannot guarantee there aren’t more of them.”

  Il Moro’s knuckles continued to rub his chin. A fake letter of credit. The real one is missing. And the man who most likely fabricated it is murdered in that absurd manner and dumped in the middle of my castle. In the center of his city. I have to get to the bottom of this.

  “Messer Leonardo, draw up a list of the Milanese names you know to have had dealings with your friend Serristori.”

  “As Your Lordship wishes. May I therefore hope for Your Lordship’s forgiveness and trust?”

  “Of my forgiveness, my Christian forgiveness, you can always be certain, Messer Leonardo. As for my trust, we’ll see if you can earn it. Remember that we have made some very specific agreements and I am still waiting for proof of your craftsmanship.”

  Il Moro’s eyes traveled in an indescribable but perceptible fashion to Leonardo’s face.

  Eyes that said: And I don’t just mean the bronze horse.

  To which the eyes facing him replied: I know that perfectly well.

  * * *

  “I must get to the bottom of this matter, Galeazzo. I don’t know what’s going on, but I don’t like it.”

  “I don’t understand it either, Ludovico. What I understand least of all is why somebody should have dumped that body in the middle of the piazzale, like a cat bringing a dead bird home. I don’t understand why they did it, and what they expect from it.”

  “You wonder why, Galeazzo, because you think like a soldier. I am a ruler, so what I wonder is: Who? I wonder who it was. Which is why I don’t know whom to trust or how much I can trust.”

  Galeazzo and Ludovico were now alone in the large room, waiting for the members of the Secret Council to be admitted and for the day’s audiences to begin. These were not supplicants, not people who wished to speak with il Moro, but people who had been summoned and with whom il Moro wished to speak, in a safe place and in the presence of witnesses.

  “You simply have to, Ludovico. If you’re thinking of Leonardo, his behavior would make no sense if he had something to hide from you. In any case, you either trust him or you don’t.”

  “You sound very sure.”

  Galeazzo shook his head a millimeter, looking into the distance. “As you yourself said, Ludovico, I think like a soldier. If you asked me to take that cannon ball and shoot it at an enemy line that was facing me, what would I reply?”

  “You’d call me crazy. And you’d send for a cannon.”

  “But the cannon might blow up in my face.”

  Ludovico smiled. “You couldn’t win the battle without the cannon.”

  Still serious, Galeazzo continued speaking, while looking into the distance. “And you can’t get to the bottom of this business without Leonardo. The distance between Milan and Florence is too great for you on your own and without the information he already possesses.”

  “Which might be false or incomplete.”

  “Ludovico, just as I am a warrior, you are a politician. I know how to fight and you know how to trust the right people. Do so and keep doing so. It makes no sense for you to trust Leonardo with some secrets and not with others.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I wasn’t born yesterday, Ludovico. You and Leonardo are plotting something secret together. I’m good at picking up when two people are talking around something a third party isn’t supposed to know.”

  “Galeazzo, do you trust me?”

  “Of course, Ludovico.”

  “Then keep trusting me. This has nothing to do with you.” Ludovico heaved a sigh that expelled the carbon dioxide from his chest, but not the tension. “Very well, then. Admit the councilors and the first man we summoned. Who do we have now?”

  * * *

  “The Prior of the Congregation of the Poor of Jesus, Father Diodato da Siena, and Brother Gioacchino da Brenno, of the same Congregation,” the castellan announced in a firm voice.

  “Come in, come in, Father,” Ludovico said, keeping his seat. “Brother Gioacchino, do step forward. I’m curious to meet the Jesuit preacher who’s on all Milanese lips.”

  “You could have come to Mass, Your Lordship, if you were so curious.”

  Of the many qualities Friar Gioacchino da Brenno might have possessed, friendliness wasn’t exactly the most obvious. And nor was attractiveness. A little man like so many others, with a monastic tonsure verging on incipient baldness, compensated for by two thick, bushy eyebrows and generous
tufts of hair sprouting from his ears.

  When he heard these words, Father Diodato gave Ludovico a look such as a cocker spaniel would give his mistress after breaking her genuine Ming vase.

  “Your Lordship must forgive Brother Gioacchino’s impetuousness. He comes from the wooded moorlands of our Val Camonica and isn’t accustomed to speaking with lords.”

  “On the other hand, they tell me he is very good at talking to peasants.”

  “I beg Your Lordship to forgive me if I have been coarse,” the friar said, not smiling. “I am merely a humble Jesuate, a servant of the Lord, unused to the pomp of your proud residence.”

  “I’m happy to see that you carry your humility with the pride it deserves,” Ludovico replied, smiling. “And I would be even happier to hear what you think of the way this city is being run.”

  Friar Gioacchino looked at Father Diodato.

  Mind what you say, his superior warned. He’s testing you.

  “Your Lordship, I would never dare—“

  “Do so in front of me? I don’t see why not. You do it in front of the subjects of Duke Gian Galeazzo, whose guardian I am, and in front of the foreigners who come to Milan, of which I am regent.”

  “Your Lordship,” Father Diodato intervened, “Friar Gioacchino is a man of vehement sermons but an honest heart. He would never say anything that went against the Holy Scriptures, and I am sure this is your chief concern, as you most charitably proved by pardoning and acquitting Friar Giuliano da Muggia.”

  Father Diodato da Siena was not prior of one of the most powerful congregations in Europe by chance. And just as he had warned his friar, so now he was warning Ludovico. Politely, respectfully, but pointedly. My dear Moro, you may be Lord of Milan but I’m telling you loud and clear, even while making big humble, imploring eyes at you, that to the Church you’re nothing.

  “Of course, Father. I am not a cleric like my brother Ascanio, but I too am familiar with the Holy Scriptures. I believe that in more than one of the Holy Gospels, it is written ‘Render unto Caesar the things that are Caesar’s.’ If it’s written in the Holy Gospel, then it’s an instruction that should be respected by every good Christian, don’t you think?”

  With this, il Moro had been equally clear. I’m no man of the cloth but my brother just happens to be a cardinal. And he is perfectly capable of requesting the intervention of the Roman authorities if he were to feel, or I were to point out to him, that you are saying something the Scriptures do not sanction, my dear little friend with the bushy ears.

  “I respect the Holy Scriptures and everything written in them,” Gioacchino replied in a guttural voice, “but not everything is written in the Holy Scriptures, Your Lordship. And the people don’t know what’s not written in them unless one tells them. It’s not written in the Holy Scriptures that the wrath of the Lord has smitten Milan, and yet it has happened.”

  “Which is precisely what I wanted to ask you. The reason this happened. I’m told you say it’s because of the poor governance of the city. Very well. Since the government is made up of people, I expect you to give me the names of these people. Names and surnames, that’s what I need in order to take action against them.”

  Taken aback, the friar looked at his superior. Forget about being a Jesuate and become a Benedictine for a few minutes, Father Diodato’s face told him.

  “You’re in the right place. This is the Secret Council, which deals with affairs of State, and these are my councilors.” Ludovico smiled. “You have nothing to fear.”

  The second and third sentences, the friar’s eyes seemed to say, were not exactly consistent with each other.

  “I am not in a position to name names, Your Lordship, but only to allude to the general conduct of this city, where money has now become the cause and aim of every act and every interest. What I preach—”

  “What you preach, you can do outside. This is a government council and I am asking you to give me the names of those who are governing this city badly so that I can prosecute them. Are you able to provide me with some of these names?”

  Father Diodato once again tried to intervene. “Your Lordship, as Friar Gioacchino has already said—”

  “Yes or no?” Ludovico continued, looking at the friar and not paying the slightest attention to the prior.

  “I am not, Your Lordship.”

  “In that case I apologize for summoning you,” Ludovico said, opening his hands with a benevolent air. “We’ve both wasted our time. Castellan, be so good as to escort Father Diodato and Brother Gioacchino out. Whose turn is it now?”

  * * *

  “His Excellency Philippe, Duke of Commynes, and Signor Perron de Basche.”

  “Come in, come in, Your Excellency. Welcome, Signor de Basche. I hope all is well and that the castle is to your liking.”

  “Your hospitality is even more exquisite than we could have hoped for, Your Lordship. And thank you for summoning us to this audience, since we ourselves have a question to submit to Your Lordship’s counsel.”

  “In that case, Your Excellency and Signor de Basche, I shan’t waste any precious time. My summons concerns the situation of His Most Christian Majesty King Charles VIII’s army as it is now. Please bring me up to date.”

  “The situation is excellent, Your Lordship. We have twenty thousand men at arms under the orders of His Excellency the Duke of Orléans. His Majesty’s fleet now consists of thirty armed galleys, thirty galleons, and ten gulets ready to set sail for Naples.”

  “I am pleased to hear it. With that and the famous cannons your army possesses, I would say you are in an excellent state of preparedness. So we can begin.”

  “We can begin as soon as we have the last thing we need, Your Lordship. The means to transport the cannons across the Alps.”

  “In order to arm the galleys,” Perron de Basche now said, “His Most Christian Majesty has been forced to commit not only the State treasury but also his family’s reserves.”

  We beg the forgiveness of readers not philologically inclined, but an explanation is necessary here: “to commit” in this case meant not “to exploit within an inch of its life” but, literally, “to pawn.” In fact, Charles VIII had pawned his personal belongings, houses, castles, and other real estate, not all of it strictly his, and obtained the money required for the expedition at a staggering rate of interest of seventy-two percent per annum, or 72% if you prefer figures to numbers—in any case, a lot. How good King Charles would be at waging war, the French nobility had no way of knowing, but they hoped he would be better at it than he was at doing business.

  “I understand, Duke. You therefore need my support.”

  “Yes, Your Lordship.”

  “I understand. Given the estimated number of cannons and foot soldiers, and the horses they already have as well as those they need, and the suitable means of transport, as I have been informed by Belgioioso . . .”—here Il Moro pretended to make a complicated mental calculation—“. . . you will need some tens of thousands of ducats.”

  The Duke of Commynes felt his stomach smile at him and grow light. From what he knew of il Moro, when he started to count, it meant yes. “The figure we need, Your Lordship, is thirty thousand ducats.”

  Il Moro slowly nodded, as if drawing comfort from the fact that the required sum matched the figure he had tried to estimate.

  “Castellan, send for the treasurer. Let’s see if we can meet the needs of our valuable ally, gentlemen.”

  BY CANDLELIGHT

  My Most Excellent Lord, whom I alone may call mine,

  today, having spoken with Master Antonio, I made a small trial cast of a horse in copper and tin. I cast the animal lying on its side, since the lack of depth and the water table prevent it from being cast standing upright or turned in any way.

  It was my firm belief until today that the most important factor when fusing the metal an
d casting the horse was the force of the pressure exerted by the molten metal, and that, as described by Archimedes, a body immersed in liquid is given a thrust equivalent to the weight of the liquid it shifts. This pressure is exerted not only in an upward direction but on all the sides, since by its nature liquid tries to resume the form that is most consonant with it, and if it is thrust too high it wants to come back down, and in order to come back down it applies pressure. Just as a little boat placed in a tub rests on the water, the water inside the tub rises then tries to come down and, in order to do so, also thrusts against the sides of the tub as well as the hull of the boat.

  If this liquid is molten metal, then it is much heavier than water and when it weighs down on the form of the horse, which is inside the molten metal, its thrust is of such force that it can crack the outer crust that lends it its form.

  Having cast the horse, I wanted to let it cool down in icy water, but since Salajno had broken the large bowl and since in the medium-sized one there was a slumbering cat that I did not want to disturb, I had to pour the water on the horse directly from a pitcher, imagining that the ebullition of the water would make it evaporate immediately and not get the floor wet. To let it flow more easily, I decided to wet the horse by pouring the water on the lying horse, as I plan to do with the life-size monument.

  Once it had cooled, I tapped on it with a mallet to see if it emitted a dull sound, an indication of cracks or rifts, or a clear, limpid sound, and noticed that it made a different sound depending on whether it was being tapped on the head or toward the tail. To hear it better, I tapped longer and at one stage gave it rather too vigorous a tap, so that the horse split in two, precisely down the middle, along the join between the right and the left parts. I picked it up and felt that the left part seemed lighter than the right, even though the sizes appeared the very opposite, that is, the right was lighter than the left. This was confirmed when I immersed both pieces in water to measure their volume. I took both parts and weighed them on the assay balance. The right one weighed two hundredths of a pound more than the left one, even though it was only half a fingernail of water smaller in volume.