“Greetings, Caterina,” Salaì said cheerfully, walking in. “What’s for dinner tonight? Please don’t say turnips again.”
“My little Giacomo, are you able to read my son’s handwriting?”
“Of course, Caterina.”
“Could you tell me what it says here?”
Salaì bent over the paper and frowned. Then he began to spell it out.
Take two times two and you get four.
Take three times three and you get nine.
Take four times four and you get sixteen.
Take five times five and you get twenty-five.
And if you divide forty-nine by seven, you get seven.
This will apply to the armor as well as the shell, since it applies to the bone and the cannon.
Caterina looked at Salaì with some alarm. Then she looked again at the paper, with those drawings of a mouse and an elephant that looked so real it felt almost unnatural to see them standing still.
“Are you pulling my leg, little Giacomo?”
“Not at all, Madonna Caterina, no. It’s written exactly as I read it.”
“And what on earth does it mean?”
“How should I know?”
THINGS TO DO
Speak with Accerrito the banker to see if he ever receives false letters, and how he recognizes them.
Speak with Captain Galeazzo about how a body can be dumped inside the Piazzale delle Armi in the Castello Sforzesco and how come nobody saw it being done.
Speak again with Master Antonio the armorer about how much strength is required to suffocate a man inside a suit of armor. This time go on your own.
If you understand these three things you will understand how this incident took place, since effects follow causes, just as branches sprout from the trunk, and no tree grows from branches born from the air. The more facts you learn, the easier you will find the cause from which they spring, since all the facts converge in the same trunk and it only takes one for you to see them all, but if the trunk is hidden in dense forest, the more branches you have in order to find it, the better.
I write my duties, and I know my duties, but others do not. A painter’s duty is to paint, an armorer’s duty is to make armor, a customer’s duty is to pay for the work when it has been done to perfection. And a painter’s duty is to live and eat and give his apprentices a decent life, because if one cannot eat then one does not live, and if one does not live then one cannot paint. Although I ask myself why I am staying here in Milan, with all the other places there are in the world.
And leave the horse alone for the moment.
ELEVEN
So, then. Every branch of a river carries water to the main river, and every branch of a tree is connected to the trunk.
If you see a tree growing and forking, and measure the diameter of its trunk and the diameter of the two forks, you’ll find that their sum is equal to the diameter of the trunk. At any height, if you take the branches at that altitude and make them into a bundle, this bundle will be as thick as the trunk.
If two branches meet in one point, this point must be thicker at its base than the branches. It has never been seen that branches sprouting from a trunk are thicker than the trunk itself. It’s the same for man. If you join his fingers, they are as wide as the palm of his hand, if you put his legs together, they are as wide as his hips, and if you lift his arms next to his head, all of this, arms and head, is as wide as his chest.
* * *
The man sitting next to Leonardo looked at him with a puzzled expression, and only then did Leonardo notice that he had raised his arms beside his head, his hands together, like a diver on an Olympic springboard. Solemnly, pretending to assess the nature of some pain in his joints, Leonardo lowered his arms and sighed.
He had been waiting for almost half an hour. And during that half-hour, in a room in Porta Comasina adorned with a carved marble door, his brain had wandered off, as usual. And, as usual, it constantly veered away from the main problem, and Leonardo was obliged to force it back to the Problem with a capital P. That was when he noticed. Because sometimes his mind would get lost in such a powerful and promising thought that it took great commitment even just to realize that he was fantasizing. Even though, in actual fact, this wandering around branches had a reason. If two branches meet at a point, that point must be as thick as the sum of both branches. And therefore it must be thicker than each of the two branches taken alone. And given that this point is certainly—
“Messer Leonardo da Vinci?”
“Yes,” Leonardo said, getting to his feet.
“This way. Messer Accerrito will receive you in person.”
* * *
“Ah, Leonardo, what a pleasure. Come in, come in. Forgive the wait, but it’s been a very busy morning, or rather, a very busy couple of days. In fact, you must forgive me, but I can’t give you very long.”
“Do not fret, Messer Accerrito. I am not accustomed to insisting in the face of refusal. I am not here to ask for money. The coin I ask is much more precious.”
And here Messer Accerrito gave a little shudder, a mixture of anxiety and annoyance.
“It isn’t hard currency I wish to speak about but the softer kind.” Leonardo smiled, thoroughly pleased at his interlocutor’s obvious discomfort. “You are a wizard, but in a way that doesn’t upset the authority of the Church and its courts. You turn paper into coins, and vice-versa. I therefore ask of you only this: a few answers.”
“Gladly, if I can provide them,” Accerrito said, increasingly troubled. “But bear in mind that in matters of credit, silence is golden.”
“I am sure it is. Gold is gold, and paper is paper. Turning paper into gold when one doesn’t have the possibility to do so may not upset the Holy Mother Church, but it certainly annoys His Lordship Ludovico il Moro.”
Accerrito turned slightly pale. The punishment for forgers, as well as for those who circulated false coins knowing their origin, was death. “Very well,” Accerrito said, swallowing. “Ask me a specific, concise question and I will give you a concise, specific answer.”
“Alas, alas, you are an optimist, Messer Accerrito. Often, the more specific the question, the more difficult, more nebulous the reply. But let us not digress. The first question is: Have you ever had anything to do with fake letters of credit?”
Accerrito Portinari appeared to hold his breath for a second. His eyes swept over his desk, as though it might provide him with a reply. “Why do you ask?”
“Because the wretched man who was murdered, and then left in the Piazzale d’Armi, Rambaldo Chiti, had a letter of credit signed by Bencio Serristori in his room. A fake letter.”
“How do you know it was fake?”
“It was signed and dated the twenty-fourth of June.”
Accerrito Portinari was silent for a moment, then burst into hearty, almost hysterical laughter. It took him several seconds to calm down. “The twenty-fourth of June? Imagine that! Bencio working on the Feast of Saint John! What forger would be foolish enough to commit such a stupid error?”
“I think it was Chiti himself, Messer Accerrito.”
Accerrito’s face darkened. “But wasn’t this Chiti one of your apprentices?”
“He was. I threw him out a long time ago, when I discovered what a scoundrel he was. But forgive me, Accerrito, you haven’t yet answered my question.”
Accerrito Portinari linked his fingers in front of his face, then lowered his hands to his belly and leaned back in his chair. “Have I ever had anything to do with phoney letters of credit, you ask? Yes, it’s possible. In fact, it’s almost certain.”
“And what do you do when you receive one you think is fake?”
“I pay it.”
“You pay it?”
“Of course. Unless it’s obviously fake, as in the case you mention. Or unless the figure i
s an exorbitant one, in which case I would have been informed in advance by a personal letter that a branch has granted Messer So-and-so a credit of twenty thousand ducats, say, and in that case I would have sufficient time to scrape the money together.”
“Wouldn’t it be better for you to investigate so as to ascertain whether or not it’s fake?”
“It would be even better for me if people didn’t lose faith in the credit system. You see, Messer Leonardo, if I started asking pointless questions about every letter of credit I think is fake, people would stop using our bank and go elsewhere. Letters of credit are used by travelers, by strangers who don’t have time to stay long. I can’t tell them to stay in Milan for a week, they’d tell me to go to hell.”
“And couldn’t someone other than the holder cash it?”
“Only if authorized by the holder. That’s a brand-new service, and my bank is one of the first to offer it.” Accerrito smiled, then his face darkened again. “As it happens, that’s my problem this morning. One of my customers has died, and even before his body has had time to turn cold, I’m surrounded by heirs who want to know if he had money in his account, and if so how much, and I have to work out who among them is entitled to ask me that. The poor man was murdered, and these people are at my door armed with rocks, clamoring for money. So if you’ll excuse me, I must—”
“But of course, Messer Accerrito, of course. Murdered, you say?”
“Stabbed while leaving an inn. Inexplicable.”
“Perhaps he had gambling problems? Or there was an altercation over a woman?”
“Hardly. He was an elderly, respectable man, the kind who always do things properly. Poor Signor Barraccio.”
“Barraccio? Not Giovanni Barraccio?”
“Yes, him. The wool merchant. Did you know him?”
* * *
“Yes, of course, I know him,” Cecilia Gallerani said, looking at Leonardo with disbelief in her eyes. “We were talking of him only yesterday afternoon. And you’re telling me he’s dead?”
“Murdered, Countess. Stabbed outside an inn.”
“That’s terrible. Oh, Holy Mother of God, a man so . . . so . . .”
“Respectable?”
“Yes, Messer Leonardo. A good man, generous, hard-working. I find it hard to believe that someone could have quarreled with him to the point of stabbing him. Did you come all the way here in such a rush to tell me this?”
“Yes, Countess. You see, Giovanni Barraccio’s name was mentioned yesterday because he was one of the people I knew who’d had dealings with my friend the banker whose letter of credit was forged . . . What?”
Leonardo’s astonishment was not unjustified. Cecilia had suddenly squeezed his arm with her right hand, in an unexpected, inappropriate, but nevertheless not at all unpleasant contact.
“A letter of credit? Listen, Messer Leonardo. Last summer, in mid-August, I met with Giovanni Barraccio to order a few things. We talked a little, as usual, and he asked me if by any chance I had ever used a letter of credit. I told him I had never had either the need or the opportunity, but that if I could help him I would gladly do so. He then asked me if one of these letters was still valid even if the person who had issued it was dead.”
Leonardo didn’t say anything. Which didn’t mean he had nothing to say. But Cecilia did not need to be led.
“I replied that I didn’t understand these things, but that I knew more than one person who might perhaps help him. I gave him the name of one in particular. You and I both know him. And now you tell me that Messer Barraccio has been killed.”
“Pardon me, Countess, I have a very specific idea of the person to whom you are referring, but I would like my suspicions to be confirmed.”
“So you also have a name in mind?”
“A very specific name, Countess. Shall I say it or will you?”
Cecilia blushed and looked away. A mantle of embarrassment had fallen around them, as tangible and heavy as one of Master Antonio Missaglia’s suits of armor, but even harder to take off.
“We look like two people in love, Messer Leonardo.”
Leonardo, who until that moment had been the same color as his garment, now became indistinguishable from his hat.
“Forgive me, Countess, it was not my intention to make you feel uncomfortable. I sometimes forget who I am and whom I am addressing. It had better be I who utters the name.”
* * *
“Accerrito Portinari, director of the bank at Porta Comasina.”
“Come in, come in, Messer Portinari,” Ludovico said, remaining seated. “How are you?”
Accerrito Portinari looked around. He had never felt uneasy in this room. On the contrary. It was one of the places where power was exercised. But today, Ludovico, the members of the Council, and even the chevrons decorating the walls seemed to be looking at him with a blend of annoyance and suspicion.
“I am well, Your Lordship, quite well.”
“And how is business? I hope being back in your original head office is proving beneficial, both to your morale and to your customers.”
“As it happens, that’s what I’ve come to speak about with Your Lordship. Two things happened today. Two distinct things that may not be distinct after all.”
“Please explain yourself, Portinari.”
“Well, I’ve received many requests for money by letter of credit today.”
“That’s good, isn’t it? It is the nature of your work, after all.”
“Yes, it’s good, except for one thing. There’s something strange about these letters.”
“In what way strange?”
“Well, they’re all signed by the same banker. A Florentine banker, Bencio Serristori.”
“Bencio Serristori,” Ludovico said, turning the name over in his mouth like one of those aniseed candies his wife liked so much but that he found disgusting and ate only so as not to upset her. “That’s quite a coincidence.”
“Yes, it is. It sometimes happens that two letters from the same banker arrive on the same day. There’s an explanation for that. People travel together from Marseilles, Konstanz, or Bruges, to be safer, and arrive at the same time.”
“But what we have here is more than two letters, if I understand correctly.”
“Yes, Your Lordship. And all signed by a banker who died in the middle of the summer. Florence is a long way from here, so it’s not easy to check our records, especially if the banker who signed these letters died months ago.”
“He died?” Ludovico said, feigning surprise.
“Yes, he died. Do you see what I mean?”
“You fear these letters might be fakes.”
“I more than fear it, Your Lordship. Moreover, this is the worst possible time to deal with such an emergency. I am swamped with the collection of promissory notes and loans. And on top of that . . .”
“On top of that?”
“Today at about terce, Messer Leonardo da Vinci, who is a friend, came to see me. We’ve known each other since our Florence days, when I was a young man and he was a boy, and when he moved to Milan I was one of his first associates.”
“I’m sure you and Leonardo are well acquainted,” Ludovico said curtly, although in truth he had a vague sense that Accerrito was exaggerating somewhat. They didn’t seem to him like two people who could be on such familiar terms. In the past, perhaps, but not now.
“Well, today Leonardo came to me and asked if during my banking career I had ever had anything to do with fake letters of credit. He told me he feared they had been produced by someone named Rambaldo Chiti, a former apprentice of his, whom Leonardo said he dismissed after experiencing his iniquity. If I understood correctly, this Chiti is the very person who was found dead in your Piazzale delle Armi.”
Ludovico looked Accerrito Portinari up and down, from top to toe. Until that day, he had always
thought of the manager of the Milanese branch of the Medici Bank as a toad. Except that toads weren’t supposed to have scales.
“The Piazzale isn’t mine, it belongs to the castle, and the castle belongs to the Duchy of Milan,” Ludovico said, looking around. “As for the rest, I cannot deny that what you’re saying is true.”
“That, Your Lordship, is all I came to tell. There have been far too many coincidences in my bank today, and I felt it my duty to report them to you, just the way they happened.”
“Thank you, Messer Portinari.” Ludovico gave a signal and the servant at the door rapped on it with his knuckles. The door was opened from the outside and the castellan came in. “Castellan, wait before you show the next supplicant in. Good evening, Messer Portinari.”
“May God protect Your Lordship.”
While Accerrito Portinari slithered away, Ludovico joined his hands together in front of his face and began to rub.
Leonardo was a Florentine. Bencio Serristori was a Florentine. The Medici Bank was Florentine. Who could have had the facility to obtain a letter of credit from a Florentine banker? Someone who had ongoing contact with Florence. Like Leonardo. But.
But really, Leonardo? Were we talking about the same man? Could Ludovico have been so grossly wrong about him?
Ludovico raised his eyes and met those of Galeazzo Sanseverino.
It’s possible, Galeazzo’s eyes said. I don’t believe it, but it’s possible.
“Captain, would you please go fetch Messer Leonardo?” Then, more loudly: “Castellan, today’s audience is suspended.”
“There are just two more people, Your Lordship.”
“Tell them to come back tomorrow. We will hold a supplementary session to hear those who were left out.”
The Measure of a Man Page 16
