The Fine Art of Murder

by Tony Bulmer

  “Naturally, without question. They will come from all corners of Christendom to pay pilgrimage. But when I spoke of a comparison master Buonarroti I had a more direct approach in mind.”

  The sculptor’s eyes grew wide. With a mighty warlike cry, he swung down from the top of the scaffold, with the agility of a Veronese acrobat. He landed sound footed before his tormentor and snatched up a razor edged stone chisel, in a giant callused hand. Holding the weapon high, like a dagger, he approached Machiavelli with slow menace.

  “You contemplate diminishing my life’s greatest work by juxtaposing it with one of da Vinci’s feeble carvings? I should rip out your jackal gizzards for a carrion’s feast!”

  Machiavelli stood fast. “My divine boy, in your passion you misinterpret my words.”

  “Then out with your true meaning, and be fast about it!”

  “My master, Galfoniere Soderini, has tasked me with the onerous responsibility of finding the greatest artists of our age to decorate the great Salone dei Cinquecento, at the heart of our fair city.” Machiavelli gave the sculptor a wan smile. “Naturally, men of great wealth and influence will cast their eyes upon these works—crowned heads from across the known world, diplomats of high repute, and wealthy merchants from the four corners of Christendom. Therefore, the artists chosen for this grand commission will become men of great reputation. Perhaps you know of such an artist master Buonarroti?”

  “These great men, of whom you speak, will witness my work as they arrive at the great hall. Their lips will be so busy with its praises, their eyes so dazzled by its great beauty, that they will have not time to consider any works within, for their appreciation will be spoiled towards it.”

  Machiavelli nodded thoughtfully, “Naturally I bow to your wise and judicious decision Il Divino. But surely, if Leonardo da Vinci is tasked with decorating the great hall, then the eyes of which you tell will be hungry to speak of its merits?”

  “My great work will surpass the daubings of da Vinci,” growled the sculptor menacingly, “As great divinity surpasses the wisdom of beggars.”

  Machiavelli twisted his face into an expression of pain and doubt, “I would hope it would be so Il Divino, your statue as it approaches completion, is quite clearly the greatest work of art to have graced our fair city since the time of the ancients. But I fear such artistry will not be, by itself, enough to gain the acclaim it so richly deserves.”

  “How so signor Machiavelli?”

  Machiavelli looked over his shoulder, first one way, then the other. He leaned in towards the sculptor, his voice hushed, in a way that indicated he was bestowing a great personal confidence. “I have heard tell master Buonarroti, that owing to the size and vulnerability to the elements of your great work—that overseers from the Office of Works are convening a council, to decide the most suitable position for your great masterpiece. It is my understanding, that up to nine different locations are being considered, including a secluded corner of the Loggia dei Lanzi on Piazza della Signoria.”

  “What! Who is responsible for this infamy?”

  “I understand that the cabal supporting the Loggia dei Lanzi decision is led by your great rival Leonardo da Vinci and his friend Sandro Botticelli.”

  “The treacherous dogs! They would relegate my influence, in favor of their own contemptible vanity. I will not stand for it Signor!”

  “Indeed master Buonarroti, it would be a most unfortunate decision, were it to ever come to pass.”

  “But you are a man of great influence signor Machiavelli. You have the ear of your master Galfoniere Soderini, surely you can press him to see sense in this matter?”

  Machiavelli frowned. He paused a long moment, considering the matter carefully, then said, “I have an idea. A plan that will surely elevate your case to the point where the Council of Works will be compelled to site your great statue in the location of your choosing, and in so doing, elevate your standing as a master craftsman in a manner that will eclipse the reputation of the great da Vinci.”

  The sculptor let the chisel fall to his side, “You are sagacious friend signor Machiavelli and a great statesman too—perhaps the greatest the Republic of Florence has ever seen. Tell me, what must I do to effect the conclusion of which you speak?”

  “I will use every measure of my influence with Galfoniere Soderini to effect your employ, so that you might create a legendary fresco in the Salone dei Cinquecento. The Galfoniere has already sanctioned the commission of da Vinci for the project, but when, your work is seen side by side with the old master, it will be clear to all that your work is superior, what is more, I think I can say with some certainty that your involvement in the decoration of the Salone dei Cinquecento will undoubtedly sway the Galfoniere’s judgment when it comes to the sighting of your great statue.

  “This you can guarantee?”

  “There can be no guarantees in life master Buonarroti, but I often find that golden sovereigns applied to men of influence are a steadfast replacement.”

  “You propose a bribe?”

  “Bribe is an ugly word Il Divino. Much better to think of these monies, as insurance against unfortunate outcomes.”

  “You forget one thing Signor Machiavelli,” the sculptor held his giant callused hands before him. Whitened by the dust of his labors, the hands looked as if they had been carved out of the finest Carrara marble. “It has been many moons since I worked in the studios of the painter Ghirlandaio.”

  “I have absolute faith in your skills Il Divino, your talents as a draughtsman are so legendary that, I wouldn’t be surprised to see your work in the halls of the Vatican itself. As ambassador to the Holy See, I am well placed to ensure that friends who offer loyal service, are considered favorably by his Holiness the Pope.

  “You would be a true friend to offer such advancement to a poor sculptor signor Machiavelli.”

  “Make no mention of it my divine boy, your service does me great favor, I will ensure as God is my witness that one day soon the whole world will speak of Michelangelo Buonarroti.

  THE FINE ART OF MURDER 07

  The tent of Cesare Borgia 1503

  Salai shrank back behind the curtain, his heart mad with fear at the sight of Cesare Borgia. How could the master effect a personal chemistry with such a brutish ruffian? The thought of their discourse both fascinated and repelled Salai. He drew back behind the drapery, almost forgetting to breath as he watched the ghostly, bearded figure take his throne at the end of the great dining table. So dark-eyed and pale, he might almost be attractive, where it not for his sinister undead presence—oh—the brooding menace in those murderous hands! Salai dry swallowed his trepidation, and shrank further into the shadows.

  The bureaucrat Machiavelli sat opposite the master in the clothes of a princeling. Talking his soft-oiled words, like a ruler of old. Salai knew well a man of treachery when he met one, and the bureaucrat Machiavelli was treacherous beyond compare—his serpent words coiling ready for the vulnerable and unwary. As he listened, to the stolen conversation, Salai’s heart fluttered, as he heard the ulterior subtext of every weasel word. Long-necked, like a creature of the forest, Machiavelli had a toad-like face and a toad like nature. But why couldn’t the master see this? It was inconceivable to Salai that a man such as his master—the great Leonardo da Vinci—could be taken in by such words. He was after all, a man of forthright and outspoken views—a man of great capacity in the world of the learned arts and sciences, how could he not cry humbug, when faced with such talk?

  Cesare Borgia lounged in his throne listening. In his jeweled hand, he held a glittering dagger that he was using to eviscerate an apple. How many throats had those hands cut? How much human flesh had that very same dagger torn through? How many had been dragged to their deaths on the cold orders of this ungodly creature?

  “The enemies of my father grow ever bolder, their plotting ever more ingenious and whilst I hear your entreaties for the continued protection of the Papal armies, it will not be possible to gra
ce your fair Republic with our presence for much longer Machiavelli.

  “Galfoniere Soderini will be greatly saddened to hear such news my Lord, as will the people of our great Republic. They draw much comfort and solicitude from your continued presence in our lands.”

  “Then it is decided. You will return to Rome with me and Leonardo too, for I have need of sound council in these treacherous times.”

  “Quite so my Lord, your judgment is as forthright and wise as ever it was,” gushed Machiavelli effusively.

  Cesare Borgia, having completed his slow evisceration of the apple, high-tossed a segment in the air and caught it in his mouth. “You are to be congratulated on your grand new project for the city of Florence Leonardo, it is a triumph of the engineers art, the like of which I have never seen before.”

  “It is a mere trifle my Lord,” said da Vinci brightly. “Such invention was common place in the times of the ancients.”

  “Perhaps so my friend, but it takes skill to re-imagine such concepts in the modern world and for that you are to be congratulated. When we return to Rome however, there are many more decorative projects with which we can employ your great skills.”

  “A craftsman is always grateful for gainful employ my Lord. I trust I will be able to turn my humble skills to what ever task the Holy City of Rome deems necessary.”

  “Splendid. My father is keen to commission a great work to adorn the Cappella Pontificia, your mastery of the painted medium would be much suited to the task, wouldn’t you agree Leonardo?”

  “I cannot imagine a greater honor than to paint the ceiling of the famous Sistine Chapel, but I fear age and infirmity are a curse that would preclude such an honorable adventure. Perhaps a younger, stouter neck than mine would be better suited to the task. Have you considered Ghirlandaio or Botticelli for the post?”

  “The world of pointless adornment bores me Leonardo, my God speaks to me through action. If you would discuss the merits of the artisan, I suggest you do so with my father, his eminence has a talent for such maters. However, I would remind you that the Papal armies march more confidently with your council, so I urge you to conclude such trifling business with the greatest possible haste.”

  As Leonardo nodded his understanding, Machiavelli said, “Wise council my Lord, the great Leonardo da Vinci is truly the brightest talent to ever march under the Papal flag. A fitting counterpoint to your distinguished leadership…” Machiavelli paused, his words hanging in the air like the scent of quicksilver.

  Cesare Borgia’s head swiveled, his undead gaze focusing darkly on Machiavelli. “Out with it Machiavelli, I have heard such pauses before. For a man of lesser wit I would attribute such hesitation to imprudent thought—but with you, I sense as always, the prelude to a great idea.”

  Machiavelli’s long neck bowed down in tribute. “You are very kind my lord, but my idea is as nothing, forgive me for even considering…”

  “I will be the judge of innovation Machiavelli, spit out your damned idea and make quick about it, as my impatience is an intolerable companion at the dinner table.”

  “You will forgive me for suggesting this my Lord, but your talk of the hallowed decoration of the Sistine Chapel drew immediately to mind another great project currently underway in the fair city of Florence.”

  “What is this project?”

  “The Salone dei Cinquecento in the Palazzo Vecchio is much in need of renovation, I have engaged a young sculptor named Michelangelo Buonarroti to assist with the renovations, but I fear his meager talents will be unsuited to the project.”

  “You wish to ornament the hall of the heretic Savonarola? I hear his grey and cursed presence has been much illuminated by the hellfire of eternal damnation.”

  “Quite so my Lord, but even in jest the cursed name of the unholy friar Savonarola is cause for much vexation within the great Republic of Florence. It was therefore my great hope, that I might effect a transformation to the sacred hall of our government, by depicting an uplifting scene of battle. A scene that depicts the great friendship between the Republic of Florence and her illustrious allies.”

  Cesare Borgia speared a slice of apple on his dagger, “A great battle you say? An excellent idea, tell me more Machiavelli.”

  “I was hoping to depict a scene where a mutual enemy—the Sforza brood of Milan for example, were utterly vanquished by our great armies…’

  “A capital idea! Don’t you agree Leonardo?”

  “I confess my faithful servant Salai passed rumor of this renovation my Lord, but with the many great tasks we have yet to complete for Rome, I see little chance of completing such a project.”

  “Nonsense! The project will go ahead, and it will be completed in short order. What is more, I have the very subject for this great mural of yours Leonardo.”

  Machiavelli clapped his thin hands together with excitement, “Pray tell us of your idea my Lord, your experience as the greatest military mind of our time would be much valued in the commission of this project.”

  Cesare Borgia gave a ghastly smile, his dark eyes sparkling as he brought down the blade of the dagger into the table with ruthless precision. “The subject of this great fresco will be the battle of Anghiari. It will be the greatest fresco outside the great city of Rome and will cement the eternal friendship between the greatest Republics in the world.”

  Machiavelli drew a breath of great awe, “An inspired and quite visionary choice of subject my Lord, your wise council is invaluable. Perhaps you could tell us tales of this great battle, so that Leonardo might be inspired?”

  Leonardo da Vinci let out a peal of laughter, “Inspired? I am always inspired signor Machiavelli, especially when I am in such momentous company! Salai, bring me my sketch book and more wine, there is work to be done this night!”

  Salai shrank back into the darkness for a long moment, hoping to create an authentic delay in his arrival that would cover his eavesdropping activities. He smiled to himself, signor Machiavelli was indeed a man of talents—a man from whom much could be learned.

  THE FINE ART OF MURDER 08

  The Palazzo Vecchio, in the City of Florence 1503

  Trumpets sounded out a salute as they arrived in the Piazza della Signoria, while all around them, curious citizens thronged in to the market square, to witness their grand arrival. Quite an event thought Salai, as he sat in the carriage next to his master. They were guests of honor—every eye turned towards them. How marvelous it was to be fashionable. Salai sat upright in the carriage and waved to the assembled crowds with grave dignity, as though he were a mighty prince arriving home after defeating his kingdoms enemies.

  An excited cheer rose up throughout the crowded market place. Excited children and a confusion of dogs raced around the wheels of their carriage. As they passed, a scented confetti of gaily-colored flower petals rained down upon their carriage.

  “Behold, Florence welcomes you to, the Palazzo Vecchio,” said da Vinci.

  “Rex Regum et Dominus Dominantium,” muttered Salai. “This moor castle makes my flesh crawl with foreboding.”

  “Nonsense Salai, quieten your sensibilities, for we arrive like kings.”

  Sali noticed his master’s eyes sparkling with a rare pride, as he absorbed the myriad delights of this triumphant return. This place was after all, the city of his master’s formative years. Small wonder the master was overcome with such wet eyed sentimentality.

  “Behold Salai the center of the civilized world, you may once again become acquainted with the society of cultural fulfillment.”

  “A soft bed and a smart tailor’s acquaintance will be my first priorities, once I have washed the stink of the countryside from my person,” snapped Salai, for even the overwhelming warmth of the Florentine welcome could not overcome the privations he had endured these past months, The suffering had been quite horrendous—the heat—the flies—the unbearable stench of the common soldiery, with their foul manners and ruddy-faced insolence—it had all been an intolerable burden on
his delicate sensibilities.

  Salai blamed the master.

  They could have stayed in Milan or Rome, if they had wanted, but no! The madcap caprices of the great da Vinci knew no limit. He had thrown himself into the service of Cesare Borgia without thought for those around him. But now, as the rose scented petals floated down around them, Salai began to feel at last, a building sense of euphoria. Florence was indeed a city of great wealth and beauty. He allowed himself a tentative smile and a quiet sigh of relief. How he longed for the civilized company of aesthetes. A return once again, to the delicate world he loved—a world of art and music and fashion, a world where lively and informed conversation flowed like the finest of wines.

  The wild cheering continued, growing ever louder as the end of their journey drew in sight. The excitement was almost palpable now, as they approached the halls of the Palazzo Vecchio. What pleasures of gastronomy could be enjoyed in a palace such as this? Salai felt his mouth watering, as tempting aromas assailed him from every direction.

  At last—his patience and forbearance rewarded! No longer would he have to endure the coarse fare of the field. Peasant food was all very well for those of a rude and bullish disposition, but the long months of austerity had taken a heavy toll on his sensitive and discerning palate. Now at last, those times were past. Salai unleashed his mind—let it run forwards into the land of soft comforts and myriad delights that lay in store. The fair city of Florence held many pleasures of the flesh that a young man could look forward to. The thought brought an even wider smile to his face, and as the carriage doors were opened and the gilded servants of Galfoniere Piero Soderini helped them down, onto the steps of the Palazzo Vecchio, Salai knew that this was the start of an upturn in his affairs, and now with his sense of foreboding forgotten, he stepped forth behind his master, into the hallowed halls of Florentine Government.