The Fine Art of Murder

by Tony Bulmer

  A svelte woman dressed entirely in white shouldered impatiently past Machiavelli and moved quickly into the room.

  “Gentlemen, may I present Signora Lucretzia Sfarzoso,” said Machiavelli, with as much dignity as he could muster.

  “Enough of your pomp Niccolò,” snapped the Sfarzoso woman brusquely.

  Salai gaped, the bed sheet toga falling down around his waist. It was the mysterious blonde women with the plunging neckline, from the Salone dei Cinquecento. Here in his bedchamber, without fear of protocol or propriety.

  Da Vinci beamed with pleasure, “Madam, truly you are a divine tonic, sent to bless our day with your most decorous presence. Perhaps you will be able to assist me with my young friend Salai?”

  Signora Sfarzoso looked directly at Salai, her dark eyes burning lustily. “I would be delighted to assist you,” She purred archly—I normally levy a fee for such tasks, but under the circumstances—quid pro quo—as they say in the vulgar world of commerce.”

  Machiavelli laughed nervously, “The signora has an enchanting, if somewhat idiosyncratic sense of humor,”

  Lucretzia Sfarzoso dismissed this comment with a brutal flick of her fan that impacted Machiavelli centre chest. “Niccolò is an expert in many things, sense of humor is not however one of them,” she purred, as she stalked around the great bed, like a hungry lioness closing in for the kill. As she prowled, she never once took her eyes off Salai—then, moving close to the master, she quickly changed her focus to da Vinci, who gazed at her with the happiness of a spring born lamb.

  “Niccolò tells me you are a man of great fame and wisdom signor da Vinci.”

  “One does ones best Signora. Life is short, art is long, and success is very far off.”

  “You are too modest Artist. It is not becoming for a man of your stature, although your taste in—assistants—can scarcely be faulted,”

  Da Vinci bowed graciously. “You are too kind Signora, and gracious too, but I fear we have a most rigorous schedule of employment to adhere to.”

  Signora Sfarzoso gave a tight smile. “I am sure that you do signor da Vinci. But first a question of an esthetic nature.”

  Da Vinci beamed, “Whatever pleases you my lady.”

  Lucretzia Sfarzoso paused, flourished her fan dramatically and said, “ I want to know exactly what you see in that prim little social climber Lisa Giocondo that is so worthy of reproducing in the medium of paint—do you find her attractive, or perhaps her prim demeanor excites a more celestial note within you?”

  “My dear lady, what a delight that you should present me with such questions. I had no idea that I should find such deep and searching philosophical challenges in the court of Florence. Perhaps you would care to discuss these matters in depth? I do request however that you grant a humble artist leave to make a sketch of your fair countenance whilst we talk?”

  Lucretzia Sfarzoso gave a gracious smile, “Why master da Vinci, how unexpected that you should make such a request. Niccolò assured me that you were a man of great artistic passion and that great beauty never fails to fire your creative muse, but I had no idea that I would make a suitable subject for your exceptional talent.”

  “The Gioconda’s husband offered five hundred golden Florins for a portrait, Signora, perhaps your great beauty will be able to match that offer,” said Salai tartly.

  Moving close to Salai, Lucretzia Sfarzoso flicked him under the chin with the back edge of her fan, “How endearing—the boy is both whore and pimp. Perhaps you think that your company is too high born for the court of Florence?”

  “My bearing is none of your concern Signora,” snapped Salai

  Machiavelli stepped forward smartly and said, “Five hundred gold florins? What is such a trifling amount amongst friends? I would be only too pleased to match such a figure, as your great beauty Signora, when complemented by the talents of the famous da Vinci will result in a painting worth many times the price.”

  Da Vinci clapped his hands with pleasure and excitement, “Bravo Signor Machiavelli, you are, as ever, a shrewd judge in these matters—naturally you will deliver the figure in advance as is usual in such matters?”

  Machiavelli gave Da Vinci an oily smile—“Naturally signor da Vinci, it goes without saying. I will arrange payment immediately—half now and half upon completion.”

  “Such terms are highly irregular,” interjected Salai.

  Machiavelli smiled, “You will excuse me for saying so master Salai, but the transaction of purchase is dependant upon completion—and though the risk of embarrassment cautions against me mentioning this—your masters record is not strong in this area.”

  Da Vinci roared with laughter, “Your gilt edged words are worth a florin a piece Machiavelli. You have the mind of a politician, the lips of a rogue, and the diction of the devil himself.”

  Machiavelli bowed graciously, “You are too kind master Da Vinci and for such praise I will add a bonus of one hundred golden Florins to incentivize the timely completion of the project.”

  “But we are commissioned to complete the fresco of The Battle of Anghiari for the great Hall of the Five Hundred. Galfoniere Soderini would undoubtedly take a dim view of any project that impeded the progress of such work.”

  Again Machiavelli smiled, holding his hands together as if in prayer, “ you can be assured gentlemen, that no word of this project will reach Galfoniere Soderini’s ears from my lips. In the way that Eros gave the flower of Aphrodite to Harpocrates, god of silence, we will keep this transaction sub-rosa.” Machiavelli turned to Lucretzia Sfarzoso and indicated the door with a chivalrous flourish, “Shall we Signora?”

  Wrapped in his bed-sheet toga, Salai saw them to the door.

  As she stepped outside Lucretzia Sfarzoso turned huffily, her great breasts rising and falling, as she contained her passion against Salai’s impudence, “Eromenos,” she hissed at Salai with the venom of Medusa herself.

  “Meretrix,” snapped Salai, and slammed the door.

  THE FINE ART OF MURDER 10

  The studio of Michelangelo Buonarroti 1503

  As Michelangelo Buonarroti stood at the top of the high scaffold, making adjustments to his great statue of David, a crowd of observers pressed noisily into the studio and stood transfixed by the astounding changes that had taken place to the sculpture, since last they paid visit.

  Galfoniere Piero Soderini, in his surprise let out a loud exclamation that immediately drew the attention of the sculptor. Michelangelo swirled around, enraged at being pulled from the deep concentration of his labors. On seeing the group of council members, led by Machiavelli, and his master Soderini, Michelangelo choked down the furious epithet that coiled across his tongue, and genuflected graciously. But inside, he boiled with rage—that these vain little courtiers would interrupt his great work, on so flimsy a pretext. What did these bureaucrats know of divinity, or great art? How dare they insinuate themselves so freely into the sacred chamber of his labors? The Philistine hoards of gold and government—their ogling was enough to sicken the most patient of souls. Did they not know that it was the work of the artist to commune with God? To beg divine inspiration, that it might be communicated to the world of men—these loutish vulgarians!

  “You are to be congratulated Michelangelo, you have created yet another masterpiece for the great Republic of Florence,” called Piero Soderini, from the floor of the studio. A general murmur of agreement rose up from the assembled group, followed by a spontaneous ripple of applause.

  Michelangelo narrowed his eyes, “You are very gracious sir.”

  “Are we to assume that this great work is now complete?” enquired Soderini pleasantly.

  “It will be complete, when God’s will dictates it,” hissed Michelangelo.

  Soderini nodded, giving the comment careful consideration, “Quite so Michelangelo, the Council of Works and the City Elders support you fully in your divine endeavors, but there are many civic considerations that must be taken care of, if we are to arrange for your
great work presented before the public.”

  “The public?” roared Michelangelo. “The only consideration that governs this project is the divine inspiration of the Lord God himself, all other matters are secondary!”

  Machiavelli stepped forward with a placatory smile, “Naturally we are sympathetic to your muse Il Divino, but you will understand that it is our worldly duty to ensure that your great work is sighted to the greatest effect…”

  “This work should be sighted as God himself intended it, out front of the great hall of the Palazzo Vecchio,” roared Michelangelo.

  “Undoubtedly that is so,” said Piero Soderini with grand authority, but there is the longevity of this most valuable work to consider—I have been counseled that your grand statue may be protected from the elements more readily, underneath the roof of the Loggia del Lanzi.”

  “Nonsense!”

  An anxious murmur ran through the assembled group.

  But Machiavelli cleared his throat loudly, in a manner that announced he once again had a ready solution to the impending civic crisis, “You will understand Il Divino that the pace of public works grows ever quicker within our great city and naturally the members of the City Council are anxious that your immense talent is showcased at the very centre of our plans…”

  But Piero Soderini, anxious to move business forward, interrupted with the question that burned on everyone’s lips, “When will you complete work on the great hall of the Five Hundred Michelangelo?”

  “You think I can channel the divine inspiration of God into a parlor painters schedule? I will not be governed by the needs of man, but the demands of the Almighty.”

  Machiavelli closed his eyes in silent despair.

  “You will know Signor, that the work of the great Leonardo da Vinci continues apace, in fact his great depiction of the Battle of Anghiari is being painted at this very moment.”

  “You dare speak to me of that bastard Da Vinci? He is nothing more than a dilettante pretender, who has scarce finished a work in his life—don’t expect his reputation for sloth and ineptitude to offer you any kind of special service, unless your great project involves the counting of gold, or the barbarous company of dissolute youth.”

  Piero Soderini swallowed, and cast a glance at Machiavelli.

  “As you may bear witness Galfoniere, great genius is also imbued with the curse of fiery temperament—but have no fear, Il Divino is a man of his word—is that not so my divine friend?”

  “Indeed signor Machiavelli—But as a great man once said to me, there can be no guarantees in life without insurance against unfortunate outcomes.”

  Piero Soderini looked thoughtful, then said slowly, “Wise words indeed, wouldn’t you agree Signor Machiavelli?”

  “Indeed my Lord,” replied Machiavelli with a wry smile.

  “So here then, is your guarantee Master Buonarroti,” said Piero Soderini,

  “Your statue of David shall be placed in the location of your choosing, and you will in return commence work on the great fresco of the Battle of Cascina before the week is out, are we agreed?”

  Michelangelo genuflected graciously, “I am your humble servant my Lord.”

  Piero Soderini smiled happily then turned to Machiavelli, “You see Niccolò, your assistance in this matter was not required after all. The extension of mutual understanding is often times the most fundamental requirement of contractual negotiations.”

  Machiavelli bowed deeply, “Quite so my Lord, how right you are.”

  THE FINE ART OF MURDER 11

  1503

  Lucretzia Sfarzoso sat in the window of the da Vinci apartments in the Palazzo Vecchio illuminated by the light of the new rising day.

  Leonardo da Vinci had decided that the day would be governed by the color yellow, and so it was that he was dressed head to toe in aurulent shades from the most fashionable clothiers in town. So striking was his appearance, as he assessed his subjects bearing, she passed comment in what she hoped would be a direct and conversational manner.

  “You dress as a young man sir, and in the most extraordinary of colors. I find that most other men of my acquaintance dress in an altogether more dour and conservative fashion.”

  Da Vinci closed one eye, and lined up his paintbrush in first the horizontal plane, then the vertical. Eventually, after considering signora Sfarzoso’s comment at length, he said, “I will not be held by the dour conventions of society madam. If convention was my business I would most likely be legal notary like my father before me.”

  “Your father was a gentleman, to his credit and your great good fortune.”

  “As was my master Verucchio, which was perhaps equally fortunate.”

  Signora Sfarzoso frowned, “And your hair sir, it flows in the biblical manner, without consideration for the styles of the modern age. Is this a sign of divinity or abandon?”

  Da Vinci roared with laughter, “Abandon Signora? From a woman of your acquaintance I find such modesty charming. Are you trying to charm me pray-tell?”

  Lucretzia Sfarzoso felt herself redden around the cheeks, it was not a sensation that she was commonly acquainted with, and she fought the urge to turn her head. Instead, she thrust her chin outwards, her dark eyes flashing dangerously in the sunlight.

  Da Vinci laughed again, then gave her a kind look from around the corner of his canvas and said teasingly, “If you must blush Signora, please refrain from doing so while the light is with us.”

  “Tell me Signor da Vinci, do you find me pretty?”

  “Indeed I do Signora, and my brush more so.”

  “Will your art flatter me in the way that it has flattered, the many you have painted before me?”

  “I avoid flattery at all costs Signora, I seek rather the beauty that lies in the mathematical truth of being. Mathematics, as you may know, is not only beautiful, but also fluent in the language of natural world. I ask you Signora, what greater truth is there?”

  “Perhaps the truth of God?”

  “God and nature are synonymous Signora, does it not tell us so in the Bible?”

  “You put a strong case for your art sir, but there are many who’s opinions would differ most strikingly from that view.”

  “Pah—the greatest deception men suffer is from their own opinions.”

  “But are not such opinions the results of considered thought by the very wise?’

  “On the contrary Signora, opinions are formed as quickly as the misfortunes of the common man. True wisdom is the daughter of experience, just as truth is the only daughter of time.”

  “Perhaps this painting, on which you now work, will one day be judged by posterity? In the manner of the great painters of past ages?”

  “Hardly signora, nature is as ephemeral as time itself. That this humble work should give pleasure in our lifetime is more than enough reward for an artist such as myself. Let us take pleasure in it now, for in the years beyond that time, we shall be poorly placed to enjoy its rewards.

  “But surely, in the future of which you speak, we shall be looking down from heaven?”

  Da Vinci smiled tightly. “A truly divine notion Signora. Let us pray that it is so.”

  Lucretzia Sfarzoso considered this comment at length, her black eyelashes fluttering as she ran the implications of da Vinci’s wisdom.

  As the new days sun raced across the sky, Leonardo da Vinci toiled at his easel. As he worked, signora Sfarzoso allowed the strap of her dress to ease slowly off her shoulder, as it moved by degrees da Vinci worked on oblivious, all the while, he gazed at her with a relentless intensity, hardly pausing as he paced and measured and marshaled paint, with bold flowing strokes of his brush. Then at last, the hour came when the sunlight was no longer with them, having passed around the side of the great palace to ply its glorious attentions elsewhere.

  “The hour of closure is with us Signora, we re-convene tomorrow.”

  “Just as such progress was being made—”

  “The light is our master Signora,
we march time to it’s demands.”

  “But I was so enjoying our little conversation—”

  “Your kindness to an old man is without end my Lady. But I fear I have the grand project of Pierro Soderini to attend to, a task that makes heavy demands upon my schedule.”

  Lucretzia Sfarzoso pouted, and made disappointed noises, flouncing closer, she allowed he strap on her dress to droop ever closer to her elbow.

  At that moment the sound of rampaging footsteps in the hallway caused the frisson of possibility to vanish as quickly as it had appeared.

  Salai appeared at the door, blushing red with exertion and the building heat of the day. He was wearing yet another new suit of clothes, Da Vinci noticed—a colorful outfit, replete with an ostentatious plume that gave him the appearance of a deranged parrot that had left the nest without troubling to check its appearance in a looking glass.

  “I bring grave intelligence from Rome master. Pope Alexander is dead—and our master Cesare Borgia has taken to his bed—the whole town burns with the news— they say that the Medici will return to the city of Florence backed by the strength of the Papal armies. What are we to do?

  Da Vinci nodded gravely, “Quieten yourself Salai such hysteria is without precedent and will achieve nothing.”

  “But all our careful plans will be ruined.”

  “Not so my young friend, Giovanni's de' Medici and his younger brother Giuliano, are the dynastic heirs to great Medici dynasty, but I hear they have become accustomed to the ways of the Papal City. So even if they should return to the fair City of Florence, you can be assured that they are men of taste and discernment. I have no doubt that any such transition will be both smooth and profitable. Think of the many new portraits that will be needed.

  “They say in the market place that the Borgia Pope was poisoned by the agents of Cardinal Giuliano della Rovere. His hatred of Borgia allies is as legendary as his reputation for merciless bloodletting. Surely we are doomed by association to our past masters?

  “Nonsense Salai, your needless hysteria is most unbecoming, more so as we are in the presence of a lady.”