CHAPTER TWO
Borgia’s four-day deadline came and went. But nothing happened, and Blackfield began to suspect Machiavelli was right: Borgia was bluffing.
Then on July 10 Machiavelli arrived with the reply of the Florentine Signoria. They agreed to send Leonardo, and in fact he had already departed, although he was taking a circuitous route and making sketches of city fortification and drawing up plans for engineering projects, as was his wont. As for Borgia’s demands, the Signoria expressed a vague willingness to go along with most of them but proposed that negotiations be held, under the auspices of the pope and King Louis of France.
And now Borgia erupted with fury.
“So the Signoria grew a backbone and decided to call Borgia’s bluff,” Blackfield remarked to Machiavelli in the brief time they had to converse before the latter departed for Florence again.
Machiavelli shook his head. “No, this is no show of strength. The gonfaloniere is just trying to buy time.” He was referring to Piero Soderini, the Bishop’s brother, who had been appointed gonfaloniere for life when the Florentines had finally recognized the impossibility of their system of two-month terms of office. He wore the annoyed look he characteristically did when operating in a vacuum of information. “Something is going on that I don’t understand. Ah, well, I hate to leave you and the bishop here, given Borgia’s mood. But I must be off.” And he was gone. Blackfield often marveled at the capacity of such a bookish and seemingly slight man to endure the amount of mountain riding Machiavelli repeatedly did.
But when he returned a few days later, Machiavelli’s smile was even more foxlike than usual. He went directly to the Bishop, then bolted some food, talking to Blackfield between mouthfuls. “Now it’s all become clear. Back on July 8, King Louis ordered French troops to march south to protect Florence. He also told Borgia to order Vitellozzo out of Arezzo. With no alternative, Borgia sent the order to Vitellozzo—who didn’t obey.”
Blackfield emitted a long, low, unmelodious whistle. “No wonder he’s in such a foul humor.” Then he did a quick mental calculation. “The Signoria couldn’t have known about this when they made their reply, could they?”
“No. As I said, it was a forlorn hope. But Borgia did know it by the time he received the reply. The Signoria had managed to call his bluff in spite of itself, because by that time the French troops had arrived in Florence. He also knows that more French troops are on the way to Arezzo to force Vitellozzo to withdraw. The fact that Vitellozzo is still there must be what’s worrying him most.”
“I imagine so. If he can no longer control his own commanders—"
“It’s more than that. He needs to stay in Louis’s good graces—his plans depend on that.” Machiavelli looked puzzled. “I wonder how he’s going to deal with that problem.”
“Well, maybe having Leonardo for his engineer will cheer him up.”
“It should help. He’s wanted Leonardo’s services for three years now, ever since they met.”
“So he already knows Leonardo?”
“Oh, yes,” Machiavelli nodded. “When Louis took over Milan, Borgia came south with him—in fact, he’d only recently become Duke Valentinois, having married Charlotte d‘Albret.” (Who, Blackfield knew, was still in France, a hostage of sorts.) “Leonardo was working in Milan then. When King Louis saw his fresco of The Last Supper he wanted to take it back to France with him.” Machiavelli chuckled. “They had to explain to him that it was painted directly onto the wall. Borgia, on the other hand, was more interested in Leonardo’s ideas about engineering.”
Blackfield frowned. Of course he knew of the celebrated Florentine artist Messer Leonardo da Vinci, who twenty years before had left for Milan and later entered the service of that city’s ruler Ludovico Sforza, but now was back in Florence. He was widely regarded as the greatest portraitist of the age, but… “I’ve heard he has a reputation for not finishing things he starts.”
“So he does. Sometimes it isn’t his fault. For example, he was working on a colossal bronze equestrian statue of Ludovico Sforza’s father, and had actually completed a clay model of the horse—more than four times life size. It was considered a wonder in itself. But then King Louis’s army arrived, and the French crossbowmen used the model for target practice, reducing it to rubble.” Machiavelli sighed. “But more often it’s just the way he is. It’s as though… well, he isn’t really interested in painting in and of itself.”
Blackfield blinked. “But… he’s so good at it.”
“Nevertheless, what interests him are the problems involved in a painting. Perspective, for example, or matters of human anatomy, or the nature of colors. Once he’s solved the problem, he loses interest and moves on to something else—something else involving knowledge of the workings of the material world. But of course nobody will pay him to pursue this kind of inquiry. So he paints because they will pay him for that.” Machiavelli grew pensive. “It’s hard to think of a word for his kind of inquiry—I’m not sure anyone has done it before. He wants to learn about things, not by reading what Aristotle said, but by direct observation of the actual world.”
Blackfield’s brow furrowed. Machiavelli was right—he’d never heard of the like. “Uh… aside from getting everything right in his paintings, why does he want to know things?”
“He simply needs to know them. And one of the things he needs to know is how things can be made to work. For that reason, just as he paints, he designs engineering works and machines such as have never been heard of before. His ideas for irrigation canals outside Milan were actually carried out. That’s what Borgia wants him for. He wants to turn his dukedom of the Romagna into a real power base, not the backward pig-wallow it is now.”
Blackfield’s puzzlement deepened. In his experience, rulers simply took conquered provinces as they found them, and squeezed as much out of them as possible. Still, Borgia’s ambitions were more comprehensible than Leonardo’s strange pursuit of knowledge for its own sake. And there was something disturbingly novel—if not vaguely heretical—about this business of depending on direct observation of the actual world rather than appealing to ancient authority.
Machiavelli seemed to read his mind. His large dark eyes took on a faraway look. “You know, I think I can understand Leonardo. I’ve often wanted to apply the same method myself—but to the way humans behave, and compare today’s events with those of ancient times to derive general principles. Others have described ideal states, as though men were angels; but I want to analyze how states actually work, not how they ought to work. I want to discover how a strong ruler can give unity to Italy. For that, I must observe how actual rulers get and keep power, or fail to do so.”
“Actual rulers… including Borgia?”
“Especially Borgia.”
**********
It was the next to last week in July when Leonardo finally arrived at Urbino.
Blackfield had heard that the great painter had been considered strikingly handsome as a youth. Now, at fifty, he was still tall and strong. His long hair, once a dark blond, was going grey, but it hung in luxuriant curls around his clean-shaven face. Even for traveling, he wore the fine clothes for which he was known to have a weakness. He entered the palace courtyard followed by a wagon carrying his equipment, including the stack of half-finished paintings that always accompanied him... and, of course, his ever-growing collection of notebooks. It was all unloaded by his entourage of pupils under the self-important supervision of a youth who clearly considered himself Leonardo’s favorite. His opinion seemed to Blackfield to be justified, judging from the glances he exchanged with Leonardo, who addressed him as Salaì. He was unquestionably a beautiful no-longer-quite-boy, with flowing curly hair. Blackfield had heard the rumors of Leonardo’s proclivities, which in Italy seemed to be generally taken for granted if not precisely approved. He himself had never felt the inclination, although looking at Salaì he could come close to understanding Leonardo’s impulse.
Cesare Borgia descended the staircase and greeted Leonardo with the charm he was always capable of displaying. He had recently received word that after several weeks’ siege, Giulio Varano, the seventy-year-old ruler of Camerino had surrendered on a promise of safe passage for himself and his two sons. Varano had then promptly been seized and thrown into a dungeon where he would soon die; the sons had been murdered on the spot. Needless to say, it was the sort of news calculated to improve Borgia’s mood. But there was nonetheless an undercurrent of brooding, for his relations with Louis XII still seemed to be cooling, and the French king’s court, now at Pavia, had become a magnet for many of the innumerable people with grievances against the Borgias.
“So, Maestro,” said Borgia after the initial greetings, “did you complete your inspection of the fortifications along your route, as our agreement with the Signoria specified?”
“Yes, Magnifico. I can report on their state of repair, and suggest various improvements. I also looked into other matters. For example, the marshes at Piombino: I can suggest a method for draining them. While there, I observed the manner in which the waves break on the shore when the wind—”
“Yes, yes, I’m sure,” said Borgia with restrained impatience. “But did you also pay your respects to Vitellozzo Vitelli at Arezzo?”
“Indeed. At his request, I drew him a map of the region. But… I must say, he was not especially cooperative with my efforts to complete my survey of his fortifications.”
Borgia’s eyes grew sharp. And it seemed to Blackfield that he and Leonardo shared a moment of unspoken understanding.
Hmm… he thought. We knew about Vitellozzo’s recent insubordination. But has it perhaps gone beyond that?
And while I’ve assumed all along that Leonardo is going to be spying on Borgia for Florence while he’s here, is it possible that he’s also doing a bit of spying for Borgia?
Well, the Signoria shouldn’t mind. Vitellozzo has been Florence’s sworn enemy ever since the Signoria had his brother Paolo, who they’d been employing as a condottiere, tortured and beheaded for treason.
“Well,” said Borgia, “I will be sure to send instructions to all my officers, commanding them to afford you their fullest cooperation, lest they incur my extreme displeasure.”
And no one wants that, thought Blackfield fervently.
Borgia noticed him and motioned him over. “Captain Negrocampo, I expect you and your men to give our chief engineer any assistance he requires. You will accompany him on the tour of inspection of the Romagna he will shortly commence.”
“Yes, Magnifico.” Strictly speaking, Blackfield thought, he was the Florentine Signoria’s man, not Borgia’s. But he decided it would be unwise to press the point. And at any rate, he might be able to make some useful observations while in Leonardo’s company.
“And now, Maestro,” said Borgia, “my men will get you and your entourage settled in. We are going to accomplish great things here in the Romagna—things never thought of before. Your genius is, for the first time, going to be given full scope.”
Leonardo beamed. But, as before, it seemed to Blackfield that Borgia’s heartiness was just a bit forced. And once again he wondered if it might be because he couldn’t stop wondering what was happening at Pavia and what was being poured into the French king’s ears by his enemies.
**********
Three nights later, he was in Leonardo’s cluttered workshop helping the maestro prepare for departure when he happened to notice an open notebook on a tabletop. His eyes were drawn to it because it held three red-chalk sketches of the same head in profile, from the front, and from the three-quarter view. It was the head of Cesare Borgia.
He stared, mesmerized, for Leonardo’s genius for portraiture shone through even these sketches. They certainly held no flattery, but rather accentuated the slight puffiness of the face and the pensive, preoccupied look Blackfield had noticed.
He didn’t hear Leonardo approach from behind him. “The duke wants to tempt me to return to painting, if only for the purpose of doing his portrait,” he explained with a smile. “I’ve kept him happy by making these sketches, but I doubt if anything will come of it. I can barely stand the sight of a brush anymore.”
“But you’ve certainly captured him,” said Blackfield. He hesitated, not sure how far he should go. “This is the face of a worried man.”
Leonardo met his eyes somberly, and said nothing. Blackfield mumbled a goodnight and departed.
As he emerged into the darkness of the courtyard he noticed with relief a breeze, which had dispelled some of the stifling late summer heat of the day. Walking across toward his own quarters, four riders crossed his path, headlined toward the gate. Three were nondescriptly dressed, but the fourth wore a red tabard with a white cross quartering its front, the uniform of the Knights of the Hospital of St. John, with a hood concealing his head. Blackfield paused to let them pass, wondering where they might be going in the dead of night, and what a Knight of St. John was doing here—he’d certainly noticed none before.
Then, as they passed, the wind gusted. The Hospitaller fumbled at his hood, but failed to catch it before it came off, revealing his face.
His eyes met those of Blackfield, who stood as though turned to stone by Medusa’s gaze.
“You have seen nothing tonight, Captain Negrocampo,” said the rider. “Nothing.”
“Nothing, Magnifico,” Blackfield repeated.
The four men rode on, through the gate and out of Urbino.
And I think I know where they’re going, thought Blackfield. King Louis is going to have an unexpected visitor.