Duchess of Milan (32 page)

It was not his words that affected her but the timbre in which he recited them. The most expert liar in Christendom actually believed these things. Or was this in fact just part of his intricate game, a game in which all his previous lies had been presented as lies, so that the final, climactic lie could be disguised as truth?

“So you do intend to do it,” she said. “Make yourself Duke of Milan.”

He looked down and pulled at his ring. “I don’t know,” he answered, his diction weary, even slightly slurred. “And even if I could be certain that I want it, I am not certain that I could do it.”

She was astounded that her husband had ever in his life doubted anything at all. The opacity that had always shielded him seemed to shimmer, giving a translucent glimpse of whatever lay beneath the hard casing of his soul.

But when he looked up, that brief opening might never have existed, an illusion of the uncertain light. “I have told you what I wanted you to know,” he said with renewed assurance. “So good night, my wife.” He bowed, turned, and stepped into the shadows.

CHAPTER 26

Naples, 28 March 1493

“We should summon all of the ambassadors and allow them to examine it.” Alfonso, Duke of Calabria, sat on his huge, nervous war-horse, his own legs and torso so powerfully fleshed that he appeared to be part of the beast, a brutish centaur.

Ferrante of Aragon, the King of Naples, with one pudgy finger languidly stroked the breast of the hooded falcon perched on his wrist. “Where is the letter now?” he asked his son, edging him farther away from the brightly colored train of musicians and men-at-arms--already hovering at a respectful distance--who had accompanied them on their inspection of the city walls.

Alfonso looked up at a massive arch of new-cut stone wedged in between two enormous turrets, the most seaward gate of Naples’s just-completed eastern wall. A team of stonemasons, perched on a large scaffold, struggled to install a marble decorative panel, still under canvas wrap, on the flat expanse of wall rising above the archway. Ferrante’s eyes narrowed to glassy green slivers while his son leisurely observed the workmen. Finally Alfonso answered vaguely, “I have it locked away.”

Ferrante released a bemused exhalation from his pinched nostrils, ridiculously small vents for his bloated face. “Good. I insist you keep it secured. When we have a better notion of what the French intend to do, we can discuss what use we may have for it.”

With almost no discernible action of either his silver spurs or the gold-embroidered reins clutched in his beefy hands, Alfonso backed his horse beside his father’s. His bulging neck, squeezed out of his high brocade collar, muscled his blockish head around. He looked Ferrante directly in the eyes. “When Il Moro brings Venice into his anti-French league, our opportunity will be gone. If we use the letter now as justification for a blockade of Genoa, the Signory of Venice will stay out of it. What the Signory fear most is that they and the rest of the Venetian nobility will be taxed to pay for a military undertaking. That is the critical failing, among many, of the republican form of government. It is ludicrous to assume that men will levy taxes on themselves.”

Ferrante continued to stroke the falcon’s breast, the action more repetitive now. “We do not even know if the allegations made by your daughter are supportable. You have encouraged her to find injury if Il Moro doesn’t provide an escort of five hundred knights and hang silk awnings over the streets every time her husband and child ride to the Duomo. If your daughter’s husband were more familiar to the people of Milan than to the boars and stags of Pavia, perhaps he would have more occasion to receive their acclaim. That
uccelliaccio
Gian Galeazzo cannot find his
cazzo
to piss with, much less wave it in Il Moro’s face.”

“My daughter has endured these indignities and worse for years without a protest. Any other duchess in Italy would have been shouting curses from her window like a Roman whore. Because she has kept her silence until now, the ambassadors will believe her claims. Which is why they must see the letter.” Alfonso’s squinty, heavy eyelids closed to menacing slits. “This is not a question of my daughter’s honor regardless. It is an outrage against
our
blood.”

“Yes. If we use the letter against Il Moro, the ambassadors will no doubt believe it, and Il Moro’s new league will collapse. Isolated, his port of Genoa blockaded, he will make an easy prey for the French army. Do not forget that the French may be close to settling with the Germans, and that Louis Duc d’Orleans can reach the French King’s ear even more easily than can that
impicatto
the Prince of Salerno. And then, having taken Milan, the French will not even have to borrow from Il Moro’s treasury to finance their march south against us. But consider this: We continue to allow Il Moro and the Signory of Venice to sniff each other’s assholes like dogs. The Venetians will agree that the French must be kept from crossing the mountains, thus sparing us that concern. But the Signory will never support any attempt by Il Moro to make himself Duke of Milan, also sparing us that concern.” Suddenly Ferrante turned from his hooded falcon, his eyes as brilliant as the gems on his fat fingers. “We will be free to devote our treasury to defeating the most dangerous man in Europe, this Borgia Pope Il Moro has created. And when we invade Rome, then we will be able to use your daughter’s letter to prevent Il Moro from rescuing the whore’s afterbirth he has placed on the papal throne.” Ferrante’s face colored almost instantly, as if a purple pane of glass had been placed between him and the sun. He spoke through clenched teeth, his puffy jowls trembling. “I intend to embalm Rodrigo Borgia’s corpse and bring it back to Naples. I want to stand him up in my bedroom and make him watch while his daughter sucks my
cazzo.”

Alfonso registered his amusement with a light heaving of his shoulders. “Well, His Holiness has already seen his daughter’s head between his own legs.”

Apparently contemplating his father’s plan, Alfonso observed the stoneworkers for a moment, then turned and looked down the long expanse of wall to his right. A hundred paces away, some crude shelters of dried brush leaned against the immense stone wall, most likely erected by impoverished peasants hoping to beg from travelers entering the city. With a flurry of curses, Alfonso dispatched his men-at-arms, who galloped into the midst of the improvised dwellings and within a few seconds reduced them to the makings of a small bonfire. Out of the cloud of dust darted a few small, shrieking figures, so brown that they appeared to be frightened monkeys. Only after they had paused in their flight, standing unsteadily and bawling hysterically, could they be identified as scrawny, filthy, naked children.

Alfonso had already turned back to Ferrante. His white teeth gleamed. “When we embalm the Borgia Pope, we must be certain that his
cazzo
is still stiff enough for all the whores in Hell. Then I intend to bring Il Moro down here and stick his Pope’s dead prick up his ass.”

CHAPTER 27

Extract of a letter of Leonardo da Vinci, engineer at the Court of Milan, to international traveler and raconteur Benedetto Dei. Milan, 4 April 1493

. . . that the Duchess of Bari survived has merely served to elevate the prestige of the magician Ambrogio da Rosate, to the result that divers officers of the court have mortgaged their health to every itinerant necromancer and alchemist who endeavors to relieve their purses. . . . Physicians are destroyers of life, my dear Benedetto, their remedies a plague that will ever be in want of a cure. . . .

. . . the ladies of her court, whose wantonness would bring scandal to a brothel, insist that the Duchess of Bari has refused her husband her bed since the birth of their child. I can reliably report that the Duchess of Bari does not accompany her husband on his inspections of the projects with which we are currently proceeding. But said Duchess has taken an interest in these endeavors for her own illumination and often sallies forth in the company of our friend Messer Galeazzo di Sanseverino for the purpose of giving consideration to our labors. Yesterday I was deputed to ride with them along the new canals we have built near Val Seria, where they observed our success in allowing the cultivation of all varieties of grain, as well as rice and mulberry for silk production, this in land formerly as arid as a desert, said improvements by virtue of the many sluices and irrigation devices we have engineered. The Duchess of Bari asked innumerable questions of this work, and I was pleased to answer her, as she has a capable intellect and does not make noisome refrains of the most elementary inquiries. She has now made the acquaintance of a number of learned men here, and most are well pleased with her attentions and expectant that she will take notice of works of true merit and assist in their advancement at court, though of course the mediocrities are already grumbling. . . . Of the Duke and Duchess of Milan there is no word at all, for they have confined themselves to Pavia, where the Duke can find a readier abundance of wild game, his ardent and sole pursuit. . . .

Extract of a letter of Isabella d’Este da Gonzaga, Marquesa of Mantua, to Francesco Gonzaga, Marquis of Mantua and Captain General of the Armies of Venice. Mantua, 9 April 1493

My most illustrious lord husband,

Mama has written me that Il Moro and my sister have agreed to visit Ferrara in May, and she has presented me with the list of the company who are to attend them, which list I enclose for your inspection (though I had to find an extra ducat to pay the courier!). Can you believe it? I for my part cannot! I could pawn everything we own and still have neither half as many ladies in my suite nor half as many jewels on their persons, and I have no doubt that my sister can attire each of her ladies in a gown of cloth more costly than I myself can afford to wear. Would to God that we had their money, since we know so well how to spend it!

. . . Mama is going to Venice afterward, but she already has assured me that she will stay at Father’s
palazzo
on the Grand Canal and will not require you to entertain her with any great ceremony! The ambassadors in Il Moro’s company will also go on to Venice to confirm the new league, but Mama cannot persuade my sister to accompany her, which I consider a blessing since Venice would no doubt sink into the sea from the weight of my sister’s retinue. . . .

Extract of a letter of Isabella d’Este da Gonzaga to Francesco Gonzaga. Mantua, 22 April 1493

. . . Can you believe it! Mama says that the league with Venice is of such pressing importance that Beatrice simply must represent her husband at the confirmation. Though I concur with Mama in her estimation of the importance of this league, I am simply undone at the thought of subjecting myself and my ladies to the endless comparisons that will no doubt be occasioned by the extravagance of Beatrice’s retinue and the modesty of my suite. Nothing on earth can now persuade me to go to Venice at the same time as my sister! If Beatrice and Mama do not change their plans, I shall change mine. . . .

Decoded secret dispatch of Count Carlo Belgioioso, Milanese ambassador to France, to Lodovico Sforza, “Il Moro,” Duke of Bari and regent for the Duke of Milan. Original encrypted and marked
“cito! cito!”
(urgent! urgent!). Amboise, 27 April 1493

[Your] Highness: C. [King Charles is going] to Senlis to settle treaty with M. [Archduke Maximilian]--[there is] every expectation that agreement will be reached. C. talks of nothing but crossing mountains now. O. [Louis Duc d’Orleans] campaigning furiously for Milan as first objective. Situation could not be more dangerous [for us]. [I am going] To Senlis w/C.--will try to exert influence w/Germans to deter O. [My] Opinion [is] that French do not expect Venice to keep faith w/us. Opinion that we must immediately make offer required to bring M. to our side. --B.

CHAPTER 28

Near Vigevano, 1 May 1493

Galeazzo di Sanseverino stood in his stirrups. His velvet cap grazed the leafy boughs shading the canalside horse path. “What is that?” he asked. A sound drifted across the plush green fields of grain. Perhaps it was a natural chorus, a distant swarm of locusts pursued by a flock of voracious birds.

“Cacarelle,”
Beatrice replied. The noxious buzzing always reminded her of her wedding night. “Also Jew’s harp, drums, and at least two lutes.”

Galeazz doffed his cap in comic homage to Beatrice’s extraordinary ear. “A country band. Of course. It is May Day. One forgets because in Milan May Day is regarded as a country
festa
suited only for sweaty rustics.”

“In Ferrara everyone gathered the May branches.” May Day had been her favorite
festa,
and that she hardly remembered it this year gave her a pang of regret, though she also quickly noted with satisfaction how far behind she had left her unempowered girlhood. She decided to bring some branches home for Ercole and vowed that next year she would at least take him riding in the ducal park.

Galeazz pointed to a church spire some distance across the irrigated fields, a centuries-old rectangular tower with a simple tile roof, the venerable Lombard design ubiquitous throughout the countryside surrounding Milan. “Why don’t we attend their
festa?”

“Yes!” Then Beatrice looked around with dismay at her two-dozen-strong contingent of men-at-arms and engineers. “We will spoil it as soon as the villagers see who we are.”

“Then the two of us will attend
en masque.”
Galeazz began to unbutton his flashy brocade doublet. “You will have to remove your jewelry, and we will exchange saddle cloths with two of the men-at-arms. They will think I am a middling merchant who has spent too much on his wife’s gown.”

“You don’t think someone will still recognize you?” Galeazz was a head taller than the average man and had won a half-dozen jousting tournaments in northern Italy, all of them attended by tens of thousands of spectators.