Gualtieri turns his somber eyes to his secretary, a thin man seated at a small desk, eyes glued to a ledger book. “Send for the keys,” he says, waving the man out of the room. “Your Excellency, has the duke discussed his finances with you of late?”
“No, he has not. The duke is fond of complaining that he is not made of money, but then continues to act as if he is. He has had nothing fresh to say upon the subject in recent times.”
“Then perhaps it is in everyone’s best interest for you to tour the tower,” Gualtieri says, sighing as if he is suddenly very, very tired.
The first thing she sees as Gualtieri opens the door is the faint mist of dust floating in the last of the afternoon sunshine wafting through the high windows. The particles, dancing and twinkling like tiny stars in the shafts of sunlight, seem unfazed by that force which draws all objects to fall to the ground. She steps into the room, eyes drawn to the corner where she knows that from one of the tall wooden barrels of silver she will be able to fill a purse for Leonardo that will easily draw the artist back to his projects.
But the barrels are gone. A single wooden tub lay on its side, empty. The tables, once covered in gems of every type and color, are bare, collecting dust. Beatrice gasps, rushing into the second room of the great vault, where she finds the cabinets of treasure—designed by the Magistro—open and empty. The rooms are desolate, like ancient quarters abandoned and locked up for years upon end.
“Where is everything?” she asks Gualtieri, who has slowly followed her.
“Spent. Gone.”
“But where?”
“Everything costs money. The wars were paid for by the loot that the Marquis Gonzaga took from the French, but that, too, is gone, mostly to pay a mercenary army. If you don’t pay them, they turn against you. The duke is aware of that. The rest of the money was to defeat Louis of Orleans at Novara.”
“But that’s impossible. There was simply too much for it all to be gone!”
“Your Excellency, you must discuss this with the duke. All I can tell you is that much money was borrowed from the nobility of Milan to pay for the many improvements the duke initiated in this city—the renovation of the canal system, the cathedral, the church and refectory at Santa Maria delle Grazie, the monuments, the celebrations, and most of all, the loans to the French, which will never be repaid now that they are defeated and in tatters. Let us also not forget the money that went to Bianca Maria’s dowry when she married Emperor Max. That was considerable. After that, the Treasure Tower was all but bare. Recently the patriarchs of Milan demanded to be repaid for the loans the duke forced them to make to him. There was not much left, but since the duke wished to avert a revolt, he divvied up the rest of what was in the coffers to appease them.”
“What are we to do now?”
“It isn’t a very popular idea, but the duke is raising taxes. Oh, there will be complaints, but it’s too bad. It’s impossible to run a kingdom—especially this one—without money.”
“But at the moment, you are telling me that we are . . .”
Gualtieri finishes her sentence. “Broke.”
BEATRICE runs through the halls of the Castello, uncertain of her destination. She is looking for Ludovico, but is afraid to find him. She must confront him, she knows, but what, exactly, she will say, she cannot imagine. Anything she blurts out in this state of mind will sound recriminating and will push him farther away. The point is to help, she thinks as the puzzled members of the Castello staff watch the duchess hurtle past, ignoring their salutations. The point is to band together and create solutions.
One of Beatrice’s secretaries links his arm through hers, yanking her backward. She pulls her arm away and squares off against the man, who bows.
“Your Excellency did not appear to hear me when I called out to her.”
“No, I did not.” Beatrice’s heart is pumping hard against her chest and her lungs hurt. How long was she running?
“The Countess Bergamini waits in your quarters.”
“Oh, I cannot see her today,” Beatrice replies, trying to control her breathing. “Tell her I am not feeling well.”
As if to illustrate that point, Beatrice engulfs her belly with her arms, hoping this attack of nerves has not harmed her baby.
“The countess begs me to tell you that her visit is urgent.”
Beatrice takes a deep breath, silently instructing her heart to pump slower. She must calm herself. Cecilia is a friend and confidante—not malicious like so many visitors to court—and one who often has a soothing influence on both the duchess and the duke. Perhaps it will be good to sit with Cecilia and collect oneself.
Sometimes, when Beatrice sees Cecilia, she is amazed that she was able to wrestle Ludovico’s heart away from this beauty. Though Cecilia is older and, truth be told, on the brink of stoutness, her creamy skin glows like a woman half her age. The weight has softened her angular aspects, and her sweet smile belongs on the face of an angel—a fact of which the Magistro must have been aware when he used her as his model for the angel in his strange painting of the Blessed Virgin with baby Jesus and John the Baptist sitting among the craggy rocks. For erudition and intellect, Cecilia is second only to Isabella. Cecilia writes beautiful poems and sonnets that are sung in all the courts of Italy. How could Beatrice’s victory over her—over the two of them—have been so complete?
“It’s good of you to see me on such short notice, Your Excellency,” Cecilia says, standing and embracing the younger, smaller woman and kissing her cheek.
“I was told that your business was urgent,” Beatrice says, signaling for her guest to sit, and for the parlor attendant to pour them some wine.
“Urgent and confidential,” the countess replies, and Beatrice waves everyone out of the room.
The two women lean forward. “As you know, two ambassadors from Venice are staying at my home. It was kind of the duke to place them with us.”
Ludovico had financed a lavish redecoration of Cecilia’s palace near the Duomo, now one of the finest residences in Italy. Beatrice was never jealous over this; Cecilia had given ten years of her life to Ludovico, not to mention one adorable son, Cesare. But now with the coffers empty, she winces at the mention of the extravagant home.
“Ludovico considers the Venetians his allies now, but I have overheard these ambassadors and their guests saying the most unkind and frightening things about him.”
“For instance?”
“For instance, that he honors no agreements. That he says one thing and does another.”
Both women let this pass without comment. Beatrice knows that, like herself, Cecilia is well acquainted with Ludovico’s tendency to say one thing and do another.
“Ludovico has been boasting publicly that Pope Alexander is his chaplain, the Emperor Max his condottiere, the Signory of Venice his chamberlain—since they spend their money to attain his ends—and the King of France his courier. Ludovico was successful against the French, but with the assistance of his allies. Allies do not like to be regarded as servants. You know how proud the Venetians are. They find these statements to be most arrogant. I heard one of them say that either God or Venice or both shall find a way to bring the duke down.”
“But why come to me with this information when you should be addressing this to Ludovico? Surely you are not afraid to speak with him. Not after the history that has passed between you.” Beatrice feels burdened with what Cecilia is telling her. She has heard Ludovico utter these same remarks. She has heard him boast that he will be known throughout time as the man who chased the French out of Italy. She has watched him employ artist after artist in a campaign of self-aggrandizement—one he could not afford. All these things have made her uncomfortable, especially when contrasted with her father’s understated approach to both money and power. But her first aim has always been to preserve the love and intimacy between her and her husband, and she has not known how to approach these subjects with him without alienating his affections.
 
; “My dear, I’ve tried to talk to Ludovico, but he won’t take any of this seriously,” Cecilia replies. “I told him what I’ve just told you, and he replied that he is now Fortune’s Son, and no one has to worry over him. I reminded him of the old Venetian adage that one must always remember the inconstancy of human fame. But it didn’t seem to affect him in the least. You have such influence with him. Indeed, the two of you are practically one. I hate to burden you with this, but if you can use your famous discretion and charm to coax the duke to act more modestly, at least publicly, and at least in the presence of the Venetians, it would put my mind at ease. Though the Venetians accuse the duke of duplicity, they are even the more so. Who knows what malice they are plotting behind his back.”
Beatrice promises that she will speak to Ludovico and then sends Cecilia on her way before the older woman can discover the extent of the duchess’s fear. How can this be? After all their success, how can they be without money? Loathed by their allies, who may be conspiring for their demise. Cecilia was right about one thing; there was no separating the fortunes of Beatrice and Ludovico. They may as well be one being. If a woman’s star rises with her husband’s, so does it decline.
Beatrice walks slowly down the halls now in search of Ludovico, eyes trying not to wander to the marvelous columns held high by great marble plinths, or the walls decorated by Leonardo and Bramante, or the paintings by the masters of Lombardy, because every spectacular inch of the Castello now appears a tomb for their money.
She finds him in a new quarter of the Castello, designed and executed last year. He is standing in front of a huge fresco recently painted by the de Predis brothers and their apprentices. Ludovico had held a contest challenging the artists of the region to enter ideas that would cast the duke in the most illustrious light. Ambrogio de Predis easily won, with the idea to represent the country of Italy as a beautiful and benevolent queen wearing sumptuous robes embroidered with the names of all the important cities. Il Moro gallantly stands at her side—attending Italy!—brushing the dust from her skirts; in other words, cleansing Italy of all that is not wanted.
Beatrice enters the room as Ludovico explains the meaning of the allegorical mural to Lucrezia Crivelli, who stares at it as if it is more miraculous than the Virgin Birth. Beatrice has heard all the talk about her husband’s attentions to Lucrezia, but she has ignored it. Ludovico’s bout of fits has left him paler, older, and frailer. He simply had not looked, at least to his wife, like a man who could entertain a mistress. And yet he had been erratic at best with his affections toward Beatrice. When they had their lovely interlude at Vigevano and she had conceived for a third time, she put all thoughts of his previous coldness and elusiveness out of her mind.
Now her husband wears on his face the same sort of surprised look she had encountered on Messer Gualtieri. Is it that she considers all men suspect of something or another, or is it that today they are all being caught in the act? Lucrezia is conforming to protocol, curtseying low to the duchess, eyes riveted to the floor, awaiting instructions, and Beatrice gives them immediately: “Leave us.” Lucrezia looks up to make certain that the directive is for her. She rises quickly, not meeting Beatrice’s eyes, and rushes out of the room, leaving nothing behind but the sound of her swishing velvet skirt.
“Lucrezia Crivelli is supposed to be a lady-in-waiting to me and not you. Why is it, sir, that you occupy your time with her, to the extent that it causes gossip in my court?”
“Madame, I regret that idle chatter has reached your ears. You know how malicious the courtiers are, and not just in Milan but all over the land.”
“Is there more that I can do for you, Ludovico, besides bearing you sons, acting as your diplomat with foreign kings, administering the kingdom when you are unwell, and being your companion and lover? Because if there is something I have yet to do in your service, I would like to be informed.”
She did not get Cecilia Gallerani kicked out of the palace by being meek. The voice that rose within her then—the one to which she can only find access when she is threatened most severely—arises now to stake her claim upon her husband.
“Dear Beatrice,” he says, taking her hand, “you have to expect these things to happen. I am the man who drove the French out of Italy. Such an image makes an impression upon a romantic young woman like Lucrezia. She’s bored with her husband. I mean to say, the man is little more than a merchant. But the family threw her at him for his money. What can she do? The conversation at home is lacking, to say the least. She seeks my attention, but that is all.”
Oh, he looks so proud of himself! Beatrice would like to tell him that the gobble under his neck is hanging nigh down to his breastbone; that the paunch around his belt grows ever thicker; that the veins around his ankles form a grotesque network; and that she has a difficult time looking at this last reminder of how much older he is than she every time he removes his hose. She wishes to tell him that he is Fortune’s Son, but that is because he has a young wife who not only loves him but is his fierce political ally and defender. That is the truth, but she knows by the pompous look on his face that such information would only deflate his grand opinion of himself and chase him back into the arms of the woman who just ran from the room.
Instead, she squares off with him, looking up into his eyes. She cannot help but notice that the bags beneath them are thicker and heavier. “My lord, I have just visited the Treasure Tower and have found it bare. What say you? Am I, a princess of the House of Este, to live like a pauper? Are my sons to be sent out to learn a trade?”
“My dear, you must come to me when you have questions or concerns, rather than snooping about and discovering things which look worse than they are.” His calm voice is like fine silk slipping over her, soothing her ruffled emotions. What kind of snake is he, to be so serene under attack?
“I wasn’t snooping,” she protests weakly. “I wanted to send poor Isabella a small jewel since she let Francesco sell hers to outfit his army. I thought it was the least I could do, until I found out that we had no money.”
“Beatrice, since when have you lost all faith in me?” he asks, a hurt look clouding his face. “I sent most of the treasure to the vaults of our other castles for safekeeping. With the French a mere twenty miles from us at Novara, I thought it would be prudent. Coin and jewels have been hidden with relatives and allies all over Italy.”
“But Messer Gualtieri said that we had to repay the loans made by the nobles, and that is where the money went. And now, you must raise taxes, which will anger the citizenry even more.”
“The Milanese will have to understand about the taxes. They want beauty, they want progress, they want comfort, they want modernity, they want God to be honored in the highest ways with gilded, art-drenched cathedrals reaching up toward the heavens, but they don’t want to pay for any of it. Ah, but that is the way with human beings. And by the way, Messer Gualtieri only knows what I tell him, my dear.”
And that is also true for me, she thinks. Yet his words have soothed her.
“Now come to me,” he says, opening his arms to her. “If you are not careful, you’ll produce a nervous baby.”
Beatrice walks straight into her husband’s arms, letting her body go limp against his. She closes her eyes, rubbing her face against the brocade of his vest, allowing him to put his arms around her. She does not care, in this moment, to examine her thoughts any further, but lets herself sink into the tranquility his body seems to offer.
Chapter Eight
XIII * LA MORTE (DEATH)
To: Ludovico Sforza, Duke of Milan
From: Leonardo the Florentine
Your Excellency,
It has come to my attention that the Dominican friar, prior of Santa Maria delle Grazie, has come to you with complaints about the supposed lack of progress on the mural of Our Lord’s Last Supper in the refectory. Your Excellency should be aware that all is virtually completed but for the head of Judas. He was, as everyone is aware, an egregious villain. The
refore, he should be given an appearance befitting his wicked nature. To this end, for about one year, if not more, night and day, I roam the streets of the Borghetto, where Your Excellency knows that many of the ruffians of the city live. But I have not yet been able to find the face of evil suited to what I have in mind. Once I find that face, I will finish the mural in a day. But if my quest for the appropriate model continues on its fruitless path, I will use the face of the prior, who came to you to complain about me, as he would suit my requirements perfectly. But I am still undecided as to whether or not I will make him a figure of ridicule in his own rectory.
As for my alleged inactivity at the convent, you should know that I work on the mural at least two hours a day, and moreover, that higher minds achieve the most when they appear to be doing the least. That is when one completes his search of what he has been looking for.
JANUARY 2, 1497; IN THE CITY OF MILAN
UNDER the grand arch supported by four imposing pillars, Beatrice stands in what will be her final resting place. Since Bramante has finished his work in the church of Santa Maria delle Grazie, she and Ludovico have visited often to admire the work of the master, to pray, and to direct the completion of the sixteen-vault marble crypt Ludovico is building to eventually entomb himself, his wife, and the members of their family. Beatrice often wonders if Ludovico wants to be as far away as possible from his brother and all the other wicked Viscontis buried in the Duomo, but still remain in Milan. Surely, he does not want to be buried near Gian Galeazzo, the late Duke of Milan, as rumors of Ludovico’s responsibility for his death still fly around the kingdom like stealthy buzzards. Though Ludovico has always denied that he had any complicity in the young duke’s death, Beatrice imagines that he would not wish to spend eternity in a place where the duke’s spirit might take vengeance upon him even if it is undeserved. The Santa Maria delle Grazie is all the way across town near the Porta Vercellina and well out of reach of any angry spirits entombed in the Duomo, or so Beatrice imagines.