The following was inspired by historical events
I was in Imola during the year of 1502 when I started one of the most unfortunate commissions of my life. During those days, I was a war-engineer and strategist under Cesare Borgia, son of the Pope at the time: Alexander VI. Borgia hired me for his campaigns that involved spreading his control over territories near his realm in Romagna. He chose me because he heard of my engineering arts that I enlisted to defend Venezia from the Turks years ago. Some states like Firenze were nervous about Borgia’s expansion. Thus, Firenze sent a diplomat to negotiate terms with Borgia. Firenze wished to get Borgia to stay away from the fledgling government. Firenze has been going through radical changes in recent years since the aristocratic Medici banking family fell out of power in favor of a republicca government. The diplomat that the state sent was named: Niccolò di Bernardo dei Machiavelli. He arrived at the military base in Imola and was welcomed as respectfully as potential enemies could manage in those back-stabbing days. As for me, I did not take any part in the negotiations. For you see, when I traveled with Borgia’s entourage, I only helped map strategies and fortify architecture using my mathematical designs. This is how I spent most of my time in Imola. I was never one for politics. One night, the weariness of these constant duties that would later make me quit sparked within me. So I decided to attend a small party held in Borgia’s court. Everyone was slightly intoxicated when I entered the amber-brown court with its tables of guests, dwindling torches, and food-scraps scattered on the floor. They were long past the revels of a drunkard’s night by the time I arrived. People were in the drunkard’s stage of stumbling about and murmuring words. This stumbling among such disoriented persons first led me to Machiavelli, who was the most sober man there. Machiavelli appeared to me as an interesting figure. He almost seemed clerical as his head was skinned down to the barest flesh, and his flowing garb over-shadowed the rest of his gaunt form. I would have thought that he looked too sickly for political office. Then I saw his eyes. They were hard. They were harder than the look of any priest’s foretelling of a hell for sinners. It was by these sharp eyes that I knew that Machiavelli truly had the look of a politician by trade. He spoke honestly with me, but with a slight fierceness. As we began to converse, I looked across the room. I felt safe when I saw that Borgia was engaged with someone from a good distance. It was safe to listen to what Machiavelli had to say. “Is it true that you are a mercenary?” I was somewhat offended by this title, but I agreed to it. “Yes. I suppose in a certain sense of the word. I am a mercenary. I do not fight for multiple groups, but I do build for them. But I only offer my services to those who are willing to pay. I am not a fine noble. I need to find work to finance my pursuit of art, beauty, and knowledge. Do not judge me as you would other men.” Machiavelli turned back with a calmer demeanor. “I understand your financial situation, Leonardo. Your apolitical allegiance to the all-mighty coin that you have stated is the first tenant of a mercenary. I personally prefer to enlist true citizens that will fight for the state with all of their heart. But none of them can help me as you can with my little… problem.” I listened to his tale of concern for the republicca’s security. “Our old-rival state of Pisa has managed to block off the ships of Firenze from trading down the Arno River. We are completely cut off from the sea. Without that access, the republicca will crumble. Already, enemies within and without are trying to seize this opportunity of weakness to destroy us. But as a lackey to Cesare Borgia; I suppose I do not need to explain this to you, mercenary.” I suggested to Machiavelli that I could be persuaded from Borgia at the right price, and he could tell that I meant it. He nodded and sipped from a fresh cup after slowly smelling it. I suppose that he was checking it for poison as he narrowed the hard dark of his eye at Borgia talking to some other guests across the room. Machiavelli spoke on, “Tell me then, my secret ally: how do you propose we bring down this blockade? Tell me. I will pay you any greedy amount you wish, unless Pisa has already made you an offer.” I did not like this man. A man of my social standing cannot afford alliances as he does. Nonetheless, I pondered for a moment and a sudden answer came upon me. “Machiavelli, I have it. About thirty years ago, I designed a system of irrigation for storing water in times of flood or drought. I believe that if we use this device, we can not only divert Pisa from the sea, but we can possibly drain their end of the Arno River, causing a drought while also making Firenze a seaport. We could perpetually steal the Arno River from them over the course of time.” Machiavelli spread out a smile like that of a wing’s span. “Steal a river from the bastards, eh? I like the sound of that. My allies were right to recommend you for your genius intellect if not for your possibility of turning against us.” “Pay me handsomely after I give you the plans, and I never will. And of course, you will need to fund this project.” “It is agreed. After all, great fortune and industry is needed to hold a state together.” I seemed to have finally earned his good cheer. He abided with me in drink and mirth for the rest of the night. It was a good bit of business for us all. Machiavelli got Borgia to stay out of Firenze and I got a new prospect for income. Despite this respectable position with Borgia, he did not have the resources to give me a respectable income. I also felt that his militant rise to power would not last. Also, the constant trips that I had to take with him to consult strategies on the battlefield wearied my aging bones and further grayed my beard. So I tried to get on without him. Borgia did not seem to notice my resignation. I was not the only engineer in his campaign after all. So I moved to Firenze to work more closely with Machiavelli by 1503. I hoped our dealings would be good. For it is so difficult to make coin in a country that is always at war, while also shifting its rulers as often as the stars. Despite living with great renown as an artist, I still had rooms and food to pay for. I was barely getting by with my savings since I left my last patron in Milan. So I took up work with painting portraits in Firenze along with the government work. It is easy enough work for a struggling artist in a fallen world. In my free time, I mostly stuck to my studies upon the anatomy of corpses that the Church happily continued to supply for me. It is hard work to examine a decaying body growing more rank day after day. How ironic that these corpses of possible heretics helped me to model the mathematical proportions for the hypothetic bodies of God’s holiest prophets. This dubious interaction with the dead makes me strongly consider the thin line between grace and damnation that we are all born between. I barely made time to eat and sleep. As for eating, I do not recommend feasting much during the period of examining corpses. It leaves the balances of the four humors in ill humor. This, and my shy income, is why I do not buy too much food to eat. Yet, one day feeling my body revolt in its lack of sustenance; I wandered out into the light of Firenze’s crowded streets to buy a fast purchase of bread and wine. I made my way around the fringes of the great dome of the cattedrale di Firenze. I’ve often admired this marvel of architecture. To think, all it took was a simple formulation of symmetrical parallels to fashion and structure this imposing edifice made for the honor and glory of God. I sometimes forget that I am looking at a fashion of man’s hands. Some days, when I see the sun splashing down upon this building, my mind becomes fooled into thinking that I am in the presence of an orb of Dante’s Paradisio. The dome also helps one to remember what part of the city that one is in. Its glory is a grand reference as the dome towers over the background for several blocks. Using this fixation, I would manage to recall which corner of the street that the food market dwelled on. There is a duo that begs among the market most days upon unpredictable increments. I knew them when artists and performers alike worked to entertain the Medici family years ago. They too fell on hard times when their masters lost authority. Thus, the two cling about me when they see me, even though I barely knew them and did not care much for their company. Despite my best efforts to not repeat the circumstances of our meetings, these two ruffians always seemed to arrive just in time to exasperate me. The fork-bearded lout in the colorfully clownish garb of yellow and orange approached me first with a turn and a skip that I knew to be the first action of his performances. He was followed by the clumsy bounding of an unshaven elder with the crazed eyes of a wolf and the fingers of an eagle’s talons stroking his lute. Both men smelled of a combination of horse urine and moldy bread. The fork-bearded man fancied himself a jester that could make the, “most sullen heart come alive with mirth… for the right price.” He did not amuse me. He mostly tried to attract my services by flattering me. He spoke first. “Salute, Master Leonardo. Because you have blessed us with the image of the spotless saints we thank you always. Grazie, dear man. Grazie. Perhaps after such an ordeal of fashioning some of the most holy figures in history, you would wish to purchase the services of myself and my associate: Alfio. He plays like a pupil of Orpheus. And I sing alongside him like Zeus as an alluring swan. Perhaps we could lure some pretty lady to your bed with such a serene song, hm?” I held my peace with all of my being. I did not care for his bawdy suggestions. I have a pure temple for a body. I do not swim in the sea of lechery that many others of this city prefer to damn their eternal souls in. The clown rattled on as I bought my bread and wine from the usual grocer. Alfio attempted to sway me with broken notes that he twanged about my ear. As I left their hunting grounds, the clown hopped after me with a farewell benediction. “I see you are in a rush, Leonardo. So we will leave you to whatever rushes you. Just know that we will abide here ever at your command. May God bless you.” Hardly after finishing my bread and drink, I was about to return to my grim examinations when my young assistant, Salai, presented two guests. The man was introduced by my assistant as: “Signore, Piero Francesco del Giocondo.” “Please,” interrupted the finely laced old fellow, “just call me Piero, Signore Leonardo.” I smiled jovially at his affectionate self-presentation. “Piero is a fine name. It was my father’s name.” After sharing mirth at this coincidence, my assistant spoke on as if he were not interrupted. He introduced Piero’s wife as: “The Signora, Lisa Francesco del Giocondo.” The Signora was a young lady. She had many years of gape between herself and her spouse. She was wrapped in a respectable dress of red and black cloth. She sported an open veil atop her dark and lofty locks. She had a tired and bored expression about her, as if Piero were her father keeping her from her childish games. Keeping the dulled looked about her eyes; she smiled slightly when I looked at her upon hearing her name announced. Then she scuttled over to my table with impetuous curiosity. “What is this, Master Leonardo? Is this some new work of wondrous art?” To my horror, I managed to carry my withered bones past her in time to stop her hand from unveiling the sheet of the corpse that I was studying. After having a relieved breath or two upon stopping her, I quickly apologized and stated that this matter was private. Piero hissed a slight chide to his little woman as he motioned an angry hand at her to wait outside my room. Piero returned to his good manners when she left. “I must apologize as well. She is my third wife. Very young and rambunctious. My friends and I call her ‘the merry one.’ She is always about with her games and curiosities. You know how children can be. Still, it’s best to marry them young. It breaks them into the practice of a proper and godly marriage. I do not wish to live out the rest of my old years as a cuckold to the unattended lusts of a more experienced woman, mind you.” I shrugged at this. The politics of married life have ever been a mystery to me. I prefer to be married to my art. Seeing that I did not have much to add on the subject, Piero went on to business. “Your reputation as an artist has thrilled all of Italia, Leonardo. No doubt, you can see that Madonna Lisa and I both appreciate your artistic prowess. We wish to be honored by your skill with the brush. I am willing to pay you a fine sum to have you paint my Lisa so as to commemorate our new home. Will you accept, Leonardo? Would you immortalize my little Lisa?” Piero could have asked me to paint the beggars in the streets and I still would have accepted his offer. I desperately needed any money that I could get from any direction. We closed the deal and he told me that she would sit for me tomorrow morning. I later began to further update my sketches of the Arno River in my book. I noted that I needed to divert the river into two canals to make this plan work. I was so excited for the money that this enterprise had promised me. Perhaps if Machiavelli had given me further resources, I could have shared with him my many other ideas. I have had a new world’s plan for an army within my book for years. I have sketches for weaponized vessels utilizing land, sea, and even the sky itself. I even had plans for an invention that could kill enemies from a distance with twice the effectiveness of an arrow. All these years of ideas, and I’ve never found the right man to give me the money for these grand creations. Machiavelli, as far as wealth, prominence, and vision, would have been the closest to fulfilling my ambitions. With Machiavelli as a patron of war, I could have been a new Archimedes to leverage the world at his price. I was so taken with Ares in my blood during the night of re-sketching my irrigation system that I awoke late. So late, that my assistant was standing over me with the young Signora Lisa present behind him as I opened my eyes. It was time for the appointment. Embarrassed, I had the lady sit down before one of my painting easels so that we could begin. It took a few minutes to quiet her laughing at my unfortunate mismanagement of time. As I began slowly sketching an outline of her form, I considered inventing a small version of a church tower’s clock to give alarm to such occasions for those who hate wasting time. I considered it a brilliant idea as I was handed a message by my assistant. It read: Grazie again for your service, signore. I ask for one small request in your painting: please do not let my dear Lisa look melancholy in her picture as women do in so many other portraits. It would kill my heart to be unable to always see the smile of my ‘merry one.’ Your dear friend: Piero Francesco del Giocondo. The lady began trumpeting her voice to me. “Master Leonardo, it smells awful in this room. Could we move to more charming quarters? Perhaps I could sit outside by the Arno River?” “Young Lisa, I cannot paint out of doors. The sun would wane and betray my vision of your pretty face. So I will paint with the nearby fireplace as the best and most constant source of light. Now let us press on.” She spoke out once more. “How long must I sit here? Piero never told me how long it would take.” I explained that this process may take up most of her days for the next few months, possibly a year or more. This did not satisfy her as she complained again. “Are you done yet?” And again. “I have been here for a god’s eon. I grow so bored. I am famished.” And again. “I must use a chamber pot. Can I see what you’ve painted thus far? And again. “Hold, Leonardo. I must adjust my hair. Perhaps I shall stretch my weary legs too.” And this was only the first hour of my day’s work on her. Another reason that I never took a wife was that I do not have the heart for scolding women. They are the finest fruits of nature. I hate to pluck harshly at them. I prefer to be gentle. But, by the Virgin, she was driving me mad. I could barely get even the slightest sketch from her endless squirming. Still yet, her melancholy eyes rolled into view constantly. I had to access her merry side for a proper portrait. I suddenly had a revelation for keeping her disruptions, disputes, and movements to a minimum. I told her that I would return. I came back from the market with the two gladdened beggars at my heels. I hired them to sing, dance, and make funny for the young lady. It cost some coins, but with the money expected from her husband, and especially from Machiavelli, I knew that this investment would be worthwhile to get her to remain docile and full of smiles instead of worrisome frowns. Alfio played bland notes on his lute and the fork-bearded one sang madrigals off-key. Their jesting often saw the fork-beard one scold Alfio. “You swine! Don’t make eyes at the young lady, or I shall hit you until they are crossed!” I did not know if this was simply part of the show or a genuine threat, but the scurrying of the still-playing musician after such words would often amuse the little lady with enough giggling attention to get my focus on her image. This went on like this for weeks. I spent the days on the Signora, and I spent the nights on the model-prints for the workers to follow in constructing my irrigation. Finally, I sent the sketches to Machiavelli. I waited weeks for a reply. I spent my spare time further painting the merry one. I made corrections upon some of her shades and details at night. I grew worried after more weeks. I wondered if Machiavelli did not receive my plans. One day, my servant arrived with a summons that was a salvation to my worries. This propelled me into some months of inspecting progress among the workers. I also joined Machiavelli on trips to give him advice for helping his army fortify defenses against Pisa. It was like working with Borgia again. But Machiavelli paid me extra for my time away from Lisa. One day, while working vigorously on the painting, I received a new message from Machiavelli. I will send a man for you. The country was glorious to admire on the way. I used to overlook it upon the hills of Vince during my youth. The mountains wafted about the smooth grassy hills and slopes that hugged about the long, glittering gaze of the river. It held me in a transfixed state until our cart stopped upon the seven layered pattern of the famous bridge over the Arno. I saw Machiavelli standing over it, looking down as I drew near him. I saw the workers in the far distance. They were but miniscule shadows from where I was, but I could see them loading the material. I was shocked. The material had hardly been set into the water. Surely, in all this time, the men would have had a foundation over-top most of the water’s surface by now. Yet, this did not fully concern me. I thought that Machiavelli would not mention it. I reasoned that he brought me here to pay me for the plans. Fortuna could work in any way for Machiavelli’s aims. As long as I had my money, I’d be content. As if hearing my incredulous thoughts, Machiavelli opened our words with one of his strong-jawed statements. “It’s too shallow. I wished to keep you informed of progress. Many months in, and the men find out it is too shallow to set up the structure. Do the laymen think to tell me? No. They claim that it is because they thought that I was busy with other government concerns. They also figured that they could try to work it out. But I know the truth. They laze about for higher hours of work. Idioti. They are lucky I do not dismiss them and have them beaten. But this operation must remain a secret and they are the best carpenters that I could locate on such short notice. It’s bad enough that most of the council is against this plan.” I nodded. “Perhaps you should have the area dug up. That should even out the levels.” Machiavelli motioned in agreement as he edged me nearer to see the view so as to garner a wistful speech. “I often liken fortuna in life, whether foul or fair, to two things. I liken it to a river and a woman. Both can unnerve mankind. Yet, mankind needs to abide near both to survive. Thus, it is in man’s best interests to treat fortuna as one should a river and a woman. One must overpower them into submission. I should know. This philosophy has become a personal treat of mine since I took to politics and marriage.” I told him that it sounded like a wise policy. Though, I did note that one should be a bit gentler to both as a rule, so as to coax the best favor of them. I said this with my memories of nature’s beauty first appearing to me when I was a child overlooking the hills of Vince. “Really? Then perhaps I will break this next bit of news gently to you then. I am afraid that this extra time with the workers will have to be cut from the salary that I am giving you. I’d say that I must mark off about half of what I have already planned to give you. Understood? Or will you run off and find a better offer like you did with Borgia?” My soul waxed red like an angel of hell at this final blow to my character. “How can you slur upon me in such a way, Machiavelli? I do what I do for survival. What are the ends to your means? I’ve looked into your eyes. I see your ambitions ready to consume those in your way. Yes. I see the same spirit to drive out your most hated enemies that I have seen in my other employers. And you think that once you achieve victory that you are a better man of character to rule? Take stock of your own character before you declare yourself a new-age prince, Machiavelli.” His eyes blazed upon me, ready to cast me in flames. The silence was extinguished by a cool wind. I left him, bitter at the times that I lived in: a time when politics spoil all the fruits of my labor. He spoke once more as I left. His words fading in the distance did not escape my ears. “You have great knowledge, Leonardo. But it must be wielded with an understanding of what it is like to hold power. He who neglects how to properly use such powers soon forecasts a ruin rather than preservation.” The river did not glitter so wondrously on my return to Firenze. I could no longer afford the money for purchasing the services of the jester and the minstrel. I dismissed them four days later. This made Signora Lisa renewed in her abusing of my patience. “Please, signore. Those gay fellows almost made this chore bearable. Had I known that this enterprise would take so long, I would have never accepted.” So it goes for us all, it seems. I painted on, trying to latch an aim upon her returned fidgeting. Her words could barely stay out of my ears. “The minstrel seemed most attracted to me. His smell will not be missed. Though, the smell of your room could still stand to be improved.” I painted on. She did not seem to appreciate the waning of my responses. “Perhaps I could go pick some flowers? Just for a more enjoyable smell.” I painted on. “May I get something to drink, Leonardo? My throat waxes sore being the only one with a voice in the room.” I painted on, but then I realized that I was nearly dried out of paint. I felt so foolish. I was going to pick up some the day before. But the business with Machiavelli disorganized my mind. I arched my aching back from my position. I told Lisa that she could go get her drink while I went out to buy some more paint. Outside, a storm was gathering. Light did not shine in Firenze, only a blotch of gray ink shadowed all creation. The streets were not crowded, but barren and brimming with ominous echoes liken unto the end-times. I did not even see the fools about the market. I only saw the grocer who gave me paint. On the way back, I looked up to the dome. This time, it looked more like a black judgment seat that was ready to cast down an even blacker decree from on high. I returned to the room. Lisa was not there. It was bleeding rain all over me as the storm’s showers broke upon me just when I was approaching the door. I called her name and she did not answer. I made corrections to the symmetry of her eyes. When it grew late, I tried to sleep away this difficult set of days. My assistant awoke me. He seemed afraid when I opened my eyes. I must have had a most displeased countenance of malice upon my brow. He nervously informed me that a day had passed during my slumber. He said that Lisa was outside. He also gave me another message: the final cut. Machiavelli. The recent storm has broken up your project. The men have abandoned their stations. Almost eighty are dead. I cannot afford this worthless enterprise any longer. I will find better means to deal with Pisa. You would do well to forget our dealings. Forget any payment as well. I do not care to drop more money into this failure. Do not contact me again. Though, I will tell you, my relations with you have given me much to think about. Perhaps I may add such thoughts that you have stirred up within me into a book someday. I will see you in this life or the next, mercenary. Addio. I cast it into the fire. I felt one of my lows that seem to contradict my life’s highs. I felt like a vagabond upon the face of the earth. My work with Machiavelli failed, and I had no hope of finishing this painting properly if I could not get this woman to hold still. I was almost out of money. How could I afford house and food? I then remembered how Machiavelli compared fortuna to a river… and a woman. She entered. “Leonardo! The weather ruined my hair while I was out for water yesterday, so I went home as I was so upset by the ruin of my appearance. But I am ready to sit for you today. I see that you have not improved the smell. Perhaps I can pick flowers later.” Fortuna is like a river and a woman. I tried to paint on. She fidgeted again. “I know that you are needy for money. All of Firenze talks about your problem. I could go out and buy the services of the clowns again. It will keep me most merry.” Both a river and woman needs to be put under submission for man to prosper. “Can you hear me, old man? I said I could go out and purchase the fools for my amusement. Would you-” I slapped my brush down upon the easel with a whip. “Do you want to know what that smell is, child? That is a corpse, a dead body. The Church lets me study them so I can make due with models for paintings. If you do not cease moving and talking, I will have my assistants lay the rotting carcass upon your lap. Maybe then you will hold still.” Thankfully, I had already painted her merry face ages ago, for she sat with the stark horror of a beaten dog for the rest of her sitting. “And do not even think of telling Piero that I spoke thus to you, or I will hit you until you look like that dead body. Understood?” She did not reply. She seemed like a statue. “Understood!?” She whispered a chilled affirmative and I painted on. Other jobs for painting came. I managed to make a way. I never finished my painting of the merry one. Piero cursed me outside my locked door one day, calling me a cheat and a fraud. He said that he would not pay me for my services if they would take so many years to wrap up. Inside, I am still at work on the finishing touches of the painting. I am trying to get the details just right. The woman is complete in the portrait. It is the background I’ve added that I am trying to craft just perfectly. I chose to use the Arno River as the background. I’ve always marked experience as a greater muse than any teacher or study. My experience with the Arno has left me an artist that is trying to gain mastery over nature, if only an illusion of it. Perhaps men do not need to be masters over rivers, women, or states to achieve security in life. Perhaps we need to learn how to master ourselves first. If only…
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