Milan 1465

Preface

  ‘At the subtle moment when a man glances backward, Sisyphus returns to his rock, in that slight pivoting, he contemplates that series of unrelated actions which become his fate, created by him, combined under memories eye, and soon sealed by his death.’

Albert Camus

Milan 1465

‘God himself would take offence to see such naked ambition so prominently displayed;’ said Bianca shaking her head, ‘from rough country camp to fine city linen can anyone own a swifter horse?’

Naturally it was all absurd, but that is in the nature of all things, and knowing it to be so, really did not help in deciding what to do.

From her vantage point at the window she watched the cheering crowd greet our guest. ‘Fortune clearly favours him. He appears much older than I remember him and yet he is counted the new wonder of the age. Will people say he is the new ‘Sforza?’’

I swear she says these things to provoke me, even after four and twenty years of marriage it is still marvellous to see her mind at work. It was all to do with the French and her grandfather’s will.

‘He must be the third this month,’ I replied, ‘one after the other they come to Milan parading themselves to seek my favour.’

She turned and faced me. ‘Neither love nor loyalty binds him to either place or cause. Instead, like some force of nature he roams the earth selling his services to whomever he pleases. You know this. You hear what the crowd are crying?’ She gave me one of her meaningful looks.

‘Should I take a man’s life because the mob cries ‘Braccio?’ I will not hurt him for that.’ It had been an ill-favoured day and I was tired of looking at my wife’s plans to honour me once I was dead.

‘You killed Morosini for a trifle.’

‘His was a fatal indiscretion.’

‘Father used to say the condottiere were simply merchants hired by contract to fight for their employers. Once perhaps, now their banners compete with the ivy.’

   ‘Are you suggesting that we should employ better gardeners?’ I had a feeling she really wasn’t going to let this one go. It would certainly make the banquet interesting.

‘If only it were so simple my dear Francesco. He is one of a new breed of men that have taken violence, treachery and betrayal and raised them to an art form. He is a typical condottiere, fighting first for one state then another, but in the end mostly for himself. Seldom has there been a time when the profession of arms has been so profitable with so little risk attached. Once, such as he wanted gold and jewels now they look to your example and want fiefs and titles; they are more a danger to their employers than each other. Again you know this; for once you were the prince of them all.’

‘That was a long time ago and if I thought otherwise, my body would contradict.’

From being the illegitimate son of a peasant to Duke of Milan I had climbed. I admit Fortune has loved me, but in truth, I know not why. I am but a man, two arms, two legs, and a head upon a body. Those that wished me ill used to say that never was so less a deserving wretch raised so high by Fortune’s favour and perhaps they were right. Yet it is no doubt a comfort to my enemies to know that Fortune can raise a man so high that he might touch eternity with his finger tips and then in the passing of a grain of sand cast him down again into the darkness. If ever I doubt, I have but to remember Carmagnola.

   ‘Tailors, butchers, carpenters and every other sort of base person are filling the streets,’ commented Bianca ‘they come to worship at the feet of the conquering general. Father once told me why the common people were so impressed by finery. It was because they see only the cloak and never the reality and those few who do see were to be killed, driven into hiding or did not count. Father had his faults, but you cannot deny he was practical about some matters.’

    Seeing no reaction she tried again to provoke me:

‘He plays the scene with the skill of a master. He lets the moment linger in the air and then,’ she paused as the crowd roared its approval. ‘They say such a man could conquer the whole of Italy.’

It was an old argument. ‘Many have tried, Ladislau, your grandfather, even in his own way, your father.’ I never learn and regretted the words as soon as I had said them.

‘He would have succeeded, but for you!’

By name Sforza, by nature Visconti. I had spent ten years and one war trying to marry a woman I did not love then found I loved a woman I did not trust.

‘He is dangerous. Why can you not see this?’

‘What would you have me do?’

‘Kill him and have done with it.’ She was her father’s daughter alright.

‘And what about my daughter, Drusinia?’

‘What does it matter what she thinks?’

‘She may have some objection to the murder of her future husband.’

‘It is for the good of the state.’ For the Visconti this had always been considered sufficient reason. She seemed surprised that I might think that there need be anything more. I am sure Bianca genuinely likes Drusinia, she even seemed to like most of my other b******s. Being illegitimate herself I suppose she finds an affinity with their situation. She just finds it a little tiresome that I have so many.

   ‘The plans,’ she asked indicating the documents on the table, ‘they need a decision.’

‘Later. You should make preparations to welcome our guest.’

‘I will send Ippolita when we are ready. Maybe she can talk some sense into you, at least you do listen to her.’ She nodded and withdrew. It was clear to both of us that this was one discussion that would be continued later.

   I confess she does have a point. Could this one be trusted when the brother could not? He professes his loyalty and has talent in abundance, both factors counting in his favour. What counts against is that he is the last of the Piccinini, a family I have fought for nearly forty years. True, the d’Este of Ferrara were vouching for his good conduct. Yet, I have never met a d’Este that could be completely trusted and I should know, I grew up amongst them. Even now there is one of them somewhere in the castle, no doubt plotting something with Bianca; it is what high born ladies do these days, either that or the needle work.

In a world where power is personal she is right to say he is a threat to me. By each life he advances a step and the fools love him for it.

Still if I do not fear, why do I grimace at each cheer of the crowd? Do I now fear the cries of man as once the old Duke feared the thunderstorms sent by the Almighty? Bianca once said that her father and I were more alike than either cared to admit, at that calumny I had refused to speak to her for the rest of the day, which she seemed to think proved her point.

   Perhaps it would be safer if this one went to Pavia and disappeared like the others. The ‘ghosts of Pavia’ they call them, but at least I let them live and I could always deal with the women in my life later. It is something to ponder.   True, Visconti would not have hesitated, the slightest doubt and he would have them executed and then prayed for forgiveness afterwards. When he imprisoned me at Mortara the Duke told me that the problem of the age, was how to be a good Christian and at the same, a successful ruler. I had two years to ponder the answer before he let me out again.

   I know it is my own fault, as Duke of Milan I attract them, I see it in their eyes, the desire to climb upon the mound of broken souls and raise aloft some ‘blazoned banner, that some try to call destiny and others fortune. They crave to step beyond the shadows, to live beyond their years, portraits upon the wall, to be named in histories, minted in coin, monuments in marble, to acquire and hold for one great purpose, to shout to the wind, ‘know me for once I walked the earth!’ We prostitute ourselves for our ambition, the greater the office, the greater the violation.

   Bianca once caught the English Ambassador calling me a ‘faithless adventurer who got lucky,’ but who is he, the representative of that barbaric family, to lecture me on how a prince must behave? I have fought and lost, loved and lost and simply lost. Most of my life has been spent up to my neck in trouble or standing on the edge of the abyss. I am by nature and profession, a soldier, a proper one, unlike the effete princes who practice the noble profession only when they have need to redecorate their palaces. I have mud on my boots and I make no apology for it. I am accounted the greatest soldier in the land, but I fight now to preserve a peace no one wants. For I live in an immoral age where even popes kiss the hand and then plot the death. I have been the ‘good son of the church’ who commanded the armies of God and then, having saved the Holy See, been excommunicated because of it. I have lived to see an aunt murder a wife and a wife murder a mistress. I have endured that which would have broken most men and I have done so for a city that I know I cannot save from my children.

   Of all the great men of my time I alone now survive. I have become the measure of all things, the standard and the example, the angle and the arc about which all events turns. You will know me as Duke Francesco Sforza, but that is not my true name. Who am I, I do not know, I am the enigma of the age.

My portrait is upon the wall somewhere, one of a pair commissioned by father on occasion of my marriage to Polissena; the young wife murdered so long ago. If you look closely you will see a young man full of hope and vigour, a face both familiar and yet now unrecognisable, both self and not-self. Did he ever imagine he would become the Duke of Milan, and if he had known the price that would have to be paid, would he have ever have set out upon the journey? Yet nothing is ever what it seems and whatever a man may say is seldom true.

I am tired and the documents on the table are another matter that refuses to go away. Bianca says that the people of Milan want to honour my ‘greatness’ whatever that may be, something in marble; the Duke on his horse has been the suggestion. She assures me it would not be too onerous, I would only have to sit long enough for the artist to model me in clay. Yet there is something about the transience of clay combining with the finality of marble that troubles me. I confess I remain to be convinced by it all. I have lived long enough to realise that whether a man lives to be thirty or sixty the outcome is the same. I know what father would have said: ‘Don’t worry about it. In six months you’ll be covered in bird s**t anyway.’ Father was like that.