‘A certain Second Chancellor?’ enquired Slovo. ‘Perhaps a certain Master Niccolo Machiavelli?’
Michelangelo confirmed the suggestion by shrugging noncommittally and suddenly finding the ceiling very absorbing. ‘And what of it?’ he asked angrily. ‘People seek me out for their statue requirements; I seek his advice on the subtleties of statecraft. This is an age of specialists, Admiral.’
Slovo concurred. ‘Ordinarily, yes – but in this case, no. In my friend Niccolo, we have a man sadly attended by Madame Misfortune in his every endeavour. His thoughts are trained, drilled and marched boldly out to battle – to be routed at reality’s first charge. His long-planned Florentine citizens’ militia will come to nothing.’
‘Good,’ said Anselmi, his professional feelings outraged. ‘Amateurs spoil trade.’ Numa Droz wholeheartedly agreed.
‘His foreign missions,’ Slovo continued, ‘have spread vigorous ill will and throughout his life he will unerringly change sides from Medici oligarchs to the Republic and back; at precisely the wrong times.[9] If I were you, Master Michelangelo, I would not hazard my already short existence on Machiavelli’s advice.’
Michelangelo glared at him, fright and frustration boiling up into bravery. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘I’m obliged to you for your fatherly words. But, given the choice, I’ll cleave to his opinion, not yours.’
With one black-bejewelled finger, Slovo waved Numa Droz forward.
‘I don’t know much about art,’ said the Swiss, ‘but all I’ve heard indicates that an artist needs his HANDS!’
Before his last words had ceased, Droz’s sword carved a silver arc, its proposed termination the joint of Michelangelo’s right wrist.
Its speed was such that there was no time for the Artist to disgrace himself with a scream, or, in fact, to react at all. He therefore maintained the most commendable Stoic calm and watched as Anselmi somehow parried the blow with his short-sword.
‘Very sorry, Master Swiss,’ said Anselmi with courteous regret, ‘but I can’t permit that: orders, I’m afraid.’
‘You’re very good,’ said Numa Droz, one craftsman to another as they disengaged blades. ‘Nice and fast.’
Anselmi permitted himself a modest smile. ‘Thank you – but you made it possible; there wasn’t full force in your blow. You didn’t intend the complete job, did you?’
Droz further indicated his spirit of professional fellowship. ‘You’re right; I confess – but not many could have told.’
‘Just a life-long scar, not a hack-off, am I right?’
‘Precisely!’ said Numa Droz, wreathed in sunny smiles. ‘Just an indication of what could be.’
‘I’m off!’ shouted Michelangelo, regaining his powers of speech and coordination, but halted one second into his progress in order to avoid impaling his throat on Anselmi’s sword.
‘You stay where you are,’ said the condottiere, expertly using the tip of his blade on the Sculptor’s Adam’s apple to guide him back to his seat, ‘and listen to what these kind gentlemen have to say.’
‘I am indebted, sir,’ said Slovo graciously, slightly cheered by this economical display of skill in a world of so much wasted energy and emotion.
‘Florence is all for freedom,’ said Anselmi, his barbarous Italian only slightly spoiling the effect, ‘but my understanding is that the sentiment is conditional upon Florence’s perceived present interest. Now, if it were down to me, Sculptor, I’d let you stay in the City and then we’d have war with His Holiness – excellent! It would do my free company’s trading figures a power of good. However, sad to say, my employer is of a more reflective mind. Accordingly, you’ll sit this meeting out, attend and digest. At the end, if you remain obdurate, I’ll escort you safely home – comprehend?’
Michelangelo nodded obediently. The sword slowly withdrew.
‘Cutting to the root of the matter,’ said Slovo, choosing the phrase advisedly and watching Michelangelo pale afresh, ‘I am willing, of my own funds, to offer you three hundred ducats to return to Rome and complete your commission. My personal lines of credit with the Florentine goldsmiths guild, via a Jew of Rome, are easily verifiable.’
‘Already done,’ commented Anselmi efficiently. ‘Sculptor: this man has what he says he has.’
There was just the merest whisper of a slight in thinking such a confirmation necessary, but Slovo passed over it with magnanimity. Numa Droz, awaiting a signal to act, took his cue and appeared to relax.
‘What use is gold to a dead man?’ asked Michelangelo reasonably enough. ‘I would not survive my first night back in Rome. Please explain to me the seductiveness of being the richest garrotted corpse in the Tiber.’
So there it was: Slovo had made persuasive appeals to the three great motivations: firstly reason, then fear, then avarice. Thrice rejected, unable to tempt the rabbit from its Florentine burrow, he now had to exert himself and exercise ingenuity.
‘I think,’ he said sadly, ‘this issue might be resolved if the Sculptor and I were to speak alone.’
‘Conceivable,’ said Anselmi, as politely as his cultural background would permit. ‘Possible even: if you were to surrender the stiletto concealed in your right boot and perhaps the curiously large, probably spring-loaded, ring – yes, that one with the jet-stone.’
‘Don’t leave me!’ shouted Michelangelo, turning to the condottiere as his protector.
‘There are deeper tides at play in this episode, Sculptor,’ said Slovo, in an even tone, like a good father to his child, ‘as you well know. That being so, if I were to say that I mean you no harm; if further, I was to swear to that effect by all the gods, would you not then change your mind?’
Michelangelo swivelled to look at him, his face emulating the paleness of his marble creations, and was obliged to swallow a sudden excess of saliva. ‘Yes, I would,’ he said, abruptly calm again. ‘Please leave us, Anselmi; I wish to speak with the Admiral.’
‘For all your present differences,’ said Slovo, ‘may I first say that I do admire your Pietà … and the David.’
‘So you do have artistic sensitivities?’ asked Michelangelo with keen interest.
‘No. Not as commonly defined.’
The Sculptor looked at Slovo as if starting his assessment afresh and a lengthy silence fell on them. Slovo was happy to let it live its natural span.
‘Admiral,’ said Michelangelo eventually, ‘I find it hard to trust a man such as you. Without a lively appreciation of art, a human is the prisoner of his fallen nature.’
‘Offhand,’ replied Slovo, ‘I might counter that it is only His Holiness’s most lively appreciation of your art that brings us to this meeting.’
‘He is an exception. Cold and rigid in his grave, he would still be untrustworthy. What alternative token of faith can you offer me?’
Admiral Slovo twirled the tip of one gloved finger in his wine, watching the resultant whirlpool pass from birth, through vigour, into nothingness. ‘Well, he said, ‘I might say that I find the Stoical teachings (tempered with certain Old Testament insights) most persuasive …’
Michelangelo waved a dismissive hand.
‘But mainly,’ Slovo continued, ‘I would pick upon the word “faith” in your question – which was undoubtedly a test, a reference to the real reason for your reluctance to return to Rome.’
Michelangelo twisted his irregular face into the distant relation of a smile. ‘As was your “by all the gods”, Admiral,’ he said.
Slovo showed his own facial travesty of human pleasure. ‘Indeed,’ he confirmed.
9
Admiral Slovo was being suspiciously percipient. His words serve as a cruel summary of Machiavelli’s public life. The casual dispersing of his pride and joy, the Florentine citizen militia, by invading Spanish troops, was only six years away.