The Man Who Seduced The Mona Lisa

The story told here is purely the result of the author's fantasy and imagination.

The information, references and historical references contained herein are merely to provide a truthful historical framework to the storyline.

Any reference or analogy to facts, episodes, characters or places that really existed is purely random.

FIRST PUBLICATION (ITALIAN VERSION) – July 2019

[On the occasion of the 500th anniversary of the death of Leonardo da Vinci]

Translation by Rosemary Dawn Allison – August 2020

Copyright © 2020 – DIONIGI CRISTIAN LENTINI

This work is protected by the Copyright Act.

Any unauthorized reproduction, even partial, is prohibited.

For my uncle

Don Giovanni Lentini

Prologue

“Hi stallion :-) You were fantastic last night. Don't think too much about it: you can't always be John Holmes… :-) As soon as I get to the office I’ll send you something about that Don Juan friar I told you about. Have a good day.”

It was the private message Francesca had sent while he was heading towards the abbey in his dated methane gas convertible.

He hadn't even heard the ping of the notification. In fact, he was on speakerphone with Professor De Rango who, for the 33rd time, was recommending that he do a good job and to take care to say hello to father Enzo, the rector's abbot friend… and who knows how many other directors and managers.

“It's amazing how the cellular network is so widespread in this remote mountain area,” he thought.

After exactly twenty-seven seconds he decided to implement the emergency plan foreseen in such cases by the survival procedure against head breakers........: “simulation of the sudden loss of signal by activating the state of unreachability for the next 30 minutes”.

Claudio, a forty-year-old researcher without a permanent contract at the Institute of Informatics and Telematics at the CNR in Pisa, eight years of checks and “while actually employed” contracts on his curriculum vitae, had been sent urgently to address a problem the Anglo-Saxons call: “Damage assessment and disaster recovery”, in practice it was an intervention that would assess the damage and restore the data to the digital archive at an ancient Tuscan abbey that had, 48 hours earlier, suffered a cyber attack by an exalted Russian hacker.

Obviously, the thought of spending the whole week in a medieval library recovering digitized scrolls, reinstalling operating systems, analyzing Gregorian chants of prayers and songs (perhaps without even a porno movie), while the world outside was at that time concerned with blockchain and cryptocurrency, filled him with tremendous enthusiasm.

Over the past year he hadn’t produced a single scientific publication. This was not because he had not done enough research or hadn’t achieved concrete results… perhaps it was simply because he hadn’t yet found anything of true value that was worth sharing with the rest of the planet. For this reason, as soon as they could his colleagues mocked him, who, unlike him, were now publishing and patenting every single fart they emitted into the air after a meal of beans in Valleriana.

In short, that morning not even the Eagles' cd “Hotel California” could cheer him up.

He arrived at the summit where the abbey stood at 9:37, when the guitars of Don Felder and Joe Walsh were ending with one of the most beautiful solos in rock history.

“Oh, doctor, welcome to our home. The most reverend father has been waiting for you since yesterday… Come, come, I'll explain everything.”

A cordial and alarmed friar welcomed him; he was immediately shown the way to the violated archive.

The situation was less serious than imagined: the main server was out of action, a Trojan ransomware had encrypted half the world with a 2048-bit AES key and a ransom of 21 bitcoins had been demanded. Most of the friars didn't even know what ransomware or a bitcoin was, but fortunately the restriction (read/write only) to access permissions to the files of the backup archive had held… and besides – then they say that it isn’t true that monks are lucky – the last available copy that the automatic synchronization and backup procedure had produced was only 16 hours and 18 minutes before the attack. In short, if it hadn't been in a sacred place, our researcher would no doubt have exclaimed: “What the f…!”

Therefore the bulk was safe. It was only about eradicating the virus and restoring about 9 terabytes of scanned manuscripts and books, and returning them manually to the mainframe from the disc copies. What relieved Claudio the most was that this operation could also be handled in Pisa, thus he could avoid the problem of his already tried palate coming into contact with the succulent dishes of that infamous three Michelin star restaurant named “The Refectory”.

So, after only 4 hours, having given the friar, who seemed to be more alert, the necessary instructions for the restoration of the host, Claudio removed the bare essentials from the rack, loaded everything into his car and went home.

Ah, meanwhile the smartphone had begun again to receive and that red dot on the right indicated two messages:

– the first, from the very nice Professor De Rango, stated verbatim: “Not even the most banal freshman makes use of these tactics anymore! The phone picks up perfectly out there! I understand t I broke your… but it's important!!! Let me know as soon as we have solved it. Thank you.”

“Yes, 'we have'…” he thought.

– the second, from Francesca, contained a photo of a newspaper extract from eighteen years earlier.

His girlfriend, in fact, knowing of the trip Claudio had won to that monastery, had managed to retrieve a copy of an article from the archives of the local newspaper where she worked, which reconstructed the dark story of the death of Father Sergio, a young heartbreaking friar, who had been murdered by a jealous husband who just could not bear to have his wife going to confession so frequently.

The body was found in front of an altarpiece in a gruesome scenario halfway between “The Da Vinci Code” and “Seven”, between “The Name of the Rose” and “Basic Instinct”.

Since then the case had been closed but no one had ever been able to understand what the word “sinemensura” really meant that the luminary from the Reparto Investigazioni Scientifiche (RIS or the Department of Scientific Investigation) had noted as being written on the habit of the poor religious man.

Probably, indeed, almost certainly, if he had not read that article, with over 370 000 files to be analyzed and the Roland Garros final on TV, the researcher would not have even minimally focused on that small directory of the file system on the last disc named: “Father Sergio”.

Inside, there were dozens of files containing love poems, photos of beautiful young women and a single file extension “.axx”, an encrypted format that was protected by a password.

Claudio knew very well that the probability of guessing the password (11 characters out of a possible 95) was almost 0.0000000000000000000175% and that with a brute force attack of 100000 attempts per second it would have taken about 1 billion 803 million years to find, but, for once, he put the numbers aside and decided on a single attempt:

he typed “sinemensura” and there, like a pirate standing over his treasure chest, unfolded the most beautiful story he had ever read.

I

The Ferrara War

The icy wind of that winter evening did not whip the battlements of the Castle of San Giorgio as much as the wind of passion raging in pulsating veins.

It was the month of November in the Year of our Lord 1482, Mantua was freezing, deserted… and Beatrice was lying on the bed in her room gazing dreamily at the imperial eagles on the ceiling… her mind was inundated with newfound imagination… unspeakable thoughts that, for a lady of her rank, brushed upon indecency. She knew that when the chatter of the Gonzaga servants disappeared from the noble floor, he, that charming diplomat now lord of her mind, would arrive, regardless of, if not profiting from, the reckless absence of her cousin and promised husband (the Marquis, with her father, had been fighting for two days beneath the walls of Ferrara strenuously defending the Este family, threatened by the Venetians of Count Roberto di San Severino).

In fact it happened that Girolamo Riario, the avaricious lord of Imola and Forlì, strengthened by the high patronage of his uncle Sixtus IV, having the declared objective of shortly taking possession of the Duchy of Hercules of Este, had managed to persuade the Doge of Venice of the need to wage war on Ferrara that had, for some time, been threatening the monopoly of the salt trade in the Polesine.

The d'Este family, were certainly more refined than military, and not casually related to the king of Naples (Ercole as they were linked by marriage to Ferdinando d’Aragona's daughter, Eleonora) and had been able to weave alliances with the neighboring Italian lordships, including that under Ludovico Maria Sforza known as “the Moor” (or “il Moro”), to whom the Duke of Ferrara had promised one of his daughters in marriage during unsuspecting times.

Thus the entire peninsula was soon divided against each other into two armed blocks: on the one side were the Papal States with Sixtus IV, Imola and Forlì with the Riario, the Republic of Venice, the Republic of Genoa, the Marquisate del Monferrato and the County of S. Secondo Parmense; on the other the Duchy of Ferrara under Ercole d'Este, the Kingdom of Naples under Ferdinando d'Aragona, the Duchy of Milan under Ludovico the Moor, the Marquisate of Mantua by Federico Gonzaga, the Duchy of Urbino with Federico da Montefeltro, the Lordship of Bologna ruled by Giovanni Bentivoglio and the Republic of Florence with Lorenzo de' Medici.

After the summer, the Venetian troops clearly held the advantage: they had conquered Rovigo, besieged Ficarolo, taken Argenta and now were also besieging Ferrara. The situation had become even more critical for the Este family since the most experienced leader of the anti-Venetian coalition had died from malaria in September: the notorious Federico da Montefeltro.

Unexpectedly, the pontiff, who in the meantime had defeated the Neapolitans at Campomorto, suddenly decided to put an end to the hostilities, negotiating with the king of Naples. Ludovico il Moro, in fact, working through diplomacy, had managed to convince the closest advisors of the Holy Father that the rapid expansion of the Serenissima in northern Italy was likely to be dangerous and would threaten both Milan and Rome; therefore, it would not at all convenient to anyone to continue that expensive war just to satisfy the mad ambitions of the Riario.

Too bad that Venice, one step away from final victory, obviously had no intention of giving up; rather it wanted to end the game, before winter turned even colder.

In fact, that afternoon the Lagunari, taking advantage of their opponents’ careless move, decided to launch a new attack from the north to the detriment of the garrison of Francesco Gonzaga, who was seeking a way to resist the opposing force of attack, concentrated more on defensive strategy and was completely unaware of what was about to happen in the incensed rooms of his beautiful palace…

Just two taps on the door: to the young lover it seemed that a bell had struck, like the heavy pendulum of her mind that now oscillated between extreme modesty and extreme audacity.

Not that peril the marquis scorned between the crossbows and arquebuses but the real courage it took to hold that key, to turn it and allow her lover to cross the threshold, the last bulwark of an already profaned heart.

As the fire in the hearth lengthened the shadow of the door that opened into the room, and the fearless knight entered, Beatrice turned abruptly, sensually dropping a pearl from her headdress onto the floor.

“Tell me it is not a sin,” she pleaded.

He slowly bent down to retrieve the pendant, encircled her hips and brushing her neck with his lips whispered the first and only sentence of that night:

“It certainly is. But not to commit it by wasting this moment would be even more so.”

In that instant she closed her eyes and unaware of the bitter news that would come from the battlefield the following day, she turned gently and indulged in passion. And while her promised one was humiliated by the Venetian cavalry, she, a rider in the saddle, exalted, free for one night to be herself.

So, when even the extreme clatter of swords in the field had ceased and the last log of wood in the room had been consumed, the new dawn did not rise to notify the increasingly imminent fall of Ferrara… but only yet another conquest by Tristano Licini de’ Ginni.

II

The young Tristano

Tristano was a distinguished twenty-two year old, brilliant, cultured and refined; his lean build and physical proportions permitted him to be thought of as “good-looking”; despite his youth, he was already an authoritative diplomat for the Papal States and, therefore, was well integrated into all the Italian courts. However, he did not have a fixed seat, from time to time the Holy See sent him on a mission to the Lordships of the peninsula (and not only), sometimes without the knowledge of the official ambassadors, for the most delicate, confidential, often secret matters. All the Lords and notables involved knew that talking to him was equivalent to conferring directly with the Holy Father, however he had no noble title, no one knew his past, his name never appeared on any official document, he dressed far better than many counts and marquises but there were no decorations or insignia on his chest, he showed that he had almost unlimited available funds but he was not the son of any banker or merchant, he moved casually on the political chessboard but never left a trace, he wrote history every day but never appeared on any of its pages… he was everywhere and yet it was as if he didn't exist.

In his first three decades of life he had grown up in the province of Bergamo, bordering the territories of the Republic of Venice, where he had received a good cultural education and an unconventional sentimental and sexual education. His father had died when he was small and when he was not much more than an adolescent his mother also. He lived with his grandfather, an old and tired nobleman now in decay who, despite everything, always proudly boasted of a family of Federician origin who, at the time of the Crusades, had been related to members of Tuscan families as much as they had been decorated were now practically extinct; the elder, however, commanded a certain amount of respect in the village and in the countryside, which was also reflected on the very young Tristano. At school age he was entrusted into the care of first the Dominicans and then the Franciscans, where he immediately revealed a certain propensity for logic and rhetoric, although every Sunday morning he infuriated his religious tutors as he preferred the angelic vision of the arrival of the young novices in church to the study of the classics, Greek and Latin. Sometimes he was seen to be saddened, perhaps by the absence of parents, but he was never sullen; he had a lively but always composed temperament, seemed to be alert but was never impertinent and had a clean face that caused him to be well liked by everyone in the village, especially the ladies.

He was only 12 when something happened that would frequently re-emerge in his adult dreams and opened up a new world, something far from the monastic rules that he had become accustomed to and from the cardinal virtues he read about in books every day. It was a hot afternoon in early summer, the doors and windows of the library's scriptorium were wide open to allow the air to flow to make reading less difficult; Tristano was holding a tome about Sant'Agostino da Ippona about whom he was particularly fascinated and, settling on an island near the window, was preparing to dive into the heavy parchment when he noticed a movement on the street that was strange for that hour. Antonia, an inconsolable widow, was walking rapidly in the deserted street away rom the churchyard, dragging her poor daughter, who had learned to walk only a couple of years before, almost tugging. The unfortunate young woman seemed to be in a hurry to reach her destination unseen. After a while, more and more cautiously, she deviated her trajectory slightly to the right and, as soon as she reached the apothecary's premises, she entered. Immediately afterwards, the owner, leaned his head out of the door, quickly glanced to the left and right and, returning, closed the door, which opened again only half an hour later to let the mother and daughter out. This dynamic was repeated almost identically on the following Saturdays, so much so that the temptation to deepen the investigation became irrepressible for the adolescent. So it was that he planned to hide in an old chest that a laborer working for his grandfather used to supply bottles of spring water to the apothecary's wife, a wealthy lady who with her two daughters prepared spirits, hydrolytes and perfumes for her consort’s laboratory. As soon as the load was ready, Tristano emptied it of the equivalent of his weight and scrunched into it letting the laborer load everything onto the wagon to complete his transport, unaware, directly to the pharmacy as always. Once there, hidden in his wooden horse, like Ulysses in Troy, he waited for the moment when the herbalist’s helper left to remunerate the shop assistant and climbing out of the chest he hid among the various sacks of cereals and grasses that filled the room. At that point he only had to wait… And. in fact, shortly after the bell tower of the church sounded the Ninth hour, the beautiful Antonia, with her little one, punctually entered the gloom; waiting for her at the entrance, the alchemist suitor who, like a wolf on his prey, pounced on her generous chest, pushing the woman against the fixed part of the door; and while with his right hand he held the movable part of the door, with his left he rummaged under the robe of the attractive woman, who, letting go of the little girl's hand, at the same time got rid of the cap that a moment before had gathered up her long auburn hair. The young man peered in disbelief at what was happening in that ecstasy of medicinal herbs, spices, roots, candles, paper, inks, colors… After the first outpourings, the apothecary released his grip and allowed the young mother just enough time to better settle the child on a seat with a rag and straw doll, then he took her by the hand and, while leading her to the back room, asked her sarcastically, “Tell me, what did you tell Don Berengario in the confessional today?” The impetus between the two scenes increased more than before: the moans followed gasps; as soon as the audacious intruder pushed the curtain with two fingers, he saw the two lovers sinfully fornicating among herbs, seeds, perfumes, aromatic waters, oils, ointments…

Thus began his sex education, which he soon corroborated, like any self-respecting discipline, with theory (obtaining some texts his tutors considered to be extremely forbidden) and with practice (causing some young novices to become disturbed and to have second thoughts).

His first real relationship with a woman was with Elisa di Giacomo, the eldest daughter of a groom who worked on the estate. Two years older, the beautiful Elisa gladly accompanied Tristano on long walks along the mountain paths, enchanted by his stories, by his plans… and often the two inevitably ended up frolicking in a shed or in a refuge in the area.

They were in fact secluded together that day of the harvest when a handful of foreign soldiers plummeted into the middle of the festival at the gallop, passing alarmed laborers and bystanders they came to the front of the rural alcove, and surrounded it. The highest grade, in armor that shone as never seen before, dismounted, lifted his helmet and, breaking through the door with one foot, to the most intense embarrassment of the astonished lovebirds, broke in:

“Tristano Licini de' Ginni? “

“Yes sir, it's me,” replied the young man, pulling up his breeches and trying to shield the half-naked body of his terrified companion with his. “Who are you, sire?”

“My name is Giovanni Battista Orsini, lord of Monte Rotondo. Put your clothes on! You must follow me to Rome immediately. Your grandfather has already been informed and has given his approval for you to leave this place and transfer as quickly as possible to the home of my noble uncle, His Illustrious and Most Reverend Lordship, Cardinal Orsini. My task is to escort you, even if necessary by force, to his holy person. Please, do not resist and follow me.”

And so, torn from his provincial microcosm where he had found his equilibrium, at just 14 years old, Tristano left those poor lands with its unstable borders forever to arrive at and be reborn a man in the opulent city that God had chosen as His earthly seat, in the Eternal City of the Caesars, in the caput mundi…

After 7 days of grueling journey, he arrived exhausted at the cardinal's residence at Monte Giordano, the young guest was immediately entrusted into the care of a servant and shortly afterwards led into the presence of the illustrious Cardinal Latino Orsini, a leading exponent of the Roman Guelph faction, supreme chamberlain and archbishop of Taranto, former bishop of Conza and archbishop of Trani, archbishop of Urbino, cardinal bishop of Albano and Frascati, apostolic administrator of the archdiocese of Bari and Canosa and of the diocese of Polignano, as well as lord of Mentana, Selci and Palombara, et cetera et cetera.

During the short distance, Tristano examined the stern gaze of the marble busts of the noble family’s illustrious ancestors, held up by shelves with lion-like protomes and roses, the distinctive symbol of the Orsini. The questions in his mind increased dramatically, chasing and scrambling over each other.

That hall with windows, interspersed with pilasters, dominated by curvilinear gables with lion heads and pinecones, crowned eagles, heraldic serpents of the Viscount, etc. … seemed to disappear into infinity.

His Grace was in his dusty studio, intent on signing dozens of papers that two beardless deacons submitted to him with ritual skill.

As soon as he noticed the young presence, he gradually raised his head turning slightly towards the entrance; slowly, with his gaze fixed on the boy and keeping his elbow on the table, he raised his left forearm, with palm open, in anticipation of his assistant to halt the passage of further documents. Standing up he approached the newcomer without haste, as if to seek the best angle to better appreciate his features; benevolently he caressed his face, lingering under his chin.

“Tristano” he whispered… “Finally, Tristano”.

Then he put his hand on his head and blessed him with the other tracing the sign of the cross in the air.

The boy, albeit held back by a tangle of fear and awe, stared at him fixedly to scrutinize the slightest movement of his mouth and eyes that could somehow reveal the reason for his sudden transfer. The cardinal, holding the precious crucifix that adorned his chest in his hand, turned abruptly towards the window and, advancing, anticipated him saying:

“You seem alert, boy. You are certainly wondering about this coercive transition to Rome…”

After a brief pause he continued:

“The time has not yet come for you to know. Not yet… Just know that if you are here it is for your own good, for your protection and for your future. And again for your wellbeing and that of Santa Romana Ecclesia is that you don't know. In these dark times, mindless and diabolical forces are plotting together against good and truth. Your mother knew it. That rosary around your neck is hers, never take it off, it is her protection, her blessing.