Veritas (Atto Melani) (69 page)

I knew who we were talking about.

“Signor Abbot, you have already shown me a letter from Prince Eugene, and it was forged.”

“Yes, but everything else I told you – about Landau, Eugene, his jealousy of the Emperor, his fear of being cast aside when the war finishes – is true.”

“And if Joseph really comes to an agreement with France to carve up Spain, leaving his brother Charles with Catalonia, there will be peace.”

“Exactly. And there’s no way that Eugene can make the young but inflexible emperor change his mind. And so our prince, at the age of forty-eight, will have to submit to the decisive
temperament of an emperor aged just thirty-three. If he is really implicated in the poisoning of His Caesarean Majesty, I have to admit that he has made his calculations very carefully: unlike
Joseph, Charles has a weak character and will not stop him from pursuing the war, even without the support of England and Holland. And when this one dies down, there will always be another one. One
war is as good as another for Prince Eugene; he will always need a war from which he can reap honours and power, at least until he retires from old age. But it’s a game that Joseph will no
longer tolerate.”

“True,” I agreed, “the Emperor is making peace with everyone, even with the Pope, who is on the French side.”

“Quite. Believe me for once, now that I’ve even confessed the truth about that letter. The moment has come for everyone to show their cards.”

“I’ve always done that with you.”

“Yes,
you
have. But Eugene is one who does not know what a straight line is. He is twisted, oblique, sinuous. Like all those of his race.”

“What race?”

He rolled his eyes to heaven, as if entreating the Most High to grant him the strength to keep quiet.

“It doesn’t matter,” he said evasively. “What I am anxious to make you realise is that Eugene’s military envy – which is all one with his craving for glory
and power – is a real scourge. It was born long before him, and will die after the last soldier.”

“But one doesn’t kill out of military envy, least of all one’s own sovereign!” I protested.

“It’s obvious you know no history. I could give you scores of examples, starting with ancient Athens, where this unhealthy and underhand passion has led to the best commanders of the
fleet being put to death unjustly,” said the Abbot, lifting the palm of his hand to emphasise the great worth of these captains. “It brought the city to defeat in the Peloponnese War,
it led to the destruction of the walls of the Piraeus and finally to ruin.”

At that moment a group of passers-by, seeing Atto’s outstretched hand and his blind man’s glasses, took my working clothes for those of a beggar and casually tossed us a coin.

“What was that?” asked Melani, at the tinkling sound.

“Nothing. A few coins slipped out of my pocket,” I lied in embarrassment.

“What was I saying? Ah yes. Mind, we are only making conjectures to identify which of the various suspects is really plotting against the Emperor: to work out whether it’s England
and Holland, or Charles, or the Jesuits, or the old ministers, or Eugene. As for military envy, leaving aside the numerous
exempla
from history, I would rather talk to you about a case
closer to our own days: Count Marsili. Do you remember?”

It was odd that Atto should mention Marsili. Just a few hours earlier I had been reading of his feats until interrupted by my assistant’s knock at the door.

“Of course I remember,” I answered. “The Italian who suggested the winning strategy to Joseph, denouncing the errors of Margrave Louis of Baden.”

“Exactly. The continuation of that story will make you realise what role military envy might be playing in Joseph’s fatal disease: since it – envy, that is – almost
always kills.”

A few years before the siege of Landau, narrated Atto, Marsili had taken part in the siege to free Belgrade from Turkish occupation.

There the first incident took place. General Guido Starhemberg, in order to impose his own personal strategy, caused grave loss of life among the imperial troops. The 59th Infantry Regiment was
almost wiped out. For too long now the imperials had been wearing themselves out pointlessly around the fortress. Marsili openly criticised Starhemberg’s strategy, even though the latter was
superior to him in rank. And Marsili did not spare his subordinates either: he demanded swiftness, discipline, parsimony in expenses (quite a few officers took advantage of the availability of
military money to pocket a few “tips”). He had one of his lieutenant-colonels locked up for insubordination; this man then denounced him for tyranny and had him removed from the
service. Only at the end of the conflict did he obtain justice.

“In battle Count Marsili had always demanded fidelity, honesty and courage from every soldier. But he courageously denounced his superiors if they made mistakes that cost human
lives.”

“Bold,” I remarked.

“And very dangerous. Fortunately, his enemies could do little or nothing against such a valuable officer: no one knew the territories where the war against the Turks was being fought as
well as he did.”

With the capture of Landau the military star of Joseph the Victorious was in the ascendant, continued Abbot Melani. It was before him that the French garrison laid down their arms, but a good
share of the glory fell upon Marsili. By now he was considered the greatest expert in fortifications and sieges in the Caesarean camp. He knew the secrets of every military school, be it French,
German or Italian. He had even won the sympathy of the troops, whom he had treated so strictly, and that of his fellow officers, who recognised his loyalty and impartiality. Because dishonesty,
like ignorance, is an offence to the nobility of war.

But the Margrave of Baden foamed with rage at the way Marsili had denounced his shortcomings directly to the King of the Romans. This Italian had not only shamed him, but was also insufferably
cultivated, honest and virtuous. Just who did he think he was?

The Margrave soon found a way to avenge himself. In December that same year, 1702, the French were threatening the Austrian fort of Brisach on the Rhine, vital for control over Breisgau. The
Prince ordered Marsili to go to Brisach to help another Italian, Marshal Dell’Arco, in case this latter (a strange and equivocal excuse) should fall ill. The Margrave of Baden knew perfectly
well that Marsili and Dell’Arco were on very bad terms, and that together they would achieve very little.

There were 24,000 French besiegers. The Brisach garrison had only 3,500 men, Marsili was told; in fact they were even fewer. He found ill-armed men, half-broken cannons, no sappers or miners
(indispensable for the defence of a fortified place), and not even any water in the moats to keep the besiegers out. He wrote at once to the Margrave of Baden that the situation was desperate, but
received no answer. So he set about strengthening the fortifications, but at once quarrels arose with Dell’Arco, and shortly afterwards Marsili was put under arrest for six weeks. Money ran
out, and the troops, who were no longer being paid, complained. So he tried to obtain a loan on the nearby market of Freiburg; the attempt failed, and consequently he had a lead coin struck on the
field, which was distributed to the soldiers. Marsili guaranteed it with his own personal property.

“Just as Melac, the French commander of Landau, did!” I interjected.

“As every true commander will and must do in such situations,” replied Atto gravely. “That also explains why officers must belong to noble and wealthy families: nobility can
reach where others cannot.”

It was the second half of August 1703. The resistance of the small garrison was heroic, but the French were gaining the upper hand, thanks to the leadership of the Duke of Bourgogne and above
all that of Marshal Vauban, the Sun King’s great military engineer.

“The one who had fortified Landau?”

“The very same. And he had fortified Brisach too, when it was under French control, and knew it like the back of his hands.”

The imperial officers had lost all hope now, but Marsili was unflagging: with his own hands he fixed the artillery pieces, designed mines and barriers and kept all those who still wanted to
fight close about him. Dell’Arco summoned a war council; the officers no longer hoped for any relief and decided unanimously to surrender. Only Marsili was determined to preserve their
honour. The French must grant his garrison military honours – he thundered in front of the other officers – a drum roll and flying colours. Everyone must know that Brisach had been lost
with honour. On 8th September 1703 the imperial troops, exhausted, filthy and bleeding, left their fortress, parading with heads held high, while the French stared in disbelief: was it really this
handful of scarecrows that had pinned them down for all these months? Someone whispered to the conquerors that the true soul of these wild men was Marsili, who was just as ragged and weary as all
the others, but whose reddened eyes gleamed with the rage of defeat; it was clear that he would have fought on and on, if he had only had the right companions, curse it! Because cowardice, like
ignorance, is an offence to the nobility of war.

But the worst was yet to come. Released with the other officers, he rejoined the ranks of the imperials, and at once the war tribunal was convened.

“The war tribunal?” I said in surprise. “Why?”

“Dell’Arco, Marsili and the other officers were indicted for having surrendered.”

“But what else could they have done? They were a tenth the number of the French.”

“Listen.”

Very swiftly, on 15th February, the sentences were issued: Dell’Arco was to be beheaded, Marsili to lose his rank and military honour. Three days later, Dell’Arco was executed at
Bregenz, in the public square, like an ordinary criminal. Marsili had his sabre symbolically broken. He survived, but was forever dishonoured. The crowd’s rage, and above all the Margrave of
Baden’s desire for revenge, were placated: it was no accident that the other officers had their sentences suspended.

It was then and only then that Marsili – the courageous Marsili, who, after enduring hellish imprisonment on the Turkish field, after being tortured and wounded, after dragging his
bleeding body to Bologna, had desired above all else to return and serve his emperor; Marsili, who had never bowed his head before the envy, malice and meanness of his fellow soldiers; Marsili, who
had won on the field the esteem and gratitude of the King of the Romans, the future Joseph I; Marsili, the scholar and scientist, the Bolognese nobleman who could talk on easy terms with the common
soldiery; he who, every evening, wore his fingers away counting the dead that day, while the other officers drank and laughed and gambled away the money stolen from the garrison’s funds
– it was then and only then that Marsili understood: all that had been needed to annihilate him, the man who had kept tens of thousands of French troops in check, was the envy of one man, one
on his own side: the Margrave of Baden.

“Oh, military jealousy, what horrors you are capable of!” exclaimed Atto mournfully. “Oh, soldier’s envy, how atrocious your crimes are! Oh, officer’s rancour, how
shameful your wicked actions, all craven, all secret, all perfect! How many unwitting combatants have you sent to death by deceit? How many courageous captains have you locked up in military
prisons, replacing them with idlers and cowards? How many sergeants have you slaughtered treacherously in the ditches of Lombardy, in the snow of Bavaria, in the cold ford of a Hungarian river, so
that you might hang on their rivals’ breasts the medal of infamy? The Margrave of Baden is not the real criminal. It is you, military jealousy, the faceless monster that broke the career and
life of Count Luigi Ferdinando Marsili, dishonouring him and turning him into a renegade. You are the monster that kills by shooting in the back, that vilifies the upright, promotes the inept,
detains provisions, provides incorrect information about the enemy, sends faulty weapons to the front, denies relief to the besieged, reports lies to headquarters. And so, battle after battle, war
after war, you crush the valiant to the ground, devouring their spoils, while you fondly prop up the weak shoulders of the spiteful, the petty and the cowardly: they invoke you and with your aid
they seek the ruin of the good.”

Atto fell silent. The old castrato had, of course, never fought, but his voice vibrated with the contempt of one who had understood all the cruelty of war. Questions were already rushing to my
lips.

“You said Marsili is a renegade. Why?”

“That’s what they called him, because later he commanded the Pope’s army, even though at the trial of Bregenz he had sworn he would never fight on the same side as the enemies
of the Emperor. But the oath had been extorted from him by force: how could it be considered valid? And he said yes to the Pope because he was from Bologna, and therefore a subject of the Pope. The
French and the Dutch had offered him a post as general, but he had refused to fight for those enemies that had killed so many of his comrades. Despite this, His Most Christian Majesty invited him
to Paris and presented him at court with all honours: ‘Count Marsili, who served the House of Austria for so long and who was so unjustly degraded over the question of Brisach; how grave this
injustice is, I know all too well.’ ”

My cheeks had flushed with anger, pity and compassion on hearing Marsili’s absurd and cruel fate. Was that how his loyalty to the Empire was rewarded?

Abbot Melani, meanwhile, was struggling up from our improvised seat. His legs were stiff. I handed him his stick and helped him to his feet.

“But, Signor Atto,” I objected while we resumed our slow stroll, “you attribute to the Most Serene Prince of Savoy the same base passions as the Margrave of Baden. But so far,
apart from a forged letter, you haven’t been able to produce anything more than suppositions. Even the coin of Landau, which Eugene held in his hand during the audience with the Agha, well,
what does it prove? Nothing. Couldn’t it be that it reminds the Prince of his beloved sovereign’s most beautiful personal victory rather than an affront to his own reputation as a
soldier? Everyone knows with what exemplary fidelity Eugene has served the Empire so far. He might be frustrated at having been overshadowed twice at Landau, and at not being able to go and fight
in Spain because of Joseph’s opposition, but you must admit it’s very difficult to believe that the Prince of Savoy is conspiring against the life of his sovereign out of military
jealousy or from fear that peace will deprive him of his power.”