Self-Strengthening Dual Heavens
“Your Holiness, this humble servant is Basilio.”
Pope Julius II barely acknowledged the middle-aged man’s greeting as he entered the room.
“So. Where is the bastard?”
“His exact destination cannot be determined… but it is clear he left with every intention of never returning.”
Basilio began his report of everything he had uncovered.
“He completely liquidated his house and workshop in Florence, converting everything into silver coin. All the artworks and sculptures he personally owned he handed over to the Medici family.
When we inquired with the Medici, we learned he had donated everything to Cosimo I de’ Medici, along with a letter stating that he was ‘repaying a portion of the grace received from Lord Lorenzo.’
In effect he was severing all ties with the family that had once been his patrons. He had no thought of coming back.”
“Of course he wouldn’t come back.”
Julius II gave a hollow laugh.
“Anyone who would leave my face looking that ridiculous on a ceiling fresco never planned to set foot on European soil again.”
The Sistine ceiling Michelangelo had painted was not a single composition but a series of scenes. Among them was the figure of the prophet Zechariah.
Michelangelo had given Zechariah the face of Julius II himself, and behind the prophet he had painted a figure flipping the Pope the bird.
That much had also happened in the original history.
The difference in this world was that while Michelangelo finished the ceiling, he never painted the west wall.
His contract with Julius II had covered both the ceiling and the fresco on the western wall. In the original timeline the famous Last Judgment would be painted on that wall between 1534 and 1541. In this world it was never begun.
Michelangelo completed only the ceiling he was already working on, then scattered the penalty money for breach of the west-wall contract all over the chapel floor and fled in the dead of night.
The sum was large enough that simply gathering the coins took a considerable time—news that made Julius II feel as though a boulder had settled on the back of his neck from the surge in his blood pressure.
“If even you cannot track him precisely… then the ones who helped him escape must be heathens.”
“Yes, Your Holiness. Before Michelangelo fled, several witnesses saw an Islamic merchant named Ibn al-Nasir approach him.”
“Filthy heathen bastard.”
Julius II ground his teeth.
“See to it that that heathen merchant never again sets foot on the Lord’s soil.”
“Expelling him may prove difficult.”
“Why?”
“He is the sole conduit for silk coming in along the Silk Road. If we bar him, many nobles will protest. For the sake of one mere painter, to go that far…”
“Ahem…”
To expand the Papal States Julius II had already gone to war with Venice; after that war he had fought France as well. Expanding the Papal States meant continuous war, and continuous war meant he could not afford to alienate the nobility.
In the end the Pope sighed.
“Very well. We shall show that heathen mercy.”
“A wise decision, Your Holiness. Yet… what of the fugitive Michelangelo Buonarroti? He dared defy Your Holiness’s command and fled. Should he not be excommunicated?”
“Excommunication, nonsense.”
The Pope’s gaunt finger pointed to one place in the room. The withered, branch-like finger trembled as it indicated a model—the exquisite miniature of a great cathedral that had been found in Michelangelo’s workshop inside the Sistine Chapel and brought here.
The moment Julius II first saw that cathedral he had been overwhelmed; he had fallen in love with it at a single glance.
“…The man was always rebellious toward me. He insisted he was no mere painter but an architect.
At the time I thought it was empty bluster meant only to defy me… but perhaps he was right after all.”
“…Certainly this model is extraordinary…”
“Extraordinary? Basilio, that word is nowhere near enough. This is the Lord’s own workmanship.
That he could conceive so precise and majestic a building means the Lord Himself granted him the talent.
And therefore…”
The Pope’s eyes blazed.
“He has a duty to complete this cathedral in reality. Why else would he deliberately leave such a thing behind when he fled?
It is a protest. ‘Look upon what your stubbornness has cost you,’ he wanted to show me.
And, bitterly, I had no choice but to admit it.
In my greed to possess the most beautiful ceiling fresco in Europe, I threw away the chance to build the greatest cathedral on earth.”
“Your Holiness.”
“Find him. Use every means. Whatever it takes. Bring that bastard before me.”
“…It shall be as you will.”
Basilio bowed deeply and withdrew, leaving the Pope alone with the miniature of St. Peter’s Basilica.
Julius II stared down at the model with bitter eyes. At last he uttered a vulgar curse he normally never allowed past his lips.
“Goddamn son of a bitch…”
Michelangelo was in a state of extreme excitement.
He had essentially abandoned every foundation he possessed in Europe to choose the journey to the Gyeong Empire. Even after arriving in Yunnan Province he could not sit still; he badgered Ibn al-Nasir until they pressed on all the way to Sichuan.
And every new thing he encountered along the way filled him with rapture.
“So this is the dragon that runs upon iron rails!”
“A steam locomotive.”
“Ohhh! They truly bored holes straight through the mountains and laid roads! What sort of magic did they work?”
“To have the wealth to pave entire roadbeds with this much wrought iron! Does iron simply spring up from the fields in this land?”
“State-run Ironworks.”
“The roads for men and horses are paved in the style of the old Appian Way! And the railway the train runs on? Are all the bandits around here complete imbeciles? Money is lying on the ground—why does no one pick it up?”
“Molten-mountain iron.”
“Look at this, Arab merchant! They’ve built fences along both sides of the railway, and if need arises they can haul up wheeled chevaux-de-frise to seal the tracks completely!
And those things twined around the fences—they look like rose vines made of iron wire! How many layers of that barrier are there?
You can see at a glance it’s a system designed to utterly neutralize a cavalry charge. Even those ‘winged hussars’ the Poles brag about couldn’t break through easily!”
“Trenches, concertina wire, and chevaux-de-frise in combination.”
“And those guard posts! Did you see when we passed earlier? All those ballista-like things stacked high in the posts!”
“Mechanical repeating crossbows.”
“And that—I’m not certain, but that cart loaded with a great chunk of iron riddled with holes like a honeycomb.
If my instincts are right, that was definitely some kind of siege weapon. Probably the core of their defenses!”
“How the hell should I know, you bastard.”
At first Ibn al-Nasir had laughed good-naturedly and indulged the country bumpkin’s antics, but midway through he had had enough.
Yet Michelangelo’s eccentricities only grew worse after they reached Sichuan; there was no sign of improvement.
“I say, Nasir—this city called Cheng-du? Why does it have so many fountains? And unless my eyes deceive me, the whole city is laid out as neat and square as a chessboard.”
“It was deliberately ordered that way. Those fountains serve as public drinking sources and as the markers that divide the city districts.”
“The streets are clean! No filth anywhere!”
“All human waste is carried away through the sewers. Dumping refuse in the street is a crime that will cost you a fine, so take care.”
“Stone-paved roads and fountains, aqueducts and public baths… Am I standing in Rome at the height of its glory, or in the Gyeong Empire?”
“Oh, don’t worry, artist. At least the ruler of this place is no Caesar.”
“Of course he isn’t, damn it! Even Rome was never like this! Those fellows walking about with iron boxes on their backs—soldiers?”
“Couriers. You sit by one of those fountains, tell them what food you want, when you want it, and where to deliver it, pay them, and go home. At the appointed time the men with the iron boxes bring the meal.
Or they come around first to ask whether anyone wants to place an order.
Hang a red flag outside your door and it means ‘come take my food order’; hang a white flag and it means ‘come collect the empty dishes.’”
“…Wait. You’re saying I can stay inside my workshop and have meals delivered?”
“Exactly. In fact the craftsmen here are famous for rarely leaving their workshops.”
“Is this place heaven?”
“The designer of all of it is your new employer—Huiyan Tang.”
“Quickly, let’s go meet him at once!”
“Yes, yes.”
Michelangelo’s high tension had never dropped since they left Florence; Ibn al-Nasir could no longer keep up. He was thoroughly sick of it. All he wanted was to hand this noisy, troublesome companion over to Hui-yeom, collect the enormous reward, and part ways as fast as possible.
His wish was not granted.
“…What did you say?”
When they visited the Sichuan Dang Family and requested an audience with Hui-yeom, the person who appeared in his stead was Sama Yun. She smiled brightly and spoke.
“He has gone. To Guizhou. He will return. In about a fortnight. If you need lodging, I will give you a guest room.”
Aside from Hui-yeom himself, no one else spoke both Arabic and Italian. Sama Yun, however, had been studying in the spare moments of her work schedule and could manage a little communication.
“This is… it seems he is away at present.”
“What? Why can’t we understand each other? Then how does he plan to order me around?”
Seeing Michelangelo’s dissatisfied expression, Sama Yun smiled sweetly and whispered something to the secretary at her side. The secretary immediately hurried off, and a short while later a craftsman entered, grumbling.
“Honestly, I’m buried in work—why call me now… Hm? Who’re you?”
He was the head of the glass workshop: Niccolo.
Using the Italian-speaking craftsman as interpreter, Sama Yun was able to converse with Michelangelo and Ibn al-Nasir.
In the end, learning that Hui-yeom was away on business in Guizhou Province, they decided to wait for his return.
And so Sama Yun sent a messenger hawk to inform Hui-yeom of the visitors and to ask whether he could not come back a little sooner.
Having returned earlier than planned, Hui-yeom summoned Ibn al-Nasir and Michelangelo to the Young Lord’s office.
“We meet sooner than I expected. Master, it is an honor. I am Hui-yeom, Young Lord of the Sichuan Dang Family.”
When Hui-yeom spoke fluent Italian, Michelangelo tilted his head.
“Which regional dialect is that? Similar to Tuscan Italian, yet a little different.”
“Ah, I learned it from books. By the way—did the gift I sent please you?”
“Did it please me?”
Michelangelo’s eyes blazed.
“I have not one or two questions for you. Even staying up all night discussing that building would not be enough.”
“I see.”
“But first I must ask this. Why me?”
“That is…”
After a moment’s thought Hui-yeom gave an answer that would satisfy Michelangelo.
“Because I am certain you are a genius who will surpass Leonardo da Vinci.”
“……”
Michelangelo stared hard at Hui-yeom, then spoke.
“I will not ask how you know of me and old Leo. Instead I will ask this: what do you want from me?”
“Before that, there is something I wish to ask you as well. You call yourself not a painter but an architect and sculptor—and before either of those, an artist.”
“And?”
“The things I want you to create may not be ‘artistic objects.’”
“……”
Michelangelo’s thick eyebrows twitched, yet instead of picking a quarrel he remained silent.
Hui-yeom continued.
“But I guarantee you this: every one of those objects will be inventions meant to make the lives of mankind—our human lives—more convenient and of higher quality.
Master Michelangelo Buonarroti,
are you willing to accept commissions that are not works of art?”
At Hui-yeom’s question Michelangelo fell silent for a moment, then asked gravely,
“And if I refuse?”
“I promised you, when I invited you here, that I would never suppress your creative will. That promise will be kept.”
Hui-yeom shrugged.
“Frankly, even if a genius like you simply stayed here and spent the rest of your life doing nothing but the art you desire, I would lose nothing.
Later generations would praise me as ‘the patron of a great artist.’”
“Hahahahaha!!”
Michelangelo suddenly burst into loud laughter.
“I have a foul temper. I’m a contrarian. If someone forces me to do something, I get a disease that makes me refuse even if it kills me.”
“I see.”
“But when someone who acknowledges me does not force my will and instead ‘requests’ something, I’m not so lacking in sense that I’d refuse.
All right. Even if it isn’t an artistic object—if it’s something that will help human life—I’ll make it with all my might.”
Michelangelo thrust out a rough hand; Hui-yeom clasped it. The two men shook hands firmly while Ibn al-Nasir looked on with satisfaction. Then Michelangelo asked,
“So. What do I start with?”
Hui-yeom answered,
“Dam.”
“Damn? Did you just curse me in English?”
“Ah, my mistake. Not that word. In Italian it is ‘la diga.’”
“Ah. A diga—a dam.”
Michelangelo frowned.
“That’s work for stonemasons. I’d rather build something grander and larger-scale—something like the cathedral model you sent me.”
“Ahaha, no need to worry, Michelangelo.”
Hui-yeom grinned.
“The diga you will build will be as magnificent as the triple walls of Constantinople.”
“?”
What on earth did that mean?