Serpent of Moses

19



“Why else would he need a book that describes the construction of the cathedral?” Espy asked.

She’d hardly touched her breakfast. Seeing Romero close to finishing his plate, she caught him eyeing her own.

“Why indeed?” he asked, earning a glare from his sister.

“My guess is that Jack didn’t have whatever it was he was going to sell to Sturdivant,” Espy said. “I’m also betting that the book he borrowed had something in it that he was hoping would lead him to whatever he was looking for.”

As she spoke, she watched Romero work on his sausage. She waited for his response. Romero seemed to be taking his time, chewed thoughtfully. After swallowing the last of the meat, he used his fork to gesture at her plate.

“Are you going to eat that?” he asked.

Despite knowing her longer than anyone alive, Romero consistently demonstrated an inability to anticipate when something he might say would push her buttons to the point that she would lash out. She felt one such eruption bubbling beneath the surface, but she headed it off by taking a deep breath. Even so, she would not give him the satisfaction of consuming even a morsel of her breakfast.

“Yes,” she said matter-of-factly.

Romero nodded. “Anyway, I think it is obvious that Jack was hoping to use the book in order to uncover a clue to something,” he said, his deep baritone projecting a calm over the table, as if realizing what he’d almost loosed. “I also think it is unlikely that we will be able to uncover what he was looking for unless we receive help from another source.”

“You almost sound as if you think the book is a dead end.”

“On the contrary,” Romero said. “The book narrows our search down to one cathedral in a very large city. The problem is that the one cathedral is an exceptionally large structure, and without an additional clue, we might as well be canvassing all of Milan.”

Esperanza considered that as she picked up her fork and poked around her plate, coming back with a small bite of crepe.

“You’re right,” she agreed as she chewed. “We have a very large cathedral. But that’s not all we have.” At Romero’s questioning look she continued, “Whatever was in that cathedral led Jack to Libya. All we have to do is figure out the connection, and with each piece of information we get, we take another step toward finding Jack.”

“So what do you suggest we do next?”

“The first thing we need to do is check in with Duckey. For all we know, he’s found something that could help us on our end.”

“In which case he would have called us,” Romero said.

“Maybe,” Espy said. “But it’s not going to do us any harm to check in. After that . . . ?” She shrugged. “I think we need to find someone around here who can help us dig up any sort of connection between Milan Cathedral and Libya.”

Romero nodded, taking on a thoughtful look. “There is a man I used to do business with years ago. He lived in Vigevano, about thirty miles southwest of Milan. His name is Carelli. Filippo Carelli. He knew a great deal about the history of the region. I had him appraise a few Lombard pieces.”

“Did Jack know him?” Espy asked.

Romero frowned. “I don’t believe so. I didn’t meet him until I was already well established in my store. And I’ve never met him in person.”

“So we’re going to drive thirty miles on the off chance a man you’ve never met may know something about a connection between Milan Cathedral and Libya?”

“It is worth a try, yes.” Romero paused and added, “If he still lives in Vigevano. And if I’m remembering his name correctly.” He gave his sister a smile and a wink.

“Well, at least it’s something,” she said.



The deep-green rolling hills through which they drove paid gradual deference to the revelation of the ancient city, which Espy watched come into view as they crested a hill in the Porsche Romero had insisted on renting for the day, despite her objections. She’d acquiesced only when she won the concession that she would handle the outbound drive.

Not long after entering the city proper, Romero pointed and she pulled off the SS494 and onto Via Podgora, on their way to Corso Argentina. Espy suspected that was the simplest portion of the directions her brother had jotted down and that once they began to head south on Corso Argentina, it was anyone’s guess if they would arrive where they were supposed to.

However, less than ten minutes later, she had, under his direction, guided the sleek sports car through a series of turns on streets with no signs, around a few sharp curves that seemed built for the Porsche, and onto a narrow street lined with small homes that had shared walls and courtyards hidden behind tall metal gates.

She found a spot to park a few houses down from the one they wanted. Soon they were walking up the sidewalk to meet Filippo Bramante—a name Romero had finally remembered after they had spent more than an hour searching for a Carelli in the phone directory. Romero had explained that Carelli was the name of an art dealer in Madrid with whom he was acquainted. Bramante answered on the second knock.

He was a short man and older than Espy was anticipating, somewhere in his early seventies. But despite his age, she could tell right away that he carried himself like a much younger man. He greeted the visitors with a warm smile.

“It’s a pleasure to finally meet you,” he said to Romero. Then he turned to Espy. “And you must be Dr. Esperanza Habilla. Your brother’s told me a great deal about you.” Eyes dancing, he reached for Espy’s hand. Acquiescing to the culture—and because she immediately liked the man—she leaned down so that he could greet her with a kiss on her cheek.

Stepping away from the door, he ushered them into his home, the trio passing through a short hallway and into a living room that looked larger than the size of the home would have allowed. The size of the house, though, held less interest for Espy than the fact that it was decorated in a fashion she recognized as opulent. She looked toward her brother, who was better suited to appreciate a number of items he might have sold from his own shop if given the opportunity.

Bramante saw them taking in the room and its many objects. “Appraising items for others often gives me first choice of a number of exceptional pieces,” he explained. Saying it seemed to stir a memory, because his eyes narrowed and he turned to scan a portion of the room until he found what he was looking for. “Do you see that Incan death mask on the shelf?” he asked, pointing.

To Espy, the piece looked much like the other masks she’d seen in Romero’s store. She saw her brother walk past their host, crossing to the shelf to get a better look.

“I sent this to you so that you could appraise it,” Romero said, turning to face the Italian.

“And I did,” Bramante said. “Fairly. Once I’d shipped it back to you, I had a friend in London purchase it and then she sent it on to me.” Telling them this little story seemed to tickle the old appraiser, and although what the man had done was unethical, Espy felt a smile ready to show itself. “So tell me,” he said. “What brings you to Vigevano?”

He gestured for them to sit and began to sit as well, but then jumped up again. “Where are my manners? Can I get you some tea?” He was starting off toward the kitchen when she and Romero called him back, declining the tea.

“We’re here because we need your expertise,” Esperanza said. She went on to explain the riddle they were hoping Bramante could help them solve.

The Italian didn’t interrupt as she laid out what was needed. Even after she’d stopped speaking, Bramante continued to ponder what had been shared, his eyes on the marble tile that ran through the house.

After what seemed a long time, the old man said to his guests, “You must understand, I’m no expert. Most of my work involves setting values on the usual sort of thing—things procured from places that people have studied extensively. I can give you the auction estimate or insurance replacement value. But this . . . ?” He shook his head and released a small laugh. “I don’t know,” he finished.

Esperanza leaned forward, close enough that she could have placed her hand on Bramante’s knee. And judging by the Italian’s reaction, that was precisely what he thought she would do. Instead, she gave the man one of those smiles that had failed on Sturdivant.

“My brother told me that you know more about Italian history—especially northern Italian history—than just about anyone alive,” she said, smiling. “And my brother wouldn’t lie to me.”

Espy’s vote of confidence seemed to breathe new life into the older man. He sat up straighter; then a few seconds later he nodded.

“I’m not saying I can’t help you,” he said. “It’s just that these days I don’t spend enough time in the history books for something to immediately come to mind.”

Espy remained undaunted, her warm smile assuring Bramante that he knew something of great value to them, whether he recognized it or not. And under that kind but demanding gaze, the Italian appeared ready to move heaven and earth.

“Milan Cathedral . . .” he mused. “While the cathedral itself is dated to 1386, there has been related construction on the site since the early fifth century, when the Lombards were at their most powerful.”

“From what I understand, it took almost six hundred years to finish,” Espy said.

“Right,” Bramante said. “And during that time, Milan came under a number of influences, which you can see immortalized in the cathedral. It’s a remarkable mixture of styles, although a good portion of it was constructed under a Gothic aesthetic.”

Espy considered the six hundred years during which the Milan Cathedral had come into being, attempting to process the logistics involved in completing such a monumental task. Over six centuries, she thought it improbable that succeeding architects held fast to the same vision. How many generations took their turns toiling to build the magnificent edifice, the largest church in Italy? She suspected laborers had traveled to and from Milan continuously. And with that traffic Espy hoped that a north African connection might not be difficult to find. Rather, pinpointing the right one would be the real challenge.

“Were all of the architects Italian?” Romero asked, on the same track as Esperanza.

“Not at all,” Bramante answered. “The cathedral’s Gothic beginnings were due to French influence, but at different times the project was headed by Italians, Englishmen, a German, and a Greek. And I’m certain I’m missing a few.” He chuckled, adding, “But the national influences were by no means pure. It is said that even when the French architects were laying out the plans, Chaucer was busy sketching a design for the nave, and there are some who believe that at least part of his plan was adopted.”

“Do you know of any northern Africans who were involved?”

Bramante, lips pursed, disappeared back into thought. When he emerged just moments later, he said, “To the best of my knowledge, none of the architects assigned to the project had a connection to northern Africa. I could be wrong of course, but I do not believe I am. Also . . .”

Espy nodded. “Also what . . . ?” she pressed.

“Also, the men who did the majority of the work would have come from the regions immediately surrounding Milan. There were undoubtedly some who came from longer distances, but during the period the cathedral was constructed, a number of similar projects were taking place all over Europe. One would not have had to travel far to find work at a building site. And even if laborers from northern Africa had made it this far north, these would have been people intent on trying to support their families, not building riddles into cathedrals.”

“Anything else come to mind that might help us?” Espy asked.

“Perhaps,” Bramante said. “It was my mention of Chaucer that makes me think of it. In a project of this size, one has to consider who has the potential to do something such as you’re suggesting. Because what you’ve laid out involves someone deeply involved in the construction and with the resources necessary to carry it out. Means and opportunity, as it were.”

Espy pondered that for a moment. “I think you’re onto something there. Since we’re using that language, we also need to consider motive.”

“Absolutely, Unfortunately, that’s the variable most difficult to qualify. But even without knowing a motive, we can still narrow down our suspect list.”

“A list that will include anyone assigned to oversee a small portion of the cathedral,” Romero said. “Small enough that ensuring all but a few people remained unaware of his deviation from the approved plan—and that it would stay undetected.”

“An artisan,” Bramante said. “Of which there were many who worked on the cathedral, although I think we are safe in restricting our sample to those who worked on the project prior to 1510. After that, much of the work involved finishing and cosmetic touches.”

Esperanza leaned back in her chair and released a sigh. “That still gives us more than a hundred years to sift through.”

“A task that might be easier than you think,” Bramante said.

Without waiting for a reply, he rose and left the room, returning less than a minute later carrying an enormous leather-bound book. Sitting, he placed the book on his lap and opened it to the index.

“I maintain a variety of resources that help me with challenging appraisals,” he said as he scanned the index. “This monstrosity of a book is the most exhaustive I’ve ever found that lists artists dating all the way back to the seventh century, as well as biographies, notable works, and, important in this case, countries of origin.”

He opened the book somewhere in the middle and began flipping through the pages. Espy and Romero remained silent as he landed on a page and began reading it. He flipped one more page and then, with a satisfied smile, beckoned his guests to step over to his chair and take a look for themselves.

“There have been a number of artists of varying types who came from the area we now call Libya,” he said. “You have to remember that at one time northern Africa was home to a number of Greek colonies, and much of what they brought with them in terms of sculpture, painting, and construction techniques remained long after the colonies disappeared.”

As Espy looked over the Italian’s shoulder, she saw a list of perhaps thirty names, a quick scan telling her that she was not familiar with all of them. However, she suspected that by reviewing the birth and death data next to each, they could begin to narrow the list down a bit.

“Our first step is to find out which of these would have been alive during the time period we identified,” Bramante said. “Then, if we’re lucky, there will be some mention of one of them having paid Milan a visit.”

Esperanza understood that it was a big if. She also understood that if they failed to find a name on the list that could be tied to the cathedral, they would be back to square one. She felt herself sinking into a darker mood and it took her a few minutes to identify the cause. When she and Romero had decided to drive to Vigevano, she’d been hoping that Bramante would provide them with some magical piece of information that would tie things together for them. She’d forgotten the hard work necessary to make the connections.

With that in mind, she shrugged off her disappointment and joined Bramante and Romero in poring over the list.