The Botticelli Secret

39
I knew then that he would come, and I knew how. I ate my frugal dinner when it arrived on a trencher of hard bread; there were to be no more feasts for me, it seemed. I cared not. I did not wait to hear the watch change—I knew Brother Guido would be one of my door guards, and knew that he would have contrived to have been given one of the night watches. Darkness fell over Milan; I lay down on my straw and actually slept.
A knock woke me and I was up and into his arms holding tight to his wiry body for a second before he pushed me away in haste, as he had done in Venice. I did not care—I had him back.
“Have you a candle?”
A fine hello—but I struck the tinderbox and lit the rush dip by my pallet.
“I have left my torch in the bracket outside. I thought that if the tower were dark, they would know I had left my watch.” Even before the flame flared and lit his face I knew I would see a different man. His appearance in my room earlier, the thinness of his body when I briefly held him, told its own story. I looked carefully at him, joyfully, sadly. For he had suffered a trial. His face was thinner, older, with hollows under the eyes and in the cheeks. Soldier’s stubble sanded his cheeks. There were flecks of silver there and in the hair too, which was cropped short in the military style. His hands, always long and elegant, were almost skeletal. Only the eyes were unchanged—sadder perhaps, wary certainly, but still the startling blue of the enameled roundels in Santa Croce. Still, I need not worry that my mother would know him again, for I scarcely did myself. I swallowed. “Did they hurt you?” There was no need to explain who I meant.
“A little. They asked about the cartone, for days and weeks—always I gave the same answer. I knew it would be futile to deny that we had it—I said it had been lost at sea, when the Muda was wrecked, and in the end they had to believe me, for I would not change the tale. They did not dare to damage me much, for they needed to keep me alive; for the moment.” He did not explain further. “I was starved, though, and kept with no light and little water. I was awaiting trial, for months, many months.”
“So long!”
His lips twisted without mirth. “Things change quickly in Tuscan politics. Alliances shift. The worm at the bottom of the dungheap can next day be king of the castle. My guess is that Lorenzo kept me alive to be some kind of bargaining tool with my cousin. To threaten Niccolò with deposition—to keep another heir alive so he would be an obedient member of the Seven and follow in Lord Silvio’s footsteps to bring Pisa to the alliance. They took my uncle’s ring.” He held out his left thumb, bare except for a white band where the skin had escaped the sun’s stain. “I imagine Niccolò now wears it obediently upon his hand.”
I considered. I thought that Brother Guido had neared the truth, but I knew there to be another twist in the tale. Lord Niccolò had had to be coerced into accepting me back as his betrothed—after all, an ex-harlot who had been racketing around the peninsula with his cousin was no great wifely prospect, be she never so fair. But as the dogaressa’s daughter I was a vital link in the Seven’s chain of power. And while I was being feted around Venice and taught how to be a proper wife, Brother Guido was living on fetid water and darkness.
“Were you alone? In the prison, I mean?”
“Not at first. I was in the general cell with all manner of unsavory characters—the Bargello’s finest. Oh, it was not so bad, not unlike the monastery, for the church, too, is full of thieves and pederasts and criminals, so I was right at home. The only difference is that these varlets were honest men, honest in their criminality; they do not deal in dissemblance and hypocrisy. They do not pretend to be devout while they break every commandment in the calendar.”
I realized that prison had not robbed Brother Guido of his words, for the length of his sentences seemed to match the length of his sentence. Nor had it, seemingly, given him back his God. I had thought that in a time of such trial he would once again turn to the Lord, but he seemed to hold the church in as much contempt as ever. “How can you condemn your foundation? For there is one there who has been a friend to you, and to me too, for he wrote to tell me of your fate.”
“Aye. Brother Nicodemus. Yes, yes, I must absolve the good herbalist. He has been a better friend to me than you know. And a worse one. For he gave me my freedom and made me a murderer.” He fixed me with tortured eyes.
“What do you mean?”
“When you were choosing your gown at Santa Croce, in the herbarium . . .” I remembered, but it seemed years ago.
“Brother Nicodemus took an herb from his bunches and folded it in my hand. It was belladonna. In case something should go awry.”
I knew the plant. Everyone did. A deadly poison indeed. I shivered. “You never told me!”
“Of course not. I placed it in my shoe, and the guards never looked there.” He rubbed the back of his neck in his accustomed gesture. “Every day I took it out and looked at it. Every day I said, if I can but live through this day, I will take it tomorrow. And then the next day I said the same. I deferred my suicide for near on six months.”
My flesh chilled. I had thought many times that he might die, but never by his own hand. I realized with a shock how far he had strayed from his God. “How did you live?” I whispered.
“I thought about the Primavera. I remembered every detail that I could. I could see it in my mind’s eye. Every day I escaped my surroundings into that grove, walked around the figures, conversed with them about Dante or Boccaccio. I could remember every detail that we had discussed, interrogate every leaf and flower, every stroke of the brush. But some of the figures were mere shadows, the ones we had not yet examined, and some details were blurred or misty, insubstantial, flitting from my eye like fishes, the net of my memory not swift enough to claim them. But others”—he paused—“such as yourself were clear as day.”
My heart flamed; I knew not what to say. “And they tried you, in the end?”
“No.” He seemed relieved by the change of subject. “I was told by a guard I had befriended that something had changed, that Lorenzo had to move fast and needed me dead. I was to be executed the next day without trial. Summary justice,” he said, his lips curving with irony.
I remembered my mother using the same words in Venice, and I knew her handprint was upon this. Niccolò della Torre had no doubt signed the marriage contracts, for I remembered he had visited my father. He had made any undertakings that the Seven had demanded, and once they were assured of Pisa’s connivance, Brother Guido was as good as dead. My blood froze, at how close I had come to losing him.
“I was given a last request. I asked for a Chianti of the Pisan region, and two cups, that my friend might share it with me through the bars. Even as I poured I questioned whether I should put the belladonna in his cup or my own. I had not forgot, you see, that I was once a man of God.”
“And God spoke to you?” I breathed.
“Not he. He has been quiet in my ear since Rome. Even in my cell he did not visit. I spent time with the old gods of the Primavera.”
“Then who?”
“I spoke to myself. I decided one man’s life had to be weighed in the scales with the nameless evils that the Seven have planned. I put the belladonna in his cup, and he died instantly.” Brother Guido looked at his hands, as if he expected to find blood on them. “He had a wife and children. He spoke of them often.”
As did Bonaccorso Nivola. So Brother Guido was guilty, had taken a life. I knew now that this, not his ordeal, was what had aged his countenance and darkened his eyes. I wondered if, guilty thing that I was, I wore the same expression, wondered if I could ever tell him what I had done to an innocent sailor in his name.
“Then?”
“It took me three hours to wrest the keys from beneath his body—I lived in fear for every moment as the sky lightened that the watch would change and I would be taken to my death. But before dawn I was free and made it back to Santa Croce just as they were beginning their day. Malachi let me in. I went straight to the herbarium, and Brother Nicodemus hid me for some weeks. He said he’d been in contact with you—I commend you, incidentally, for your newfound abilities as a scribe.” He smiled properly this time, once again the old Brother Guido for whom reading and letters were everything. I blushed—not something I’m in a habit of doing—but was helpless in the face of a compliment from the only man whose opinion has ever meant anything to me.
“I then knew of your whereabouts. Brother Nicodemus took me out of the city as one of his assistants on a medical mission to the city of Mantua. There I joined a train of Franciscans who were heading to Trento for a colloquy. I peeled off at the foot of the mountains—the good brothers lent me the mule I rode. I found a boat at Mestre and came to the city of Venice. Once there I stayed on the island of Giudecca with a company of Jesuits who were building a foundation there. In exchange for my labor I was able to board with them, and upon my rest days I was able to follow you.”
My flesh heated. “You saw me?”
“Many times. Always going about with your mother, never alone. I guessed that Carnevale was to be my best opportunity to make contact, in the confusion and lawlessness of the festivities.”
In that, his thoughts and my own had marched as one. My flesh now chilled to think that I had planned to take advantage of the Carnevale to escape—on the eve of the very day he had planned to come for me! Oh, Bonaccorso, your sacrifice was in vain! I was unable to speak, and my friend continued unchecked.
“I saw you that day in the Piazza San Marco. The storm came and I followed you into the basilica. When I saw you examining the horses I knew you must have found something. I remembered what the Seven spoke of in Rome—that Flora held the secret and that a map was mentioned many times. I thought you must have found the map of which they spoke, but I had time to do no more than tell you to keep it safe and that I would meet you in Milan. For by then, through all my days of musing in prison, I knew that the Botticelli figure represented Milan (the clues to which I will explain in good time), but I could not divine the meaning of the Zephyrus figure. I take it, then, that you had similar epiphanies in Venice?”
It was my turn. I told him of my time in Venice, of my mother’s story, of my own tale of the baby in the bottle. I told him of my father, of Signor Cristoforo, of my Venetian education and all I had learned there. The one detail I did not share was the episode of my escape and the fate of Bonaccorso Nivola—I did not feel ready to share that hideous truth. I did, however, recount with pride the meaning of the thirty-two roses indicating the compass rose, and the wind rose which led me to the Zephyrus horse.
He smote himself a couple of times on the forehead, when all was revealed, exclaiming, “Of course!” and he even smiled again. “All satisfactorily maritime solutions, appropriate for the city of Venice. I was following the wrong course, in prison and at the herbarium too; I was looking only at the Venice figure, the figure of Chloris—your . . . mother. I did not recognize then that the other figures would hold clues to the following cities—for all the Naples clues were contained in the figure of Fiammetta, if you recall, and all the Roman clues in the figure of Semiramide, Venus. It did not occur to me that the clues held in the figure of Flora would read in Venice.”
“Botticelli is getting cleverer as we get closer.” My statement made no sense, but he took my meaning.
“Yes. Myself and Brother Nicodemus were attempting to recall the flowers that issued from Chloris’s mouth—without the cartone before us it was no mean feat.”
“I had a look at them too,” said I, and took out the cartone and unrolled it, weighted the corners, joyful as we leaned over the painting as we always used to do, as I thought we’d never do again. Our heads were almost touching. I pointed to the blooms dropping from Chloris’s mouth as I spoke. “Fiordaliso, anenome, occhiocento, and rose, but I did not know the Latin names, just the Tuscan common ones, and could not make any words or meanings from them.”
“Ah, then we were right. The good brother and I guessed at rose—Rosa centifolia—cornflower, or fiordaliso, as you say, which is Centaurea cyanus in Latin, and anemone, which is Anemone nemorosa. And occhiocento, also known as centocchio, or periwinkle, which is vinca or Vinca minor in Latin.”
“Madonna. That’s an even worse collection of letters. R-CC-C-A-N-V. Or V-M.” I showed off my new skill.
“Or perhaps the true divination of the meaning is as simple as this—that there were four classifications of flowers and that there are four winds. ‘Twas perhaps another signpost to guide you to the wind rose and the four wind horses that crown the basilica of Venice.”
I wasn’t sure—it all seemed a bit simple for Botticelli, who had proved himself to be clever as the Devil.
But Brother Guido wasn’t finished.
“Brother Nicodemus did add, moreover, that occhiocento is known colloquially as the ‘flower of death.’ It might be interpreted, therefore, that Chloris may have an evil intent, and her enterprise might end in one death, or many.”
I shivered, remembering, once again, the unfortunate Bonaccorso Nivola. It would certainly not surprise me if my mother came out of this with more blood on her hands, the evil bitch.
“Maybe the meaning will become clear later, like with the compass thing.”
“Indeed. But even without decoding these flowers, we are now two cities past Venice. And even without reading the flowers, we now have the map!” he finished in triumph. “Let’s see it, for we do not have long.”
“Yesss,” I said slowly. “I don’t want to piss in your polenta, but this wooden roll isn’t what you think. You keep saying a map. But it isn’t a map, at least not like any I’ve ever seen. And in Venice, I saw quite a few, believe me, studied them too.” Thanks to Signor Cristoforo.
“Nonsense,” he said swiftly. “Let me see the thing.”
I shrugged “All right.” I pulled out the wooden roll and laid it in his hand. He examined the strange marks and squiggles all the way round the thing, frowned, then his face cleared. “Oh, but of course. It must be hollow. Documents are often carried in such things.”
As if that wouldn’t have occurred to me. I felt the old familiar irritation rising, and felt almost comforted to know that the traits that annoyed me about my friend were as alive and well as he was. He looked closely at the ends and I said naught—let him find out for himself.
“Hmm. No. Not hollow.” I was smug and silent. As if there could be anything about that roll that I didn’t know, after I’d carried it around like a third arm for twice sennights.
“Yes—just a marking—here.”
“Where!”
“Look.”
Now I had to give him credit, for I’d not noticed a tiny marking on one of the flat ends—a little squiggle carved into the wood. “It looks like a snake.”
“Or an S.”
“S for what?”
“Seven? Sforza?”
“Sigismund?” I added.
“Who?”
Now the pupil became the schoolmaster as I explained about my trip to Bolzano, and Sigismund, white-haired king of the Alps who had such an odd love-hate relationship with my mother, a mountain full of silver, and a ring on his thumb.
“Of course. I suspected we should look to the mountains for the figure of Zephyrus, but I must admit I had in my mind the city of Trento, which has enormous political significance for the peninsula, as the location for many religious councils. I thought, as you did, that the blue color was suggestive of cold, and the height may denote great altitude.” That’s not exactly how I’d have put it, but I graciously accepted the compliment. “Well done. And you learned of the archduke’s part in all this?”
I explained about the conversation I’d overheard and my midnight trip to the mine. He did not comment on my ill-thought-out adventure but went straight to the meat of the matter.
“Well, that’s all clear enough. The Seven are clearly minting their own currency, using the template of the English angel coin, which is gold, but making a version of silver. Silver being the metal that is most plentiful in Sigismund’s region and all the Hapsburg lands. That must be why Zephyrus has silver wings; he is a silver angel.”
I let him take credit for something I’d already divined, for he was in full flood as he explained all that I had heard on my mountain sojourn.
“The Zecca is the famous Venetian mint, as you now know—your home city, among its many superiorities, happens to boast the best money strikers in the world. Münzreiche, the arch-duke’s nickname, means ‘rich in coin,’ and a seam is a natural store of silver in the earth—it sounds like you entered one of the mine shafts yourself.”
“I did, and I also found a coin that they had struck.” I could not help but sound a note of pride.
“Show me.”
I reached into one sleeve, then the other. But the coin was gone. “F*ck!” I exclaimed, then looked at him through my lashes, waiting for the usual censure, which this time didn’t come. I expect he was used to worse in the ranks of il Moro’s army. “It was here. Shitting f*cking mother of Christ and all the saints. I must’ve dropped it.” I was genuinely furious with myself—not only was it an important piece in our puzzle, but I’d retained my whore’s care of the coin and was looking forward to spending the thing when this was all over.
“Do not distress yourself. Can you remember what it was like? The design?”
“Yes. It had a profile portrait of Lorenzo il Magnifico, with his laurels in a sunburst, just like the symbol of Sol Invictus.”
He nodded. “So far so consistent. And on the other?”
“One word. It . . . I—” My mind was a blank.
“Well?” he barked.
“Don’t yell at me, you’re making it harder to remember,” I whined. But it was no good. The word, read once and lost in the sound of the carriage wheels as I drifted into sleep, was gone.
Brother Guido leaped to his feet and paced the room, eyes blazing. Angry, but not at me. “Evil, pernicious alliance! What must they be plotting? Could the Seven be planning to march into the mountains, north and east to the direction of Zephyrus, to overrun the Hapsburg lands? Perhaps they plot to overthrow the emperor, overrun the Holy Roman Empire, build an empire of their own?”
It sounded likely but for one thing. “But the emperor is in on it. Don’t you remember? When I overheard Sigismund and my mother talking in the great hall, Sigismund said his cousin the emperor had given my mother safe passage in the mountains and guaranteed protection from attack from the Hapsburg lands. And another thing too—when the coin was struck in the mine that night, Sigismund took it to give to the emperor. So the emperor clearly knows all about the Seven and has given his blessing. So that dog won’t bite.”
“You speak truly. But certain it is that there is war coming to someone’s door. For let me continue my own tale—I traveled with a Milanese merchant back to Milan as his chaplain, and left him at the city gate. There I saw a bill calling on all the youth of the city to enlist at the Castello Sforzesco for a new model army. I came to the gates to join up and was asked no questions, even though I was wearing the robes of a Franciscan novice. I was given this ocher cloak and sword, and this helmet with a pointed visor.” He flourished his arms and armor. “I was asked no questions of birth or experience, given pass for all that I wear the prisoner’s brand of the Bargello. See.” He held out the inside of his wrist, stamped with an ornamental B, the flesh healed but angry. “And I am not alone. Branded men, lunatics, men of the cloth, all have lined up to fight for il Moro and God knows what. They take the pay of a paghe vive soldier gladly, and every hour from that day to this we have been training to fight hard and dirty. I have been here a month and Ludovico has honed us all from a ragbag of villains to an efficient fighting infantry, ready to fight whatever war the Seven have planned.” He took my arm, hard, hurting. “And by God, or Venus, or whoever rules this earth, we’re going to stop them. Come. Let’s use the time that we have and interrogate the figure of Milan until we can divine what their purpose is.”