The Botticelli Secret

45
We sat, four not two this time, all seated on faldstools around the Primavera, rolled out on the printing table. For it was time to share the most incredible aspect of the puzzle with them—that the strategy of the Seven was hidden in a painting. The brothers leaned in as we had been used to do for these many months, and scanned the cartone with their mapmaker’s eyes, plucking fresh details from the design like cormorants plucking fish from the brine.
“So all these are cities, these figures and deities.” Signor Cristoforo’s voice was full of wonder.
“Yes,” confirmed Brother Guido, pointing to each in turn. “Pisa, Naples, Rome, Florence, Venice, Bolzano, and Milan. We have been to every city, either by accident or design, in the last twelvemonth. And every duke, king, archduke, and the prince of the church himself we know to be determinedly guilty.”
“And this is clearly Genoa,” put in Signor Bartolomeo, “for it is our own Simonetta, God rest her soul.”
“Yes.”
“Are we saying, then, that the Seven are planning to attack the eighth figure, Genoa? That Genoa is not in the Seven, but their victim and target? That your doge is not in league with the rest?”
“I can more readily believe that than believe that the doge would join Pisa and Venice in anything. Begging your pardon, lord and lady, he would rather have his wife couple with a cur than join in any enterprise with his sworn rivals and enemies,” asserted Signor Cristoforo.
I remembered then what Brother Guido had told me as we entered the gates, why he addressed the guards in a Milanese accent, anxious that we should not reveal his Pisan tones, nor my Venetian origins, to anyone.
“But, why?” I asked. “Why Genoa?”
“The answer lies in what my brother just said,” answered Signor Bartolomeo. “Genoa must have refused any part in Loren-zo’s plan for unification, for what could it avail them? If the Hapsburgs have a trading treaty with Venice, Genoa—on the eastern seaboard—would dwindle from being la Superba (‘the Proud’ as we call her) to a mere outpost; descend from being a maritime state with full independence, to a fishing village.”
“And if Genoa would not ally with the Seven,” his brother said, taking up the argument, “then the union would not be safe. For Genoa is the back door to France, Portugal, Spain, and England too. These great nations would frown upon the peninsula joining together, for such a state would be an immensely strong force set right in the middle of Europe. We would have a stranglehold upon all trading routes through the Mare Mediterraneo, and the Mare Atlantico too.”
I was getting a little lost. Brother Guido joined in to clarify the discussion but, as usual, muddied it with words as long as baitworms. “You see, internecine wars and civil strife keep ‘Italia’ at peace with the rest of the world.” He collected my look. “We are too busy fighting each other to fight anyone else.”
“Ohhhh.” I nodded.
“The Italian wars, and centuries of struggle between the Guelphs and Ghibellines, kept the rest of Europe safe from greedy eyes,” added Signor Cristoforo.
“While at the same time our many states were open to treaties with other powers, in order to strengthen their relative positions on the peninsula—Genoa with France, Milan with the Bourbons, Venice with the Hapsburgs, the Papal States with England,” continued his brother, his ugly face lively with intelligence. “But a unified Italy could be an unstoppable force. Wealthy, with soldiers who had cut their teeth on years of warfare, and with four great navies—Venice, Naples, Pisa, and, greatest of all, Genoa.”
“I very much wonder, if we have battled each other for so long, that there is anything left to unite,” said I.
“More, much more than the sum of its parts,” Brother Guido assured me. “For our states have not just developed their military capabilities, they have made huge cultural leaps too. Men like Poliziano, who wrote of the Primavera, and Botticelli, who painted it, are the sons born of such competition. Each state needs a glorious court to outdo her neighbors. And to military and cultural brilliance, add the power of God himself,” continued Brother Guido grimly, “for His Holiness the Pope is the head of the Catholic Church.” He spoke of the office with contempt. “They could rule the world.”
“As they did once before,” I breathed, recalling Don Ferrente’s hymn to the glory of the Roman empire.
Brother Guido nodded. “The pope is a crucial figure in the conspiracy. He legitimizes the scheme in the eyes of the world, and, for his connivance, I think Lorenzo has promised that Rome will be the capital of the new nation. For see how Venus stands at the center of the scene, the highest figure save Cupid.”
“And,” I added, “she is dressed as a queen and holding her hand high in greeting.”
“And Lorenzo de’ Medici is at the root of all. The needle in the compass!” reflected Signor Cristoforo in a voice of wonder.
I thought on his metaphor, of Lorenzo as a needle showing the others the way. My eyes strayed to Mercury’s sword: sharp, pointed, metallic. Showing the others the way. “Now we understand why Mercury’s sword is pointing toward Simonetta,” I burst out. “The enemy is Genoa.”
“We should consider, too, the nature of that sword,” added Brother Guido, pulling his own weapon from its sheath. The blade sang faintly and we all looked upon the deadly curve of the steel blade. “It is a harpe scimitar in the Eastern style, a Turkish design borrowed from our vanquished enemy of the Battle of Otranto. The Turks were expelled by the Genoese.”
“And Simonetta wears a cross of pearls at her throat; the emblem of her city,” I finished.
“And how did you know the others for conspirators,” broke in Signor Bartolomeo, “these exalted men when you met them all?”
“Some of them damned themselves with their own words,” answered Brother Guido. “Some gave others away. But all of them wear a gold band, with the nine Medici palle, on their thumbs.”
“Their left thumbs, yes?” It was Signor Cristoforo that spoke, suddenly and urgently, and Brother Guido turned amazed blue eyes upon him.
“Yes. How did you know?”
“Look closely. All the seven conspirator figures have their left thumbs hidden.”
I looked at each of the figures in the scene in turn, unable to believe my eyes.
Madonna.
How had we missed it?
Flame-haired Pisa hid her left thumb as she clasped Simonetta-Genoa’s hand. Fiammetta-Naples hid her left thumb behind the fingers of her sister Pisa. Semiramide-Roma hid her left thumb in the scarlet swags of her wedding cloak. I, Flora, had my left thumb hidden below my skirt of roses. ChlorisVenice’s left thumb was hid behind the hand she reached forth to clasp her daughter’s arm. Zephyrus-Bolzano, the blue-winged sprite, had his left thumb hid in the gown of the nymph that he ravished. Mercury-Botticelli-Milan hid his left thumb behind his hip. Only Genoa—only Simonetta—exposed her left thumb to view, holding it high and proud, inviting the eye, linked with the right thumb of Naples, one of the highest points in the scene. Even tiny Cupid, our guide through the painting, had his little left thumb hid behind his bow.
“By the rood, you’re right! You are absolutely right!” Brother Guido breathed.
Now I had seen it, it was obvious. “It even looks wrong.”
“Precisely,” agreed Brother Guido. “And we know that in this painting, nothing is an accident. Botticelli is the finest artist of his generation. His understanding and execution of the human form is second to none. And yet here, some of the hands look positively awkward. The right hand of Zephyrus, in particular, looks incorrect—surely if you were to grab at someone in anger or passion one would use the thumb to grasp her gown.” His cheeks heated a little and he moved on swiftly. “Even Semiramide’s left hand does not grasp the scarlet cloak as it should. But Botticelli would never paint someone with an unnatural attitude or posture. He is too accomplished for that. It must be by design, and the inference is, they are all hiding something, namely, their place in the alliance.”
“It was by design!” I burst in. “For it was Botticelli himself who arranged my hands for me when I sat for him. I remember now how he hid my thumb under a fold of the fabric which held the roses. It was no accident. But why thumbs, of all things?”
Brother Guido shrugged. “In these lands it is common to bite your thumb at someone that you challenge to a fight. I think the origin of the gesture derives from the chivalric act of removing a gauntlet with the teeth, starting with the left thumb, so that the right hand can take the left glove and use it to strike the offender’s face.”
The brothers could not follow above a half of this cant about thumbs and were growing understandably impatient in light of the threat to their city. “So now what?” urged Signor Cristoforo.
“We must alert the Doge of Genoa,” decided Brother Guido. “We gain audience somehow, and if he doesn’t wear a ring on his left thumb, I think we may be sure he knows nothing of this conspiracy.”
Signor Cristoforo leaped to his feet. “Bartolomeo, alert the harbormaster and the militia. Get them to ready the cannon ships in the port. Tell them there is an attack coming. Say we have intelligence from Venice. Take this”—he ripped up the new printed map from the table—“show him the cross of Genoa. Hurry.”
His brother took the map and turned at the door. “Where are you going?”
“I must away with my friends to the doge. They know me at the palace, they’ve been kicking me out on my arse for a month for asking for money. They would never admit a Pisano. I can speak plain Genoese to the guards.”
“What about me?” I protested.
“Stay here,” they thundered in unison. Looked at each other.
“I,” began Brother Guido, “that is to say, we, all want you out of danger.”
“You must be joking.” I grabbed my cloak. “I’ve come this far. I’ve hardly been ‘out of danger’ these past months. I can help! Have I not helped, so far?” I wheedled at Brother Guido, turned him around bodily by his shoulders and forced him to meet my eyes.
He looked me full in the face. “More than that,” he admitted reluctantly. “We would not be here without you.”
Signor Cristoforo shrugged. “Come, then, but stay in the rearguard.” He turned back to his brother.
“Get the militia to come to the faro. We must post a lookout at la lanterna.”
A flash lit my brain as if lightning had struck. “What did you just say?”
Something in my voice stopped them in their tracks.
Signor Cristoforo turned slowly. “What, la lanterna?”
“Before that.”
“Militia? Faro?”
“Faro.”
“It means lighthouse.”
“What’s a lighthouse?”
“I was no tutor if I did not tell you that,” he replied testily. “The stone tower, yonder, has a great lantern atop the upper terrace. At night, and in sea fog, it lights the ships safely into harbor.” He pointed to the tall finger of stone, clearly visible from this and every shack in Genoa.
“And it’s known as a faro?” My voice shook a little.
“Yes,” he said with great impatience. All three men were staring at me now, as if I were a lunatic to stay them from their tasks with such mindless twaddle.
“How d’you spell that?” I asked grimly.
Signor Cristoforo regarded me as if I were an idiot child. “F-A-R -O.”
“Faro!” I shouted. I ripped the painting from Signor Cristoforo’s hand. “We said, didn’t we, that some cities held clues for other cities?” I demanded of Brother Guido. “Florence, for instance, holds the thirty-two roses to point to the compass rose in Venice?”
The brothers looked nonplussed but dear Brother Guido nodded.
“Yes, I see all that.”
“Well, d’you remember, we could never read the Chloris flowers?”
Now I had lost even him. “What are you talking about?”
“Chloris,” I insisted. “Don’t you remember? Brother Nicodemus said ‘flowers drop from her mouth like truths.’ And he was right. They are truths. There are four botanical types issuing from her mouth. Remember? Fiordaliso, anemone, rose, and occhiocento.”
“Well, those are colloquial vernacular names, not the Latin genus terms, but yes.”
I waved my hand. “Forget about that. Think about their first letters.”
“F-A-R-O,” he mouthed, eyes enormous as he turned them on me. “Lighthouse. That’s where they’re going to land.”
“And remember,” I urged, “that occhiocento is the flower of death. The word faro ends in O; it ends with death. We said that the enterprise would end in death, one or many. Well, it will, if we don’t get a move on.”
Signor Cristoforo may not have followed the reasoning, but he took the meaning. “Bartolomeo,” he said, never moving his eyes from me, “when you go to the faro, go armed. Tell the militia.”
Signor Bartolomeo nodded once and was gone. The three of us were hard on his heels. Outside, on the waterfront, twilight was already beginning to thicken. Brother Guido put a hand on the bridle of il Moro’s horse without a word, gentling him, while Signor Cristoforo untied the reins. Suddenly it was all real—now we hurried to save not nameless French families in some disinterested crusade but living, breathing Genoese who were a sunset away from the fire and the sword. My skirts brushed the Genoese brat who had watched our horse for a coin. “Scusi,” I said absently. She looked up and smiled at me, the dying sun catching eyes as green as mine. She was beautiful. I smiled back as Signor Cristoforo hauled me up to the saddle. I put my arms round Signor Cristoforo’s waist while Brother Guido mounted behind us. “Hurry,” I urged.