The Botticelli Secret

47
“An attack? At dawn? An alliance of seven city-states?”
Doge Battista of Genoa didn’t believe me, and I didn’t blame him. I wouldn’t have believed me.
He lounged on a scarlet velvet couch, in a strange bed-chamber striped, as the rest of the city, in black-and-white marble. He was younger than I expected, chubby, as over-stuffed as his couch, moonfaced, with a pink and white complexion so smooth it seemed he could not yet grow a beard. He had the pale blue eyes and the strawberry-blond hair of a northerner. He could have been the Cupid of the Primavera all grown-up. But even if he were Cupid’s cousin, it was clear he knew nothing of the plan. By his naked left thumb I knew him to be innocent. I also knew him to be clever—his little eyes were penetrating and his questions searching.
“And you know this, how? Yes, tell me, how does a common jade find out these lofty matters of state?”
It wasn’t going to work. I took a deep breath and threw away my alias. “Because I’m not a common jade. I’m the dogaressa’s daughter.”
“Of Venice?” His pale brows flicked upward into twin fish-hooks. “Come closer.”
The light was low in the room. I moved to the window to catch the dying day.
He looked at me lazily, considering like a cat. “You do have the look of her, ‘tis true. Like a lion’s daughter. Giovanni Mocenigo is your father? The Doge of Venice is your father?”
“Yes. And I have lately been, in my mother’s train, to the kingdoms of Bolzano and Milano where both Archduke Sigismund and Ludovico Sforza have joined the alliance. Il Moro is even now heading through the mountains with a thousand horse and ten thousand infantry. In company with him are my mother and father, and my . . .” I choked on the words. “My intended husband, Lord Niccolò della Torre of Pisa.” These names, and the extent of my knowledge, tempered his mockery a little. But not entirely.
“Prove what you say.”
For a moment I was stuck, then remembered the money belt. “Here.” I reached below my skirts. “Venetian ducats of the Mocenigo stamp. And here too,” I said, “the dogaressa’s mask.” I pulled it from my sleeve.
He raised himself from his cushions by no more than a handspan. “These things tell me no more than that you have been in Venice. No more than that. In fact—not even that. You could have stolen these things or even earned them on your back right here in Genoa. And if you are, as you say, Venetian, why would I trust you? For we are enemies.”
I closed my eyes in frustration and could almost hear the rumble of a thousand horses cresting the mountains and pouring into the sea plains, almost hear the thunder of the great siege machines rolling down behind. I toyed with the idea of getting out the painting but realized that waving the cartone around could only compound my lunacy in the doge’s eyes.
“You have to believe me. I’m trying to save your city and its people.”
“And why do you care for my city?”
A goodly question. Inspiration struck, as I realized why I cared. “I know one who lives here! Signor Cristoforo, who was just lately at your gates. He tutored me in Venice, at my father’s house!”
“The sailor?” Now he seemed jolted.
“Yes! Did he not tell you, he was just lately in Venice?”
“He did. And petitioned me for permission to go in the first place. I gave him leave to take their money for his lunatic trips if he could get it, for it is a fool’s errand and he could not have mine.”
“Well, then. And you know him to be loyal?”
The specter of a smile. “I thought him so, yes. Crazy but loyal.”
“Then ask him,” I urged. “He waits below.”
The doge sighed. “Salvatore!”
In a very few moments Signor Cristoforo was in the room. His presence was enough to make the doge sit all the way up.
“Cristoforo. You have lately been in Venice?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“And you met this lady there?” I noted I had been elevated from jade to lady at least.
“I did. I was her tutor in maritime matters for a short while, while I petitioned the Council of Ten for expeditionary funds.”
“Yes, yes. And you are aware of her true identity?”
“I am. She is Luciana Mocenigo, daughter to the doge and dogaressa, and heir to the Republic of Venice.”
“You have heard her story of an impending attack?”
“I have.”
“And you believe her? Before you answer, answer as a good and loyal Genoese. Think for a moment of your city, for treachery will be rewarded with death.”
I saw my friend swallow. “I do believe her, my lord.”
The doge stroked his hairless chin. “Very well.” He called to his guard. “Salvatore, close the city gates and double the guard.” He turned back to us. “Satisfied?”
Signor Cristoforo and I exchanged a look. “With great respect, no, my lord.”
The doge raised his brows once again at such insolence.
“For il Moro brings with him such siege machines as the world has never seen, invented by a Tuscan engineer.”
“Very well,” conceded the doge. “Then this I will do. I will send a scout into the mountains to verify your tale. You, my dear”—he waved his languid hand in my direction—“will stay with me here—let us not say as my prisoner nor hostage, for these are ugly words; but as my guest, until he returns.”
I went to him then and knelt by his couch. “My lord, you might as well send me down to the shore and bid me hold back the tide. For in the time it takes for your runner to go and return, the army of the Seven will be upon you, and will beat your outrider to the gates. What you must do is send every available footsoldier and every cavalry knight to the mountains—now.”
Signor Cristoforo took up the cause. “If our forces meet them on the slopes, in a surprise attack, their superior numbers will not avail them any advantage. If you meet them in the Torriglia pass, they will be forced through the neck of a bottle.”
The doge stroked his hairless chin. “One tiny thing, though. If I denude my city of all its soldiery, who will defend us against an attack by the sea?”
Signor Cristoforo and I swapped glances. “We’re just coming to that.”
“There’s more?” The poor besieged doge gaped like a codfish.
“A fleet of Pisan and Neapolitan ships is bearing to your coastline even now, and will be here by first light, led by Don Ferrente, King of Naples.”
Now the young duke blanched whiter than milk. “Then we are done for.”
“Not so, my lord. Even now my brother is rousing the harbormaster and militia. Our fleet can be ready, the cannon loaded by dawn. They are planning to sail right into our harbor, but we can put up a fight they will not expect.”
The doge’s little eyes sparked alight and I felt glad—this corpulent fellow had some fettle. I began to like him.
“Further, my lord,” Signor Cristoforo went on, “we should with all possible speed douse the lanterna in the faro, and light a beacon on the cliffs to the west at Pegli. That way if the fleet is heading for the lighthouse, we can lead them to wreck upon the westward rocks.”
The doge hesitated for no more than a heart’s beat. “Do it.”
Signor Cristoforo and I made for the door, as Genoa’s duke called for his generals and his armor, pacing now as he waited before his couch while his kingdom crumbled around him. The door closed behind us, and I heard him sink back down into the velvet cushions. I opened the door again and crept back in on silent feet. The doge was seated, with his head in his hands. “Why has God turned against me so?” he muttered.
“Not God,” I said aloud. He looked up with a ruined face. “The fault lies elsewhere.” I put out my hand, sorry for him now. He seemed so young and alone. I suspected he had never been to war—that he had been trained in combat but never seen action, a noble in name but never, till now, in the breach. Like Brother Guido. “My lord, let your generals lead your armies. Why don’t you come with us to the faro? You are needed there on a matter of politics.” I knew with sudden certainty who would be waiting there. “There’s someone I would very much like you to meet.”