The Heretic's Mark

by S. W. Perry

  He has called a meeting of the Arte to let its members know how diligently he has been working on their behalf, and to dismiss their usual complaints and objections. He is early. This is because first he wishes to see if Pasolini the carpenter has delivered the corrected segments of the mount that carries the sphere’s equatorial ring. He doesn’t trust Pasolini’s eye. He intends to lay out the segments himself, checking that they fit together and that, once assembled, they form a circle and not something resembling a child’s doodle.

  So engrossed in these practicalities is Bruno that it is only in the instant before they collide that he notices the man hurrying towards him from the opposite direction.

  They meet at the crown of the bridge. Bruno opens his mouth to apologize. Or to protest. Later, he won’t be able to remember which. He catches only an indistinct impression of someone in a plain grey coat, his leather half-boots playing a staccato drumbeat on the pavement, a black cap of Germanic style on his head. He might have heard a muttered apology, but there again he might not. And if he did, it was in a foreign language. Sotto voce.

  The collision is glancing, shoulder-to-shoulder. But it is enough to make Bruno – by a good margin the smaller of the two – stumble.

  When he has regained his balance, he turns. But all he sees is the man’s back, disappearing into a lane adjacent to the one from which he himself emerged just a few moments before. He utters a coarse condemnation of the foreign students at the university and their deplorable manners. It does not occur to Bruno for a moment that he might have veered into the man’s path because he was distracted. Nor is his mind clear enough to connect the man in the grey coat with the description Nicholas had given a few days before.

  The man who rents the storehouse – from another man who rents the storehouse – has provided Bruno with a key to the side-door. Bruno has become concerned that the theatrical rapping of an appropriate code on the big entry doors at the front is too likely to attract attention. But when he follows the side-wall, he sees that the smaller, single door is ajar.

  He hears the buzzing of the flies – smells the blood – even before he puts one smartly booted foot across the threshold.

  The interior is hot and stuffy, neatly partitioned by columns of evening sunlight lancing down from the high windows. They fall upon the cradle of the great sphere, remaking it as an altar or tabernacle dedicated to some ancient pagan god. Lying across one of them is a body, the arms stretched out in the stance of a diver caught mid-plunge. As Bruno approaches, the little cloud of flies lifts and disperses, like fragments of a soul fleeing heavenwards. He stops a few paces away, his heart pounding.

  Face-down, the youth’s head has been battered against the floor, the bloodied tangled hair dishevelled. Lying discarded across the neck is an iron bar, part of the sphere’s internal mechanism. Even before he moves closer to kneel beside the body, Bruno knows he is looking at the corpse of Matteo Fedele.

  36

  Searching for a pulse seems pointless. The back of Matteo’s head looks as though it has been savaged by the claws of a wild beast. A broad trail of blood smeared across the flagstones marks his desperate but ultimately futile attempt to crawl away from his attacker, even as the blows rained down and the life drained out of him. But in forlorn hope, Bruno does so. He finds nothing. But Matteo has not been dead for long. Warmth still lingers in the flesh.

  Leaving Matteo’s body, Bruno embarks on an inspection of the storehouse. His first thoughts, to his shame, are for the sphere. He checks to see if any of the stacks of parts have been smashed or stolen. He finds them intact, save for a few sections of gilded wooden rings – now bloodstained – that have been scattered during Matteo’s desperate struggle to escape. He offers up a brief prayer of repentance to the nearest beam of sunlight for his insensitivity and turns his attention back to the crime.

  Following the winding wake of smeared blood, he comes across the place where he assumes the attack began. It is in a corner, well away from the main entrance or the side-door, marked by a sudden spray of crimson droplets. A surprise attack then, after Matteo invited his killer in. No chance to defend himself.

  Nearby, Bruno notes a collection of iron rods propped against the wall. They are identical to the murder weapon. He pictures the sequence: Matteo and the killer walking in conversation around the cradle of the sphere, Galileo’s pupil no doubt boasting of his accomplishments. He can hear Matteo’s voice, imagine his words: It will eclipse the Medici sphere of Florence, and I – Matteo Fedele – was, in good part, the architect… Close to the wall Matteo turns his back, still singing his own praises. Behind him, the killer lifts one heavy rod from the stack…

  Returning to the body, Bruno sees something he missed when he’d walked in: a pattern of bloodstains leading to the side-door. Not footprints exactly – too indistinct for that. But evidence of the killer’s flight.

  And then he remembers the figure in the grey coat who pushed so carelessly past him on the bridge. But again he does not connect it with Nicholas. Instead, he imagines only Matteo’s boasting: It will eclipse the Medici sphere of Florence…

  Bruno freezes. He feels a hot rage course through his little body.

  Santucci!

  That jealous bastard, the master of the Medici spheres, has sent an assassin to Padua, he thinks. He would see us all dead, and my great plan laid in ruins.

  Leaving Matteo Fedele to the gathering dusk and the returning flies, Bruno Barrani hurries out of the storehouse to raise the alarm. But not before checking that the stiletto he likes to wear on the belt of his black satin Venetian hose, and which – until now – he has considered mostly for show, can easily be drawn, should he have sudden need of it.

  At the house in the Borgo dei Argentieri the three cousins of the Corio brothers – hired in case of an attempt by agents of the English Privy Council to snatch Nicholas – have been warned to be on their guard against another threat. After the murder of Matteo Fedele, an attempt on Bruno’s life by the same Florentine assassin that he encountered on the bridge must be expected. They sit in the lane by the street door, playing dice, their rapiers oiled and sharpened. Inside, around the courtyard, torches are burning in their mountings. Plump brown moths play frenzied hazard with the flames. Luca the servant stands a little apart from the figures around the table, batting away the more reckless insects with his hand. He has not seen his master so perturbed for a long time.

  At the head of the table sits the captain of the Podestà’s police, a beak-nosed man in a brocaded tunic with a face as cold and thin as shattered ice. His style of questioning, thinks Bruno, has been downright disrespectful, given his subject’s position as head of the Arte dei Astronomi and the doge’s Master of the Spheres in-waiting. But he doesn’t appear to mind supping on someone else’s wine. Alonso is refilling the wine jug for the second time.

  A call from one of the Corio cousins announces the arrival of Signor Galileo, summoned by Luca. The mathematician has come hot-foot from his local bathhouse. His face gleams with sweat in the torchlight.

  ‘Luca told me. I can’t believe it,’ he says, easing himself onto the bench beside Nicholas. ‘Poor Matteo wouldn’t hurt a fly.’ He catches Alonso’s eye and drains an imaginary wine glass into his throat.

  ‘And you are—’ asks the captain.

  ‘Galileo Galilei.’

  ‘Oh, him.’

  ‘Yes, him,’ says the mathematician.

  ‘I’ve heard of you. You’re that smart-arsed fellow from the university – the one who drops metal balls off the top of the clock tower. What’s all that about then?’

  Galileo accepts the cup Alonso is offering and drinks without looking at his interrogator. Smacking his lips, he says to no one in particular, ‘To see if I can hit a passing captain of the Podestà’s police squarely on his empty noddle.’

  ‘Forgive my friend’s tetchiness,’ Bruno says apologetically to the captain. ‘He’s from Pisa. They’re not used to law officers there. And we’ve all had so
mething of a shock.’

  ‘Matteo was a fine lad,’ Galileo says dispiritedly, staring at his wine as though he’s suddenly lost his thirst. He takes a sip. ‘As bone-idle as a cardinal in Conclave, of course, but a good fellow for all that. He might even have made a half-decent mathematician. What am I going to tell his father?’ He takes a second, deeper draught. ‘I suppose I’ll have to find a new pupil to help with the rent.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Signor Compass. This is a very bad thing all round,’ Bruno says contemplatively. ‘Very bad indeed. I liked Matteo, too. His loss will set the Arte back in its endeavours.’

  ‘Is that all you two can think about?’ Bianca demands. ‘A shortfall in rent, and a setback to your plans? Shame on you!’

  Chastened, Masters Compass and Purse turn their attention to the tabletop.

  ‘That poor, poor boy,’ Bianca continues, shaking her head. ‘He seemed a kindly young fellow. To die so young, slain so brutally… Who would do that?’

  The captain says, ‘I do not need a woman to ask my questions for me. Remain silent until I have completed my enquiries.’ He looks at Nicholas. ‘And who is this?’

  Nicholas explains that he is a member of the English Nation, the group of English students at the university. It is, after all, a sort of truth.

  ‘English… Germans… Poles… Swiss – all drunks and troublemakers,’ the captain sneers. ‘You’re not a Lutheran or a Calvinist, are you?’

  ‘He’s a physician,’ Bianca says proudly, as though it’s the best religion of them all.

  Bruno thinks it best to steer the captain’s attention away from Nicholas. ‘That scoundrel Santucci is behind this,’ he says. ‘I’m sure of it. He cannot bear the competition. Jealousy, that’s all this is: naked Florentine jealousy. I wouldn’t be surprised if the Medici put him up to it. Fancy sending an assassin to take the life of an innocent young lad, just because a Paduan steals a march on you. It’s monstrous.’

  The captain points a finger at Bruno, staring down it as though he were aiming a crossbow. ‘You say, Signor Barrani, that you encountered the man you suspect was the assassin as you crossed the Porta Portello bridge. Is that so?’

  ‘He was coming from the direction of the storehouse. He was in such a hurry he almost barged me into the water.’

  ‘Would you recognize him again?’

  ‘Not by his face. But I can describe his dress. It wasn’t Paduan. A cheap grey cloth coat, black leather half-boots. And he had a black cloth cap on his head.’

  Nicholas stares at the tabletop to stop the captain noticing his expression. He feels Bianca stiffen beside him.

  ‘What made you think he was the murderer, Signor Barrani?’ the captain asks. ‘Was he wielding the iron bar? Was he uttering blood-curdling oaths? Was his grey coat spattered with gore?’

  ‘No, he just pushed past me,’ Bruno says, looking a little foolish.

  ‘Then I’m sure that description will be of immeasurable help,’ the captain says caustically. ‘Let us hope the assassin omitted to bring a change of clothes with him from Florence.’

  No one around the table laughs. ‘I’m sorry I cannot be of more assistance,’ Bruno says. ‘I recount only what I saw.’

  Like bullies everywhere, the captain sniffs weakness. ‘Have you wondered why this professional killer sent from Florence failed to take the opportunity to kill you, when you crossed his path on the bridge?’ he asks. ‘Or was it that he felt intimidated by your size?’

  Bruno says through gritted teeth, ‘Perhaps he thought it too public. Maybe he didn’t recognize me until it was too late. Maybe Santucci simply picked the wrong man for the job.’

  ‘Just like the Podestà has,’ Bianca mutters under her breath.

  If the captain hears her, he doesn’t show it. Nicholas smiles and squeezes her hand.

  ‘Well, Signor Barrani,’ the captain says, ‘I see you have placed guards at your gate. If you come across this man again, let us hope you have picked the right men for the job.’

  ‘Is that it? Am I to be afforded no other protection?’ Bruno asks.

  Satisfied that he has investigated the crime thoroughly – and downed enough of the witness’s wine – the captain rises from the table. ‘I do not profess to understand for a moment the precise nature of what you are engaged upon in that storehouse, Signor Barrani, but His Excellency the Podestà seems to think it is worth something to him. As for me, I will have enough on my plate keeping the public safe from felons and criminals on the Feast of the Holy Rosary. I can do without some foolish spat between you clever-dick men of learning. Therefore I would prefer it if there were no further outbreaks of jealousy in this city. Do I make myself clear?’

  ‘Completely,’ says Bruno.

  The captain turns to Galileo. ‘And that includes you, Signor Mathematician.’

  As the captain departs, Galileo makes an obscene gesture to his back. Then he pats Bianca’s thigh in a manner she assumes is meant apologetically, but can’t be sure.

  Bruno orders Alonso to recharge everyone’s cups. When it is done, he lifts his own. ‘Drink up, Signor Compass, Cousin Bianca, Nicholas – to the memory of Matteo Fedele, may God welcome his soul into His everlasting peace.’

  Amens are said around the table. Alonso is dispatched for another jug. But although the wine is good and the night warm, in the house in the Borgo dei Argentieri nothing can lift the sense of disbelief and sadness.

  ‘The fellow you chased into the church and the one Bruno encountered on the bridge – can they really be one and the same man?’ Bianca asks later in their chamber. Beyond the window the night is lit by flashes of lightning as a silent storm rages far off over the distant mountains.

  ‘If they are, one thing is certain: he didn’t come from Florence to murder Matteo Fedele.’

  Bianca sits up in bed and props her chin on her bended knees. ‘He follows us all the way from Brabant without so much as an uncivil word, and then murders someone we barely know?’

  ‘Perhaps it wasn’t us he was following.’

  A lightning flash paints Bianca’s face a deathly white. ‘Hella? You believe he was following Hella?’

  Nicholas nods. ‘I think I’ve had it wrong all along. He’s no more an agent of the Privy Council than Luca or Alonso.’

  ‘But why kill Matteo, of all people?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Nicholas confesses. ‘But the lad was close to her. Therefore Hella could well be in terrible danger.’

  ‘That might explain why he didn’t try to kill Bruno.’

  ‘Probably.’

  Bianca eases herself over the end of the bed. She goes to the window. By the flickering lightning Nicholas can see the form of her body through the thin linen of her nightgown. He imagines a slight swelling of her belly, but knows it is only a fancy. It is too early. He wonders if he should tell her about his meeting with the maid, tell her he knows why she thinks herself cursed. But he suspects that if he does, there will be a storm right here in the chamber that will put the one over the mountains to shame.

  ‘You’re going to warn her, aren’t you?’ Bianca says presciently, looking out into the darkened street.

  ‘I have to. I can’t simply leave her to an assassin. My conscience—’

  ‘I know, Nicholas. I know.’

  He puts the sudden squirm that infects his spine down to the sweat trickling along his back. ‘It doesn’t have to be face-to-face,’ he says. ‘I’ll send her a note.’

  ‘No, you won’t. That isn’t your nature.’

  ‘One meeting, that’s all. Just to warn her. I’ll get Bruno to ask the Corio cousins to look out for her.’

  Bianca turns back from the window. ‘And then we put her out of our lives for ever. Do you promise?’

  Nicholas climbs out of bed and takes his wife in his arms. The first audible rumble of thunder rolls down across the valley and over the walls of Padua like the secret marauders of an advancing army.

  ‘As if she had never existed,’ he says.


  37

  Assurances, promises, denials… in the last half-hour Nicholas has made them all. None have appeared to ease Bianca’s heart. Over breakfast she has listened to him with a face of stone. In desperation he says, ‘You agreed. One visit. Then we will forget her for ever.’

  She looks at him for what seems like an hour, her eyes unreadable to him. Then she says, ‘I agreed. What else needs to be said?’

  He thinks, how about: I know why you fear the maid so much.

  But he knows that if he turns his thoughts to words, they will very likely raise a fire in her that will burn them both.

  ‘I will be brief with her, I promise,’ he tells her. ‘I will be back before you know it.’

  ‘Take all the time you need,’ she says. ‘I’m going to pay another visit to the place where I grew up – my parents’ house.’

  ‘Will you wait until I return? I would like to see it.’

  She shakes her head. ‘Another time, perhaps. This journey I need to take alone.’

  It feels to Nicholas as though Bianca has slammed a door in his face. He lays his knife down amongst the peach stones and leaves the table. When he reaches the stairs he looks back, only to see that her attention is not on him, but on something he cannot know or see. Something far away.

  At the Beguinage, Nicholas is shown into Madonna Antonella’s office. She is a doughty woman of fifty with canny, generous eyes and severely crimped grey hair that makes the simple linen coif she wears on her head look like a kerchief stuffed with hazelnuts. Though she welcomes him cordially enough, he detects wariness in her eyes, a suspicion honed through experience that sometimes the men who come here enquiring after her Beguines are not always truthful about their motives. He gives her the story about him being a Catholic recusant, fleeing English tyranny. At first he tells her only that Hella Maas accompanied him and Bianca on the Via Francigena, omitting any mention of what happened in the cathedral at Den Bosch. Then he tells her about Grey-coat and the murder of Matteo Fedele. As he speaks, Madonna Antonella’s face darkens.