Black Madonna

by Carl Sargent

  “I’m not absolutely sure.” Serrin admitted. Michael looked curiously at him, but didn’t press the issue.

  “I’ll leave you to your own devices.” Geraint told them. “I decided to get measured for some suits as long as we’re here. My appointment’s at midday.”

  “You want me to stay with Mikey boy or tail Serrin and Kristen in case they’re being tracked by any interested parties?” Streak asked.

  Geraint looked to Michael. “What do you think?”

  “Go with them.” Michael said. “So long as the villa security is good enough.” He looked out the window at the swift-flowing river down below.

  “It will be.” Geraint promised. “Trust me. I’ve been here before. Someone tries to kidnap a Medici every week of the year, or so it seems. Quite often it’s one of the other Medicis. The descendants of Cosimo and Lorenzo have some exciting internecine feuds.”

  “They run the whole city?” Streak asked.

  “More or less.” Geraint said. “The city council is absolutely dominated by them and their proxies. It really isn’t so very different from the fifteenth century–except that they don’t have to worry about being invaded by the French or Spanish.”

  One of the black horses whinnied as the carriage halted outside the villa. The title was somewhat misleading; the house was narrow and several stories towered high above the narrow terraced street. If Serrin had imagined a small white building set off in its own gardens, he was disappointed. Liveried servants hurried to take the visitors’ baggage off the carriage and ferry it indoors.

  Geraint quietly and subtly handed one of the men a tip as the others milled in the hallway admiring the paintings and various busts.

  “Never mind those. There’s a genuine Donatello in the dining room apparently.” Geraint told them, opening the double doors to that room with a sweeping gesture. His gaze passed over the superb mahogany dining table and chairs, over the gleaming silverware and crystal, to the carved alcove at the far end of the room.

  The depiction was very unusual. No Mother of Christ stood facing them, but the Magdalene. It was a Magdalene to rival Donatello’s most famous, and one that was alleged to be a first study for that later work. If so, it seemed even to surpass it. While the final version was a portrait of decay and dissolution, the artist influenced by Gothic tradition, this statue seemed serene by comparison. Ragged and poor though the figure was, the face of the Magdalene did not have the ravaged look of the later statue, and the clasped hands of the bronze seemed more relaxed the pose more peaceful, than Donatello’s final nightmare vision. The quality of the piece was stunning, simple and radiant, and the whole group stood staring in silence for a few moments.

  Even Streak. “Now that really is something.” he mumbled. In an odd gesture, he seemed to feel for a nonexistent hat as if to take it off his head, and then realized he wasn’t wearing one. The effect was comical, but his sincerity was genuine.

  Michael walked up to the bronze and stared at it intently. “A mysterious lady.” he said wonderingly.

  They could find little else to say. The great artist’s work could hardly he done justice by hasty words. They carried their bags up the stairs, despite the protestations of the domestic staff who’d arrived belatedly on the scene. The scent of freshly ground coffee and baking bread wafted gently after them.

  I know we just scarfed up that breakfast.” Streak said, “but slot if I don’t half feel peckish again.”

  “I just saw the cook with a basket of cheeses.” Serrin whispered to him conspiratorially. The other elf licked his lips.

  “And prosciutto with melon.” Serrin added. Streak flung his bag at a bedroom doorway chosen at random and scurried downstairs to the dining room.

  Serrin glanced around at the others and grinned. “I’ll be down later.” he said. “Save some melon for me.” He reached out a hand to Kristen and, with a nod, she took it. They closed their bedroom door behind them.

  Michael winked at Geraint. “I don’t think we should disturb the loving couple, should we?”

  “I thought he’d lived in Britain long enough that his libido had waned by now.” Geraint joked.

  “Come now, Geraint, I think that you of all people can hardly subscribe to that old myth.” Michael said tartly. “By the way, how is the Countess?”

  “Just fine.” Geraint said. “Let’s have a second breakfast. That ham did look awfully good.”

  * * *

  Kristen watched over Serrin’s physical body as he breathed quietly, the rest of him utterly still. Quite unconsciously, her hands were clasped together and, if she’d lived in Donatello’s day, something quite different might have stood in the dining room, the subject of admiring gazes from visitors of later centuries.

  The spirit had not wanted to materialize. He was not entirely sure what place they were in, and he didn’t want to enquire where the guiding watcher spirit had directed him.

  “I shouldn’t really be here.” Merlin fretted. “But matters move so swiftly and I’m restless and troubled.”

  “I plan to go to the Baptistery.” Serrin told him. Despite the endless immensity of astral space around them, their astral forms were huddled close together. They might have looked, in some far more mundane context, like a pair of third-rate spies exchanging secrets on some dingy, muggy street corner.

  “Yes. That’s good.”

  “Merlin, it’s hard to play a game when I don’t know any of the other players nor the rules of the game.” Serrin said exasperatedly.

  “I think he will come to you.” Merlin replied slowly. “Or he’ll send some message, some sign. He wants to see you make the right moves. Visit the Baptistery. Don’t forget what it means to this city.”

  “I don’t understand.” Serrin said.

  Merlin looked around him, as if fearing some menace or threat. His face was furrowed with anxiety and sadness. “I can’t put it more bluntly. Consider what the Baptistery means to this city and consider how he has depicted it. Then you’ll have more understanding of him.

  “When you see him, take your wife.” the spirit concluded, quite unexpectedly. “That is vital.”

  “What do you–”

  “Just listen and do what I tell you.” Merlin was, by all appearances, struggling to contain a rising anger, but then he calmed down and seemed filled with sadness again. “Oh, Serrin, when you understand all this, you’ll look back and kick yourself for being so slow. Though that’s not any consolation to you now. I must go. My absence will be noted if I do not.”

  The figure moved away with astounding speed. Serrin swam his way wonderingly back to his meat body, settling down into his physical shell, then roused himself to wakefulness.

  Kristen saw his eyes flutter beneath his eyelids and smiled. When he woke, she hugged him and cradled his head against her chest.

  “I met him.” Serrin told her. “He says that when we finally catch up with whoever it is that’s behind all of this, you must be there too.”

  “I told you he was wise.” Kristen said, teasing but also pleased.

  Serrin looked at her a little darkly.

  “And I like that he makes you jealous. Well, I like it a little.” she said, with the coquettish smile that at times drove him to distraction. This was one of those times.

  They didn’t make breakfast for a while.

  * * *

  The ornate carriage clock was chiming nine when they finally emerged, to be greeted in the dining room by the vulture-stripped carcass of what must once have been a massive breakfast. Michael looked distinctly as if he needed his corset for more than supporting his back.

  “Middle-age spread.” Serrin taunted him, threatening to poke his stomach. Michael groaned, unable to take evasive action. “You look like Hecate when she was a kitten.”

  “I what?” Michael said, inelegantly.

  “Our cat. When she was a kitten she once stole a cooked chicken off a table and ate the whole thing. All of it. All she could do afterward was lie on her
back and make pathetic mewling noises. She couldn’t walk for a day and a half. You remind me of her.”

  “Thanks, friend.” Michael said witheringly.

  “At least I kept him off el vino.” Streak put in.

  “Good job too.” Serrin said, sitting down and spreading some goat’s cheese on a stray slice of bread. “Mmmmm.” he purred through his first mouthful. “Swunnerful.”

  “Enough.” Geraint clapped his hands together. “Michael and I are going to check out some corp systems for a few hours and then I’m off for lunch.” He grimaced a little at the thought of any more food. “You’re going–”

  “–to visit the Baptistery. Where are my guide books?” Serrin made a dive for his bag.

  “What do you need to know?” Michael asked. “I did some preparation, and Geraint’s been here before.”

  “The Baptistery. I know it has some of the finest art in the city, but what’s the most important thing about it?”

  “Depends on what you mean.” Geraint said. “The most obvious thing is that John the Baptist is the patron saint of Florence.”

  Serrin stopped searching through his bag for a moment. “Uh-huh.” he said thoughtfully.

  “Why did you ask?”

  “No special reason.” Serrin lied. He was still mulling over that interesting fact. and remembering something he wanted to check out. There was a painting, wasn’t there?

  Geraint let it pass. The mage seemed even more absentminded than ever this morning. He wondered if the months in the lonely wilds of the Hebrides had accentuated the trait. He wiped the corner of his mouth with a linen napkin, then he and Michael made for their decks awaiting them upstairs.

  Serrin quietly asked one of the maids who came to clear away the table where he could find a particular kind of store, and learned to his satisfaction that one was only a few minutes’ walk away. He squinted a little in the now-brilliant sunlight as he stepped into the street, and followed the simple directions to his destination.

  A little later, he walked slowly back, looking at the picture.

  Ah, now, isn’t that wrong? he thought.

  And doesn’t it have an extraordinary beauty?

  20

  “It’s a girl, I think.” Streak said doubtfully.

  “No, it isn’t. Look at the nose.” Kristen said. “It’s a young man, not much more than a boy.”

  Serrin moved the sheet of paper away from the body of the image. He’d occluded most of it, leaving only the enigmatic face for the others to see.

  “Oh, it is a bloke.” Streak said. “Them shoulders give it away. Funny. I could have sworn it was a woman’s face, honest.”

  “But . . .” Kristen said, hesitantly.

  “Yes?” Serrin waited.

  “It looks just like the other woman. The smile. It’s her smile.”

  “What other woman?”

  “The picture you showed me before. The Mona Lisa.”

  “My God, it is an’ all.” Streak said, screwing up his eyes. “I tell you, mate, that’s a really weird painting.

  “Isn’t it?” Serrin said softly.

  “So what is it then? Who’s our geezer?” Streak said.

  “Our geezer, as you so charmlessly put it, is John the Baptist. As painted by Leonardo da Vinci.”

  “And why’s he pointing his finger up like that? I mean, it’s not as if he knows cricket umpire signals.” Serrin and Kristen gave him the same look. “Sorry. So what does it mean?”

  “I don’t know.” Serrin admitted. “But this is, well, strange. I don’t know why. But something tells me it’s important. We’re in his city–the Baptist’s, that is. We’re chasing some freak with a Leonardo fixation. His only statue is here too, so I think we should go take a look at it. Coming?”

  “Mikey and his nibs are still up to their arses in electrons.” Streak said, picturesquely if inaccurately. “I think a stroll into town is on.”

  * * *

  They approached from the east gates and stood before the remarkable work, the ten beautifully etched plates of biblical scenes that hung there. Above them a stone angel stood watching John baptizing Christ, Porphyry columns flanked them as they walked through the doors and made heir offering of coins and notes at the small box placed just inside.

  In the cool interior, Serrin consulted the little guide-book. searching for an illustration of the angel and directions to where it might be found.

  “You are looking for something in particular?” a young, fair-haired Italian youth asked in perfect, barely accented English.

  Serrin turned to look at the fresh-faced young man. He was handsome, slightly feminine in appearance, with high cheekbones and full lips. He smiled at the elf and looked expectant.

  “Verocchio’s angel, actually.” Serrin told him.

  “I think that if you head for the north gates and walk out there, and mingle with the crowds, then you should be able to make it very difficult for the three gentlemen in the piazza to shoot you as they intend.” the youth said equably. “Get into a taxi and tell the driver to drive like crazy, I should think.”

  Serrin’s jaw dropped.

  “Jesuits are very resourceful. I will be seeing you later, I expect.” the young man said with a pleasant smile. The trio were too stunned to grab him as he walked out the east, doors and disappeared with startling rapidity into a knot of tourists enjoying the early-morning sunshine.

  “I think we’d better do what he said.” Serrin said, glancing around as calmly as he could manage under the circumstances. Kristen’s nails were digging deep into his arm.

  “I couldn’t risk bringing any heat in here.” Streak said, “though I’ve got a little something in my pockets.” He patted his jacket and there was a dull plastic clunk.

  “I’ll never be able to cast a spell in here.” Serrin fretted.

  “On the way out?”

  “We’ll be sitting ducks in the doorway.” Serrin said.

  “How about claiming sanctuary?” Streak’s eyes darted this way and that, taking in the scene outside. He couldn’t pick out any potential attackers amid the milling crowds, but finally he caught the man in the suit eating ice cream.

  “Ah, got one, I reckon.” he said, “But who the frag was–”

  “I have no idea.” Serrin said with a wave of his hand.

  “I don’t feel well.” Kristen said.

  “This is no time to–” Streak began.

  “I said, I don’t feel well.” Kristen insisted, tapping foot irritably on the floor. “Do I have to wink too?”

  “Go on, girl. It’s now or never.” Serrin said. Kristen suddenly dropped onto the floor in a very convincing faint. Serrin fell to his knees beside her and Streak finally got the game. He jabbered in passable Italian to a young cleric who’d hurried over to see what was wrong, asking the man to call for an ambulance. It probably wasn’t serious, but it wasn’t the first time and . . .

  The priest hurried away but was soon back, reassuring Streak that an ambulance was on the way and asking if there was anything else he could do. Streak reassured him, and gave him a small sum, asking him to offer a prayer for the afflicted. The young man bobbed his head and went off to light a candle, still keeping a wary eye on the apparently stricken woman. A small knot of people was beginning to gather around them. Streak noted the dark-haired man in the plain gray suit who hovered at the doorway. He guessed that there must be some kind of detection and alarm system at the doorway, and the man did not dare cross the threshold.

  The man looked around him, then suddenly reached into his pocket.

  Streak reached into his own.

  In a split second, a Predator would have been fired into the Baptistery and a molded plastic throwing knife would have cut deep into the gunman’s face.

  It didn’t happen.

  What Streak saw, and afterward he wasn’t at all clear just how he did see it, was the youth who’d warned them standing well behind, and slightly to the left, of the man in the suit. The youth had a br
oad grin, and was reaching inside his own powder-blue jacket. lie drew a weapon from inside it with astonishing speed.

  It was impossible. Not the speed of it, though that was swifter than Streak had seen even a move-by-wire cyberzombie move. It was the weapon itself that was impossible. It was utterly bizarre, an anachronism. What’s more, it could never have been concealed inside the jacket and, even if it could, them was no way it could have been drawn, aimed, and fired with such precision.

  The weapon looked like a huge laminated crossbow, but instead of the usual bridge for bearing the bolt there were perhaps a dozen smooth, very slender metal barrels spread out in an arc of maybe thirty degrees. Faster than was possible, the screw mechanism at the base of the barrels sank down into the weapon and a swirl of bubbles flew from the barrels.

  Streak gazed at them like a helpless, paralyzed viewer watching a slo-mo film. The bubbles meandered lazily toward the man in the suit, who was frozen in mid-gesture, the emerging gleam of imminent metal just visible inside his barely open jacket.

  The bubbles swirled around the man’s head and back. His eyes rolled back in his head and he fell to the ground like a sack of vegetables dumped on a larder floor. The young man replaced the weapon inside his jacket and raised his left index finger to his lips. He blew on it, smiled at Streak, and then he wasn’t there anymore. Streak felt a roaring sensation in his ears and everything seemed to return to normal.

  The sound of an approaching siren came from somewhere along the piazza as Streak struggled to stay on his feet. He couldn’t think straight. As yet, no one had noticed the man who’d collapsed behind the group of people around Kristen.

  Streak kicked himself into action. It occurred to him that the man might get bundled into the same ambulance as Kristen, which wouldn’t do at all. He shouldered his way through the crowd and knelt down beside the fallen man. As he bent over the body, he pulled a leathered flask from his jacket, thanking providence that he never traveled without some form of alcohol on his person.

  The other men in suits were closing in, and people were turning to look now. Streak flicked off the cap and poured the whiskey over the man.