The Medici secret

by Michael White

  Edie found it hard to believe anyone still lived in such opulent style. The bed was a huge four-poster, with silk drapes. A log fire blazed in the grate, ancient rugs lay across the stone floor, each positioned with perfect carelessness. Glass globes hung from the walls casting a gentle light. The ceiling was high and covered in hand-wrought mouldings and coving.

  She ran a hot bath and lay in the bubbles for a long time, soaking up the romance of it all. After she was dry she put on a silk nightdress and kimono that had been laid out for her on the bed. Sitting on the floor in front of the fire, she stared into the flames and let her mind drift. So much had happened to her during the past few days, and there had been so little time in which to assimilate it all.

  Less than four days earlier she had been working in the crypt of the Medici Chapel conducting the kind of research she loved doing. Then, abruptly, everything had spun out of control. She was scared. They had almost been killed. And then there was the poor old man, Mario Sporani, and Antonio. And what did she make of Roberto? He was brilliant and handsome, rich and charming. Too good to be true, really. But he was also Jeffs friend; Jeff trusted him and Jeff was as close as a brother to her. Jumping up, she tightened the belt of the kimono and headed for the door.

  Out on the landing, it was dark, but there was a faint glow coming from the library, and she could hear the strains of a piano sonata. Roberto was sitting at a leather-topped desk poring over a massive, ancient-looking book. Edie gave a small cough and he turned round.

  'A night owl, like me?' His look of surprise quickly turned to a warm smile.

  'Not usually,' she said. 'What are you reading?' She peered over his shoulder at a leather-bound tome, the pages covered in fine print in a strange font. The paper was dry and yellowed.

  'Trying to work out what the hell Giordano Bruno was going on about. I could do with some help. Would you care to join me in a brandy?' 'Only if it's Paulet Lallique,' Edie smiled. Roberto's expression did not even flicker.

  A few moments later, Vincent deposited two huge globes and a bottle of one of the most expensive cognacs in the world on the round table beside the desk.

  'What's the book?' Edie asked, while Roberto poured.

  'It's one of seven volumes, Records of the Venetian Inquisition Between 1500 and 1770. They've been in the family for a long time. I was just reading about Andrea di Ugoni, a writer friend of Titian's who was tried for heresy in 1565 and escaped punishment. Then there's the case of Casanova who was arrested almost two hundred years later and imprisoned for "contempt of religion". I thought we might find something to help explain what Bruno meant in his clue.'

  'Bruno was put on trial by the Venetian Inquisition then?'

  'His message must have been written immediately before he was arrested. Mocenigo certainly did betray him. He was snatched in the middle of the night from his room in the palazzo by hired thugs, and thrown in the Doge's prison.'

  'I thought he was imprisoned in Rome. Isn't that where they executed him?'

  'But he was first interrogated in Venice. The Venetian Inquisition was far more liberal than their Roman counterpart. The head of the Roman Inquisition, the Pope's right-hand man, was a radical cardinal named Robert Bellarmine, he had the nickname: Hammer of Heretics.'

  'To the Hammer of Heretics.' Edie raised her glass, and took an appreciative sip of her brandy. It was deliciously smooth and warmed her whole being. 'So were the Venetians going to let Bruno off?' she asked.

  'I don't know if they would have gone that far. They didn't like the Pope interfering in their more liberal society. In fact, the entire city was excommunicated several times over the centuries. The Venetian Inquisition were far more tolerant of occultists like Bruno. But unfortunately for him, the Doge bowed to pressure from the Pope, and after a few months in Venice, the authorities here extradited him to Rome where he was eventually burned at the stake.'

  'So when Bruno says: "In the street where they dispose of men like me",' you think he's talking about the place where subversives were executed?'

  Roberto flicked carefully through a few pages. 'Curiously, during the two centuries of the witch trials fewer than two hundred cases were brought before the Inquisition here and only nine people were prosecuted, none of them was executed. There were other sorts of subversives: spies, political activists, seditionists. From what I gather from this record, there were two places in Venice where executions of "undesirables" took place. Look.'

  Edie leaned in and Roberto showed her a selection of reports. Between 1550 and 1750, six hundred and seven citizens labelled as 'dangerous' by the state police, the Council of Ten, were executed. They were hanged, away from public gaze, in one of two places: Calle della Morte, 'The Street of Death', or in Calle Santi. Edie shuddered involuntarily.

  'You're cold,' Roberto said putting an arm around her shoulders. 'Come, let's sit nearer to the fire.'

  They sat down facing each other cross-legged on an ancient Khotan rug. Through the broad leadlight window tendrils of fog were drifting on to the Grand Canal.

  'I don't suppose anyone has ever told you that you have quite a place here,' Edie said.

  Roberto laughed. 'It's all in the genes,' Roberto said. 'I gather your parents were archaeologists.' 'Good old Jeff,' replied Edie.

  'I wouldn't take offence. He's a great admirer of yours.' 'So did he tell you they were killed on a dig, in Egypt? I was there.' 'I'm sorry.'

  'It was a long time ago.' She took an appreciative sip of her brandy. 'He hasn't told me much about you. How did you and Jeff meet?'

  'About five years ago, he was still at Cambridge. He had come over on his own for a couple of weeks to research a book. He knocked a drink out of my hand at The Cipriani.' Edie laughed.

  'We started chatting, we got on, and well… And you?'

  'At college. Jeff was a year ahead of me at King's and already quite a star. I was eighteen and totally in awe of him… I still am.' 'So, did you…?' Roberto asked after a moment.

  Edie grinned. 'Jeff had a girlfriend when we met. By the time they broke up, I had a boyfriend. Then Jeff met Imogen and, I don't know, it never crosses my mind now. It would be like having a sexual relationship with your brother. Anyway, what about you, Roberto? You must have the ladies lining up.' He looked embarrassed.

  'Wow!' Edie said. 'You're actually blushing! Well?' 'Well what?' 'The ladies.'

  'I've been in love twice. Both times it ended in tears.' 'Such is life.'

  Roberto caressed her cheek. Edie leaned forward and brushed her lips against his. Neither of them saw Rose in the doorway, watching them. But both of them heard the front door slam. The tall, black-haired man lit a cigarette with the faint red stub of the previous one, then flattened it on the marble floor, and peered into the binoculars he had mounted on a sturdy tripod.

  The vista from the window was one of extraordinary beauty, views that could be seen across the globe on postcards, chocolate boxes and in the windows of travel agents, but he was not interested in these. He was focused on a building across the Grand Canal, a russet-coloured palazzo, the home of Roberto Armatovani. He had seen someone arrive by barge and offload groceries, a cable repairman had been and gone. And that was about it. Three hours had dragged past very slowly indeed. He was growing tired and increasingly frustrated. The day before he had almost got lucky on the launch, but in the end he had barely escaped with his own life. It had taught him a very important lesson. These people might seem like amateurs, but he could not afford to underestimate them.

  Suddenly the front door of the palazzo flew open and the girl, Rose Martin, rushed out of the building. A moment later, Armantovani appeared. But in Venice a person can vanish in the blink of an eye. Roberto went back inside. However, the black-haired man had seen where the girl had gone and followed her with his binoculars. In a few moments she reached Ponte Dell' Accademia, and – he could hardly believe it – she was crossing the bridge to his side of the river. 'Rose must have seen us,' Edie said to Jeff. She flopped into
a chair positioned under a gigantic gilded mirror and stared at the dark marble floor. 'We were kissing.' 'Brilliant.' Jeff's face was grim.

  'I'll send out some people,' Roberto said. 'Vincent can help. Do you think she might have gone back to the apartment?'

  'Christ knows. Call Maria, but I have to get out there.'

  The night air was freezing. Jeff ran along the path beside the canal and then turned left into the maze of passageways clustered around San Samuele. The fog had become thick and heavy, blotting out everything more than a few metres in front of him. The torch Roberto had given him offered little help. Exiting from a passageway that opened out on to Campo Francesco Morosini, to his left, he knew, lay Campo Sant' Angelo. To the right was Ponte dell' Accademia. He stopped, took several deep breaths and tried not to let the sense of total panic overwhelm him. The black-haired man saw the girl turn away from the Grand Canal and take a left skirting the Gallerie. He had left his lookout point and was following her, keeping his distance, conscious of how every sound was magnified in the fog.

  He saw her duck into an alley. She slowed for a minute, unsure of the way. Then she stopped to get her bearings. He slipped into a doorway as she swept her eyes across the campo and then he almost lost her in the gloom when she suddenly ran down a narrow passage. She was heading towards the tip of the Dorsoduro, a spit of land that curved round to almost meet up with the San Marco district where the most southerly part of the Grand Canal opened out into the Basino di San Marco.

  The fog was thicker here and he almost lost her again as they emerged on to Dogana E La Salute, a broad path that ran along the southerly edge of Dorsoduro. To their left lay the workshops where gondolas were built. They were all shuttered now and the place was deserted.

  To their right, water slapped against stone. A gutter running along the low roof of a workshop had snapped and water had frozen into a treacherous sheet of thin ice across the entire width of the path. The girl slowed and negotiated the obstacle, then sped off the other side disappearing around the bend at the very tip of the peninsula, at Dogana di Mare, the Old Customs House, a severe colonnaded building, topped by two huge Atlases each holding aloft a golden globe.

  He crept along, watching her slow as she turned back around the other side of the building. She stopped suddenly and sat down on the edge of the path, wrapping her arms about herself, and peering out into the fog across the expanse of water towards San Marco. He was so close he could hear her sob. As he took a silent step forward he felt the familiar, delicious thrill of anticipation. Running past the amorphous Guggenheim Museum, Jeff weaved his way along the quickest route he could find, ignoring the ache in his chest. He was pretty sure now that he knew where Rose might be going. It was a place she had loved, a place they always returned to. To his left, Palazzo Dario tumbled into the fog, and he emerged on to Campo Salute, its northern edge providing one of the last sections of canal bank before the Grand Canal opened out into the Bacino. Another hundred yards and the steps of the Church of Santa Maria della Salute materialised out of the grey gloom. And then he was there. The billowing fog girdled the colonnades of the Old Customs House. And his heartbeat slowed as he saw Rose sitting crossed-legged staring out towards San Marco. 'Hey.'

  She spun round, her eyes filled with terror. But seeing her father, her whole body relaxed.

  Jeff sat down beside her. For a moment he couldn't talk, he was gasping for air. Then suddenly he felt Rose fling her arms around him and she buried her head against his chest and cried as though her heart would break.

  'This isn't really about Edie, is it Rose?' Jeff said after a while. She pulled away so she could see her father's face.

  'You're angry with Edie, but she's really a scapegoat' Rose shook her head. 'I don't…'

  'You're setting Edie up as the baddie, but really you're just angry with your mother and me. You blame us for messing up your life, and you're right. People shouldn't have children if they're not mature enough to keep a marriage going. I'm sorry, darling, I've let you down terribly.' 'Oh, Daddy…' Rose started to cry again. For a second, Jeff looked away to the shrouded splendour. Venice lay there somewhere. It could be reached, just as the memories of what had once been could be reached, but only through a dense fog.

  'Come on. Let's head back, yeah?' Jeff got to his feet. The black-haired man slipped the gun from the holster and moved away from the column. One step on to the quayside and he sensed rather than saw someone approach along the path. Spitting a curse, he slipped back silently as Jeff came into view. He watched him greet his daughter then settle down beside her.

  The fury took him by surprise. He had been trained to kill without compunction and knew how to pull back with clinical detachment when the situation demanded it. Closing his eyes for a second, he took several deep breaths. His finger tightened on the trigger.

  A hazy white beam of light probed through the murk as a police launch came into view. Diving behind a column, he watched in disbelief as it pulled up against the canal bank and two officers leapt on to the quay. Roberto was waiting on the steps of his palazzo. Jeff carried Rose, wrapped in a blanket and took her straight to her room. She was asleep almost before her head hit the pillow. Downstairs, he accepted gratefully a large balloon of cognac from his host. 'Jeff, I'm really sorry…' Edie said. He lifted a hand to stop her. 'There's nothing to be sorry about. I think we're all right,' he said. 'God, I'm glad I'll never be fourteen again.' 'Ditto.'

  'Changing the subject,' Roberto said. 'Edie and I made something of a breakthrough.'

  'That's what they call it these days is it?' Jeff asked.

  Roberto ignored the joke and turned to the page from Records of the Venetian Inquisition Between 1500 and 1770. 'I'm glad Rose is safe,' he said. 'She could not be dearer to me. But we three still have work to do. And I feel time is running out.' 'OK, Roberto. I'm listening.'

  'There were two main sites for executions,' Roberto explained. 'Calle Santi, which is not far from here, close to the Accademia, and Calle della Morte, the Street of Death, which is to the east of the Ducal Palace, just off Campo de la Bragora.'

  'Can I interrupt?' Jeff said. 'When I was searching for Rose, the only thing in my conscious mind was finding her. But I remember catching a glimpse of the top of the Old Customs House breaking through the fog – two figures of Atlas holding a golden globe.' 'What's that got to do with anything?' Edie asked.

  'Some people say the figures of Atlas are twins. The line in the Bruno verse. "The twins, the founding fathers"… it must mean Castor and Pollux, the twins from Greek mythology, offspring of Leda and the god, Jupiter.'

  'Why? What's that got to do with Venice for God's sake?' Edie sounded exasperated.

  'Quite a lot. The earliest settlers in the lagoon were refugees from Rome, who were fleeing the invading Barbarians. They brought with them many archaic Roman religious rituals, including the traditional worship of Jupiter and his offspring, Castor and Pollux. There was a cult of the twins centred on a pair of islands that saw some of the earliest settlements here in the fourth or fifth century. There are images of twins all over the city, including the twinned Atlases.'

  'So you think the verse refers to Calle Santi? It's a stone's throw from the Old Customs House.' Roberto said.

  'No, I don't. I think it's the other place, Calle della Morte. It all came back to me in the launch. I visited a church in the area years ago. It's called San Giovanni and it's located on the Campo de la Bragora; and "Bragora" derives from the word "b'ragal" which means "two men".'

  'That's brilliant.' Roberto shook his head. 'Or completely crazy!' Jeff was on to his second coffee when Edie walked into the breakfast room. ' Sleep well?' she asked. 'Surprisingly. You?' She stifled a yawn. 'Hardly a wink.'

  'Here, this will perk you up.' He poured her a cup of strong coffee. 'Listen Edie,' Jeff began and stopped as Roberto was preceded into the room by Vincent who was carrying a tray holding two tall silver jugs and a cup and saucer.

  'I was about to say to Edie,' Jef
f said. 'After last night* I think I should stay with Rose today.' 'Of course.' 'I disagree,' Edie said. 'I think you two should follow up the clue and I should stay with Rose.' 'But 'No buts, Jeff. I've already spoken to her.' 'You have?'

  'Don't look so surprised. She and I were friends once, remember. I'd like to get things back on an even keel.'

  Jeff raised his eyebrows and shrugged. Tine with me.' The temperature had plummeted overnight and the campo was cold and deserted. A few straggly trees lined one side of the square and the odd pigeon, far from the hungry flock in San Marco, waddled over the uneven paving stones. Jeff and Roberto stood in the centre of the campo wrapped up in thick winter coats and scarves.

  'Although this was indeed a site for executions, there is a lighter side to its history,' Roberto said. 'Vivaldi was baptised in the church over there, the church of San Giovanni.' He pointed to a fagade that had clearly evolved through a succession of muddled renovations and extensions. 'And there,' he went on, 'is the most interesting building in the campo, the Palazzo Gritti Badoer; or as we know it now, Hotel LaResidenza.'

  'Which has five windows over a balcony,' Jeff observed and repeated the second part of Bruno's clue: ' "Five windows over a balcony. The point that touches the sky; a hemisphere above, and a hemisphere below." And this was here in the 1590s?'

  'Most definitely. It's fourteenth century. You can tell by the shape of the windows and the design of the loggia. So your idea wasn't crazy after all.'

  Jeff was looking up to the roof. 'Never doubted it for a second. But there's no "point that touches the sky" though, is there?' 'Unfortunately not,' Roberto replied.

  They walked across the campo towards the palazzo. On the wall of a narrow passageway they could see a sign that read Calle della Morte.

  The entrance to the hotel led directly into a vast echoing hall. There was a large reception area to the left, with heavy plasterwork around the tops of the walls; seventeenth-century paintings, all brooding dark colours and ravaged figures; clusters of antique chairs and tables. At the far end of the room stood a group of workmen arranging lights and hanging decorations. One of the men was perched precariously on a wooden stepladder. He was reaching up to the high ceiling attempting to attach a string of small white lights.