Secrets of Casanova

by Michaels, Greg

  “I shouldn’t have trusted the beast,” Petrine announced angrily.

  He soon traded the mare’s saddle for an abundance of food and wine and returned to Conde de Tarouca’s palace to wait.

  On a cold afternoon, Jacques finally returned

  Serving the evening meal, Petrine sadly recounted how the mare had thrown him from the saddle and run away. He then took a stone seat opposite Jacques, who did not lift his head but with blank eyes sat bemused in thought.

  When Petrine asked about his master’s inquiries in Lisbon, there was no response. Instead, Jacques began to slowly rap his knuckles on the stone on which he slumped.

  “A mix of intuition, analysis, and raw trial and error—that’s who I am, that’s why I’ll succeed,” mumbled Jacques, his mouth barely eking out the words. “My task requires the thinnest of maps, essentially cloths of oiled animal membrane. Maps I can see through. After examining three dozen of these maps, I begin to wonder at my obsession. After a hundred of them, I doubt my mind.”

  Tottering at the edge of his rock seat, Petrine reached for Jacques’ plate and set it on the ground. “What are you talking—?”

  Jacques exhaled loudly, then began in a shrill voice. “I unroll Quentin’s scroll cover and affix it to the library desk as flat as is possible.

  “Now I ask ‘Which one of these forty-seven pinpricks, these forty-seven monasteries, contains the treasure?’ A line from the scroll helps mandate my answer. ‘To know all, you need but three.’ In other words, to know everything, to solve the mystery, I need employ just three—pinpricks.

  “Three points, as any schoolboy knows, may construct a triangle. Located at one of those points of the triangle may be the monastery I seek. But no. The Templars were more cunning.

  “In this matter,” Jacques droned, “another line from the scroll neatly directs me. ‘The golden mean should always be observed.’ This clue furnishes a mathematical proportion that will help me connect three pinpricks—not into a plain, unsophisticated triangle, but into an extraordinary spiral.

  “For the time being, I make the assumption that Lisbon is the central locus of the spiral I want to construct. From the general pattern of the forty-seven pinpricks, I ascertain that only one prick—the one farthest from all the others—stands for Lisbon. Using the city as my locus, I very carefully draw a spiral on my scroll cover based on the golden mean proportion, a spiral that, I hope, will intersect only two other points of the forty-seven. It seems my rigors are rewarded with accomplishment when I find two—and only two—points that intersect the outward-bounding spiral. ‘To know all, you need but three’: these two points and my locus are the three.

  “Now I must determine where these points lie on an actual geographic map.

  “The forty-seven pinpricks of my cover, each representing an existing monastery—all must lie within the land boundaries of a European map. Cistercian monasteries, after all, are built on land, not on the ocean. Again and again over the unfurled scroll cover, I position the thin European maps—remembering that I’m looking for a template of Europe that will match exactly the size of my unfurled scroll cover. Days and nights pass with only a dim candle and a small bug to companion me.”

  “A bug?” Petrine’s voice rose adamantly. “I’ve been quite patient—“

  “None of the first hundred European maps I try encompass the requisite pinpricks, but finally a map turns up that does, indeed, hold all forty-seven.” Jacques straightened up his body and stopped his knuckle rapping. His head still hung low.

  “Carefully steadying this map of Europe on top of the scroll, two—and only two—points intersect the spiral I’ve drawn. One or both of these points on the spiral must be the geographic location of the monastery we want.

  “And then further, glimpsing the right corner of my special map, I spy the number 1300 in the same stylized calligraphy as my scroll’s. This unexpected and joyful surprise gives me hope that I hold the appropriate Templar map. Eventually I examine all the remaining maps, but only this one fits all my criteria.”

  “You know the actual site of our treasure?” cried Petrine.

  Jacques jerked his head up, tilting it strangely. “The closest monastery,” he said, “if I’ve properly understood the cipher, the code, and the other abstractions—if I’m precise—the search will lead to a monastery located, by my estimation, somewhere within ten to twenty square kilometers of terrain in southern France.”

  “Southern France?” Petrine’s eyes closed. “Twenty square kilometers? Twenty!” He opened his eyes, jammed his fingers to his open mouth, and began to gnaw. After a glaring silence, he spoke. “I never distrust your taste in women. Nor your brilliance in scholarly areas. Nor your talent to inspire me onward. But in all humility, sir, in all frankness, at this moment I ask, are you in your right mind?”

  “Did you speak?”

  Petrine rubbed his balled fists against his thighs. “I asked, are you in your right mind?”

  Jacques’ head fell forward as if ready for the executioner’s axe. “I believe … I do believe I’m right—in my mind.” Long moments passed before he again spoke in an uneven whisper. “But perhaps my heart is still lacking.”

  - 35 -

  “SLOGGING THROUGH DECEMBER’S RAIN is not taxing enough,” Petrine grumbled to himself while he readjusted the packet on his shoulder. “Now a week out of Lisbon, the clouds of France buckle with freezing snow. My master should reward me for thinking to steal heavy coats for us before we left. And he ought to be grateful I thought to hide away his travel trunks in Lisbon.” Petrine laughed quietly. “I never supposed in all my days I’d see him part with those and his vanities.” He scurried to catch up with Jacques, who was not far ahead.

  “The air—tantalizing,” Jacques muttered.

  Petrine took a sidelong glance at Jacques. “Yes, master. Practically springlike.”

  He listened to the aggravating crunch of his boots on the hard-frozen earth. “Darkness is close upon us, master. When do we stop?”

  “By my judgment, we’re a short walk farther to Arques.”

  “Perhaps it’s a ville large enough to provide shelter for the night? I can’t move one foot in front of the other much longer.”

  Jacques studied the sky, all the time keeping his steady pace. His face was drawn, eyes red.

  Within a half hour, the daylight had all but disappeared—but so, too, had Petrine and Jacques covered a fair distance.

  “Can that be the light of an inn?”

  “I say it is.”

  “Even if the place is a chimera, it must suffice.”

  The next morning, after a well-deserved sleep and breakfast, Jacques and Petrine convened outside their austere and ancient lodging.

  “Glad to have found this place last night.” Petrine was about to blow hot breath on his fingers when the inn’s signboard squeaked in the stout northeast wind. “Master, master,” Petrine stammered. “Do you see?”

  “I do. I’m looking where you are. And I’m incredulous. But let us take our eyes off the sign immediately.”

  After a quick “Follow me,” Jacques took a dozen lively steps across the wide path that passed for a road and collapsed his back against a gargantuan boulder. Petrine followed, animated with excitement.

  “Stand here opposite me,” Jacques said, “so I can talk with you while I take this in.”

  “The sign on the inn reads what I think it does?”

  “Yes. Siste viator. Stop, traveler.” Jacques spoke as a gust swirled snow about his head. “The last Latin line on our treasure parchment is the name of our inn.” His eyes gleamed fiercely. He clamped Petrine’s shoulder.

  “Master, master. What? What?”

  “In the far distance beyond the inn, I see the formation. A mountain formation. The mountain formation. Ecce signum. Behold the proof.”

  Petrine began to turn, but Jacques pulled him back.

  “If I could paint this remarkable mountain from where we stand,” Jacques sai
d, “it would match Francesco’s landscape canvas. And further, a drawn outline of the formation surely corresponds to the double-humped camel on our scroll, what I thought indicated only letters of some alphabet.”

  Petrine wrung both hands around Jacques’ outstretched arm.

  Jacques spoke quietly, insistently. “I see now. Vicomte de Fragonard commissioned Francesco to copy that rugged likeness on canvas—an ingenious way to leave behind an important clue. Remember? Ars longa, vita brevis, the Vicomte often repeated. Art lasts longer, much longer, than a human. Art can pass on a vital secret with a greater accuracy and for longer—from generation to generation, from culture to culture, if necessary. Francesco innocently copied an image of the unique landscape we view.”

  “Master, look at me,” exclaimed Petrine.

  Jacques’ warm breath exhaled a ghostly mist in the freezing air. “What I say, Petrine, is that my eyes must perceive the very location the clues provide. We’ve reached our destination. This is where we want to be.”

  Petrine wrapped his arms around his master, nearly crushing him with a hug. “Joy! I dance with joy!”

  It was quickly agreed Petrine would, in the shortest time possible, glean what information he could and make subtle arrangements for the journey to the mountain. To that end, he spoke with those few locals who wandered about the inn. He began with the innkeeper.

  “So, heading south, are there places to stay the night?” Petrine asked.

  The innkeeper quit sweeping bone scraps, opened the back door, then launched the scraps out into the yard. With his broom, he pushed the door shut and ran his fingers through his long white beard. “The only place for fifty kilometers to lay your head, young sir, is here. We’re surely off the pilgrims’ path, I’ll give you that, but we’re not forgotten. In fact, sir, if you want to stay more nights, our inn’s well stocked and well kept. The pious tribe that owns this sturdy place—in the old times it was built as a monastery—gives me full run, and I manage it well for them.”

  “Monastery?” Petrine asked excitedly. He quieted his tone. “Why, I thought you were the owner, sir. You have that air about you.”

  “No, just the keep,” the old man smiled, tugging meekly on his beard. He set his broom aside and blew out all the candles on the long table. “Every morning my wife and I work to make this place as comfortable as possible in this harsh country. If I—”

  “One last question, sir, if I may so put upon you. If we travel south, will we find food anywhere?”

  “Not one bit. But my wife had a decent growing summer and might sell you some. As the Spanish say, Dio provvederà.”

  “Yes, God will provide. As long as the devoted valet is here,” Petrine grunted under his breath.

  All of the day and most of the next morning were required for the arduous trek across the valley, but the glittering white façade of the camelback formation enticed Jacques and Petrine onward. By noon they reached the base of the mountain.

  “A marvel,” Petrine cried out, new elation in his voice.

  “Yes, I feel the same,” Jacques panted as he trained his eyes upward. “I feel dwarfed by this towering mass.” He slowly turned his head. “Soaring monoliths on either end. The spiring mid-section—exceptional formation, to say the least. Never in my travels have I seen anything like this. How much time will we need to traverse the base for a recognizable sign, an identifying mark, I wonder?”

  “I, for one, am up for the contest,” Petrine said, his voice crackling with enthusiasm. He offered his waterskin, then took some for himself.

  ***

  It was with some luck that, two days later, Jacques detected what he interpreted as a footpath, a faintly discernible route so narrow and overgrown a mountain goat might be hard-pressed to survive its treachery.

  “We will follow this as far as we can,” Jacques said solemnly. He shaded his eyes, trying to chart what little of the path he could make out.

  Petrine tossed his packet to the ground, then raised his bruised forearms. “Might not be able to handle another tumble like yesterday’s.”

  “You’ve been closer to hell than this, lackey.”

  “With you, as I recall,” the valet replied, batting his master’s shoulder.

  “Lisbon,” Jacques shuddered. He placed his hand firmly on the crown of Petrine’s head. “Yes, with me. The both of us.”

  From the deep recesses of the adventurer’s mind, a thought whispered: The crucial moments are coming wherein I’ll need the man most. If something is afoot … if the valet means to forsake me … I must sharpen my attention.

  “And we’re now about to better our situation, our standing in the world, aren’t we?” asked Petrine.

  “We’ll discover what secret the Church of Rome so greatly prizes that Dominique, Quentin Gray, and especially the old Vicomte would want it so.”

  For hours, Jacques and Petrine progressed cautiously up the mountainside avoiding, when they could, scrub, loose rock and thick roots blocking the path. Jacques’ nostrils smarted with each breath. With care he stood up, folded up his hands, blew on them, and gazed at the sky. Bright day instantly altered to gray when a voluminous gray cloud blotted the sun. He motioned to Petrine, and both proceeded onward.

  - 36 -

  JACQUES STRUCK THE WHITE ROCK with his fist. “The perilous trail has played out. Played out.” He stooped over, hands on knees. “I ache to think this is a false path.”

  Petrine forced his back against the cold face of stone behind him and slid to his haunches. “Maybe the trail was meant to end here?” he wheezed.

  “Perhaps.”

  It was some time before he recognized the slightest of gaps in the sheer rock—at eye level—but back below him on the path. “We’d passed right by,” he muttered. He picked his way down the trail and stared at the irregularity above.

  “Petrine, stand on my shoulders.”

  “Are you certain? Your shoulders, I mean?”

  Jacques nodded.

  The valet waggled his finger. “No untoward moves. Not from this high up,” he said, his voice shaking badly. “Be steady.” He removed his goatskin and packet and set them against a brittle scrub that immediately snapped in half.

  Carefully he climbed and planted himself atop Jacques’ shoulders, then spoke straightaway. “Here, I’m right in front of it.”

  “Quiet, Spaniard. There could be others about.”

  Petrine readjusted his weight, then continued his efforts. “Well disguised, these cuts in the rock. Taking all my might to slide this stone over. May need more time. Strength. More than I … moving—yes—the stone,” he huffed. “Now it rests next to the mouth of the cut. I did it!”

  “Good, good.”

  “A long—looks like—horizontal shaft. Very dark. But a bead of light in the distance.” Petrine coughed, burrowing his boots deeper into Jacques’ shoulders.

  “Come down,” Jacques ordered, his voice fading. “My muscles are worn.” He patted his lips with the back of his hand. “Hard to breathe this high up. I’m parched, too.”

  The valet cautiously slipped from Jacques’ shoulders and squatted.

  Jacques slumped on the path next to Petrine and took the water pouch, upending it in his mouth. He stared at the mountainside and rubbed his neck. “A man-made tunnel this high up? What other purpose? A mine?” He took another drink. “The shaft leads to riches. It must.”

  “No blockages as far as I could see into the murkiness. Room for a man to crawl on his belly, not much more.”

  “Ready?” Jacques stood. “I’m going up.”

  “I’ll go. Your bruised shoulders.”

  "This is the main chance. It will be me.”

  Petrine lurched to standing and snatched the goatskin from Jacques’ hands. “Taking the pouch is out of the question,” he growled. “Shaft is too narrow for a big man like you—and it.”

  Jacques glared. “You pay too little heed of your station, valet. I’m the one to go,” he said, drawing his dagger.
<
br />   Petrine took a quick step back.

  “Be careful with me.” Jacques placed the dagger’s blade between his teeth before raising himself on top of the valet’s shoulders.

  “Hurry. Your weight crushes—”

  A moment later, Jacques stared at the entrance to the shaft. “Partly in,” he said, painstakingly inserting his body headfirst into the slender shaft.

  Anticipation roused his blood, even as the dry, acrid smell taunted his nose. Prostrate on his stomach, he clenched the blade hard between his teeth until, watching his knuckles pale, he stopped breathing. The whistle of a far-off wind played its mournful tune. If I’m trapped, Petrine will never be able to rescue me by himself. A lonely, ugly end.

  He relaxed his fists, then advanced, clawing the rockshaft bit by bit. His mind tumbled. The cold pressed around him. Each time he rested his chin on the coarse rock surface, beard stubble jabbed his cheeks, the dagger crowded his tongue. He pushed forward, the corridor narrowing as he went.

  In a short while his fingertips met … nothing, emptiness. A drop-off! Jacques’ heart hammered. The pinpoint of light Petrine had spotted eked from some source below, but whatever was there—colder, menacing—couldn’t be seen.

  As best he could, Jacques dislodged a pebble with his dagger and flicked it out into the void. No sound. A bigger stone then?

  But he hadn’t the room to maneuver a bigger stone. He shivered uncontrollably. Fear was upon him. Dare I send my dagger over the brink? If the dagger’s fall is drawn out—my dagger is lost and I’ll proceed no further. Not without better—

  He let go of his weapon. A muffled thump. A short, soft fall then?

  Lengthening his body like a blind worm until it extended over the void, Jacques tucked his chin, covered his head with his arms, and made one last push.

  “Aaagggh.”

  Thudding on the ground, he winced, ribs throbbing.