The Botticelli Secret

by Marina Fiorato

  Fear, naked fear.

  We waited for his hilarity to pass, and when it had died he clapped us both on the shoulder as if we were drinking companions. “Nonsense,” he said, still smiling broadly. “There is no secret here. These are the three dancing Graces of classical mythology, and no more. You must let this matter drop and return to your lives. I have a much better solution for you than chasing hither and yon, trying to get to the center of a labyrinth of your own making. Why not simply return it?”

  Brother Guido sighed with exasperation. I could tell he was disappointed, that he had expected to find an ally in his uncle. He had not expected our great breakthrough to be dismissed out of hand. “Those that seek us would find us in a heartbeat if we return to Florence. And even if they did not, the commune would try Signorina Vetra, and she would lose her nose; perhaps her hands too.”

  I swallowed at the thought of the brutality that could be meted out by the state. I had been so concerned with the unlawful assassins that pursued us, I had never stopped to think what the recourse of the law would be. But Brother Guido had known and had tried to protect me. Madonna. I would never work again without my nose or my pleasure-giving hands.

  Lord Silvio nodded, and then a sudden notion lit his face. “There I can help you, both of you. There is one man of Florence, that if you gained his pardon and protection, no man would dare gainsay.” He met his nephew’s look. “Yes,” said Lord Silvio simply. “Il Magnifico, Lorenzo de’ Medici himself.” He said it as if he were uttering the name of God Almighty.

  Now, I only knew three things about the ruler of our city-state of Florence.

  Qualcosa Uno: he was stabbed during the Pazzi conspiracy, but escaped while his brother Giuliano was butchered in the cathedral.

  Qualcosa Due: he was a banker and therefore richer than Croesus.

  Qualcosa Tre: he writes poetry in Tuscan, hence his association with Angelo Poliziano, his poet friend that everyone keeps going on about.

  Clearly, by the look on Brother Guido’s face, I had underestimated the reach of the man.

  “And you could . . . petition for us with him?” he asked his uncle.

  Lord Silvio thought for a moment. “I can do better than that. He is a firm friend of my heart, and I will take you to see him on the morrow.”

  I spoke at last. “Back to Florence?” My heart felt a great gladness and terror at the same time.

  He smiled. “No need. He has a palace here, in Pisa, that great palazzo with the red and white brick, that you may have seen today. One whole bank of the river—the Lungarno Mediceo—is named after him and his family. His heralds have given it out that he will be here in residence for the saint’s day, tomorrow. Or, I should say, today.” For it was well past midnight.

  Brother Guido and I gabbled our relieved thanks. Surely, il Magnifico could protect us. I was already thinking of how I would dress my hair, for what greater feather in my cap than an assignation with the greatest of the Medicis. I had all but forgotten my earlier attraction for Lord Silvio, when he took my hand to lead me down the stair. “I shall see you in the morning, then, nephew,” he called over his shoulder to Brother Guido. “And you, signorina,” he murmured in lower tones, “come to my chamber when the bells ring for Lauds.”

  My heart and my cunt thrilled at the words. I was to be bedded after all, and was safe from danger too. I pressed his hand with joy, but ‘twas short-lived, for Brother Guido heard.

  “My lord!”

  Lord Silvio stopped in his tracks.

  “You cannot importune Signorina Vetra,” began Brother Guido heatedly. “It is not seemly. Think of the saint for whom we celebrate.”

  Lord Silvio smiled indulgently. “Guido, Guido. How can you, a man of the cloth, understand the ways of the flesh? Besides, God gave us our bodies and our sensations to enjoy. To deny ourselves would be the greater sin.”

  “I? Not understand?” brayed Brother Guido. “Of course I understand. D’you think because I wear this”—he grabbed a handful of fustian draped over his chest—“that my heart does not beat, that my blood does not flow, that my senses—and yes, my bodily lusts—do not thrill in the face of beauty?” He looked at me then, his face contorted with agony like a damned soul, his eyes shining with tears. “To take the vows is not to numb all feeling, but to feel them just as fully yet deny bodily pleasures and devote yourself to God. For one night, I ask you to do the same.”

  His uncle turned once again to go, clearly anxious to avoid argument with one he so loved. But Brother Guido spun him violently round by the shoulder. “If you will not think of God, then think of my aunt, the mother of your son, your dead wife.” He placed a biting emphasis on the word. “You cannot so dishonor her in this house!”

  The shout echoed around the walls, just as laughter had done moments ago. I looked fearfully at Lord Silvio, now sad and still and dangerous in his silence. He spoke in quiet, measured tones that did not for a moment conceal his anger. “My wife was dearly beloved, as the Good Book says, but has been dead for ten years. My son is a weaning milksop, not fit to bear our name. And my nephew”—here two pairs of angry blue eyes mingled in stares that were eerily alike—“should have a care how he tells his uncle how to act within his own walls.” And then the sadness drowned the anger. “I’m alone, Guido. With you gone, is there to be no comfort left to me?”

  Suddenly he was not a great lord anymore, just a man of middle years, alone in the world despite his wealth and consequence. I felt sorry for him and I know Brother Guido did too. We stood, still as statues, with the painting lying between us in the glimmering light, forgotten in this family conflict, the graceful figures witnesses to what was said. Lord Silvio broke the spell. “Guido, I will see you in the morn. Signorina, later.”

  I nodded, not sure what to do, afraid of angering either. Brother Guido was silent but once his uncle had left the tower and descended the stair, he suddenly yelled, “No!”

  But it was too late. The word and the slam of the door at the foot of the stairs came together.

  Now, I expected pleas and exhortations from Brother Guido not to meet my assignation, but I got neither. He was gone too, without a word, slamming the oaken door as he went. I moved to roll up the painting and place it in my bodice. I felt sorry for Brother Guido, and was interested to hear that at least he still had a man’s feelings and not those of a eunuch. But I had an empty cunt and an empty purse, and nothing would keep me from my appointment that night.

  Nothing, that is, but the lord himself. I waited excitedly in my room, pacing by candlelight, waiting for the bells to ring for Lauds and the servant to fetch me. I had washed my nether parts with rose water, and drawn a silken thread through my teeth to cleanse them from the feast. I had emptied the oysters from my skirt into the copper ewer, which had been filled with fresh water, to keep cool for Brother Guido for morning. One sniff of my skirt, though, and I cursed my kind gesture, for it stank like a fishmarket. I rinsed the overskirt and put on a silken chemise instead. The stuff was so fine that my body was clearly visible beneath, but I cared not—easy access is no bad thing in my game. When the bells rang at last, there was a soft knock at the door and I arranged myself prettily on the bed, in case Lord Silvio had come to fetch me himself. But Tok entered, filling the doorframe with his massive bulk, telling me in his weird Tuscan that Lord Silvio sent his apologies, was indisposed, and must defer our meeting. Shit.

  “Indisposed?” I questioned in my haughtiest voice. “In what manner?”

  The mercenary didn’t miss a beat. “He iss unwell. Somesing that my lord ate at the feast, mayhap.”

  The fellow closed the door before I could question him further.

  Fuck.

  I threw myself back on the pillow and said every curse word that I knew. Indisposed, indeed. My lord had clearly had an attack of conscience due to the mewling and canting of his pious nephew. A pox on Brother Guido. I hated him.

  I raged for a while, then got below the coverlets, as I knew I must
try to sleep. I must be beautiful for my audience with il Magnifico. But I could not. As I twisted and turned in the gorgeous sheets I reflected that even if Lord Silvio was truly ill then he could not feel worse than I. To be promised bed play and then denied it was so much worse than never having the offer. In truth, I had slept better on the road, in sheep shacks and cow barns, home to fleas and great dollops of shit, than in this luxurious solar. The sky was a watery gray before I gave in and resorted to my unfailing method for inducing sleep. I let my hands drift down my smooth belly, over the pearl in my navel and between my legs to find instead the “pearl” that resided there. As I stroked and arched, I thought of how mine and Lord Silvio’s encounter might have gone, but when the sweetness flooded me it was his nephew’s face that I pictured, and the same countenance swam before my mind’s eye as I drifted at last to sleep.

  I slept heavily, and late, and when I woke it was to a crescendo of knocks to my door. A glance at the window told me that I had slept the day away. I rose slowly and ran a dry tongue round my teeth. Would that I had another ewer of water to drink, but the copper by my bedside was swimming with Brother Guido’s oysters and I nearly vomited at their fishy stink. I staggered to the door to admit Brother Guido himself.

  He greeted me guardedly, clearly not sure how to confront one that had bedded his uncle. I motioned him to come in. “You can crack a smile if you like,” I said, “for I spent a night as chaste as you did.” (Well, nearly; unless you count my fingersmith’s hands beneath the covers.)

  He breathed relief. “I am truly glad that your heart, or my uncle’s heart, found room for repentance.”

  I toyed with the idea of letting him think that I had made a sacrifice on his behalf (I could always use the favor for bargaining later), but then decided that if his uncle were ill in truth, my lie would be discovered. “Aye, his heart,” I said wryly, “or mayhap his stomach. He was ill in the night, according to that monster that serves him.”

  Brother Guido was all concern.

  “Did you not know?” I asked, softer now.

  “No,” he said. “I have been all day at the Duomo, hearing a cycle of masses for the saint.”

  “Well, even you must have prayed enough to break your fast now.” I motioned to the copper bowl of water and the oysters I had kept. He actually smiled as he sat down on the coverlet, ready to enjoy his deferred feast. “ ‘Tis most kind of you, for in truth, I am famished.” He raised the largest to his lips just as a knock sounded.

  Tok entered at my call, and regarded us both for an interested instant, before delivering his tidings. “Lord Guido. I haf been up and down this day to find you. You must come to your uncle. His illness is worse and he iss sinking fast.”

  Brother Guido dropped the oyster like a hot coal, and we both hurried after Tok.

  The mercenary strode ahead down a paneled passage and through a quiet courtyard with a fountain at the center, mutely arching in the gathering dusk. At the far side he opened the oaken door to his master’s rooms. The bedchamber was dark, as the drapes were drawn, and there was an evil shit-smelling stench, overlaid with woodruff and incense from a burner, to keep the evil spirits at bay. On the bed, twisted in silken sheets, and pale and hollow as a shell, lay Lord Silvio, already much changed from the man I recalled from last night. His flesh had a greenish pallor, his breath came in labored rasps. On his forearm, three stone-colored leeches lay in a row, glistening fatly and undulating as they gorged on infected blood. I knew, from one glance, that I was destined to see yet another dead man. Out of respect that I rarely show, I hovered at the door, but close enough to hear the last conference of the kinsmen.

  I expected Lord Silvio to express his great love for his nephew, to express sorrow for their argument of the evening before, or even to make one last impassioned appeal for Brother Guido to leave the church and accept his inheritance. But the words I heard bore no relation to any of these. Lord Silvio scrabbled for Brother Guido’s cowl with a pale hand and said, quite clearly, “Muda.”

  Brother Guido visibly started. “Are you sure?”

  Lord Silvio nodded. “Muda. Muda.” Then: “Follow . . . the light.” Then all clarity left him; he tried to repeat himself but failed as the spittle ran down his ghostly cheek. Brother Guido gentled him, pressing his hand to his uncle’s slowing heart, and I saw a glint of gold as the dying man slid the ring from his thumb to his nephew’s. At that instant the door opened, and an elderly priest entered with the last things needful for the final rites. Lord Silvio, seeing that a stranger had entered, attempted speech no more but lay back, as if spent. Brother Guido silently took the oils and wads from the priest and anointed his uncle himself, wiping the libations away as he prayed for his kinsman’s soul. Lord Silvio’s face was drawn in a hideous rictus grin, but as his clawed hand drew the sign of the cross on his dying chest, peace relaxed his countenance. He was dead.

  I withdrew from the room with the priest, to allow the della Torres a last farewell, and as the confessor blessed me and left I thought about what I had seen. To begin with, I could not fully comprehend our new predicament. I didn’t think, at that moment, of how we were right back in the shit, having lost our one protector. Nor of how we would petition Lorenzo de’ Medici without a sponsor. Nor did I reflect on the, frankly, bizarre final words of the dying lord. I thought of Brother Guido. Guido who had shown such bravery and nobility in the little scene that had just played out that I felt shame for my lewd thoughts. He was truly holy, and I should not wish to wrench him from the path he had taken. And yet, as I had watched his long hands stroke the holy oil into his uncle’s forehead, and heard his low sweet voice pray, and watched his dear serious face witness the passing, I had thought him truly the angel I had compared him to, and felt more strongly for him than ever. For the first time I saw the danger I was in, not from the assassins of Florence but from my own sensations and desires.

  At last the door opened and Brother Guido came out into the light, blue eyes blinking but tearless. My condolences and questions were cut short. “We must go,” he said.

  “Where?” I thought, instantly, of the painting. Were we to run again? Or would we pursue our audience with Lorenzo, even with Lord Silvio gone? But there was another matter at hand.

  “I must break the tidings to Niccolò.” He twisted his uncle’s ring where it rode, unaccustomed, on his thumb. Twisted, twisted.

  “Who?” In all the drama, I had forgot.

  He looked at me then, and the last rays of the sun turned him to gold like the ring as he answered. “His son.”

  And so ended the seventeenth of June, 1482, the feast day of Saint Ranieri, as the next day began.

  13

  Tok led us through the darkening streets, still crowded for the saint’s feast day. I kept my eyes on the burning torch he carried, following it like the star of the Nativity, trying to make sense of what had passed. Brother Guido was taciturn, pressed into silence under the weight of the heavy news he carried. I grabbed a handful of his habit, for the mercenary moved fast in front and I was fearful of being left behind, but still he said nothing. I was anxious to ask for Brother Guido’s interpretation of his uncle’s last words. What was Muda? And how was Brother Guido to “follow the light”? Was the last a blessing for Brother Guido’s chosen path, the holy light of divinity and a life in the church? I dared not ask. For one thing, Brother Guido’s preoccupied countenance forbade speech. And for another, I was not sure how much of what had passed he wished his uncle’s mercenary to hear. So I kept my peace, and at last we reached an odd destination: a matching pair of great houses, connected with an arch set on a bias across a corner, making the two into one. The connecting wall of the house boasted a clock, and I would have stared longer at this rare wonder, but Brother Guido moved swiftly inside. We climbed a dark stair, and then entered a chamber of such opulence that my dark-accustomed eyes blinked and filled with water.

  This place, a suite of rooms more elegant than any student surely had a right to inhabi
t, was almost more sumptuous than the della Torre palazzo itself. The beauties of the room—the plush cushions, the gilt sconces, and the velvet draperies—were the first things I noticed.

  Qualcosa Due: a white pasty youth reclining on a golden chaise.

  Qualcosa Tre: a small boy, black as ebony, lying atop him, his head bobbing at the older fellow’s groin.

  Brother Guido, innocent that he was, did not, I think, know at once what was happening. But I lowered my head to hide a smile, at the same moment that Tok let loose a guttural shout of laughter, which he turned into a cough. It was the first time I had seen a glimmer of humor from the wight, and as we shared an amused look, I began to like him better.

  The tableau on the couch rose up and broke apart, and Niccolò Gherardesca della Torre (for it was he) casually tucked his cock back into his hose as he greeted us, as if he had been doing no more than scribbling a late-evening essay. The little negro, who cannot have been more than eight, slid from the room, giving us an evil glance from almond-shaped eyes as he went.

  “Well, Guido,” began Niccolò in a nasal pipe. “Or should I say Brother Guido? You have finally come to pay homage to your coz. Tok told me you were visiting our fair city; I had expected your tribute before now.”

  Really? I had not seen Tok as a social creature, but apparently he had been running hither and yon, informing his lord’s heir of our doings. Now it does not, as you know, take me long to form an opinion, and I disliked Niccolò on sight. He had the family features, but it was as if an indifferent artist had attempted to set down Brother Guido’s face, and then left his work in the rain. The features were blunted and irregular, the noble nose angular, the chin so weak as to recede into the student’s neck. The lips were an unhealthy purple, permanently wet and formless, and the mouth was surrounded by little white spots that denoted an unhealthy lifestyle. His voice broke when he spoke, changing like a weathercock between boyhood and manhood, and his humor, too, seemed by turns falsely charming and childishly vicious. Shorter than his cousin and younger too, Niccolò nevertheless browbeat the monk with his higher rank, and Brother Guido, mindful of propriety but clearly reluctant, bowed to his relative. However, his words were barbed. “And I, cousin, expected I might see you at the feast at my uncle’s house yester evening.” Brother Guido fairly spat the words that reminded the boy of his duty.