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The Botticelli Secret

Page 36

by Marina Fiorato


  “Very well.” My mother was cold as the climate. “But let it be understood that I will need to take a blank with me, so that it may be properly and independently assayed.”

  “Independently assayed by your own inspectors.” The arch-duke scoffing now.

  “No.” My mother was all steel. “By his.”

  A pause from the archduke. “Then of course. In fact, let me have one stamped. Then he may admire the design. I assume you have brought the cast?”

  A silence. I guessed there had been a nod from my mother.

  “Well. I will be interested to see it for myself. Perhaps I will join you tonight, if you will permit me.”

  “So be it.”

  At least one party left the room at this point, and as I heard the doors I raised myself up on stiff knees, rubbed my sore ear, and scampered back to my room as quick as I could, lest my mother be coming up the stair to me. Back in my freezing eyrie I tried to make sense of what I’d heard.

  The repeated reference to an angel explained Zephyrus’s wings, but a golden angel? Zephyrus was more silver if anything. At least I knew for sure that my mother and the archduke were involved with the Seven, that it wasn’t some invention. Madonna, my mother could lie like the devil! All her cant about the Primavera being an innocent wedding gift, a celebration of beauty. My arse.

  I did not know what the Zecca was, for if it was someplace in Venice, my mother had, deliberately or no, left it off our itinerary. Talk of treaties and trading had largely gone over my head, and I wished I’d paid more attention to my mother’s tuition back when she was willing to give it to me. I was a little nearer to knowing why she had brought a carriage of strange men with us—they were experts of some sort. I sighed. Eavesdropping had made me no wiser, but I knew one thing. I had to follow my mother and the archduke tonight, wherever their “perilous” destination might be.

  I knew this would be difficult, for no sooner had I returned to my room than Marta entered with the goodwife that had brought the coat. This time, the little woman had her arms full of rose silk—a gown from my own coffers cunningly chosen to match the stones of the castle—and some rare pink diamonds set in ivory combs for my hair. Together, mutely, they began to prepare me for dinner. Marta’s clumsy hands, which stuck me once and again in my tender scalp with the combs, made me wish for my own Yassermin, but I must have looked nice when they had done, for the goodwife exclaimed in her strange tongue and clapped her hands together. I shivered without my coat from cold and nervous excitement about what the night would bring, and put it back on as soon as they were done.

  Then we proceeded down to another grand hall, girdled around with scenes of jousting, and sat at one side of four tables set end to end in a great square. I greeted the archduke and thanked him for my coat. He coughed something polite at me in his dialect, presumably a compliment for he was smiling his wolf’s grin. Then he said something which sounded like “Ursus maritimus.” I had a little more Latin these days, from my association with Brother Guido, but my translation here cannot have been accurate—did he really think that my coat had come from some great white bear that swam in the cold northern seas? I smiled and nodded, and backed away. Left him to my mother’s considerable charms.

  I had no high hopes of the meal, for everything in Castello Roncolo seemed to take us back in time, at least a hundred years to the time of knights of old. Already I could see the open fires burning in the vast castle hearths, with the room so smoky it was hard to see your hand in front of your face. Castle curs crouched below the boards slavering at the meat smells and hoping to catch a few morsels. I half expected a jester to appear, and someone not far off did, a foolish fellow dressed in motley, wailing out local folk songs in a howling voice so discordant that the curs joined in. Then, as another fellow blew an enormously long mountain horn, our entertainment began to leap and dance like a lunatic, slapping his short leather hose and other parts of his body in a bizarre percussion. I wondered if he was jug-bitten, and his antics gave me an idea.

  As was customary, Marta and I ate from the same plate, lest someone should try to poison the doge’s heir. This was a strange feast indeed—the backward nature of the place was reflected in the fare, and we dined on peasants’ food of smoked ham called speck, foul-smelling local cheese chestnuts, and strange little dumplings that seemed to be called Knödel. I longed for my father’s table and the fine fish and pasta that we dined on nightly. But the food was not my concern this night—crucially, Marta and I drank from the same jug of wine. The meal may have been rough and rustic, but the wine was plentiful—yellow as piss and set before us in clay jugs packed in mountain ice. One long pull made me feel colder inside than out. Good. It helped that I did not like the wine, for I needed a clear head. I pushed the jug aside and filled up Marta’s cup, watched her drink, then filled it again. The greedy wench drank again.

  Now, usually I will match my servant at the table. But I did not care for white wine, and besides, my plan was to let Marta have the lion’s share of the jug. She drained it. I called for more. By her second jug the dour, plain wench was flush-faced and chattering, lolling on my shoulder like a soul mate, and confiding in me about a kitchen lad of my father’s, called Alvise, who had once tumbled her in the calle. I almost felt sorry that I might be buying her a whipping by dawn.

  My scheme worked almost too well. Marta was in such a state that we almost had to leave the table sooner than was polite. My mother’s eye was upon me, but since Marta was with me, she could see naught amiss and turned back to the archduke.

  Outside, plenty was amiss—as we hit the fresh air Marta vomited copiously in the courtyard. I had to help her to my room, and since she could not even put one foot in front of another, it was child’s play to help her with the key and then pocket it. In the painted chamber she slumped upon her truckle bed at the foot of mine, her snores sounding before her head even hit the pillow. I slipped out and turned the key on her, the captor captive.

  I crept back down to the courtyard and loitered in shadow till the feast ended, at once blessing my new coat and cursing its color. I damned the Ursus maritimus, wherever he may live. I knew it would be difficult to follow my mother so dressed, for I was a walking snowdrift.

  Finally, finally, my mother’s party emerged with the arch-duke and my mother dressed as if for hunting, with her halfdozen Venetian strangers in tow. I loitered by the gate house and joined the party fluidly as the guards let them pass, then hid in the undergrowth again as soon as they were clear of the walls, heart thudding in my throat. Now the Ursus maritimus was my friend once more, for in his white pelt I was invisible in the snowy landscape. I let the party get ahead, in no fear of losing them for they all carried burning brands, and the torch-light glowed down the mountain leading me like the Bethlehem star.

  I followed the amber comet down the mountain a little way, till the party stopped. Then the streaming tail of the comet disappeared to leave a burning circle, and all of a sudden the light was gone.

  Pulses pounding, I rushed to the spot where the light had disappeared. A small clearing offered me no cover, but the party had vanished and I recklessly rushed into the open, looking about me, everywhere but down. Presently I came to a halt and fell to my knees, looking down at last in despair. Then I learned that ‘twas fortunate, indeed, that I had stopped when I did, for I was on the lip of a gaping hole, open like the mouth of a well, descending to inky black. I shivered inside my coat, for I could easily have run straight over it and broken my neck as I crashed into the fathomless depths. Now I understood why the torchglow had become a circle then gone, for all the party had climbed down here, the light pouring from the mouth of the cavern, only to fade as the group moved down into the shaft. I got on my belly and inched to the lip of the thing—yes, there was a deep saffron glow from within, and I knew now that ‘twas not a well but some sort of entrance to an underground tunnel. There was silence from below and I knew them to be some way down. I felt in the soft earth for handholds and f
ound a greasy rope tied to a stake. I took a deep breath, as if I were about to swim, and lowered myself over.

  There were footholds in the walls, great gobs of bites taken out of the stone, and my fancy pointed shoes refused to be stuffed into them. My feet scrabbled and the tendons in my arms cracked. The coat was heavier than a millstone—I should have left it in the spinney. I longed to kick off my shoes but dared not, lest they fall on some fellow below and give me away. I half slid, half kicked my way to the ground, my un-gloved hands burning on the rope, my legs flailing. I hoped the shaft were none too deep, and a morbid thought visited me of the head of Brother Remigio, severed and bouncing down Santa Croce’s well. I swallowed my rising fear and thought of a happier time underground—when Brother Guido and I had been together in the Roman Catacombs. With his face in my mind’s eye I found courage, and at the same moment my feet found the ground.

  And now—a fresh problem. There were six tunnels radiating out from the main shaft, and since the atrium itself was studded with torches set into wall sconces, I could not guess which one the archduke and my mother might have taken. I listened, trying to quiet my breathing and still my heart, then I heard a ringing sound—a blow, like metal upon metal. Surely no one fought here? Was there treachery afoot? Had the archduke brought my mother down here to murder her? With mixed feelings about the fate of my mother—did I care or not?—I hurried in the direction of the sound upon silent feet.

  The passage took me down and down, the stone underfoot becoming more and more slimy and slippery with moisture with every step I took. Presently the narrow tunnel ballooned into a cave, and the amber glow grew stronger. I knew the party were in the great rocky chamber I approached, for I could hear the voices of the archduke and my mother, booming through the cave. I clambered high upon an outcrop of stones, peeped over the lip of the rocks, and could see everything; all the players were there, in a circle of torchlight having a conference. I felt as if I watched a play. My mother, alive and well, was speaking, and her voice echoed from the stones.

  “Archduke. May I present the best that the Zecca can offer. Signor da Mosto, our assayer.” A dour fellow in a black-and-white cloak, with a soft square black felt four-cornered hat, stepped forward. “Signor Mantovano, our ironsmith.” A squat fellow with the filthiest hands I’ve ever seen. “Signor Contino, our silversmith.” Ah! The lecherous fellow from the carriage train. “And Signor Sarpi, our moneyer.” Signor Sarpi was a giant of a man, wearing naught but breeches and a wide wrestler’s belt, and brandishing a hammer. I no longer feared for my mother with such a fellow at her command. “And when I say that they are the best that the Zecca can offer, then you know I am telling you that they are the best anywhere, for you do not need me to tell you that the Zecca of Venice is the finest mint to be found anywhere on this earth.” I heard the civic pride in her voice but was no nearer divining her meaning. What did this strange collection of men do? Why were they so important that they traveled with her in the Mocenigo carriage? Two of them had a noble stamp, but the other two looked like peasants.

  “Signor Mantovano, the cast, please.” My mother held out her hand and the fellow named as an ironsmith dropped a heavy object into her hand—heavy by the way that her palm dropped. The thing divided into two. “The seal,” she commanded.

  “May I see?” The archduke stepped into the light. After a moment he said, “A very striking design. A trifle aggrandizing, but we know the tastes of our friend. And the themes are most apt. Let us see the blank.” The silversmith stepped forth with a round silver disk that winked in the torchlight.

  Then it was the assayer’s turn. He stepped forth with a pair of delicate scales, two little brass pans suspended from a copper bar, all on a fine golden chain. He neatly dropped a lead ingot into one pan, the disk into another. “One hundred and twenty-four,” he announced. “I declare this a silver angel.”

  “Well, then,” said the archduke, rubbing his hands like a child at Christmastide. “Let us strike one. Signor?” he addressed the moneyer. The silversmith took the cast and placed the blank disk upon it, put the other half of the die on top, and stood back. “We are witnessing history,” pronounced the archduke, just as the moneyer swung his hammer and fetched the top of the die an almighty thwack.

  History was not quite ready to be witnessed, for the burly moneyer, clearly put off his stroke by the archduke’s awesome pronouncement, misstruck; the disk sheared off into the dark, whistling past my ear. They all looked in my direction and I ducked as fast as I could. As I hid, the truth was revealed; for at my feet was a silver coin, lying where it had fallen. The angel had flown to me. I had time to put the thing in my sleeve before I stood once more.

  There was an uncomfortable shuffling of feet when I looked back, and the archduke had raised an eyebrow at my mother.

  “I’m sorry, Dogaressa,” mumbled the giant. “ ‘Tis the light. I do not habitually strike by torch.”

  “Do it better,” spat my mother, and I know she would have slapped him had he not been so large. “Your guild’s reputation is at stake, and Venice’s too.”

  This time the strike was true, and the sound rang out like a bell. The first angel had been struck, and was lifted from the stamp and handed to the archduke.

  He turned it in his hand. “Very fine,” he said. “I will keep this upon account, to show to the emperor.” He handed it to his servant before my mother could protest.

  As this could only be the conclusion of their business, I slid to the ground as swiftly as I could.

  But my luck had ended. My descent began a small avalanche of pebbles, and the party beyond the rocks fell silent at the sound.

  “Spies!” hissed Archduke Sigismund from the cavern. “Move.”

  As if he addressed me, I ran back to the atrium for my very life. Not the coat or my shoes could hinder me as I shinned up the rope and into the clearing, and tore into the woods to hide behind the thickest trunk I could see. I almost ran for the castello in my panic till I realized I could not gain entry without the party. The next few heartbeats, waiting for them, were agonizing—my body screamed at me to run but my mind knew I must not. Two guards, my mother, the archduke, and the Venetians emerged from the shaft in turn.

  “No one,” said the archduke. He looked directly at my mother. “A rat, I suppose.” There it was again, that half-taunting, half-joking cadence to his voice—I could still not divine whether he hated her or loved her. They were Zephyrus and Chloris indeed. “You do not fear rats, Dogaressa?”

  “Not of the animal kingdom, no,” she replied, but she had a watchful air. “I suggest we return to the castle—there is a little matter of which I need to make certain.”

  With a cold rush that had naught to do with the midnight chill, I knew she was talking about me. I trailed them back to the castello, more silently than before. Their conference continued, but I could not hear for the blood that rushed in my head. I could think of nothing other than returning to my room before my mother knew I was gone. I could not believe, now, that I had risked so much, when I could have stayed safe in my room, slept soundly, and just waited for tomorrow’s carriage to take me to Milan and Brother Guido. I hoped the coin I held was worth the risk. I could not believe I would be able to gain entry with the party without discovery, for surely anyone may leave a castle; getting in may be another issue. But the sleepy guards merely counted our number back in, and as the tally was the same as those who had left, I was given pass with the others. Fortunately my mother was obliged to offer her good-nights to the archduke as was his due, so I was able to slip up the gate house stairs. I fled to my room, fumbling for the key I had stolen from Marta. It fairly rattled in the wards as my feverish hand trembled. Would I wake Marta? The door swung open and I saw my drunken sot of a maid in the exact same position I had left her. I turned the key behind me and kicked off my shoes and slithered out of my dress. I leaped upon the bed and dragged the white bear pelt over my naked body, now no longer goosefleshed but incandescent with hea
t. I knew my cheeks would be hectic and my hair damp from the cold night air so I turned my face from the door and tried to still my breathing, for I knew she would come.

  And she did. There was a furious rap upon the door. “Marta! Marta!”

  A hellish groan from my side.

  “Marta!” The rapping grew louder. And my maid lumbered to her feet, stumbled to the door, fumbled with the key. The door flew wide and my mother strode in. She must have seen me at once, for she lowered her voice to a whisper—but her tone was clearly no less frightening to the terrified Marta.

  “Foolish girl, did you not hear me call?”

  Marta slurred something. Then I heard two stinging blows as my mother slapped her twice across the cheeks forward and back. “Yes, you will hear me now. Listen to me well. Has Signorina Luciana left the room this night? Has she left the room?”

  “No, Dogaressa!” protested my hapless maid. “We feasted and returned here, and we have been asleep ever since.”

  I heard my mother breathe relief, then seek to justify her hasty entry. “Look alive, you stupid, drunken chit. You are to look after my daughter at all times, do you hear? I did not give you permission to sleep! You may sleep in the carriages tomorrow, when la signorina is in my safekeeping. Do you hear?”

  “Yes, Dogaressa.”

  I feigned sleep through this but was also listening carefully, as you may imagine. Once again I got the puzzling sense that my mother really did love me, and that she was in equal parts concerned that I had spied upon her and worried for my safety if I had left this room. She was an odd mixture indeed—but what I most feared now was that she would come over to me and sit beside my “sleeping” form as she had done once before. If she should smooth my hair, or even kiss my heated cheek as she had done in Venice, I was done for. But I thought I knew my mother well enough to know that she would not show the weakness of affection in front of a servant, and I was right. She withdrew, and my maid sat at the hard bench at the window groaning and wakeful, to watch me as the night paled to dawn. As my heart slowed and I drifted to sleep at last, I almost felt sorry for her. Almost.

 

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