The Botticelli Secret
Page 39
“Look closer. At the rod he’s using to stir the clouds and bring the spring. Look, two snakes entwined upon the rod, poised to strike.”
“So?”
“Snakes are the symbol of the Sforza family—the rulers of Milan. Snakes are everywhere—on our armor, look”—he pointed to his breastplate—“walls, banners, tapestries. Even the seal of il Moro, which all those in his service carry so we may do his bidding without stay or prevention, depicts the Sforza serpent. See.” He held out a little plaque, fashioned from red clay, with the snake squirming atop. “Everywhere.”
The snake above the gate house as I’d entered the castle. “So the snake tells us which city. But there must be more. How about this map that we still haven’t found? There must be a clue here if only we could see it. So what else?”
“Well, how about the details now. He has got tiny flames on his cloak . . .”
“And tiny white flowers growing around his boot . . .” We were back in our old rhythm.
“Cress, crescione or Cardamine hirsuta. I saw some in the her-barium.”
“We’re missing something. What’s he trying to tell us?”
“Pisa is looking at him,” I ventured.
“That’s it!” he exclaimed.
“Really?”
“Not who is looking at him,” he clarified. “Where is he looking?”
“Up at the whatd’ye call it.”
“Caduceus. Exactly.”
“So we’re back to the snakes again. Milan. Well, we’re in Milan. The map’s in Milan. Great. It’s hopeless.” I slumped back on my straw.
There was a silence. Then, “Not hopeless,” began Brother Guido slowly. “Look. Botticelli is the model for this figure. Why? He must hold the key; he must be an important figure; he must hold the answer. And,” he added with sudden vigor, “we are so busy identifying this figure with Botticelli that we are forgetting who he represents. Mercury. The messenger of the gods. He has a message for us; we just need to divine what it is.” He scrutinized the figure again. “I think he is telling us to do what he does, see what he sees. He’s even using a pointer. He could not be clearer.”
“So we’re to look up at the clouds.” I was skeptical.
“Perhaps. No, no, wait. We are not being told to look up at the clouds. We are being told to look up at a snake. Where may we do that?” he mused.
I sat up abruptly, for I had the answer. “The gate house.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“The clock tower. Of this very castle. As you come into the castle, there’s a huge stone snake, just like that”—I pointed to the caduceus—“above the gates.”
“The Torre del Filarete. You are right! I have marched beneath it every day now for a month! I have been blind!” He leaped to his feet once more, full of pent excitement, as I knew him of old.
I got up too. “Never mind all that. If we’re to look up at a snake, let’s go and do it.”
“Now?”
“The guards change every two hours. Believe me, I know. You’ve been here, what, an hour, say? Compline has just rung. We have another hour—let’s go and look!”
His blue eyes burned. “Very well. Get your cloak, and bring that mask too.”
41
The air was warmer here and I was back in the mink I had worn in Venice. The color was cousin to the night, much closer to dark than the ridiculous white bear coat I’d worn in Bolzano. I drew up the hood and followed Brother Guido, who for the sake of appearance frog-marched me with a tight grip on my upper arm, as if he were taking me prisoner, lest we be challenged. We snuck out of the tower door onto the battlements and crept along the stone walkway to the clock tower—I’d already forgotten how Brother Guido had named it. He drew me close.
“There are two guards on the gate,” he whispered. “So we cannot go down the stairs to look up, so to speak. But if we look down from above, there may still be something to see. Let us take turns. I’ll look first, for if I am seen, at least I am one of their company.” He leaned out between the battlements.
And was back in an instant. “Well. It is the same snake all right. Six coils—not seven as we might expect—north facing, I think, directly above the gate. Take a look.”
I looked down from the same spot. ‘Twas a difficult angle, and there was little light save that from the guards’ torches. To be honest, I’d gotten a clearer impression of the carving in the heartbeat I’d passed under it in my mother’s carriage, for at least that was by day. I could see the curves of the coils, the evil fangs, the yawning jaws stretched wide to devour. But the serpent was giving no other secrets away. I stared so hard I began to feel dizzy and feared I would fall. I jumped back down to the battlement, shrugged.
Brother Guido shook his head. “We are being blind,” he said.
“Perhaps it’s something you can only see from below,” I suggested.
“Or perhaps the snake just represents the Sforzas—and this castle as the headquarters of the new army—and nothing else.”
“That doesn’t help us find the map,” I snapped. “Let me try again.” I jumped and craned over, the stones of the battlements crushing my ribs once more. But this time I saw something else. Another panel, another carving, beside the snake. “There’s something here!” I hissed, snakelike myself. “A figure of a man. No—he has a halo. A saint.”
“Let me see.” Brother Guido almost shoved me from my position. “You are right.” His head reappeared.
“Could you see who it was?”
“I do not need to see. I know. It’s Sant’Ambrogio, patron saint of Lombardy. The people here invoke him for everything from a dying horse to a lost cat; they name their children after him, call on him when they stub their toe. It is he, for certain.”
He jumped down to crouch in the shadows by my side.
“And what was his story?” I demanded. “What was he famous for?”
“Nothing. Except—” He stopped, turned his extraordinary eyes upon me.
“Except?”
“He made a blind man see!” he breathed.
“Really?” My voice was heavy with irony, for I had no truck with miracles. They were just another way for the church to make money.
“That’s it!” He forgot to whisper and I had to shush him. “The saint is going to make us see!”
Despite my doubts, I felt the old familiar excitement build in my chestspoon. “How’s he going to do that? And where?”
“Easy. Let us go and ask him.”
“He’s still here, in Milan?”
“Never left.”
“Explain, please.”
“Il Moro himself worships at the monastery church of Santa Maria delle Grazie, and he requires his soldiers to be devout—a sop to His Holiness the Pope, no doubt.” His voice dripped with irony like the serpent’s fangs. “They say he built Milan on a sword and a crucifix.”
“So?”
“So we worship at the larger church—needs must for our numbers—of Sant’Ambrogio, Saint Ambrose, hard by Santa Maria delle Grazie, not far from here. The saint is still there—his mummified body is there, in a tomb with two lesser saints—and can be visited in the crypt! Everyone in Milan knows the legend. A blind man was restored to sight by looking on the mummified body of Sant’Ambrogio. ‘By virtue of these remains the darkness of that blind man was scattered, and he saw the light of day,’ “ he finished in triumph.
“Well, when do you next attend?” I asked impatiently. “Sunday is . . .” I began to count on my fingers.
“Six days away,” he finished. “Too long. And I would have a regiment around me. We must move faster than that.”
He leaned over the battlement again, and before I could ask him what he did, he hailed one of the guards below.
“Hey, Luca!”
A jovial voice from below. “What ho? Oh, Guido, it’s you. Thought you were watching that pretty Venetian piece.”
“Locked in and snoring.” Brother Guido was doing a good job of mimicking
the bluff, curt tones of a soldier—curbing his words and blunting his pretty speech. “Are you watching her next?”
“Yes, Vespers to Terce. ‘Tis no trouble, I’d still be watching her in my dreams even if I were abed.” I could picture him grabbing his crotch. The other guard laughed.
“Look. Let me do your shift. Then tomorrow, go double for me?” Brother Guido wheedled. “There’s this girl in Porta Ticinese.”
“Didn’t you used to be a monk?”
“Used to be. Why d’you think I gave it up?”
More laughter. “All right then, Brother, you’re on. I’ll be glad of the rest.”
“Dio benice.” Brother Guido sketched an ironic blessing and sang in plainsong, making them laugh again, then he was back down below the battlements and at my side.
“Let’s go. We still only have two more hours before someone relieves Luca’s watch.”
“Where?”
“The church of Sant’Ambrogio, of course.”
“Now?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“There is a way.”
Back we ran, across the battlements and down the spiral stairs in the tower, across the deserted parade ground hugging the shadows of the keep. In the curtain wall, a low door led to a short stair and a dark passage that smelled of new-cut stone.
“Come,” he said. “Let us hope they have finished it.”
“Where are we?” I breathed.
“In a passage that leads from the castle to the Dominican monastery of Santa Maria delle Grazie. Il Moro is constructing it so that he may freely reach his place of worship, and also freely escape if there should ever be the need.”
“Madonna.”
“Such things are commonplace.”
I knew that much—I well recalled our secret walk between Castel Sant’Angelo and the Vatican in Rome, but I thought it better not to remind Brother Guido of the day his faith died. As we ran I mused that it did seem quite gone. I had not known how much I had connected him with his faith, and it had been a shock to hear him addressed as Guido, to hear him talk of women, to mock his God even in jest. I gave myself a little shake. What was wrong with me? If he was entering the worldly world, might there not be a chance for me, for us?
We ran on, swift and silent, until a greenish hue told us of light above. We were up another stair and through an arras, and emerged into a vast cavern of the monastery church. Gothic vaults colored in powdery blues, reds, and ochers were still illuminated by the full-moon light flooding through the arched windows of a high dome. There were a company of monks near the high altar, intoning one of their midnight prayers, and we scuttled swiftly to the exit and into the dark night. Once outside, Brother Guido grabbed my hand with more urgency than tenderness and turned left and right through the silvered streets. I could see our destination the moment the clouds cleared the moon, a huge pile of a place with two high towers: the basilica of Saint Ambrogio.
“Put your mask on,” urged the brother, as we reached the great doors. “Slow your breaths. And follow my lead.”
We waited in the portico for a moment to compose ourselves then Brother Guido swung the heavy doors. “Unlocked?” I asked.
“The house of God is always open,” said Brother Guido, with a sneer I didn’t like. Inside, I could see that the brothers here kept time with their brethren at Santa Maria delle Grazie, for mass had just finished; the brothers had shuffled off for another pair of hours in bed before their next devotions. A single sacristan remained, as once before in a doomed church in Naples, extinguishing candles.
We proceeded noiselessly down the aisle, and Brother Guido cleared his throat. The old man turned and smiled sweetly, as if he’d been expecting us.
“Your pardon, Brother,” began Brother Guido. “I am a member of Lord Ludovico’s personal guard.” The old monk looked him up and down, taking in his brand-new armor, his height, his noble face. “I have the honor of escorting the Dogaressa of the Republic of Venice.” He indicated me, and the old fellow’s jaw dropped open.
I tried to look as haughty as I could.
“I am directed to ask you to allow the dogaressa a private visit to your famous relics, for she wishes to pray privily, at an hour when public eyes are not upon her.”
The sacristan seemed to have lost the power of speech. I wore only a mink cloak and my mother’s lioness mask, but it was chased in gold and gilt enamel, and I must have cut quite a figure with my golden hair in the bargain.
Brother Guido attempted to break the spell. “I carry the seal of Lord Ludovico, as you can see.” He held out the clay plaque with the snake design he showed me earlier.
“Yes, that’s quite, that is, that’s quite in order. Except . . .” the old monk bumbled.
“Well?”
“It’s just, well, which relics would the lady, the dogaressa I mean, wish to see? Our Blessed Saint Ambrose or”—he looked down at the seal—“Nehushtan?” He seemed to sneeze.
Brother Guido exchanged a look with me, and I could see that he didn’t know what the second word, if it was a word, meant.
“The saint, to be sure.”
The sacristan nodded. “This way, please.”
We followed obediently to steps leading down into what could only be a crypt. I tugged at Brother Guido’s sleeve urgently—we couldn’t have this monk standing by as we tried to figure out the significance of our findings. He nodded briefly.
“Do not disturb yourself, Brother. Do you go about your business. I will escort the dogaressa. A private penance, you understand.”
The monk bowed in my direction and left. I rewarded him with a fraction of a nod, such as I had seen my mother give to servants who pleased her, and swept down the stairs.
A gloomy crypt, three candles burning for three saints, all huddled together as if they shared a bed. Their forms twisted and their flesh waxen, their finery now shredded bandages around their wasted bones. Gervaise, Protease, and the Blessed Ambrose, mummified for eternity, even the splendor of their golden bed doing nothing to glorify the hollow features of carrion. Saint Ambrose was possibly the ugliest of all, his corpse misshapen, his head swollen like a bladder, and his face caved in to one cheek, giving him a lopside.
Brother Guido caught my look. “Saint Ambrose was missing one of his eyeteeth,” said he. “It gave him an odd appearance in life too.”
We carefully searched the crypt, silently, whispering to each other occasionally, as if the three saints were not dead but asleep.
“Well,” I said at last. “There’s nothing here, not to do with snakes at any rate.” I looked to the lumpen head for a miracle.
“ ‘By virtue of these remains the darkness of that blind man was scattered, and he saw the light of day,’ “ intoned Brother Guido, repeating the words of Ambrose’s legend once again. In these surroundings, they sounded like a prayer, save he had not prayed since Rome.
“We are the blind ones this night,” I grumbled. Then I had an idea. “Perhaps we should look up, like Mercury does in the Primavera.” We both craned into the vaulted darkness and could see nothing beyond the friendly circle of candlelight.
“Upstairs then?”
My companion shrugged. “It’s worth a try. This tomb seems to avail us nothing.” He laid a hand on the saint’s shriveled arse, not without affection, but I was again shocked at how worldly he’d become. The monk was now a soldier; he’d shed the last of his faith with his habit and had donned a different persona with his armor.
We emerged into the great church and began to look about us, the sacristan’s lamp hovering distantly like a firefly. Hundreds of votive candles lit the interior, so light was not our problem. Inspiration was. We searched every inch of the place, all the while attempting to look like interested tourists. At length, the sacristan began politely extinguishing candles nearer and nearer to ourselves; the darkness crept forth and around us and threatened to engulf us till we were on an island of light in a dark cavern. Our search now seemed hopeless
. At last I found a particularly fine altarpiece, with strange animals at the top of the pillars. I could see rearing horses, twisted dragons, and a great assortment of bizarre creatures. I called my escort over.
“Here,” said I. “Here are some animals. Any snakes? Help me look.”
“Hmm,” he murmured, “very interesting, very fine work. Transmutations and transformations, animal to animus.”
“Do any of those words mean snakes?” I said testily. “If not, save your syllables.”
There were a great variety of strange things to behold in the carvings, but nothing that resembled the Sforza serpent.
Downcast, Brother Guido touched my sleeve. “We should go. We cannot have long before the next guard relieves me, and if I am not there, there will be a hue and cry.”
“And if I am not there, there will be a bigger one,” I agreed.
As we headed for the great doors I kept one eye on the sacristans’s light. Remembered what he’d said. Stopped in my tracks.
“Madonna. We are blind!”
I put out an arm to Brother Guido’s breastplate to hold him back. “Truffling about like pigs in shit, and all the time he gave us the answer.”
“Who? The sacristan? In what way?”
“He said which relic, the saint or something else, that word that sounded like a sneeze.”
“That’s right! He did!”
“Shush. And he looked down. He said the sneeze word and looked down at the snake, on the seal that you showed him. So there is another relic here, and the second relic, the N word, has something to do with a snake.”
He nodded quickly, eyes afire once more.
“Come on.”
We approached the old fellow and beckoned him over. “The dogaressa has prayed to the Blessed Saint and admired your church. She wishes you to commend her to the abbot and mention that she enjoyed all of the basilica’s wondrous features.”
The old fellow beamed. I waited for Brother Guido to mention the second relic, but he did not.
“We will take our leave of you now. Please accept this for the poor.”
He held out a Milanese soldo, one of his pay coins as a paghe vive soldier no doubt. I was briefly touched, but as the monk took the coin, I trod heavily on my friend’s foot. I couldn’t believe he was going to have us leave without asking the crucial question. But I need not have worried.