“The dogaressa very much enjoyed seeing all of your church’s beauties.”
“Oh, but soldato,” broke in the sacristan, “she has not seen all of them. I cannot permit the dogaressa to leave without—that is, I must insist, suggest, beg, that she look upon Nehushtan.”
There it was. That word again. I took my foot off Brother Guido’s and we followed the sacristan to a remote corner of the church at the left of the nave, to an ornamental pillar standing alone, as if it belonged to another time and place.
“A Byzantine pillar, very fine,” said the sacristan with pride.
Brother Guido voiced my disappointment. “And this is it? Ni-hus—”
“Nehushtan?” The sacristan smiled again. “Bless you, no. You must look up.”
When he said that, I knew we were in the right place before I even saw what he was pointing at.
At the top of the pillar, flicked into a loop and ready to strike like the Sforza serpent, was a bronze snake. In the remaining candles it gleamed softly; exactly the copper hue of Mercury’s wand in the Primavera.
I was dying to ask what it was but knew from many months with my mother that an exalted lady would never address a lowly monk directly. I knew, though, that I could leave the questions to Brother Guido, and so it proved.
“ ‘Tis wondrous strange. Pray, what is the significance of this serpent? I am sure the dogaressa would like to know.”
“We are privileged indeed,” replied the old man, “for this artifact came to us across many lands and seas, all the way from the Holy Lands of the Bible, and across time from those days too.”
“Ah, then it is perhaps connected to Aaron’s rod, which turned to a serpent?” Brother Guido gently nudged the wordy fellow to spill the story. “I thought that Aaron’s serpent was to return to the valley of Josaphat at the Day of Judgment, not to rest in a church in Milan, even one as fine as this.”
The monk looked at him sharply, and I gave him a small vicious kick to the shin. For certainly he knew too much Scripture for a private in Ludovico’s army, be he ever so devout.
“You know your Scriptures,” said the sacristan guardedly, but with approval. “I am glad il Moro keeps you devout. But for this serpent’s story we must look to another chapter and verse of the Book of Books. For Nehushtan has to do with the other brother of that blessed family—Moses, not Aaron. The Israelites were complaining about their problems in the desert somewhere near Punon. God, angered at their lack of faith and ungratefulness, sent poisonous snakes among them as punishment. Then Moses, who had prayed in order to inter-cede on their behalf, was told by God to make a brass snake so that the Israelites merely had to look upon it to be cured from the snake bites. Allow me to find you the passage.”
He trotted up the nave to an eagle lectern with spread wings and heaved the good book off the top. We exchanged a look as he brought it back to us and began to leaf through the yellow pages. I saw Brother Guido’s hands itch to take it from him, but the sacristan found his place at last.
“Here, as I thought, ‘tis the Book of Numbers which provides an origin for an archaic bronze serpent associated with Moses, with the following account.”
And the Lord sent fiery serpents among the people, and they bit the people; and much people of Israel died.
Therefore the people came to Moses, and said, We have sinned, for we have spoken against the Lord, and against thee; pray unto the Lord, that he take away the serpents from us. And Moses prayed for the people.
And the Lord said unto Moses, Make thee a fiery serpent, and set it upon a pole: and it shall come to pass, that every one that is bitten, when he looketh upon it, shall live. And Moses made a serpent of brass, and put it upon a pole, and it came to pass, that if a serpent had bitten any man, when he beheld the serpent of brass, he lived.
“The thing was named Nehushtan by the boy-king Hezekiah.”
As he fell silent, we all looked up at the snake, an odd trinity of harlot, soldier, and monk, collectively as sinful and as devout as any that had touched it in that cursed valley.
“Brother,” breathed my friend at last, in a voice low and urgent with excitement, “are you telling us that this is Nehushtan, this is actually the snake that Moses made at the word of God? Brought here to Milan?”
“As the Lord is my witness.”
I didn’t doubt that the Lord was his witness. I looked again at the snake, in awe, and the snake looked at me.
“Then if you will permit us, the dogaressa will pray before this wonder alone. We will leave in a very few moments.”
The fellow nodded and withdrew entirely; his light extinguished, he had gone to his shortened rest.
“Now,” I said. “Let’s crack this egg.” I took the cartone from my bodice, unrolled it for the umpteenth time, and laid it on the open page of the Book of Numbers. “This pillar, in Ludovico’s army’s church, has a snake at the top, like the cad . . . cad . . . Mercury’s wand.”
“Caduceus. Yes.”
“But there’s only one snake here, on this pillar. Mercury’s wand has two, look.” We both craned in to peruse the warlike figure stirring the clouds with the rod of snakes. Sure enough, two serpents twisted about the haft.
Brother Guido was untroubled. “Well, I think there we must look to the name of the idol. In Hebrew , nachash, means serpent, while , nachoshet, means brass or bronze.”
“So?” I was all impatience.
“Let me finish. The -an ending of ‘Nehushtan’ denotes a plural—in short, it signifies that the original idol was actually of two snakes. Two snakes on a pole.”
“All right, so the caduceus, with which Mercury stirs the clouds, is Nehushtan.”
“Undoubtedly. But I was thinking of another wand in our possession. One which boasts only one snake.”
I stared blankly. He touched my sleeve. “The ‘map,’ “ he said briefly.
I took the wooden roll from my surcoat. We huddled to the flame to see, clearly carved, the serpent Nehushtan on the top, burned into the wood like a brand.
“So what we’re holding here,” I said slowly, “is a model of this pillar.”
“A replica, yes. Except it is not an exact copy, for the markings on the wood are muddled scratchings and marks that mean nothing.”
“Whereas this pillar,” I slapped the polished stone, “has absolutely nothing on it.”
“Hmmm,” mused Brother Guido, stroking his soldier’s stubble, “just the snake at the top. Very well. Let us consider what Nehushtan may tell us. For there must be a reason why we have been led here, to the church that made blind men see. The snake holds a secret.” He craned upward and traced the snake’s shape in the air with one long finger—one loop, around and back.
“One revolution . . . and the snake head resembling an arrowhead . . . go this way . . . yes . . . it’s almost as if . . .”
“As if you might finish a sentence?” I rapped.
“Forgive me. As if we are being given a direction. Loop around. Go once around. Let’s obey, and take a turn about the pillar.”
We walked round the pillar in opposite directions, the snake balefully regarding us from the top, and fetched up exactly where we had started. The pillar was as plain as a Pentecost platter.
“Wondrous,” I grumbled as we met once more. “Around the pillar and up the garden path.”
“Very well. Perhaps the snake is not telling us what to do with this pillar, but what to do with the replica that it adorns.”
In the candlelight we turned the wooden roll this way and that, but the markings made no more sense.
“Unless . . .” began Brother Guido slowly.
And then he seemed to run mad.
He dashed to the altar, snatched up a half-full chalice. I gaped at him, for this was no time for refreshment. Then he came back to me, took up the great Bible, and tore the page the sacristan had read us right out of the good book, leaving a ragged strip of parchment where it had been. He then heaved it back on the lectern, closed it to
cover his crime. My jaw dropped further, for never would I have thought him capable of such heresy, such disrespect to his former idol. I was not sure what shocked me more—the fact that he would tear the Bible or the fact that he would wantonly destroy a book, his friend and help-meet, the delight of his youth and his greatest love. He was back, and he laid the page on the floor next to the candle. Then he dipped his hands in the chalice, bringing them out dripping and carmined like a murderer’s. He rubbed the dark wine on the wooden roll, and rolled the thing over the torn page once around, as if he were making a pastry. The wine dried at once into the parchment and he took the roll away. The image was blotted and smudged, the text muddled the lines, but the nature of the design was quite clear. Here was the land, here the sea.
A map.
“But a map of what?” I murmured, in wonder.
“I don’t know. But the serpent has told us all it can. Let us go, before we are discovered.”
He took up the last candle and we carried it to the door, puffed it out as we left. We ran back to Santa Maria delle Grazie, and I thought for a moment that stilled my heart that the doors would be shut upon us. But no—the next cycle of prayers were in progress and we crept through the incense-heavy dark to the arras that led to the causeway. We ran through the greenish night along the moat, Brother Guido talking as we went, murmuring instructions in a low and breathless voice.
“I’ll come to you tomorrow night, and we will talk further,” he said. “We’re getting close.”
“How will you come to me? You swapped your shift,” I gasped back.
“I’ll swap it back. Luca won’t mind. I’ll say my lady denied me, and I’d rather be at my post than in my cups. I’ll be at your door between Vespers and Compline.”
With that we tore up the stairs to my tower till my chest felt fit to burst. We could see the torch of the next guard begin to bob along the battlement and raced it home. I hurried inside and closed the door silently behind me, heard Brother Guido snatch his torch from his bracket, long since burned out. Just as his fellow soldier came round the corner. I pressed my ear to the door.
“No light, soldato?”
“Double shift, sir. For Luca. It went out about an hour ago.”
“Why didn’t you get another torch from the sergeant at arms? At the sentry post?” The man was clearly his superior.
“They’re at the Torre Serpiolle, sir. Didn’t want to leave my post.”
“All right.” The voice seemed convinced, even a little impressed by such devotion. “You can get off now.”
I heard Brother Guido’s feet receding. My breathing started again.
“Oh, soldato?”
And stopped.
“Yes, sir?”
“Get your grappa ration from the quartermaster. Been a long one, heh?”
“Will do. Notte.”
“Notte.”
After that, I collapsed on my bed, spent with exertion and fear. But before I laid my head to rest I took another look at the map. It was not easy to make out, for the print made in wine rode atop the words of Scripture that covered the page—the chapters and verses of the Book of Numbers writ in crabbed, close, black Latin. I strained to see in the dawnlight. There were no place-names. Nothing to indicate which corner of the world it might mean, just what seemed to be a small star on the northwest coast of the land. I gave up and tucked the parchment back in my bodice, with the cartone. I tried in vain to remember if I had seen the landmass before, during my weeks of tuition in Venice with Signor Cristoforo.
As my lids grew heavy the image of that unknown country swam before my eyes. And as you cannot see what is before my eyes, I will show you.
I suppose you’d describe it, as, well, a boot.
42
I woke in my cell at dawn, dressed still and stiff with cold—Zephyrus had taken his revenge by puffing his cool spring winds into my organ pipe of a tower and fluted me awake with the dawn.
I watched the sun rise over the city and strike the silver pinnacles of the cathedral. From here, too, I could see the twin towers of Sant’Ambrogio, and only these reminded me that last night was not a dream. I took the parchment from my bodice to look at the map once more but had to stuff it back instantly as the key turned and the door opened. There stood the sergeant at arms who had overseen the search yesterday. Holding a bolt of flame-colored silk.
“Your lady mother begs an audience with you in her chambers,” he said briefly.
‘Twas not a suggestion.
Instantly my heart began to thump and my cheeks heated, banishing the cold. Did she somehow know how and where I’d spent the night, using the same sorcery she’d used to guess I’d left my room in Bolzano?
“She bids you put this on.” The sergeant tossed the silk on the straw pallet. And I was a little cheered—I wouldn’t waste precious silk on a daughter that was for the chop, would you?
I wondered if the fellow would watch me dress—something I was used to back in the old days—but the door closed again. I wriggled out of my gown and into the flame-colored one. I was glad to say good-bye to the besmattered rose silk, for it was stiff with sweat from my long carriage ride and then my run through the streets of Milan the night before. I sniffed under my arms and wished I had some cloves to rub in my pits, but I would have to do. At least my mother had not sent a maid to dress me, for then the cartone might have been discovered, along with the money belt, wooden map roll, and the page from the Bible. My hair was loose and a mass of tangles, whipped into a bird’s nest by my windy tower, but I had no way of dressing it, no comb, no mirror. I combed it with my fingers as best I could, yanking through the worst of the knots and making one heavy braid, which I pulled over one shoulder. Not sure what to do, I knocked on my own door, and the sergeant turned the key, opened the door, and took my arm without a word.
I wrapped my mink around me and followed the soldier’s broad back down the same stairs my friend and I had taken last night. I was taken across the parade ground, still rimed with frost and crunching underfoot. A division of soldiers were being drilled, their sergeant’s voice echoing from the four red walls, bloodier than ever in the bright morning. I looked among the men beneath the ocher cloaks and copper helmets for Brother Guido, but he was not there. Had my mother recognized him? Had she had him arrested once more? I thought not—my mother never spoke to the little people, never looked them in the eye, she would never seek the face of a nobleman in a battalion of soldiers. But perhaps she had spied upon me, knew my movements of last night. My hatred of her, for imprisoning me, and starving me too, deepened to fear.
I crossed a small moat to the residence and entered a palace of such splendor I could not believe my poor prison was part of the same castle. Every wall was hung with apricot silk and cloth of gold, and the Sforza serpent was everywhere, fixing the court with a watchful single eye.
Nehushtan.
My mother’s apartments were just as beauteous, painted the pale blue of an eggshell, with silver cords sewn into the fabric of the walls. She sat at her looking glass in a gown of flame silk to match my own, to match also, I realized with a jolt, the little flames that adorned the cloak of Mercury—Milan. Was everything a key or a signpost to the conspiracy in which she was steeped? My mother was combing her own hair with a sandalwood comb, while her feet sat in a silver ewer filled with rose water. The air was sweetened with the scent but my fear soured to anger. The bitch had me locked in a tower, and she bathed in silver like the Queen of Milan.
But once again my mother surprised me. She set aside the comb, smiled graciously, as if I had just returned from a game of tennis, not a prison cell.
“Daughter,” she said, spreading her arms in welcome, “I am right glad to see you. I trust your accommodation is not too uncomfortable?”
Fortunately, she did not wait for a reply, for I had some of my choicest words ready.
“I am happy to tell you that you have to endure such necessary privation for only one night more. You understand, of
course, that I could not risk losing the thing dearest to me. After your travel plans in Venice.”
Hmmm. So perhaps she didn’t know what I had got up to in Bolzano. She certainly didn’t seem to know what I had got up to last night.
“For I have good news. Your father this way comes—he will be here tomorrow.”
Good news for whom? I wondered. I remained surly and silent.
“And he will of course have our own guards, so we will have to trespass on Lord Ludovico’s soldiers no longer.”
Madonna. At last I took her meaning. If the ducal guards were coming to watch me, I would never get away again. I’d have to get a message to Brother Guido. We’d have to leave tonight.
“And there is a further surprise, which I will let our lord duke share with you. For he desires that we accompany him this morning; he has great wonders to show us. Tell me, have you yet broken your fast?”
“If you mean have I had anything to eat, then no,” I said bluntly. I was not sure how to behave to this woman. In Venice I had seen a block of glass in my father’s palace, seemingly crystal white but which split the light into seven colors. A prism, Signor Cristoforo named it. My mother was just such a one—she had seven colors at least, and I never knew which hue of her character would appear next. But she did not seem to heed my rudeness, merely waved a hand to her lady’s maids.
“And tell them to bring me supper too, for I had fuck all last night either,” I yelled after the retreating maid.
My mother’s brows shot up to her hairline. “Soothly? An oversight, I’m sure.”
An oversight. Too busy feasting on suckling pig and march-pane to spare a crust for her daughter.
“Let us talk a little, while we are alone,” she said. (My mother had about three maids in the room—I told you she didn’t notice the little people.) “Softer! You are not shoeing a horse!” This last to one of those maids, who was drying my mother’s feet on a linen cloth. My mother kicked out and sent the poor woman sprawling on the rushes. “You know, of course,” she continued without pause, “why your accommodation here is a little less . . . commodious than in Bolzano?”
The Botticelli Secret Page 40