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The Botticelli Secret

Page 44

by Marina Fiorato


  “I must away with my friends to the doge. They know me at the palace, they’ve been kicking me out on my arse for a month for asking for money. They would never admit a Pisano. I can speak plain Genoese to the guards.”

  “What about me?” I protested.

  “Stay here,” they thundered in unison. Looked at each other.

  “I,” began Brother Guido, “that is to say, we, all want you out of danger.”

  “You must be joking.” I grabbed my cloak. “I’ve come this far. I’ve hardly been ‘out of danger’ these past months. I can help! Have I not helped, so far?” I wheedled at Brother Guido, turned him around bodily by his shoulders and forced him to meet my eyes.

  He looked me full in the face. “More than that,” he admitted reluctantly. “We would not be here without you.”

  Signor Cristoforo shrugged. “Come, then, but stay in the rearguard.” He turned back to his brother.

  “Get the militia to come to the faro. We must post a lookout at la lanterna.”

  A flash lit my brain as if lightning had struck. “What did you just say?”

  Something in my voice stopped them in their tracks.

  Signor Cristoforo turned slowly. “What, la lanterna?”

  “Before that.”

  “Militia? Faro?”

  “Faro.”

  “It means lighthouse.”

  “What’s a lighthouse?”

  “I was no tutor if I did not tell you that,” he replied testily. “The stone tower, yonder, has a great lantern atop the upper terrace. At night, and in sea fog, it lights the ships safely into harbor.” He pointed to the tall finger of stone, clearly visible from this and every shack in Genoa.

  “And it’s known as a faro?” My voice shook a little.

  “Yes,” he said with great impatience. All three men were staring at me now, as if I were a lunatic to stay them from their tasks with such mindless twaddle.

  “How d’you spell that?” I asked grimly.

  Signor Cristoforo regarded me as if I were an idiot child. “F-A-R -O.”

  “Faro!” I shouted. I ripped the painting from Signor Cristoforo’s hand. “We said, didn’t we, that some cities held clues for other cities?” I demanded of Brother Guido. “Florence, for instance, holds the thirty-two roses to point to the compass rose in Venice?”

  The brothers looked nonplussed but dear Brother Guido nodded.

  “Yes, I see all that.”

  “Well, d’you remember, we could never read the Chloris flowers?”

  Now I had lost even him. “What are you talking about?”

  “Chloris,” I insisted. “Don’t you remember? Brother Nicodemus said ‘flowers drop from her mouth like truths.’ And he was right. They are truths. There are four botanical types issuing from her mouth. Remember? Fiordaliso, anemone, rose, and occhiocento.”

  “Well, those are colloquial vernacular names, not the Latin genus terms, but yes.”

  I waved my hand. “Forget about that. Think about their first letters.”

  “F-A-R-O,” he mouthed, eyes enormous as he turned them on me. “Lighthouse. That’s where they’re going to land.”

  “And remember,” I urged, “that occhiocento is the flower of death. The word faro ends in O; it ends with death. We said that the enterprise would end in death, one or many. Well, it will, if we don’t get a move on.”

  Signor Cristoforo may not have followed the reasoning, but he took the meaning. “Bartolomeo,” he said, never moving his eyes from me, “when you go to the faro, go armed. Tell the militia.”

  Signor Bartolomeo nodded once and was gone. The three of us were hard on his heels. Outside, on the waterfront, twilight was already beginning to thicken. Brother Guido put a hand on the bridle of il Moro’s horse without a word, gentling him, while Signor Cristoforo untied the reins. Suddenly it was all real—now we hurried to save not nameless French families in some disinterested crusade but living, breathing Genoese who were a sunset away from the fire and the sword. My skirts brushed the Genoese brat who had watched our horse for a coin. “Scusi,” I said absently. She looked up and smiled at me, the dying sun catching eyes as green as mine. She was beautiful. I smiled back as Signor Cristoforo hauled me up to the saddle. I put my arms round Signor Cristoforo’s waist while Brother Guido mounted behind us. “Hurry,” I urged.

  46

  Signor Cristoforo led us swiftly, unerringly, to the great piebald Palazzo Ducale, seat of the Doge of Genoa. As we approached the gate house the daughter of the Mocenigos and the son of the della Torres shrank into the twilight shadows, together with their mount. I stroked the velvet nose of the Duke of Milan’s horse, willing him to be quiet while the lowborn son of Genoa went forth as our ambassador. From where we hid we could easily hear the exchange.

  “You again,” said the first of two guards. As the doge’s personal retinue, they looked a much tougher breed than the hapless pair we had seen at the gates. “I thought il Doge told you to sling your hook.” His fisherman’s slang seemed oddly fitting.

  “Hang on, Cristoforo,” said the second guard, mock serious. “I think I’ve got a couple of soldi. Look”—coins clanked—“how far will this get you in your expedition?”

  The first guard laughed. “Well, it would be churlish for me not to help too. Let me see.” He dug in his leather purse. “How’s this? If I give you this grosso, maybe you could sail as far as the edge of the world and fuck off over the side.” They fell about laughing.

  We heard Signor Cristoforo’s voice, low, persuasive, dignified. “Today I do not come to ask, but to give. I’m here to warn the doge against a coming attack. An attack that will see you and your families dead if you do not heed me.”

  “Who’s attacking?”

  “How do you know of this?” They spoke as one.

  Signor Cristoforo answered the second question first. “A merchant contact in Venice. Does a bit of spying on the side. You know how hard it is to raise funds for expeditions.” There was an ironic weight to his voice. He had their attention and now addressed the former question. “He says there’s an alliance. Venice, Pisa, and more too. Coming by sea and land.” I noted that he named Genoa’s traditional enemies first and admired his cunning.

  The first guard spoke to the second, less sure now. “He looks serious, Salva.”

  “He always looks serious. Beggars always do.”

  “Still, I’d hate to be the fellow that knew of this and didn’t tell the doge,” put in Signor Cristoforo breezily. “He’d be hanging upside down within a sennight. If he survived the attack, that is.”

  That did it. The second guard pushed himself off the wall with a sigh, opened a small, man-sized door in the bottom of the great double doors, and called within.

  “Giuseppe! Cover me. I’m going upstairs.”

  A young and pimply guard took Salva’s place—they were clearly not as well manned here as they appeared. The three stood in silence for some moments. I don’t think I breathed once in all that time. Presently the second guard was back.

  “You’re out of luck, Cristoforo. D’you know what he said to me?” The fellow leaned in and gave our friend the benefit of a rotten grin full of teeth as brown as medlars. “Il Doge said, ‘I’d rather give audience to the first whore you find on the street than Signor Cristoforo, for at least she will render me some service for my money. So being as how il Doge is not a one for jokes, you’ll forgive me if I take him at his word.” He pushed past Signor Cristoforo so roughly that the sailor fell to the ground. I started forward, but Brother Guido pulled me back. He knew where I was going, of course.

  “No,” he said.

  “But . . .”

  “No.”

  “I’m not going to fuck him. I just want to talk to him. He said he wanted a whore, and he’s going to get one.”

  He held my arm hard enough to hurt. The guard was almost past us, and I didn’t have time for this. “If you’re worrying about my maidenhead, I said good-bye to it long ago. Or is it my
soul that concerns you? I thought you were done with piety?”

  He recoiled, and I recognized with shock real pain in his eyes. “I’d rather die than let you bed another man.” He caught himself, too late.

  I looked into his face, heart thumping, and saw all I’d ever wanted writ there, just as it was too late to do anything about it. I pulled my sleeve free. “Die then,” I said, but softly. “For if I don’t go, we all will.”

  I ran after the guard, biting my lips and pinching my cheeks as I went, and pulling my bodice right down to the raspberries. Plucked his sleeve just before the dark streets of the stews swallowed him. “Please, sir, I couldn’t help overhearing. Let me go to the doge and I’ll save a little sugar for you.” I leaned in and gave him the full benefit of my tits, pushed up like two glorious plump partridges on a plate. Chi-Chi was back. There was little light, but it was enough. I must have been like a cup of wine in a desert for this fellow, clearly too ill-favored to get many women.

  He put a filthy hand under my chin. “Very nice,” he said, licking his lips. “All right. But remember, when he’s pissed his noble seed, it’s milking time in the guard house. Just ask for Salvatore.”

  “Salvatore,” I cooed, willing myself not to flinch at his breath. “That was my father’s name.”

  He held my arm all the way to the doors and smacked my arse to propel me through.

  I was in.

  47

  “An attack? At dawn? An alliance of seven city-states?”

  Doge Battista of Genoa didn’t believe me, and I didn’t blame him. I wouldn’t have believed me.

  He lounged on a scarlet velvet couch, in a strange bed-chamber striped, as the rest of the city, in black-and-white marble. He was younger than I expected, chubby, as over-stuffed as his couch, moonfaced, with a pink and white complexion so smooth it seemed he could not yet grow a beard. He had the pale blue eyes and the strawberry-blond hair of a northerner. He could have been the Cupid of the Primavera all grown-up. But even if he were Cupid’s cousin, it was clear he knew nothing of the plan. By his naked left thumb I knew him to be innocent. I also knew him to be clever—his little eyes were penetrating and his questions searching.

  “And you know this, how? Yes, tell me, how does a common jade find out these lofty matters of state?”

  It wasn’t going to work. I took a deep breath and threw away my alias. “Because I’m not a common jade. I’m the dogaressa’s daughter.”

  “Of Venice?” His pale brows flicked upward into twin fish-hooks. “Come closer.”

  The light was low in the room. I moved to the window to catch the dying day.

  He looked at me lazily, considering like a cat. “You do have the look of her, ‘tis true. Like a lion’s daughter. Giovanni Mocenigo is your father? The Doge of Venice is your father?”

  “Yes. And I have lately been, in my mother’s train, to the kingdoms of Bolzano and Milano where both Archduke Sigismund and Ludovico Sforza have joined the alliance. Il Moro is even now heading through the mountains with a thousand horse and ten thousand infantry. In company with him are my mother and father, and my . . .” I choked on the words. “My intended husband, Lord Niccolò della Torre of Pisa.” These names, and the extent of my knowledge, tempered his mockery a little. But not entirely.

  “Prove what you say.”

  For a moment I was stuck, then remembered the money belt. “Here.” I reached below my skirts. “Venetian ducats of the Mocenigo stamp. And here too,” I said, “the dogaressa’s mask.” I pulled it from my sleeve.

  He raised himself from his cushions by no more than a handspan. “These things tell me no more than that you have been in Venice. No more than that. In fact—not even that. You could have stolen these things or even earned them on your back right here in Genoa. And if you are, as you say, Venetian, why would I trust you? For we are enemies.”

  I closed my eyes in frustration and could almost hear the rumble of a thousand horses cresting the mountains and pouring into the sea plains, almost hear the thunder of the great siege machines rolling down behind. I toyed with the idea of getting out the painting but realized that waving the cartone around could only compound my lunacy in the doge’s eyes.

  “You have to believe me. I’m trying to save your city and its people.”

  “And why do you care for my city?”

  A goodly question. Inspiration struck, as I realized why I cared. “I know one who lives here! Signor Cristoforo, who was just lately at your gates. He tutored me in Venice, at my father’s house!”

  “The sailor?” Now he seemed jolted.

  “Yes! Did he not tell you, he was just lately in Venice?”

  “He did. And petitioned me for permission to go in the first place. I gave him leave to take their money for his lunatic trips if he could get it, for it is a fool’s errand and he could not have mine.”

  “Well, then. And you know him to be loyal?”

  The specter of a smile. “I thought him so, yes. Crazy but loyal.”

  “Then ask him,” I urged. “He waits below.”

  The doge sighed. “Salvatore!”

  In a very few moments Signor Cristoforo was in the room. His presence was enough to make the doge sit all the way up.

  “Cristoforo. You have lately been in Venice?”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “And you met this lady there?” I noted I had been elevated from jade to lady at least.

  “I did. I was her tutor in maritime matters for a short while, while I petitioned the Council of Ten for expeditionary funds.”

  “Yes, yes. And you are aware of her true identity?”

  “I am. She is Luciana Mocenigo, daughter to the doge and dogaressa, and heir to the Republic of Venice.”

  “You have heard her story of an impending attack?”

  “I have.”

  “And you believe her? Before you answer, answer as a good and loyal Genoese. Think for a moment of your city, for treachery will be rewarded with death.”

  I saw my friend swallow. “I do believe her, my lord.”

  The doge stroked his hairless chin. “Very well.” He called to his guard. “Salvatore, close the city gates and double the guard.” He turned back to us. “Satisfied?”

  Signor Cristoforo and I exchanged a look. “With great respect, no, my lord.”

  The doge raised his brows once again at such insolence.

  “For il Moro brings with him such siege machines as the world has never seen, invented by a Tuscan engineer.”

  “Very well,” conceded the doge. “Then this I will do. I will send a scout into the mountains to verify your tale. You, my dear”—he waved his languid hand in my direction—“will stay with me here—let us not say as my prisoner nor hostage, for these are ugly words; but as my guest, until he returns.”

  I went to him then and knelt by his couch. “My lord, you might as well send me down to the shore and bid me hold back the tide. For in the time it takes for your runner to go and return, the army of the Seven will be upon you, and will beat your outrider to the gates. What you must do is send every available footsoldier and every cavalry knight to the mountains—now.”

  Signor Cristoforo took up the cause. “If our forces meet them on the slopes, in a surprise attack, their superior numbers will not avail them any advantage. If you meet them in the Torriglia pass, they will be forced through the neck of a bottle.”

  The doge stroked his hairless chin. “One tiny thing, though. If I denude my city of all its soldiery, who will defend us against an attack by the sea?”

  Signor Cristoforo and I swapped glances. “We’re just coming to that.”

  “There’s more?” The poor besieged doge gaped like a codfish.

  “A fleet of Pisan and Neapolitan ships is bearing to your coastline even now, and will be here by first light, led by Don Ferrente, King of Naples.”

  Now the young duke blanched whiter than milk. “Then we are done for.”

  “Not so, my lord. Even now my brother
is rousing the harbormaster and militia. Our fleet can be ready, the cannon loaded by dawn. They are planning to sail right into our harbor, but we can put up a fight they will not expect.”

  The doge’s little eyes sparked alight and I felt glad—this corpulent fellow had some fettle. I began to like him.

  “Further, my lord,” Signor Cristoforo went on, “we should with all possible speed douse the lanterna in the faro, and light a beacon on the cliffs to the west at Pegli. That way if the fleet is heading for the lighthouse, we can lead them to wreck upon the westward rocks.”

  The doge hesitated for no more than a heart’s beat. “Do it.”

  Signor Cristoforo and I made for the door, as Genoa’s duke called for his generals and his armor, pacing now as he waited before his couch while his kingdom crumbled around him. The door closed behind us, and I heard him sink back down into the velvet cushions. I opened the door again and crept back in on silent feet. The doge was seated, with his head in his hands. “Why has God turned against me so?” he muttered.

  “Not God,” I said aloud. He looked up with a ruined face. “The fault lies elsewhere.” I put out my hand, sorry for him now. He seemed so young and alone. I suspected he had never been to war—that he had been trained in combat but never seen action, a noble in name but never, till now, in the breach. Like Brother Guido. “My lord, let your generals lead your armies. Why don’t you come with us to the faro? You are needed there on a matter of politics.” I knew with sudden certainty who would be waiting there. “There’s someone I would very much like you to meet.”

  48

  Brother Guido met us at the palace doors with great relief, matched only by my own—for once the plot had been revealed to the Genoese, a Pisan in soldiers’ garb with a war horse could be executed as an enemy outrider. The doge did not question Brother Guido’s presence once he was identified as our friend; I think he soon realized that there were very strange alliances on both sides of this battle. The doge’s grooms brought his horse, and a white charger and a black one sped us to the lighthouse. It was not until we left the tall and narrow sheltering streets that we realized quite how heavily it was raining. I pitied both armies, floundering in a muddy mountain battle-field, and for the first time thought about my mother. Would she survive the night to come? I felt no pity though—that I reserved for the mothers’ sons that fought for their families, or the city that they loved, or even a weekly purse: all more honest motives than hers.

 

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