She turned back, guilty, and I saw at once she had taken it. She had last touched that piece of Venetian glass when her hands had placed me in the bottle, with the bread and breast-milk. She had taken it, and with it, my way out.
I let out a gusty sigh, utterly defeated. “Very well.” I knew now I must go through with the wedding, but it would not be for naught. “Grant me a boon then, as a wedding present, if I am to do this thing.”
She came back to me. “Of course.”
I said, slowly and clearly, “I want you to free Bonaccorso Nivola.” I thought I would have to explain who the imprisoned sailor was, for my mother, as I told you, never noticed the little people. But she knew at once—perhaps he had been troubling her conscience too.
“Done.”
And as she spoke the trumpets and timbrels sounded, and the great doors opened into the cathedral. I processed down the aisle on the arm of my mother, feeling, as I had done once before, that the great white pillars and the arching ribs above my head were bones, and I was trapped in the belly of a great beast. As we walked through ranks of cheering people I wondered if they were the same folk who’d cheered me a year ago, when I’d been here with Brother Guido, riding in a golden carriage with the doomed father of my betrothed.
My mother kissed my cheek as we reached the altar. “You’ll be happy,” she said. “Trust me.” For the second time today I looked into her leaf-green eyes and saw no lies writ there.
And now I saw the back of my detested groom, broad and tall and clad to match me in white velvet and gold. I noted he did not even turn to greet me as the rest of the congregation did; he did not even possess the basic courtesies of a family of consequence. He was taller than I’d remembered; his hair curled like his cousin’s had, but a little longer, the resemblance crueler than everything else. I felt as if the knife were in my throat after all, for I was bleeding to death.
He turned and I nearly fainted at a cathedral wedding for the second time in my life.
It was Brother Guido.
Really, truly he—living, breathing, smiling. He held me with the hand that wore a gold ring of the palle on his thumb.
He was thinner, his hair a little longer, clean shaven, with his sunburned skin golden against the white. I felt my heart fail with love and longing. The only true difference was that upon his ring hand the flesh was livid with burns; a desert of smooth, arid, healed skin stretched over the long bones. I wondered what other injuries were hid by the fine clothes, but did not care—I would love him, through and through, however damaged he may be.
I could not follow the service, could not breathe for the happiness that swelled in my chest. Could hardly hold my right hand up in the traditional Tuscan greeting, to my groom and guests. Could not look at the priest or heed his words, for I could not shift my eyes from my—could it be true?—husband.
I managed to murmur the responses, and we were wed.
I held his burned hand hard as we moved as one down the aisle. Caught my mother’s eye, and she smiled at me from beneath her mask. Once outside we were able to speak at last as we threw handfuls of coins to the children. I had a thousand questions but began with two.
“What happened? Where is Niccolò?”
“Dead. He contracted gangrene in his leg, and so died of his battle wounds.”
I remembered what my mother had said: his condition will not affect the wedding, it will take place almost as planned. Then she told me I’d be happy. I had to smile.
“I was the surviving heir of the della Torres,” he went on, “and at last I was ready to inherit my city. As I told you of my time in the Bargello, things change in Tuscan politics all the time. The worm at the bottom of the dungheap can next day be king of the castle.”
The children were jackdawing for coins around our feet, but we might as well have been alone in the world.
My husband tenderly tucked a golden curl behind my ear. “When I took Holy Orders I was young and untried. I loved the church and I loved books, but knew nothing of the world. You showed it to me. In Rome I fell out of love with the church.” A cloud passed over his face. “But now I know that I may love God, and you, too, and that there is no need to choose. My church is no longer my church, but my God will always be my God; is now and forever shall be.”
“But how . . . that is, how did you survive?”
‘I jumped into the sea, for I was aflame, that much is true. But I clung to the mast of the flagship and held on for dear life; life that was infinitely dear since I had found you. The storm still raged around me, and once I almost let go from the pain, for my hands were badly burned and the salt brine stung like vinegar. But something made me hold on.”
“Me?” I asked hopefully, knowing then the prayer I had offered from the lanterna had been answered.
He smiled. “In a sense. Perhaps we should thank your alter ego, the goddess Flora,” said my husband. “As I swallowed the seas and fought for breath, I saw her form, your form, and the life and promise within, and the swell of a child at her belly, and I knew I had to live to see the spring. But in my vision, as on the cartone, she had no face, and I had to see yours again.” He cupped my cheeks, as if to make sure that I was real. “At the same moment I saw the lights of the shore and washed up on the beach at Peglia. I made my way back to the doge’s palace, a slow and painful journey, for by then I was in high fever: now burning hot, now freezing cold. I knew I was not out of danger, for if I was found on the cliffs by the loyal Genoese after the battle that had lately taken place, I would have been executed as an enemy deserter. But I came to Genoa at last, where the doge was more than happy to reward me for my services. He put everything at my disposal: his best physicians, and then when I was ready, clothes, horses, and a retinue. He told me that you’d gone to Pisa with your mother. He told me to pursue you, that I might dare to hope; but I needed no telling.” He tightened his arms around me. “He’s a good man, and will rule well, I think.”
“I do too.”
“And so it was that I came home to my birthright, and the palace that is rightfully mine. I redrafted the contracts with your father—but a change of name was all that was needed—and your mother seemed more than happy with what had come to pass.”
I shook my head, amazed. It was too much to take in, too much happiness. He turned me round to look at him, and the crowd of children melted respectfully away, well pleased with their bounty. I looked into the blue, blue eyes of my Lazarus-husband, back from the dead; come from the Cata-combs into the light—proof of the afterlife I had doubted and he had not. And we, we had come from darkness to light too—come from ignorance into knowledge; read the treasure map, solved the puzzle, and claimed the prize. But the treasure we had found was no jewel casket or trove of coins; it was beyond price. “What now?” I asked, not really caring, so long as we were together.
“A feast at the palace, and the . . . wedding night.” A shadow crossed his face. “Of course, it is usual for the bride to be a virgin on the wedding night.”
“I’ll be gentle with you,” I said, and kissed him in a manner that belied the words.
The field of miracles deserved its name that day. The sun set behind the leaning tower, the symbol of Guido’s city—and mine—into a beautiful red sky. And the day began.
It was going to be a beautiful summer.
11
1492
In 1492 three things happened.
Cosa Uno: I gave birth to a daughter whom we called Simonetta after the pearl of Genoa. Appropriately, the pearl in my navel, which had stayed determinedly put through all manner of adventures, popped out at Simonetta’s birth, making her name a certainty. I sent the pearl to Bonaccorso Nivola, who had been freed at my mother’s word and now lived peacefully with his family on Burano, while his grown sons fished the lagoon. I played with Simonetta constantly, told her I loved her every day. She was my weakness, the apple of my Eden. I was joined in this preference by my mother, who visited our palace much more after Simonetta wa
s born, dandling the baby, feeding her comfits, bringing her toys and treasures from Venice to surprise and delight her. And the greatest gift of all: just being there and playing with her, reveling in the girl’s growing beauty as her own faded. She found joy in every stage of her granddaughter’s development, was there for her first steps and words. The child loved her too, and my mother had her second chance to be a Vero Madre. Sometimes they sit in the atrium of our palace, and I watch the old lady and the little girl play at marbles or skittles beneath the framed cartone, which hangs on the wall there. It is cracked and stiff with salt, all the vivid colors almost gone, bleached by the sea when I cast it into the Genoan tide. All the figures have dissolved away save one—my own. I don’t know whether the extra pigments used to paint her garden of flowers had fixed the paints to the paper more firmly, but at any rate, Flora now stands alone in her ruined bower.
Cosa Due: Lorenzo de’ Medici died after ruling Florence justly and well for nine last years of peace and profit. At the instant he died lightning struck the church of Santa Maria del Fiore and set the great dome aflame. Il Magnifico’s dreams of empire died with him. But:
Cosa Tre: a certain Signor Cristoforo Colombo of Genoa sailed to the world’s edge as he always said he would. There he discovered a new vision of imperium—the Americas, an empire destined to become the new Rome.
HISTORICAL NOTE
Italy was eventually unified in 1870. At the turn of the century, a modern monument called the Altar of the Nation was constructed in the heart of the new country’s capital, Rome.
It is a marble monstrosity, which neatly obscures the views of the Capitoline Hill.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
The Primavera by Sandro Botticelli enjoys more interpretations than perhaps any other picture in art history. A number of them are examined at differing depths in this story. I am indebted to Charles Dempsey’s scholarly interpretation of the painting in his work The Portrayal of Love: Botticelli’s Primavera and Humanist Culture at the Time of Lorenzo the Magnificent and Mirella Levi D’Ancona’s incredibly detailed botanical reading of the picture in her book Botticelli’s Primavera: A Botanical Interpretation Including Astrology, Alchemy and the Medici. How-ever, this book owes the most to the work of Professor Enrico Guidoni of the University of Rome. It was he who posited the idea that the figures represent Italian cities and suggested the painting concealed a Medici design to unify Italy. The professor’s arguments can be fully explored in his work La Prima-vera di Botticelli: L’armonia tra le città nell’Italia di Lorenzo il Magnifico. I have respectfully named my most learned character, Guido, after him.
It should be emphasized, however, that this novel is a work of fiction, and that, with respect to the work of the scholars here named, any additions, omissions, or alterations of characters, events, or places are my own.
A Reading Group Gold
Selection
Reading Group Gold
THE BOTTICELLI SECRET
by Marina Fiorato
About the Author
• A Conversation with Marina Fiorato
Behind the Novel
• “Botticelli and the Art of Reading a Painting”
An Original Essay by the Author
Keep on Reading
• Recommended Reading
• Reading Group Questions
For more reading group suggestions
visit www.readinggroupgold.com.
ST. MARTIN’S GRIFFIN
About the Author
A Conversation with Marina Fiorato
“I’ve always found [Flora] particularly captivating… she really steps out of the frame.”
What inspired you to write The Botticelli Secret?
The painting, first and last. It’s been my favorite picture ever since I saw it in the Uffizi as a teenager. The scale, the color of it, and the intensity of detail really captured my attention, then and ever since. I’ve always found the figure of Flora particularly captivating; I find her expression deliciously intriguing. She really steps out of the frame. I’ve always wondered what she is thinking—and this book is my answer to that question.
What does La Primavera mean to you? What about it do you wish to reveal to your readers?
I read an article in the Times about an Italian academic named Enrico Guidoni who had come up with a new theory about La Primavera, and the meaning of each of the figures. There have been so many interpretations of the painting over the years, but this one struck me as being completely convincing. So it formed the spine of the novel. It’s meaningful because I think it completely encapsulates that period of the Renaissance in almost every aspect—fashion, belief systems, patronage, symbolism, even botany. As to what I’d like to reveal to my readers the answer is simple: Italy!
You have already written about Renaissance Italy in your previous novel, The Glassblower of Murano. How, if at all, was the process of writing The Botticelli Secret different for you? Also, in crafting your story about Botticelli, did you stick solely to the facts? Or did you take any artistic liberties?
Writing Botticelli was a very different experience from writing Glassblower. For one thing, it’s all written in first-person, from the point of view of Luciana, the model for Botticelli’s Flora. Also, this novel is wholly set in the past, where as Glassblower had a split timeline between past and present. One of the major differences was the humor: Luciana is such a flawed, earthy character; the contrast between her demeanor and language and the more buttoned-up, erudite Brother Guido was a rich seam of comedy. Luciana’s language is certainly more colorful than any I’ve ever used before—I miss her already!
Because this book is so dependent on its premise, I was much less strict with the facts than I’ve been with other works. I tried not to be overtly anachronistic—there are no digital watches!—but for Botticelli it was more important to stay true to the ethos and feel of the period than to be too pernickety about dates and details. So some people are in cities they may not have been in, or I’ve imagined events that may not have happened at all. I’ve always maintained that historical novels should not be taken as hard fact, but more of a jumping-off point for readers to research the period if what they read sparks their interest in history. I’d be delighted if that happens with my readers.
THE PONTE VECCHIO
“When I open a historical novel I’m taking a trip to a different land.”
Why do you enjoy writing historical fiction? Why do you do you think readers are so drawn to historical novels?
L.P. Hartley wrote: “The past is another country, they do things differently there.” I think this is exactly right and it’s at the root of our fascination with historical novels. I find everything about the Renaissance period utterly absorbing; the people dressed differently, spoke differently, ate different things, and had different belief systems. When I open a historical novel I’m taking a trip to a different land, and, as with all journeys abroad, I’m as interested in how much we are similar as in how much we differ. People are people, after all; wherever, or whenever, they live.
Have you ever known a Luciana in your own life? Did you base her character (or others in this novel) on people you know? Please take us through the process of how characters come to life in your imagination—and on the page.
No, I don’t know anyone like her, but I wish I did! I love her so much. She’s a creature of contrasts—ignorant but not stupid, greedy but not grasping, selfish but loving, base but beautiful. The challenge was to try to make the reader like her despite, or perhaps because of, her faults. The key to Luciana’s character is that although she has an internal monologue, that’s also what comes straight out of her mouth. When she does flatter, or posture, it’s immediately undercut by the fact that we know exactly what she’s thinking. It makes her very human. I created Guido by trying to imagine a character who was the opposite to Luciana: he is educated, cultured, reticent, and speaks very wordily and with great propriety—no curse words for him! The novel is built on the ten
sions between their two personalities. Essentially, they have exactly the same core values. I have not really based any of the characters on people I know, but I’ve tried to make them neither completely villainous nor completely virtuous.
Of all of the cities featured in The Botticelli Secret, which is your favorite?
One of the things I’d really like to get across the incredible diversity of all these cities, but that they all have so much to offer. In fact, one of the main messages of the novel is that Italy always was, is now, and ever shall be intensely regional. So in the spirit of that I’d have to confess to a soft spot for Venice, the city of my fathers, with Florence as a close second. If I’m to be allowed two answers, I’d say Venice in the winter, Florence in the summer!
MARINA AND HER DAUGHTER, RUBY
Behind the Novel
An Original Essay by the Author
“We like to think that we can look back on the past and find it simplistic, or even primitive.”
“Botticelli and the Art of Reading a Painting”
by Marina Fiorato
It’s tempting to think that we’re getting more and more sophisticated as we forge our way through the twenty-first century. We like to think that we can look back on the past and find it simplistic, or even primitive. But despite, or perhaps because of, all of our technologies, the images that fill our world today are actually reasonably simple. Photography must take some responsibility for the erosion of meaning within image—essentially the photograph captures a moment of life and, unless digital trickery is at play, there are no layers of meaning. It is just a literal snapshot of a scene.
The Botticelli Secret Page 47