by Tom Pugh
Vescosi would have refused, but he felt guilty at how much he disliked the man. In the following months, Aurélie became the daughter he’d never had, and he found he couldn’t refuse her when she begged sanctuary from the marriage her father had brokered.
He looked at her fondly now, saw the passion written in every line of her body, and remembered his own youthful indignation at the creation of the Indices Librorum Prohibitorum. He’d hoped to put this moment off, indefinitely if impossible, but she was a grown woman and a good deal abler than most men he’d met. He glanced at the pamphlet he was writing, denouncing Gregorio Spina’s new edict.
“Come here and read.”
He stood in the window, staring down at the busy piazza below.
“Giacomo,” her voice broke with excitement. “When people read this… ”
“… they’ll demand my head on a stake,” he turned to face her. “The Egyptian God, Horus; how was his birth heralded?”
“A star in the east.”
“When was Mithras born?”
“Twenty-fifth of December.”
It was their familiar routine of question and answer. Aurélie hardly paused to consider her replies.
“Who were Krishna’s parents?”
“A carpenter and a virgin.”
Vescosi watched her eyes grow wide as she began to see the connections.
“How did Adonis die?”
“Crucified...”
Vescosi shrugged. There was no need to point out the obvious. “And Buddha fed five thousand people from a small basket. The information is out there, though people would rather see us dead than acknowledge it. We’ll know we’ve started making a difference when they light the fires beneath our feet,” he stared at her. “Are you sure you want to be a part of this?”
She didn’t hesitate, “Of course.”
“Then fetch the horses. There’s something you have to see.”
Vescosi tried to make himself comfortable in the saddle. Winter lingered in the air and he fastened the collar of his thick robe, envying Aurélie’s youth. She’d shaken out her long blond hair and rode with her head up, blue eyes shining with excitement.
A fortified villa came into view. Vescosi gestured, the sweep of his arm taking in the wild fields around the deserted building. “The Villa Medici,” he announced, “where it all began.”
She stared at the overgrown gardens and crumbling galleries. “I don’t understand.”
“The middle years of the last century saw a great flowering in art and natural philosophy. Cosimo de Medici was at the heart of it, commissioning strange new works from Fra Angelico, driving poor Brunelleschi half mad with his demands for the Cathedral dome. Cosimo was an extraordinary man, fortunate enough to live in extraordinary times. The discovery of Lucretius’ poem had already encouraged a few brave souls to look at the world with fresh eyes. Then strangers arrived from the east, chased out of Constantinople by the Turks.
“My great-uncle, Niccolò Vescosi, was a young clerk in Cosimo’s service at the time. He went to hear one of these newcomers speak, a philosopher named Gemistus Plethon, and left in a daze, unsure of whether he’d been listening to God or the Devil. He begged Cosimo to come back with him the following day, into that heady swamp of ideas, which stretched both brain and nerve to breaking point.
“It was a turning point; Cosimo had been a simple banker before Gemistus arrived, albeit one of the most powerful in Europe. Now he was a man possessed.”
An old man challenged them at the villa gates, employed to prevent vagrants from moving into the abandoned rooms. Vescosi gave him a few coins. “A relative of mine lived here once.”
He led Aurélie through the dusty courtyard, up a flight of stairs to an open gallery. The distant hills were still draped in the reds and browns of winter.
“This villa was at the heart of everything Cosimo tried to achieve,” continued Vescosi. “Gemistus presented him with a complete edition of the works of Plato – the first seen in western Europe in a thousand years – a dozen volumes which Cosimo used to attract the greatest minds of the age. He set them a beautifully simple, utterly blasphemous challenge; study man on his own terms and not as a reflection of God; raise him from his knees, shake him free of the terrible weight of the supernatural.”
Aurélie looked round. Creepers lay heavy on the walls. A few scraps of silk still hung in the open windows. “What happened?”
“Gemistus disappeared, Cosimo grew old. As death approached, he fell prey to the priests’ tales of hellfire and damnation. His confidence had been shaken; successful in so many of his endeavours, he’d failed completely when it mattered most.”
Vescosi turned to face his young ward. “It wasn’t chance which brought Gemistus here. The volumes he gave Cosimo were a symbol of good faith, and an invitation to help him find the greatest treasure on earth.”
Vescosi shook his head helplessly, aware that he was moving too fast, drawing her in when he should have been pushing her away. “This is a tale of dreams, Aurélie, and the glue which binds the Otiosi together. A form of madness that infected me when I was still young; it will consume you, too, if I continue.”
Aurélie hadn’t blinked when he’d talked of being burned at the stake. Now she hesitated. A wrinkle appeared between the clear blue eyes. “You’re trying to scare me.”
“You should be scared.”
She squared her shoulders, planting her feet on the dusty flagstones. “Go on.”
“Cosimo de Medici sent men to scour castles and monasteries for old manuscripts. My great-uncle was given the task of cataloguing the fruits of this labour. Cosimo knew the value of information, but this wasn’t idle curiosity; he was looking for something specific.
“I was still a young man when I inherited my great uncle’s home. Stumbling across his journal, I learned about his work for Cosimo, his accidental discovery that Gemistus had come to Italy in search of something called the Devil’s Library. The philosopher stayed in Florence for several years, before disappearing as mysteriously as he’d arrived. Soon after, Cosimo de Medici came to see Niccolò at his home – our home. My great uncle had never seen his master so agitated. Cosimo left a small, rosewood case in Niccolò’s care, ordering him to keep it safe, sealed and secret. His final act before leaving was to strip Niccolò of his most cherished pleasure, when he forbade him from ever returning to the Academy he’d founded here at this villa.”
“What was in the box?”
“My uncle was a man of his word. He never opened it.”
“But you know.”
Vescosi looked down at the empty courtyard, slowly withdrawing a slim volume from his robe. “My uncle’s journal. Twenty years passed before Niccolò heard from Cosimo de Medici again.” Vescosi ran his fingertips across the worn binding before handing it to Aurélie. “Read the entry for July 31, 1464.”
Impatiently, she flicked through the pages. “I’d heard Cosimo was gravely ill, but his summons, after twenty years, still took me by surprise.” She looked at Vescosi.
“Continue.”
The meadows around the Villa Medici had been fields once; I’d worked the soil myself in happier times, enjoying the hard labour after hours poring over old manuscripts.
I dismounted in the silent courtyard and followed an old retainer to Cosimo’s chamber. The curtains hung open, but the thick walls permitted no more than a single slab of sunlight to fall across Cosimo’s narrow bed, leaving the rest of the chamber in darkness.
My former master appeared to be sleeping. I was shocked at the change in him; his ears seemed too big for the shrunken head, the full lips pierced by sickness and his skin the colour of bleached bone.
He stirred, staring up at me with tired eyes. “Have you brought it?”
The rosewood case barely made an impression on the smooth sheets. Cosimo’s fingertips brushed the flawless lock. “All those years and yet you never dared to open it?”
I felt colour rise in my cheeks. After all the sacr
ifices I’d made, Cosimo had no right to insult me. He produced a key, fitting it to the lock and opening the lid with a hand grown claw-like with age.
The book was slim, nestled in velvet. Shame gave me courage; I reached forward to open the frontispiece and read the title of the book I’d kept for so many years – Confessions of Benedict of Nursia.
A tonsured man emerged from a dark corner of the room. He stepped forward and bent low over Cosimo, whispering.
I cleared my throat. “I had not realised his condition was so serious.”
The Dominican monk straightened and fixed me with unwavering eyes. “Cosimo de Medici is a man like any other. His sins are no less mortal than ours.”
I stared at Cosimo, hoping to see him strike the Dominican for his impertinence. The Master of Florence managed no more than a sigh. “Brother Jerome is right. My sins are grievous.” His eyes rested on the rosewood case. “I was led astray. I gave in to temptation.”
The monk locked the case and pocketed the key. “You were fortunate, my son,” his voice was soft. “Had you found what you were looking for, it would have corrupted you beyond redemption.”
“No.” I thought of that unparalleled store of human knowledge, waiting to be discovered. Why had I never forced the lock on the case? Simple cowardice or unquestioning faith in Cosimo de Medici? I fell on my knees, imploring him. “The case will disappear. It will be locked away and forgotten.” I gestured angrily at the monk. “He probably won’t even open it.”
Cosimo would not meet my eyes. “The Church is life... not death,” he whispered. “They will know what to do with it.”
I task myself with cowardice so often I fear there must be truth in the accusation. I turned my back on the greatest man I’d ever known and left him at the monk’s mercy. Turned my back on the book I’d guarded with such loyalty for so many years and returned to Florence, to my books and antiquities and to the compliments of fools.
Aurélie looked up. Vescosi saw her blink, returning to the present time. “Benedict of Nursia?”
“St. Benedict,” he nodded. “The sixth century miracle-worker whose Rule is still followed in monasteries throughout Christendom. I imagine I know more about his life than any other man alive. After reading my uncle’s journal, I became obsessed, contacting scholars and collectors across the continent. The Otiosi grew from this network of like-minded men; when the Pope created his lists of banned books, we realised we were in a position to act. Many of the merchants and clerks who assist us do so from a simple sense of outrage. But for the original members, the true aim has always been the Library.”
She almost stamped her foot in frustration. “What library? What was Cosimo looking for?”
Vescosi grinned. He felt almost young again.
CHAPTER 9
Lübeck, February 9th, 1562
Mathern Schoff stood at the study window of his fine, gabled townhouse in Lübeck, hiding his excitement from the Frenchman. The window overlooked Lübeck’s main square and Schoff felt his father’s hand on the back of his neck as he stared down. Servants ran back and forth in the morning sunshine, wealthy burghers discussed business and hökers called their wares. Small-minded fools, all of them, convinced the world revolved around their tiny ambitions.
For more than four years, Schoff had smiled and nodded as Otiosi members claimed that observation was a more certain guide to God’s creation than scripture, hiding his true feelings, waiting and praying for this moment. His visitor had just uttered the words he longed to hear more than any others, in passing, as if the Devil’s Library were the least interesting part of his story.
The sun disappeared behind cloud, and Schoff caught sight of his reflection in the thick glass. A young man in a lawyer’s robe, two spots of colour high in his pale cheeks.
The Frenchman was still talking, lounged across an armchair, his expensive black doublet bunched at the shoulders. “A complete set of the works of Epicurus, Herr Schoff. Imagine what a blessing that might prove for mankind.”
Schoff forced a smile, remembering how Spina had described Epicurus. The ultimate heretic, for whom the soul dies when the body dies. I would rather face a dozen Luthers, ten thousand Mohamedans.
“Of course, Herr Durant. A blessing,” he turned and held out a hand for the palimpsest.
Durant frowned. “Weren’t you listening, Herr Schoff? I don’t have the letter with me.”
“You don’t?” Schoff nodded uncertainly. What had he missed, standing at the window like a fool?
“The palimpsest is too important. I won’t hand it over until I know what’s to become of it.”
Schoff felt the stirrings of alarm. “Your letter will be studied by the finest minds in Europe. Rest assured, Herr Durant, if the Otiosi discover the lost works of Epicurus, they will seek to distribute them as widely as possible.”
“They?”
“We, Herr Durant,” Schoff heard impatience in his own voice. He squared his shoulders. “Your instructions are quite clear.”
“To deliver the palimpsest to the Otiosi. How will you pass it to your leader, Schoff? Why entrust it to a messenger service when I’m willing to take it myself?”
“There are protocols, Herr Durant.”
The Frenchman lowered his voice, “I fear I must insist.”
“And jeopardise the search for your daughter?”
“You’ve never found so much as a trace of her. She would approve of what I’m doing now.”
They were interrupted by a soft tap at the study door. A face appeared.
“What is it?” snapped Schoff.
The servant reddened. “Another gentleman to see you, sir.”
“He shared his name, I suppose?”
“Longstaff.”
Another of these cursed book-finders, but Schoff knew all about Matthew Longstaff; above all that he was pledged to serve the Otiosi for another seven months. Perhaps he could enlist the Englishman’s aid. “Send him up.”
“Very good, sir.”
Durant frowned. “Hardly an appropriate moment to receive visitors.” He turned at a sound behind him, dropping a hand to his rapier.
The Englishman paused in the doorway. He removed his long, cavalryman’s coat and draped it over one arm; a casual gesture, but the thick leather would make an effective shield. He raised his free hand; a gesture of peace, with the handle of a knife visible in his palm.
Schoff attempted to regain control. “Come in, please.”
Longstaff glanced in his direction. “I’m interrupting.”
“On the contrary. You could not have timed your arrival more agreeably. My name is Mathern Schoff. This gentleman is Gaetan Durant.”
Longstaff remained in the doorway.
“Herr Durant has brought me a manuscript,” the lawyer tried to keep his voice even. “As have you, Herr Longstaff.”
Durant stood. “Longstaff?” His grey eyes were hard. “I’ve heard of you.”
Longstaff looked him up and down. “Then you have me at a disadvantage.”
“It’s not a compliment,” Durant sneered. “Not in our line of work.”
A black dog – broad across the chest with a heavy, square head – emerged from the shadows on the landing, pushed past her master and settled in front of the open fire. Schoff watched Durant retreat to the far side of the armchair.
“Come in, Herr Longstaff,” he repeated. “Were you successful in Muscovy?”
The Englishman gave Durant a wide berth, staying close to the ranks of ledgers on the far wall. He wiped fingers on his trousers, then reached inside his jerkin for a small book, neatly bound in red leather.
Schoff smiled at him. Be polite. Remain still. These men will not be impressed by exaggerated legal gestures. “On the desk, if you’d be so kind.”
A second shadow fell across the table. Durant, standing disagreeably close – scent of rich fabric and expensive wine – peering down at the slim volume. “On the Planets, their Characteristics and the Orbits they describe around t
he Sun.”
The Englishman ignored him, joining his dog beside the fire.
Schoff stared at Durant. “What could be easier? Give me the palimpsest and it will be as if our conversation had never taken place.”
The Frenchman shook his head.
“Herr Durant is being difficult,” Schoff looked at Longstaff. “Perhaps you can make him see sense?”
The Englishman pretended not to hear. Schoff struggled to control his temper. He was younger; he knew he must appear soft and pampered to these two men.
Pointedly, the Frenchman turned his back on Longstaff, his accent making a song of the hard German consonants. “Tell me where to find your master. He will be able to unravel the code, if anyone can.”
Schoff shook his head. Why couldn’t the stubborn fool simply hand over the palimpsest? “You think the Otiosi are playing a game, Herr Durant, that our leader risks his life on a whim? The Church would kill him if they discovered his identity. Your childishness places us all in jeopardy.”
“I’m sure you can show me how to find him without compromising his safety.”
“Give me the letter,” the lawyer kept his voice even. “I will see it reaches him, along with a note of your concerns.”
“A note of my concerns?” Durant raised his eyebrows. “Not a word by Epicurus has survived. We know nothing of the man beyond a few lines of poetry written three hundred years after his death. But think of the difference that poem has already made. Fifty years ago the world was still flat, an unmoving object at the centre of the universe. The Roman Church had it all worked out – not a flaw in the vast edifice of lies. Until Lucretius was rediscovered and struck a spark of curiosity in Erasmus and Columbus; Luther, Copernicus, Leonardo, Gutenberg; a host of other restless minds.”
Longstaff cleared his throat. “Perhaps, Herr Schoff, you and I might conclude our business now. You can continue your discussion with this gentleman later.”