Portrait of a Conspiracy

by Donna Russo Morin

  Mattea dropped into her crouch. She held her free hand out to the side for balance, while her armed hand swayed back and forth, watching his eyes follow it, knowing he had no idea what she might do, what she was capable of doing.

  “We want no more of you,” she snarled low, even her voice accepted no challenge. “We want no trouble. Take yourselves away and we shall do the same, forgetting your faces and your names.”

  But Giuseppe was a fool.

  As her dagger hand swayed to the right, he lunged left. If not for her lessons, she would have been lost.

  Mattea moved left and forward, her dagger up and then down, slashing his face on the way up, grazing his chest on the way down.

  “Cazzo!” he screamed, bringing a hand to his torn face, blood dripping through his fingers and soaking his doublet as he stumbled back a step, then two.

  “Giuseppe? What is it?” Ignazio yelled from behind.

  It was Mattea’s turn to lunge, to taunt this callow boy who would prey on young women, slashing her knife through the air just inches from his neck.

  “GO!” she screamed.

  He did.

  Seeing his friend running from them, Ignazio followed, keeping the armed women in his sights until he was out of range of their weapons, then he turned tail and dashed away.

  “Are you all right, Isabetta?” Mattea spun round.

  “Yes, but—”

  “Run!” Mattea yelled.

  They did. Lifting their skirts, they ran like the men on the calcio field, hard and fast. Only once did Mattea turn around and make certain no one followed them.

  Panting, Isabetta turned fraught-filled eyes to her friend and savior.

  “Who are you, Mattea Zamperini?”

  Mattea snickered, mirth quivering with tears, wiping her face harshly, removing the man’s blood splattered on her face, burning her skin. “I hardly know.”

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  “Closer and farther,

  Together and apart.”

  Mattea stopped just inside the door. She had expected to be the first to arrive at the studio and to find it empty. It was not.

  Isabetta jumped up at the sight of her friend in the doorway, though the man standing beside her showed no signs of perturbance.

  Leonardo da Vinci stood at Isabetta’s table, where she had been perched upon her stool. Spread about on the wood plank before them were the many sketches Isabetta had made of Botticelli’s mural. In some there was but a single gibbeted man, in others there were the three already in place on the wall and in eternity.

  But Mattea saw all Isabetta longed to hide in how closely she had positioned her stool to Leonardo’s body, the fineness of the woman’s dark green silk gown—one inappropriate to work, uncovered by her smock—the great care Isabetta had taken in configuring the braids of her flaxen locks. Telling most of all, she saw the look upon her friend’s face, forced wide-eyed innocence over a deepening flush, a child caught in the worst sort of mischief.

  Mattea knew with one glance what Isabetta was about. How well she knew the pangs of unrequited desire. All she felt for Isabetta was sadness. Mattea would make no verdict on what Isabetta needed to feel better.

  “Ah, I thought I was the only one coming,” Isabetta said, coming round the table as if to greet Mattea.

  “It took me longer to get word to everyone,” Mattea rushed her reply. “I’m sure they’ll all be here soon enough.”

  “You have learned something of your friend?” Leonardo asked.

  “Indeed I have. We have—”

  Before she could say more, the door opened once again. Even as Fiammetta, now barging in, prattled on with almost motherly strife at Natasia walking in beside her, it mattered not. As soon as she saw Mattea, gaze twitching to Isabetta, looking much the same, she knew.

  “You know something, Mattea. And you, Isabetta,” Fiammetta accused, as if their knowledge was a crime.

  Mattea nodded. “I do, but perhaps we should—”

  For the third time the door opened; Viviana passed over the threshold.

  “We are all present,” Isabetta stepped beside Mattea, “I believe it is time to tell.”

  Talking with one another, talking over one another, blushing at the gasps, at the exclamations upon their bravery, at the denunciations at their foolish daring, Mattea and Isabetta eventually revealed their actions, all of them, and the motherly chiding grew to a fever pitch.

  “It is pure logic. How silly of us not to think of it,” Viviana muttered.

  “Lapaccia would not leave Florence. She would not leave her son,” Mattea was emphatic on this point. “Though we do not know assuredly, we are all fairly convinced Lapaccia did take the painting.”

  “Yet we do not know why,” Viviana said, not with pure conviction. All shared the belief, all had hinted they held the same thought—Lapaccia protected someone, but who no one could say with certainty for the painting had not revealed her secret. How much easier it would have made this ordeal if it had.

  “It does not matter, not to me. We must start searching the convents,” Mattea continued, “today, this very minute.”

  “But we may not be the only ones looking there.”

  All eyes turned to Isabetta.

  “Think of the man’s words,” she explained. “He told us what he told Il Magnifico. It may be the government has already begun their search of the religious houses.”

  “Then we haven’t a moment to lose.”

  “But where to start?” Viviana mumbled.

  “Let us begin with those in our own parishes,” Mattea said quickly, a notion already thought of. “It will be seen as the least out of the ordinary.”

  “We cannot go traipsing about the city alone,” Fiammetta huffed. “It is no longer the same city.”

  “Of course not,” Mattea assured her. “We will go in groups or in pairs.”

  “And what do we say, ‘Buongiorno, are you hiding any criminals here?’”

  More than one pair of eyes fell upon Fiammetta with growing impatience.

  “Let us ask if they have any new novitiates. Tell them a group of ladies wishes to make fresh linens for all those newly arrived and initiated.” Viviana had done this very thing as a young wife married to a thriving merchant.

  “Perfect!” Mattea exclaimed.

  “Very well,” Fiammetta agreed, though none too enthusiastically. “As I am here, I will accompany Natasia to convents in this area. My carriage will await me at your home, Natasia. Come.”

  Taking the young woman by the arm, a mother demanding her child’s attendance, Natasia could do no more than comply, turning to the group with a raised hand and a silent, apologetic shrug.

  “There is freedom in being a widow,” Viviana said, still drenched in her widow’s weeds though they were an ill fit. “I may walk about on my own without a care for any stinging tongues.” She affected a smile, yet those remaining were little convinced by it. Her olive skin still looked more alabaster than usual, save for the dark smudges about her eyes. “Though I do not think I will look at any convents, not just yet.”

  Isabetta pouted at Viviana. “But we must make haste. If the Eight or the Podestà, or both, search already, we are far behind.”

  “But do they search wisely?”

  Silence answered Viviana’s question.

  “How many convents must there be, within the city walls alone, let alone in the hillside?” Viviana paced a circle. “Our Lapaccia would not go to just any convent. There would be purpose and reason to which one she would choose.”

  Viviana dropped her hands by her sides, her veil upon her face. “I will take myself to the Palazzo della Signoria. There is a listing there, I am sure. There are lists for the lists. I am willing to wager there would be one with all the convents upon it. Perhaps it would give us some direction.”

  “I will gladly accompany you.” Leonardo stepped up. “It will go well for you to gain entry upon my arm. Especially now.”

  “Now? Why now?”
Isabetta seemed almost to demand the explanation.

  Leonardo’s chin dipped as his head shook. “I fear our Il Magnifico is quite angry. Not only has Bandini eluded capture once more, but the pope has sent a Bull of Excommunication.”

  “On who?” Isabetta huffed.

  “On everyone.” Leonardo shrugged. “Lorenzo, the Gonfaloniere, the Priors, and more. Even the priests if they dare serve Mass, at least until his nephew, the Cardinal, is returned to him.”

  “Il Magnifico will never do it,” Isabetta spat.

  “No, he will not, which is why he is so angry.” Leonardo turned once more to Viviana. “Have no fear, madonna, I will keep you out of the eye of his wrath.”

  Mattea caught the look of disappointment upon Isabetta’s face; it was naked for all to see. “It is you and I then, my friend,” she said to Isabetta, “which makes perfect sense, as we live so very near one another.”

  “Of course. Yes, of course.”

  Locking the sacristy door behind them, the two groups broke off in two different directions, one north, one west.

  “Buona fortuna,” Mattea said in parting to Viviana and Leonardo.

  “Sì, good luck,” Viviana repeated, taking the artist’s arm. “Good luck to us all.”

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  “Blooms are often hidden among the thorns.”

  “How dare you!” Lorenzo de’ Medici’s scream shook the walls, the thunder of it threatening to bring down the formidable tower of the palazzo itself.

  Viviana and Leonardo had just entered the first courtyard of the government palace when the cry rang out. They had taken but a few steps upon the grand staircase soaring through the entire structure, on their way to the chancellery on the second floor.

  Leonardo pulled on her arm with one hand, while with the other he held a finger to his lips.

  Like children roaming the house past their bedtime, they slinked up the stairs to the second floor. By his lead, Viviana found herself in a part of the palazzo she had never been privy to, those which held il private de sala de Medici. She had heard the great Cosimo’s study remained untouched, though he had been dead for fourteen years now. Lorenzo had chosen to take over his own father’s salon, for Piero had occupied it for no more than five years, and even then rarely.

  The staircase spat Leonardo and Viviana out in the middle of a monstrous room, a piazza with walls.

  Brilliant light from the two stories of windows on the north side shimmered upon the bronze marble floor of the Sala dell’ Udienza. Viviana flinched, the life-sized statues lining both long side walls taking her aback. Beneath the windows, the four slim stairs led to the platform stretching the width of the room. Here Cosimo the First would sit. Here, those who desired it, could have their say, in the Audience Hall.

  Viviana had never been in this room, and though he led her through it with the same stealth as he had brought her to it, Leonardo pointed up in silence. Viviana’s gaze followed, and stopped dead in her tracks.

  Over her head, covering every inch of the ceiling, were magnificent coffers of gold. Alternating octagons and diamonds, the gold was offset by the deep blue of the Medici, of the Florentine Republic itself.

  “Pure gold,” Leonardo leaned down and whispered, “every inch.”

  “How dare you tell me he has eluded us again!”

  Once more, the voice of Il Magnifico occupied the building, echoing eerily in this vast hall.

  Leonardo and Viviana could spare no more time to admire the room. He pulled her to a small opening in the southwest corner. Leonardo stepped into the hallway, pulled her with him, and shoved both their forms into the small corner cubby created by the odd construction of the hall and the small rooms in this section of the palazzo.

  “My brother is dead and yet Bandini is still free.” Though he did not scream, Lorenzo growled. Viviana realized they were but steps from whichever one of these rooms he called his own. She closed her eyes for a moment, in prayer to all the gods she called hers, for to be caught like this, after one arrest, could mean her end. And yet she wanted to hear as much as Leonardo. “And that devil that inhabits God’s greatest house still plagues me.”

  Lorenzo lowered his voice, they could no longer hear words distinctly. “Hah!” Lorenzo barked again, and the two hidden yet reluctant eavesdroppers could once more make out his words as well as his thunderous passions. “I will release no one. In fact, I will arrest more. Gagliardi!” he shouted the name of the leader of the Eight, a silent, unseen member of this off-stage enactment. “Do as del Monte Pesaro said, search all the convents and the monasteries.”

  Viviana squealed like a mouse, clamping a hand on her mouth.

  “Right away, Ser Lorenzo,” came the soldier’s response, deep and clipped.

  “No. No, not right away,” Lorenzo objected thoughtfully. His next words came after silent seconds of rumination. “Wait until morning, a quieter time. There may be those, such as the Cavalcanti woman, among those found. To bring such a paragon through the streets in ropes may only upset the people. We need no more to turn against us.”

  “As you say, Ser Lorenzo,” replied Gagliardi, heavy footfalls and jangling armor accompanying his words. He headed out of the room and toward the eavesdroppers.

  Back through the magnificent hall, the pair ran as fast and as silently as they could. Viviana felt certain the statues would scream of her presence, so guilt-ridden did she feel for invading Il Magnifico’s privacy.

  Leonardo led her once more to the stairs, the last set leading to the third floor and the chancellery upon it.

  “Ohé?” Leonardo called out after knocking softly upon the door, finding it opened a crack. Sticking his long head in, he glanced about. Their timing was perfect; every clerk was at his mid-afternoon rest. The chancellery was deserted.

  “Come,” Leonardo held the door open for Viviana, who rushed in behind him.

  “Close the door, quickly,” she hissed.

  “We cannot,” Leonardo muttered as he searched about the floor.

  “What do you mean we c—”

  “Ah hah!” Leonardo crowed, finding the small bronze statuette of Hercules just beyond the threshold between piles of ledgers, and placing it between the jamb and the door. Slowly the door began to close by itself, only the statue prevented it from latching.

  “It locks by itself,” Leonardo explained, taking no time to elucidate.

  They had come to find a particular set of records and yet found themselves in a large room where the shelves were as tall as the walls, and upon them sat bound ledger after ledger.

  “At least their spine identifies them,” Viviana said, but with little enthusiasm.

  Leonardo snuffled sarcastically. “You take that side, I shall take this.”

  The hunt began.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  “Collisions occur to all around.”

  Viviana stepped to the table and rolled the parchment out. As the fellowship crowded around her—gathered in the studio with the first bloom of the next day’s dawn—they saw a list writ upon the paper with a neat and tidy hand.

  “It occurred to me yesterday that there are so many convents in this city it could take us days—”

  “Weeks,” Fiammetta sniffed.

  “—to search them all. But I know Lapaccia well. Though she has spent much time at many an abbey, there would be a reason she would choose one in particular in which to hide. So, with Leonardo’s help, I acquired a list of all the convents within the city walls.”

  “And how many are there?” Mattea asked.

  Viviana’s features crinkled into an unbecoming expression; it was the one question she didn’t care to answer. “Nearly sixty.” Expected groans met her announcement. “But there are some we can easily cross off as well as those you visited yesterday.”

  A review of the list began in earnest.

  “Take those three off,” Fiammetta pointed to those she and Natasia had called upon yesterday.

  “And these two,
” Isabetta took her own silverpoint to two of the convents on the list.

  Fiammetta piped up, “There are still far too many for a small group of women to—”

  “Let us not look at them as a whole, but at them individually, their locations, their names.” Viviana grew flush. “Look here, Santa Maria Maddalena dei Pazzi. We may cross that one off with certainty.”

  “And this one,” Mattea pointed to yet another convent established by the Pazzi family.

  So it went. With heads together, thinking as one as they had so often done in the past, the women soon began to narrow the list, ridding it of those Lapaccia had never gone to or would never, whether it be for their familial connection, or the neighborhood in which it stood.

  They barely noticed as Father Raffaello brought in some simple victuals of bread and cheese and grapes, though all partook of his humble bounty.

  “We have narrowed the possibilities greatly,” Isabetta pronounced about a bite of cheese, “but still there are nearly twenty remaining.”

  “Now we must not look at where she would not go,” Viviana cried, “but with an eye to where she would.”

  The scrutiny began again. Looking through these eyes, those with a positive slant, four names leapt off the page.

  “Seeing the names, it is hard to believe we did not think of them sooner,” Mattea said, subdued. She took another piece of parchment and wrote the four names upon it:

  Santa Giuliano

  Santa Apollonia

  Santa Caterina de Siena

  Santa Caterina della Abbandonate

  Viviana shook her head at the obvious distinction of the four convents: one with the name of the murdered man, one named the same as the daughter Lapaccia had lost to the plague, and not one, but two, bearing the name of their patron, the sisterhood’s very genesis of existence, Caterina.