The Botticelli Secret

21

The ladies led me through a dozen piebald presence chambers, in a procession of other magpie courtiers until presently the space opened out into an enormous banqueting hall with elegant cross ribs arching high above in an elegant spider’s web. Arranged across the room were three long tables, making three sides of a square. A servant led myself and my three companions to the central table, where we were placed at either end, leaving room, I supposed, for the royal party. Seated and alone again, I scanned the room for Brother Guido but could not see him in the sea of black and white. When all were settled, the musicians sounded from a high gallery, and I looked up to see the buglers crack their cheeks like the four winds. Two doors opened at the end of the room and the royal party arrived at last. They were a glorious sight, but like the rest of the court, I only had eyes for their noble guest.

He was unrecognizable from the broken Christ I had seen bleeding on his bed this afternoon. He was clean-shaven. His hair trimmed and curled to shining blue-black ringlets. His face was glowing with health, the warm hue of an apricot. His blue eyes shone from his tanned face and swept the room with a noble mien. He was attired in black, his night-velvet surcoat adorned with a scattering of chips of jet, but his voluminous velvet sleeves were slashed to show a blouson of snowy white beneath. His legs were clad in tight black hose, showing calves and thighs that could have been hewn from marble, so firm and long and finely muscled were they. (Me being me, my eyes, of course, strayed to his codpiece, which seemed to boast of so substantial a manhood that my cheeks grew hot. I could not believe then that I had grabbed his prick the first time we met, would give anything to do it again now.) His attitude and expression were all stern nobility, and he wore his power like a mantle. I wondered that a humble monk could dissemble so, but my fickle woman’s heart wanted him more than ever. I saw now, at once, what he could have been if he had accepted his uncle’s legacy and felt sorry for the path he had chosen. Now Pisa would suffer under the yoke of an unworthy finocchio—the real Niccolò. Lord Guido della Torre, on the other hand, would have clearly been a true Prince of Pisa, a noble sprig without peer. He was magnificent.

And I was not the only one who thought so. Even Queen Giovanna—whom I had to admit was indeed beautiful in her dark Aragonese fashion—mingled eyes with him when he kissed her hand in tribute. For this woman, whose chastity was beyond reproach, to show such blatant interest was a testament to Brother Guido’s charms. I looked quickly to Don Ferrente, but the king was settling into his chair and greeting his guests and had not seen the exchange. Then Brother Guido was at my side, and I felt my hand raised to his lips. But his eyes did not meet mine as they had met the queen’s. My hand dropped, burning, to my lap and my cheeks flamed to match, and yet as he took his seat beside me I knew he had noticed my beauty, and that he was just as affected as he had been when he saw me descend the stairs in Pisa.

He, too, was clearly thinking of that night, for, as if he had caught the echo of my thoughts like a distant chime of bells, he said, “How charming you look tonight, Luciana. Truly, I’m honored to have you as my companion.”

The very words I had teased him with omitting as I had descended his uncle’s stair. The blue eyes sparkled now, and I marveled that they could hold so many expressions. So bleak was his stare when I had entered his room earlier, yet so lively with humor now. I divined that his good mood must have a reason; perhaps in our time apart he had made some signifi-cant discovery that took us a little forward in our quest.

Whatever the reason, I was glad.

It was quickly clear to me that I was in for an enjoyable night, for three reasons.

Ragione Uno: Brother Guido was drinking, as I had never seen him do, clearly in an effort to support our charade, for as a nobleman on a nonfast day he would be expected to enjoy the wines of his host.

Ragione Due: we were to share the same dish, as I was Pisa’s acknowledged consort, and all couples were sharing a platter, as was the norm in high society.

Ragione Tre: Brother Guido was closely observing other nobles and their courtesans around the tables, and aped their behavior with me, leaning close, sharing morsels, and whispering in my ear. It mattered not that we spoke together of a stolen painting; the closeness itself was enough. I was happy to play along. For this afternoon, in his chamber, he had looked at me with the eyes of the damned across a yawning chasm that seemingly could never be breached. Now, although we were merely players in a play, I felt I had crossed the valley and scaled the battlements—was it too much to hope that I might, one day, be admitted to the citadel?

While I mused, Brother Guido spoke at length to the king on his right, but the roar of chatter was too great to hear what they said. When he turned back I bent close to his perfumed head, and as once before, his warm hair tickled my cheek. “Did you find out anything about the Seven?”

“No,” he breathed at me. “He was speaking of how this is a better residence for such feasts than his old abode, Castel Capuano across the bay. This place, Castel Nuovo, he inherited from his dead father, and he said that such bereavements can bring joy as well as grief. He alluded to my own loss.”

Here, I am sure, Brother Guido presented a very suitable countenance of the grieving son, for he cared more for his uncle than the real Niccolò ever had. “Anything else? What’s the celebration that we’re all supposed to be attending?”

“He didn’t say, but he did imply that tonight’s feast is in honor of someone or something. He’s making a toast; mayhap we’ll learn more then.”

“And the cartone, is it safe? Where is it?”

He patted his shimmering, jet-studded chest. “Here.”

It looked suspiciously flat—as if nothing lay under the nap but his smooth broad muscle. “Still in the goatskin?” I asked with narrowed eyes.

“No. I told them to take care of the gourd for it contained relics of my dead father. The Spanish understand such things, and my lord king did send me a jeweled leather pouch, flat like a pocket, meant for the carriage of relics on the person. I effected the transfer, and the cartone is safe. Not damaged by our travels, nor like to be in the future, for the pouch is sturdy and proof against water.”

My shoulders dropped in relief. “Thank fuck for that. ‘Twould have been a fine pot of piss if we’d come all this way and—”

Brother Guido shushed me with a flap of his hand, for the king stood up to speak and the room fell silent in three heartbeats. Tall and aquiline, Don Ferrente cut an impressive figure in his head-to-toe black. “My dear friends,” he began, in his gravelly, Aragonese-accented Neapolitan. His white smile accepted the whole room, and from the corner of my eye I saw his trio of mistresses and his wife all looking up at him with adoration. “We are here, as you know, to celebrate the betrothal of the cousin of a dear friend.”

There was a rumble of dissent around the room, which surprised me—I thought the king well loved. Mayhap he should murder a few more barons in the future.

He held up a hand to stay the protests. “No, no, my friends. Lorenzo de’ Medici has given our kingdom pain in the past, and we have not always been on good terms. But since his visit to me earlier this year, and the tribute he paid to me, all past wrongs are forgotten. I consider us to be as brothers—we do not always agree, but we are bound together by blood.” There was now laughter, and the hecklers seemed satisfied. “And for this reason we celebrate today the betrothal of his dearly beloved cousin Lorenzo di Pierfrancesco de’ Medici, and Semir-amide Appiani, of the House of Aragon.”

My dull brain struggled to keep up. Lorenzo il Magnifico had recently fallen out with Don Ferrente, but had come here himself earlier in the year to make good. His cousin, Botticelli’s patron, was to be married to a member of Don Ferrente’s family. Was this alliance the “tribute” il Magnifico had made to the House of Aragon? “Wonder what they fought about?” I whispered to my consort. “Must have been serious, for il Magnifico to offer his cousin as a marriage prize?”

“Shhh!” Brother Guido hissed, for the king was speaking again.

“And we have the honor to be invited to the nuptials, a sen-night from today.”

All right. Did that mean that Lorenzo di Pierfrancesco would be traveling south to marry at the home of his bride? Where in the stinking south would we be bound next? I felt a strange foreboding.

“So we raise our glasses to the health of the bride and groom, to the benefits of our alliance, and for the progress of our court on the morrow to the wedding. In fact, ‘tis not so bad a thing that we shall be absent from Naples for this little while, for, as you all know, our Blessed Saint Gennaro’s blood did not liquefy this year.”

Now this I did not understand at all. I looked around the court for signs of laughter at a joke that was too lofty for my understanding. But there was nothing but grave nods of assent, which set the noble heads bobbing like corks in a barrel. I looked back to our host impatiently. For the love of Vero Madre, just tell us where we are bound!

“So I give you our sojourn to the beauteous city of Florence.”

My wine was already in my mouth and I spat it straight back out in a rainshower. Brother Guido gripped my arm till it hurt and the court stilled and looked to me, the king included. “Hiccups,” I murmured. “Sorry.”

The king’s quizzical glance thawed to a smile. “Such things are easily forgiven in the face of such beauty.”

I relaxed outwardly, but my innards were in turmoil. Florence? Were we to return to the lion’s mouth, and certain death? I looked hard at Brother Guido, but his sunny countenance remained unchanged, and he patted my hand in assurance. I looked down at my lap, trying to suppress my feelings as the king continued.

“And now, I will reveal a little gift that I have made with my own hands for the happy couple, a great honor to show my friendship to the Medici family.”

With a flourish the ever-present majordomo Santiago whipped a black silk napkin from a bumpy object in the center of the table. It was a carving, beautifully rendered and quite finished, of the Nativity scene. We all craned closer. It was a little wooden miracle, for every detail was present. The babe, laughing, held up his starlike hands to the Virgin who knelt in devotion. Every particular was perfectly rendered—every strand of hair, every jewel in the crowns of kings; even a robin sang from the eaves. From the glow of the white wood I recognized the woodwork that the king had been whittling earlier that day, and remembered, too, the hundreds of Nativity scenes I had seen for sale in the streets. Not one of those rivaled what we marveled at now. As the court murmured its approval the king spoke again, with visible pride. “ ‘The day-spring from on high has visited us—’ ”

“ ‘And Kings shall come to the brightness of thy rising,’ “ finished Brother Guido, as if completing a password.

I held my breath, lest this be seen as insolence, but the king smiled again. “Indeed. You know your Scripture. Very fitting, for a leader of men.” Here he spoke out to the whole room. “Christ was the greatest leader of all, for did he not show us all the way, on Calvary’s hill? Tell me”—he turned again to look at Brother Guido—“what do you think of my gift?” Don Ferrente inclined his head with mock humility, fully expecting a compliment.

“I think, ‘timeo Danaos et dona ferentes,’ “ replied Brother Guido, his eyes icy, his face a mask of pride. He was clearly speaking Latin, and he translated for the lack-learned, myself included, in a ringing voice. And that’s how I learned the second of the three Latin tags that I know, and could scarcely believe the insolence of its meaning: “Beware of Greeks bearing gifts.”

This time he’d gone too far. The court gasped in unison, and I looked with horror at the king, who stared back at my companion, steely and unsmiling. I dug Brother Guido viciously in the ribs. What the hell was he playing at? Pride and arrogance were all very well, but in a just measure that would convince that he was really Niccolò della Torre. Blind insolence was another thing—was he trying to get us killed? And he censured me for spitting my wine!

Don Ferrente gave a series of throaty gulps and Santiago jumped up at his elbow with wine. But the king waved him away, eyes streaming. Was he so incensed by his guest that he was having some sort of fit? But no, Brother Guido had judged his reply aright; Don Ferrente was laughing, and his court of sycophants did likewise until I felt I was in a pit of yelping jackals.

“Very good,” chuckled the king, “very good. My honored guest makes a play on my name. Dona ferentes, Don Ferrente, ‘bearing gifts.’ Very good.” He sank to his chair, speech over, still murmuring the jest and giving little shouts of laughter. I understood then that the king was powerful, merciless, even dangerous, but not very clever. He admired scholarship, and aspired to it, and Brother Guido had seen that. I had to give him credit. He had finished the biblical reference and made a Latin joke that Don Ferrente would just about get, and so endeared himself to the king, who was now slapping him about the shoulders.

“ ‘Tis a trifle, my gift. Just a trifle,” said the king, waving his hand in a dismissive manner at the carving which had started all this, waiting for the inevitable contradiction from his guest. Now, it seemed, a compliment was necessary.

“Not so, Majesty,” rejoined Brother Guido, more than equal to the task of flattery. “For although other gifts may have a greater value in their materials—gold, jewels, and suchlike—your carving is so exquisite that the value is immeasur able, lying as it does in the quality of the workmanship.”

Even I, born flatterer that I am, thought that Brother Guido might have overcooked it. But the king was all smiles.

“If you admire it so much, perhaps I will make one for you, at your upcoming nuptials. The dogaressa’s daughter, is it not? A fine marriage prize!”

At the same time that Brother Guido inclined his head in agreement, I literally jumped with shock about a twelveinch in the air. Betrothed?

For the second time that night the king looked askance at me. Brother Guido covered quickly. “My fair consort has a particular love for this air that your musicians are playing. She is anxious to dance, for she has a great talent for it and cannot stay still when the music calls!”

I smiled and nodded along—it was either that or protest that I had the palsy. I thought we had gotten away with it, but the king nodded and clapped his hands. “Excellent!” he called into the sudden silence. “A measure! Play the air again,” he charged his musicians. “Our guests will honor us with an exhibition dance in the Pisan style.”

I looked murder at Brother Guido, but in fairness he did not look too happy either. I was comfortable in my own skill for I had not lied when I had told him I danced well, that night when we had first discussed the Graces’ attitudes. I had no idea, however, how well schooled a monk would be in the forms of dance. He could look the part, which he did, but he may have two left feet.

I need not have worried. The musicians played a simple, slow pavane and we circled around each other with matching skill, alone in the middle of that vast space, a raven and a swan taking a measure. I was pleased and surprised—he had clearly been brought up with all the needful skills of a young princeling before he had entered orders. I would have begun to enjoy myself, were it not for the latest revelation, a subject we canvassed in hissing whispers whenever the dance brought us together. “So you are . . . Niccolò is . . . betrothed?”

“Yes.”

“To the dogaressa’s daughter? From Venice?” Oh, the irony.

“Yes. It was settled before my cousin went to the university.”

My thoughts wheeled with my person as we turned away from each other and described a wide circle of the room apart, before joining hands again. “But he is a finocchio! Queer as Christmas!”

Brother Guido rolled his eyes. “Really, Luciana. You, in your former circles, must have divined that a preference for . . . the company of boys does not preclude a man from a tolerably happy marriage.”

It was true. I had known many such in the noble society of Florence—men who had never approached me or my fellows, men who Bembo said had a matrimonio bianco—a white marriage. “But what about love?” I blurted, thinking again of what I had learned this afternoon: that the nobility seem to hold no store by human feeling. “Is this poor maid to be shackled to a cruel fellow with no interest in her person? No . . . bedsport?” I could not think of anything worse.

“You are talking like a simpleton. The compensations of such a match are great—he has lands; she does too, and a shipping fortune to boot. I thought you understood such transactions. Love does not enter into the case. And if it did, I doubt whether you yourself would have made much of a living in your former profession.”

He was quite correct. Marriage was more about business than feeling. But it wasn’t right. “It’s not right.”

“I never said it was. Such transactions of noble heirs like so much exalted cattle is morally abhorrent to me—it’s one of the reasons I entered Holy Orders in the first place, else the maid of Venice would have been destined for my bed, no doubt.” He grimaced like a gargoyle. “But happily, human love is no longer my concern. I know only of divine love as every monk should.”

I toyed with the idea of telling him how many of his order I had screwed in the hallowed precincts of his own foundation. But I thought I had a more exalted argument. “Fra Filippo Lippi was a monk,” I said, naming one of Florence’s most famous artists, “and he married a nun, and had a child!”

Brother Guido shrugged delicately. “Some there are that leave the order and enter worldy life. But not I. I hope to strive for divine love, in a state of chastity, for the rest of my days.” He did not quite meet my eyes. “And besides, I cannot pretend to understand such an emotion anyway. Human love, and the excesses it drives people to, is a mystery to me. What is love, anyway?”

I did not quite believe his protests. That dying kiss he had given me, on the sinking flagship—not acknowledged, not mentioned—had more to do with human feeling than he believed. Or human passion at any rate. Not for nothing had he striped his own back in penance like the Christ. But he had asked an interesting question, and I thought I knew the answer.

“Love is when you like someone so much you have to call it something else,” I stated, pleased with the notion. My friend did not look convinced, so I returned to the earlier theme. “And when is the wedding to take place?” My confused mind could not at once separate Brother Guido from Niccolò—I almost felt it was the former who was to be married, not the man he impersonated.

“I know not. ‘Twas all settled when I was at Santa Croce. But unless it is in the next few days, I am quite safe from the horns of matrimony.”

The dance ended and he bowed, hiding a smile. I did not see what was so funny, and burned with curiosity as we returned to the high table, where the king clapped enthusiastically and his toadies followed suit.

“Capital!” he cried. His Majesty reached for my hand and I made a courtesy as he kissed it. He seemed loath to let it go so I took Brother Guido’s seat and sat happily next to him, for I had some questions.

“The lady who is betrothed to my lord . . .” I began.

The king inclined his head indulgently. “The dogaressa’s daughter?”

“Why is she called so? Why not the doge’s daughter?” For I knew that “doge,” meaning “duke,” was the title of the ruler of my former city of Venice, and “dogaressa” the title of his wife.

“For the reason that the mother and daughter are said to be as like as two peas in a pod. And added to that, the dogaressa is a remarkably strong-willed lady—she hauled herself up from the streets, for she was once no more than a courtesan. She is reputed to rule her husband; they say that beneath her fine gowns hangs a prick and her balls clang together like a ring o’ bells, for the doge has none.” He chuckled, with a confidence that suggested that no one would dare slander him in this way. But I was not concerned with the politics of the situation. “And is she fair? The daughter, I mean?”

Now he smiled, amused that a businesswoman such as myself should feel the sharp thorns of jealousy; after all, for most loyal mistresses, a marriage did not mean the end of a relationship, as his own ménage proved.

“As to that, I cannot say, for she has been shut in a nunnery for these many years. But what I can tell you is that her mother is as fair as the first morning in May, so beauteous that she goes about often in mask in the Venetian fashion, else, it is said, the city would grind to a halt while the citizens stop in the streets to stare at her. So the daughter must be likewise if the reports are true.”

My face must have been sour as a lemon, for now Don Ferrente laughed openly. “But you should not be downcast. Be she Venus herself, she would be as a candle to the sun next to you. They say daughters are like pancakes—the more you make, the better they get. Well, in that case I say that your father must have got a dozen daughters on your mother before he sired you.”

There was Don Ferrente in a nutshell; a learned compliment referencing Venus followed by a sally about pancakes. The man was a king and a commoner, learned and ignorant all at once. But whichever way you sliced it, he had paid me two compliments, so I beamed, sunlike again.

“Indeed,” he went on, “ ‘tis a pity we may not all choose our wives with our hearts.” He patted his own queen’s hand in a way that suggested there was indeed a great affection between them. “For you could not do better than this dove, Lord Niccolò.”

Brother Guido, taking his cue to join the discourse, nodded graciously in acknowledgment of the compliment to his taste.

“For she is la Fiammetta personified.”

Now it was Brother Guido’s turn to jump and spit his wine. “I beg your pardon, Your Majesty?”

The king, thinking that the noise of the feast had drowned his words, leaned closer and shouted across me. “I said she is the image of the Lady Fiammetta—the golden hair, white skin, dark arched brows.” His hands sketched my attributes in the air as if he carved again.

Brother Guido, looking ill, nodded weakly.

“As a learned man like myself, you will appreciate this . . .” began the king, proving me right about his intellectual vanity. “Did you know that Giovanni Boccaccio did in fact first become inspired to write of the Lady Fiammetta right here, in a church in Naples? ‘Tis said he caught sight of my own ancestor, Maria d’Aquino, daughter of the House of Aragon, at mass, and became obsessed with her beauty. Ever after he wrote of her as Fiammetta, his muse.”

I looked back to Brother Guido as if I watched a game of tennis. He had recovered himself with his customary speed. “I have heard of the fabled lady, of course. And I am tolerably familiar with the writings of Boccaccio.” The latter I believed, I wasn’t sure about the former. “You must be very proud of your literary heritage, Your Majesty.”

He could not have said anything to better please the king—this bandit who would be a scholar.

“I’ll warrant you have a fine library here, Majesty,” Brother Guido went on, in a voice that told me his question had a purpose beyond mere flattery.

“I do, I do.” The king nodded, while I wondered where this direction tended.

“Might I impose upon you to let me borrow the Elegia di Madonna Fiammetta, this evening? You have put me in mind to read it again with fresh eyes, now that I know the lady was your illustrious ancestor.”

The king looked like a dog that had suddenly discovered he could lick his own balls. “Of course! Gladly. Santiago!” But the majordomo had already disappeared in search of the volume. “But if I were you, my lord.” The king beckoned and Brother Guido bent close. “I would close the book after a while and enjoy the real thing.” With a saucy nod at my tits the king rent the air with laughter as he displayed the other side of his character. The scholar retreated behind the ruffian once more.

As soon as he may, Brother Guido excused us from the feast and I grumbled all the way back to the chamber, for I had not finished my wine. Once there, however, I too was excited to resume our quest, for a small volume lay on my lord’s pillow: a leather book bound in red buckram with the cover chased in gold. “All right,” I said, as Brother Guido took up the book with trembling hands. “Take me through it again. This writer, Giovanni Boccaccio—”

“Who lived above a hundred years ago and wrote the Decameron, along with other great works—”

I let this pass, as I had patently never heard of it. “Saw some woman in a church here in Naples—”

“Apparently Maria d’Aquino, Princess of Aragon.”

“And started writing about her.”

“She became his muse.”

“And in his books he called her the Lady Fiammetta.”

“Correct.”

“And the one you’ve got there is Fiammetta’s life story.”

“It’s the Elegia di Madonna Fiammetta—the Elegy of the Lady Fiammetta.”

“And you think Maria d’Aquino, or Fiammetta, or whatever you want to call her, is the dead woman we’re looking for, the woman in the Primavera?”

“The ‘Naples’ Grace. Yes,” he said simply, unfolding the cartone from the pouch at his chest, and staring intently at the left-hand Grace.

I took the painting from him and did likewise. “So what are you looking for now?” His long fingers were riffling through the pages of the book in a practiced fashion.

“Anything. A description. A clue. Listen.” One of his long digits rested on a line of dialogue. “ ‘Her hair is so blond that the world holds nothing like it; it shades a white forehead of noble width, beneath which are the curves of two black and most slender eyebrows . . . and under these two ro guish eyes . . . cheeks of no other color than milk.’ ”

“All right,” I conceded. “It sounds like her. Now what?”

“I propose to stay awake and read this volume tonight. Then by daybreak I may have found something.”

I looked at him and then the book. It was a slim volume, but even a fast reader would take hours to chew through it. And he suddenly looked desperately tired, the excitements and dangers of the day telling on his face.

“Or,” I suggested, “we could just find out the name of the church where they met and start there.”

He smiled relief. “Once again, your practicality conquers my intellect. You are right. Let us rest, for I sorely need to sleep, as do you.”

I stood in the door long enough for him to have to ask.

“In your own bed,” he said with emphasis.

Worth a try. I backed out and closed the door. When I returned to my solar I took a last look out of the window at the bay below. The moonlight turned the necklace of Naples to pearl. The moon seemed to shine unnaturally bright tonight—I hoped it was not an ill omen.