The Botticelli Secret

22

First thing in the morning we sought Santiago. We tracked him down to the long gallery, where he fixed us with his perpetual oily smile. Now that we were honored guests nothing was too much for us.

“My good fellow,” began Brother Guido imperiously. “Signorina Vetra and I are minded to attend mass, to pray for Lorenzo di Pierfrancesco’s upcoming nuptials. His Majesty Don Ferrente mentioned a certain church last night—where a local legend took place, to do with the writer Boccaccio, with whose work you were kind enough to furnish me.” He spoke casually, his offhand reference to the writer pitched to excite no suspicion. “Could you tell me, is the place far?”

Santiago, however, nodded and smiled with great significance. If he had been a less subtle creature I could swear he would have winked at this point. As if Brother Guido had asked him to procure him a small boy, he answered archly, “Ah, yes, of course. My lord and I expected you might like to see . . . the church,” he said with a knowing emphasis. “ ‘Tis not far into the city, to the northeast. Take the Via Nilo, for there lies an interesting Roman statue—a representation of Old Man Nile, who is said to speak to beautiful ladies as they pass.” The majordomo sketched an elegant bow at me. “In the face of your charms, Doña, he cannot possibly remain silent.”

My smile matched his for insincerity.

“And the name of the church, once again?” Don Ferrente had, in fact, never mentioned the name, and once again I marveled at Brother Guido’s skills as an actor.

“San Lorenzo Maggiore,” supplied Santiago with a heavy significance.

“Ah, yes.” Brother Guido nodded. “I remember yestereve, that the church seemed a fitting place to offer our prayers, as it is dedicated to the saint that named both il Magnifico, and his cousin that is to be married.”

Santiago bowed so low that it was impossible to see his reaction to this. He left us with a flourish, but turned at the door. “One thing, my lord.”

We both held our breath.

“The wedding party leaves for the north at the Angelus.” And he was gone.

“The Angelus?” I asked as we left the castle.

“A single bell that tolls at noon every day here in the south.” Brother Guido looked sideways at me. “Don’t worry. The sun is still low. We have plenty of time.”

But the monk had misread me—I was not afeared that we would miss the wedding train, I was afeared that we would catch it. I still could not believe that we were to return home, back to danger.

As we walked through the precincts of the castle we noted the great preparations that were taking place, as there was a bustle of black-clad servants packing and carrying trunks of silks and victuals hither and yon. We left the main gate and took the northern coast path into the city. We were both clad in the austere black day clothes brought by our respective servants. Although the Moorish bath girls had come to attend me, of the three mistresses of the king there was no sign. I suspected they were so jug-bitten from the night before that they would not rise before the Angelus woke them. I noted now that the clothes, though plain, were well cut and suited my escort very well. I hoped he thought the same of me but suspected he had not even noticed the contrast of my white-blond locks with the black velvet, which suited me almost as much as my white attire from yestereve. For all the world we resembled a respectable couple going to mass. As the streets closed around us we felt it safe to talk.

“D’you think Santiago knows what we’re up to?” I began.

“I don’t think so. He seemed to think he knew something, but I don’t believe it’s anything to do with the Primavera. More likely it’s something to do with the Seven.”

“Maybe he listened to us talking last night.”

Brother Guido shrugged. “It is true that the Spanish race is not averse to a little espionage. Spying,” he amended for my benefit. “But what would he have heard? We only really discussed the painting under the cover of the noise of the feast. Last night we were talking about Boccaccio and Fiammetta, and that much we told him ourselves.” He thought for a moment. “He did tell us something of interest, though. It can be no accident that the name of the church is ‘San Lorenzo,’ the name shared by Lorenzo de’ Medici and Lorenzo di Pierfrancesco.”

“Yes, but there are churches called ‘San Lorenzo’ all over this land.” I panted, for his long stride forced me to trot to keep up. I noticed that my companion always walked faster when his thoughts were racing. “The saint is well loved.”

“Surely. But Lorenzo de’ Medici is called the ‘great,’ the ‘magnificent.’ ”

“Maggiore!” I cried, light dawning. The same name as the church.

“That’s right. And he is the cousin of our groom-to-be, Botticelli’s patron. I wonder if Botticelli was trying to finish the Primavera in time for the wedding?” he mused.

“The event definitely has some significance, outside of just a happy family gathering.”

My brain, like my feet, struggled to keep up. “Are you saying that Lorenzo di Pierfrancesco is one of the Seven?”

“I’m not sure,” admitted Brother Guido carefully. “But I do know that this church must hold the answer to at least some of our questions. So I need you to exercise all your faculties of observation and deduction.”

“You mean keep my eyes peeled and my wits about me.”

“That too.”

This was more like old times—him using long words and me using short ones. With the climbing sun on my back and Brother Guido by my side I could almost forget the threat of our imminent return to Florence hanging over us. We walked for a spell in silence, and as I noted the saints and Madonnas peering from their niches to mark our way, I was jolted by a remembrance. “What did Don Ferrente mean last night, when he said something about some saint’s blood? Not being liquid?”

“Ah, yes. The ‘miracle of San Gennaro,’ “ he replied promptly. “The serving men who dressed me told me all. Three times a year at the cathedral here they hold aloft a vial of the blood of their saint, San Gennaro. The vial contains solidified, clotted blood; but after many minutes of prayer and beseeching the blood miraculously becomes liquid, and is shaken for all those at mass to see. The citizens queue for a sennight to kiss the vial. This most recent time, however, the blood did not liquefy, which is seen locally as an omen of bad luck.”

I considered this. “What happened last time it didn’t?”

“The volcano erupted,” he said briefly.

I eyed the smoking blue mountain above us with a skeptical glance. It seemed peaceful enough. “And you believe all this?” I asked, fighting to keep the cynicism from my voice.

Brother Guido shrugged. “Miracles are a matter of faith, and when you have faith, everything is possible. But it matters not whether I do or don’t, for the servants do, and all the court, as you saw. They truly believe that ill luck will befall the city, and that is partly why the king is so keen to progress north. For by the time they return, it will be time for the blood to be tested again, mayhap with a better result.”

I shook my head but kept my peace. Such fancies were not in my lexicon, but I did not want to insult my friend, when we had returned to our delicate balance of comradeship. I changed the subject. “Are we even going the right way?” I ventured.

“I believe so. See,” he said, pointing, “there is the statue Santiago mentioned.”

“Ah, yes,” I said with a curl of my lip. “Old Man Nile who talks to pretty girls.”

He smiled in reply. “Well, whether he does or not, this is the Via Nilo. We must be going in the right direction.”

We drew close to the statue and I could see better the form—an old man indeed, much worn and pocked by the elements, clearly many centuries old. But for all that, the reclining attitude was remarkably lifelike, and when I looked into his slumberous eyes, I did feel great wisdom there, and that he could almost speak. Without knowing why, I lingered, and let Brother Guido gain a few steps ahead, before I whispered to the old stone man. “Greetings,” I said shyly, feeling foolish.

“Look behind you,” he said. It was a voice as deep as gravel and as old as time, but quite distinct. I felt the ice and heat of shock flow through my veins in turn—surely the stone man hadn’t actually spoken? But despite myself I turned. That’s when I saw him for the first time—the creature that would haunt us.

A leper—for those were the weeds he wore—lounged against a fragment of a Roman pillar, his wasted claw outstretched for alms. But his attitude of beggary was just for show, for he was looking straight at me, with eyes I would never forget. Almost silver, his orbs burned from his head and shot me through with terror as if they were twin blades. For a heartbeat our gaze connected and he knew he was seen, and vanished behind his pillar. I could have followed him then, but could not wait to remove myself from his malign presence. I ran to catch my friend, did not stop to thank the statue who had alerted me to this evil thing. For as I ran I suspected three things that I could not prove.

Cosa Uno: the leper had been following us since Florence.

Cosa Due: he had killed Enna, Bembo, and Brother Remigio, and Lord Silvio too.

Cosa Tre: he had been assigned to kill us.

I grabbed Brother Guido’s black sleeve to speed him along, adding to the impression of a couple late for mass. But he noticed my agitation at once.

“What’s amiss?”

I did not slacken my pace. “I’m just concerned that we may not have time for our search. See.” I nodded to the blazing blue heavens. “The sun climbs already.”

He matched my stride then, and presently we found our church—a noble building in sand-colored stone with a lofty spire. After the brightness of the day, the gloom within blinded us and we fumbled about like noonday moles, but it soon became clear that we had missed the mass. There was no one within save a single robed priest at the far end of the nave, extinguishing the candles from the service. We exchanged a relieved glance—’twould be so much easier to explore the church as a couple of pilgrims rather than as part of the congregation at a crowded mass.

“All right,” whispered Brother Guido. “Look hard—anything to do with a lady, or a lock of hair, or a jewel such as we see in the painting. There must be some clue within this place that connects it to Fiammetta. Perhaps the tomb of the real Fiammetta, Maria d’Aquino. Or some reference to Boccaccio.”

We began a slow and thorough tour of the place, circling each pillar and pew, stopping at every plaque or monument. After one circuit it seemed our search would be in vain—the only lady present was the Holy Virgin, the only tombs those of Neapolitan knights of old.

“We’re missing something,” insisted Brother Guido, his voice low, his eyes on the distant priest. “Perhaps we should ask . . .”

“Wait!” My eyes had been idling upon a stone carving on the wall. “Here’s a lady!”

We moved nearer and Brother Guido peered closely in the candlelit dim. He moved his long fingers over the carving, in an attempt to make it out better, then shook his head. “No good,” he said, his voice colored with disappointment. “ ‘Tis Saint Veronica, for see, here is Christ carrying the cross, and she wipes his brow with a cloth.”

He was right. Chastened, I looked farther up the wall as my companion moved away. “And what of these scratches above? What do they mean?”

“Scratches?” He turned.

“Yes, see, a point and a line.” I moved my fingers over the deep indents scored into the stone: V and I. “Here.”

Then I saw his eyes do that odd thing that they do when he has a revelation: they burned such a bright blue that they almost lit the gloom. “Not scratches,” said he. “Numbers.”

Now, as I said before, I cannot read, but I do know my numbers—at least from one to ten, then my knowledge becomes a little sketchy. Working girls need to know about numbers, for money comes in numbers, does it not? “Those aren’t numbers,” I scoffed. “At least, the line could be a one, I suppose, but the point is more like an arrowhead, or—”

“Roman numbers,” he interrupted me, urgently. “In Roman numerology, the characters are different from the Arabic numbers we use in everyday life. Here, the point or V means five, and the I is indeed a one. This is a number, the number six.”

My mind was as dim as the church. “But why is this carving named six? Are you sure it isn’t V for Veronica?”

His eyes burned even bluer. “Because it’s one of a series. Saint Veronica wipes Christ’s brow. Six. This is the sixth station of the cross.”

“Ah, yes.”

“You know of the stations?” He seemed skeptical.

“Convent educated. The stations are the steps that Jesus took toward his death on the cross. There are fourteen in all,” I said smugly.

“Then see here”—he moved to his left—“another relief—carving, sorry—of a man who takes the cross from Christ to help him with the burden. Simon of Cyrene carries the cross for Christ—the fifth station of the cross.”

“So?” I was lost. “What does this have to do with Fiammetta?”

“Forget Fiammetta.” He flapped his hands impatiently. “We were working from the wrong clue. If this is five, and the next is six, then there must be a—”

“Seven!” I almost shouted the number and Brother Guido turned on me.

“Be silent!” he hissed. “Remember, we saw a priest as we entered—we do not want our business known.”

“Shit, sorry,” I mumbled, but I was too excited to truly repent. “Come on.” We moved to the right, past Saint Veronica, to the seventh station.

“Christ falls for the second time,” whispered Brother Guido, indicating the fallen figure below the burden of the great cross. “And here.” His fingers traced upward. “V-I-I, the Roman number seven.”

“All right,” I breathed, my eyes on the beaten figure beneath the cross. “Now what?”

“Perhaps a door or a passage? There must be a way to open this panel!”

“Maybe the cross itself?” I whispered urgently.

“It has fallen sideways to make an X,” he noted. “Perhaps X marks the spot?” Brother Guido almost smiled. “Worth a try.”

We pressed the cross, first he alone, then I too. Our urgency so great and our hopes so high that we did not heed our fingers pressing intimately together in the task. Then, frustrated, we pressed and pulled every part of the carving, even Christ himself, before standing back, beaten.

“Surely,” I said, in a last desperate attempt. “It is the number that is important. The seven.”

“You’re right,” agreed Brother Guido rapidly, and before I could even reach out, his strong fingers were on the VII pressing and manipulating. I heard before I saw—the V de-pressed inward and the panel opened in a grating of stone upon stone. It was not as you might expect, the sound of a portal that had not been opened for centuries, but rather one that had seen recent use. Inside was a door with a rope hoop for a handle with a fob hanging upon it.

The rope handle was plaited hair.

And the fob was Fiammetta’s jewel.

It was the exact one from the painting, with a trinity of hanging pearls and a ruby set in gold. My heart was in my mouth with triumph, and I turned to Brother Guido, my slow smile matching his. “This is it,” he said, always one for stating the obvious.

“Well, come on then, what are we waiting for?”

He placed a hand on my arm. “Wait,” he whispered. “First, let us ascertain the whereabouts of the priest. If he observes our exit, then the secret is revealed.”

I saw the sense of this. “Hold hard then. Won’t be a heartbeat.” I nipped back to the aisle to check on the robed figure—he was still tending candles at the far end of the aisle, but as if my gaze had bidden him, he turned and straightened. My heart began to thump painfully. He was . . . very tall for a Neapolitan. And his robes looked, well, fuller than a humble priest’s. The figure began to stride down the aisle toward me and I was suddenly rooted to the spot like a coney in a fox’s gaze. His black robes swirled around him, his cowl fell back a little, and halfway down the nave a shaft of godlight struck his hood and caught the light of his strange silver eyes.

It was not the priest of San Lorenzo.

It was the leper.

Realization freed my feet. Quick as a cat, I was back at the doorway. “He’s coming,” I hissed urgently. “Move!” There was no time to explain; let Brother Guido think I feared no worse than the interference of a nosy priest. I yanked at the loop of hair and felt the plait pull open a portal, to reveal a twist of stairs falling below. As Brother Guido and I plunged down the steps, the door closed behind us, silently, completely, without a chink of light to tell our pursuer where we had gone. I pictured the leper turning around and about in the dim church, his robes whirling, unable to countenance our disappearance. I should have been exhilarated; we had confounded the threatening specter who shadowed us by disappearing into thin air. But I was unsettled and could not forget the silver eyes that held the promise of death in their gaze. We clattered down the dark steps, plunging into deeper gloom; we were entering Hades but I felt no fear: we were leaving behind a figure above who held much greater terrors for me.

At the foot of the stair the space opened out again into a massive cavern, a cathedral of rock. We stopped, breathed heavily and looked around. I don’t know what I expected—buried treasure perhaps, or the other members of the Seven playing dice together. But I certainly did not expect a gloomy cavern, colder than Candlemas and wetter than Whitsun. “You think Don Ferrente meant us to see this . . . this cave?” I ventured.

“Not a cave,” he corrected. “Look carefully. For this place was built not by nature but by man. See—pillars, here and here. And a well, and a Roman arcade.”

Sure enough, as my eyes adjusted, I saw as he did. Forms and shapes of a buried city. “What is this place?”

“A place that was once called the new city, and is now the old. Neapolis, Roman Naples.”

We walked the underground world with wonder. The hairs on my neck prickled as we trod the streets of the ghostly city, passing the pillars of a market, noting iron rings where horses had once been tethered, fragile arches spanning above. All lit by a gloomy greenish light coming from up ahead. I trotted after the striding monk, not wanting to linger. “You think this is a secret way known only to the Seven?”

“I do.”

“What makes you think that no one else has found the passage?”

He stopped abruptly and I almost barreled into the back of him. “Fiammetta’s jewel,” he said briefly. “I imagine it was placed there for a pair of reasons. One, that it is a signpost to those who can read the painting—id est, members of the Seven.”

I ignored the Latin but took the point.

“Two—it is a test: a way to maintain the security of the portal. For if a common thief or vagabond found the passage he would steal the jewel at once, for it is a thing of great price. The Seven, as I hope to prove, are all exalted men—kings and princes. Those of the Seven who pass through the doorway leave the jewel where it hangs. If one day it is gone, then Don Ferrente and his conspirators know that somewhat is amiss—that their secret is revealed and they must be on their guard.”

“Then what are they protecting? Why all this secrecy?”

“Let us find out, shall we? There must be a way through,” concluded Brother Guido, “for the light is coming from somewhere.”

In truth, though I found the place eerie—a place of the long-dead—I was glad to be safe belowground, glad to be out of the silver gaze of our leprous pursuer. Shortly we came to the source of the light as the Roman streets opened out onto an immense cavern with a natural lake, and that cave opening directly to the sea. At that moment it did not even occur to me that we were trapped. For spread out before me was a fleet of ships, more ships than I had ever seen together, even on that fateful night in Pisa. Here were hundreds, perhaps thousands, all crowded together, hidden from sight and approachable only by sea. But, unlike the old fortress in Pisa, there were no sailors or shipwrights here, no crew. All was silent, and secret, and vast. A waiting fleet, seen by no eyes but ours. I whistled.

“Then we have our answer,” said Brother Guido in a low, awed voice, “clearly war is planned, on a massive scale.”

“Could Lorenzo di Pierfrancesco be plotting against his cousin Lorenzo, with the King of Naples, and your uncle, and”—I quickly calculated—“four others?”

“I know not. One way to tell would be to attend the wedding as planned and see if Lorenzo wears a ring upon his thumb.”

“So we must return there then?” I said, a burst of joy and terror in me. “To Florence? Home?” The word held none of the comfort that it should.

He looked at me as if he, too, felt my divided heart. “We had to go back someday.”

“Why?”

“Because of Flora,” he replied briefly.

“Why?” I repeated, my eyes on the fleet before us.

“Come on, Luciana. Flor-a. Flor-ence. The figure in the Primavera is Florence’s most beauteous citizen—you—covered in flowers. Flora. Flora is Florence.”

I could see the logic of what he said, sweetened as it was by the compliment. We did not need a lengthy conference to come to that conclusion. “But there is somewhere else we must go first?”

He nodded. “One figure, that of Venus, stands between us and Florence. One city, before Lorenzo di Pierfrancesco’s wedding.” Brother Guido sounded as if he knew more than he told, but did not press the point, and before I could prod him further his mind took another tack. “Indeed, there must be some reason why these fleets are hidden, deep down here in the south, where a northern state such as Florence could never guess what might is being amassed against them. It would explain why my uncle, if we are to assume his culpability, did not just leave the fleet in Pisa. It is too close to Florence and would be seen by those coming for commerce to the seaport.” He thought for a moment, clearly troubled by his uncle’s involvement in anything less than honorable and by his own masquerade as his cousin, his own involvement. “Don Ferrente meant for us to see this. That is why his snake, Santiago, was being so knowing this morning—he knew there was a hidden passage from the church of San Lorenzo Maggiore through Neapolis to this cavern—volcanic probably. A fantastic, vast harbor created by nature, unseen by all those above—a perfect place to conceal a secret armada—but a secret that all those who can read the painting would know.”

“All of the Seven,” I put in.

“Precisely. But it is likely that Don Ferrente and any others of the Seven have been down here regularly, to see the ships amass, to make their plans. For this place is only accessible through the church, or from the open sea. This is where our friend Capitano Ferregamo would have been instructed to bring the ships when he arrived from Pisa. It’s where all the others that were not wrecked would have come.”

I scanned the topmasts and saw, at the mouth of the cave, perhaps a hundred ships flying the cross pennant of Pisa. “Look!” I cried. “There they are! The Muda, the very fleet we saw being completed not a sennight ago.” I looked about me. “Why aren’t they guarded?”

“No need,” rejoined my companion. “No one knows they are here save the Seven or the sailors who are in the pay of the Seven.”

We walked forward to survey the amazing scene—and I marveled again at the difference between this fleet and the one we had seen in Pisa—here there were no shipwrights swarming like ants, no carpenters. No tar-monkeys. These ships were ready. But ‘twas a ghost fleet with no one to sail it. “And where are those sailors?”

Brother Guido shrugged. “Disporting themselves in the port no doubt.”

I nodded knowingly. “Rum and whores.”

“As you say,” he replied wryly. “There is a great enterprise afoot—lives will be lost soon enough—they are doubtless enjoying their leisure while they may.”

“Jesu. What has your uncle gotten us into?”

He refrained from replying that it was, in fact, I who had gotten us into this.

“I don’t know. But it’s up to us to get ourselves out of it.” He pointed out to the ocean. “See, the sun climbs. If we are to return to the castello before the Angelus, we must away.” He turned back. We had seen what we had come to see, and headed back as if to return to Neapolis and thence the church of San Lorenzo.

And thence the leper.

It was time.

I put my hand on his arm. “Not that way.” I told him what I had seen—the Old Man of the Nile’s warning, the malevolent leper by the Roman pillar, the same leper in the church above, following us, observing us from beneath his cowl with his silver eyes.

For a moment I heard nothing but the whisper of the tide and the groan of the ships pressing against each other in the swell, then Brother Guido spoke.

“But even if he was there, what makes you believe that he is the author of all our woes and has followed us all this while?”

I shrugged. “I just do.”

“But that is not logical. You say he has a threatening presence, yet this is surely an impression assisted by his stature, and the fact he is swathed in robes and a cowl with his features bandaged—”

“It’s his eyes,” I insisted.

“And you say,” he went on smoothly without pause, “that his eyes have a strange quality—almost metallic. Perhaps it is so, for God makes man in many differing castes. But you must see how irrational you are being. We know not what this unfortunate’s business is with us. He could as easily be a friend as a foe. For you have not actually had any discourse with him, have you?”

“Of course not,” I scoffed, “as I’m fairly sure that our first conversation would be my last.”

He took my hands, and I realized with the touch of his fingers how cold my blood had run since I had seen the leper. “Luciana. Suppose you are right. Suppose this figure had some malign intent. Who are his paymasters? If he has indeed pursued us from Florence, then how is it that we are, and have been for some time, successfully playing the part of my cousin and his courtesan? If this person knows our true identities, why have we not been revealed to our hosts?”

I shrugged, sulky now. “All I know is, he scares the shit out of me. And if you’re so sure he’s no threat to us, why don’t you walk out of here right now and back to San Lorenzo, and make your courtesies? Perhaps you could shake him by his leprous hand.”

“I am not saying that he is no threat to us.”

My voice heated. “And who killed Enna, and Bembo, and Brother Remigio by the well, and even your uncle?”

He blanched. “I did not assert, as you know, that there was no foul play in these cases. I think, as I said at the time, that someone thought we had learned the secret of the painting and wished us out of the way.”

“So what do you think happened to those assassins?”

“That we lost them on the voyage to Naples. There was little chance that we could be followed across the high seas, for we did not even know where we were bound, and even if someone had followed us aboard ship, the flagship went down with all hands.”

“The rest of the fleet got there well enough, though.” I made a sweeping gesture at the multitude of ships anchored before us.

He turned to me, his blue eyes troubled as a stormy sky. “Very well. Supposing I accept your assertion that to return to the church is death. ‘Twill have to be the sea. Can you swim?”

I nodded, breathless. “Can you?”

“No.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake!” Now was not the time to question how a young nobleman could have been raised on the coast without learning to swim. How could I tell my companion I’d rather head into the blue sea that rose and flung itself at the mouth of the cave in an ecstasy of spray and crashing waves? That I’d rather carry him through the brine myself than have to return to that dark crypt and meet once more the silver eyes of the mysterious leper that had followed us here? “We will have to go seaward,” I said stubbornly. “We’ll have to steal a bark or something.” But the way was impossible. Angry cobalt waves at the cave’s mouth now swelled to tidal proportions to confound us. We would be dashed from the rocks and claimed by the sea, swimmers or not. We skirted the thousand ships and stood huddled together on the foamy shores of the lake as the spume licked at our boots. “We’re trapped,” I admitted gloomily.

“Not so,” said Brother Guido gently. “We must repair to the church and brave the fellow if he is indeed awaiting us. Time is short—we must return else we will miss the royal train north.”

I knew he was right—but my cold dread weighed me down like the seawater that had soaked my velvet skirts. I stumbled as I tried to turn, and fell to my knees in the surf. I shrugged off the monk’s helping hand; while I was down there I thought I may as well pray for a miracle to keep me from that church and the gaze of those silver eyes.

You will know, by now, that prayer is not a custom with me. In fact, if the Lord had a spare moment in his day I doubted he would heed a lost sheep such as myself. But, incredibly, a miracle came. The vicious elements that ruled this place now smiled upon us and offered a marvel. In a moment of eerie calm, and sudden silence, the sea began to retreat—sliding back and over the sands like the tide going out in the time it takes the heart to beat. In an instant, the waters were gone. We looked at each other, baffled.

“God has smoothed our path,” said Brother Guido, smiling. “He has taken the sea away from our feet, as he did for Moses.”

I had never thought myself a second Moses before today, but my companion spoke the truth; the water moved from our sight almost to the horizon, leaving nothing but a calm blue line between earth and sky.

“Never mind all that,” I interrupted his biblical musings. “Let’s go.”

Behind us the ships in the hidden lake sank down till they were almost graveled, their timbers and ropes whining and creaking in protest. They were saved from grounding only by the shallows of the natural reservoir, retained within the enormous cavern by a lip of rock at the mouth of the cave. We clambered over the retaining shingle and scrambled down to the sands—instantly dry and golden in the noonday sun.

‘Twas hard to countenance what we saw; it was not just low tide, but as if a sea had never existed on this shore. “What has happened to the ocean?” I breathed, unwilling to break the sudden quiet.

Brother Guido shook his head in wonder. “I know not. Perhaps it is a thing of custom here—a sudden riptide that takes the sea away. At the mud flats of Pisa, sometimes the seas withdraw at an ill moon. But I have never seen it occur with such rapidity, nor completeness.”

The sand was flat and gold as a wheatfield, and the sky as blue as Mary’s cloak. It was a peerless day, and at another moment to stroll along the sands thus with the man I loved would have been my dearest dream. But all was not right. The sun was too bright, the sky too blue. Everything seemed too—well, real. And furthermore there were no birds singing; even the seagulls—whose constant yakking and mewing I’d endured for three days now—were silent. There was not a creature on the beach despite the sudden retreat of the sea, not a worm’s cast, not a stranded herring. The air seemed strange, viscous, as if ‘twas an effort to walk through it. I tried to express somewhat of this to Brother Guido. “The air seems, well . . . solid, not liquid as it usually is.”

I expected him to scoff at me as he had many times before, but he glanced about and nodded.

“I know what you mean. Like the saint’s blood.”

I remembered the legend of San Gennaro—remembered the bright moon last eve, and now the sea had drained away like water from a ewer. Portents, omens, signs. I shivered despite the heat of the day, and my steps quickened. We walked the short distance to the port and, by strange chance, entered the city once again by clambering upon the jetty where we had landed a day ago. This time, though, no waves lapped the wooden pier, and no citizens thronged the dock. We took the same route through the market, but today doors closed as we passed and the black-clad widows pulled their veils across their faces. Lethargy had replaced lechery, calm had replaced chaos. Curs skulked in the shadows, their barking silenced, their heads on their paws. Today the sign of the Devil’s horns was everywhere—every citizen from the oldest graybeard to the youngest child made the sign with their hands: little and first finger extended, and middle fingers held by the thumb.

We climbed the silent hill to Castel Nuovo and were let pass at the gates. Inside the castle courts I looked forward to a return to normality, but here, too, there had been a sea change. Outside the keep a dozen gold and black carriages lined in wait. The black horses stood still as statues, but rolled their eyes to the whites, their flanks dark with sweat. They did not shift in place or flick manes or tails at bothersome flies—for, incredibly, there were no flies to swat away. Brother Guido and I walked grimly forth to join a waiting Santiago. Now there was no argument about whether we would or would not return home to Florence with the king. Whether we went all the way there or not, one thing was for sure: we had to leave this eerie place in those fast carriages or face we knew not what. At Santiago’s gesture, we followed him to the royal carriage. We needed no second invitation, for I felt more and more uneasy. Brother Guido wrenched open the gilded door of the third carriage, with the elaborate cognizance of the House of Aragon upon it. We climbed inside and almost fell into the laps of the king and queen. They nodded, but their tongues were silent, their smiles muted. They felt it too.

As I caught my breath I looked to the bay below and marveled at how hidden were the cavern and the fleet—had it not been for the riddle of Fiammetta we would never have known it was there.

But as I looked to sea I saw something else.

The ocean was gathering in an enormous steely mass on the horizon, a wave of such biblical proportions that it seemed all seven seas were rising to crash upon the hapless city and sweep us from the coast like insects. Fishmouthed in horror, I pointed seaward and my noble companions followed my finger with their eyes. It was enough.

“Drive!” bellowed Don Ferrente. As the order left his lips three things happened.

Cosa Uno: the twelfth stroke of the Angelus struck.

Cosa Due: the angry sea rushed home upon the city.

Cosa Tre: the driver’s whip cracked and the earth did too.

An immense rumbling shook the ground beneath us and the castle walls round about. I looked to Brother Guido, horrified, my teeth rattling in my head and my ribs shaking in my chestspoon. Masonry began to fall from the fortress, and we lurched forward at a pace that would be frightening were it not that every hoofbeat took us farther away from this falling place. It felt as if the end of the world had come, but our horses sped down the drive and hurtled out of the castle gates, needing no further cuts of the whip. As we rattled around like polenta in a stockpot we wordlessly regarded the scene below. The vengeful tide seemed set to consume the bay as the waters curdled and seethed on the shores, greedily snatching boats from the harbor and shacks from the hillside. I clasped Brother Guido’s arm hard enough to hurt, in genuine fear for my life as the horses bolted through the ruined city. I felt his hand squeeze mine in return. I knew at that moment that he felt death approaching too, but I understood also that he had forgiven me for what happened last time we stared doom in the face. In the town below, buildings collapsed before our eyes, crumbling from their foundations upward as the earth continued to shake in violent tremors. More than once we were nearly flattened by falling masonry; the carriage before us overturned in the dust, our terrified horses swerving and pitching just in time. We did not see what happened to the passengers, but there was no question of stopping, not if we were to live. In some places hardly one stone remained standing above another. As we passed San Lorenzo Maggiore somehow I registered that part of that church had fallen in a heap of stone, the tower standing firm like a chimney as gray dust climbed into the sky like smoke. I offered a silent prayer that the terrifying black specter with the freezing silver eyes had surely met his end within. Everywhere were the sounds of screams and shouts and the sights of citizens running with their homes piled on their backs, snaillike, the corno of the popular song. Firestorms broke out everywhere in little pockets which threatened to spread, and I knew that in such a sun-soaked, arid place the city could soon be reduced to cinders. I understood now the power of the blood of Saint Gennaro—not just religious hocuspocus, which I had snorted at with scorn at last night’s feast. His blood had the power to shake the earth and drain the seas. His blood had not liquefied this year so he had given his people fair warning; he had told his people of impending doom.

And doom had come.

“The city gate!” yelled Don Ferrente to his driver above the chaos. “We must climb the hill away from the city.” He pointed to the glorious triumphal Roman arch we had passed through on the way to San Lorenzo.

Another rumble entered my ribs as the ground shook again. As we hurtled to the gates, rubble rained upon the silk canopy of our carriage, ripping the roof and powdering our heads as the queen and I competed in our screams. Still the faithful horses pressed on, skirting the human disaster, the fallen masonry, and the keening women kneeling and crying by the road. I could not let myself think of what they had lost—we just had to reach the arch and quit this place. We passed the statue of Old Man Nile and I was glad that he, at least, had survived this to live a thousand more years. I blew him a kiss for his earlier warning as we sped past, but this time he was silent, shocked into slumber by the wreck of his citadel. But I knew by the very sight of him that we were nearly at the city gates. The wedding carriages thundered round the corner in a maelstrom of dust, skidded through the great arch and began to climb, and suddenly we were away from the chaos, high in the hills, the earth still once more and the cursed city below us. I wondered that the sun still hung in the sky.

We shook the rubble from our heads and masonry dust flew from Brother Guido’s curls, giving him a smoky halo. Our carriage slowed to a more sedate pace as we climbed the cliff road, and the sight of green plane trees and olive groves soothed my pounding skull. When my ears ceased their ringing I found my tongue. “What just happened?” I gulped, my voice hoarse from screaming. “Were we fired at from below by sappers? Were a thousand cannons turned upon us?”

Don Ferrente smiled, seemingly unaffected by our narrow escape. “It was not men but the old gods who shook the earth. I have heard of such shakings before, but did not know they could come so strongly.” He calmly brushed rubble from his velvet sleeve and glanced through the window back at the ruined coastline. “The Romans held that Neptune, god of the sea, was the ‘earth shaker,’ and it was thought that he was the bringer of such quakes. It is the disturbance of the earth, of course, that causes the seas to retreat and then return in the giant wave you witnessed.”

“Such a tremor has happened before?” I asked, goggling.

“Here in Naples an earthquake interrupted Emperor Nero’s stage debut as a musician, a thousand years ago,” put in Brother Guido eagerly. “Pliny wrote of it. Nero thought the gods had slighted his talent.”

I withered him with a look. I might have known that the monk would add his two florins to the case.

“Well, well.” Don Ferrente broke in, and I saw that he did not appreciate Brother Guido’s superior knowledge. “The gods may have cursed Naples, but they saved our noble skins at any rate.”

“Only I don’t believe in gods in the plural,” rejoined Brother Guido, who never could leave well enough alone. “It is our singular God, our Father, who did save us from disaster.”

“To be sure, to be sure,” said Don Ferrente airily. “And now, we may go to give thanks in his spiritual home on Earth—our next destination.” I heard Brother Guido catch at his breath, but all I could think of was how seemingly unaffected the king was by the near-ruin of his adopted kingdom, not to mention the loss of one of his own carriages. I hoped the doomed coach did not contain his trio of friendly mistresses. The loss of Santiago, however, I could bear without too much grief.

“We cannot risk taking the coast road in such an event,” the king went on smoothly, “in case some further shocks occur. We will go east and pick up the Appian Way.”

Now I caught Brother Guido actually smiling, the unaccountable man. “The Appian Way,” he repeated as if in a dream.

Don Ferrente nodded his noble head. “The road that will take us all the way to—”

“Rome,” finished Brother Guido, and his smile widened. Only I heard him add under his breath: “Just where we need to go.”