The Medici Secret

Chapter 20

Venice, present day Situated on a narrow alleyway off Via XXII Marzo, Giovanni Tafani's office was only a short walk from Jeff's apartment. Behind the dull concrete facade, Edie and Jeff found themselves transported back three centuries to baroque elegance and classic Venetian grandeur.

Jeff had been very reluctant to let Rose out of his sight, but she was violently opposed to the idea of tagging along to listen to them ramble on, as she put it, to some boring old man about a long-dead composer. And she was more than happy to go along with Maria who had suggested she take Rose with her to visit her family in Mestre where her younger brother had a smallholding.

Tafani met Jeff and Edie at reception and led the way to his large office on the first floor. His eyes, covered the night before by a delicate gold mask, were weary.

'I'm afraid your call this morning caught me by surprise,' he said showing them to a pair of leather armchairs in front of his impressive oak desk. 'You'll have to take me as you find me, a little worse for wear! So how may I help you?'

'We'd like to pick your brains,' Edie said lightly. 'Roberto tells us you're the greatest authority on Vivaldi.'

'Did he now? Well, that is a wonderful compliment. How is the maestro?'

'A little worse for wear too,' Jeff answered and glanced quickly at Edie. 'We were wondering if you could tell us if Vivaldi had any esoteric interests. Was he interested in any way in the occult?'

'He was certainly a rather odd character,' Tafani replied quickly. 'He was known as 'Il Prete Rosso, "the Red Priest", because of his flaming red hair, and he had an on-off relationship with the authorities at the Pio Ospedale della Pieta where he was Master of Violin.'

'Pio Ospedale della Pieta? What's that?' Edie asked.

'The Devout Hospital of the Mercy. There were four of them in Venice in the late seventeenth century. Their purpose was to give shelter and education to abandoned or orphaned children; quite enlightened for the time. Vivaldi was responsible for teaching music and he was commissioned to write concerti for the orphans to perform in public.'

'So tell us more about his uneasy relationship with the authorities.'

'He was a practising priest for only a few months. There were ugly rumours that he seduced teenage girls in the orphanage, that he dabbled in unsavoury sexual and occult practices, but there's absolutely no evidence for it. I'm fed up with so-called revisionist history. It seems none of our heroes is immune, as though modern society needs to bring down the masters to make us feel better about our own lack of morals. I think it says more about our own age than it does about the great men and women who are responsible for our cultural heritage.'

'I take your point,' Edie gave Tafani a reassuring smile.

'Did Vivaldi stay in Venice his entire life?' Jeff asked.

'No, no, he did travel a bit. In fact, when he was young he was sacked from the orphanage. But they had him back after a year.' 'What did he do during that year?'

'He taught the children of a noble family in Padua. The Niccoli family, I believe.' 'The Niccoli family of Florence?' Edie exclaimed.

'Um, yes. I think they did originate from there. But they had been in Padua for at least two centuries by Vivaldi's time. Why?'

'You don't have any information about the year Vivaldi spent there do you?' she asked.

'You might be in luck.' Tafani was beginning to respond to Edie's rising excitement. 'Vivaldi left a very complex will. He died far from home, in Vienna. He'd applied for a job at the Imperial Court, but the Emperor, Charles VI died soon after he arrived and the composer was stranded, penniless and without a patron. A few weeks later, he was dead. Some of his papers remained in Vienna. Others went to relatives in various parts of Italy, and some ended up with his closest friends here in Venice. There is a rather well-known set of documents, the so-called "Confessional", which Vivaldi gave to his closest friend, the painter Gabriel Fabacci.' 'What's "the Confessional"?' 'Come, I'll show you,' Tafani stood up. 'You have it here?' Edie was incredulous.

Tafani smiled. 'Not exactly. But we have a computer archive with almost everything linked to Vivaldi that's ever been written.'

He led them from the room along a galleried passage. A few moments later, they found themselves in a library, with two rows of computers in the middle of the room.

They pulled up chairs and Tafani clicked a mouse as he talked. 'What I am about to share with you is a particularly fascinating document. Vivaldi contracted scarlet fever in Vienna, and was in a delirious state for several days before he finally succumbed. Most scholars believe he wrote this testament on his deathbed, that most of it is fantasy and delusion from a genuine man of God who was fearful for his mortal soul.'

The words: La Confessione appeared on the screen. 'It's quite long, but fortunately we have it in several languages. We get a fair number of foreign scholars visiting Venice solely to access our database.'

Tafani found the English version and opened the file. Standing up, he said, 'I'll leave you to peruse this. I hope I've been of some help. Come and see me before you leave.'

Before them on the screen was a document called 'The Taking and the Returning'. They began to read. I am dying. What I say now is the absolute truth as I see it, a truth I wish to impart before I meet my Lord God, the Almighty Saviour of All Men. My confession begins with my father, Giovanni Battista. When I was a boy, he was working for an architect commissioned to remodel an old house on Calle della Morte. An odd feature of the house was a metal column that ran the entire height of the building from the foundations to the roof. To this day no one knows why it was put there. My father was a labourer working in the basement of the house. One day he came across a stout metal box lying just beneath a hemispherical compartment at the base of the metal column. He secreted away the box, and when he was alone later he managed to force open the lock.

I think he was a little disappointed because the box did not contain gold or jewels. Instead, he found the fragment of a letter. It was written on very old parchment and much of it was crumbling. It had been composed in Latin, a language completely alien to him.

My father died a few years later and I inherited both the box and the letter. But it was not until 1709 in my thirty-second year that I took any notice of the heirloom. It had lain forgotten for many years. One day, I was emptying a cupboard to make room for some new manuscripts and scores when I found it. It was a fragment of a letter written by none other than Contessina de' Medici, the wife of Cosimo the Elder. It was addressed to a man named Niccolo Niccoli. Tragically, much of the original has been lost but what remains I offer here. The Thirteenth Day of June, Year of Our Lord 1470. My Noble Niccolo, It is now almost six full years since the passing of my beloved Cosimo and you and I are growing very old. It will soon be time for me to fulfil the promises we once made and to complete the task begun so many years ago…

… Don't misunderstand me my dear friend, I admire your industry and believe the account you wrote over half a century ago is of the highest order of scholarship and literary skill. However, I am fearful. I have no need to remind you of the delicacy of the matter. No one must know the truth of our great discovery – at least not in our own time. I trust your integrity and know you will be cautious, you would never let your narrative fall into the wrong hands, but I do not have such trust in others, and sadly, we are near the end of our days…

… I plan to visit the map-makers very soon and through them I shall hide the treasure… I have the vial with me here as I write in readiness for hiding from sight what happened in Golem Korab…

… Would you allow me to place your writings with the treasure?… for safe keeping? Here, for you alone is the clue:

… With the map-makers… the Divine cloth… The iron cross… at the dead centre… Your friend,… Contes… I was immediately captivated and mystified. It was particularly frustrating that the last section had been damaged and that parts of the clue had been lost. Needless to say, I felt compelled to learn more.

It so happened that a few weeks later I was summarily removed from my position as Master of the Violin at the Pio Ospedale della Pieta. It appears I was not liked by some of the older administrators. Fortunately, I had a small inheritance from my father and I had managed to save a little money of my own. I spent some time tracing the Niccoli family, who, it turned out, were of the most noble and ancient blood. Niccolo Niccoli's direct male descendant now lived in Palazzo Moritti, a large estate close to Padua. Persuading the head of the Pio Ospedale della Pieta to write a letter of introduction for me, within a week of losing my position in Venice, I found employment as a music teacher to the youngest generation of the Niccolis.

At the Palazzo Moritti I had plenty of leisure time. I taught for just two hours a day. The rest of the time I spent in contemplation and musical composition. But I was there for one particular purpose: to learn as much as I could about the connection between the Medici and Niccoli families and to fill in the spaces in the narrative written by Contessina. What was the nature of her journey? And what was the reason for their obsessive secrecy? I found answers in the grand library, a monument to the recently deceased head of the family, Michelangelo Niccoli who had been an avid collector of arcane literature and the family archivist.

The crucial text was contained in three volumes of journals written by Niccolo Niccoli. I cannot divulge their contents, for they speak of the most terrible things. I read every word the man wrote. I was so captivated by his story that I was almost caught in the library, which was a strictly private place for the family. Indeed, I was so fascinated, I stole the three volumes, handed in my notice as soon as I could, and returned to Venice.

For the next six months, all my spare time was taken up in copying the journals of Niccolo Niccoli. I did have every intention of returning the originals to the family. When I was finished with the transcription, I sent the books anonymously to the Palazzo Moritti via a discreet intermediary.

I was slowed in this quest to unlock the secrets of the Medici because much of the later part of the journal was written using some form of encryption which took me years to unravel.

Now I can at least feel some sense of pride that I had the strength of will to stop. I have come to the end of my life, and I entrust the letter and the copies of the journals to my closest friend, Gabriel Fabacci. I would take them and destroy them myself but I feel unable to even look upon these documents again. I shall advise my friend to destroy the collection, or to perhaps send them to those who have the most right to them, the Niccoli family. May the Lord have mercy upon me. Antonio Vivaldi. 26 July 1741, Vienna. Jeff pushed his chair back. 'So, this fragment of Contessina's is the "venerable document" Bruno referred to. In his own account he said he had a clue, but had found nothing. His servant, Albertus, must have placed the letter fragment in the Gritti Badoer where it was found almost a century later by Vivaldi's father.'

'So now we obviously have to get our hands on the journals of Niccolo Niccoli.' Jeff was about to reply when his mobile rang. 'Dad, it's Rose.' 'Hi honey.'

'Just got a call from the hospital, Roberto's awake and wants to see you.' 'So you've actually read the transcription? That's incredible.' Tubes emerged from each of Roberto's arms, a pulse oxymeter was placed on a stand beside the bed next to a bleeping heart monitor. His face was bruised, a line of steri-strips held together a gash on his forehead, and his upper lip was split. He was clearly in a great deal of pain, but trying not to let it show. 'Any news of the gunman?'

'Candotti seems to have as little to go on as he had after Sporani's death.'

'No doubt he'll be around here to question me as soon as the doctors give him the all-clear.'

'Get the gorilla at the door to stop him.' Jeff and Edie had almost not made it into Roberto's private room thanks to the vigilance of his personal guard, a three-hundred-pounder in a black suit.

Roberto grimaced as he laughed. 'Oh Lou's a pussycat when you get to know him.'

'Not sure I want to,' Jeff replied rubbing his arm where it had been grabbed as he had made to enter the room a few minutes earlier.

'Tafani was helpftd though,' Edie said. 'But we've drawn a complete blank with the Gritti Badoer clue.'

'Don't worry about that; it's my job. Do you have it, by the way?' Jeff handed Roberto the notepaper from the hotel.

'Thanks. You need to follow the Vivaldi lead. Get to Padua as soon as you can.' 'Easier said than done.' 'Nonsense. Just call the Niccoli family.'

'Oh, of course… easy,' Jeff began sarcastically, and stopped. 'Hang on! Don't tell me: you know them.' 'Well, as a matter of fact

Edie laughed and leaned forward to caress Roberto's cheek with the palm of her hand. 'You're priceless.' 'Why, thank you…'

There was a gentle rap on the door and Aldo Candotti entered.

Roberto did his best to smile. 'We were just talking about you, Deputy Prefect.'

Jeff walked towards the door and Edie gave Roberto a kiss on the cheek.

'And Jeff,' Roberto called, his face grave. 'Take Rose with you.' The Palazzo Moritti was once part of a vast country estate situated some three miles from the centre of Padua. Over the centuries, tracts of land had been sold off and now it was a mere shadow of its former glory, a grand house in an exclusive outer suburb.

Edie, Jeff and Rose had left Venice early in a rented car. Rose had not been overjoyed by the idea of having to tag along, but Jeff would not take no for an answer. For most of the journey she had sulked in the back, listening to her iPod.

Arranging an interview had indeed proved to be every bit as simple as Roberto had claimed, and Giovanni Ricardo Marco Niccoli, the twenty-third Barone, had been more than happy to meet friends of Roberto's.

The palazzo was situated off the main road along a quiet, tree-lined lane running west out of Padua. A broad gravel driveway took them from a pair of grand wrought-iron gates, through a copse of cypress trees to the beautiful fifteenth century Palazzo Moritti reputedly designed by a disciple of Brunelleschi. An elegantly dressed butler met them at the huge front door and escorted them through an echoing hall to a drawing-room.

Barone Niccoli was expecting them. He was a tall man, dressed in an expensive dark blue suit. He had white wavy hair and his hazel eyes were warm and friendly.

'Welcome,' he said, his English only faintly accented. He shook Jeffs hand and kissed the back of Edie's. 'And you must be Rose. A real English rose, I see.'

Rose beamed and all her pent-up anger evaporated instantly. 'I imagine,' Barone Niccoli went on, 'that you are less than pleased to be dragged out here on your papa's business. Am I right?' 'Ignored us the whole way here,' Jeff declared. 'Dad…!'

Niccoli laughed. 'Well, I have the perfect antidote for boredom.' And with those words, two young men strode into the room. They wore ripped jeans and T-shirts, but their features were classically aristocratic. Even more striking was the fact that they were, to the eye of a stranger at least, absolutely identical. 'Rose, my sons, Filippo and Francesco.'

They each shook Rose's hand. 'You like scramble biking?' 'Well…'Jeff interrupted. Rose glared at him.

'I've never tried it, but I'd like to.' She shot a challenging look at both adults.

'It's quite safe, Jeff, they get padded up and wear helmets,' Niccoli explained. A few moments later, Edie and Jeff were sitting with the Barone, cups of coffee on a table between them.

'So, tell me more about what has brought you here. Is Roberto all right by the way? I was a little surprised he didn't call personally.'

'He had an accident. Nothing too serious, but he'll be in bed for a few days.'

'I'm really sorry to hear that. It would be nice to see him again. I was very fond of his father.'

'We're researching a TV documentary,' Edie said. 'The president of the Vivaldi Society in Venice put us on to you. Apparently, the composer stayed here for a few months around 1709 and 1710.' 'Yes, that's correct'

'And he became fascinated with the journals of one of your ancestors, Niccolo Niccoli, the condottieri who was also a close friend of Cosimo the Elder.'

The Barone reached for his espresso and took a sip. 'Yes, I can see the attraction for television. The story has many connections between some really fascinating historical characters. My illustrious ancestor was the first to elevate our family into the aristocracy. We owe him a great deal.'

'The journals are of particular interest,' Jeff went on. 'The episode involving Vivaldi coming here to teach members of the family was such an anomaly. We're interested in the report that he stole the journals but returned them later in a fit of guilt.'

Niccoli chuckled. 'That's true, although I think the story has been rather exaggerated.' He sighed. 'Well, I'll help you as much as I can. Until fairly recently, we had several copies of the journals. During the 1920s, the well-known British historian, J.P. Wheatley spent a year here translating the originals and working through the version Vivaldi had transcribed and returned to my ancestors after what you call his "fit of guilt". But then there was the fire.' Jeff and Edie exchanged concerned looks.

'You haven't heard about that? It was over thirty years ago, sometime in 1977. I was at Oxford. My father was ailing, my mother, the Baronessa had died, which in a way was a relief. She loved the library and would have been devastated by what happened.' 'Arson?' Edie asked.

'Yes, turned out to be some horrible little thugs from the city. The police caught them, but nothing could bring back what had been lost. Half the library was destroyed: several priceless Bibles, a first edition of Galileo's Starry Messenger – again almost priceless. We lost over two thousand books, including Vivaldi's edition of my ancestor's journals and almost everything translated by Professor Wheatley. A few pages from the first volume were all that could be saved.' 'But the originals survived?' 'Possibly.' 'What do you mean?'

"The arsonists were also thieves. Some volumes were taken from the shelves before the fire was started. However, they were pretty inept. During the following year, several extremely valuable tomes were located. It was, after all, practically impossible for them to sell the books. We found a Petrarch, an Aristo, two Boiardos, and a set of original Leonardo anatomical drawings.' 'But the journals never showed up?' 'Sadly, no.'

Jeff looked at Edie, her disappointment was clear to see and mirrored his own. 'I'm sorry I can't be of greater assistance.'

'You mentioned a part of one volume that was saved from the flames. You have that still?'

'Yes, but it's little more than a fragment of the original.' 'May we see it?'

The Barone drained his cup and placed it back in its saucer. 'Follow me.'

They passed along a broad corridor, emerging into a wide room. To one side, glass windows offered a view of lush gardens, a lake, a pale blue summer house on stilts at one end of the water. The opposite wall was panelled, a row of portraits, the family nose repeated almost like a xeroxed image: Renaissance Warhols.

They passed through a set of double doors and down a plainly decorated passage. Stopping by an archway, the Barone ushered them into the library, a vast, windowless room. There was nothing to indicate it had been rebuilt in the late '70s. Two ancient-looking sofas stood back-to-back in the centre. Every square inch of three of the walls was shelved and crammed with thousands of books. 'I'm envious,' said Jeff.

'Our greatest treasures are kept here in these glass cabinets,' Niccoli said. 'After the events of 1977 it was clear we had to be a little more careful.'

He unlocked one of the cabinets by punching a number sequence into a key pad. Below three shelves of leather spines lay two wide drawers. As he pulled on the handle of the lower one, Edie caught a glimpse of tissue paper and laminated sheets. The Barone slowly removed a leather folder, and took it over to a small table.

Inside, four sheets of paper had been professionally preserved under plastic. Each of the pages was ripped, and burn marks were clearly visible along the edges of two of the sheets. One of the pages was fragmented into three and had been fitted together to allow the text to be read.

'This is all that remains of the English translation?' Jeff asked incredulously.

'Tragically, it is all that survives of the three volumes. According to the forensics report we received some six months after the fire, there is some evidence Vivaldi's copy was destroyed in the fire. Some ninety-five per cent of Professor Wheatley's three-volume translation was also burned. Some tiny fragments of charred paper with the same watermark as these pages were discovered. But, the true originals, in my ancestor's hand… well, I hope they haven't been dumped in a river or used to clad pipes. I prefer to imagine someone, somewhere, is treasuring the journals, even if they have no right to them.' 'May I?' Edie said.

'Of course. Please take your time. Read these sad remains. I have a few boring chores to perform.'

… rescue was truly a miracle, but Cosimo did not appreciate it at the time. He learned a great deal about his betrothed, but what he learned was perhaps too brutal to accept readily. The finer details of his adventure in Venice was only related to me much later – the story of the extraordinary Luigi, the treacherous priest and the fight in the chapel…

… the captain and all but six of his crew perished in that dreadful storm. I do not know how I reached dry land. All I remember is cold, cold water and screams. I found the body of Caterina, drowned and bloated. To my incomparable relief and joy, Cosimo and Contessina had survived but were in shock, as was Ambrogio, who came through the ordeal with only minor cuts and bruises.

We had been washed up on a beach close to a fishing village. Some old men found us and took us in. Everyone was very kind. A few supplies from our ship were eventually washed ashore. We took what we needed for the rest of our journey and left the remainder to be shared amongst our rescuers. It was the least we could do for those who had given us food and shelter.

The surviving crew members remained in Ragusa to await a ship headed for Italy. We tarried in that fine and noble city just long enough to find our bearings and to prepare for the journey south-east into Macedonia. Some of the valuables we had salvaged from the Gisela we exchanged for horses, supplies, maps and the services of local guides…

… a wild land. Only a dozen years earlier this place had been overrun by the Turk. The people, almost all of them poor farmers, lived little better than slaves. The Sultan controlled, with an iron grip, everyday life in this sorry province, while the people were spiritually yoked to the Constantinople Patriarchate…

… We were in great danger of course. On the one hand, we deemed it wise to avoid the many soldiers who kept the peasants in line, and on the other, we were vulnerable to attack by ajduks, the members of the local resistance movement. By the third day, having made a safe crossing into Macedonia, we had reached the more remote regions, the foothills of the Dinaric mountains, and the highest peak, Korab itself…

… such harsh and inhospitable country. Ambrogio was complaining all the time, of course. Contessina and Cosimo were inseparable and operated almost as a single person, not only strengthened by what they had been through but driven by a burning ambition. I was weary, I admit that. But, as the most experienced traveller, my companions relied upon me…

… we saw light in the distance high in the sky close to where Korab stood in the darkness… mountain road took us directly east. Along the way we passed by a few deserted houses. Further on we found a hamlet of stone huts; they had been razed. Inside one lay two black husks, a mother and child incinerated in the blaze as they clutched each other.

In all my travels, this was the single saddest sight, one that will stay with me for ever. The smell of burned flesh and charred straw still hung heavily in the air. Some terror had passed this way a short time before, perhaps the previous night.

By early the next evening, we reached the summit of the mountain and there, as the sun hung low in a ruddy haze, we caught our first sight of the monastery of Golem Korab…

… The abbot, Father Kostov was a tall, muscular man. Even in his shapeless roughly woven habit he possessed an indefinable dignity. He had been educated at Genoa and Paris and spoke four languages. We were questioned long and hard before being allowed into the monastery, but once the abbot accepted us as guests we were treated with all courtesy…

… first night we dined with the abbot in his spartan chambers close to the dormitories of the monks and told him of our mission. He explained the danger they were in. A local warlord named Stasanor had devastated the nearby villages, and was turning his avaricious eyes upon them…

… was three days after our arrival before we were shown the library… many wonders that made all our travails worthwhile. From then on Cosimo and Ambrogio Tommasini were seen only rarely; the good abbot had given them the freedom of the place and permission to copy anything they wished…

… but an atmosphere of dread pervaded the monastery… fear of Stasanor was ever present. The monks felt it, and so too did we.

… by the purest coincidence… the night of the attack…

… the good abbot came to us after evening prayer and said he wanted us to know something about his monastery, something no outsiders had ever been privy to. And so it was we learned of the Miracle of Saint Jacob and saw his work…