Secrets of the Tower

by Debbie Rix

  But the image that most intrigued Sam was an early map of Pisa dating back to1625, which provided extraordinarily precise detail of the city as it had been at that time. The city walls were almost a perfect square, drawn with neat crenellations along the top. The neatly labelled Arno Fiume carved its way through the city like a wide blue-green ribbon, decorated with little galleys sailing back and forth. And where it intersected the city walls, the breach was filled with two neat bridges, one on either side. Just one further bridge was marked on the map, quite near the centre of the city, which Sam deduced was now the bridge known as Ponte di Mezzo.

  Large houses lined the banks of the Arno, much as they do now, and smaller houses – their roofs painted Tuscan red – fanned out in neat, densely packed rows, almost in a grid system, towards the city walls. And here and there, in between the rows, were small gardens providing areas for people to sit, or to keep a pig, or grow some vegetables. On the outskirts of the town, the houses were less densely packed and the gardens were bigger. Sam could make out neat rows of crops, edged by tiny hedges, large trees providing shade; even the wells where the city’s population could collect their water were clearly marked. And all across the city were churches, carefully drawn with spires, and steep greeny-bronze-coloured roofs. All were numbered, their identities recorded in beautiful handwriting in a key at the side. No 13 – the church of S Lorenzo, 14 – S Francesco, 15 – S Antonio and so on. In the top left-hand corner of the map, there was the Campo dei Miracoli, known at that time as the Piazza del Duomo, with its three famous ecclesiastical buildings including the Tower, already leaning perilously to one side. Next to it stood the hospital where she now sat, the Convent of Santa Chiara, set in a vast garden, presumably growing food to feed the nuns and patients at that time. She thought ruefully of the delicious food they doubtless served up five hundred years ago. She could almost smell the city, so detailed was the map. As Michael slept, she allowed her mind to wander to the little gardens as they were all those years ago, painted a shade of burnt sienna, scorched and dry in the midday heat, cats and dogs seeking shade beneath the arching branches of the carefully painted trees.

  Interspersed amongst the maps were portraits of famous Pisans; handsome men with illustrious credentials. Most of the images were from the Renaissance period. But two pictures featured men who had lived at the time the Tower was being built. It fascinated her to think that these men had been witness to the development of that extraordinary building. That they might, perhaps, have been involved in some way. The first was a handsome man with a long straight nose and neat dark beard, wearing a dark red jacket, its sleeves inset with fur – ermine perhaps – the cuffs and collar edged in fine lace. The annotation indicated that he was the Admiral of the Republic between 1242 and 1244, the date he was killed in action. The second was of a man named Lorenzo Calvo. Not as tall as the Admiral, his hair was also longer, his beard not quite so well groomed. He also wore a dark red tunic, with fur at the shoulders and a heavy dark blue cloak held in place with a large jewelled clasp. Beneath the image of Calvo were illustrations of ships at sea and romanticised paintings of what she presumed were far-distant lands that he visited, judging by the pictures of camels and other exotic animals with which they were decorated. There was no date inscribed on the painting itself, but the annotation beneath the image suggested that it was painted around 1165: around the time that the Tower was being planned. Sam spent a lot of time gazing into his hard black-eyed stare as if he might relent eventually and give up his secrets.

  She flicked back through Michael’s notebooks and read his notes. There were details of the engineering issues of course, exploring what might have caused the Tower to lean. He had met with several key experts and had drawn little sketches showing the Tower slipping into the silty soil beneath, arrows illustrating where stabilising concrete had been injected beneath and rings around the Tower annotated with the words ‘steel girdle – John Burland’.

  There were notes too, of a meeting he had had with a Professor Moretti, who appeared to be a medieval historian in Pisa. Michael had clearly gone to him for an insight into the lives of the ordinary medieval Pisans. He had made a series of notes beneath the Professor’s name: ‘no one went out after dark – for fear of robbery and murder.’ ‘Tower houses standard, one room above another, connected by ladders,’ and so on.

  On the following page were the words: ‘Who designed the Tower?’ in black, spidery writing, with extravagant doodles emanating from the letters.

  Beneath the first such entry was a list of the possible candidates: Deotisalvi, Gerardo, Pisano and the Hunchback, William of Innsbruck. Each one had a large question mark next to it and lines connecting their name to other buildings they had designed, or, as in the case of Gerardo, worked on. Deotisalvi had designed the Baptistery and the Tower of San Nicola; Gerardo had worked on the Tower of San Nicola, Pisano had been a sculptor and designer of the magnificent haut-relief bronze doors of the Cathedral. The Hunchback had no other architectural credits, and Michael had put a pencil through his name. Buried at the bottom of the page was the word ‘Berta’, outlined with a carefully drawn rectangle. And next to it, the word Calvo, also outlined in black, followed by the phrase ‘follow the money’.

  Intrigued, Sam flicked through the rest of Michael’s notebook, but could find no further reference to Berta or Calvo. She went again through the book of images, but whilst there was an image of Calvo, there were none of Berta. A scant reading of the book on the history of the Tower made no mention of this woman, nor indeed of any person named Calvo.

  Who, then, was Berta?

  Packing the books into Michael’s briefcase, she wandered over to his bedside. He slept on, his eyelids fluttering mid-dream. She wanted to bend over to kiss him, but held back as the dark-haired vision of Carrie seeped into her mind, shattering the peace.

  With Michael’s briefcase in hand, she left the hospital and walked out into the sunshine, and across the Piazza towards her pensione. She had a sense of purpose as she strode amongst the tourists gawping at the buildings on the Campo. ‘Who was Berta?’ she said out loud as she stood gazing at the tower. A Japanese tourist turned and stared at her. ‘Sorry,’ she blurted, ‘just thinking out loud,’ before she walked on towards the stalls that lined the little street outside her hotel.

  Chapter Five

  September 1171

  Pisa

  * * *

  The afternoon sun glinted on the decorated glass laid out on the long oak table. Berta brushed her fingers across its surface, noting, with irritation, the fine film of dust. She hurried from the dining hall to the top of the stairs that led to the vast kitchens below. The scent of nutmeg and cooking meat filtered up the wide stone steps.

  ‘Maria, send someone up with a cloth… quickly! The table is filthy.’

  There was a murmuring from below, and within seconds a young maid ran up the stairs, a linen cloth in one hand and a bowl of water, scented with lemon, in the other.

  ‘There… the table; it is covered in dust.’ Her tone was sharp.

  ‘The guests will be arriving in a few hours’ time. I don’t want to find a speck of dust when I come back down.’

  The girl put the bowl of water carefully on the floor and slowly began to remove the valuable items from the table, placing them one by one on a vast serving table that ran the length of the room.

  ‘And make sure you don’t break anything when you put the glassware back. Lorenzo found it in Syria and it’s irreplaceable. And don’t forget to fill up the ewers,’ she pointed at the water bowls in the shape of lions’ heads that sat beside each place.

  Gathering her skirts around her, she swept up the vast marble staircase to her bedchamber at the top of the tower, calling after herself: ‘Send Aurelia to me.’

  At the age of thirty-five Berta di Bernardo was a handsome woman, some might even say beautiful, with dark red hair that fell in waves down her back. Her eyes were green, the colour of emeralds. The name she had be
en given at birth, Berta, was a family name that belonged to her mother and grandmother before her. But it did not suit her. Her father had given her a nickname, Smeralda, or Emerald, to draw attention to the eyes that he said had been a gift from God. He had been convinced that she was born to greatness, and when he had recorded the time, date and year of her birth – 2 o’clock on the 9th August 1136 – on an astrological chart, he was delighted to discover that her destiny was indeed to be one of great wealth and importance.

  Once in her room, as Aurelia carried jugs of steaming water to fill up the bath that stood in the centre of the chamber, Berta’s husband, Lorenzo, wandered in and out, demanding her attention.

  ‘Berta… what should I wear this evening, do you think? The red robe or the dark blue edged with velvet?’

  ‘The red,’ her tone was curt and impatient.

  ‘Really? I rather thought the blue would be better.’

  ‘Fine, the blue then…’

  Lorenzo turned to look at her, puzzled at her irritation.

  ‘Cara, why are you so cross this afternoon? It is only a meal for friends and acquaintances; we’ve had many such parties before. What irks you so?’

  He leant over and caressed her ivory-white shoulder, grazing her skin with his lips.

  She recoiled almost imperceptibly, pulling the gown around her more tightly.

  ‘It’s nothing, Lorenzo, but it is an important party. I have the architect Deotisalvi coming, and I want to talk to him about one of his projects. I have a young mason who needs my help and he’d be perfect for it. I just want everything to go smoothly.’

  Lorenzo smiled. ‘You and your little protégés. I sometimes think they are like children for you, the way you look after them all.’ Turning towards his own chamber, he spoke over his shoulder. ‘I will wear the red, if that’s what you prefer. I imagine that you rather think it will show you off to better advantage, no?’

  Attempting a smile, Berta called after him. ‘Thank you, caro. Yes, the red would be best.’

  As she watched him wander to his room, she was struck by how much he had aged. Whereas she was tall, graceful and slim, her body still firm and youthful, Lorenzo, nineteen years her senior, had developed a large, comfortable belly, and his straggly beard failed to disguise numerous chins.

  He had been handsome when they first met: she was just seventeen and living a protected life in her father’s house, and Lorenzo Calvo, thirty-six and a successful trader, with an impressive fleet of twelve galleys bringing silks, metalwork, spices and precious stones back to Pisa from his travels to the Orient. At that time, she had thought the older man quite a catch. The daughter of a well-known capo magister, a master architect, she had been flattered by the young, thrusting merchant trader when he came calling all those years ago.

  Having amassed a considerable fortune, Lorenzo had decided to build a house on the southern bank of the Arno, on the edge of the mercantile district of Chinzica. Pisa at that time was home to some fifty thousand people, who lived in tower houses consisting of one room atop the other, joined by a wooden ladder in the corner of each room. Measuring some thirty-six braccie, or an arms length, in height, they were made of an impermeable limestone called verrucano, and each one was much the same as its neighbour.

  Wishing to demonstrate his considerable wealth to the citizens of Pisa, Calvo had acquired a plot of land, which afforded enough space for both a large house, or palazzo, and a piazzetta – a little square named after the family, where he could entertain his friends and acquaintances. In search of something unique, he had approached three local architects. Berta’s father, Bernardo di Giovanni, had presented a spectacular and radical design, with three towers connected by galleries on each of the floors. A wide staircase, considered avant-garde at that time, was the main feature of the central structure. And at the top of each tower was an open gallery where the merchant could enjoy the evening breeze, watching the activity on the Arno below. At the front of the first floor was a stone loggia, or balcony, from where the family could survey the city, and in return receive the admiring glances of those less fortunate than themselves. At the rear of the house, a large garden was planned, an unusual feature in this overcrowded city, and at the end of the lane would stand Piazzetta Calvo. The design was far and away the most exciting of the plans he had been offered. Berta’s father had won the commission and the young Lorenzo, though not classically handsome, had caught his daughter’s eye.

  The first time they met, she had been sketching in the upstairs sitting room of her father’s tower house. Calvo had arrived to discuss the plans for his new palazzo to find his architect had been delayed on one of his sites.

  As he prepared to leave, promising to return later that day, young Berta put aside her sketch and invited the young merchant to stay and take wine with her.

  ‘Please,’ she said invitingly, ‘stay and keep me company. My father won’t be long and I’ve heard so much about you. I’d love to know all about your life at sea.’

  The young man was flattered by the attention of the ravishing red-haired beauty and set about impressing her with tales of his journeys.

  ‘How large are these vessels you sail?’ she asked.

  ‘Well over 80 braccie.’

  ‘My…’ she said, ‘and how many oarsmen do you need to propel such a vast ship?’

  ‘Over 100, and we have mercenaries on board of course, too – ordinary soldiers and officers. We pick them up and take them down to fight the Infidel.’

  ‘And do you row all the way?’ she asked innocently, knowing the answer full well.

  ‘No!’ he scoffed. ‘We set sail once we’re safely out at sea. We can get up to 10 knots if the wind is with us.’

  ‘And are your men slaves?’

  ‘Not my men, no. I believe in employing “free men”. A man works better if he is free and rewarded for his labour. It’s hard work though – I’ll accept that. Brutal sometimes. And the food is terrible, of course. It’s hard to keep anything fresh for long.’

  ‘So what do you eat?’ asked Berta, her fascination mixed with horror.

  ‘Dry biscuits, salted meat – it’s a bit monotonous.’

  ‘And how often do you set sail?’

  ‘Twice a year; in spring and autumn. We’re usually away for two or three months at a time.’

  Their conversation was interrupted by the arrival of old Bernardo, the architect, and Berta politely left the two men to their discussions. But in the days that followed, she made discreet enquiries about the young merchant amongst her friends and contempories. His wealth and ambition were beyond doubt; and what he lacked in formal education was more than made up for by his entrepreneurial knack of recognising the monetary value of art, even if he could not truly value its intrinsic qualities.

  ‘If you want anything rare, beautiful, or collectible,’ it was often said in Pisa, ‘Calvo is the man to get it for you.’

  Lorenzo, it appeared, was the antithesis of her father, who was delicate, intellectual, unworldly, almost ascetic; and therein lay the attraction.

  For all his unworldliness, Berta nevertheless adored her father. For the first seventeen years of her life, he had afforded her an extraordinary amount of freedom, encouraging her love of art and architecture, leaving her at liberty to roam the streets of Pisa in search of interesting subjects for her paintings. He took her with him on site visits and used her as his assistant on many occasions. In truth, he saw her more as a protégé than a daughter, a mere chattel who would require nothing more than a dowry in order that she might be safely married off. In fact, the issue of marriage was rarely mentioned as she grew up. It appeared to be of no interest to her father. He preferred, unusually at that time, to ensure that his daughter, an only child, was well-educated, but appeared to give no thought to the practicalities of her future life. He taught her the principles of grammar, rhetoric, dialectic and philosophy, as well as arithmetic, geometry and astronomy; all in addition to encouraging her in the study of paintin
g and drawing. Had she been a boy, she had no doubt that she would have become a capo magister herself. But, as a girl, she soon realised this route was closed to her. As she grew into womanhood, the naivety of her father’s position became increasingly apparent to her. That he had afforded her freedom and education was without doubt a huge gift, but the only way for her to make use of her education, and truly achieve success – as a patron of the arts and of architecture – was either through entering the church, or as the wife of a rich and successful man.

  Not being inclined to spend her life in relative solitude in a convent, young Berta, at just seventeen, took her future into her own hands, and set her cap at the young merchant Calvo, who, she reasoned, would afford her the wealth and position she craved. With her red hair and sparkling green eyes, he was soon ensnared, and before six months were out, they were engaged to be married.

  Early on in their courtship, Lorenzo took Berta and her father to the quayside to look round one of the galleys and visit his new warehouse. On board, she was full of questions: Where did the sailors sleep? Where did Lorenzo sleep? Where was the cargo stored? The fleet had recently returned from a trip to the Middle East. On the outward journey, the boats, bearing the Pisan standard of a red cross on a white background, had been filled with Crusaders from France, intent on the liberation of Jerusalem from the Infidel. Once his human cargo had been successfully delivered, Lorenzo had travelled on into Syria in search of objects to delight the increasingly wealthy residents of Pisa. On the return journey, he had stopped in Amalfi and, with his own soldiers, had been part of a small fleet of like-minded Pisans who had looted and torched the town, filling the holds of his boats with stolen artefacts, furniture and fabrics, along with some classical statuary that he had been commissioned to ‘liberate’ for some of Pisa’s more spectacular building projects. He did not discuss this aspect of his work with his future wife, and Berta, young and innocent as she was, either did not care sufficiently to ask about it, or chose not to think how the goods were parted from their rightful owners. She was more interested in the contents of the vast warehouse, filled, as it was, to the roof with fabrics, glass and building materials.