Captain dell’Orte shifted in his seat and spoke quietly to his wife. ‘Perhaps we should let Matteo continue his own tale?’
‘Of course!’ Donna Fortunata was silent at once, but she smiled at her husband to show that no offence had been taken.
I said that I had nothing more to say about that part of my life anyway. Cities, although interesting, were crowded and unsanitary. I told them that the reason I had left Ferrara was because I preferred the fresh air of the countryside and could live by hiring myself out. At the last place I worked I spread the nets and knocked the olives from the trees with a pole, as people had been doing since ancient times.
‘It is why I am so brown,’ I added, recalling that my rescuers had noticed that my skin was light for a traveller but darker than theirs – by saying this I hoped to disperse any remaining speculation in their minds. The olive grower, I explained, was not a good master so I had decided to move on. On the day of my mishap I had gone to the river to fish and had fallen in and been swept away.
Paolo asked about the bruise on my head, if that had happened when I had fallen into the water.
I said I did not remember. I found that if ever I hesitated or stopped my story, then one of my listeners would offer a suggestion or even finish my sentence for me. Thus I could agree or disagree as it suited. I did not say that it was the blow from a cudgel that had caused me to fall in the river.
‘Can’t you swim?’ asked Rossana. ‘Paolo can swim.’
‘Yes,’ said Elisabetta. ‘Paolo can swim very well. He will teach you and then you won’t be in danger again.’
‘I can swim,’ I said. ‘But the current was fierce and . . .’
‘. . . at some point your head struck something hard.’ Graziano supplied a solution for me.
‘You must have hit it on a rock as you went over the waterfall!’ declared Paolo, pleased with his own skills of deduction.
The girls nodded.
‘Poor boy.’ Their mother, Donna Fortunata, leaned over and stroked my head. ‘And you are so thin too. We’ll feed you up.’
I felt myself waver. I had no memory of the touch of a mother and it made me feel an emotion I had not experienced before. Sitting among this little family, having their attention and interest, had made me become vulnerable. I swallowed and went back to where I had been telling of striking my head. ‘Yes,’ I said, ‘that was how it happened.’
I opened my mouth to continue when the Maestro spoke.
‘Name the fish,’ he said.
‘What?’
‘Tell me the kind of fish you were trying to catch in that river.’
I narrowed my eyes. Why did he want to know this information? Was he trying to trip me with his question?
‘Many kinds of fish,’ I answered him.
I thought of the fish that I’d taken from rivers and lakes when I’d travelled with my grandmother. We always stopped by a stream, for fresh running water holds special powers. It has healing properties, and one should bathe in it, drink it, and look and listen to it. My grandmother could detect the presence of water even in the drought of high summer by putting her ear to the ground. Then she would point to where she heard a stream in the belly of the earth and I would dig to find a spring.
I had enough knowledge of fish to name a few that we had eaten at one time or another. ‘Perch, salmon, eel, trout,’ I said. ‘All of those.’
The Maestro was puzzled. ‘That cannot be.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because of the waterfall downstream from where you were fishing – the one that caught you in its whirlpool. It’s a natural barrier, and would prevent certain species from passing upriver.’
I shrugged, and replied as calmly as I could. ‘I did not know exactly what I fished for. I only hoped to find something to eat.’
He took the small notebook that hung from his belt and opened it up. ‘I’m not familiar with this place.’ He spoke to Captain dell’Orte. ‘What kind of fish would you eat from your rivers here?’
At once Paolo and the girls rhymed off the names of several fish and the Maestro began to make swift marks in his notebook. Then he closed it up, fastening it by its little toggle and loop, and put it away. He leaned back and shut his eyes, but I knew that he did not sleep.
He must have guessed then that the history I claimed as my own was not all of a piece – my story, like a beggar’s cloak, was full of holes. Perhaps, from the very beginning, he was aware that I was not what I appeared.
Chapter Six
MY TIME IN Perela I look upon as a small oasis in my turbulent life.
At first I did not know quite how to behave within the loving family of Captain dell’Orte, his wife and four children. My mind was not attuned to their ways.
My experience of the wider world was greater than that of Paolo, Rossana and Elisabetta, but this did not assist me in my dealings with them. I was physically different, lean where they were plump, with gawky arms and legs. Their mother gave me clothes to replace the ones I wore, but the sleeves of Paolo’s castoff tunic were too long and hung down over my wrists. It made me appear odd, and indeed I was odd. My manners were unsophisticated and coarse compared to theirs. The girls especially, although around my own age, were slightly taller and much more elegant in all things. They spoke politely and with deference to the adults, whereas it went against my nature not to speak plainly. To many people speaking plainly is the same as speaking rudely. Whereas to me, if one was direct, it saved time and misunderstanding.
At table they ate with skill and a deliberate slowness. I, who had known hunger, saw no reason to wait when food was placed before me. It was only when I noticed the stares of those watching me throwing meat into my mouth as fast as possible that I took note that their table manners followed a prescribed pattern.
It was Rossana who helped me, placing her soft hand over mine, asking me something about my time in Venice, and making me delay my next lunge at the serving dish to grab another piece of food. Nothing was said between us, but I knew she was guiding me. So I watched and listened, and learned their ways of addressing each other, and how they conducted themselves.
Paolo wanted more than anything to become a soldier like his father and had me practise swordsmanship and other military sports with him. In our jousting games he would beat me easily, using his wooden lance to give me a great whack on the chest. At first I took this badly and sulked and would not parry with him. But each time I fell down, the girls pleaded with me and Paolo coaxed me back, and I let myself be persuaded.
It was their favourite game. Rossana and Elisabetta would pretend to be high-born ladies bestowing their favours on the brave knight who must fight for them. Rossana, the more vivacious of the girls, always claimed me as her champion and tied her ribbons round my neck. But I soon became angry with my constant humiliation of being bested by Paolo. He had no thought in his head to shame me, only taking advantage of his greater weight and strength. But he was not superior in every way. What I lacked in bulk I made up for in cunning and speed. And in one thing I did have expertise that he lacked. He carried at his waist a poniard, a short dagger stuck in his belt for show.
In my upbringing knives were for use, not display.
One day, as he stood above me brandishing his sword and declaring himself the victor once again, I reacted by instinct. I stretched up swiftly, plucked the dagger from his belt, and had the point at his throat before he drew another breath. That silenced his crowing. It also silenced the cheering of the watching girls.
Paolo’s eyes widened. And I saw something there that both thrilled and frightened me: fear.
He opened his mouth. I held his gaze with mine. What thought went through his head I do not know.
He said one word.
My name.
‘Matteo?’
‘Matteo!’
Another voice called on me. The Maestro looked down from the wall of the keep, where he was overseeing some repair work.
I stepped back and t
urned the handle of the dagger to Paolo. He took it from me. His hands were shaking. He replaced it in his belt. Then he recovered himself and bowed low before me in a great salutation.
The girls applauded. Rossana jumped down from her seat on the wall and ran towards us. She had in her hand the crown of berries and evergreen that she and her sister made each day for the victor.
‘Kneel, Sir Knight. I will crown you victor of the tournament.’
I knelt down before her and she placed the crown upon my head. I looked up and saw her eyes brimming with tears. And at that moment I felt us tipping towards love.
It was a sign of Paolo’s chivalry and good nature that he bore me no ill will for my threatening him with his own dagger. His lance and sword were made of wood, and though the clouts he gave me winded me and set my brain whirling, no real harm could be done. I, however, had held his life within my arm’s reach. And he had seen on my face the intent, if only for a single second, to drive the blade home. But Paolo, being a true gentleman, apologized for his unfair jousting matches. He said he had been so taken up with having a companion that he had not thought of my feelings at being constantly defeated. Thereafter, before we went to combat, he made sure that he was handicapped in some way so that we were more suited in our sparring. It happened then that I won as often as he did.
Thus the days passed there in Perela, with me spending my time doing something I had never done in my life before.
I played.
Probably I had toys as a very young child, but I have only hazy recollections of myself as an infant toddling on the surface of a tiled floor, music playing in the background. Travelling from place to place left little opportunity for games. My role was to carry the basket that held our medicines and remedies for sale. I used to watch other children amusing themselves with balls and sticks as I stood with my grandmother exchanging the time of day with the women of a country farmhouse. But we had no money and no time for such trivialities. Three seasons of the year we had to sell, save and store in order to survive the fourth – winter.
If I was not helping my grandmother collect or prepare herbs I’d gather kindling for the fire or see to the horse. We were better off than many of our kind. We had a good little wagon where we could shelter if the nights were bad, and it meant that my grandmother could ride if she was tired. Usually, though, we walked the roads, the forest paths and mossy tracks until she became too breathless to do so.
But in Perela with Paolo, Rossana and Elisabetta and baby Dario I learned proper games. They had lessons in the morning but I said I did not need these. I had watched from the schoolroom door one day and saw that the girls could read very easily and form the letters to write without hesitation. Paolo, under the tutelage of the local priest, was progressing in his Latin and Greek. I knew that my lack of learning would show up very quickly if I sat down beside them. They would surely laugh at me when they found out that I did not know the words that they could chant so fluently.
Captain dell’Orte and his wife loved to see their children learn. The girls were well tutored, although very soon they would be betrothed. In truth they should have been long ago, but Donna Fortunata had persuaded their father to wait a little. She teased him, saying that if they held off maybe the girls would find a love match as she had. He only pretended to protest. He clearly doted on his daughters, and it would break his heart when the time came for them to leave and take up residence away from under his gaze. So the older children carried on with their lessons each forenoon, and I, who had no mastery of books, pretended that I was too advanced for their tutor. I said I had learned everything I needed to know from my parents, when they were alive, and I went off and amused myself in the kitchens or stables, or more often watched the Maestro at work.
He was overseeing the men-at-arms rebuilding one of the walls and I liked to look at his plans and see how they came to fruition in actual stone and cement. I kept myself inside the keep, so as not to be seen outside by the farm workers in case I became the subject of gossip. But as far as anyone knew I had arrived with the Maestro and was one of his household.
So it was by accident, one day, that I overheard him consulting with the captain on a secret project that Cesare Borgia wished him to undertake in as many of his castles as possible. I had been in the stables with the horses, for in addition to missing my grandmother I also missed the companionship of the horse that had served us by pulling our wagon for many years. The day was hot and I hauled myself into the upper rafters to take a siesta among the hay baled there. I awoke to find Captain dell’Orte standing directly below me, with one of my master’s drawings unrolled in his hand.
They were discussing the construction of a hidden room, a secret place, so that in the event of the castle being overcome, one or two persons might hide and be saved. They had come into the stables, away from the sight of any other, to be private. It was obvious to me that I should not be party to this conversation but there was nothing I could do. I remained silent as they decided upon the best location.
The Maestro told the captain that the two of them alone must build it and no one else in the keep was to know of its existence. Cesare Borgia himself had thus commanded it.
‘I understand,’ Captain dell’Orte replied.
‘Not even your wife.’
‘Certainly not.’
‘But I have seen your wife,’ the Maestro teased him. ‘A man might not be able to keep a secret from such a woman. She is very pretty.’
‘Exactly!’ Captain dell’Orte laughed. ‘So when I am with Fortunata we do not waste time speaking of buildings, bricks and mortar!’
One evening the children were asked by their mother to show their reading skills to their father. The evening meal had been cleared, and books and parchments were lying open on the table. As Rossana waited her turn she asked me, ‘Can you read, Matteo?’
‘Of course,’ I said at once, and then, quickly, before I was called upon, I added, ‘But I choose not to.’
‘Oh, but you would find it most enjoyable,’ said Rossana. ‘It’s not all dull learning. There are lots of interesting stories to read.’
‘I already know many stories,’ I boasted. ‘I do not need books for that. In any case reading and writing is a job for artisans. When my parents were alive my father employed a scribe to write our letters for us so that we did not have to toil with a pen.’
‘Your father?’ The Maestro looked at me. ‘When you told us your life history, Matteo, you did not tell us much about your father. What was his name?’
‘Pietro,’ I said quickly.
‘A good name,’ said the Maestro slowly. He did not look up as he spoke. He kept his gaze upon the manuscript before him. I followed his look. There was a scroll laid out in front of us.
The scribe had put his name at the foot of the page. A simple name that I had recognized.
Pietro.
The Maestro picked up the scroll and rolled it tightly. ‘A very good name,’ he said again. ‘A person with a name such as that would certainly read and write most excellently.’ He tied the cord around the scroll. Then he stood up and placed it among some others on a high shelf.
As soon as I could I excused myself and left the hall.
I went to the room I had been given at the top of the house. It was a small attic with a rough mattress that sat on a wooden platform. I bundled up my clothes and checked the pouch I kept secured on the belt around my waist.
Suddenly I knew I was not alone. I whirled round.
The Maestro was standing in the doorway. Had he seen me checking my belt pouch?
‘What are you doing?’ he asked.
‘I will leave at once,’ I said.
‘Why?’
‘To avoid a beating.’
‘No one is going to beat you.’
I watched him. For a boy to be caught lying always merited punishment.
‘Tell me why you lied.’
I shrugged. ‘I do not know.’
‘Think about i
t and tell me why.’ He went over to the window and looked out. ‘I’ll wait until you do.’
I watched him. He did not act as though he was about to strike me. ‘I am ashamed,’ I said finally.
‘Of not being able to read very well?’ He smiled. ‘You had sufficient skill to decode the scribe’s name on his manuscript.’
I did not reply.
‘Lying eats into the soul,’ he said. ‘If it becomes a habit it frays the edges of your spirit. Truth telling, although sometimes harder to do, strengthens your heart. It serves a person ill not to tell the truth.’
Not so, I thought privately. He had never gone hungry, never had to steal to eat. Lying had saved my skin on many occasions. But I did not speak this thought aloud.
‘What is your truth, Matteo?’
I would never tell him all of it, but one thing at least he might know. ‘It was not so much the shame of not being able to read fluently,’ I said. ‘It is the shame of not knowing my father.’ I hung my head. ‘I am a bastard child,’ I whispered.
‘Oh, that!’ He gave a short laugh. ‘Half the courts of Europe and most of mighty Rome itself are bastards. Our employer, my patron for the moment, Cesare Borgia, is a bastard.’
‘That is no recommendation for bastardy.’
He laughed, and then laughed again. ‘That joke is one we must not share with anyone else. To malign a Borgia is dangerous.’
‘He is of noble birth. It is different for those of noble birth.’
‘It can be harder for them. They have so much to prove, so much to fight for. So much to lose.’
I shook my head. ‘It is shameful to be a bastard who does not have a father’s name . . .’
‘Your mother would have loved you, Matteo.’
‘My grandmother would never speak of her so I cannot be sure that she did. It may be that the shame of my birth caused her to hate me.’
The Medici Seal Page 3
