Which meant then that our escape route was blocked.
We could not go back the way we had come. And at the moment we had not the strength to set out in another direction. ‘There is a darker patch along the bottom of the ridge there,’ I said. ‘Less than half a mile away. It looks like a cave. We could shelter there while we decide a course of action.’
We were only a hundred yards or so away from it when the air around us split asunder with a mighty crack.
Elisabetta cried out and looked back.
Paolo turned cumbersomely, trying in vain to unsheathe his sword, prevented from doing so by the snow around him.
But Rossana raised her head and looked up. I followed her gaze, realizing as I did so that the sound had come from in front rather than behind us.
And I saw the whole weight of the mountain top tremble.
‘Avalanche!’ I screamed the warning. ‘Avalanche!’
Chapter Thirty
I GRABBED ROSSANA by the hand and dragged her to the cave opening.
Hampered by her skirts, Elisabetta followed. Paolo was left in the path of the oncoming snow.
A suffocating, blinding whirlwind roared down the mountain. I turned and flung myself out and over Paolo, and held onto him as we were caught up, and pummelled, and driven down with it. We crashed into the trees and were forced apart.
I knew nothing for several hours.
The girls came down and managed to haul us up to the cave. Paolo’s arm was broken, my body was bruised and numb, but we had escaped with our lives. Elisabetta ripped up her underskirts to bind Paolo’s arm and we huddled together and ate the rest of our food, apart from Rossana, who refused all sustenance.
By now it was late afternoon and as the light left the sky it began to snow again. Paolo said, ‘God has put a curse on the dell’Orte family.’
‘Or He sent the avalanche to help us,’ Elisabetta retorted. ‘It will cover our tracks from the river to here and has cleared our way through the mountains. I have been outside and I can see the opening to the other side. Let’s make haste while the snow still falls, and it will cover the last part of our journey too.’
I looked at Elisabetta as she said this to her brother. She had changed. Since Rossana had been brought so low, Elisabetta had taken the dominant role.
As we set out again Elisabetta asked me, ‘Why did you take us to Averno?’
‘I knew there was a hospital there.’
‘How did you know this monk would hide us?’
‘Everyone knows of the goodness of the monks of Saint Hugh. Their fame for caring for those who have nowhere else to go is widespread.’
‘I thought perhaps you knew the monk at the hospital as a friend?’
I shook my head.
‘But he knew you.’
‘I do not think so.’
‘Yes, he did,’ said Elisabetta. ‘He spoke your name, even though you had not told him it.’
He had. I remembered now. When drawing the map Father Benedict had said my name, Matteo.
‘I have been there before’ – I mumbled an excuse – ‘with the Maestro. He had permission to do anatomies and I accompanied him. But it is something that he asked me not to speak of as people misunderstand his work.’
She nodded and I turned my head away. I saw then that Elisabetta was very observant. In the past I had not noticed this, as she had been content to occupy a lesser place beside her more vivacious sister. But now, with that bright star dimmed, it was possible to see Elisabetta shine. I wondered how long it would be before her sharp mind thought more about her and her brother’s conversation with Father Benedict when he had been asking them about the treasure. Questioning the reason why they were being hunted down. How long would it be before she recalled that the soldiers had demanded information about ‘the boy’ and had not mentioned Paolo by name? Would she then recall that there was another boy who had arrived under strange circumstances into the household of the dell’Orte family, a boy with no proper name, whose background was incomplete, and that it might be him and not her brother that the soldiers sought?
How long would it be before Elisabetta, Rossana and Paolo found out that their mother and father and brother had been murdered, not by looting Borgia soldiers, but by a renegade band of Sandino’s men sent to find me?
That it was I, Matteo, who had caused the downfall of the dell’Orte family.
Chapter Thirty-One
THE EVENING ANGELUS bell was ringing as we came finally into the mountain village of Melte.
We saw the convent of Father Benedict’s sister at once. It was a small building nestled close to the steep sides of the mountain pass. The walls were high, with no footholds, and there was only one door with a light burning above it. The lamp illuminated the sign, which told us that this was the Convent of the Christ Child and St Christopher.
‘Saint Christopher’ – Elisabetta made a wry face – ‘the saint who watches over travellers. Let us hope he is mindful of us now.’ She made to go forward.
‘We must be cautious,’ I said.
‘I will go,’ said Paolo. ‘I’m not afraid.’
‘Being cautious does not mean you are afraid,’ Elisabetta scolded her brother. ‘It will cause less alarm if I go.’
‘A man has more authority to command them to-open the door,’ said Paolo, stung by his sister’s rebuke.
‘They are cloistered nuns,’ Elisabetta explained. ‘The only man they see will be the local priest to say mass for them and perhaps a male relative on feast days. If you ring the bell as a stranger at night, you may frighten them and they will not let us in. I will go and beg the sister portress who keeps the door if I may speak to the Mother Superior.’
‘They will refuse you,’ Paolo argued. ‘You are a child. They will tell you to go away and come back with an adult.’
‘I will say I bring urgent word from her brother at Averno and I must speak with her alone.’
Paolo glanced at me. ‘I think Elisabetta approaching alone is the best way,’ I said to him. Then I turned to Elisabetta and began, ‘The monk said to tell his sister—’
‘I know what the monk said, Matteo. You think because I am a girl I won’t remember, but I recall the message very clearly. I will say to her, “Your brother bears you no grudge for having taken a whipping from the gardener when you gathered your father’s best roses to decorate the Virgin’s statue.”’
We stood back and watched as Elisabetta went forward and pulled the bell rope at the door. Some time elapsed before the shutter of the grille was drawn aside.
Elisabetta spoke to whoever was on the other side. The shutter closed and we waited several minutes before it slid open again. After a moment the door itself was opened up. A nun stood there but she did not step outside. Under monastery rules the cloistered nun is not permitted across the threshold of the convent. Once she takes her vows she remains there for life; upon her death she is buried within the walls.
This nun bent to speak to Elisabetta and then looked in the direction she was pointing.
I nudged Paolo. ‘Stand up straight,’ I said, ‘so that she can see us and know we mean no harm.’
Paolo straightened up but Rossana could not. With his good arm Paolo pulled his sister against him as if to protect a young child.
The Mother Superior beckoned for us to come forward. She looked at each one of us and then said, ‘And how is my good brother?’
‘He was very well when we last spoke to him,’ I replied. ‘But he put himself in great danger by sheltering us.’
‘Then I can do at least as well as he,’ she said and made to usher us inside.
‘There is something you should know.’ Paolo spoke up. ‘We have been in contact with the Plague.’
The sister portress stepped back, but the Mother Superior held her ground.
‘Your need must be great if my brother sent you to me under such circumstances.’
And she opened the door wide to admit us.
The Mother Superior showed us in
to a cellar below the house. This room had been cut into the mountain and was far removed from the rest of the community.
‘You must remove all of your clothing,’ she told us, ‘and I will burn it. Then you must scrub each other with a hard brush. And you must shave your hair.’
Elisabetta’s hand went to her fair curls.
‘I’m sorry’ – she looked at Elisabetta – ‘but if we are to prevent the spread of any infection this is the only way. I will see if I can find other clothes to replace your own. We sew vestments for all manner of clergy – bishops and even cardinals. I’ll search among the hampers and see if there is anything suitable that you can have.’
‘I hold the high officers of the Papacy responsible for our misfortune,’ said Paolo. ‘I could not bear to dress as any member of that organization.’
‘Perhaps a minor friar then?’ the Mother Superior replied seriously.
As she said this she concealed a smile and I saw that this woman had the same astute mind as her brother.
So for the duration of our stay in Melte, Paolo and I and Elisabetta donned the garb of the Franciscan greyfriars. And we kept these robes when we left to go through the mountains to the other side of Italy.
As for Rossana, she did not ever wear the habit of the followers of the holy man of Assisi. When the Mother Superior took our infected clothes away she studied Rossana carefully. Then the good nun returned with a warm blanket, and wrapping Rossana’s little body in it she carried her to the convent infirmary.
And there, two days later, with Paolo and I on each side of the bed, and Elisabetta holding her hand, Rossana dell’Orte died.
Chapter Thirty-Two
THE WINTER WIND still cut across the mountain, but the long teardrops of icicles on the eaves of the monastery had begun to thaw when the Mother Superior decided it was time for us to move on.
‘The snow is melting. In a day or two the way down will be clear enough for a man to walk through. If the Borgia soldiers chase you with such ferocity it may be that they are waiting in Averno, and as soon as the mountain passes are clear they will come this way to look for you.’
We went to Rossana’s grave to say farewell. To conceal our presence here, Rossana had to be anonymous in death. Thus the plain wooden cross that marked her last resting place did not have her own name written upon it. Like the nuns of all convents, she had been given another. Elisabetta had chosen it for her.
‘We could see the tops of your mountains from the bedroom window of our home in Perela,’ Elisabetta told the Mother Superior. ‘Rossana and I often talked of the angels who must live here, so close to God. Now she is with them. So mark the name on her grave as Sister Angela, and let the angels welcome her to Heaven as one of their own.’
The Mother Superior arranged for a hill shepherd to guide us through the mountains.
Paolo and Elisabetta told me that I was welcome to go with them to their uncle, who lived near Milan.
I shook my head. ‘I will go to Florence and meet up with my master,’ I said.
I had caused enough trouble to this family and thought it safer for them if we parted.
‘We will seek out my uncle,’ said Paolo. He indicated the dress that he and Elisabetta wore. ‘Two mendicant brothers should not attract too much attention on the roads.’
‘I wish you well in your lives,’ I said, ‘should we never meet again.’
‘We will meet again,’ said Paolo fiercely, ‘though it may be many years before we do. There is unfinished business that we have to attend to, Matteo. I need time to become stronger, to gather arms and train myself to be proficient in fighting. But when I am ready, I will find you so that we can hunt these men down. Matteo, swear an oath with me now to join me in this venture.’
What should I have done when Paolo said these words? Given the circumstances, I could only agree.
He gripped my arm. ‘In the meantime, then, I would ask that you keep watch for me. Florence is so much closer to the happenings of the day, and you move in such grand company, Matteo. Use your eyes and ears on my behalf. I will write to you care of the studio of Messer Leonardo da Vinci.’
And so we parted.
They to Milan and I to Florence. They carrying grief and vengeance. Myself with the added burden of guilt.
And also, hung around my neck, the source of all the trouble.
When we had to burn our clothes the Mother Superior had noticed that I still held onto my belt with the pouch attached, and she had asked me if it contained some holy relic.
I saw this to be good explanation of my attachment to this object. Many people carried relics about their person, or the badge of a favourite saint pinned to their hat or cloak. I nodded.
‘We must make sure it carries no infection. I will make you a new pouch, Matteo. Give that to me and I’ll wash whatever saint’s bone it contains thoroughly with ammonia salts.’
‘I will deal with it myself,’ I said.
‘Cleaning it will not make the potency of the relic any the less,’ said the nun, misunderstanding my reluctance to hand it over into her care. ‘The belief is not in the object. Faith is in your heart, and feeds the soul.’
‘I understand,’ I said. ‘Nevertheless, I will do it on my own.’
She brought a dish with some salts of ammonia and a bottle of water. Then she gifted me a small leather bag with a cord, similar to those that pilgrims wear around their neck. I went to the furthest corner of the convent yard and set fire to my belt and the little pouch, and took the thing that it contained, and transferred it to its new hiding place.
But before I did that I looked at the object that had started a trail of death and violence since it had come into my possession.
Fashioned from solid gold, with lettering around the edge, it showed the coat of arms of one of the most powerful families in Italy. A shield with the design of six balls sat proud of the surface, the emblem of the merchant bankers whose influence reached into the furthest corners of the known world. The family who funded Italy and the Vatican, supported France, Germany, England and Spain in their constant struggles for power and conquest.
What Sandino had me steal. What Cesare Borgia must have promised him a fortune to obtain.
The Great Seal of the Medici.
PART FOUR
THE SINISTRO SCRIBE
Florence, 1505 – two years later
Chapter Thirty-Three
NO ONE TOOK note of the fact that the work was scheduled to begin on a Friday at the thirteenth hour.
No one, that is, except myself and the alchemist, Zoroastro.
‘This isn’t a good day to be starting a major project,’ he said to me under his breath as we stood with the others awaiting the arrival of Maestro Leonardo.
I knew the day of the week. It was Friday. The fish sellers were in the street as they were every Friday because it was a Church day of abstinence. This was the day when Christians were supposed to forgo the pleasure of eating meat in order to recall to their mind the sacrifice made by their Redeemer, as it had been a Friday when Jesus Christ was crucified. It was a day considered by many, even those outwith the Christian religion, to be a day with a curse upon it.
‘Because it is Friday?’ I asked him.
‘Because it is Friday,’ Zoroastro repeated in answer. ‘It is Friday, and also Messer Leonardo proposes to begin applying paint to the first part of the fresco at the thirteenth hour.’
I drew in my breath.
Zoroastro nodded gravely at me. ‘Not the day nor the hour I’d choose to undertake such an important piece of work.’
‘Did you mention this to the Maestro?’ I asked him.
‘I told him last night. He wouldn’t agree to wait. Said we must make a start because he can’t afford to pay the workers a day’s wages for doing nothing. And he’s been warned that the city councillors are becoming impatient. They want to see more progress. They’ve complained that too much time has gone by since he finished the cartoons for this fresco. One of the
clerks told him that if he didn’t begin putting on the paint today then the Council would count it to be yet another week’s delay, and might try to penalize him.’
Zoroastro and I both knew the mood of the Council of Florence, and in particular their leader, Pier Soderini, with regard to this fresco. They had little respect for my master’s talent, and had been carping and snapping at his heels since giving him the commission almost two years ago.
‘When he arrives, Matteo, you speak to him,’ Zoroastro went on. ‘Tell him it would attract bad fortune to proceed at this hour.’
‘He holds you in high regard,’ I replied. ‘I will not be able to change his mind if you could not.’
‘Ah yes. He holds me in high regard for the things I do which are of a practical nature. My metalwork, my knowledge of the elements, their power and their properties, my skill in the preparation of coloured paints . . . but my other claims, to interpret mystical portents? Pfff! He dismisses them as not worthy of an intelligent being’s attention. Last night, when I begged him to put this off because I sensed unfavourable omens, he laughed. He actually laughed.’ Zoroastro scowled at me from under his thick black eyebrows. ‘It’s not a good thing to laugh at forces that we don’t understand.’
We lowered our voices and moved closer together as we spoke, united by this bond of respect for the unknown. The rest of the workers stood about chatting amongst themselves. By consent unsaid Zoroastro and I did not speak of our fears to them. I sensed that had we done so we would have been mocked. The people gathered here in the Council Chambers of the Palazzo Vecchio in Florence awaiting instructions from the Maestro were mostly skilled craftsmen. A mixture of journeymen, pupils and painters. Some were very learned men who studied religion, art and the writings of the ancients. One of them, the highly talented Flavio Volci – at fifteen only a few years older than me, but very well educated – had the ability to read Latin and Greek. They would have scoffed at the instinct that made Zoroastro and me wary. The ones among them, like Felipe, who adhered to the ways of the Church would have questioned such superstition, believing in the power of prayer to overcome any evil. And those who placed Man at the centre of the universe would equally have dismissed any belief in magical forces. But I had much in common with this stocky little man, Zoroastro, whom I had come to know well in the years I had been living in Florence. We had a deep empathy for the natural and supernatural forces that existed within our world.
The Medici Seal Page 14
