Max Quick: The Bane of the Bondsman (Max Quick Series Book 3)

by Mark Jeffrey

  He hugged Venetia and laughed. Then, he addressed the boy. “So you are awake at last! And looking very healthy today. I am pleased. Very well pleased, indeed! I see you have discovered my favorite place – where the desires of my soul are made manifest. Tell me, Ragazzo,” he said with a wink to Venetia, “what do you think?”

  Ragazzo looked at Giovanni with plain wonder. “It is magnificent,” he said simply and quietly.

  “It pleases me to hear you say this. Would you like to see more?” Giovanni said, a twinkle in his eye very much like his daughter’s.

  Ragazzo nodded.

  Cyranus grabbed Venetia’s hand and put his other hand on Max’s shoulder. “Then come. Come see my library!”

  Together, the threesome climbed a stone staircase that wound up out of the workshop. “You have been sleeping in my extra bed, Ragazzo. I sometimes spend weeks down there, painting and making things, studying thing. I get so lost in what I’m doing that I barely rest! But when at last I am exhausted — when, although the joy of my work has not left me, my constitution will allow no further efforts — I collapse into the very bed in which you have just had your repose.

  “But only a for a few hours! I can never sleep more than three or four hours at a stretch. You, Ragazzo, you —”

  “You’ve been sleeping for days,” Venetia finished with a wink at her father.

  Ragazzo was embarrassed. “Days? Forgive me sir, I did not —“

  Cyranus laughed. “Oh no, you needed it! Rest will heal any wound or weal, so they say. I am gladdened for your restored vigor.”

  The threesome emerged into a great hall. It was at once evident that this Cyranus was very wealthy, the Lord of the town. Several servants were busy cleaning the furnishings and ornaments of this room — when Giovanni entered, they bowed and left. Giovanni gave each them individually a smile and a head-nod: he was clearly treated his people well. A giant, man-sized fireplace roared with a healthy fire to the left, making the hall with its sumptuous rugs and tapestries and furnishings seem cozy and inviting — a place where long hours of reading or conversation could be held with immense enjoyment.

  The windows in the hallway were likewise wide and giant, thrown open now to the outside world. Ragazzo could see the town below — this villa was on a hill overlooking both the hamlet of Cyranus and the great dreaming sea beyond. Well-coifed clouds roamed against the azure heavens and a gentle breeze with the smell of salt air tickled everything and everyone.

  But Giovani di Cyranus was paying no attention to this. Instead, he had climbed a tall ladder and was inspecting a great shelf filled with books and palimpsests and codexes of every description.

  “Have you heard of Plato? Aristotle? Cicero? Ptolemy?” Giovanni tossed scrolls at him, one with each name. Ragazzo opened his mouth to answer, but Giovanni cut him off. “No? Then what about the Arabs? Oh, I know it is heresy to speak of the Moors, our Christian enemies, in hushed tones of wonder – but tell me anyway: Abulcasis? Geber? Averroes? Have you heard these names? Did you know it was the Arabs who invented the zero? The invention of the zero is not nothing, you know!”

  Venetia giggled. “He is a madman, you know,” she confided to Ragazzo. “Absolutely mad.”

  “Ah, thank you Niccolo de Niccoli! Thank you Poggio Bracciolini! Men of learning who gave us such texts!”

  “Excuse me,” Ragazzo said, politely interrupting. “But I do not even know my own name. I do not even know where I am.”

  “Ah,” Giovanni blinked, reigning in his enthusiasm. “Forgive me. You are in the village of Cyranus, in the Republic of Florence. It is on the Mediterranean Sea. Does this mean something to you?”

  Ragazzo shook his head.

  “Well, no matter! You are alive and well and this is more than those whom the Great Pestilence took most to their graves not so long ago. And ah!” Giovanni caught sight of the world outside his great windows. “It is a marvelous day. Not a say to be spent inside pouring over ancient tomes — there will be time and days for that later. Come! Let us go walk my lands! Venetia, will you bring Ragazzo some shoes?”

  Venetia nodded to her father and stole a glance at Ragazzo. “Yes father. I will.”

  THE WINE-DARK Mediterranean Sea was restless beneath the edge of Giovanni’s ancestral lands. White-caps slammed the cliffs below where the grassy land suddenly dropped off into the ocean on a scrape of rocks.

  Far off in the distance, a storm gouged the waters. Lightning flashed in a fistful of dark clouds on the horizon. Odd, this, in a sky of sizzling sunlight, thought Ragazzo.

  Giovanni walked with Ragazzo. His daughter, Venetia — along with his other daughters Allesandra, Bonfilia, Jina, Oriana and Eleonora, Ragazzo had learned, struggling to keep the names straight — walked behind them. The gaggle of girls skipped giggling, collecting seashells and flowers.

  “So you do not recall your name,” Giovanni asked.

  “No,” Ragazzo replied.

  “What of your homeland? Your parents?”

  “Nothing,” Ragazzo said. “My life before you plucked me from the streets is a mystery to me.”

  “Hmm,” Giovanni mused. “Well, you must have parents. Or someone who is looking for you.” He thought for a moment and then said, “I could sketch your likeness and send it out with messengers. Yes, that is what I shall do.”

  “As you will, sir.”

  “You know, Ragazzo, you played my lute better than anyone I have ever heard. It is clear you have been educated.”

  Ragazzo nodded. “I know many things. These things I recall.”

  “Like what, for example?”

  “The Library at Alexandria,” Ragazzo replied. “You are a man of learning. You have heard of it?”

  Giovanni’s eyes went wide. “Who has not? The treasures that were lost when that Library was set aflame are incalculable. Tell me, Ragazzo. What else do you know?”

  “You asked me if I know of Aristotle, Cicero. The answer is yes. I have read Virgil and Homer. The Aenead and the Odyssey are old friends.”

  Giovanni’s eyes went wide with astonishment. “You have read these works. That is rare! How is it you are a street urchin?”

  “There is more, sir. My eyes have beheld the great Sphinx in Egypt — and the Great Pyramid of Giza, of course. But I have also seen more obscure things that I would guess, sir, that perhaps even one as learned as you may not have heard of. I have seen the temple of Gobekli Tepe in Turkey, for example. And the Pyramid of the Sun and the Pyramid of the Moon at Teotihuacan — and the Pyramid of the Feathered Serpent.”

  Giovanni shook his head. “The Egyptian monuments are well known to me. But these other places of which you speak … I have not heard of them, or even read of them, no.”

  “Then, closer to home?” Ragazzo continued. “I have seen the Roman Pantheon, the great temple built in the time of Agrippa. The construction of such a dome is an art lost to the modern world. But would you believe me if I told you I could explain the secret of it?”

  Giovanni laughed at that. “I would accuse you of an idle boast! Not even the greatest men of learning know today how that feat was accomplished.” Giovanni shook his head with a hint of rue. “Ah. Our world is always looking backward, to the time of Rome. You know that, Ragazzo? Wistfully, as a people, we’re always looking over our shoulder to what was. To the great Empire. And for a thousand years since her Fall, we have wallowed in ignorance and backwardness. Only now, are beginning to learn again! Only now are we opening our minds to great secrets, and rediscovering all the great lore that was lost. It is a new age.”

  “It is a new age,” Ragazzo agreed. “New things are possible now that were not before.”

  Giovanni eyed the boy curiously, as though seeing him for the first time.

  “And Ragazzo … how is it that you recall such wonders and learnings so clearly, but not your own name or any memory connected to you personally? That would seem not to make sense.”

  The boy looked troubled and shook his head. “I do not
know, sir. It is a terrible thing.”

  Giovanni studied him closely as though weighing taking a risk, and then said: “You know Ragazzo, I am not as surprised at this as you may think.”

  “No, sir?”

  “No. May I tell you a secret?”

  The boy nodded vigorously. “Yes sir, of course. You have been most kind to me. Any secret you entrust to me will be safe — I swear it on my life.”

  Giovanni nodded. “That is well. The Church would not look kindly upon what I am about to tell you.” He looked behind him as if to assure himself that there was nothing nearby except for his daughters and the crisp ocean air. “I have studied much of the medical arts. Learning how the body works. I have studied the structure of the body — and the brain.”

  Ragazzo nodded slowly.

  “You are not shocked by this?”

  “Shocked, sir? No sir. You are a seeker of knowledge.”

  Giovanni’s eyes lit up as though he’d found a kindred spirit for the first time. “Yes, Ragazzo. I am incurably curious! I have a thirst to know all things. The Church says I should not know — but I do not believe this. I think men, not God, decided that other men should not have knowledge! I think God wish us to improve ourselves and continually discover and learn!”

  Ragazzo nodded again. “I believe you are right, sir.”

  Giovanni continued, less reticent now about expressing his true thoughts: “Most believe that the brain is an organ for cooling blood. But I do not. My studies show that the brain — not the heart! — is the organ of thought. It is there that the sheets of the soul are anchored in some fashion.

  “When there is injury to the brain, as I believe there has been to yours, certain types of memory are affected, while others remain completely untouched. The brain is … it has … compartments. Like rooms in a house. A different room for every purpose. If one room is damaged, the others remain intact.

  “So it is with you, my young friend. The room in your brain where your personal memories are stored is damaged. But your impersonal knowledge, that is knowledge of places or things or skills — such as your ability to play the lute, or your curious knowledge of ancient wisdom — those are stored in another room, so they are fine, they are unaffected by the damage.”

  “Will my mind always be like this?” Ragazzo asked. “I mean, sir, will I ever remember my name or anything about myself?”

  “I don’t know,” Giovanni continued. “I have seen men with such damage to their brains recover everything they once knew. And I have seen the opposite, where nothing is ever recalled again.” A dark cloud entered Giovanni’s gaze then. But as always, Giovanni was never dark for long — mirth rekindled in his eyes almost as soon as it went out: “Ah! But you are young, Ragazzo! You are healthy and hale and whole! I believe that you will remember everything in time, yes, yes, yes! Time is all you will need! You must be patient. You must not rush it.”

  “I know sir,” Ragazzo said. “It’s just so difficult to … wait.”

  “But what is there to rush, Ragazzo?” Cyranus laughed loudly and called to his daughters, who obediently bounded towards him. “You are under my roof, under my protection. Your days will be spent in enjoyment! I enjoy your strange company and your strange wisdom: you are a welcome companion, not a burden. Eat! Drink! Sleep! Read! Keep me company as I paint! In fact …” Here Giovanni paused. “In fact, I would have you as my apprentice. In time, of course, if you are willing.”

  “Yes!” Bonfilia called out. “Ragazzo, do stay!”

  “But be warned: father is a bore when he is working,” said Eleonora grumpily.

  “He is not!” cried out the two youngest, Jina and Oriana.

  “Well, not a bore,” Venetia said, “But he does get in a … mood.”

  “He goes on and on about old, dead people,” Eleonora concluded.

  “Smart dead people,” Oriana corrected.

  “That is true,” Eleonora said, smiling at last. “At least he has that going for him.”

  “Come my lovely daughters! I will not be a bore today, I promise you that!” And Giovanni chased them all as they ran with screams of delight.

  The boy, Ragazzo, watched all this. If Giovanni had observed him in that precise instant, he would have been surprised to see that he looked oddly detached.

  AFTER ANOTHER HOUR of walking the rolling fields, they turned back from the sea and approached the outskirts of the well-flowered hamlet of Cyranus.

  Venetia walked ahead of Ragazzo, seeming to float above the swishing grass. Her dark curly locks danced over red, candy-apple cheeks and merlot lips. Giovanni walked behind, with his four other daughters. The younger ones suddenly screeched with delight and burst into a run. A puppet show played in the upper part of a tall wooden booth. A crowd of children had gathered, staring up in wonder at the small elegant figures within. That such things could have a sort of life was nothing short of magic to their young eyes.

  “He really likes you,” came a warm, breathy whisper in Ragazzo’s ear.

  Ragazzo turned, startled. It was Venetia. She nodded towards Giovanni, who was now chasing after the youngest, Jina. She had crawled beneath the booth, trying to see up inside and determine how the magic of the puppets was worked.

  “He has never made an offer of apprentice to anyone. Not even in jest. Any many have asked, believe me. My father’s reputation is unchallenged in this region of Florence.”

  “But I don’t understand. I have done nothing but appear in your street, poor and hungry,” Ragazzo whispered back. “Why would he make such an offer?”

  “He sees something in you. You are different. He can tell.” She paused for a moment and then added, “I can tell.”

  “Hello, Venetia,” said a new voice nearby. Ragazzo turned. A sour looking boy with dark locks in his eyes had appeared. He sat astride a horse. Venetia’s face turned pale at once.

  “Malvolio,” Venetia acknowledged his presence through clenched teeth.

  “Who is this?” Malvolio demanded, looking Ragazzo up and down.

  Venetia flashed a dazzling, wicked smile just then. “This? Why, this is Ragazzo. He is Giovanni’s new apprentice.”

  Malvolio face clenched with instant rage. “This? An apprentice?”

  “Yes!” Venetia said. “My father thinks he is brilliant.”

  The boy on the horse got down and approached Ragazzo. “Where do you come from?” he demanded.

  “I am … lost,” Ragazzo said.

  “Lost?”

  “He arrived a few days ago,” Venetia explained. “He was not himself. He is … not himself yet.”

  “Ah. You were the boy found in the street!” Malvolio said, realization flooding his eyes. “I heard about you! You’re just a — a filthy beggar!”

  He expected this Ragazzo to be furious. But instead, he looked bored. Ragazzo’s gaze had already wandered from Malvolio, seemingly finding the puppet show more interesting.

  “My father works for the Medici,” Malvolio continued pridefully. “And with the Veerspikes of London. We finance several of Master Giovanni’s projects, you know.”

  “That is very kind of you,” Ragazzo said absently.

  Malvolio came closer. “You would be wise to show me respect, beggar. Or you may find your apprenticeship ended by my father ere it even begins.” He nodded towards Giovanni.

  Ragazzo shrugged. “I haven’t given you cause for offense.”

  “You should take care that you don’t,” Malvolio said — and then, he pushed Ragazzo.

  Faster than lightning, Ragazzo’s right arm flashed across his chest, blocking the push and throwing Malvolio off balance. Then, Ragazzo’s right foot slipped behind Malvolio’s legs while his arm crossed his chest, giving him leverage. Then, he simply pushed, sweeping Malvolio’s feet and landing him on his back with a thud.

  “Bankers never make good fighters,” Ragazzo said and walked away.

  Venetia could barely contain her glee as she followed.

  IT WAS LATE in the
evening when the company arrived back at spacious villa of Giovanni di Cyranus. The servants had been busy in their absence: the walkway leading to the villa had been decorated with candles in some sort of orange paper containers, making it appear festive.

  And when they arrived in the great dining hall, they found a giant meal had been prepared, and was hot and waiting for them.

  “A dinner in your honor, Ragazzo,” Giovanni said with a grin and a playful bow. “To celebrate the beginning of your time with us.”

  “Oh sir,” Ragazzo said, taken aback, “You shouldn’t have gone to all this trouble on my account. I’m just grateful to —“

  “Oh, it is all about avoiding trouble on my part!” Giovanni said with a rich laugh. “The girls insisted that we welcome you properly, and if I did not command a feast, they would have all pestered me for days, taking turns, sniping at me, taking little bites out of me like a cloud of deadly fish. And then what time would be left for my studies and work? That would have been intolerable! No, my young friend, this is about my very survival, believe me!” And with that, he winked at the girls who squealed with delight.

  THE MEAL WENT ON for some hours. After the second course, several friends of Giovanni arrived and joined the meal: two older men, who appeared to be scholars (one of them brought an astrolabe, which he and Giovanni pointed at the stars for a good twenty minutes before being scolded by the daughters for being ‘boring’) and a stately older woman, who spoke with the others and Giovanni in Latin and Greek at several intervals.

  At one point in the conversation, the woman — whose name was Aetrusia — made an offhand remark about political events in the Florentine capital. Ragazzo suddenly spoke up after a long silence and said, “Political corruption is always inevitable. ‘Tyranny naturally rises out of democracy’, according to Plato.”

  And the room grew hushed, for Ragazzo had just spoken to them all in perfect Greek.