by Don Hoesel
Bramante saw them taking in the room and its many objects. “Appraising items for others often gives me first choice of a number of exceptional pieces,” he explained. Saying it seemed to stir a memory, because his eyes narrowed and he turned to scan a portion of the room until he found what he was looking for. “Do you see that Incan death mask on the shelf?” he asked, pointing.
To Espy, the piece looked much like the other masks she’d seen in Romero’s store. She saw her brother walk past their host, crossing to the shelf to get a better look.
“I sent this to you so that you could appraise it,” Romero said, turning to face the Italian.
“And I did,” Bramante said. “Fairly. Once I’d shipped it back to you, I had a friend in London purchase it and then she sent it on to me.” Telling them this little story seemed to tickle the old appraiser, and although what the man had done was unethical, Espy felt a smile ready to show itself. “So tell me,” he said. “What brings you to Vigevano?”
He gestured for them to sit and began to sit as well, but then jumped up again. “Where are my manners? Can I get you some tea?” He was starting off toward the kitchen when she and Romero called him back, declining the tea.
“We’re here because we need your expertise,” Esperanza said. She went on to explain the riddle they were hoping Bramante could help them solve.
The Italian didn’t interrupt as she laid out what was needed. Even after she’d stopped speaking, Bramante continued to ponder what had been shared, his eyes on the marble tile that ran through the house.
After what seemed a long time, the old man said to his guests, “You must understand, I’m no expert. Most of my work involves setting values on the usual sort of thing—things procured from places that people have studied extensively. I can give you the auction estimate or insurance replacement value. But this . . . ?” He shook his head and released a small laugh. “I don’t know,” he finished.
Esperanza leaned forward, close enough that she could have placed her hand on Bramante’s knee. And judging by the Italian’s reaction, that was precisely what he thought she would do. Instead, she gave the man one of those smiles that had failed on Sturdivant.
“My brother told me that you know more about Italian history—especially northern Italian history—than just about anyone alive,” she said, smiling. “And my brother wouldn’t lie to me.”
Espy’s vote of confidence seemed to breathe new life into the older man. He sat up straighter; then a few seconds later he nodded.
“I’m not saying I can’t help you,” he said. “It’s just that these days I don’t spend enough time in the history books for something to immediately come to mind.”
Espy remained undaunted, her warm smile assuring Bramante that he knew something of great value to them, whether he recognized it or not. And under that kind but demanding gaze, the Italian appeared ready to move heaven and earth.
“Milan Cathedral . . .” he mused. “While the cathedral itself is dated to 1386, there has been related construction on the site since the early fifth century, when the Lombards were at their most powerful.”
“From what I understand, it took almost six hundred years to finish,” Espy said.
“Right,” Bramante said. “And during that time, Milan came under a number of influences, which you can see immortalized in the cathedral. It’s a remarkable mixture of styles, although a good portion of it was constructed under a Gothic aesthetic.”
Espy considered the six hundred years during which the Milan Cathedral had come into being, attempting to process the logistics involved in completing such a monumental task. Over six centuries, she thought it improbable that succeeding architects held fast to the same vision. How many generations took their turns toiling to build the magnificent edifice, the largest church in Italy? She suspected laborers had traveled to and from Milan continuously. And with that traffic Espy hoped that a north African connection might not be difficult to find. Rather, pinpointing the right one would be the real challenge.
“Were all of the architects Italian?” Romero asked, on the same track as Esperanza.
“Not at all,” Bramante answered. “The cathedral’s Gothic beginnings were due to French influence, but at different times the project was headed by Italians, Englishmen, a German, and a Greek. And I’m certain I’m missing a few.” He chuckled, adding, “But the national influences were by no means pure. It is said that even when the French architects were laying out the plans, Chaucer was busy sketching a design for the nave, and there are some who believe that at least part of his plan was adopted.”
“Do you know of any northern Africans who were involved?”
Bramante, lips pursed, disappeared back into thought. When he emerged just moments later, he said, “To the best of my knowledge, none of the architects assigned to the project had a connection to northern Africa. I could be wrong of course, but I do not believe I am. Also . . .”
Espy nodded. “Also what . . . ?” she pressed.
“Also, the men who did the majority of the work would have come from the regions immediately surrounding Milan. There were undoubtedly some who came from longer distances, but during the period the cathedral was constructed, a number of similar projects were taking place all over Europe. One would not have had to travel far to find work at a building site. And even if laborers from northern Africa had made it this far north, these would have been people intent on trying to support their families, not building riddles into cathedrals.”
“Anything else come to mind that might help us?” Espy asked.
“Perhaps,” Bramante said. “It was my mention of Chaucer that makes me think of it. In a project of this size, one has to consider who has the potential to do something such as you’re suggesting. Because what you’ve laid out involves someone deeply involved in the construction and with the resources necessary to carry it out. Means and opportunity, as it were.”
Espy pondered that for a moment. “I think you’re onto something there. Since we’re using that language, we also need to consider motive.”
“Absolutely, Unfortunately, that’s the variable most difficult to qualify. But even without knowing a motive, we can still narrow down our suspect list.”
“A list that will include anyone assigned to oversee a small portion of the cathedral,” Romero said. “Small enough that ensuring all but a few people remained unaware of his deviation from the approved plan—and that it would stay undetected.”
“An artisan,” Bramante said. “Of which there were many who worked on the cathedral, although I think we are safe in restricting our sample to those who worked on the project prior to 1510. After that, much of the work involved finishing and cosmetic touches.”
Esperanza leaned back in her chair and released a sigh. “That still gives us more than a hundred years to sift through.”
“A task that might be easier than you think,” Bramante said.
Without waiting for a reply, he rose and left the room, returning less than a minute later carrying an enormous leather-bound book. Sitting, he placed the book on his lap and opened it to the index.
“I maintain a variety of resources that help me with challenging appraisals,” he said as he scanned the index. “This monstrosity of a book is the most exhaustive I’ve ever found that lists artists dating all the way back to the seventh century, as well as biographies, notable works, and, important in this case, countries of origin.”
He opened the book somewhere in the middle and began flipping through the pages. Espy and Romero remained silent as he landed on a page and began reading it. He flipped one more page and then, with a satisfied smile, beckoned his guests to step over to his chair and take a look for themselves.
“There have been a number of artists of varying types who came from the area we now call Libya,” he said. “You have to remember that at one time northern Africa was home to a number of Greek colonies, and much of what they brought with them in terms of sculpture, painting, and constructi
on techniques remained long after the colonies disappeared.”
As Espy looked over the Italian’s shoulder, she saw a list of perhaps thirty names, a quick scan telling her that she was not familiar with all of them. However, she suspected that by reviewing the birth and death data next to each, they could begin to narrow the list down a bit.
“Our first step is to find out which of these would have been alive during the time period we identified,” Bramante said. “Then, if we’re lucky, there will be some mention of one of them having paid Milan a visit.”
Esperanza understood that it was a big if. She also understood that if they failed to find a name on the list that could be tied to the cathedral, they would be back to square one. She felt herself sinking into a darker mood and it took her a few minutes to identify the cause. When she and Romero had decided to drive to Vigevano, she’d been hoping that Bramante would provide them with some magical piece of information that would tie things together for them. She’d forgotten the hard work necessary to make the connections.
With that in mind, she shrugged off her disappointment and joined Bramante and Romero in poring over the list.
20
The sheer size of Milan Cathedral was enough to make even someone as travel-seasoned as Espy pause in a spot from which she could view it in its entirety. In her lifetime Espy had witnessed some truly remarkable sights. This was different, however. Standing with her brother and staring up in awe at the majestic cathedral, it did something to her—made her wonder at the human spirit, the creativity and persistence it took to raise up something so grand. She suspected her brother felt the same way, though he’d spent the last half hour distracted, complaining about his empty stomach.
As if to lend credence to that thought, Romero shuffled on feet that had to be as tired as Espy’s own and said, “As much as I admire your on-again, off-again beau—and this remarkable building—I have to warn you that I have only a certain amount of reserve to expend before I abandon the entire enterprise and go hunting for the rarest piece of red meat in the area.”
There was nothing exaggerated about the statement; Espy knew her brother well enough to understand that when presented with a task, he would work for hours without complaint. Yet when his circumstances called for aimless wandering, his stomach often held sway.
“We have a good idea about what we’re looking for,” Espy said. “I think you can hold out for another half hour.”
The look on her brother’s face suggested otherwise, but she knew he would acquiesce, if only to keep his sister from punching him. And as much as he might grumble, he wouldn’t abandon a friend.
Once they’d stepped into the building, it hit Espy that if she wasn’t careful she could lose her focus. They were there for a specific reason—to study a small portion of the massive cathedral. But everywhere she turned, she saw something she wanted to learn more about—something she could spend hours studying. Without the specter of Jack’s disappearance hanging over her, she would have been content exploring every corner of the building. And so it was with a sigh that she shook off the lure of leisurely study and set her sights on what they’d come there for.
Leaving the entryway, they entered the nave, where in less than two steps, Esperanza’s resolve to stay on point faltered. The nave rose up more than 140 feet, the cupola decorated with so many statues—saints, church fathers, mythical beings—that Espy felt as if a crowd of mute but attentive witnesses surrounded her. Romero, knowing his sister well, put his hand on her elbow and guided her forward. She looked up at her brother and saw that he wasn’t immune to the masterwork that surrounded them. His eyes moved over everything, his trade granting him an understanding and appreciation for details that the average tourist would not notice.
The nave was filled with people, and Espy and Romero had to weave their way down one of the aisles toward the altar, Espy trailing her hand along the pews as she walked. Before they reached the altar, they passed a large two-tiered marble dais—a platform in the empty space between pew and altar that looked ready to act as a base for something large such as a statue, although the position of the dais made it an odd place to set anything large, as doing so would obscure the view of the altar. Espy paused for a few moments to study the dais, with its stones adorned with a variety of symbols, most of which Espy did not recognize. However, as much as she would have enjoyed spending time around the platform and hazarding guesses as to its use, she knew it wasn’t the reason they’d come.
When they reached the front, Espy paused because, while no service was in progress, a few people were kneeling in front of the altar, heads bowed in prayer. And while what Espy and Romero had come to see required them to ascend the steps, she couldn’t help feeling that doing so would be an intrusion on their private moments.
“If they wanted privacy, they could pray in their homes,” Romero said in a stage whisper.
Espy considered that and, with a shrug, stepped around a woman well into her rosary.
Standing near the altar with her brother, Espy spotted the choir stalls she’d noticed when they’d first entered the sanctuary. Now that she was closer to them, she found herself surprised that, if they were right, the information they needed was somehow linked with the simplest structures in a building of beautiful, intricately detailed artwork.
The wooden stalls had been constructed on two levels, with the first level running in a semicircle around the back of the raised platform. The second level was separated into two elevated sections akin to theater boxes. From Espy’s perspective, the stalls possessed a simple beauty; she could see the intricate carvings along the rails and seams, but other than those, the lines were straightforward and clean.
“They hardly seem the place in which to implant a clue,” Romero said, echoing her thoughts.
“There may be nothing here,” Espy said, “but there was only one artist from northern Africa in the records and this is what he worked on.”
Romero looked unconvinced, yet with the absence of another plan he kept silent.
They’d spent more than an hour sitting with Bramante, going through his book, and regardless of how many different searches they’d performed on the text, they kept returning to a single name. And after they’d finished their review of the book, Romero had used Bramante’s computer to validate the findings. But while the Internet search opened up the door to a few additional candidates, none of them seemed as good a fit as al-Idrisi.
According to the construction logs—documents that spanned hundreds of years and were compiled with varying degrees of detail—the choir stalls had been added in the early seventeenth century, with the charge of design and construction falling to an artisan carpenter named Francesco Brambilla. However, rather than assign the stalls a strict European identity, the man had involved an African carpenter in both the design and construction phases.
To even Espy’s unpracticed eye, Muhammad al-Idrisi’s cultural identity had been formed by both the region’s old yet fading Greek presence as well as the influx of Islamic influence. This could be seen in every detail, from the gentle arc of the handrails and the intricate latticework to the denser base that would have looked crudely hand-carved if one did not notice the complete uniformity of its entire span.
Esperanza began her study of the first level of stalls to her left, looking at both the flat facing surface and the more detailed portions that gave it life. From the corner of her eye, she saw Romero do the same, starting from the right. Espy’s experience with this sort of thing was limited; she’d proven helpful in the hunt for Elisha’s bones years before, but that was because, ultimately, the most important element of that search had been a language puzzle, which was her province. She doubted she would get that lucky again. It was why she held out the greatest hope in her brother, who while not as accustomed to the practice of archaeology as their missing friend, had a good deal more experience with the process than she.
She took her time walking along the stall, her hands running over c
ertain places, bending so she could get closer to review something of interest. But as she walked, and as she saw Romero making similar progress, she could not find anything that stood out as something other than adornment.
Fifteen minutes later, they met in the middle and shared a look that communicated their disappointment.
“The other side?” Romero asked.
Espy nodded and they separated again, each finding the small opening near their respective walls that allowed them access to the place in which the choir would stand. With less light on that side, Espy found it more difficult to study the stalls and had to rely more on her hands. As she moved along, slower than she had with the front, she caught the occasional glimpse of her brother disappearing from view, then popping up at some distance farther down.
On the choir side, a wooden footrail ran the length of the stalls. While Espy was impressed that she could not find a seam in the entire run of the rail, neither could she find any mark or symbol on its surface.
“There’s still the second level,” Romero said when they’d finished their search.
“Unless we’ve missed it,” Espy said, acknowledging the fact that the person most suited to conduct the search was the person who was relying on them.
“There’s also the distinct possibility that we’re wrong,” Romero said. “That our conjecture regarding a Libyan connection being found in this building—and that the only north African artisan on the project somehow fashioned a message into his work—could be completely without merit.”
“It certainly sounds ludicrous to me,” Espy said.
“But what other choice do we have?” Romero finished for her.
With that, the two found the narrow stairs that led up to the second level, this time choosing to stay together. When Espy arrived at the top, she moved to the wall and looked out over the nave, the whole of it stretched out before her. Some of the people sitting in the pews, or walking about taking pictures of the sculptures, frescoes, and stained-glass windows, were looking in her direction, making her wonder if she and Romero had crossed some line no one had shared with them. With that in mind, she stepped away from the wall and set to work.
