by Robyn Young
What does it show?
What is New Eden?
What are Lorenzo’s plans?
Tell us!
We will let you live.
Oh, the lies! Even the Turks who had held him in their foetid prison all those months hadn’t promised him that.
He had reached the blade of light that shone on the floor near the back of the cellar, where the walls became rough-hewn, more cave-like. Dust-motes sparkled. It was still here. He hadn’t imagined it. He stepped into the bright shaft, sighing at its warmth on his face.
It had appeared two days ago, after the tremor, when the walls had shaken and he’d thought the whole world was collapsing around him: a thin fissure cracked through the stone roof. It was then he’d discovered this part of the cellar must extend beyond the foundations of the building because, in that gap, when the shaking stopped and the dust settled, he had seen a narrow slice of sky. Later, sweating with effort, perched precariously on a barrel, he’d pressed his eye to the crack, heard birdsong, felt droplets of rain. It had been like life. Like drinking life. But it wasn’t wide enough – nowhere near wide enough. Only his soul would be able to slide through it.
As he stared up at the fissure, he felt King Louis at his shoulder, his knowing eyes and thin smile, one of the hunting birds he loved so much perched on his head.
What will you do, Huntsman? Become air?
‘I will wait for another tremor, my lord.’
Ah, yes! Then maybe the building will come crashing down on your head! That will make you thinner, for certain!
Amaury de la Croix shook his head, forcing the mocking voice away to focus on the sliver of light. Eyes closed once more, face turned up towards its faint warmth, he made himself a promise to keep alive. Keep alive a bit longer. No more talking to dead kings.
14
‘Shall we begin, signore?’
Lorenzo, seated at the centre of the gathering, nodded at Marsilio Ficino’s question, motioning him to stand.
The priest rose, fingers on the edge of the table to steady himself, the hunch of his back keeping him bent. The tufts of white hair sprouting from his tonsure formed an ethereal cloud around his head. In his free hand, he gripped a book. The bindings were cracked, the pages soft, jaundiced. It had begun life as a series of ancient texts, smuggled out of Constantinople before the city’s fall, hunted through the Balkans by Amaury de la Croix and delivered to Cosimo de’ Medici. Translated by Marsilio from Greek, these texts had been brought together in one body of work, the Corpus Hermeticum: a work – its words whispering down from the dawn of the world – that had shaped and directed the Academy.
A pair of spectacles was balanced on Marsilio’s nose. His creased face screwed up around the rims as he lifted the book closer. The other men in the chamber settled into silence as he began to read.
‘O Hermes, philosopher king, priest of the ancients; Hermes the Thrice Great, you who dwells within the heart, who first taught tongues to speak, messenger of the gods, bearer of light and bridger of worlds, you who see the hidden paths and know the fate of all, guide us this night and always on the path to wisdom. Light our way to knowledge and, through it, the divine.’
Listening to the words, which he’d heard recited countless times before, Lorenzo cast his gaze around the seated men. Candlelight burnished their faces and glowed in the crystal goblets set out on the table with platters of food. His servants had readied the meal, but the men would serve themselves tonight. No other eyes or ears were permitted in the chamber, which stretched into dusk beyond their circle. The shutters were closed, the last of the sunset seeping through the gaps, a slow-dimming fire.
When he had first arrived at the villa, the air in here had been stale, hazy with dust. Now – the servants having cleaned the floors and cracked open shutters – it was sweet with the perfume of cypress trees.
The villa, just below the village of Fiesole, perched high on the hillside overlooking Florence, was his favourite. Coming here, riding the winding road from the city up into the fragrant hills, made him feel like he was travelling back into boyhood; walking shaded paths through the newly planted olive groves with his grandfather, listening to him speak of his dreams for the world, feeling that charged hum inside him at the old man’s words that made him feel anything was possible.
Careggi, which had been his grandfather’s preferred dwelling, was too rustic for his liking, and Cafaggiolo, out in the hills to the north, had passed to his cousins a year ago. He was still regretful about losing the extensive property, where he’d spent many summer days in the fields with Nencia, flushed and warm beneath him. Now, Fiesole felt like one of the last sacred spaces of childhood – of family – left to him.
It was here that he’d first sat with the men of the Academy listening to the same words Marsilio read now: among them the sculptor, Donatello, who had fashioned David for the palazzo courtyard; Giorgio Antonio Vespucci scribbling down their words; Amaury de la Croix, called the Huntsman for his skill in rooting out ancient texts, returning with another precious manuscript; Marsilio Ficino ready to translate it; Toscanelli, the old astronomer who theorised about the possibility of reaching the Spice Islands by sailing west and who, in the winter of his life, hearing rumours of the land sighted by the crew of the Trinity, declared that Atlantis, the island Plato proclaimed was destroyed by a terrible conflagration, had returned, as prophesied.
They had debated long into those nights, sometimes till dawn, reading passages from Petrarch and Cicero, hot with passion and conviction, their words building new worlds from the old, breathing life into lost empires, as they talked of ushering in a golden age, where the beliefs and values of humanism and her arcane sister, Hermeticism – mistress of alchemy, astrology, sorcery, of the ancient ways – might spread beyond the bounds of Florence. Lorenzo had listened, the radical, sometimes heretical nature of their speeches slowly turning into inspiration inside him; that the world did not have to be this way. That they could construct it anew, away from the influence of the Vatican, the old house that walled them in for so long, the rotten core of which he had seen for himself. That God’s voice might echo truer in other, purer chambers.
‘With reason,’ continued Marsilio, ‘not with hands did the Maker – author of all things – create the world. Down to Earth, to contemplate his creation, He sent man, who dies and is yet deathless, rising again through Nature’s wheel. It is thus God’s will that we strive to contemplate the divine. That we seek to understand Him and all His works.’
As the priest cleared his throat and paused to sip his wine, Lorenzo’s focus returned to the twelve men – artists, philosophers, scholars, astrologers and poets – seated around the table, some with eyes closed in thought or prayer, others nodding at Marsilio’s words. In the years since the deaths of his grandfather and father, Lorenzo had built his own Academy, seeking out new blood, enlisting men closer to his own age; those with the same fire in their souls. But he wondered now, had he let in an enemy?
Lorenzo realised that Poliziano was staring at him. The young man sat forward as their gazes locked. He tilted his head, his brow knotting, asking him silently, What is wrong? In the upheaval of the move from the city, Lorenzo had mostly avoided the man. He knew he would have to face him soon. But what then? How long could he keep these secrets from his dearest friend, now he knew Poliziano suspected something? Lorenzo’s eyes flicked to Pico, seated to the right of Marsilio, his former tutor. The young man seemed preoccupied tonight, his grey eyes distant, fingers tapping at the arms of his chair.
‘And so He filled a cup with knowledge and sent it to the Earth that men might drink of it and be wise.’ Marsilio glanced over at him as he read this passage.
This was the moment they usually paused in the reading from the Corpus Hermeticum to fill the chalice with wine and pass it around the table, each man taking a sip, cementing their bond and their intent. But, tonight, there was no cup. The space in the centre of the table where it would have stood seemed to
shout its absence. Lorenzo had told the others it had been temporarily misplaced in the move.
Despite Bertoldo scouring his study, the cup had not been found. Lorenzo could swear to have seen it not long ago, in its place on a shelf near his desk, a king among a host of other glittering ornaments. The gold chalice, which had inspired the rings they all wore – its stem entwined with two serpents twisting up to the cup, which was cradled with wings, its rim encrusted with sapphires, rubies and diamonds – had been left to him by his grandfather, who’d told him it had been unearthed from the ruins of a temple near Athens. Used in the very first meeting of the Academy, it was not only one of the most valuable of Lorenzo’s possessions, but the most prized.
It was almost a year, now, since he had barred all but Marsilio, Bertoldo and Papi from his study; forbidding his children from sneaking in and playing with his treasures like they used to, making certain it was locked whenever he was absent, taking more of his meetings in the ground-floor suite. When Jack first arrived, informing him of the fate of Amaury and alerting him to the possibility of a traitor in his household, Lorenzo had sent up a grateful prayer that this provision – made for another reason entirely – had perhaps kept him safer than he’d realised. In all that time, nothing else had gone missing and there had been no further issues in his business affairs that hinted at possible infiltration. Maybe the chalice really had been mislaid? But its loss nagged at his mind, whispering that his fears were right: someone in his own household was against him. Perhaps someone in this room.
‘Hermes Trismegistus, uncloud our eyes and guide us in our searching, reveal the path from the cave of ignorance that we might ascend into the light of knowledge. As above, so below. Amen.’
Lorenzo stirred as the priest sat, closing the book and removing his spectacles. Thanking Marsilio, he looked around the room. ‘Welcome, brothers. It gladdens me to be back in your company after our long absence. Affairs within the republic have kept me busy, but I join you today eager to continue our discourse.’ He spread a hand to the feast on the table. ‘And may we fill our bodies as we fill our souls.’
A few of the men nodded appreciatively as they reached for the goblets and platters.
‘Brothers,’ Pico cut across them, standing.
‘Pico—’ Poliziano said, his tone full of warning.
Lorenzo held up a hand to quiet him. ‘What is it, Pico?’
‘Before we begin, signore, I should like to address the chamber.’
Lorenzo caught the gaze of Marsilio. He had told the old priest what Wynter had overheard – that Pico suspected he was keeping something from them. He could tell by the priest’s expression that Marsilio was thinking the same as him. Was Pico about to challenge him? Demand to know what he had been hiding? If he denied the young man the chance to speak that would only serve to heighten suspicions. Besides, what more might he learn about what Pico thought he knew from his own lips? ‘You have the floor.’
‘The signore is right,’ Pico began. ‘Our absence from this gathering has been long indeed. In that time, within our hearts and minds, how many weeds have grown in place of flowers? How many candles have dimmed?’ The young man raked the circle with his gaze, coming to rest on Lorenzo. ‘Signore, with respect, I fear the Academy is losing its way.’ He motioned to Marsilio, watching him in silence. ‘When the texts of the Corpus Hermeticum were delivered to Signor Cosimo, the fire of our truth was ignited. Those texts revealed what our founder had already glimpsed through the Gathering: that all faiths, though diverted into many streams, spring ultimately from the same source – a perfect river, flowing through us all and through mankind to God – the World Soul of which Plato himself wrote. We saw, too, how that soul was darkening, corrupted by the avarice and ignorance of our clergy, the tyranny of kings and the warmongering of the Turks. And we saw how these broken, muddied waters, all flowing still towards God, were polluting paradise.
‘In the decades since, the Academy has fought to uphold and spread our beliefs. We have seeded followers in the hearts of the kingdoms of the west to whisper our truths into the ears of kings and princes. We have gathered the ancient knowledge, scattered in the time of Noah, that we might uncover the lost wisdom of the ages, the better to touch the face of God. We have pursued dialogue with men of other nations and faiths to foster understanding of the World Soul and the dangers to us all if mankind continues its aimless drift down these streams to darkness.’
Marsilio shifted on his chair to frown up at his former pupil. ‘Pico, must a man lecture the architect of a house on its structure? The signore is well aware of what his family has built and why. As, indeed, are we all.’
Pico inclined his head to the priest, before his grey eyes flicked back to Lorenzo. ‘I apologise, signore. I merely wished to laud the brilliance of our past in order to question the impotence of our present.’
‘Impotence?’
‘When the sailors on board the Trinity claimed to have seen land in the Western Ocean and Toscanelli told us he believed Atlantis had returned, we talked – passionately, determinedly – of finding it. We dreamed of building a New Eden, away from the reach of enemies who seek to destroy us and halt our aims. Sixtus may be dead, but already his successor, Pope Innocent, calls for a new crusade against the Turks. Now we risk, once again, becoming crushed between the jaws of two mindless, gnashing beasts. Signore, to my eyes we are no closer to seeking New Eden or to establishing our place in the world than we were when we, as brothers, last met.’
Lorenzo noted the surprised glances between the men at Pico’s oratory – brazen even for the heated debates they often entered into in their circle. He also saw the slow nods of agreement from some.
‘If I may, Fra Marsilio?’ said Pico, leaning over to slide the Corpus Hermeticum out from under Marsilio’s hand. He skimmed the text. ‘Here,’ he said, lifting the book. ‘We are told to go forth into the world. To light the dark places with the light of our truth. That same command was passed down from Hermes to Plato and Moses and, on, to Christ Himself.’ He placed the book down. ‘Do we now only read the words, not follow their tenets? What mute disciples are we?’
‘Only if those men have minds to listen, Pico,’ Marsilio reminded him. ‘Many still have ears full of clay. First, we must teach those who are already listeners in the wilderness.’ He gestured to the men around the table. ‘Bring the cup to them, that they might help us shape and change the world. Then, others will begin to understand.’
‘Why not send our wisdom out into the world, cast it like a net to lure like-minded souls?’ Pico bent down and rifled in the bag that was slung over his chair.
‘Pico.’
Ignoring Poliziano, Pico pulled out a handful of papers, curled and ink-stained. He held them up, showing them to Lorenzo and the others. ‘I have begun writing a thesis – an oration if you will – inspired by our beliefs. I wish to publish it. Perhaps, by way of it, we may draw more disciples to our cause?’
Several of the men began speaking at once.
‘Now is not the time,’ Lorenzo said, cutting across them all. ‘You are right, Pico. There are indeed storms on the horizon. It is why I have pulled back from our advance.’ Resting his elbows on the arms of his chair, he steepled his fingers under his chin. ‘We have been weakened these past years, by events beyond our control. We cannot sail, reckless, into those tempests. Caution is needed now, if we are to continue our legacy. Pope Innocent must not see us as a threat, as Sixtus came to.’
Lorenzo faltered, wondering whether to go further – tell them his plan, so they understood what was at stake? Tell them, too, that an enemy had taken Amaury de la Croix and there was, perhaps, a spy in his household? He glanced at Poliziano, hating the distance growing between them – a distance he knew he’d created by his secrets. But suspicion crept in again, curling dark around his indecision. He heard his grandfather’s voice. Never show your hand until you are ready. Know your enemy before he knows you. Already, he had suffered one betrayer: Anthony
Woodville. If one of these men was against him and he revealed too much, it could put everything at risk. His plan, if it came to light too soon, would not only provoke the wrath of Rome, but Christendom itself. The wrong thing, said to the wrong person, had the power to bring his whole empire – everything his family had built – crashing down.
Pico shook his head, flushed with frustration. ‘Signore, forgive me, but we know you are keeping things from us.’ He looked from him to Marsilio. ‘Both of you. Hiding away in your study, speaking behind closed doors and—’
Lorenzo stood, his chair screeching on the floor. Several of the men started. ‘Leave your papers and go, Pico. I will speak to you tomorrow.’
‘Signore—’
‘I am your leader, within these walls and without. You will obey me.’
After a long pause, Pico laid the curled and ink-stained papers on the table. Flame-faced, he pushed back his chair and strode from the room. The bang of the door echoed around the chamber.
Lorenzo snatched up the papers and held them over one of the candles. The edges turned dark, before hissing alight. He held them there until a flame leapt up to consume them. Dropping them on the table, he scoured the men. ‘Does anyone else wish to challenge me?’ He saw, then, that Poliziano, eyes on the burning papers, was stained with the same shame and knew that Pico had told him what he was planning – and his friend had not warned him.
Marsilio laced his hands on the table. ‘Let us start this meeting anew. Poliziano, perhaps you could pour the wine?’
As the chamber filled slowly with the sound of voices, Lorenzo sat, eyes on the smouldering papers, Pico’s words turning to ash.
Sometimes, he wondered at the choices a man made in his life: what a chaotic road had been laid behind him of carefully made plans and rushed decisions, rapid shifts and backtracks. Where might that road have led him if any one of them had been different? Sometimes, the thought left him light-headed, as if he were looking out over an abyss, no road laid before him, all the choices yet to make and the weight of those already made pushing at his back.
