The Medici secret

by Michael White

  'That's what they called Father Mauro, the great map-maker. I've just done a class project about him.'

  'Well, thank you, Rose,' Roberto said. 'Perfect taste, and a diligent student' Rose beamed.

  'Father Mauro was a Venetian; well more correctly, he was from Murano. He worked in the convent of San Michele…' Roberto explained.

  'On the Island of the Dead,' Jeff exclaimed. 'Of course.' They both could see Edie was confused. ' San Michele is the cemetery of Venice.'

  'And the verse says whatever Mauro designed is there still.'

  'I don't know much about Mauro, but he's most famous for his mappa mundi, his map of the world. It was completed just before his death in, when was it? 1465, 1470?' '1459,' Roberto corrected. 'But the map is in the Biblioteca Marciana, just over there,' Jeff added, and pointed towards the Piazetta.

  'Well, whatever this verse is referring to, it's not the Mauro map in the museum,' Edie pointed out.

  'Maybe, except, we don't know when the inscription on the tablet was made, do we? So, it could refer to something that was on the Island of the Dead some five centuries ago but has since been moved.'

  'Good point. Had the body in the crypt been tampered with at all?' Roberto asked.

  'If you mean had it been dissected before we exhumed it, then, no,' said Edie.

  'So the tablet you found must have been put there at the time of burial or just before.' 'Definitely.'

  'In that case, Jeff is right. If the person who wrote this verse is referring to Mauro's famous map then it could be in the Biblioteca Marciana and it would be almost impossible to get a close look at it.'

  'Is it easy to get to San Michele?' Edie asked. 'Can we take a vaporetto?' Roberto smiled. 'Don't be silly.' Roberto's liveried chauffeur, Antonio, a remarkably handsome man with jet black hair and finely chiselled features, met them at the quay close to the Royal Gardens. He escorted them to Roberto's launch, a beautiful blue, steel and teak speedboat, which had been built around 1930. Jeff and Edie were helped aboard while Roberto stayed up front for a few moments explaining to Antonio where he was to take them. When he returned to the rear of the launch he was carrying a small wicker hamper.

  'Antonio managed to get cook to rustle up a little something on his way out,' he explained. Jeff rolled his eyes. 'You old smoothie.' Edie gave Roberto the most radiant smile.

  A few moments later, he was pouring Dom Perignon '96 into exquisite champagne flutes and the launch was swinging west out on to the Grand Canal They swept past gorgeous palazzi on either side and glided under the Ponte dell' Accademia before following the curve of the waterway. Just before reaching San Samuele on their right, Jeff pointed to a beautiful russet-coloured palazzo a short way ahead on the same side of the canal.

  'That's Roberto's pad,' he said, before biting into a savoury pastry. 'What a dump,' Edie grinned.

  Around the Rialto, the canal was busy with vaporetti and along the banks the restaurants were crowded with foreign visitors here for the Carnivale.

  A little further on, just beyond the magnificent facade of the Ca' d'Oro, they came to a major tributary that led to the northern edge of Venice and the Canale delle Fondamenta Nuove. This waterway narrowed to little more than the width of a barge and the launch had to slow to a crawl. After they had passed under a succession of crumbling bridges, the canal widened again and they picked up speed. A few minutes later, they emerged into the Sacca della Misericordia, the private docking area where hundreds of boats lay moored. From here they swept east into open water.

  Directly ahead of them they could see the walled island of San Michele. Antonio opened the throttle and they sliced through the icy grey water passing parallel to the Fondamenta, the north-eastern edge of the city and around the southern tip of the Island of the Dead. The wind was fierce here and the air very cold. Edie pulled her coat about her and lifted the collar to shield her ears. She could feel the crisp sea air burning her cheeks and she began to long for the trip to end.

  The chauffeur slowed the launch as they approached a corner of the almost square island and they caught their first glimpse of its impressive northern face with amber walls ten metres high. A little way ahead, they could see the tower of the church of San Michele and the domed bell tower. A vaporetto glided slowly into view, and docked. A large group of figures emerged on to the quay. They were widows visiting graves. The black cloth that covered them almost head-to-toe contrasted sharply with the bright reds and yellows of the flowers they carried.

  'We are entering the kingdom of the illustrious dead,' Jeff said to Edie, clutching her arm and pulling a mock-horror face. 'Well I know all about them.*

  'Indeed you do, but this place is pretty special, the final resting place of people like Ezra Pound, Stravinsky, Sergei Diaghilev and Joseph Brodsky.'

  The launch curved away from the quay and entered a narrow inlet that ran almost to the centre of the island. About a hundred metres along the waterway, Antonio pulled the launch over to the bank and snapped off the engine. A few moments later, Roberto was leading them ashore. He pointed to the bell tower. 'The monastery where Mauro lived and worked is over there,' he said. 'It's not far.'

  The archivist of the monastery met them at the entrance to the cloisters. He was a tall man in monk's habit. Although he was entirely bald, he looked exceptionally youthful and fresh-faced. But his eyes possessed a certain indefinable serenity incongruous with one so young. 'Maestro,' he said softly, offering his hand to Roberto. 'I am Father Pascini. The Prior sends his apologies for not meeting you personally and has asked me to help you in any way I can.'

  'That's most gracious of him,' Roberto replied. 'These are my friends, Jeff Martin and Edie Granger.' The monk gave them a slight bow. 'Welcome.'

  'Roberto knows everyone in Venice,' Jeff whispered in Edie's ear as Father Pascini gestured for them to follow him through the ancient cloister. 'How exactly may I help you?' 'We're interested in the work of Father Mauro.'

  'Ah, our most illustrious brother. It seems suddenly everyone is interested in his maps.'

  'Oh?' Jeff said. 'Who else has been making enquiries?'

  'I had a phone call only this morning,' Father Pascini said. 'A historian in London, would you believe?'

  They entered a small chapel. Crossing the marble floor, the monk led them through a doorway, down a flight of wide stairs into a long, dark, narrow room lined with ebony shelves stacked with ancient tomes.

  'So what do you want to know about Father Mauro?' 'You mentioned maps,' Jeff said. 'The plural. I thought his mappa mundi was in the Marciana in the city.'

  'It is. But Mauro produced more than one map in his career. We keep a lesser example of a mappamundi here in this library. It's on display to the public' He led them a few paces towards a freestanding glass cabinet positioned in the centre of the room.

  The map had been beautifully preserved. It was about six feet square. A circle filled most of the area, and at first glance it seemed to be crammed with random images, huge crenulated biscuit-coloured shapes skirted in blue. The blue intruded into the lighter regions like ink spreading its fingers into water. But then, as they looked closely at the stunning object, the shapes seemed to shift, becoming slowly recognisable as a contorted map of Europe, Africa and Asia. Gradually, the map became less a piece of abstract art and more a scientifically designed work of craftsmanship.

  'So how is this different to the map in the Marciana?' Edie asked.

  'This was completed after Mauro's death,' Father Pascini replied. 'By his best pupils.'

  '"The followers of the geographus incomparabilis",' Jeff quoted from the verse. The monk looked puzzled. 'Why this sudden fascination with Mauro? My caller today was most interested in this particular map. We have at least a dozen others here, but it was just this one he wanted to know about.'

  'Is it too much to expect he left a name or anything?' Edie asked.

  'He said he was calling from the History Department of University College, London. But gave no other details.' 'S
o, why is this map here?'

  The monk turned to Jeff. 'It was considered inferior to the famous map now in the Marciana. It was commissioned by King Casimir IV of Poland, but he returned it, saying he was dissatisfied with it. In truth though, he had hit financial trouble, and to cover his embarrassment he claimed the map was substandard. So, we kept it here.' 'Good for you,' Edie said.

  'Would it be possible to remove the map from the case?' Roberto asked hopefully.

  Father Pascini shook his head. 'I'm afraid that is impossible, Signor Armatovani, but I could set up a magnifying lens for you, if you wish.' 'That would be splendid.'

  Father Pascini disappeared and returned a few moments later with a large lens on a floor stand. He pushed the stand to the midpoint on one of the long sides of the glass cabinet and manoeuvred the lens over the top. 'I'll leave you to study' he said and retreated to a desk at the other end of the room. 'It's absolutely beautiful,' Edie said.

  'An amazing piece of workmanship; incredibly detailed. Look at the writing. There's hardly a scrap of space between captions.'

  The illustrations depicted castles and towers, some topped with magnificent multicoloured flags; knights in armour on powerful steeds; strange beasts, serpents, gryphons; abstract patterns and strips of rainbow colours. The more closely one looked, the more detail there appeared to be; it was a microcosm of exquisite beauty and staggering artistry.

  'The verse says "At the centre of the world,'" Jeff said, positioning the lens to a point approximating the centre of the map. 'But all I can see is a tangle of words and images. Where would this be on a modern map?' Edie peered through the magnifying lens. 'Somewhere around Turkey? Iraq, maybe?' 'Any idea what we're looking for?' 'None at all.' 'May I?' Roberto and leaned forward to survey the critical area. 'Anything?' 'Nothing other than labels for regions. It is Persia, by the look of it. I can see the Euphrates and the mountains of the South. It was a region the Venetians knew quite well, even in the mid-fifteenth century, thanks to Marco Polo and others.' 'But there's nothing unusual on the map there?'

  'Doesn't appear to be.' Roberto stepped back, frowning. Then suddenly his face brightened. 'Of course.' 'What?' Edie and Jeff asked in unison.

  'The centre of the world. It isn't meant literally. To the people of the fifteenth century, the centre of the world was the Holy City… Jerusalem.'

  Roberto pushed the magnifying lens to the left. Here the map was covered in writing and illustrations that were even more densely packed and elaborate than in the region of Persia. There seemed to be a subtle but unmistakable glow to the parchment in the region of the Holy City; Jerusalem was represented with shining towers and domes surrounded by men at arms. It was clear the creators of the map wanted to honour this place above all others.

  'I can't see anything unusual here,' Roberto said after a long pause. 'Take a look.'

  But Edie too drew a blank. Stepping back, she watched Jeff take his turn.

  'No, it's hopeless,' he said, straightening up. 'This must be the map, it fits perfectly with the verse; made by "the followers of the geographus incomparabilis". And then there's the fact that Casimir returned it; the followers: "designed something no one wanted". But, we don't have a clue what we're looking for, and without being able to take the map out…' 'Success?' Father Pascini appeared at his elbow. 'Not a glimmer,' Roberto said. 'There is one other mappa mundi.' 'There is?'

  'It's a very poor example, a practice piece you might say. And it has been damaged in places. It too was rejected by the person who commissioned it.' 'May we?' 'Of course, follow me.'

  Father Pascini led them along a corridor to a locked door. 'This is one of the archives,' he said as they entered. 'We keep our documents in these special boxes.' He pointed to metal shelving built into the wall. 'Each document is kept in an acid-free, humidity and temperature-controlled environment. To view the map you'll have to go into this room.' He waved to a glass enclosure in the corner. 'I'll supply you with gloves and tweezers.'

  A few minutes later the three of them were sitting at a table in the viewing room with the map between them. It had been covered with a protective transparent plastic sheet, over which Father Pascini had positioned another large magnifying lens.

  The edges were ragged and it was badly torn, a jagged line ran across about a third of the map and the illustrations were far less detailed than the mappamundi in the main room.

  Edie examined an area approximating to the Middle East and manoeuvred the lens a little closer to the map until she found an illustration representing the Holy Land. 'Well, how about that,' she exclaimed and stood aside to allow Jeff and Roberto to take a look.

  Immediately beneath an image of a citadel with blazing red flags atop a pair of towers, they could see tiny, faded handwriting that did not match the other markers and labels across the map. The nature of the caption was also quite incongruous, a five-line verse in Italian. Roberto translated as he read it aloud, 'Reaching across the water, the man with the perfect name: a sad man, deceived by the Devil. It is hidden there with the lines, Beyond the water, behind the hand of the architect.' By the time they left the monastery it had grown dark, and a dense fog had descended on the Island of the Dead. Walking along the path to the monastery earlier in the afternoon, the sun and the crisp seaward air had made San Michele seem very much like any other part of Venice, but now, in the inky darkness it had been transformed into a place of shadows and nameless fears.

  Gazing back as they passed through the outer wall and headed along the cobbled path en route to the launch, the monastery looked like a cut-out in black card. There were very few lights in this part of San Michele, and those close by cast almost no illumination. Indeed, the brightest light came from the pinpricks of countless stars, the Milky Way, a trail of glitter scribbled across the moonless firmament.

  Edie had never been here before, and even though she worked with the deceased almost every day, she had found the Gothic character of the place quite overbearing, even in daylight. Now, all she could do was think of the countless dead all around her, the famous and the ordinary who had lived and died and been forgotten by all but the worms. Every cheap horror flick and prurient fairy tale seemed to have a home here in the dark. The wind had dropped, but the soft lapping of the lagoon was ever-present. It sounded like a lament.

  The launch lay in deep shadow, bobbing gently in the water hard up against the wall of the cutting. Without wasting a moment, they stepped into the boat. The driver fired up the engine and flicked on the headlights sending two splashes of lemon into the water.

  'Take us straight home please, Antonio,' Roberto called, and he threw himself into the soft leather upholstery of one of the aft passenger seats. A moment later they felt the boat accelerate and swing round in the channel before speeding off towards the open water.

  They sat in silence, each mulling over what they had learned, each content to watch the shadows of San Michele dissolve into the water. For a few minutes they headed directly south towards Fondamenta Nuove and the lights of the city; but then, without warning they felt the launch veer to port. For a second, Roberto didn't react, then Edie and Jeff saw him go forward to talk to Antonio. As he did so, the driver spun round to face them. He had his cap low over his brow and was wearing dark glasses. In the opaque night they could barely make out his features, but it was clear that it wasn't Antonio. The man was holding a gun, pointed directly at Roberto. 'Please sit down, Signor Armatovani.' Roberto paused for a moment.

  'Sit down. I will not repeat this. I only need one of you. I am not famed for my patience, and believe me, shooting two of you would make this journey so much easier.' 'What's happened to Antonio?' Roberto demanded 'Oh, he went for a refreshing swim.'

  The launch slowed and they headed for a point further south along Fondamenta Nuove, away from the main route to the Grand Canal. The driver kept the gun trained on them and appeared to have little difficulty steering the launch with one hand and glancing ahead only occasionally.

  Within a fe
w moments they were approaching the quayside. Directly ahead ran a grey stone wall, a narrow path and a row of houses. On the path they could see a few people hurrying along, collars turned up, breath streaming from their nostrils into the cold night.

  'Now, I'll ask you to keep still and quiet,' the driver hissed.

  Edie was looking ahead at the approaching canal wall when she spotted Roberto easing something out from under his seat with his feet. With startling speed, he lifted a black cylinder. There was a sharp crack and a stab of orange light. Roberto fell to the floor, knocked off his feet by the recoil, and the flare shot the length of the launch, ricocheted off the control panel at the helm and zigzagged erratically over the prow.

  An intense flash of light cut through the darkness as the flare exploded just a few feet away and the stunned gunman was propelled backwards against the throttle. His gun fell behind him and slid across the polished wood of the prow and into the canal. The launch almost leapt out of the water as the engines roared. Edie and Jeff tried to steady themselves, but they were flung forward against the chairs in front of them. Jeff was sent sprawling across the bottom of the boat, his knee striking Roberto's head.

  Out of control, with the throttle open, the launch span round and bucked in the water before it smashed sidelong into the quay, sending chunks of teak and brass into the air. The last thing Jeff heard before feeling the freezing cloak of water envelop him was the grinding of metal against stone, and in the distance, the sound of Edie screaming. Strong arms were pulling him on to the quay; rough stone pressed against his abdomen. He gasped for breath. Rubbing the water from his eyes, he could see Edie kneeling beside Roberto, dabbing his head with a bloodied cloth. She turned to Jeff, a look of relief on her face. He crouched down beside her trying to catch his breath. Roberto grimaced up at him. 'I'm OK.'

  Off to their right they heard cries coming from the quayside. Jeff straightened up to see a mutilated body bobbing in the water; one blackened leg knocked against the stone wall of the quay. It was Antonio, the chauffeur. He had been tied to the stern of the launch. A rope was still knotted around his wrists, the other end attached to a cleat.