The Medici secret

by Michael White

'Do you really expect me to just sit here while that conniving bugger steals my thunder? It was always my theory the body in Florence was not Cosimo's and, as soon as my back is turned, Cartwright gets in there.'

  'So phone him. Yell at him, but don't go, not now.'

  A few minutes later they were exiting the lift from the private ward and walking towards the doors leading to Campo SS Giovanni e Paolo. Edie plucked her phone from her shoulder bag and dialled. Rose looked worried and her father placed a reassuring arm around her shoulder.

  'Look, before you start…' Jack Cartwright was clearly startled by Edie's call. 'It's not what it seems.' 'What is it then, Jack?' 'Did you see the whole broadcast?' 'Well, no…'

  'I made it clear at the very start that the idea was yours.' 'But why did you have to say anything at all?'

  'I didn't mean to,' Cartwright replied. 'You don't know what it's been like here since you left. The police have been here with forensics twice. They've brought back files, taken others. I've had no privacy. They've even installed bloody CCTV cameras.' 'What's that got to do with…?'

  'I didn't tell the press anything. Some damn reporter came snooping around and told me the results of our research. Said he would like me to talk on air. When I said I didn't want to, he made it clear they would just broadcast an item about it anyway. On balance, I thought…'

  'You thought you'd go on national television and announce an unproven hypothesis, one that wasn't even yours.' 'Yes.'

  'OK, Jack. What's happened has happened. I have some business to finish off here, but I'll be back no later than the day after tomorrow. And Jack, please don't say another word on TV, or anywhere else.' After dropping Rose off at the apartment, Jeff and Edie arrived at La Pieta around 5.15 p.m., with the western sky a magical patchwork of orange, red and purple. Sunset was a little over a quarter of an hour away.

  The church stood on Riva degli Schiavoni and looked out across the lagoon to San Giorgio Maggiore. Little remained of the fifteenth-century building Vivaldi had worked in; most of it had been rebuilt during the mid-eighteenth century, a structure designed by the architect Giorgio Massari.

  'It's funny,' Jeff said gazing at the late-Baroque interior. 'In all the time I've lived in this city I haven't set foot in this building.' 'It's pretty incredible, if a little OTT.'

  They walked along the aisle, admiring the elaborate cream and gold pillars and the spectacular ceiling fresco by Tiepolo. Windows ran along each wall to left and right, and between these were small frescos by a variety of artists.

  The fresco they were seeking was the first on the right-hand wall. It was of a Madonna and child. Angels hovered above them, the colours still vibrant. The Madonna, taking up much of the left side of the fresco, was holding the Christ child in one arm. With the other she was pointing towards three men on mules. The mules were laden down with caskets. At the very top of the fresco, in the centre, was a large star, its rays a semi-circle of golden daggers. The lower half of the picture lay in shadow, and although the movement was barely perceptible, the shadow was slowly creeping up the fresco as light from the sinking sun was refracted by the rear windows of the church. The seconds ticked by.

  'It's five thirty-one,' Edie said. 'Sunset. So what now?' 'I don't know. What are we…?'

  'There,' Edie said so loudly an elderly couple turned and glared at her. 'There, look. The Madonna's hand.'

  The sharp division between the umbra and the sunlight now ran directly along the Madonna's arm and through her pointing finger. It traversed the picture and crossed the wall to another fresco immediately to the right. They ran over to the neighbouring image on the wall. The picture was cut in two about one third lit-up, two-thirds in shadow. The dividing line sliced through blue sky, cut the tops off a mountain range, decapitated an angel and scythed through a building. 'Christ!' Edie exclaimed. Jeff peered at the fresco. 'Is that what I…?'

  The line dissected a tiny image of a building that could only be the Medici Chapel in Florence. Beneath it was a line of writing: SOTTO 400, 1000. The sky was darkening as they emerged from La Pieta and headed west towards San Marco. Lights had come on along Riva degli Schiavoni. The evening crowds had begun to swell, and as the vaporetti arrived from the Lido, tourists bustled their way on to the thoroughfare. A brisk wind churned the lagoon, making the moored gondolas dance and clatter.

  Crossing San Marco, they entered the hallway to the apartment. The whole place was deserted, but, as they walked towards the stairs, they heard a faint gurgling sound. The concierge behind the desk was spasming violently, a bullet wound an inch wide in his throat. His face and the entire inside of his desk was drenched in blood.

  Jeff tried to suppress his rising panic. 'Edie.' He shook her shoulders and she snapped to attention. 'Call the police.'

  Jeff took the stairs to his apartment two at a time. Emerging on to the landing, he could see his door was ajar. A tall, pale man dressed in a dark suit was standing by one of the sofas. He had Maria pulled close to him. The silencer of a gun was pressed hard up against her right temple. She was whimpering, her eyes wild with terror. Jeff retreated quickly into the hall.

  'I'll blow her brains out, Jeff.' The voice was raspy, strongly accented. 'You know that, don't you? Then I'll kill the girl. I know Rose is here, somewhere. And I'll find her.'

  Jeff walked slowly into the room, heart thumping. 'What do you want?' 'What a silly question. The clue, of course.' 'What clue?'

  Jeff glanced down as liquid suddenly splashed to the floor between Maria's legs. The gunman saw it too. He pulled the trigger and half of Maria's head flew across the room.

  Jeff threw himself back into the hall and collided with Edie, nearly knocking her over. Edie grabbed his arm. 'What the hell's going on?' 'Rose,' he croaked, rushing back into the room.

  It looked like an abattoir. Blood splattered the walls and ceiling. The gunman was nowhere to be seen.

  'Oh my God!' Edie raised both hands to her face in horror. 'We've got to find her,' Jeff muttered. They ran down the corridor.

  The first room was empty. Two more rooms lay ahead, one to the left, one to the right. They were about to enter the second bedroom when the gunman reappeared, his pistol raised.

  'Good evening, Signorina Granger. What do you think of the new colour scheme? Tres chic, no?' Two paces brought him nose to nose with Jeff. 'Give me the clue,' he whispered. 'Whether I kill you or the lovely signorina, I will find your little daughter and finish giving the apartment a makeover. So, last chance guys…' He put the pistol to Edie's forehead.

  A voice came from the end of the corridor. 'Drop your weapon.'

  For a second, the gunman hesitated. But then he lowered his gun. 'Drop it:!'

  The place was suddenly full of uniformed men in Kevlar vests. One grabbed the gunman and cuffed him. Another ran forward to pick up the gun and bag it.

  'Thanks' Jeff said and strode past Aldo Candotti, who made no effort to stop him.

  At the far end of the corridor was a small bedroom. Just inside could be seen the faint outline of a door and a tiny handle sunk into the wall. Rose's secret hidey-hole. Jeff gripped the handle and pulled, praying his daughter was safe. He flicked on the light switch. The bulb had broken. But there was just enough light for him to see inside. It was a long, narrow room kitted out with a miniature sofa, a low table and a squat cupboard containing a few books. 'Rose?' No reply.

  'Rose? It's Dad. Everything's OK. You can come out' Edie and two police officers approached. 'Jeff, what…?'

  'I thought she'd…' Edie hugged him and he buried his face in her hair.

  There was a scream from the living room. Dashing back along the corridor, they saw Rose, her face alabaster white.

  Chapter 24

  Macedonia, June 1410 Abbot Kostov led Cosimo and the others through the refectory, along a gloomy grey corridor and down a staircase into the crypt. They walked in silence, the abbot lighting the way with a single flickering torch until they reached a circular room with a low, domed roof. In the cen
tre stood a stone pillar on which was perched a glass container about the size of a man's hand. Inside was a slender cylindrical vial a few centimetres long, closed at each end with a brass cap. A strange, sickly green liquid filled three-quarters of the vial.

  Cosimo moved forward, but the abbot's arm darted out to stop him. 'My friend, do not take a step closer,' he said firmly. Cosimo obeyed.

  'This is our most sacred place,' the abbot said. 'We have been custodians of this object for more than one hundred years. It originated in the village of Adapolin in the Sunun region far from here. The local villages were struck by a terrible plague that killed indiscriminately, but Adapolin itself was spared. Not a single person fell ill there.

  'A man named Jacob, a simple farmer, possessed the object you see before you, this sacred vial. As their neighbours perished, Jacob instructed the elders of Adapolin to erect a pillar in the town square and to mount a barrier around it. He then placed the vial on the pedestal and all the villagers, the women and the children, the elders and the young men filed past the low wall. Each was made to kneel in brief prayer and then to cross themselves.

  'By autumn of that year, Adapolin had become famous as the miracle village. The sick and the lame flocked there for healing. Many returned home with tales of the miraculous cures and the protective qualities of Jacob's vial. But Jacob himself was very ill. It was almost as though he had absorbed the dark vapours and allowed himself to become the Devil's vassal. His skin became covered in sores, his eyes almost sealed with blisters, and he lost all his hair.

  'One day the villagers awoke to find the vial and Jacob had disappeared. It was Abbot Andanov, five generations before my time, who took in the sick stranger. Jacob died two days after arriving here, and was buried in the grounds of this monastery. My predecessors have kept the vial safe all this time.'

  There was a sudden great booming sound from overhead, and the whole room shook. Screams followed, and the sound of running feet.

  The abbot gripped Cosimo's arm. 'It has begun,' he croaked. 'We are under attack.'

  A young monk stumbled into the room. His face was streaked with blood. 'Father,' he gasped. 'Stasanor…' He sank to the cold stone floor and lay still.

  'Quick, come with me.' Abbot Rostov slammed the door behind them and locked it, then beckoned them to follow him up the stairs. The refectory was deserted, but they could hear the clang of steel, screams and roars of men close by. And they could smell burning. 'You cannot help us now.' Cosimo took the Abbot's hands. 'Father…'

  'Go my friends. God will guide us. I must leave you.'

  'Cosimo, our weapons are in the rooms,' Niccoli snapped. 'That's too far away. We'll have to split up.' Three men appeared at the end of the corridor. Two of them carried broad swords, the third, a mace. Niccoli grabbed a torch from a bracket and advanced towards them. Emerging into an open space, a cloister at the heart of the monastery, they could hear screams, the crackling of ignited wood and straw. The air was heavy with the stench of burned flesh and spilled blood.

  'We must scatter,' Tommasini cried above the noise.

  'Agreed. We have to get out. Make for the lake. There's a copse of trees on the far shore.'

  Cosimo turned and felt Contessina grab his arm. 'I'm not letting you out of my sight,' she said. Panting, Tommasini made it back to his room. Slinging a bag over his shoulder, he unsheathed his sword and dashed back into the corridor. It was filling with smoke. He began to choke and realised he had not the slightest idea how to make his escape. Someone rushed towards him and he shrank back against the wall. The man ran straight past into the darkness. Then he felt a hand grip his shoulder. He screamed and a voice hissed in his ear. 'Master Ambrogio.'

  He could just make out the features of one of the monks, Father Daron, the librarian. 'We must rescue the sacred vial,' he hissed. 'Follow me.'

  The stairs to the crypt lay on the far side of a courtyard. An arrow whistled past Tommasini's ear. He had no idea from where it had come and just kept going across the uneven flagstones. The monk was only a couple of paces ahead of him, bent almost double. As they reached the stairs a tall figure emerged from a doorway to the left. He charged at them, sword raised.

  The monk fell back using Tommasini as a shield. But the Florentine was prepared, all senses heightened. Before the raider could land a blow, Tommasini thrust his sword forward. Side-stepping the crumbling body, Tommasini lost his sword, but had the presence of mind to grab the dead man's weapon.

  Downstairs, Father Daron fumbled for the key and finally managed to unlock the door. He slammed it shut behind them and the pair found themselves in a chill blackness.

  Feeling their way along the passageway they made for a faint light, and in moments they were back in the circular chamber.

  Tommasini watched as the monk's fingers darted across the surface of the crystal box. A panel slid open. Father Daron reached in and gingerly grabbed hold of the vial. Behind them, they could hear the door being beaten down.

  'Quick! You must take this.' Father Daron pressed the glass cylinder into Tommasini's hands. For a second, Ambrogio allowed himself the luxury of studying the object in the fading light, marvelling once more at the intensity of its colour, the heaviness of the liquid in the tube. Images from the past flashed through his mind. The hands of the saintly Jacob holding this very object, this miraculous thing. There was the sound of boots on stone.

  'I shall place myself in the hands of the Lord' Father Daron said. 'You must escape.' The monk handed Tommasini one of the wall torches and pushed him roughly towards the far side of the room, where he pulled aside a rug that lay on the floor. There was a faint outline of a door in the stone. The monk plucked a key from his pocket and inserted it into a tiny aperture. Tommasini helped him lift the lid. A ladder disappeared into darkness. Tommasini climbed on to the top rung as three men charged into the chamber. The monk pushed his head down and the Florentine almost lost his grip. The door crashed down over him.

  Tommasini found himself in a tunnel barely head height and no more than a few inches wider than his shoulders. Stumbling towards a fork in the tunnel, he took the left branch out of pure instinct. His breathing was laboured in the fetid air and sweat ran down his body. Trying to still his pounding heart, he listened for sounds of pursuit. It was impossible to detect anything above the roar of fire, explosions and crashing masonry. He pushed on down another tunnel. He had only intuition to guide him. After thirty paces, he turned a corner and saw a solid wall of rock ahead of him. He had reached a dead-end.

  Another explosion directly overhead shook the walls and part of the ceiling started to collapse. Pieces of stone and tile cascaded down and a large chunk of rock almost knocked Tommasini over. He kept his balance, but his torch was snuffed out. With his left hand, he felt inside his tunic to make sure the vial was intact, then, clutching his sword, he shuffled slowly towards a tiny chink of light. 'I must save as much of the library as I can,' Cosimo whispered. 'It is what we came here for. We cannot leave everything to be totally destroyed by this Stasanor.' Contessina gripped his hand.

  'Across the courtyard,' Cosimo insisted and pointed to a door in the far wall.

  To their right stood a chicken coop and next to that a well-stocked vegetable garden dissected by a narrow path. To their left, an open door led into an empty laundry. Contessina almost tripped over the body of a man in a black leather tunic. She snatched up his sword, whirling round as Niccold Niccoli, armed now with a broadsword, came stumbling backwards towards them trying to fight off two men.

  Contessina sprang forward to help. The bandit swung at her with his mace. It missed her head by an inch. The man was inexperienced with the weapon and slow to regain his balance. With lightning speed, Contessina slashed her assailant from neck to groin. Plucking the mace from the dirt, she tossed it towards Cosimo. Niccoli's assailant was distracted momentarily and Niccoli lunged forward driving hard steel into his mouth. The blade emerged through the back of the bandit's neck just below the base of his crani
um. Niccoli left it there and they ran towards the door on the far side of the courtyard.

  Niccoli gripped the handle and cautiously eased the door open. Another short, narrow passageway led to a flight of stairs. The door to the library stood on the right. It was locked and bolted.

  Cosimo took a violent swing with his mace, and the lock splintered with the force of the blow. A torch was hanging just inside. From his pocket, Niccoli withdrew a small flint and ignition iron in an ebony box. Flicking the iron over the flint, he produced a spark that lit a knuckle of kindling. He dipped the oil-soaked torch on to the tiny flame and it caught immediately. Many of the shelves in the library were already bare. Cosimo rushed forward into the adjoining room. The floor space was covered with crates, some piled three high. The abbot had only that evening begun making safe some of the monastery's most precious items to be stored in a maze of catacombs beneath the building. Almost all of the crates were strapped with narrow ropes, some were sealed with wire and a heavy waxy material. Two baskets stood beside the boxes. One was filled with goblets, plate and assorted silverware; the other contained a pile of religious icons, paintings on wooden boards, gold and silver crucifixes, chalices and incense holders on chains still exuding pungent odours.

  Cosimo removed the lid from the nearest crate, carefully lifting the papers closest to hand. He opened a dusty cover, blew across the front page and read the Greek lettering. It was a manual for aqueduct designers written by one Umenicles. He picked up a frayed parchment with amber burn marks running across it.

  'This is in the hand of Herodotus himself,' he said, barely able to believe his eyes. The next volume contained pages of geometric diagrams and mathematical formulae. It was a work by a Greek disciple of Euclid.

  'My heart bleeds looking at these wonders,' Contessina sighed. 'What can we do?' 'I suggest we make haste,' Niccoli muttered.

  But Cosimo was in another world. He felt both sick inside and elated. It was almost too much to comprehend. 'What can we do?' he said at last. 'Not much, I fear.'