The Thief Of Peace

by Jess Whitecroft

  Vicini – who moved like a ghost, appearing and disappearing out of nowhere – was waiting for them in the loggia. Instead of wine he poured water, flavoured with lemon and chilled from an icehouse. Nicci drank greedily and fancied he could feel life and juice returning to his poor dried orange of a brain.

  Against the inside wall of the loggia stood three portrait busts. Albanis all, Nicci guessed. One had Albani’s underbite, the second his deep-set eyes, the nearest his thick lips. The closest one to Nicci looked to be the newest, and it was only then that Nicci realised who he was looking at.

  “My sons,” said Albani.

  “My condolences on your recent loss, Signor.”

  “One of many,” said Albani, and gestured to the furthermost bust. “My heir, Luca. He succumbed to the same plague as his mother.” He gestured to the second, a bull-necked specimen with a scowl. “Then there was Lorenzo. Fine, healthy boy. Constitution of an ox. Never sick. Rode ten miles every morning. Swam like a fish.” Albani paused to sip his drink. He set the cup down with a sigh. “Choked to death on a miniature pear.”

  “Oh. I’m…”

  “…and then there was Giacamo, who had a fatal weakness for married women. It was only a matter of time before he angered the wrong jealous husband. Not the honour of a duel, Volpaia. The swine didn’t even give him that much. Stabbed my boy in the back and left him face down in the Arno.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  “Three heirs,” said Albani. “And now I’m down to one.”

  Nicci frowned and counted the busts. “One?”

  “There is a fourth. A natural son. Recently legitimised.”

  “Oh. I see.”

  “His name is Teodoro,” said Albani. “And here, Volpaia, is where you come in.”

  “You wish for me to paint him?”

  Albani shook his head. “No. I need you to seduce him.”

  For once in his life, Nicci was speechless.

  “The boy is a monk,” said Albani. “And no damned use to me as he is now. When I die, who inherits all of this? I have no other children. My only daughter died in childbirth last year, and my grandchild with her. Everything that the name Albani has come to mean over the centuries will die with me if Teo remains in that monastery. There are those who would delight to see the death of my family line, and I have no intention of giving them what they desire.”

  “Yes, I see,” said Nicci. “But I don’t see how I’m supposed to help with that.”

  “It’s quite simple,” said Albani, signalling to Vicini to refill Nicci’s cup. “You are, by all accounts, the worst wastrel in the entire city of Florence.”

  Nicci blinked at him.

  “A drunk,” said Vicini. “A gambler. A braggart. Twice confined to debtor’s prison in the space of as many years, not to mention that you are a man with a reputation for the kind of sexual incontinence that would shame a Borgia.”

  “I don’t have to listen to this.”

  “You are currently resident at the house of Bianci de Lisi,” Vicini went on. “Is that so?”

  “I hardly see how that’s relevant.”

  “A woman notorious among the lowlifes of the city for her musical gifts.”

  “Musical gifts?” said Albani.

  Vicini’s lips almost vanished again. “She plays the flute, Signor,” he said. “Not with her mouth.”

  Nicci felt the blood rush to his face. One night the wine had flowed even faster than usual and he’d been fortunate enough to witness the spectacle for himself. It had to be said that the woman had talent. She’d tootled out a recognisable rendition of O Rosa Bella before the hysterical laughter had drowned her out. “Actually, she’s retired from music,” said Nicci. “These days her business is more…hospitality orientated.”

  “In other words, she runs a whorehouse?” said Vicini.

  Nicci sighed. Didn’t get much past this one. “Yes.”

  “My son is obsessed with God,” said Albani. “With purity. With the state of his immortal soul. Never mind my immortality. I need that boy to leave the monastery and enter the world. You, Volpaia, are acquainted with drunks, voluptuaries, gamblers and women who play the flute with their quims. I need a devil, Volpaia. I need a devil to tempt that boy away from the religious life, to lure him away with wine, women and luxuries. There is no better expert on those subjects in this city than you.”

  “I will do no such thing,” said Nicci, rising to his feet. “I am an artist, Signor Albani, not some creature you can hire to debauch your son on a whim. I serve a higher purpose, and that purpose is art. If you do not wish to hire me as an artist then you do not wish to hire me at all, and I am frankly insulted by the nature of your offer.” He waved an arm at the gorgeous ornamental gardens. “I may not have all of this, but I have my integrity.”

  “You’ll be paid,” said Vicini.

  Nicci, who had been about to sweep grandly away from the table, paused. “What?”

  “You’ll be paid,” said the retainer. “For your services. There will be a monthly income, plus a clothing allowance and the use of a townhouse in Florence.”

  Nicci’s bottom suddenly felt very, very heavy. So heavy that it was dragging him back down into the seat he’d only just vacated.

  “Did I mention that the townhouse has an extensive wine cellar?” said Vicini. “Unless of course your integrity…”

  Nicci’s arse hit the chair with an audible thud. “No, no,” he said. “I think my integrity can handle that.”

  2

  Nicci was not a person at ease with the odour of sanctity. In fact, as he followed the outside of the abbey cloister he was half expecting a thunderbolt from heaven. All around him, the monks were working – sweeping, scrubbing, carrying pails of milk across the yards – all of them moving at the same rather fast but steady pace. Busy, busy, busy – working for the Lord.

  And to keep from touching themselves.

  The thought leapt into his head before he could stop it, and it seemed like another symptom of his inveterate badness. Because of course that was where his mind would go. Bored men touching themselves. Or each other. Did that happen? It probably happened.

  “We’re more or less completely self-sufficient,” said the monk, as he led Nicci through the cloisters. He was a chubby, cheerful little man with red cheeks and a very shiny tonsure. The bald circle on his scalp was as unimpeachably smooth as the surface of Albani’s Venetian mirror, and Nicci wondered if – in the right conditions and lights – one might be able to see one’s face in it.

  Maybe that’s why they do it. To shame you with the sight of your own reflection if you try to take one of them from behind. Or maybe so you don’t have anything to hold onto…oh God, why did I just think that?

  For a sickening second he thought he’d maybe spoken out loud, but the monk in front of him was still chattering away. “…all our own cheeses – pecorino, ricotta. And then of course there’s the kitchen garden…just through here…”

  They stepped out under the archway into a sunlit garden, verdant with new growth, patches of soil freshly turned and awaiting new plantings. One monk, hoe in hand, looked up at their approach. Nicci thought he recognised the same bull neck as he’d seen on the bust portrait of Albani’s second son, and was so confident that this was the man he’d come to see that he was surprised when the little chattering brother led him straight past.

  “Here he is,” said the monk, gesturing to a lean-to against the wall, where another monk stood with his back to them, potting seedlings. “Brother Teo? Someone to see you.”

  Albani’s last surviving son turned around.

  Nicci’s first thought was that the boy’s mother must have been an exceptional beauty. Large dark eyes, rosy tanned skin and chestnut brown hair. A stray breeze caught the edge of his scapular and the boy smoothed it down, drawing attention to the coarse black of his robes. He’s a peach. A peach wrapped in haircloth.

  “Yes?” he said.

  “Teodoro degli Albani?”<
br />
  The young monk seemed to flinch at the sound of the name, but then his eyes flickered to the letter of introduction in Nicci’s hand. “Who wants to know?”

  Nicci bowed and handed over the letter. “Forgive me for intruding on your devotions, Signor. My name is Niccolò di Volpaia. Your father sent me.”

  The boy, who couldn’t have been more than twenty, took the letter and broke the seal. He left earthy fingerprints on the expensive paper. “So he did,” he said, after scanning the contents. “And what is it that you do?”

  “I’m an artist.”

  The young Albani handed back the letter and sighed. For the first time Nicci saw a faint resemblance. The son’s lips, like the father’s, were full, but in his case they finished in fine, upturned corners that hinted at the presence of a sense of humour. As he turned his head to the side, Nicci also saw that he had a junior version of his father’s protruding lower jaw. On the boy it appeared as nothing more than a slight pout.

  “So what’s it to be?” he said, with a wry little smile. “A dynastic portrait, perhaps?”

  Nicci mentally discarded the speech he’d had prepared. “So you know what it is that your father desires of you?”

  “Oh yes,” said the young man, turning back to his seedlings. “That I do.”

  “Look, I can understand your resentment at being overlooked…”

  That got him a laugh, taking him by surprise.

  “Do I look resentful to you?” said Albani.

  “No.”

  “Here.” The monk beckoned Nicci over to the table and lifted a new green seedling from the tray. He took another pot and scooped up some soil. “Hold this for me,” he said, standing the fragile new plant upright in the half-filled pot. “Gently. That’s it. The stems are very delicate.”

  There was dirt under his nails, but his tanned fingers were graceful, with tapered tips. The hair on the back of his wrist had been bleached to gold by the sun, but the underside of his arm was white. Nicci found himself wondering where the tan stopped and knew he was destined for hell.

  “They almost all start out exactly the same,” said Albani, as he filled the pot around the roots of the plant. “When they burst forth from the seed they all look identical – two tiny green leaves – and unless you knew which was which you’d never know if it was a marrow or parsley or sage. I remember last year there was a terrible wind in April – nearly blew the entire lean-to down – and some of the labels must have got lost. I had no idea what some of the plants were until they were bigger, until I could tell by the shape of the leaf. But they knew. They all knew exactly what they were, and how God had made them. You never hear of a strawberry that thinks it’s a cabbage.”

  “Or a peach that thought it was an onion,” said Nicci.

  “Precisely. They always sprout around the same time every year, as though there were a tiny clock within them that strikes the hour at which they must grow. One of those small miracles in which the invisible hand of God reveals itself.”

  Teodoro degli Albani smiled down at his seedlings as tenderly as if they had been his children. In that moment he looked like the soul of peace and contentment, and Nicci wondered if he was really about to do this – to attempt to lure this serene young man from the spiritual certainty of monastic life and into the sensual, morally messy labyrinth of worldly life. And all so he, Nicci, could have nicer clothes and access to a wine cellar.

  Maybe they’re right about me. I could shame the devil.

  “Do they all make it?” Nicci asked, as Albani lifted another seedling from the tray.

  “Hm?”

  “Do they all survive? The plants?”

  “No. Of course not. That’s why you have to plant so many.”

  “Perhaps the same could be said for heirs.”

  He shook his head. “You’re subtle, Volpaia. I see why my father sent you.”

  “I was sorry to hear of the tragedies that blighted your family tree,” said Nicci. “But have you ever considered that the Lord has seen fit to spare you for a reason?”

  “He has,” said the monk. “To serve him.”

  “There are other ways to serve God, Signor Albani.”

  “Please. Call me Brother Teo.”

  “Teodoro,” said Nicci, rolling the syllables across his tongue. They tasted like bitten gold. “It means ‘gift of God’ does it not?”

  “It does, yes.”

  “A gift is something someone gives not with the expectation that that thing will once again belong to them,” said Nicci. “A gift is something given in the expectation of it belonging to the recipient, and that it will be used, loved, passed down through the generations…”

  A small smile curled the finely shaped corners of the boy’s mouth. “…and to sit on the consigliere and whisper in the ears of dukes?”

  “How do you know that this isn’t how the Lord wishes you to serve him?”

  Teo shook his head again. On the crown was a small, circular patch of shaved hair, but on Teo – unlike the shiny bald spot of the other monk – the spot was covered in a fine, chestnut fuzz. Nicci wondered how often he had to shave it.

  “You’re very persistent, aren’t you?” said Teo.

  “I haven’t been given a great deal of choice in life in that regard,” said Nicci. “I wasn’t born wealthy.”

  “Wealth is overrated,” said Teo, like someone who knew where his next meal was coming from.

  “Perhaps. It would be nice to have the luxury of finding out for myself, though.”

  “Why? What would you do if you had money?”

  “Lots of things,” said Nicci. “I’d have a studio of my own where I could foster the talents of young artists. Alms for the poor. I don’t think I’d ever desire the kind of wealth your father has, though. It’s too much, and mends too little.”

  “Mends too little? What do you mean?”

  “Your father has a looking glass from Venice that probably costs more than I’ll ever make in a lifetime. To stroll through his gardens is like walking through paradise itself, but do you know what my first impression was, upon seeing him?”

  “No.”

  “Loneliness,” said Nicci. “He looked lonely. His wife, his sons, his daughters. All dead. All that money to buy beautiful things, but there’s no coin on earth that can buy back a soul from the ferryman.”

  Teo gave another one of those small, fleeting smiles. “I can see why he sent you,” he said. “You woo me as prettily as any troubadour.”

  “I speak the truth. You’re all he has left.”

  He sighed but didn’t soften. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Tell my father that I’m sorry, but this is where I belong.”

  *

  On his way back to the abbey, as he always did, Teo collected a bucket from the well and took it to the pigsty to moisten their mud wallow. The big sow had recently farrowed, and the new piglets were still pink and downy and in need of shade and mud. Their delicate skins burned just like a person’s in the sun.

  He tipped the water over the side of the sty and watched as the mother gratefully shifted her hot bulk into the mud. The babies followed on their tiny tip-toed feet, nosing tentatively at the edges of the wallow. Funny how a plant knew what it was from the beginning, but a piglet needed instruction from mother on how to be a pig.

  It was impossible not to find them delightful, even though one day he knew they’d be ham.

  Teo left the empty bucket on the peg there for that purpose and climbed the slight rise that sheltered the sty. From here he could see the edge of monastery land, a shallow border wall constructed of old stones from a fallen Roman aqueduct. Part of the aqueduct was still standing and stretched away into the distance like the spine of some enormous, long dead beast. It was the middle of May and the sun was already hot, but it hadn’t yet had the opportunity to parch and bleach the land the way it would by the tired end of August. Everything was still lush, warm and green and springing to life. A dove – perched on the edge of the pigsty ro
of – puffed and gurgled, its liquid voice surprisingly loud and deep.

  Here was serenity. And here was where he belonged.

  He had known this was coming. Always had. Ever since the death of his half-brother Giacamo, Teo had known his father would try to flush him out of the monastery like a hunted boar. The only surprise was that the old man hadn’t sent Vicini, who would – in his colourless way – have reminded Teo of the importance of duty and family. And perhaps that was the point. Vicini didn’t have the gift of persuasion, so that was where Volpaia – with his slippery tongue and fine dark eyes – came into play.

  The shadows were growing longer. Conscious that the bells would soon ring for Vespers, Teo turned back towards the cloisters.

  “Brother Teo? A word.”

  The abbot called him as he passed his open door.

  “Father?”

  “Close the door, Brother Teo. And take a seat.”

  Teo did as he was told, his mind already racing with possible scenarios. How much had his father offered the monastery to subtly push him out of the door? A new chapel roof? A new chapel?

  “You had a visitor today, Brother,” said the abbot. He was a thin, hump-nosed man, with a bald patch that had long outgrown his tonsure. His eyes were watery blue and gentle.

  “A client of my father’s,” said Teo. “He wishes me to join him. My father, that is.”

  “Your father has lost a great deal.” An altarpiece, perhaps. A grand Nativity or Annunciation. Maybe that was where Volpaia and his paintbrush fitted into the picture.

  “One disaster after another,” said Teo. “His life has become the Book of Job.”

  The abbot nodded. Here it comes, thought Teo. The moment where he tries to persuade me that in the interest of Christian charity I should go home to my father.

  “Job teaches us that we must have faith,” said the abbot, still opaque. “Even in the darkest of hours.”

  Teo took a breath. “Father, I must speak plainly.”

  “Then do so, Brother Teo.”

  “Has my father sent instruction to you that I should leave this place?”