Quattrocento Page 13

  The large hawk shifted its feet, flexing the long, curved talons as it arched its wings. Opening its cruelly hooked beak, it uttered a harsh cry, and Kamal unhooked the leash from the braided black jesses. With a quick spring the bird was gone, racing skyward.

  “You seem to know an awful lot about painting,” Anna said. “For someone who is not an artist.”

  “Thank you, Contessa,” Matt replied with a bow. “But knowing and doing are worlds apart. I also know how birds fly, but I can’t do it myself.”

  “There’s no mystery there,” Leandro said. “We have legs, they have wings. Anyone knows that.”

  “I’ve always wondered how they soar,” Anna said. “Look at the kite—it’s not moving its wings, and yet it stays aloft. It can even rise higher, without any effort at all. How is that possible?”

  “It glides,” Leandro replied. “Like a leaf blown by the wind.”

  “The kite, I think, is a bit heavier than a leaf,” Anna said.

  “No, he’s right,” Matt said. “A bird rises on updrafts. Columns of air heated by the sun. But that’s not how it stays aloft, like the kite is doing.”

  “And how is it able to do that?” Anna asked.

  “It’s the shape of the wing and how the air flows over it,” Matt said.

  “How do you mean?” the duke asked, looking down from the birds to rest his good eye on Matt.

  “The wing is curved,” Matt said. “Like this.” He cupped his hand. “The air flows around it. It takes longer for the air to travel over the top. This creates a vacuum here, underneath; more air rushes in, like water under a boat, and it lifts it up.” Matt wasn’t sure if he had it exactly right—it had been a long time since high school physics. But it was close enough, and he doubted there would be an aerodynamic engineer anywhere within earshot to contradict him on the fine points.

  “A vacuum,” Leandro said. “Sounds like another name for witchcraft.”

  “Not at all,” the duke replied. “A vacuum is an absence of a material. An imbalance which nature tries to correct. I have a text of Archimedes from Alexandria, translated from the Arabic”—he nodded to the prince, who bowed in return—“which explains the phenomenon. It’s the basic principle upon which hydraulics is founded.”

  The sacre had reached the kite. It rose higher, circling toward the sun, the kite describing larger arcs as it kept pace. Without pausing, the sacre wheeled into the kite, striking it point-blank. It stayed close, using its wings to pivot into the larger bird again and again, breaking off to swing underneath and appear again out of nowhere. The kite struck back, hard, vicious blows that even from that great distance jarred the watching crowd, but the sacre was relentless, always attacking. Struck, it would fall away, only to wheel and come back to rake the other bird and then fall again, the two following each other lower and lower. The sacre suddenly broke away and began circling higher with quick strokes of its tapered wings. The kite rose, too, but slower, the sacre slowly outstripping it, the kite working to keep up. Higher and higher they rose, the sacre leading the way, farther and farther in the lead, and then with one last powerful stroke the falcon folded into a stoop and dropped on the kite, hitting it with full force and knocking it sideways as it rocketed past. The kite struggled to regain its balance, but before it could, the sacre hit it again, even harder, and it was done for. The long wings slumped, the neck went limp, and the black bird, now a shadow on the sky, spiraled downward.

  The sacre swooped low overhead, circled, and then landed on the branch of a nearby tree. It waited, shifting its feet and arching its wings, as the party clustered around the prince, congratulating him. Looking past the group Matt saw Leandro galloping away across the meadow. He watched, curious where the knight was going. Reaching the far end of the field, Leandro wheeled his horse around and then, quickly dismounting, disappeared from sight momentarily. He appeared again, on foot, carrying something in his hand as he led the horse by its reins to a towering maple on the edge of the wood. There was a quick glint of steel, and then the prince remounted and spurred his horse back toward the group.

  Matt stared at the tree, trying to make out across the distance the pale form that Leandro had left pinned to the dark bole. White, speckled with brown, as limp as old clothes hanging to dry—the carcass of the peregrine, he realized, and looked back to the group, searching out the knight. Startled, he found Leandro staring straight at him. The knight gave a quick glance back at the tree and smiled.

  chapter 14

  “You need something to occupy your time,” Rodrigo said to Matt’s back as he stood at the window. A breeze tossed the trees and roamed through the field of grain below the villa. Just past midday, not a soul was in sight.

  “Like what?” Matt asked.

  “That’s for you to decide,” Rodrigo replied, intent on his tools. “It’s your time, not mine.” The knife, razor-sharp, sliced deep through the flap of skin. He used a pair of forceps to pull it back. The skin resisted, stretching, slowly baring the tangle of muscles and veins that lay just underneath, as though reluctant to share its secrets. “Could you move to the side a bit? You’re blocking the light.”

  Matt, stepping aside, turned to watch Rodrigo work.

  “A book?” Rodrigo asked.

  “I’ve read The Decameron twice. And there’s only so much Paradiso I can take in a day.”

  With a series of swift strokes Rodrigo began to untangle the web of smaller muscles. Using the forceps, he lifted them free one by one and stretched them aside, pinning them to the table through the remnants of the yellow sleeve. “Tommaso, old friend, you always were a slippery devil,” he muttered absently under his breath as he exchanged the forceps for a slender pair of tweezers and began probing the mass of muscle and bone. “There. Got you.” He lifted a long, thin red string as fine as a strand of cappelletti from the spongy red mass and carefully pulled it to one side, letting it droop loosely, like the unfastened ribbon of a chemise. “Something wrong?” he asked, glancing up to find Matt’s eyes fixed on him.

  “No,” Matt said. “Not at all.” He looked away, and paced back to the window. “Yes, there is. I need money.”

  “Is there something you want to buy?”

  “I mean an income,” Matt said. “A fortune.” “I can think of three reasons why a man needs a fortune,” Rodrigo said, cutting away what was left of the deltoid to find the ends of the biceps and the triceps, nestled underneath. “One, to get a red hat.” He slowly worked the biceps free, lifting it by the rubbery end of the tendon like a sleeping salamander from its bed. The muscle stretched slowly, the striations showing, as he pulled it aside and drove a pin through the tendon to secure it. “Two, to mount an expedition to find the Western Passage. And three—” Rodrigo put down the knife and reached for the long feather lying to the side—“to make a good match,” he said, trimming the point of the quill.

  “I want to make my place in the world,” Matt said. “And that’s reason enough for me.”

  “Any ideas spring to mind?”

  “Nothing,” Matt said. “Let me do that,” he added and sat down next to Rodrigo. He took up a piece of colored chalk and began sketching in the dimensions of the flayed arm. That done, he dipped the quill Rodrigo had sharpened and began drawing. The two worked together side by side in a companionable silence.

  “Very good,” Rodrigo said, looking over at Matt’s half-completed drawing. He stretched and yawned, working his broad shoulders. “That process you mentioned. The one for the madder root.”

  “Yes?” Matt asked, taking a closer look at the exposed bones of the wrist.

  “Do you know how to get the true orange?”

  “Sure. Have you ever heard of chromium?” He dipped the pen and began drawing in the delicate structure. “No? Well, tin salts, then. It’s easier with chrome, but tin’s better anyway. The chrome runoff is pretty serious poison. You need lots of water for making a dye like this.”

  “You could do it?”

  “It’s ea
sy,” Matt replied. “Anyone could. Are you saying—”

  “I’m saying that you’re wrong. Not anyone could, as you put it. Do you know how to make other colors as well?”

  “Yes,” Matt replied. “I mean, I’d have to think about it, and see how much I could remember—”

  “The duke mentioned it again to me just yesterday. He was curious to know how much you knew.”

  “You think he’d be interested in buying some, if I made it?”

  Rodrigo shook his head. “Selling alizarin to the duke is not going to make your fortune. He wants to make it. Like the powder mill, but for colors. He at first mentioned hiring you, like Tommaso here, but I told him that you would be offended by the very idea. A company, however; a joint venture—he didn’t say anything, but I could tell he found the idea intriguing. We could make a lot of money.”

  “We?” Matt asked.

  “It’s a treasure hunt, isn’t it? You’ve got the map, I’ve got the compass. And the duke has the money to set us on our way.”

  “You don’t strike me as the cardinal type, so I doubt you want a red hat,” Matt said. “And you told me yourself that the voyage from Spain was the last time you ever wanted to be on the water. So that leaves number three, a good match.”

  “I, too, want to make my way in the world.”

  “We’ll need a source of water. Lots of it.”

  “Water is something we have in abundance.”

  “It’s feasible,” Matt mused, bouncing the feather against the back of his left hand. “We don’t have to worry about the madder root, it grows like a weed around here. Are you sure there’s a market for it?”

  “It’s all imported now. Costs a fortune. And the quality is as undependable as a Venetian.”

  “It has possibilities,” Matt said, laying the pen down. He got up and went over to the window. He liked the idea of supplying the weavers and artists with their materials, helping to create the great masterpieces he loved instead of rescuing them after ages of mistreatment. He walked back and forth, mulling the idea over. “How do I know you won’t cut me out as soon as we get the operation up and running?” he asked.

  Rodrigo laughed so hard he had to lift the knife away from the forearm. “Less than a month in Italy and you already think like a Tuscan. And how do I know you won’t cut me out and go straight to the duke?”

  “Because you’re my friend.”

  “You are going to be a master,” Rodrigo said with admiration. “That’s very good.”

  “Well, I’m right, aren’t I?” Matt said.

  “Yes, of course. That’s what makes it so good.”

  Suddenly, the idea of Anna was no longer a dream. Just as she had become real, Matt realized, so had now the possibility of his being able to win her. It would take time. Would she wait? The count, according to Rodrigo and what Matt had been able to glean from the conversation he overheard, was on his deathbed. Matt felt an impatience to get going; there was no time to waste. Winning Anna, he thought, gazing out the window again at the rich fields and the valley and the range of hills beyond, blue in the midday sun. And then as though his thoughts had called her forth, she appeared on the path by the upper field, Francesca mounted by her side. “I can’t believe it!” Matt exclaimed.

  “She’s a bit late today,” Rodrigo remarked.

  “What on earth can she be thinking? In broad daylight like this? She’s a married woman!”

  “And you’re not her husband. So what concern is it of yours where she’s gone off to?”

  “It’s just not right.” Matt could tell, even from this distance, that she was wearing the pale red dress that he had taken a particular liking to, for it was the one she had been wearing the first time he had seen her in the kitchen. Could it be just two weeks ago? It seemed like a lifetime. “Call me old-fashioned, but what happened to the idea of fidelity? The Ten Commandments?”

  “You have a particular one in mind?”

  “How about ‘Thou shalt not take another man’s wife’?”

  “I doubt she’s doing that.”

  “Very funny.”

  “If adultery weren’t such a widespread activity, then I doubt anyone would have felt it necessary to engrave a prohibition against it in stone. And even if this were adultery, then it would be just barely so. Her husband is teetering on the edge of the grave. He never much liked women anyway.” Rodrigo, finished with the dissection, cleaned his knife with an old cloth. Like a dead tree reaching blindly to the sky, the flayed hand rose from the table, fingers outstretched.

  “Yes, well, I’m not surprised at your casual attitude.”

  “How so?”

  “Your inamorata is right there with her.”

  “You want to be more careful,” Rodrigo said. “Such a casual use of language could easily be taken amiss.”

  “What? Oh, forget it,” Matt replied. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to offend you. I’m being a fool. You were right. An ax or a sword, love or lust, it doesn’t matter.”

  “I never said anything like that.”

  “Yes, you did. At dinner, just the other night.”

  “We were talking about a song!”

  “Love is an art, just like song. And just like any art its only purpose is to produce an effect. And if it’s not the proper time or place, it’s no more than a nuisance.”

  “To make a literal application of something that was put forth in a purely philosophical vein—that goes against all reason.”

  “ ‘Miracolo d’amore,’ ” Matt said. “What is the miracle of love? I’ll tell you.” He reached across the table and began counting off on the splayed fingers of the dead hand. “One, to act contrary to one’s best interests. Two, to abandon the path of reason. Three, to sacrifice everything in the pursuit of the unattainable. And, four, to surrender oneself to the rule of arbitrary emotion.” He pushed the hand dismissively. “Another word for that is madness. No. If there is any miracle of love, it’s the persistence of man’s belief that it even exists.”

  “It doesn’t sound to me as though belief is in question here. Disappointment is not another word for disbelief. In fact, disappointment is, if anything, a proof of belief,” Rodrigo said. “You’ve been inside too much. I think you need to get some fresh air.”

  “No, I don’t,” Matt snapped. He stood up and stalked across the room.

  “There’s an old church you should go take a look at.”

  “I don’t want to go see an old church. I’ve seen enough old churches.”

  “It has some frescoes.”

  “Well, that’s unique. That really makes it different from every other church in Italy.”

  “These are supposed to be by somebody important.”

  “Giotto, I bet.” For Giotto to have painted every work ascribed to him he would have had to work night and day without interruption his entire life.

  “No, a longer name. M something. You mentioned him to me when we were talking about Florence.”

  “Masaccio?” Matt asked. That would be impossible. Masaccio had died young, after producing a mere handful of works. The chances of there being a fresco series of his in an obscure countryside church were nil.

  “That’s it.”

  “No. Are you sure?” Matt turned and looked at Rodrigo. “Masaccio?”

  “Yes. Isn’t he the one whose work you liked so much?”

  “Where is this church?”

  Matt reached the edge of the wood. Weathered and unadorned, the old Romanesque church rose from the opposite side of the meadow like an outcropping of rock after the land around it has been washed away by uncounted seasons of torrential downpours. All that was left of the porch, if there had even been one, were the worn steps, leading up to a plain wooden door. The solitary niche on the façade was empty, as was the bell tower, giving it the air of a place half-remembered but never visited, with three gnarled fig trees left to one side to stand a lonely vigil. It didn’t look promising, but he knew better than to give up hope; the most humbl
e church might house the greatest treasures. As he walked closer, he stopped at the quiet whicker of a horse, on the other side of the church. Someone was here. Mindful of bandits, he hugged the weathered stone and peered around the corner. Anna’s white mare cropped the grass, Francesca’s roan tethered to the tree next to it. No one was in sight; they must be inside. But where was Leandro’s mount? He must have left it somewhere close by and arrived by foot. What should he do? Matt paused, irresolute, torn between withdrawing silently and wanting to wait and explore the church. Explore the church, he thought to himself; who am I kidding? Retracing his steps, he halted as he heard the door to the church creak open. He leaped behind one of the old fig trees.

  “… any longer and we’ll be late.” It was Anna. The response, low, was lost as she and her companion turned the corner and vanished. Moments later they reappeared, mounted, Anna leading with Francesca close behind. They set off at a brisk pace.

  Matt, conscious that the tree was no bigger than he, concentrated his attention on making himself as thinly inconspicuous as he could. The women rode off without noticing him. Which way would Leandro go? If he turned right, the way they had, Matt would have a chance of remaining undetected. But if he went left, he would pass right by these trees, and Matt would be as exposed and vulnerable as the pheasant at the hunt had been to the duke’s falcon. He restrained the impulse to break and run, knowing his footfalls on the packed dirt would be too loud and the inviting cover of the cool woods too far away. How long would he have to wait? It already seemed like forever. The breeze tugged at him, soughing in the dry, rustling limbs of the fig trees. The door creaked, and he went rigid, holding the rough bark until his fingers ached. No one appeared. There was no sound of heavy boots.