Quattrocento Page 17

  “The word of God is expressed in many ways,” Bonifacio replied, “and paintings are most certainly one. I myself have spent many hours in profound contemplation of the expulsion from the Garden.”

  Considering that the artist of the chapel had painted an Eve well worth sacrificing Paradise for, Matt wasn’t surprised at the priest’s devotion. Tristano, who had joined the group, cleared his throat and leaned forward. “Plato, as we know, spoke at great length about this very subject.”

  “Angels?” Rodrigo asked. “Plato spoke about angels?”

  “The Republic,” Tristano said.

  “I don’t remember anything about angels in the Republic. He does talk about the cave, though. Are you sure it wasn’t bats you had in mind?”

  “He doesn’t refer to them by name, of course.”

  “That’s easy to understand, since there was no word for ‘angel’ in ancient Greek. Where does he mention them?”

  “It’s implicit in everything else he said,” Tristano explained. “Ideal forms. The essence of fire. The shadows, when man steps out of the cave, are revealed to be cast by the sun. Sun is equivalent to God, and therefore we can see that the shadows, ipso facto, as a reflection of God, in their ideal form, are meant to be angels.”

  “Aristotle is much the better authority,” Bonifacio interrupted, “if you wish to consult the ancients.”

  “Aristotle?” Rodrigo asked. “Are you saying that he saw angels?”

  “Not angels per se. However, his reasoning succeeds where that of Plato falls sadly short. Thus: God—or Nature, to use his exact word, but God is what he meant by it.”

  “Whether he knew it or not,” Rodrigo said.

  “Precisely. God is perfect. Man, made by God, is perfect, even in his imperfections. Our sensory organs—to wit, our eyes and ears—were created by God to allow us to perceive the world in all its perfection. Behold, God said. And that is indeed the first cause of man, to behold the glory of God. Angels are an essential part of creation. Thus: we perceive them and they exist.”

  “They exist because we perceive them?”

  “No. We exist because we perceive them.”

  “And as for you?” Anna asked Matt. “Are you an Aristotelian or a Platonist?”

  “Must one choose?”

  “Choose? No. Declare oneself? Definitely.”

  “Declare yourself, then.”

  “By all means, declare yourself,” Leandro said, appearing at Anna’s side from the crowd. Matt, startled at his sudden appearance, maintained his outward calm. So what if he was talking to Anna? It was up to her to decide with whom she conversed. Or upon whom she bestowed her affections, for that matter. Matt had every right to be there, as long as Anna wanted him to be.

  “I’m neither one nor the other,” Anna replied, inclining her head in return to Leandro’s bow. “There is much truth in what each had to say. Plato, for example, believed that in the beginning all humans were complete. The gods, being gods, were so jealous of this perfection that they cleaved each one in half. And since then—ever since then—each of us has been left to search for our other half. And every now and again, in spite of the gods, you find this person.”

  “And how is that a truth, rather than a belief?” Leandro asked.

  “Because it is so regardless of whether you believe in it or not. Like the Parthenon,” Matt said.

  “Indubitably,” Tristano agreed, with an appreciative nod.

  “How wonderful is philosophy,” Leandro said, “to show us how a building is like true love. They are what they are, and therefore they are like each other. You must excuse us,” he said, and before Anna could speak ushered her away, his hand on her arm.

  “And I must eat,” Rodrigo said, and excused himself.

  Matt, joining him at the table, filled a plate.

  “The Parthenon,” Rodrigo said, as they went to stand in the shade of a tree at the edge of the clearing. “Are you crazy? When he’s done with you they won’t need a boat to take you across the river Styx. There’ll be so little left a basket will do. Being in love is one thing, but being an idiot in love is something entirely different.”

  “Is it? What would you know about it?”

  “As hard as it might be for you to believe, I am not a stranger to the sensation.”

  “I’m not talking about sensations. Love is more than lifting a dress on a summer morning.”

  “And what exactly do you mean by that?”

  “I mean, being in love is many things, including being an idiot, but having fun is one thing and one thing only,” Matt replied, watching Anna and Leandro move away through the crowd, followed by Francesca at a respectful distance.

  “Take care, my friend.”

  “You take care of your affairs, and I’ll take care of mine. At least I don’t skulk about in the shadows, slinking from one assignation to the next. Jesus Christ!” Matt exclaimed as Rodrigo drove the tip of his knife deep into the bole of the tree next to Matt’s head.

  Bonifacio, hearing Matt cry out, looked around from the table where he was refilling his plate. Matt crossed himself, holding his own plate up as he did. Bonifacio bowed and went back to working a leg free from a roasted chicken.

  “You’re speaking about my wife,” Rodrigo said.

  “Your wife?”

  “Of more than a year now.”

  “But …” Matt paused, at a loss for words. “Rodrigo, I had no idea. I’m sorry … I never …”

  “Forget it.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be so damned quick to jump to conclusions.”

  “No, of course not,” Matt agreed. He worked the blade free from the tree and handed it back to Rodrigo. “Why the secrecy?”

  Rodrigo, sheathing the knife at his belt, just shrugged.

  “I mean if you’re married—”

  “Drop it.”

  “Wouldn’t you want to be with her?”

  “I have a wife.”

  “Yes, you just said—” Matt stopped. “Oh.”

  “She’s in Spain. A harridan, worse than the Furies that drove Odysseus’s men insane. There’s nothing I can do about it. I left Spain, went to Naples, I’ve traveled halfway around the world. And then I met Francesca. The duke said he would exercise his influence to get me a divorce, but it’s still going to cost a fortune, dealing with those damned bloodsuckers in Rome.”

  “The dye business,” Matt said. “That’s why you’re so interested in it.”

  “You’re not the only one with expensive plans. And speaking of which, the duke wants to talk to you.”

  The two men wove their way through the crowd toward Federico, who was standing near the bank of the pool engaged in conversation with Anna while Leandro stood nearby, listening to Kamal. Leandro, glancing at Rodrigo and Matt as they approached, made a brief comment to the Arab prince, who paused and gave them a quick look before resuming his conversation. As they drew closer the duke bowed, Anna taking her leave.

  “Your Excellence,” Matt greeted the duke, who fixed him with the penetrating stare of his one good eye.

  “Have you had the opportunity to consider my proposal?” Federico asked.

  “I would be honored, Your Excellence, to join you in this enterprise.”

  “What enterprise?” Leandro asked, turning to join the conversation.

  “A dye manufacture,” Rodrigo replied, and explained briefly what it entailed.

  “Fascinating,” Kamal interjected. “Where did you learn the process?” he said, addressing Matt.

  “In the Netherlands,” Matt replied.

  “You have traveled widely, I gather.” He paused, as though inviting Matt to respond. “You are a trader?” he continued, when Matt remained silent.

  “I have a variety of interests,” Matt said. “Some of which concern trade.”

  “What, in particular?”

  “We are exploring the possibilities.”

  “We?”

  “An association of firms int
erested in expanding trade and markets.”

  “Which bank is this?” the duke asked.

  “Morgan.”

  “I haven’t heard of it,” Leandro said.

  “It’s out of London.”

  “And in Florence, their representative—”

  The sharp crack of a breaking branch interrupted his words, followed immediately by a loud splash in the pool behind them.

  “What was that?” someone asked in the shocked silence. They all turned to look at the river. There was nothing to be seen other than a large circle of waves, halfway to the bank, the center already still again. Something, though, was plowing down the hillside in a headlong rush, screened from their sight by the trees. A bear? A meteor shower of small rocks and branches that had been knocked loose pelted the surface of the pond. Leaves followed, settling gently on the water and then spinning like rudderless boats. Feet shot into view and then stopped as a pair of arms clung to an overhanging branch. Cosimo hung, terror in his face, staring at the water below him. “Orlando!” he cried.

  Anna screamed. Like a kaleidoscope given a vicious twist the crowd collapsed, some rushing toward the pool, others shouting, most looking at each other as though not sure what to think. Matt dropped his goblet and raced to the bank. He stared across, shielding his eyes, but there was nothing to be seen. Hiding under the dark green branches of the hemlocks, the water was perfectly still, the leaves on the surface no longer spinning.

  Matt stripped off his coat and tore his shirt free. He kicked off his boots and plowed headlong into the pool, gasping at the shock of the ice-cold water. After just two steps the bottom fell away from under his feet and he charged across with powerful strokes until he reached the point where Cosimo stood on the other bank, hanging onto a branch as he looked into the water. Matt took a deep breath and dove. Down and under, into the sudden silence as the light thinned, down in the aching cold to the bottom, to the sodden lump of cloth crumpled in the dead leaves. He seized the small body and tried to lift, but it resisted, the head flopping back, eyes closed. Matt grasped the shirt but the dead weight pulled him down like an anchor. Letting it take him down, he planted his feet on the bottom and jumped with all his strength. The limp body pulled at his arms, but at last it tore free and he held it against him as he fought upward to the growing light, his legs scissoring and his free arm pulling ahead. At last his head broke through the surface, water streaming away from his hair, running into his eyes and nose and mouth. Holding the boy, he took a huge gulp of air, and kicked for the bank.

  His feet slipping on the mud and grass, Matt scrambled up the bank, dragging the lifeless body with him, the water staining the carpet. He shoved away the hands that tried to take the boy, fighting them off without thinking or even looking up. He laid Orlando on his side and probed his mouth for any obstructions before rolling him onto his back. Matt seized his coat, lying where he had dropped it on the carpet next to him, and shoved it under Orlando’s shoulders. With one hand on the boy’s chin and the other on his forehead, kneeling by his side, Matt tried to force air into the boy’s lungs. Two deep breaths, and then he moved down by the boy’s chest and, rising up to get as much leverage as he could, put one hand over the other on the unmoving chest and began to pump hard, hard enough to crack the tiny sternum, as though he could force the pulse back into him. Again and again, but the boy’s face stayed slack, the skin blue, the gash on his forehead where he had struck the branch a dull red line. Matt stopped pumping, leaned down and blew two more deep breaths into Orlando’s mouth, and then began pumping again. Hard, the small chest flexing under his hands, again and again, and then, in the deathly quiet, Orlando’s eyelids fluttered. He coughed, as Matt kept pumping, and then coughed again, spluttering, and the whites of his eyes showed as his head rolled to the side. Matt stopped pumping and held the boy’s face as he coughed, water running down his cheek, and then lifted him up against him, wrapping the coat around his cold body, massaging warmth and life back into him.

  Matt yielded to Anna’s hands, letting her take her son, still unconscious but breathing. He sat next to her, head in his hands, cross-legged, eyes closed, as Bonifacio knelt by them, his hand on the boy’s head. The priest intoned a prayer as the hushed whispering of the crowd grew louder, now that they could see that Orlando was truly back among the living. Anxious suddenly to get away from the close crush into the open air where he could breathe again, Matt stumbled to his feet. The crowd parted around him, letting him pass, the people watching him in silent awe. The circle flowed back together as he collapsed again on the carpet, unnoticed. It had all happened so fast, and now it was over, and everything was back to the way it had been. The shadow of the hawk had come close, but it had missed, the great unseen bird of death swooping down on them out of nowhere and then vanishing as fast as it had appeared.

  He didn’t know how much time had passed when he felt a hand on his arm, warm and dry. He opened his eyes to find Anna kneeling by his side, her silk cape draped around the two of them like the wings of one of Fra Angelico’s angels. “How are you?” she asked.

  “I’m fine. How’s Orlando?”

  “He’ll be all right,” she answered, and then with a squeeze of his arm she was gone, easing back through the circle of onlookers. Matt, watching her go, saw that at the other side of the crowd Leandro was looking not at the boy or Anna but directly at him, unblinking, his eyes an empty black void.

  chapter 18

  Darkness held at bay by ranks of candles, the dining hall was a world apart, bounded by embroidered scenes of lost and requited love. In the soft play of shadow and light gold beckoned and jewels glowed, their fire unleashed, and laughter became the music of the night. This, Matt thought as he watched the lutenist launch the consort into a lilting galliard, is the golden voyage, and there is no other shore. There is no beginning and no end, there is only here and now.

  Seated at the head table, Anna listened to the duke. Her cape, dark blue with stars and comets embroidered in gold, was turned back to reveal a gray dress, gathered at the bodice with silver braids. Leandro, on her other side, was also listening, his face carved into a smile. He leaned over, interrupting Anna with a question.

  “No, it’s past the ridge,” Matt heard her reply as the music ended. “You’ve never been up there? The Belvedere Wood, we call it.”

  “Is it rocky?” Leandro asked.

  “Yes,” Anna replied.

  “And is there underbrush?”

  “It has never been cleared.”

  “A good place to look for boar.”

  “That’s where Orlando saw the manticore,” Cosimo announced.

  “A manticore, boy?” the duke asked. Anna smiled, glancing at her son, as the rest of the company laughed.

  Orlando shrugged and nodded.

  “A stag, no doubt,” Leandro said with an indulgent chuckle. “It’s happened to me, too. You see movement in the distance. Quick, just like that,” he said, snapping his fingers, “it’s there and gone. I thought I’d cornered a lion once, in the hills near Ancona. I was young, too, Orlando, not much older than you. Too young for hunting lions, but what did I know then? The folly of youth. I know just how you feel, you can do anything. We have to get you a decent bow. There had been reports, some lambs missing, a large track found. I was deep in the forest, and I saw something move. I knew it was the lion. I tracked it all morning and into the afternoon. I don’t mind admitting that I was scared, only a fool wouldn’t have been, but that didn’t stop me. I finally worked it into a defile, and thought to myself, I’ve got you now. I could hear it in the underbrush. It was huge. I closed in on it, slowly, very cautious”—he laughed—“you don’t want to mess around with a lion, for God’s sake—sorry, Father—and then finally got a clear sight of brown hide. Front shoulder, just for a second, but there was my chance. Pfffft, I let the arrow go—and I don’t know who was more surprised. Pure luck, I’m the first to admit it, but I got him right through the heart. I knew I had. He dropped like
a stone—but still I took my time. No hurry, it wasn’t going anywhere. Finally I got a good look at what I’d been tracking all day, this lion of mine. And there it was. The biggest mountain goat I ever saw!” He barked out a laugh and drank from his cup, shaking his head.

  The company also laughed. Orlando played with his eating knife.

  “What about the lion?” Matt asked as the laughter died away.

  “What lion?” Leandro replied, still chuckling.

  “You got the goat, but the lion got away. I just wondered what happened to it. Did anyone ever catch it?”

  “There was no lion.”

  “I must have misunderstood you. I thought you said there were reports of one, and missing lambs, and even a track.”

  “You heard right. Wolves, most likely.”

  “But you saw it yourself.”

  “It was a goat!”

  “A goat doesn’t look anything like a lion.”

  “That’s right. We might make a hunter out of you yet.”

  “What did you see, Orlando?” Matt asked.

  Orlando shrugged and didn’t look up.

  “You described it to me,” Anna said. “Don’t you remember?”

  “Of course I remember,” Orlando replied, and then fell silent again.

  “I’d like to hear what it was you saw,” Matt said.

  “What he thought he saw,” Leandro said.

  “Orlando?” Matt asked.

  “It was about the size of a horse. It had a body with fur like a lion, and green wings, and a scaly neck and long tail that ended in a point, like a pike. It had a dragon’s head. It made this sound I’ll never forget, just like a peacock. And it had claws. I could hear them on the rock.”

  “That’s not a manticore,” Tristano said. “A manticore has a human head on a lion’s body and a tail tipped by a furry ball filled with darts. They don’t have scales, and they most certainly don’t have wings. What you saw was a griffin.”