chapter 17

Rodrigo held a sword in both hands, the point raised. Dressed in chain mail over a leather jerkin, helmet on, he faced his double across the open slate floor.

“Go,” he commanded, and the two swords raised and then fell, the zing of the blades echoing off the suits that stood ranked against the wall in dumb witness to the match. The blades stopped as quickly as they had begun, and the two resumed their stance. “Again,” Rodrigo ordered, and the quick pas de deux was repeated.

“Isn’t it time for a break?” Matt asked, his voice slightly muffled and metallic behind the slitted visor of his helmet. “Aren’t you thirsty? I’m sweating like a pig in here.”

“Go!” Rodrigo snapped, and the blades again sang against each other. “You’re still doing that thing with your wrist,” he said. He dropped his sword and went over to stand next to him. “Watch me,” Rodrigo said. “No wrist.” He went through the motion again, with Matt watching.

“We’ve been at it since dawn,” Matt grumbled.

“You think I’m doing this for my own enjoyment?” Rodrigo asked with some exasperation. He unsnapped his visor and lifted the heavy helmet free of his head. His hair hung in wet locks around his forehead, a red line showing where the felt padding had supported the heavy steel. “Love comes with a heavy price,” he said. “And the way you’ve been going about it, the bill is going to come due any day now.”

“Who said anything about love?” Matt asked, taking off his own helmet. The air was almost deliciously cool after the suffocating closeness of the helmet.

Rodrigo snorted. “That’s all you haven’t done. Talk about it, thank God. Your demeanor has said enough. Luckily everyone thinks you’re Irish, so this air of fatuous good cheer seems perfectly normal. The only other reason a person acts so benighted is if he fell off a horse and landed on his helmet.”

“It’s a good thing it won’t ever happen to you,” Matt said. “I can’t even imagine what it would be like, a profound cynic in the throes of passion.”

“Cynicism and profundity can’t go together. It’s an impossibility of nature, like a virgin in Rome.”

Orlando, running by, came to a halt as he saw the two men dressed in armor, swords in their hands. He entered the room, followed by Cosimo, and went over to the racks of armor. “Let me try,” he said, taking down his cuirass.

“Me, too,” Cosimo piped up.

“You’re too small,” Orlando told him, cinching the buckles.

“That doesn’t sound like a good host to me,” Matt said. “What would Lucullus have to say?”

“We don’t have any suits his size,” Orlando said, taking down a sword as tall as he was.

“Wait a minute,” Rodrigo said, laughing. “That’s way too big for you.”

A shadow filled the doorway. “Now this is the way to start the day,” Leandro said, coming into the armory. He took the sword from Orlando, who surrendered it with reluctance. Leandro hefted the heavy steel in his hand, turning it from side to side to feel its balance, and then raised it up in both hands, as if readying an attack. He brought the blade down, the sharp edge slicing toward the exposed skin where Orlando’s neck joined his collarbone. Matt, leaning forward to protest, stopped as Leandro slowed the blade inches from the boy’s flesh, turning the blade sideways. Tapping him lightly with the blade, Leandro intoned, “I hereby make thee Sir Orlando.” He looked up at Matt with a smile as bright and chilling as the winter sun reflecting off snow. “Shall we?” he asked.

“But you’re not wearing any armor—” Matt protested.

“It’s just practice,” Leandro said.

Matt lifted his helmet to put it on.

“Don’t worry about that,” Leandro said. “We’ll be careful. Just something to loosen up.”

Matt put the helmet down. He raised his sword, holding it at the ready as Rodrigo had shown him. Leandro dropped his waist and flexed his legs, his thighs bunching under his black hose. He rose onto the balls of his feet. Matt, letting his opponent set the pace, braced himself for the first blow. It came like a gyrfalcon out of the sky, fierce and blindingly fast, leaving Matt’s sword resonating in his hands like a bell hit by cannonshot. He fell back a step, warily watching the circling blade, flashing like lightning against a lowering black thunderhead. It struck again, a blur of silver that slammed his blade so hard his hands numbed from the vibration, making him use all his strength just to hold the sword up.

Eyes black and unblinking, Leandro moved with a sinuous ease, not even breathing hard, twitching the tip of his blade. Matt’s followed sluggishly, like a fat bumblebee trying to chase a dragonfly. Leandro attacked again, slashing his sword hard against Matt’s and then circling his blade in one quick, fluid motion. Matt’s sword sprang from his numbed hands as though it had taken flight. It fell to the ground, the hilt banging and the blade bouncing with a dull, hollow echo. Unarmed, Matt stood helpless as the tip of Leandro’s blade, blunt and flat and razor sharp, hovered in the air inches from his throat.

Leandro relaxed, standing up and dropping the blade. “That was fun,” he said. “You should take a sword when you go out exploring in the afternoons. Or at least a crossbow. It can be dangerous to be in these woods unarmed. The wild boar can be ferocious.” He hung the sword back up on the wall and left, ignoring the others as though they had ceased to exist.

“Your wrists,” Rodrigo said with a weary patience. “Do you see why you have to keep them straight?”

It was only after entering the coolness of the pine forest that Matt realized how strong the sun had gotten in the brief half hour it had taken them to climb the ridge behind the villa. The voices of the party rose and mingled under the hushed canopy, linking the small groups into a loosely strung necklace as they descended the path that wound down the gentle slope on the other side. The murmur of conversation and laughter was accompanied by the music of the band of sackbuts and trumpets that brought up the rear of the procession.

“A sylvan glade of Arcadian beauty, such as might have been frequented by Demeter,” Tristano, the duke’s poet, remarked, looking about with the proprietary air of a true artist in the midst of nature.

“Indeed,” Matt replied.

“Laurel!” Tristano announced, leaning over to pluck a white blossom from a low branch as they passed. “Mortal victim of an immortal’s desire!” he declaimed. “Perhaps even this very tree the one which encases her gentle heart. Ah, chaste virgin of an idyllic paradise, she would rather live as a tree than suffer herself to be profaned by even such a one as Apollo.”

“Although one might ask if it is any better to spend the next hundred years or so having bits of you plucked off by the random admirer,” Rodrigo said. “Or to have one’s role in love reduced to providing shade for another’s dalliance.”

“What about Actaeon?” Matt interjected. “Talk about being in the wrong place at the wrong time. You go out hunting in the woods and you happen to see a woman bathing in a pool, and what happens? You get turned into a stag and eaten by your own dogs.”

The splashing of a river, at first a distant murmur indistinguishable from the breeze soughing through the tops of the trees far overhead, had grown as they descended the hill. Loud enough now that Tristano had to raise his voice to declaim, the rushing water could at last be seen, sparkling and dancing under the sun as it coursed over the rocks. Ahead, a woman laughed; not Anna, Matt thought, but perhaps at something she had said.

The ground leveled, the path becoming springy under the soft soles of Matt’s shoes. He ducked his head to avoid the low branches of a fig tree, white with blossoms, as they emerged from the wood into a meadow, bordered on the other side by a wide pool. Overhung by the drooping branches of hemlocks that rose up the steep bank on the other side, it was only partly in the sun, the surface unbroken but for the occasional tracks of water bugs. The river could be heard, out of sight in both directions, but in the small clearing it barely moved. The long grass, a bright green where it could be seen, was almost completely covered by carpets on which stools and tables had been set, with servants holding umbrellas over the ladies’ heads to shield them from the sun. A pavilion of gaily striped linen had been erected by the deep pool where the wood ended, while on the other side of a clearing the band played a lively frotolla near a long trestle table on which platters heaped with food had been set out, framed by tall cornucopias of fresh fruit. Guests were gathered around, loading their brightly glazed majolica plates with bread and pale yellow cheese, joints of chicken and olives. Handed a goblet, Matt drank deeply, relishing the cool sparkling white wine, so fresh that it was like cider just beginning to turn hard.

The duke, standing with the emissary of the sultan, held up his hand, and the music and animated buzz of conversation came to a halt. The group bowed their heads as Bonifacio, the rotund priest, intoned a brief prayer in Latin.

“Where is Virgil’s cave?” Matt asked Rodrigo, looking around the meadow.

“Up there,” Rodrigo replied, pointing halfway up the opposite ridge.

Matt craned his neck to look up. “Up there?”

“It offers a spectacular vista,” Rodrigo said. “Or so I have been told. I have seen enough of Virgil’s caves to know that they invariably offer a spectacular vista. Perhaps Calliope won’t descend unless she finds a setting worthy of her presence. Or else, as with refining ore into metal, it requires a certain expenditure of physical energy to provide the heat for the creative process to occur. Considering how much Virgil had to write, it’s no wonder he spent half his life scrambling up precipices. We might consider the converse as proof of this; indolence, and the concomitant lack of inspiration …” he said thoughtfully, his gaze resting on Tristano, who was regaling a small group backed so close to the bank of the pool they teetered as they nodded, their eyes vainly searching for some escape. “If you want to see for yourself, find Orlando,” Rodrigo added. “He loves the climb.”

“Let’s eat,” Matt said, spying Anna momentarily alone by the long table. Here, in a crowd, would be the perfect time to exchange a few words. With Rodrigo following he eased his way through the knots of people busily eating and talking. Anna appeared and disappeared from sight, her red damascene silk dress and yellow cape standing out like a rare flower in the lush tropical jungle of the other brilliantly resplendent costumes. She seemed to be aware of his approach, even though she never looked directly at him, for now that he was almost upon her she was turning in his direction as though some unspoken communication had passed between them to make their meeting seem casual and accidental. As he came up next to her he saw that she was talking to the priest, who had joined her. Francesca stood by, watchful and quiet, her eyes following the conversation. Bonifacio listened, his face working with the words he was rehearsing in his head like a troop of tumblers chafing to take the stage.

Matt bowed as he joined the group. “Contessa,” he said.

“We were discussing angels,” Anna said to him with a welcoming smile. “I was saying that sometimes during Father Bonifacio’s services my mind wanders. I have noticed this to be true of everyone else at one time or another. It is not your words,” she said to the priest, “which are of inestimable value and spoken with true poetry and clarity of insight. Rather, it is that the angels that surround us on the walls of the chapel are of such beauty that is beyond my power to ignore them.”

“Gabriel,” Matt suggested.

“Yes,” Anna agreed. “Such an exquisite form, such an expression of beauty in his features. I find myself distracted from the word of God by the irresistible power of his beauty. How can these divine angels, messengers of God, lure us into the same transgression that the snake did in the Garden, to trade the contemplation of the divine for the profane gratifications of sensual beauty, no matter how elevated or refined?”

“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 interested 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.