months to contemplate the scene, we could never know which flowers hold the secret to which the pope referred.”
But the herbalist was rubbing his knuckles together till his old bones cracked like flints. “Now, Brother,” he chided. “God gave us our intellects to be challenged. Nothing is impossible. It is likely,” he went on, “that if this picture hides a code, and if a secret is to be found within the flowers, not all the flowers we see here are relevant. Some will be mere decoration or decoy. I think that to interrogate all the flowers would be an exercise in futility.”
“Maybe we could count the flowers on each character,” I ventured. “That would give you eight numbers, not counting Cupid. Perhaps the ‘secret’ is a date, or something.” I thought this a pretty good idea.
Brother Nicodemus showed no signs of having heard me but Brother Guido replied. “Such a scheme is problematic—for how are we to assign the flowers to each character? For instance, when Flora scatters flowers, do we count the flowers that she scatters or only the ones touching her person. And in the case of Chloris the nymph, do we note the flowers that fall from her mouth, or no?” He noted my crestfallen face. “But the idea of a number is a strong one. Perhaps—”
The herbalist held up his ancient hand. “Such debate may not be necessary. There may be other ways to discover which blooms are truly relevant. Think, my brother,” he urged, “what exactly was said that night beneath the arch of Septimius Severus in Rome?”
I was impressed with the old monk’s recall, for I could barely remember the name of the arch myself.
Brother Guido thought hard. “They were speaking in Latin, which fitted well with the whole tenor of the evening—the arch, the guards, the city. Pope Sixtus said these exact words: Flora manus secretum.”
“Then ‘flowers hold the secret,’ “ translated the herbalist. “Very well. Then we have our answer.” We both turned to him. “If you were to look at this painting for the first time, which figure would you say has the most to do with flowers?”
“Flora,” we both answered as one.
“Exactly. She is covered in flowers from head to foot, and scatters flowers too. Her name, of course, is the most suggestive—Flora—Latin for ‘flowers.’ ”
He folded his hands like an attorney and paced as he addressed us.
“Your problem, as I see it, is that the riddle ‘Flora manus secretum—Flora holds the secret’ can mean one of four things. One: the answer is in ‘flora’—as in ‘flora and fauna’—the Latin collective name for all plants, so meaning all the flowers, all the herbs, and all the trees and fruits in the picture. We have already discussed how protracted it would be to investigate every bloom we see here. Two: that the answer lies somewhere in Flora the figure. Three: that the answer lies in Florence the city. As you have identified that each figure represents a city, this is very plausible, since Florence is the home of the Primavera panel itself. Or four, and most incredible, that the answer lies”—he looked at me for the second time—“with you.”
I looked about me, in case someone had entered the room behind us. “Me?” It was the bray of an ass.
Brother Guido turned his blue gaze on me.
“You,” repeated the herbalist. “You are the model for Flora, are you not?”
“Well, yes, but—”
“Then you may hold the secret; you may have been chosen for a reason.”
“I think we may discount that,” put in Brother Guido quickly. “Signorina Vetra was chosen through her . . . association with a wealthy friend of Botticelli’s.”
“Ah, yes. Signor Benvolio, God rest his soul.” The herbalist’s benediction was not entirely sincere, and I suspected that somewhat of Bembo’s reputation had penetrated even these hallowed walls.
“Very well,” continued Brother Nicodemus. “I think, then, we may concentrate our efforts on the figure of Flora. She is clearly the most floral of characters. Chloris is perhaps the next most adorned, as flowers drop like truths from her mouth. She reaches for Flora’s sleeve—see? I think we may assume that Chloris and Flora are intimately connected.”
“Perhaps Chloris is a city very close to Florence?” suggested Brother Guido.
“I think so—perhaps Prato, maybe Imola.”
I had no opinion on this, since before last month, I had never been outside the city, unless you count coming from Venice as a baby in a bottle.
“But to Flora,” urged the herbalist. “What can we say of the figure, aside