The Botticelli Secret - By Marina Fiorato Page 0,113

conspiracy revolves around the waging of war and hundreds upon thousands of warships which we have seen with our own eyes.”

“Perhaps,” agreed Brother Nicodemus. “But I would not at once think of this rose in connection with war, but with healing. I use it again and again in my work here.”

“For which maladies?” questioned Brother Guido quickly.

“It strengtheneth the heart, the stomach, the liver, and the retentive faculty; is good against all kinds of fluxes, prevents vomiting, stops tickling coughs, and is of service in consumption. Of course, I use many classes of the rose here in the herbarium, usually in the distillation of rose water for these treatments—the properties I mention are not specific to this type, the Rosa centifolia.”

“Rosa centifolia,” Brother Guido mused. “ ‘The rose of a hundred leaves.’ “ He translated for my benefit. “Perhaps the name of the rose is telling us to look for a number. Codes and cryptograms are oft writ in numbers, perhaps that is the answer that lies within the roses. If we find a number, we may find a date, or some such.”

“But, Brother, the classification centifolia is not to be taken literally,” warned the herbalist. “These roses have any number of leaves, varying each time from bloom to bloom.”

“So much for the leaves—how many petals does the rose have?”

We looked at the two flowers before us—even those two seemed to differ in the number of petals. “Again,” confirmed the herbalist, “different in every case. Perhaps it is the number Flora holds which has some significance.”

“And the number she casts away,” added Brother Guido.

I could swear I had said something like this about two hours ago, but I held my tongue as we crowded round to count the roses in Flora’s arms. The task was nigh on impossible, even when Brother Nicodemus donned his eyeglasses once more.

We argued hotly about whether to count whole blooms or partial petals, and whether there would be more blossoms lying in layers underneath. But at the end we came to a number of thirty-one. Our greatest debate sprang from the rose between Flora and Venus. It was exactly the same type as the ones in Flora’s arms, but it was impossible to tell from the cartone whether it grew from the ground, and thus could not be counted as part of the bundle, or whether it fell from Flora’s arms, and as such was one of “her” roses. We could not see whether the stalk of the flower was above the petals, indicating a fall, or below, growing from the ground.

“Does it matter?” I asked helpfully.

Brother Guido stroked his chin. “I think yes. Botticelli does nothing by accident.”

We both turned to the herbalist, where he bent almost double above the painting. We held our breath, hoping that he would have an answer. He did, but not the one we wished. Brother Nicodemus rubbed the white frill of his hair where it cleared his cowl at the back of his neck. “Well, and now we have an obstacle. I cannot tell because the cartone is too small to see the detail. The code is designed to be read from the real panel painting of the Primavera, which is a hundred times bigger than this parchment, which has, if I am not mistaken, seen some adventures of its own.”

He was right. Shipwrecked and sweated upon for longer than a month, the cartone had seen better days, and the paint between Flora and Venus, where the crucial rose grew or fell, was beginning to crack and fade.

Brother Guido seemed to lose a couple of inches in height. “Then it is hopeless. The painting is probably installed at the Medici villa at Castello by now, which has a hundred guards. We must just hope that this final rose is not significant.”

“But wait—did you not say the Primavera was a wedding gift?” asked Brother Nicodemus urgently.

“I am sure of it.”

“Then there is no problem. The painting will be at the wedding.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Eh?” Brother Guido and I spoke together, in our different styles.

“It is Tuscan tradition that the gifts await the happy couple at the narthex of the church,” the herbalist explained. “Depend upon it, the painting will be there—presented or displayed with grand gesture. ‘Tis the Medici way. And this in itself suggests to me the last rose is significant.”

“How so?”

“From what you have told me, all of the Seven will be at this wedding. And the painting too. They may all read what lies in Flora’s