The Botticelli Secret - By Marina Fiorato Page 0,152

What may we observe? Just begin with whatever comes to mind.

In a very little time I had quite a list:

He had wings.

His hair was blue.

His wings were blue.

His gown was blue, and curled like the sea.

His flesh, now I came to look at it, was more silver than blue.

His feet were not visible.

His cheeks puffed out.

A silver stream of wind issued from his lips.

His eyes looked into Chloris’s and nowhere else.

He grabbed at Chloris, intent on ravishment.

He was behind some laurel branches.

He was before some orange trees.

He was higher than Chloris, or any other figure in the picture save Cupid.

Behind his left knee, and the trunks of the oranges and laurels, was a silver-blue mountain range.

Even without my educated friend I was able to draw some conclusions from what I saw. Zephyrus was higher than Venice—Bolzano was in the mountains, a fact supported by the silver-blue mountain range at Zephyrus’s knee, and by the wings to lift him high. Bolzano was northwest of Venice (I blessed Signor Cristoforo’s instruction) and possibly represented some sort of threat, for Zephyrus was swooping down from the mountains. Perhaps to attack? And the color blue? That was easy—I only had to look at my poor fingers where they held the cartone. Blue as Boreas, or rather, Zephyrus. The meaning of the laurels and oranges was also clear; he was between the laurel, Lorenzo di Pierfrancesco’s emblem, and the orange, Lorenzo the Magnificent’s emblem. Zephyrus was girdled all around with Medici foliage, buried deep in a Medici plot.

I could not guess why his skin was silver, unless ‘twere some reference to water. The wings, too, puzzled me. Did they indicate a certain bird, or was Zephyrus just depicted so because he was a wind and traveled on the ether? I began counting feathers, mindful that Flora’s thirty-two roses had led me, finally, to the compass rose. But that had been hard enough; this was impossible. I gave up quickly and instead spent some little time trying to interpret the expression that the West Wind wore, and the nymph Chloris too. The legend, according to Signor Cristoforo, went that Zephyrus ravished Chloris, got her with child, and the nymph gave birth to the wind horses. But although his posture to her was very threatening—swooping down from on high—and although, to be sure, she seemed to be running and reaching for the protection of Flora, there was, on second look, more tenderness in the eyes of the couple than you might think. Chloris looked almost mesmerized, both desiring and fearing all at once—like a virgin, touched for the very first time. Zephyrus, too, though serious in his mien, inclined his head to his lady. And the hand he placed upon her was relaxed and soft, not grabbing, for the thumb was not visible—in a violent act surely it would have appeared to help the fingers grab gown and flesh. No, this was more of a . . . a caress. I wondered if this was a union of mutual benefit, much like the puzzling conference I had heard downstairs. I think my mother needed Sigismund and feared him. And the archduke needed Venice’s connivance for some reason, but meant the city no harm. Rather he wished for the relationship to have an issue, to bear fruit. We knew my mother was Chloris—’twas plain from the likeness and from her own admission—and now I knew we must cast Archduke Sigismund as the actor who would represent Zephyrus in our play. If only I had been able to divine what their joint venture might be! But my mother had couched her words so carefully and caged their meanings—as I had guessed, she did not trust me an inch since I had planned my flight. I almost crumpled the cartone in frustration. Not for the first time I cursed my impulse to escape from Venice—I had bought a whole heap of trouble for more than just myself. I should have trusted Brother Guido to come for me. And now here I was in prison, shut out of the conference that was taking place downstairs, ignorant of what connected Bolzano and Venice, two members of the Seven.

‘Twas lucky I had almost balled the cartone in my fist for the key turned in the lock and I was obliged to shove the painting down my front. A rosy apple of a goodwife entered, wearing a gray house robe and a linen wimple. She was almost hid behind a huge soft mass of