The Botticelli Secret - By Marina Fiorato Page 0,165
in Venice, of my mother’s story, of my own tale of the baby in the bottle. I told him of my father, of Signor Cristoforo, of my Venetian education and all I had learned there. The one detail I did not share was the episode of my escape and the fate of Bonaccorso Nivola—I did not feel ready to share that hideous truth. I did, however, recount with pride the meaning of the thirty-two roses indicating the compass rose, and the wind rose which led me to the Zephyrus horse.
He smote himself a couple of times on the forehead, when all was revealed, exclaiming, “Of course!” and he even smiled again. “All satisfactorily maritime solutions, appropriate for the city of Venice. I was following the wrong course, in prison and at the herbarium too; I was looking only at the Venice figure, the figure of Chloris—your . . . mother. I did not recognize then that the other figures would hold clues to the following cities—for all the Naples clues were contained in the figure of Fiammetta, if you recall, and all the Roman clues in the figure of Semiramide, Venus. It did not occur to me that the clues held in the figure of Flora would read in Venice.”
“Botticelli is getting cleverer as we get closer.” My statement made no sense, but he took my meaning.
“Yes. Myself and Brother Nicodemus were attempting to recall the flowers that issued from Chloris’s mouth—without the cartone before us it was no mean feat.”
“I had a look at them too,” said I, and took out the cartone and unrolled it, weighted the corners, joyful as we leaned over the painting as we always used to do, as I thought we’d never do again. Our heads were almost touching. I pointed to the blooms dropping from Chloris’s mouth as I spoke. “Fiordaliso, anenome, occhiocento, and rose, but I did not know the Latin names, just the Tuscan common ones, and could not make any words or meanings from them.”
“Ah, then we were right. The good brother and I guessed at rose—Rosa centifolia—cornflower, or fiordaliso, as you say, which is Centaurea cyanus in Latin, and anemone, which is Anemone nemorosa. And occhiocento, also known as centocchio, or periwinkle, which is vinca or Vinca minor in Latin.”
“Madonna. That’s an even worse collection of letters. R-CC-C-A-N-V. Or V-M.” I showed off my new skill.
“Or perhaps the true divination of the meaning is as simple as this—that there were four classifications of flowers and that there are four winds. ‘Twas perhaps another signpost to guide you to the wind rose and the four wind horses that crown the basilica of Venice.”
I wasn’t sure—it all seemed a bit simple for Botticelli, who had proved himself to be clever as the Devil.
But Brother Guido wasn’t finished.
“Brother Nicodemus did add, moreover, that occhiocento is known colloquially as the ‘flower of death.’ It might be interpreted, therefore, that Chloris may have an evil intent, and her enterprise might end in one death, or many.”
I shivered, remembering, once again, the unfortunate Bonaccorso Nivola. It would certainly not surprise me if my mother came out of this with more blood on her hands, the evil bitch.
“Maybe the meaning will become clear later, like with the compass thing.”
“Indeed. But even without decoding these flowers, we are now two cities past Venice. And even without reading the flowers, we now have the map!” he finished in triumph. “Let’s see it, for we do not have long.”
“Yesss,” I said slowly. “I don’t want to piss in your polenta, but this wooden roll isn’t what you think. You keep saying a map. But it isn’t a map, at least not like any I’ve ever seen. And in Venice, I saw quite a few, believe me, studied them too.” Thanks to Signor Cristoforo.
“Nonsense,” he said swiftly. “Let me see the thing.”
I shrugged “All right.” I pulled out the wooden roll and laid it in his hand. He examined the strange marks and squiggles all the way round the thing, frowned, then his face cleared. “Oh, but of course. It must be hollow. Documents are often carried in such things.”
As if that wouldn’t have occurred to me. I felt the old familiar irritation rising, and felt almost comforted to know that the traits that annoyed me about my friend were as alive and well as he was. He looked closely at the ends and I said naught—let him find out for himself.