The Botticelli Secret - By Marina Fiorato Page 0,169

an instant. “Well. It is the same snake all right. Six coils—not seven as we might expect—north facing, I think, directly above the gate. Take a look.”

I looked down from the same spot. ‘Twas a difficult angle, and there was little light save that from the guards’ torches. To be honest, I’d gotten a clearer impression of the carving in the heartbeat I’d passed under it in my mother’s carriage, for at least that was by day. I could see the curves of the coils, the evil fangs, the yawning jaws stretched wide to devour. But the serpent was giving no other secrets away. I stared so hard I began to feel dizzy and feared I would fall. I jumped back down to the battlement, shrugged.

Brother Guido shook his head. “We are being blind,” he said.

“Perhaps it’s something you can only see from below,” I suggested.

“Or perhaps the snake just represents the Sforzas—and this castle as the headquarters of the new army—and nothing else.”

“That doesn’t help us find the map,” I snapped. “Let me try again.” I jumped and craned over, the stones of the battlements crushing my ribs once more. But this time I saw something else. Another panel, another carving, beside the snake. “There’s something here!” I hissed, snakelike myself. “A figure of a man. No—he has a halo. A saint.”

“Let me see.” Brother Guido almost shoved me from my position. “You are right.” His head reappeared.

“Could you see who it was?”

“I do not need to see. I know. It’s Sant’Ambrogio, patron saint of Lombardy. The people here invoke him for everything from a dying horse to a lost cat; they name their children after him, call on him when they stub their toe. It is he, for certain.”

He jumped down to crouch in the shadows by my side.

“And what was his story?” I demanded. “What was he famous for?”

“Nothing. Except—” He stopped, turned his extraordinary eyes upon me.

“Except?”

“He made a blind man see!” he breathed.

“Really?” My voice was heavy with irony, for I had no truck with miracles. They were just another way for the church to make money.

“That’s it!” He forgot to whisper and I had to shush him. “The saint is going to make us see!”

Despite my doubts, I felt the old familiar excitement build in my chestspoon. “How’s he going to do that? And where?”

“Easy. Let us go and ask him.”

“He’s still here, in Milan?”

“Never left.”

“Explain, please.”

“Il Moro himself worships at the monastery church of Santa Maria delle Grazie, and he requires his soldiers to be devout—a sop to His Holiness the Pope, no doubt.” His voice dripped with irony like the serpent’s fangs. “They say he built Milan on a sword and a crucifix.”

“So?”

“So we worship at the larger church—needs must for our numbers—of Sant’Ambrogio, Saint Ambrose, hard by Santa Maria delle Grazie, not far from here. The saint is still there—his mummified body is there, in a tomb with two lesser saints—and can be visited in the crypt! Everyone in Milan knows the legend. A blind man was restored to sight by looking on the mummified body of Sant’Ambrogio. ‘By virtue of these remains the darkness of that blind man was scattered, and he saw the light of day,’ “ he finished in triumph.

“Well, when do you next attend?” I asked impatiently. “Sunday is . . .” I began to count on my fingers.

“Six days away,” he finished. “Too long. And I would have a regiment around me. We must move faster than that.”

He leaned over the battlement again, and before I could ask him what he did, he hailed one of the guards below.

“Hey, Luca!”

A jovial voice from below. “What ho? Oh, Guido, it’s you. Thought you were watching that pretty Venetian piece.”

“Locked in and snoring.” Brother Guido was doing a good job of mimicking the bluff, curt tones of a soldier—curbing his words and blunting his pretty speech. “Are you watching her next?”

“Yes, Vespers to Terce. ‘Tis no trouble, I’d still be watching her in my dreams even if I were abed.” I could picture him grabbing his crotch. The other guard laughed.

“Look. Let me do your shift. Then tomorrow, go double for me?” Brother Guido wheedled. “There’s this girl in Porta Ticinese.”

“Didn’t you used to be a monk?”

“Used to be. Why d’you think I gave it up?”

More laughter. “All right then, Brother, you’re on. I’ll be glad of the rest.”

“Dio benice.” Brother Guido sketched an ironic blessing and sang in plainsong, making them laugh again, then he was back