The Botticelli Secret - By Marina Fiorato Page 0,181

like a sack of polenta, until I caught the rhythm, but my haunchbones would be sore for a sennight, I was sure. Brother Guido, apparently, was taught horse manship in his noble education, for he rode fluidly, his hands light on the reins, his weight shifting expertly. We thundered along the torchlit passage, until I saw the last obstacle in our way, twin guards between us and the night sky beyond the walls. Without stopping, Brother Guido took out the snake plaque once more.

“Way in the name of il Moro! I must get the dogaressa to safety!”

The guards hesitated, then separated their pikes—they had little choice for the night-black charger had not been told to stop and would have barreled through both of them, taking them with us if need be.

We burst out into the starlit night and thundered across the barco, crossing the hunting plains as if we, too, were quarry.

We rode on without looking back for perhaps an hour, for the distant bells rang behind us as the ground began to climb. The horse, battle hardened and supremely fit, never slackened pace until we reached a wooded hill with a silver stream, and Brother Guido stopped to let the stallion drink. He slid expertly to the ground, lifted me down, and let the creature dip its head with a grateful whicker. I looked back on the city we’d left, still not far enough away.

“Where are we going?”

“At the moment?”

“No, I meant—”

“I know what you meant. Genoa, that’s the last city.”

“All right, then shouldn’t we be going west?”

He turned to look at me properly.

“Because if you look,” I babbled, “see, there’s Polaris, the North Star, and in the compass rose, well, we should be heading north by northwest.”

He was clearly surprised. But smiled. “You’re right. But it was imperative to get away from the city, for to steal il Moro’s horse alone would mean death, even without our other transgressions. Now that there seems to be no immediate danger of pursuit, we will bear west.”

We sat side by side on the freezing turf, gazing back on Milan together. The city walls, silver in the moonlight, snaked around the city in a jealous coil, keeping the citizens in and the world out.

“It even looks like a serpent, doesn’t it?” I ventured to my silent companion.

“Yes. Nehushtan. Or Aaron’s rod, which—”

He stopped, as if struck. Drew in his breath.

“What?”

‘Jesu.’

“What?”

“I know what they’re up to.”

“Who?”

“Who do you think? The Seven, of course. Blessed Mary and all the saints . . .” He was shocked back into old speech patterns.

“Could we hold the Scripture for a moment? What are they planning?”

“Aaron’s rod. I was right about that at least.”

“Come on!”

“Aaron’s rod became a serpent. At the Day of Judgment it would crawl back to the valley of Josaphat.”

“I said hold the Scripture.”

“But that’s it. In Joel 3, Verse 2, we read: “I will gather together all nations, and will bring them down into the valley of Josaphat.” I will gather together all nations.”

“Sorry, you lost me.”

He took me by the shoulders and fixed me with those eyes. “Do you remember, when we were in the Pantheon in Rome, just before the eclipse, and we were admiring the marble floor? The marble came from all over the Roman empire, set into one floor. I told Don Ferrente it was a statement of imperium writ in marble.”

“So?”

“So, this, this.” Without asking, he shoved his hand down my bodice and pulled out the cartone and shook it in my face. “This, the Primavera, is a statement of imperium writ in paint.”

“I still don’t get you.”

“Lorenzo and the Seven plan to build an empire. Just like the Romans did. They plan to bring back those days when our peninsula was one, and the peninsula went on to rule the world from west to east. I will gather together all nations. They have an army, a fleet, a bottomless bank. They plan to overrun the whole peninsula, bring their nations together and build a new Italia.”

“That was it!” The word burst upon me like a sunbeam.

“What?” Now it was Brother Guido’s turn to be confused.

I couldn’t get the words out fast enough. “The silver angel. The coin I found in the mine in Bolzano. The one I dropped and my mother found in the carriage. On the reverse. Sol Invictus and Lorenzo on one side. And on the other—one word. Italia.”

“There it is. Writ in silver. Judas’s metal for seven treacherous villains.” He shook his head, then, “What’s