The Botticelli Secret - By Marina Fiorato Page 0,188

be an unstoppable force. Wealthy, with soldiers who had cut their teeth on years of warfare, and with four great navies—Venice, Naples, Pisa, and, greatest of all, Genoa.”

“I very much wonder, if we have battled each other for so long, that there is anything left to unite,” said I.

“More, much more than the sum of its parts,” Brother Guido assured me. “For our states have not just developed their military capabilities, they have made huge cultural leaps too. Men like Poliziano, who wrote of the Primavera, and Botticelli, who painted it, are the sons born of such competition. Each state needs a glorious court to outdo her neighbors. And to military and cultural brilliance, add the power of God himself,” continued Brother Guido grimly, “for His Holiness the Pope is the head of the Catholic Church.” He spoke of the office with contempt. “They could rule the world.”

“As they did once before,” I breathed, recalling Don Ferrente’s hymn to the glory of the Roman empire.

Brother Guido nodded. “The pope is a crucial figure in the conspiracy. He legitimizes the scheme in the eyes of the world, and, for his connivance, I think Lorenzo has promised that Rome will be the capital of the new nation. For see how Venus stands at the center of the scene, the highest figure save Cupid.”

“And,” I added, “she is dressed as a queen and holding her hand high in greeting.”

“And Lorenzo de’ Medici is at the root of all. The needle in the compass!” reflected Signor Cristoforo in a voice of wonder.

I thought on his metaphor, of Lorenzo as a needle showing the others the way. My eyes strayed to Mercury’s sword: sharp, pointed, metallic. Showing the others the way. “Now we understand why Mercury’s sword is pointing toward Simonetta,” I burst out. “The enemy is Genoa.”

“We should consider, too, the nature of that sword,” added Brother Guido, pulling his own weapon from its sheath. The blade sang faintly and we all looked upon the deadly curve of the steel blade. “It is a harpe scimitar in the Eastern style, a Turkish design borrowed from our vanquished enemy of the Battle of Otranto. The Turks were expelled by the Genoese.”

“And Simonetta wears a cross of pearls at her throat; the emblem of her city,” I finished.

“And how did you know the others for conspirators,” broke in Signor Bartolomeo, “these exalted men when you met them all?”

“Some of them damned themselves with their own words,” answered Brother Guido. “Some gave others away. But all of them wear a gold band, with the nine Medici palle, on their thumbs.”

“Their left thumbs, yes?” It was Signor Cristoforo that spoke, suddenly and urgently, and Brother Guido turned amazed blue eyes upon him.

“Yes. How did you know?”

“Look closely. All the seven conspirator figures have their left thumbs hidden.”

I looked at each of the figures in the scene in turn, unable to believe my eyes.

Madonna.

How had we missed it?

Flame-haired Pisa hid her left thumb as she clasped Simonetta-Genoa’s hand. Fiammetta-Naples hid her left thumb behind the fingers of her sister Pisa. Semiramide-Roma hid her left thumb in the scarlet swags of her wedding cloak. I, Flora, had my left thumb hidden below my skirt of roses. ChlorisVenice’s left thumb was hid behind the hand she reached forth to clasp her daughter’s arm. Zephyrus-Bolzano, the blue-winged sprite, had his left thumb hid in the gown of the nymph that he ravished. Mercury-Botticelli-Milan hid his left thumb behind his hip. Only Genoa—only Simonetta—exposed her left thumb to view, holding it high and proud, inviting the eye, linked with the right thumb of Naples, one of the highest points in the scene. Even tiny Cupid, our guide through the painting, had his little left thumb hid behind his bow.

“By the rood, you’re right! You are absolutely right!” Brother Guido breathed.

Now I had seen it, it was obvious. “It even looks wrong.”

“Precisely,” agreed Brother Guido. “And we know that in this painting, nothing is an accident. Botticelli is the finest artist of his generation. His understanding and execution of the human form is second to none. And yet here, some of the hands look positively awkward. The right hand of Zephyrus, in particular, looks incorrect—surely if you were to grab at someone in anger or passion one would use the thumb to grasp her gown.” His cheeks heated a little and he moved on swiftly. “Even Semiramide’s left hand does not grasp the scarlet cloak as it should. But Botticelli would never paint someone