The Botticelli Secret - By Marina Fiorato Page 0,190

word faro ends in O; it ends with death. We said that the enterprise would end in death, one or many. Well, it will, if we don’t get a move on.”

Signor Cristoforo may not have followed the reasoning, but he took the meaning. “Bartolomeo,” he said, never moving his eyes from me, “when you go to the faro, go armed. Tell the militia.”

Signor Bartolomeo nodded once and was gone. The three of us were hard on his heels. Outside, on the waterfront, twilight was already beginning to thicken. Brother Guido put a hand on the bridle of il Moro’s horse without a word, gentling him, while Signor Cristoforo untied the reins. Suddenly it was all real—now we hurried to save not nameless French families in some disinterested crusade but living, breathing Genoese who were a sunset away from the fire and the sword. My skirts brushed the Genoese brat who had watched our horse for a coin. “Scusi,” I said absently. She looked up and smiled at me, the dying sun catching eyes as green as mine. She was beautiful. I smiled back as Signor Cristoforo hauled me up to the saddle. I put my arms round Signor Cristoforo’s waist while Brother Guido mounted behind us. “Hurry,” I urged.

46

Signor Cristoforo led us swiftly, unerringly, to the great piebald Palazzo Ducale, seat of the Doge of Genoa. As we approached the gate house the daughter of the Mocenigos and the son of the della Torres shrank into the twilight shadows, together with their mount. I stroked the velvet nose of the Duke of Milan’s horse, willing him to be quiet while the lowborn son of Genoa went forth as our ambassador. From where we hid we could easily hear the exchange.

“You again,” said the first of two guards. As the doge’s personal retinue, they looked a much tougher breed than the hapless pair we had seen at the gates. “I thought il Doge told you to sling your hook.” His fisherman’s slang seemed oddly fitting.

“Hang on, Cristoforo,” said the second guard, mock serious. “I think I’ve got a couple of soldi. Look”—coins clanked—“how far will this get you in your expedition?”

The first guard laughed. “Well, it would be churlish for me not to help too. Let me see.” He dug in his leather purse. “How’s this? If I give you this grosso, maybe you could sail as far as the edge of the world and fuck off over the side.” They fell about laughing.

We heard Signor Cristoforo’s voice, low, persuasive, dignified. “Today I do not come to ask, but to give. I’m here to warn the doge against a coming attack. An attack that will see you and your families dead if you do not heed me.”

“Who’s attacking?”

“How do you know of this?” They spoke as one.

Signor Cristoforo answered the second question first. “A merchant contact in Venice. Does a bit of spying on the side. You know how hard it is to raise funds for expeditions.” There was an ironic weight to his voice. He had their attention and now addressed the former question. “He says there’s an alliance. Venice, Pisa, and more too. Coming by sea and land.” I noted that he named Genoa’s traditional enemies first and admired his cunning.

The first guard spoke to the second, less sure now. “He looks serious, Salva.”

“He always looks serious. Beggars always do.”

“Still, I’d hate to be the fellow that knew of this and didn’t tell the doge,” put in Signor Cristoforo breezily. “He’d be hanging upside down within a sennight. If he survived the attack, that is.”

That did it. The second guard pushed himself off the wall with a sigh, opened a small, man-sized door in the bottom of the great double doors, and called within.

“Giuseppe! Cover me. I’m going upstairs.”

A young and pimply guard took Salva’s place—they were clearly not as well manned here as they appeared. The three stood in silence for some moments. I don’t think I breathed once in all that time. Presently the second guard was back.

“You’re out of luck, Cristoforo. D’you know what he said to me?” The fellow leaned in and gave our friend the benefit of a rotten grin full of teeth as brown as medlars. “Il Doge said, ‘I’d rather give audience to the first whore you find on the street than Signor Cristoforo, for at least she will render me some service for my money. So being as how il Doge is not a one for jokes, you’ll forgive me if