The Botticelli Secret - By Marina Fiorato Page 0,70
have the honor to be invited to the nuptials, a sen-night from today.”
All right. Did that mean that Lorenzo di Pierfrancesco would be traveling south to marry at the home of his bride? Where in the stinking south would we be bound next? I felt a strange foreboding.
“So we raise our glasses to the health of the bride and groom, to the benefits of our alliance, and for the progress of our court on the morrow to the wedding. In fact, ‘tis not so bad a thing that we shall be absent from Naples for this little while, for, as you all know, our Blessed Saint Gennaro’s blood did not liquefy this year.”
Now this I did not understand at all. I looked around the court for signs of laughter at a joke that was too lofty for my understanding. But there was nothing but grave nods of assent, which set the noble heads bobbing like corks in a barrel. I looked back to our host impatiently. For the love of Vero Madre, just tell us where we are bound!
“So I give you our sojourn to the beauteous city of Florence.”
My wine was already in my mouth and I spat it straight back out in a rainshower. Brother Guido gripped my arm till it hurt and the court stilled and looked to me, the king included. “Hiccups,” I murmured. “Sorry.”
The king’s quizzical glance thawed to a smile. “Such things are easily forgiven in the face of such beauty.”
I relaxed outwardly, but my innards were in turmoil. Florence? Were we to return to the lion’s mouth, and certain death? I looked hard at Brother Guido, but his sunny countenance remained unchanged, and he patted my hand in assurance. I looked down at my lap, trying to suppress my feelings as the king continued.
“And now, I will reveal a little gift that I have made with my own hands for the happy couple, a great honor to show my friendship to the Medici family.”
With a flourish the ever-present majordomo Santiago whipped a black silk napkin from a bumpy object in the center of the table. It was a carving, beautifully rendered and quite finished, of the Nativity scene. We all craned closer. It was a little wooden miracle, for every detail was present. The babe, laughing, held up his starlike hands to the Virgin who knelt in devotion. Every particular was perfectly rendered—every strand of hair, every jewel in the crowns of kings; even a robin sang from the eaves. From the glow of the white wood I recognized the woodwork that the king had been whittling earlier that day, and remembered, too, the hundreds of Nativity scenes I had seen for sale in the streets. Not one of those rivaled what we marveled at now. As the court murmured its approval the king spoke again, with visible pride. “ ‘The day-spring from on high has visited us—’ ”
“ ‘And Kings shall come to the brightness of thy rising,’ “ finished Brother Guido, as if completing a password.
I held my breath, lest this be seen as insolence, but the king smiled again. “Indeed. You know your Scripture. Very fitting, for a leader of men.” Here he spoke out to the whole room. “Christ was the greatest leader of all, for did he not show us all the way, on Calvary’s hill? Tell me”—he turned again to look at Brother Guido—“what do you think of my gift?” Don Ferrente inclined his head with mock humility, fully expecting a compliment.
“I think, ‘timeo Danaos et dona ferentes,’ “ replied Brother Guido, his eyes icy, his face a mask of pride. He was clearly speaking Latin, and he translated for the lack-learned, myself included, in a ringing voice. And that’s how I learned the second of the three Latin tags that I know, and could scarcely believe the insolence of its meaning: “Beware of Greeks bearing gifts.”
This time he’d gone too far. The court gasped in unison, and I looked with horror at the king, who stared back at my companion, steely and unsmiling. I dug Brother Guido viciously in the ribs. What the hell was he playing at? Pride and arrogance were all very well, but in a just measure that would convince that he was really Niccolò della Torre. Blind insolence was another thing—was he trying to get us killed? And he censured me for spitting my wine!
Don Ferrente gave a series of throaty gulps and Santiago jumped up at his elbow with wine. But