I had hidden from Bembo’s bitch of a wife many a time and knew the bitter smell of the shining leaves which had offered me sanctuary.
“Precisely. Laurel—‘Lawrence’ in English, ‘Laurent’ in French, ‘Lorenzo’ in our tongue—the plant of the Medici family.”
“All right. But Neapolis is still in Naples. What pointed you to Rome in particular?”
“A number of factors. Rome is a city built on seven hills, and as we discovered, the number seven, and the alliance of seven people, is central to the whole puzzle.”
“I always meant to say,” I interrupted, “why seven and not eight or nine?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well,” I began, “there are actually nine figures in the Primavera, if you count the cupid. And eight adult figures. So why are there only seven in this plot, or alliance, or whatever it is, not eight or nine?”
Brother Guido drew his traveling hood over his head, against the wind. “I confess, I don’t know. Perhaps one of the figures is a decoy or has been discounted for some reason.”
“Perhaps me—I mean Flora. Florence,” I suggested, hoping that we wouldn’t have to go back there.
“Not with your face. She’s impossible to ignore.” I bridled with pleasure, but there was no compliment there, just a thoughtful musing and a far-off look in the monk’s eyes. “It’s possible, I suppose, that one figure has been left out, or is there to trick us. But it’s unlikely to be Florence, home of the artist and his patron.” He sighed with puzzlement. “In any event, seven is the number mentioned by Don Ferrente, and the number seven—the seventh station of the cross—opened the door to Neapolis in San Lorenzo’s church. And as I said, Rome just happens to be built on seven hills.”
I nodded. “What else?”
“Well, Venus is wearing a Roman costume. See? She is quite differently dressed from every other lady. All the other figures are in flowing, white spring gowns, like pastoral, bucolic goddesses.”
I didn’t know what “bucolic” meant; it sounded like a stomach complaint. “But those gowns are the height of fashion,” I protested, trying to regain ground. “The dress I wore, with the flowers actually painted on the fabric, is the latest thing in Florence just now.” I sighed for the days when all I thought about was my next prick and the color of my gown.
“Yes,” he agreed, “the height of modern Tuscan fashion. But look at Venus. She looks totally different. She’s wearing clothes of an age long past: drapes and fabrics of antiquity. She wears strong colors; no white, diaphanous veils but rich, classical colors—red, blue, and gold. No flowers for her; she has a head-dress straight out of the Roman period, jewelry too.”
I looked carefully. Venus was relatively unadorned—no pearls here. “You mean this pendant?” I pointed, and the fine gold pendant nestling at Venus’s breast seemed to glow in the friendly moonlight. It seemed very plain—a round gold disk with a smaller disk or amber jewel set within—and was hard to see, for the cartone was on so small a scale.
“Yes.”
“What’s Roman about it?”
“Well, I’d have to see the actual panel painting to be sure, but it looks like a medal of the cult of Sol Invictus.”
I didn’t have to ask him to explain, a look was enough.
“Before men worshipped God, they lived in the rhythm of the seasons, and nature and the light that gave them life. They worshipped the very sun itself. I know this seems absurd to us now.”
Actually, I didn’t think so—worshipping the fiery orb that gave life to every living thing seemed a lot more sensible than revering a man that walked on water and died for two days and lived again on the third. But I knew more than most the depth of Brother Guido’s devotion and kept my peace.
“The cult of Sol Invictus, the unconquerable sun, was the major religion in Rome for centuries. Even after the coming of Christ, those who followed him were persecuted and had to meet in secret, in underground tombs around the city.” He crossed himself.
I felt he was drifting from our course somewhat. “So, she’s dressed as a great Roman lady.”
“Better than that. She’s a bride.”
I boggled at the cartone. “How do you know?”
“As a boy I attended many a noble wedding,” he said almost apologetically, knowing fine well I had never been to a single one. “And it is the custom in Tuscany for the bride to raise her hand, just as Venus is doing here, in a gesture of welcome