shadow beneath, then I retired to the stone arena to wait.
It seemed an age that I watched the still stones and the circle of soldiers who did not flinch, however long I stared at them. But it cannot have been more than half of one hour, for I heard the bell of the nearby basilica strike twice. I could see the sense of having a conference in such a place, for under the arch of Septimius Severus where the members of the Seven met, no one could overhear them and any spies could be seen coming for a good half league, even if they got past the guards.
At last, with great relief, I watched Brother Guido return alone, and come to me. He looked vexed, but not frightened.
“What happened?”
“Not here,” said he. “A litter awaits us to return to the Castel Sant’Angelo, we will talk there.”
Once back at the castello, we did not retire to our rooms at once, but sought by silent agreement a place where we could speak unseen and unheard. I followed Brother Guido until we came to a hall full of statuary; a long passage flanked on either side by the busts of long-dead emperors. White and blank-eyed, they observed us blindly, heard us silently, but we knew that no one else could approach, as great double doors sealed the place at either end. No one could come upon us without us seeing them coming from a good way off. Brother Guido had learned well from the Seven, the secrets of remaining secret.
“Well?” I was all impatience.
He wasted no time. “There were but three of us there, all cloaked and hooded like myself. We used no names, but I knew one of the others to be Don Ferrente—by our arrangement and his voice—but the third I have never met before, I am sure.”
“Could it have been Lorenzo di Pierfrancesco de’ Medici then?”
He did not hesitate. “No. I would say by his voice that he was old; Lorenzo is of an age with myself. This man was states-manlike—not Neapolitan nor yet Tuscan. And besides, as we agreed, Lorenzo must be in Florence now.”
“Not necessarily. We are here, and yet we will be in Florence, too, in time for the nuptials.”
He shrugged. “And another thing . . .”
“Yes?”
“He seemed to be the superior to all. To lead the discourse, and to be the greatest man there.”
“Greater than a king?”
“I know.”
“And what did you speak of?”
“It is evident that war is planned. There was talk of the fleets, the number of ships, and the ‘date of attack.’ And a map. The map, the map, the map, was on everyone’s lips.”
“But nothing was spoke of where or when, exactly?”
“No.”
“No mention of the painting?”
“Not directly, no. But spring—la primavera—was mentioned thrice; that must be when they plan to move. And if Lorenzo di Pierfrancesco is the mastermind of all, then that would make sense, for spring is the Florentine New Year.” He rubbed his neck as he always did when puzzled. “And flowers. Flowers were mentioned many times. In fact, it was specifically stated that the flowers hold the secret.”
Madonna. “So we don’t actually know the secret even now, only that the flowers hold it. The whole painting is lousy with flowers; it’s one of the first things I noticed about the original panel.” I sighed gustily. “That’s all, really? A map which we don’t have, a date that we don’t know, and flowers which we don’t understand?”
“Yes.”
“Christus. If it was all so confusing, there was no point going.”
“Not so. At the very least I am assured of my place among them. Let us retire and think on all this, for we have our papal audience in the morning before we leave for Florence. And in Florence, I think, more must be revealed, for there lives one that may help us—a brother of my order. For matters touching botany, we cannot do better than consult Nicodemus of Padua, the herbalist at Santa Croce. There is no flower in the field, nor herb in the hedgerow, that he does not know by name. And,” he added, with gravity, “there is the wedding to attend.”
I felt frustrated and annoyed, my relief at the return of my dear friend now replaced by the familiar feeling of groping in the dark without a candle. “How will that help?” I asked wasp-ishly.
“Because I suspect that the painting is a gift for the groom. We may see the real thing at last.”
There was so much to trouble