The Secret Supper (19 page)

I must have stammered my answer.

“Don’t be afraid, Father.” She smiled. “The blade is for your protection. It will not harm you. I’ve come because your many questions deserve an answer. And because my master believes you deserve to live.”

I was speechless.

“I need you to accompany me to a more discreet place. An urgent matter requires your presence in another part of the city.”

Her invitation did not sound threatening, merely a courteous invitation. Under her cape and hat, the woman radiated an extraordinary sense of power. Her look was keen and feline, and her attitude made it clear that she would not take no for an answer. In the now gloomy light, the stranger led me across the refectory, through a corridor and into the church, a path with which only the monks were familiar. How was it that she knew these rooms so well? Once we had exited into the street without having met a single monk, the stranger bid me quicken my step.

It took us some ten minutes to reach the Church of Santo Stefano some four or five streets farther down. By then, night had fallen. We went around the building to the right and down a narrow passageway that would have been difficult to discover without a guide. The façade of an imposing two-story-high brick palazzo, lit by a couple of torches, glittered at the end of the narrow passage. The stranger, who had not breathed a word since we had entered the street, pointed in its direction.

“Are we there?” I asked.

A footman in a tight woolen waistcoat and a hood came forward to meet us.

“If you’ll allow me, Father,” he said very formally, “I’ll lead you to my master. He’s eager to see you.”

“Your master?”

“Indeed,” he answered with a low bow, at which my companion’s features broke into a smile.

The palazzo was decorated with pieces of extraordinary value. Old Roman marble columns, statues rescued from the earth only recently, paintings and tapestries crowded the walls and the floor. The venerable building was disposed around a central courtyard with a topiary maze in the middle, toward which we were led. The deep silence intrigued me. When we reached the center, I suddenly saw rows of serious faces lining the labyrinth, gazing ahead as if a catastrophe were soon expected.

At length, I understood what was happening. A row of worried servants was watching two men on a low platform, angrily facing one another. Both were in shirtsleeves, holding unsheathed swords and, in spite of the cold, both were sweating copiously. My companion pushed her hat off and attended to the scene with delighted anticipation.

“It’s begun,” she said, sounding somewhat disappointed. “My master wanted you to see this.”

“This? What is this?” I asked in alarm. “A duel?”

Before she could answer, the eldest of the two contestants, a well-built, tall, broad-shouldered, balding man, threw himself against his opponent, putting all his weight onto his weapon.

“Domine Jesu Christe!” shouted the younger one in terror, stopping the blow by holding his sword across his chest.

“Rex Gloriae!” his attacker shouted back.

This was no training session. The bald man’s fury grew with every passing moment, and the blades clashed relentlessly with quick, sharp thrusts.

“Mario Forzetta,” my companion explained, pointing at the young man who had just stopped to catch his breath, “is a painter’s apprentice from Ferrara. He tried to deceive my master in an agreement. Now their duel is to first drawn blood, as in Spain. The first one to wound his adversary wins.”

The fight became wilder. Three, four new blows resounded in the courtyard. The sparks from the metal reached the balconies.

“Not your youth but my mercy will spare your life!” shouted the bald man.

“Keep your mercy where it better suits you!” answered the other.

But young Forzetta’s pride did not last long. Three violent thrusts forced him to his knees, his hand on the ground to hold his balance. The bald man smiled victoriously and a loud cheer rang throughout the palazzo. The Master’s enemy had lost his sword. Only the ritual needed to be fulfilled. With a surgeon’s deft hand, the victor’s sword whipped through the air, touching with its tip the young man’s cheek, which began to bleed immediately.

First drawn blood.

“Do you see?” he roared. “God has dealt justly with your lies. Never again will you try to deceive me by trying to pass off fake antiques. Never, do you hear?”

Then, turning toward me, gratified to see my white habit and black hood among the crowd of servants, he made a bow in my direction and spoke out loud so that all could hear him.

“This ruffian has been dealt with justly,” he said. “But the same cannot be said in your case, with someone as notable as yourself. Isn’t that true, Father Leyre?”

I was lost for words. There was a demonic glint in this man’s eyes. Who was he and how did he know my name? What justice was he referring to?

“Preachers are always welcome in my palazzo,” he said. “But I sent for you in particular because I hope that together we’ll be able to rehabilitate a certain common friend.”

“A common friend?” I stammered.

“A common friend we once had,” he explained. “Are you not among those who believe that something strange lies behind the death of our own Alessandro Trivulzio?”

The victor (whose name, I soon learned, was Oliverio Jacaranda) approached me and gave me a friendly tap on the shoulder. Then he vanished inside the palazzo. My companion asked me to wait. As I did, the small army of servants went into action. In barely ten minutes, they had dismantled the platform set up for the duel and had carried Forzetta away, wounded and bound, into the palazzo. As they passed me, I saw that the defeated man was no more than a child. Green, plaintive eyes fixed themselves upon mine, begging for help.

“Spaniards are men of honor,” said my companion in a kind tone, letting loose her blond hair as she resheathed her rapier. “Oliverio Jacaranda is from Valencia, like the Pope. And His Holiness’s favorite provider.”

“Provider?”

“He’s an antiquarian dealer, Father. A new profession, very profitable, that consists in rescuing from the past the buried treasures of those who’ve preceded us. You can’t imagine what can be found in Rome by just scratching the surface of its seven hills!”

“And you? Who are you, if I may ask?”

“I’m his daughter, Maria Jacaranda, your servant.”

“And why did your father want me to see him fight this Forzetta? What has all this to do with the death of Father Alessandro?”

“He’ll explain it all very soon,” she answered. “It’s the fault of his dealings in old books. You must know that there are upon this Earth volumes more precious than gold, and there are petty crooks like Forzetta who buy and sell them or, worse, try to pass new books for old, demanding disproportionate sums of money for them.”

“And do you really think this subject concerns me?”

“It will,” was her enigmatic promise.

28

Indeed, the master of the house was not long in returning. His servants had cleared away all traces of the duel and the dwelling had recovered its comfortable and untidy look.

Oliverio Jacaranda could not hide his satisfaction. He had washed and perfumed himself, and was dressed in a new wool garment that reached his feet. He greeted his daughter and invited me to pass into his study, to talk in private.

“I know that my work doesn’t please men of the cloth like yourself, Father Agostino.”

His first words disconcerted me: Jacaranda spoke a mixture of Spanish and Milanese dialect that lent his speech a peculiar tone. In fact, everything about the man was peculiar, even his study, full of curious musical instruments, strange paintings and the remains of ancient masonry.

“Are you surprised by what you see?” His question interrupted my perusal of the place. “Let me explain: my work consists of rescuing from oblivion those things that our ancestors left beneath the earth. Sometimes there are coins, sometimes nothing but bones, often the effigies of pagan gods that, according to such men as you, should never be allowed to resurface. I love those statues that date back to Imperial Rome. They are beautiful, well proportioned…perfect. And expensive. Very expensive. My business, why deny it, is better than ever.”

Jacaranda poured out some wine in silver goblets and offered me one, before continuing proudly:

“Maria must have informed you that the Holy Father gives his blessing to my activities. In fact, years ago, when he was still a cardinal, he reserved for himself the privilege of seeing my pieces before anyone else. He chooses what he wants and pays generously.”

“She did mention it,” I said. “But I doubt if you’ve sent for me merely to inform me of your business.”

The master of the house let escape a small cynical laugh.

“I know well who you are, Father Agostino. A few days ago you presented yourself as an inquisitor to the duke’s officials and asked to pay your respects before the funeral of Donna Beatrice. You come from Rome. You’re lodging in the monastery of Santa Maria and you spend your time trying to solve Latin conundrums. As you can see, you can keep no secrets from me, Father.”

Jacaranda drank a sip of wine and corrected himself:

“Hardly any.”

“I don’t understand,” I said.

“I’ll come to the point. You seem like an intelligent man and perhaps you can help me solve a problem we both have in common. I mean Father Alessandro’s death, Father.”

At last he had mentioned the dead librarian.

“Long before you arrived in Milan, he and I were the best of friends. I might even say that we were associates. Father Alessandro acted as intermediary between some of the most important families in Milan and my business. Through him, I would inform them of my antiquarian offerings without raising suspicions among the clergy, and Father Alessandro would then receive a certain payment for the service.”

The antiquarian’s words took me aback.

“Does it surprise you, Father? Other priests in Bologna, Ferrara and Siena assist me in similar tasks. We harm no one; we only circumvent absurd prohibitions and scruples that, I’m sure, will one day be remembered as something laughable, worthy only of old-fashioned minds. What wrong is there in recuperating fragments of our past and offering them for the delectation of the rich? Is there not an Egyptian obelisk displayed in Saint Peter’s Square in Rome?”

“You’re digging your own grave, sir,” I replied in all seriousness. “You forget that I’m part of that clergy that you say you circumvent.”

“Yes, indeed, but allow me to continue. Unfortunately, it is not only the strict clergy that creates obstacles in our work. As you might suppose, I sell artworks and antiques to rich court ladies, sometimes behind their husbands’ backs, since the gentlemen often don’t approve of these kinds of transactions. Father Alessandro was an essential part in some of my most important operations. He had the exquisite ability of getting himself invited into any Milanese household of his choice, with the pretext of a confession or a lofty conversation, where he would then close a deal under the very noses of these noblemen.”

“And what did he receive in exchange? Money? I doubt it—”

“Books, Father Agostino. He received manuscripts or printed volumes, according to the value of the sale. Texts delicately copied out or imported from presses in France or the Germanic empire. His whole obsession was to collect more and more books for the library of Santa Maria. But I suppose that you knew that already.”

“I still don’t understand why you’re informing me of this. If Father Alessandro was your friend, why are you sullying his memory with your confessions?”

“Nothing would be further from my intentions.” He laughed nervously. “Let me explain something else: shortly before dying, your librarian friend participated in a very special affair. He was familiar with one my best clients, so I put the matter in his hands without hesitating for a second. The truth is, this was the first time that someone of nobility wasn’t asking for the statue of some faun or the like to decorate a villa. Her request was so strange that it filled us both with enthusiasm.”

I looked at Jacaranda curiously.

“My client needed us to solve a small problem, something of an almost domestic nature. As I was an expert in antiquities, she wondered whether I could identify a certain precious object that she was able to describe with some precision.”

“Was it a jewel?”

“No, not at all. It was a book.”

“A book? Like the ones you would give as payment—?”

“This one had never been printed. She only gave me a few details of what it looked like: a volume of only a few pages with gilded edges, bound in blue and adorned with four gold clasps. A work of art resembling a breviary, no doubt imported from the Orient—”

“So you applied yourself to identifying it, with the help of Father Alessandro,” I interrupted.

“We had two valuable clues to follow. First, the man whom my client had first heard speak of the book: Master Leonardo da Vinci. Fortunately, your librarian knew him well, and it would not be difficult for him to find out whether he had the book in his possession.”

“And the second?”

“She gave me an exact drawing of the book I was to obtain.”

“Your client had a drawing of the book?”

“Exactly. It appeared in a deck of cards of which she was extremely fond. On one of the cards depicting a large woman there was also a drawing of the book. It wasn’t much, true, but many times I’d begun negotiations with far less information than that. We identified the woman as a nun or someone wearing a religious costume. But the book she was holding was closed and displayed no title nor any such identifying sign.”

A book depicted in a deck of cards? I grew alarmed. Hadn’t the Father Prior spoken to me of something similar?

“May I enquire the name of your client?” I asked.

“Of course. That is exactly why I’ve asked you here. Her name was Beatrice d’Este.”

I opened wide my eyes in astonishment.

“Beatrice d’Este? Ludovico il Moro’s wife? Do you mean to say that Father Alessandro and Donna Beatrice knew one another?”

“Very well. And now, you see, they are both dead.”