Marina Fiorato - The Botticelli Secret

I did not much feel that we held any advantage. “And what is that?”

“They are afraid of us.”

My laugh was a donkey’s bray. “ They are afraid of us ?” I was incredulous. “They have chased me round Florence butchering my acquaintance—and yours—and yet they are afraid of us ?”

“Yes,” he said simply. “Our supposed knowledge threatens them. And so, we must truly possess that knowledge to keep them at bay. The secret is our hostage, and we may be able to use it against them, to barter for our safety.”

“But . . . but . . .” My boggling brain could barely form a sentence. “We don’t know the secret.”

“Yet.”

“What?”

“We figure out what they think it is that we know.”

“And how do we do that?” My voice was laden with scorn.

Brother Guido smiled. “You have the key to the puzzle right there.” He pointed directly to my chest and I wondered briefly how my tits were going to help us out of this. He flapped his hands impatiently. “The picture.”

Frowning, not understanding, I drew the painting from my bosom again. It had been crushed by my sleeping form, and I flattened it out on the reading desk, securing the rolling edges with a candlestick and a Bible.

Brother Guido came to my shoulder and his shadow loomed large. The painting lay, golden and perfect, in the pool of candlelight, every detail singing out in the dark cell. Brother Guido lowered his voice, almost with reverence, but his tones were no less urgent. “You have been pursued all this while because you took this painting.”

I swallowed the panic that rose in my throat, spun to face the monk. “Then I could give it back! I’ll go back to Botticelli’s—the abbot will give us an escort—I’ll return it . . . say sorry. I was going to give it back, to Bembo, and then Bembo was . . . is . . .” My torrent of words faltered as Brother Guido began to slowly shake his head. “Don’t you see?” he said. “You cannot go back. For even if you returned the painting, you would still know the secret. You cannot unlearn what you have learned.”

“But I don’t know the secret!” I almost screamed it. “I could explain that I don’t know . . . and . . .” This time I stopped myself before Brother Guido could hush me, for I knew it would be no good. I was only a whore—a good one, but still a whore—and they would sooner kill me than take the chance that I was lying. Plus, I had seemingly passed on my knowledge to another, a man of God, who was not as alone in the world as I. I sat down, heavily, before the picture. “All right” I said. “Then how are we to solve this puzzle?”

The monk began to pace behind me again, his robes whispering on the stone floor, his feet beating time. “I think our pursuers believe that you know something about Botticelli’s painting. About the Primavera . That you saw something when you were there that day.”

“But I didn’t !”

“So you say. But from what you told me, Botticelli became—somewhat agitated—when you were sitting for him.”

My mouth curled at the understatement. “That’s true.”

“I think you saw something in the room, or in the painting, and referred to it unknowingly.”

“There was nothing in the room.”

“Then it must have been the painting.”

“But the painting is still there, we don’t have the real thing. It’s bigger than a warship’s sail.”

Brother Guido impatiently tapped at the parchment I’d flattened on the table. “Yes, but this, signorina, is a cartone, a perfect miniature copy of the panel that Signor Botticelli is painting. The faint grid that is drawn across the figures is to assist the transfer from this small parchment to the vast space on the panel. The artist will carefully measure and study what each square contains, and then transfer the information to a larger square which he will have mapped out on the wall. You see?”

I did see. I remembered from Botticelli’s studio a net of strings stretched across the vast panel. And told Brother Guido of them. He nodded. “Yes. Sometimes the grids of ropes are stretched across a frame, and then candles lit behind, so that the shadow of a grid is thrown onto a wall. Artists have different ways of working, but the principles are the same.”

I tired abruptly of my art lesson. “All very interesting, and I’m sure you have a point.”

“It’s this. What we have here is an exact replica of the Prima-vera, exactly as it will look on the final panel, down to the smallest detail. The only item missing from the inventory is your face, and we have the original here.” The ghost of a smile. “I’m saying that whatever Botticelli is hiding in his painting, whatever allegory or code he has placed within it, is within this one too.”

I began to see.

“So, we need to figure out what the message is, and that is how we may get ahead of the game.”

I took issue with the brother’s choice of words. I didn’t think the events of the last day seemed much like a game, nor did I see how we could figure out what the painting “meant.” But as my options were narrowing, I decided to humor the fellow. He certainly seemed enthusiastic, and not at all afraid—he was excited by the challenge and looked almost as triumphant as if he had solved it already, his handsome face aglow in the candlelight. Fucking intellectuals.

“We have a few hours before mass, and then we must go from here. So let us begin.”

We transferred the painting to the floor, and I brought the candle from my cell. Darkness thickened outside as we studied the painting in its twin circles of light. It was incredibly detailed, and crowded with figures, and I knew not where to begin.

Brother Guido echoed my thoughts. “Let’s begin with the simplest aspects, and we will move to the imagery and allegory in due course.”

I cleared my throat in an attempt to conceal the fact that I did not know what at least two of his words meant. “Yes, yes, let’s do that.”

A wave of his hand invited me to begin.

I swallowed, hoping I would not appear too ignorant. “Well, there are eight figures. Nine, if you include the little flying dwarf.”

“Cupid. Eight adult figures and a cupid. Good.”

His praise encouraged me. “There are two men and the rest are women.”

“Six females and two males. Good.”

This was easy. “One of the men is a . . . blue tree goblin.”

He snorted with laughter and turned it, too late, into a cough. “Forgive me. A what ?”

I was crushed after my good beginning. “He looks like a tree goblin,” I protested huffily, pointing to the figure on the far right of the painting. “He’s blue. And he has wings, and he’s in the trees.”

“Very well.” Brother Guido composed himself. “Forgive me. I didn’t at once recognize your somewhat—pagan—identification. And?”

I responded to his pompous tone by becoming as crude as I knew how. “And he’s trying to fuck the girl who’s puking flowers.” I pointed to the maiden in white who had a stream of blossoms flowing from her mouth. He winced at my language.

“He seems to be attempting an abduction or . . .” He cleared his throat. “A . . . rape.” He looked sideways at me, but I’d heard much worse in my time. And been paid to hear it. “Good. And what of the other male?”

I looked carefully, for the first time, at the martial figure with the sword. I started, then looked again.

The monk saw my astonishment. “What is it?”

“It’s him! It’s Botticelli.”

“Are you sure? It’s a self-portrait?” Brother Guido craned in,so his curls brushed my cheek.