I slipped the leather thong over my hand, and put the little key into the lock.
The door to the compartment popped open with a faint click. Behind the wood panel, a large stone brick was missing from the wall; in the gap sat a thick stack of papers the size of a library manuscript. I drew them out carefully, set them upon my husbands desk, and pulled the lamp closer.
On the very top was a tiny black silk pouch, tied with a red ribbon, and beneath that, a letter on fresh paper, folded into thirds, sealed with wax, and addressed For my Beloved. At the sight, I braced myself for the emotional upheaval to come as I opened the little black pouch. I thought it contained jewelrya keepsake, perhaps, by which I could remember him, but it contained only a coarse grayish-brown powder.
I turned to the letter, expecting to learn, at long last, why my husband had rejected my amorous advances.
I did not expect to be frightened.
It was not a heartfelt farewell letter but a diagram, in Matteos hand, of a circle with the cardinal directions markedoddly, with east at the top of the circle instead of north, and west at the bottom. At each direction, he had put a five-pointed star, with arrows carefully indicating how it should be drawn, and beneath each star, a word in what I suspected was Hebrew; underneath these were written phonetic translations in the vernacular, but no meaning was given.
Beneath this was a diagram of a second circle, again with the cardinal directions, this time accompanied by hexagrams and more barbarous words.
It was magic, the same magic I had seen him work at night when I pretended to be sleeping in our bed, and I remembered snatches of our conversation the night I had first told him that I saw portents in the clouds and sky and stars.
Bona would say this was from the Devil, I had said, and he had answered swiftly: Bona would be wrong.
Beneath both circles were sets of instructions in Milanese describing the rites that accompanied each. I could not focus my shattered mind long enough to make sense of them, nor could I keep the hairs on my arms and the back of my neck from lifting when I set down Matteos diagram to examine the next page upon the stack.
It was a piece of yellowed vellum, brittle with age, many times folded and in danger of falling apart. Gingerly, I unfolded it upon the desk. The ink was rust brown, faded, the handwriting ancient, unfamiliar; Bona had permitted me no Greek, though I recognized it readily enough, and understood most of the Latin translation written in a later hand beneath it.
It was an invocationof what, I could not fathom in my grief-addled state. I set it delicately aside; beneath it rested an unbound manuscript of text, consisting of several dozens of pages in Latin. The paper and the authors hand were modern; the title page read De Mysteriis Aegyptiorium, Of the Egyptian Mysteries.
Last in the stack of writing was a document written in Matteos careful, even script. The letters of the Latin alphabet were written across the page, in order, and beneath each letter was written a different, random letter, number, or symbol. The letter a for example, was represented by the number 9, the letter b by an x, and c by an l. At the very top of the document was written strike out every fourth. It was, I realized, a keyone Matteo must have used when encrypting secret correspondence.
I propped an elbow on the desk and put my fingertips to my brow. Why do you want me to have this? I asked aloud.
The impulse to cast it all into the dying fire overtook me. Magic had been no more able to protect wicked men from killing Matteo than had God. But another thought damped my anger: the memory of the gilded triumph card displaying the Hanged Man. Surrender to evil forces with the intent of sacrifice.
I pressed the heels of my palms to my burning eyes and tried to make sense of it all. Matteo had clearly had a sense of his impending death before he left, else he would not have given me the key.
He had sacrificed himself to me in marriage out of innocent love. Had he again sacrificed himself to protect me? Had he left all this behind to warn me?
Had I not been furious with God, I would have burned it all. Instead I stared down at the meaningless tapestry of numerals and letters on the page and heard Lorenzo the Magnificent speaking.
It was I, in fact, who recommended Matteo to the duke for employment.
As if in answer, I heard Matteo in my memory.
I was rescued in my youth by a wealthy patron. . . .
Perhaps later we could go together to Florence.
Bury me in San Marco, the monastery in Florence that had educated him.
Read them in secret. And tell Lorenzo: Romulus and the Wolf mean to destroy you.
I sat very still, for perhaps an hour, then stoked the fire and stirred it until the flames leapt high and the room grew warm. I opened the shutters and discovered my husbands saddlebag, leaning against the wall beneath a window. I undid the straps and emptied it onto the bed. It held another quill, a vial of ink, a blotter, two pairs of leggings and two wool undershirts, a brass mug, comb, and a small book, bound in leather. Half its pages were covered in the same unfathomable ciphernumbers and letters mixed with an occasional star or other symbolI had found on the papers hidden in the compartment. I examined the little book for some time, but could make no sense of it.
When the blackness outside eased to gray, I went back upstairs to the duchesss chamber, where Bona lay sleeping. I tiptoed up onto the platform, slid the bed curtains aside, and set a hand gently upon her shoulder. Even so, she wakened with a start.
I must take Matteo to Florence, I said.
Chapter Five
The duke refused my request to take Matteo to Florence to be buried in the churchyard of San Marco. For one thing, Galeazzo said, the winter was far too treacherous for a woman to attempt five days hard ride, even if it be southwardno matter that a day of feeble sun had melted most of the ice. For another, he insisted that every member of court attend the Christmas celebrations in Milan, whether they were in mourning or not.
Of the myriad princes in Italy, none celebrated Christmas with greater zeal than Duke Galeazzo. He required all courtiers, all ambassadors, all feudatories to come to Milan to celebrate the Nativity and renew their vows of fealty to him the day after, on the feast of Saint Stephen. Everyone, except the dying and the mortally ill, was required to attend, for the holiday marked the end and beginning of the year. The duke gave gifts to his underlings, alms to the poor, pardons to the convicted; during the week, he attended mass at different venues, the better to be seen by his loyal subjects. On the twenty-sixth, Saint Stephens Day, he went to the church of Santo Stefano; on the twenty-seventh, Saint John the Evangelists Day, he went to the church of San Giovanni, and so forth.
Bona had tears in her eyes when she told me of the dukes decision; the court was leaving the next morning for the Castle Porta Giovia in the center of Milan, and I, in my black veil, was required to go, too. I turned from her, speechless, but she put a hand upon my shoulder to draw me back.
He is being embalmed, she said, and I realized she meant Matteo. Come with me to Milan, please. And when we return to Pavia, the duke will be distracted, and I will see to it that you are able to take Matteo to Florence for burial.
The following morning found me riding silently on horseback alongside Francesca and the other chattering chambermaids next to the furnished, velvet-draped wagon that held Bona and the children. It was a sunny winters day, harshly bright and blue, with a wind that stole all warmth. The roads were slush and mud; my cape grew quickly spattered. Matteos saddlebag, packed with the little book in cipher and Bonas triumph cards, was strapped to my mount. From time to time, it brushed the back of my leg, bringing fresh grief.
The following morning found me riding silently on horseback alongside Francesca and the other chattering chambermaids next to the furnished, velvet-draped wagon that held Bona and the children. It was a sunny winters day, harshly bright and blue, with a wind that stole all warmth. The roads were slush and mud; my cape grew quickly spattered. Matteos saddlebag, packed with the little book in cipher and Bonas triumph cards, was strapped to my mount. From time to time, it brushed the back of my leg, bringing fresh grief.
Milan lies due north of Pavia, one days easy ride away, on flat roads across the Po River basin. Given the size and lumbering pace of our caravan, however, we set out at dawn and did not reach our destination until well after dusk.
Nestled on a plain, the city stretches out to the horizon, where the distant, snowy flanks of the Alps graze the heavens. The light was failing by the time my horses hooves struck cobblestone, but I could still see the four towers of the ducal castle, Porta Giovia, and the flickering yellow glow emanating from its windows. Across the broad avenue was the cathedral, the Duomo, its face covered with dark, skeletal scaffolding. Spires from other cathedralsSan Giovanni, Santo Stefano, Sant Ambrogioreared up from an endless span of red-tiled rooftops.
Normally I would have taken pleasure in the journey and the sights of the city, which we frequented only once or twice a year because the palace there was cramped compared to Pavia, and the city streets noisier and dirtier than the countryside. But that night I felt only bitterness; the festive spirits of those surrounding me were rude, the glory of Milan mocking. The ducal apartments were adorned with pomanders and evergreen, and fragrant with mulled wine; I found it all offensive.
In the little closet off Bonas room, I shared a bed with Francesca. Happily, she fell quickly asleep. I brought out the little book from Matteos saddlebag and lit the lamp, and stared at page after page of my husbands mysterious cipher. After an hour, I realized that the headings for each separate entry must have been days or dates or times, and I distracted myself from miserable grief by trying possible substitutions for the different symbols.
I did not put out the light until Francesca stirred and complained drowsily a few hours before dawn. Even then, I did not sleep, but lay still, thinking of Matteo, the cipher, and the triumph cards.
Two days passed in a blur of audiences, masses, banquets, dances, and concerts, the last performed by Galeazzos magnificent choir of thirty souls. Despite the weather, the streets of Milan were crowded with those who had come to watch the ceremony of the Yule log, and those who had come to proclaim their loyalty to Galeazzo for another year.
On Christmas Eve Day, the duke held a grand audience for petitioners; when sunset approached, we courtiers and servants stood in the first-floor great hall as His Grace lit the ciocco, the Yule log that was to be tended so that it burned for as long as possible. Once darkness had taken hold, Bona called for me to attend her in the ducal chambers. There, in the familys private dining chamber, I stood while Bona, her two daughters, two sons, and Caterina sat at the table watching the duke direct his brothers Ottaviano and Filippo. Together, Ottavianothe youngest brother, slight and willowy, with a delicate, feminine face and long dark hair uncharacteristic of the Sforzasand Filipposecond eldest, sturdy of body but feeble of intellectcarried a huge log of oak through the doorway and set it down atop a bough of juniper set in the hearth.
Despite the closed windows, the reedy wail of the traditional zampogni, the pipes played only at Christmas, filtered up from the dukes private courtyard below.
Ugh! Filippo exclaimed, once freed of his burden. Its fatter than Cicco! This one will surely burn till New Years.
Back away, back away! Galeazzo scolded excitedly, and took his place in front of the fireplace. His face was flushed, his words thick; he had already drunk a good deal of wine. A servant handed him a lit taper, and he held the flame to the juniper; it caught with a fragrant flare, and he laughed, pleased, as he handed the candle back.
With his right hand, he made the sign of the cross, and snapped his fingers at his cupbearer, who filled his goblet with fresh wine and gave it to him. Once the juniper had caught in earnest, the duke splashed a bit of wine on the log, as custom required, and took a long swallow from his cup. This he passed to Filippo, who handed it to Ottaviano, who respectfully delivered it to Bona; it made its way down the hierarchy to arrive last of all to me.
I emptied the cup, although there was less than a full sip left, thanks to Caterina swallowing far more than her share.
The duke then tossed a gold ducat onto the fire, and from a red velvet bag, handed one gold coin apiece to his brothers, children, and wife. My lowly status stifled his generosity, however, and he turned his back to me; Bona pressed her coin into my palm, so that I might enjoy an increase in wealth in the coming year.
Fortunately, the duke was not so stingy when it came to food and drink, and I was allowed to sit between his natural daughters, Chiara and Caterina. There was a surfeit of marvelous food, including a pigeon tart with prunes that normally would have tempted me, and ravioli stuffed with pigs liver and herbs, but I had no taste for it. I had not wanted to attend the family gathering, and had asked Bona to excuse me, but the duke had gotten wind of it and insisted that I come so that things would be as they are every year. And to make sure of it, he had ordered that I dispense with mourning and dress in holiday attire; I had no choice but to obey, and so chose a gown of dark green velvet, but wore no gold and no smile.
Galeazzo and Filippo proceeded to get very drunk indeed, and by the time the feast was well under way, their conversation grew peppered with thinly veiled metaphors about the pleasures of defiling virgin flesh. At one point, the duke began to thrust a grilled sausage in and out of the stuffed capon on his plate, in a pointedly sexual manner, while Filippo howled with laughter. Caterina grinned, and Bona flushed and grew quiet. By the time supper was finished, Bona was eager to shoo the children out of the chamber and leave herself. I rose with her and accompanied her to the door; as she turned and bade her husband good night, he looked up from the table, his eyes heavy-lidded and glittering from drink, and said:
Not her. You can go, but she must stay.
He had never made such a request, and both the duchess and I were troubled by it, until Galeazzo repeated, She must stay. And you must have one of your ladies fetch the triumph cards Lorenzo gave you straightaway. When Bona hesitated to direct a fearful glance at me, he slammed his fist upon the table so hard that the empty platters rattled.
When silence followed, I said to her, Your Grace, please forgive me, but the cards are in your quarters, inside the trunk at the foot of my cot.
Bona stared at me as if I were the Devil himself, come to steal her soul. Without a word, she curtsied to her husband and left, taking all the children with her; Caterina passed by last, pausing briefly to study me, her expression both curious and oddly worried. I stood awkwardly by the door for a quarter hour while the duke and his drunken brothers ignored me and the conversation grew ever more raucous. When Francesca finally arrived with the diamond-studded red velvet box, my anxiety increased.
Sit, Galeazzo said, slurring, gesturing at the chair directly across from him. His brother Filippo made an exaggerated show of hurrying to pull the chair out for me, as if I were the duchess. He and the duke laughed, but I curtsied and sat with dignity, placing the box in front of me on the table and resting one hand atop it.