Pasquale's Angel Read online

  Cardano said, ‘Yet is it not interesting that this young fellow escaped when Signor Machiavegli did not? We still have no explanation of that.’

  Jacopo said, ‘You may believe him. My master considers him to be an honest lad.’

  While Pasquale had been speaking, the Great Engineer had picked up a sheet of paper from the litter on the floor and had started to doodle upon its reverse, quickly covering it with small diagrams. Now he held this up, and said, ‘With my help it is possible that we can quickly take this so-called magician by surprise. If he does not have the time to do anything beyond respond to the attack, then he will not have the time to destroy the body of Raphael. More importantly, he will not be able to take vengeance on my poor misguided Salai. I will have words for that wicked soul myself.’

  ‘We would wish that no one is hurt in this,’ Signor Taddei said, ‘but I must question the cost of this plan. I am not a poor man, it is true, but I would find it hard to furnish an expedition of this nature, most especially in these suddenly straitened times. Would you say that this device of yours is valuable?’

  ‘It has already cost too much,’ the Great Engineer said.

  Jacopo said, ‘My master means that we could come to some arrangement.’

  The Great Engineer grimaced at that, but said nothing.

  Taddei said, ‘What do you think, Girolamo? Could it be developed?’

  ‘I would have to see it,’ Cardano said with a shrug.

  Pasquale said, angry and disbelieving, ‘You decide matters in the language of double-entry bookkeeping?’

  ‘Peace, young man,’ Taddei said. ‘I am after all a business man. Perhaps you should look elsewhere if you desire unconsidered action, although I doubt that anyone else would listen to your wild tale. After all, that was why you came to me, was it not?’

  ‘I came to you because you were instrumental in the attempt to regain Raphael’s body.’

  Taddei gave Pasquale a shrewd look, and Pasquale blushed. After all, Cardinal Giulio de’ Medici, the Pope’s own cousin, had witnessed Pasquale’s dispatch as ransom for the return of Raphael’s body, and Pasquale could not even guess at what favours had been promised Taddei for that work, or what favours he had repaid by undertaking it. Nor, of course, could he ask. One did not speak of things like that directly, for it was too dangerous. Even knowledge has its own worth, and so its own dangers for the owner, as Pasquale now well knew. Unknowingly, he had been the possessor of the very knowledge which had cost the lives of poor Rosso and two of Raphael’s disciples, and which now threatened to become the seed from which the destruction of Florence might spring.

  Taddei was at base a kindly man, if brusque and practical. He said, ‘All of Florence’s might and worth are founded on commerce, as I’m sure you realize. As for my own small worth, it springs from that most traditional of our enterprises, that of making textiles. Now, to secure advantage over our foreign competitors, we Florentines have used the banking system to our own great advantage, buying up the production of English flocks two or three years in advance. Thus, even before a lamb takes its first giddy steps on English soil, all the wool that will ever grow upon its back has already been bought. Yet that very advantage may now be our doom, for we must take in that wool and make good our promises of payment even if we cannot now use it to produce cloth. The Savonarolistas well know this, and so they would disrupt the manufactories. You understand then that this is a war fought as much on the pages of the double-entry system as it is on the battlefields, and while the war has already been openly declared on the former, the armies have yet even to begin manoeuvring around each other on the latter. So, signor, you see that even the smallest part I can play in this must be carefully scrutinized, for it would be to throw all to the winds should I win one part of the war only to lose the other.’

  The Great Engineer said, ‘Perhaps Signor Cardano might wish to scrutinize my plans on your behalf, Signor Taddei. I believe that he will find them reasonable. I have no wish to mount a bloody campaign and lose that which I care for, any more than you wish to ruin yourself for the benefit of others. With that in mind, I have devised a way in which the actions of a few will be seen as the actions of many, by use of devices which will cause confusion and panic in the heart and mind of the enemy while exposing those attacking to the smallest of risks. I have spent my life considering the experience of those men who claim to be skilled inventors of machines of war, and long ago I realized that those machines differ in no way from those commonly used in manufactories and elsewhere. So it is with the minimum expense and greatest haste that my devices may be put into effect, and any use that you believe you might find for them afterwards, well then, they are yours.’

  It was a long speech, and cost the old man a lot. He slumped in his chair, and it fell to Jacopo to acknowledge Taddei’s effusive thanks.

  Cardano bent eagerly over the sheet of plans, and almost at once fell to questioning the Great Engineer, who replied only with a smile or a shake of his head. Taddei called for wine, and put an arm around Pasquale’s shoulder in a friendly although unwanted manner, and led him a little way down the room.

  ‘You must tell me why you are in such a hurry, young man, I’ve always held that if a thing is worth doing at all, it is worth doing well, even though that means patience. You’re as impatient as my astrologer there, and as young, the two things often going together.’

  ‘I would save my friend Niccolò Machiavegli. If he still lives, then he is in Giustiniani’s hands: he was on the ferry when Giustiniani’s men attacked the Savonarolistas, but was wounded and could not escape. The longer we delay, the less likely that he will remain alive. And once the Spanish take the device, then Giustiniani will have no further use for Niccolò or for the body of Raphael.’

  ‘He might still ransom them.’

  ‘More likely he would leave with the Spanish, if there is to be war. Besides, you might pay for the body, signor, but would you pay for the life of a journalist?’

  ‘You’re blunt,’ Taddei said, not without admiration.

  ‘I find I must be.’

  ‘Then let me be blunt, too. I have it in mind that you will play a leading role in the engagement.’

  ‘Signor, I am a painter, not a soldier. If it was in my power to be otherwise—’

  Taddei said implacably, ‘You’ll go into the villa before the attack. If at all possible you will secure the safety of Raphael’s body, and of your friend, and of this Salai. And above all, you will attempt to rescue this device. In that order. I was Raphael’s good friend, and it is a matter of honour for me to ensure he has a decent burial. I hope you understand.’

  ‘But how will I do all this if I am to make myself a prisoner of Giustiniani?’

  ‘You’re a resourceful young man. If your balls are as big as your mouth, you’ll find a way.’

  ‘You don’t trust me, do you, signor?’

  Taddei dismissed this with a wave of his hand. ‘It is not a matter of trust.’

  ‘I could go in and straight away betray your attack.’

  ‘Then I would know not to trust you, eh? I do trust you enough to think you will not. But what if you do? We will attack anyway, and if Giustiniani attacks first, then we will fight all the harder. And take no prisoners—you understand me, I hope?’

  ‘Perfectly,’ Pasquale said, with ice in his spine. ‘There is one favour I would ask. If I survive, I must leave the city. It will be too dangerous for me to stay, knowing what I know.’

  ‘Well, that’s true,’ Taddei admitted. ‘Where would you go?’

  Pasquale told him, and Taddei laughed. ‘I must admire your ambition. There’s a ship leaving this night. If you can reach it in time, there’ll be a place for you.’

  ‘Two places,’ Pasquale said. He was thinking of Pelashil.

  ‘You ask a high price.’

  ‘The stake is my own life. Tell me, signor, do you think that this assault can work?’

  ‘If it is possible, then let it be so
.’

  ‘All things are possible to the Great Engineer.’

  ‘So they say.’ Taddei turned back and said, ‘Cardano, damn your skin, will it work?’

  The black-clad astrologer came over. He pinched one pitted cheek between thumb and forefinger and said in a subdued voice, ‘I’m not fully conversant with the uses to which certain principles are put…’

  ‘And will it cost me overmuch?’

  ‘The Great Engineer’s man says that much of the apparatus can be taken from the workshops of the Great Tower…No, I don’t think so. But the risk if even one part of this does not work…’

  ‘Talk with my secretary, give me an exact figure. As to its working, we must trust to our genius.’ Taddei turned towards the Great Engineer, but the old man was asleep, his blue-tinted spectacles askew on his face, a half-completed portrait of Salai, young and idealized, fallen from his hand.

  10

  It rained a little just before sunset, enough to lay the dust and soften the ground. The night was cold and clear, and Pasquale shivered as he lay in long damp grass looking across the rutted road at the gate to Giustiniani’s villa. If it kept up like this there would be a frost, the first of the year. In the vineyards on the hillsides around Fiesole, peasants would be sitting beside braziers loaded with tarred brushwood, to keep the frost from the last of the season’s grapes.

  Pasquale drew on his cigarette, cupping it in his hands to hide the coal. It was no more than a few twists of tobacco and marijuana seeds in coarse paper. The smoke tasted hot in his dry mouth. When the coal nipped his fingers he pinched it out and let it fall amongst the grass stems. It could be his last—a thought so morbid he must smile at it.

  The walls around the garden of Giustiniani’s villa glimmered in the light of the waning moon. When Pasquale had first been there with Niccolò Machiavegli, the moon had been red as it set beyond the shoulder of the wide valley. Setting now, it was a cold blue-white, for the manufactories along the Arno were shut down and their smokes dispersed. A doubly bad omen, then, this clear moon. Signor Taddei’s men, under the instruction of Girolamo Cardano, had had a hard time of it, making their way through olive-groves that were a chiaroscuro of moonlight and shadow, every shadow potentially a servant or soldier of Giustiniani. Two had scouted ahead to make sure the way was safe before the others advanced, bent with heavy packs on their backs. Despite the caution of the scouts, Pasquale had jumped at every quiver of moon-drenched shadow, each scuttling mouse. He was not a brave man, merely foolish enough not to admit fear. Pelashil had said that he was a fool, and he believed it now, no matter how much he had protested then.

  He had gone to see her that afternoon, while Cardano, armed with a warrant that Taddei had arranged through his connections, had gone to the workshops of the New University to requisition apparatus its custodians hardly suspected they possessed. Pasquale had given his word of honour to Taddei that he would return, and Taddei had acknowledged that promise by having him followed discreetly rather than escorted.

  Pasquale had come into the bar to jeers and catcalls from his friends: one saying that he thought he saw a ghost; another that no ghost would look so bedraggled; a third that here was a notorious man indeed, with a summons to the magistrates upon his head. A fourth cradled a viola da gamba between his thighs, and called forth a plaintive melody from its warm wooden womanshape with dexterous use of a bow. To the percussive beat of his fellows’ hands on their thighs—this kind of strong accompanying beat, borrowed from the chants of the New World Savages, was the latest musical fashion, its rude vigour sweeping away the traditional melodies—the viola player half sang the first verse of a popular love song, twisting the words to suit Pasquale’s name so that his companions laughed and lost the beat in delighted applause.

  Pasquale felt at once that he had returned home, but that while he had changed his home had not. He suddenly felt that he had nothing in common with these dandified youths, with their hair elaborately curled or sleeked to a lacquered shine with gum arabic, their fine clean clothes in carefully matched shades of rose and yellow and cornflower blue, their palms scented with fresh rose- and lavender-water, their languid drawls and knowing smiles, their petty intrigues and feigned passions for fine horses (which they could not afford) and fine women (likewise). The brown hose and doublet and black jerkin Pasquale had been given at Signor Taddei’s were no more than serviceable, with a cut ten years out of fashion. He had not had time to wash his hair properly, let alone set it in its usual fringe of falling curls, and instead he’d caught it up in a net, like a soldier. He felt, all of a sudden, grown-up amongst boys. They urged him to sit with them, tell them what he’d been doing, tell them what he knew about Raphael’s murder, to have a drink.

  He said, ‘What’s this about a summons?’

  ‘You’ve been a bad boy,’ said the musician, setting aside his instrument and bow. ‘Did someone post an accusation in one of the tamburi against you?’

  ‘Been banging someone’s daughter, Pasqualino?’ another said, and a third added, ‘More likely someone’s son.’

  Pasquale remembered the monk and shrugged and asked after Pelashil, and his friends started to laugh again. The mercenary sitting beside the ashes of last night’s fire looked over at this noise, scowling. Pasquale met his gaze and looked away nervously.

  ‘Where’s Rosso?’ someone said. ‘Come on, Pasquale, sit with us and tell us all about your wicked ways.’

  Pasquale blushed with horrible shame. He could not tell his friends that his master was dead, killed by his own hand. Instead, he blurted that he must see Pelashil, and roused the Swiss landlord, who was dozing in a corner with his giant hound lying across his bare feet. The man cursed sleepily and told him she was out in the back, rinsing the pots.

  ‘You take care,’ he added, ‘and be ready to duck when you go through the door.’

  Pasquale soon found out what the Swiss meant. Pelashil was washing plates in a bucket. Lunchtime herring was cooking on a grill shoved on to the coals of the stove, filling the air with a haze of smoke. When Pasquale started to talk to her, she turned her back on him; when he persisted she started splashing grease-slicked water at him. He jumped back, mortified. He said that he wanted only to say farewell, in the very unlikely event that he didn’t come back.

  ‘That’s done. So you go. Go now!’ She was furious, rubbed at her eyes with raw red wrists, turned her back and tried to shrug him off when he attempted to turn her to him.

  He tried to make a joke of it. ‘Oh well, and I thought you cared for me, and I see you are careless of me instead.’

  ‘You men. So brave. So selfless. So you think, playing your foolish games. Go kill yourself and don’t expect me to mourn you. Be a hero and enjoy your grave. Your friends will give you a fine monument, I suppose.’

  ‘This talk of graves is making me nervous. I just came to ask you two favours. To look after the ape, just in case. You know…’

  ‘It’s no more trouble than the old man, and better company than you.’

  ‘Cleaner? Warmer? Come, I won’t have it that you share your bed with such a monster.’

  She smiled, just for a moment, a flash of white in her lined brown face. ‘You think yourself such a fine gentleman.’

  ‘Well, am I not?’

  ‘I’ve told you what you could be. You’re a fool.’

  ‘Pelashil, I’m not sure if I want to be a magus. All I wanted a few days ago was to learn how to paint an angel in a way no one has painted an angel before.’

  ‘I showed you the way.’

  ‘I’m not sure what I saw, now.’ The polychrome bird, that was and yet was not Pelashil. Moments of time like bright beads on a string, vivid and fixed as stars. The creature he’d met in the weave of the cloth hanging.

  ‘You can’t learn from the híkuri until you are a mara’akame. Before that time your dreams are only…like plays.’

  ‘Entertainments?’

  ‘Yes,’ Pelashil said, with a stubborn finality.


  ‘It seems too long a road.’

  ‘Listen. When you first take híkuri, you look in the fire and see the play of colours, the many arrows with feathers full of colour.’

  ‘Yes,’ Pasquale said, remembering.

  ‘When a mara’akame looks in the fire, what does he see? He sees the fire-god, Tatewarí. And he sees the sun. He hears prayers venerating the fire where Tatewarí dwells, and the prayers are like music. All this is necessary to understand: it is what you must do so that you can see what Tatewarí lets go from his heart for us. That is what you have taken the first step towards. That is what you are throwing away. There are two worlds, the world of things and the world of the names of things, where their essence lies. The mara’akame stands between them. Except for my master, you are the only one of this great and terrible city to begin to understand this, and you throw this understanding away for a fool’s errand.’

  ‘It’s hardly a fool’s errand. Truly.’ Pasquale tried to explain about where he was going, the villa, the Great Engineer’s devices. ‘If he can save all Florence, then he can certainly save me.’

  He was still making the mistake of joking about it.

  Pelashil said, ‘I’ll tell my master that there’s going to be war. Perhaps we should travel on, so don’t expect me to be here when you come back.’

  Pasquale tried to tell her what Signor Taddei had promised, that when it was over he would begin his journey, and she could be there with him, but she wouldn’t listen, and turned away when he tried to calm her, then banged the dishes together in the tub of water when he tried to speak again, and wouldn’t answer any of his appeals.