The woman held her hand to her side in pain. “Deny me access, with what I have to tell him, and he’ll have you disembowelled and tossed in the Arno.”
The sandwich man’s amused expression gave way to an angry glare. “Don’t talk to me that way, bitch. Just what do you have to tell him?”
“The words are for His Highness, not his dogs.”
The soldier’s expression of anger was replaced by one of fear. “Franco, is this a witch?”
“Shut your mouth, Steffie. You, wait there.”
“And be quick,” the woman said. “If you want to keep your fat belly.”
Fifteen minutes passed before a tall, thin man of middle age, dressed in black, appeared at the lodge. She curtsied. He beckoned, without a word, and she followed him into the interior of the building, through a large courtyard and under another archway; a door was opened and Vincenzo’s woman followed him into a small anteroom.
“I am the Altezza’s secretary. And you will now explain yourself.”
“Sir, Vincenzo Vincenzi has been taken by soldiers.”
The man sat upright. “The Altezza’s mathematician? What soldiers? When did this happen? And who are you?”
“Sir, I am Vincenzo’s woman…”
“Ah!” Recognition dawned in the man’s eyes. “Of course, I have seen you in the Poggia. Proceed please.”
“It happened an hour, two hours ago, at dawn. The soldiers came. They took Vincenzo and all his books and charts, and his instruments.”
“These soldiers. Describe them.”
“What can I say? They all wore white tunics and caps, and—”
“Soldiers? So far you have described strolling players. Their weapons?”
“Pikestaffs, daggers, arquebuses.”
“Common bandits. If they think they can demand ransom from His Excellency…”
“I thought so at first. But then their leader said that Vincenzo was being taken to Bologna to face trial for heresy.”
The man stood up, staring at the woman in astonishment. “Impossible!” he said to himself. Then: “Wait here.”
Minutes later Vincenzo’s woman was standing outside a door. The secretary turned. “You will curtsy on introduction and dismissal. Address the Grand Duke as Altezza or Serenissimo, and speak only when spoken to. Now, compose yourself.”
Through the door, along a high-ceilinged room and on to a broad verandah where a man and woman sat at a breakfast table with milk, bread, and a bowl of apricots and apples. Servants hovered around, one of them holding a baby. The man was about thirty. He had a bulbous nose, a thick, turned-up moustache and bags under his eyes. The woman was fat and double-chinned, and stared at Vincenzo’s woman with open disdain. The man waved Vincenzo’s woman over. Awestruck but determined, she forgot to curtsy and without invitation launched into the tale of the abduction. The man showed little emotion other than a raising of his heavy eyelids, and waited patiently until she had finished.
“You have done well to inform me so quickly. Enzo, see that she has a ducat or two.”
“Highness, I need only the return of my Vincenzo.”
“At least you will accept an escort back to the villa. And my household will repair the damage these men have done.”
The woman gone, the Grand Duke threw a napkin angrily on to the table. “Barberini?” he asked.
The secretary nodded. “Who else?”
The Grand Duke snapped a finger at a trembling servant. “Get that fat pig Aldo out of his bed.”
The fat pig appeared in a minute, his white hair dishevelled, pulling an indigo-dyed cloak over his red tunic.
“Sit down, Aldo. And use that contorted mind of yours to tell me what game His Holiness is playing.”
“Your Grace, this is an outrage.”
“Do you refer to the abduction of a scholar under my sanctuary, or to the fact that you have been roused from your licentious bed?”
“Sire, the law is clear on this matter. The Holy Office is not free to arrest a heretic outside the papal states without the permission of the secular authorities, who in this case are embodied in the person of Your Grace. This need for permission is particularly so if extradition is involved. This arrest is a gross violation of accepted procedure and an unlawful intrusion on your authority and property. An insult compounded by the fact that this Vincenzo is under Your Grace’s patronage and protection.”
“I have not yet had an answer to my question: what game is Prince Maffeo Barberini playing?”
Aldo continued. “I can think of only one reason.” He paused.
“Well?”
“The one actually given. The Church does not tolerate heresy.”
The secretary butted in: “Serenissimo, it is a warning. If I may speak frankly?”
The Duke nodded, but his expression warned against too much frankness.
“I too have warned you,” the secretary said. “Your patronage of the arts and music is renowned, and it gives many of us joy to see you continue in the great tradition of your family back to Lorenzo. To praise man is to praise his Creator. But this Vincenzo? He is suspected of magic and worse. And Your Grace — forgive me — I have often suggested that you are too tolerant towards Jews and visiting foreigners. There are more Jews in Livorno than any other city in Italy. And many of the foreigners are suspected of being Lutherans.” The secretary hesitated, wondering if he had already gone too far, but the Duke, peeling an apple, encouraged him with a gesture.
“Worst of all, sire, is the clandestine book trade. You allow it to flourish. In the past year, in the streets of Pisa, Lucca and Pistoia, I could have bought prohibited books by arch-heretics like Melanchthon, Bullinger, Brenz and Bucer. I have even seen, with my own eyes, peddlers selling Calvin’s Institutes, Castellio’s De Haereticis, and Luther’s Small Catechism in streets not a stone’s throw from the Duomo. These godless men bring them down over the Alps from the Reformationist printing presses in Geneva and Basel. The abduction of Vincenzo is a warning, sire.”
The Grand Duke stood up and approached to within a foot of his secretary. He was plainly angry, but his voice was controlled. “My dear Enzo, in promising religious toleration I merely continue the tradition set by my grandfather. Through it Florence has flourished; Livorno is a jewel in the Medici crown. And must I remind you that my own father invited Galileo to Florence where he spent the last years of his life? Am I to be denied the same? And why have they taken Vincenzo’s works? To be burned? Will they never be added to the great Library which Gian Carlo, Leopoldo and I have devoted our lives to creating? And are we to stand here discussing my political philosophy while horsemen ride off with a scholar to whom I have offered patronage and sanctuary?”
The secretary bowed. “So, Altezza. Let us intercept Barberini’s mercenaries before they reach Bologna, and hang them at the roadside.”
The Grand Duke turned to Aldo. “Aldo, you are chewing your lip.”
“I expect they are taking him to Rome: why else say Bologna for all to hear? But that is not why I chew my lips. Your Grace, we must be careful here.” Aldo paused, as if gathering his thoughts.
“Note our magnificent patience, Aldo, while we await your words of wisdom and the horsemen flee with my scholar.”
“The Church sees erosion. Erosion of faith. It is being questioned not only by the northern Lutherans but right here in her midst, by men who look at the sky. She has already pronounced on the Copernican heresy. Only last year, when Galileo died, a heretic patronized by your father, the Church forbade you to erect any monument in his memory.”