‘First, is such an engine even possible?’
Bruno takes a step backwards, as though presented with an obstacle he has only this moment seen. ‘Possible?’ he says, feigning surprise. ‘More than possible, Your Honour. It already exists.’
‘In Florence, you say?’
‘And also in Madrid. The Medicis have one. So, too, does King Philip of Spain. New wonders of discovery are being made almost every day. Surely we cannot permit the Serene Republic to remain deficient.’
The Podestà nods wisely. Hooked already, thinks Bruno.
‘How did you come to hear of this apparatus, Signor Barrani? You are not from Florence?’
‘Heavens, no! A loyal Paduan, born and bred.’
‘Nor, I understand, are you from the Palazzo Bo.’
‘Trade has been my university, Your Honour.’
‘A merchant, I am led to believe?’
‘Indeed, Your Honour. A very humble merchant. One who keeps his ears open on his travels, particularly when the Fiorentini find it impossible not to boast about their latest acquisition in the new sciences.’
‘And you wish to set up a guild with the express purpose of building one of these – these engines – for His Serene Highness?’
Bruno gives the Podestà an engaging smile. ‘The Arti dei Astronomi.’
‘It has a good ring to it, I’ll give you that,’ says the Podestà.
‘If we are not to remain in thrall to the Fiorentini indefinitely – a state of affairs that I presume His Serenity would consider most injurious to the Republic’s reputation – then a guild should be enrolled at once.’
‘With you to lead it?’
‘I thank God I have eyes clear enough to see my duty when it beckons, Your Honour,’ Bruno assures him.
‘Have you actually seen this device? Are there plans in existence?’
‘That is why I have come to you, sir. I intend to visit Florence again at the first opportunity, in order better to study Signor Santucci’s achievement.’
‘Santucci? I haven’t heard of him. Who is he?’
‘The architect and constructor of the device, Your Honour.’
‘A Florentine?’
‘I fear so.’ A sad shrug. ‘And Florence is a long way off, and the price of lodging there extortionate. In short, I need a patron.’
The light of understanding flares in the Podestà’s watery eyes. ‘You want the trip financed? Is that it?’
‘As I told you, Your Honour, I am but a humble merchant. Sadly, my humility is down to its last few ducats.’
The Podestà returns to the window and looks out into the piazza, as though he might see His Serene Highness there, ready to give him a verdict. At length, his back still towards Bruno, he says, ‘The Medicis and the King of Spain, you say?’
‘And without doubt there will soon be others, Your Honour,’ Bruno assures him, trying not to sound too pushy. ‘The French, the Swiss… even, God forbid, the English…’
The Podestà turns back into the room. Being somewhat like-minded, Bruno spots the glow of avarice on his fleshy face even before the turn is complete.
In the parlour of the van der Molens’ house, Hella Maas is taking a third helping of Gretie’s waterzooi. Nicholas and Bianca can hear the clatter of her spoon as she wolfs down the fish stew, smell its aroma pervading the house, picture her trying to fix the bowl with an intense stare as though she fears it is only a transparent product of her hunger. It is ten o’clock, and beneath the window the canal is a bottomless black chasm.
It has been agreed between them that Hella Maas will accompany them as far as Pavia, on the far side of the Alps. After that, she will join the real pilgrims on the Via Francigena for the journey on to Rome and St Peter’s.
‘It’s a matter of simple Christian charity,’ Nicholas says softly. ‘Those people by the warehouse, they would have hanged her. And we can’t leave her to the mercies of the Spanish – they don’t have any. Besides, it will only be until we’ve crossed the pass of St Bernard. We can put up with her until then, can’t we?’
‘The Apocalypse for breakfast… Armageddon for supper: we might as well be locked in a room with the worst sort of Puritan for a month.’
‘Bianca! Where’s your compassion?’
‘It’s my ears I’m worried about. And my sanity.’
But Nicholas isn’t about to let her off so easily. ‘We know she’s witnessed two terrible murders, and that she isn’t safe here. And you’re not the woman to leave a pious young maid to a cruel fate. It is not in your humour.’
‘I suppose so,’ Bianca says reluctantly. ‘Anyway, we won’t have to spend much time in conversation with her.’
‘Why not? We can hardly ignore her.’
‘Because the journey will be the perfect opportunity for me to turn your questionable Italian into a semblance of a language that a Paduan can understand. If you’re not halfway to being conversant by the time we get there, you’re not the clever man I thought I’d married.’
She’s right, he thinks – apart from the Italian. Den Bosch has become unsafe for all three of them. It is only because the captain of the garrison is a particularly unimaginative fellow – and Father Albani so persuasive – that any of them are at liberty at all. When the Spanish investigators arrive from Antwerp, the girl is almost certain to face brutal questioning and, judging by what he’s seen so far, the citizens of Den Bosch are unlikely to prove any gentler with her.
Nicholas has already planned their departure, enlisting the help of Jan van der Molen. At dawn they will climb aboard the little skiff he keeps tied up in the canal behind the house. They will leave Den Bosch by the Grote Hekel, the double water-gate that brings light shipping on the Dommel into the city. Jan has assured him that the two heavy spiked wooden beams that serve as barriers are still raised, despite the doubling of the guard. The Spanish will be on the lookout for an unfamiliar Dutch male trying to leave, a rebel from the northern states who has slipped into the town to carry out his murderous act. Jan’s familiar face will ensure an unquestioned departure. Once clear of the town, they will strike south through Brabant to the French border, joining the Via Francigena at Reims. Nicholas reckons it will take them a fortnight to reach that cathedral city.
Thanks to Gretie’s help, and with assistance from Bianca, Hella Maas has been turned from a wild-eyed stray into something almost human, though the fiery glint in those impenetrably dark eyes has not dimmed for a single moment throughout. To Nicholas, it is as if something inside her is alight, the still-molten core of a furnace whose outside walls have cooled. In such company, he fears the Via Francigena might prove to be a very long road indeed. But at least he knows where that road will end. The weight on his conscience, were he to leave the maid to her fate, might never lift.
When he and Bianca settle down to snatch a few hours’ rest before their departure, he finds the images of the day’s events are too raw in his mind for sleep to come. Bloodstained bodies – trying to stop a man bleeding to death and failing – are nothing new to him. During his summer as a surgeon with the army of the House of Orange he dealt with more than his share. It is the triptych that sets his thoughts reeling once more. The memory of those monstrous images makes him fear that sleep will carry him to a hellish landscape where demons in the shape of lizards torment his naked body; where a toad in a nun’s habit, and bearing an implausibly benign human face, fries disjointed limbs and heads in a pan; where a creature in the shape of a living blade searches for weak human flesh to stab; and where that awful mill grinds human bodies into a rich juice of sinners.