‘She has a point there,’ he says, trying to sound light-hearted.
Bianca rolls into him, sliding one thigh over his. ‘Well, I think clocks are a wonder.’
‘That’s not what you told Robert Cecil, in his study. I seem to recall you disapproved of his. Why have you changed your mind?’
‘Because I need to be lightened, after all this talk of inevitability. And by the chimes I’ve just heard, I’d say we have an hour before she comes back.’
18
‘Yu expect Galileo Galilei to help you build the thing?’ says the Podestà doubtfully. ‘Seriously?’
The air in the palazzo is sullen with heat. Patches of sweat darken the governor’s crimson robe and bead his fleshy upper lip. He wears an expression of overheated disbelief.
‘The Fiorentini showed me nothing but contempt, Your Honour,’ Bruno says, feigning outrage. ‘They are jealous to a man. They could not abide the idea of the Serene Republic matching them in this field of new discovery. Fortunately, I have convinced Maestro Galileo to make the required calculations – solely in honour of His Serene Highness.’
‘Professor Galileo is an argumentative rogue who demands his salary be paid in advance, because the one thing he apparently can’t count properly is money.’
‘But, sir, who else is better qualified than he?’ Bruno insists, suddenly afraid the Podestà’s apparent dislike of the young mathematician from Pisa might jeopardize his plan. ‘Men of great intellect often find the everyday chores of life too insignificant to consider. Is that not why Your Honour must employ his own servants? A man of your standing could not possibly be expected to do his own laundry; and so it is with Signor Galileo.’
‘But I don’t walk about the streets dressed as a common artisan,’ the Podestà wheezes. ‘They say he refuses to wear his professorial toga – that he prefers to go about in the garb of a common labourer.’
‘He is a modest man, it is true.’
‘I can’t say I’ve heard him described as modest, Signor Barrani. I find him somewhat full of himself.’
‘He is a man of ordinary pleasures, Your Honour. He likes to dress as such.’
‘And he argues a lot.’
‘Dispute is the air that all the finest natural philosophers breathe,’ Bruno says, wondering if he might have a career as a lawyer if this project is rejected.
‘The question is, Signor Barrani: can Professor Galileo be relied upon to fulfil the commission, or will we have to trawl the taverns to find out what progress he’s making?’
‘With the honour of the Serene Republic as his lodestar, I have the utmost confidence he will be diligent.’
‘The honour of Pisa didn’t stop him turning his back on that city for one hundred and eighty ducats per annum, I seem to recall.’
Bruno draws himself up to his full height, still a head shorter than the Podestà, and opens his palms to demonstrate an inescapable fact of life. ‘Genius must seek its own reward, Your Honour. You can’t expect to wear silken hose if you’re only prepared to pay for country wool.’
A slow, sibilant intake of breath as the Podestà considers Bruno’s assurances.
‘Do we have artisans of the required skill to build this sphere here in Padua?’
‘Undoubtedly, Your Honour,’ Bruno assures him, though at this precise moment the Arte dei Astronomi, Padua’s newest trade guild (so new in fact that it has yet to be officially entered into the approved list) boasts only three enrolled members: Bruno Barrani himself and his servants Luca and Alonso.
Is that doubt making the heavy jowls tremble, Bruno wonders, or was it the fly that only an instant ago brushed the Podestà’s official cheek? He is known to be a man who likes to cover his back. He might be the doge’s representative in Padua, but he’s not a man to put himself at risk of the doge’s displeasure. There again, his avarice is well known amongst those who come to him seeking his official blessing for this project or that. Bruno watches helplessly while the struggle rages across the corpulent battleground of the Podestà’s face.
And then, suddenly, all is light and joy.
‘I shall write to His Serenity immediately and recommend we go ahead,’ the Podestà proclaims with a happy tremor. ‘After all, God has set Venice above Florence on the map. How then can we allow her to be below Florence in matters of the new science?’
‘That is all that has ever driven me, Your Honour,’ Bruno says, contriving the studied modesty of a plaster saint.
The Podestà returns to his desk. He sits down and adjusts the crimson folds of his gown over the arms of his chair, as if Bruno were a painter and he the subject preparing for a sitting. ‘I will need a full tally of the proposed cost of the project, of course. His Serenity’s purse is not limitless.’
‘Of course. I have already prepared one,’ Bruno says, producing a document from his doublet.
The Podestà takes it, scans it in a cursory manner and frowns. ‘There appears to be an entry missing.’
‘Surely not. I have been most diligent in the accounting,’ Bruno assures him. ‘To the last scudo.’
With a smile that says, Come now, we’re both men of the world, the Podestà leans forward, tapping Bruno’s estimate with the tip of one fleshy fingertip. ‘It can go… here.’
‘What can, Your Honour?’ Bruno asks, noticing that the official digit seems to have alighted upon blank parchment.
‘The cost of my favour,’ he says. ‘Four per cent of the gross. Shall we call it… “supplementary reckonings”?’
The street door of Sir Fulke Vaesy’s house on St Andrew’s Hill lies beneath the overhang of the upper storey. Rose and Ned have timed their arrival carefully. It is late afternoon, and this side of the lane is now in deep shadow. As a further precaution they linger until it is almost empty. Then, with Ned flattening himself as best he can beside the door, Rose announces her presence with a determined hammering on the little iron grille set into its face. Almost at once she hears footsteps beyond. The grille slides open and she sees a pair of anxious eyes peering out.
‘I bear a message for Sir Fulke Vaesy,’ she says in the authoritative voice she uses for Bankside tradesmen whenever they try to deliver a skimmed order to the Jackdaw. ‘My mistress has need of a physician. She is ill, and rich. Very rich.’
As the door opens, Ned moves with a speed not even Rose expects of him. He barges inside, driving Ditworth before him and sending him stumbling backwards onto the floor rushes. Rose slips in behind, closing the door after her.
‘Where is the rogue?’ Ned growls, hauling Ditworth to his feet and holding him up by the neck of his jerkin like a child’s rag doll.
‘Have mercy on me, Master,’ Ditworth pleads, trying to make his head disappear into his tunic on the presumption Ned is about to decapitate him. ‘There’s nothing in the house worth stealing.’
Ned, who for all his faults has never stolen so much as a button, drops him like a hot coal. ‘I’m no house-diver, you scoundrel! I’m an honest man.’
‘God’s wounds!’ Ditworth cries, getting his first proper look at the intruders. ‘It’s you – from Bankside.’
Rose demands, ‘Where is your master?’
Like a cornered fox, Ditworth seems reluctant to take his eyes off Ned. His head gives a twitchy little jerk over his shoulder, towards a door set into a wall covered from floor to ceiling in cheap wainscoting. Silently, Ned motions for him to open it. Rose pushes the servant through and follows. She hopes that by placing herself in front of her husband she can prevent any inclination he might have towards murder, though the anger burns so hotly in her that she fears she may be the one to lose all control.