‘If my cometary ecliptic fits first time anything the Corios have made, I’ll forsake wine and women and take up holy orders,’ Bondoni says with a wink to Nicholas and Bianca. ‘I wouldn’t trust them to make me a fork with the tines all pointing the same way. ’ He gives the ring a final polish against one yellow-hosed thigh, his lank white hair falling over his brow as he rubs.
Bianca recalls the goldsmith’s fearsome mistress and six children, and wonders if secretly Bondoni might be deliberately holding himself hostage to fortune.
‘We’ve brought the next set of drawings, for the equatorial ring,’ Nicholas says, setting down three rolls of parchment on the workbench. ‘Signor Barrani received them this morning, from Signor Galileo.’
‘I don’t suppose he mentioned a payment – for my last work?’ Bondoni says, rolling out the drawings.
‘No, I’m afraid he didn’t.’
To Bianca, the diagrams look bewildering, with their lines of axis and fan-like graticules, tangents, arcs, Roman numerals and strange equations. She suspects they’re even more meaningless to her cousin Bruno. She has the sneaking feeling that he only insists on signing them off so that his name appears on them, establishing for posterity that from the start this was always the Barrani Sphere.
‘I must say, young Matteo’s work is splendid. Very precise,’ Bondoni continues. ‘It’s come along no end. Of course that’s probably down to Signor Galileo’s teaching.’ He gives Nicholas a knowing, men-of-the-world-together look. ‘But it’s the maid who’s cured him of his laziness. I wonder why that might be.’
Feeling Bianca stiffen at his side, Nicholas takes his leave. As they walk back towards Bruno’s house, she says, ‘So you weren’t the only one to be taken in by Hella Maas.’
‘What do you imply by that?’
She puts on a derisive sing-song voice, parodying Bondoni. ‘I must say, young Matteo’s work is splendid… very precise… I wonder why that might be.’
‘You really must put Hella out of your mind,’ Nicholas says, as kindly as he can manage. ‘It’s not healthy for you to hold this animosity against her. Forget about her. I have.’
Bianca casts him a hard look. Her amber eyes gleam with an intensity that unsettles him. He can see anger brimming there, and exasperation.
‘You… Bruno… Galileo… Matteo Fedele – you’ve all fallen under her spell like children at the Bartholomew Fair,’ she says. ‘Yet not one of you has bothered to ask yourself the obvious question.’
‘And what question would that be?’
Hands on hips, Bianca turns to face her husband.
‘Have any of you stopped for a moment to wonder why someone who preaches that seeking knowledge is akin to inviting the Devil into your house should be helping my cousin build a sphere that can see into the future?’
33
In the closing days of September the weather breaks. Grey clouds drift down from the mountains to the north. At night, it is easier to sleep. For Nicholas and Bianca, this does not, however, lead to an increase in ardour. A distance has opened up between them.
By day, Bianca has taken to making solitary visits to the places of her childhood: the old lodgings where her mother and father lived, the little church where they are buried and where old Father Rossi – eighty if a day – still tends the graves. She walks the lanes through which, as children, she and Bruno would carry secret letters for Cardinal Fiorzi, the perfect messengers for a cardinal enmeshed in political conspiracies they themselves were too young to understand.
For his part, Nicholas attends the Palazzo Bo, to hear lectures by Professor Fabrici. His friendship with Galileo is burgeoning. Aware that his visits to the house in the Borgo dei Vignali are a source of tension between him and Bianca, he tries to time them for when Hella Maas is not there.
One evening the physician and the mathematician share a jug of wine together at a tavern called The Fig, close to the part of the university where Professor Fabrici is building his anatomical theatre. Nicholas takes a deep breath and asks after Hella Maas.
Galileo raises one bushy eyebrow, wipes the wine from his lips with the back of a hand and says, ‘Why do you ask? You already have the handsomest wife in Padua. You can’t have tired of her already.’
‘Of course not. I’m a physician. I’m concerned for the maid, nothing more.’
‘You think she is ill?’
Nicholas shrugs. ‘Perhaps not in the body. But in the soul–’
Galileo turns the wine jug in a circle, as though inspecting it for faults. ‘Well, I must confess she is a little – how shall I describe it? – fervent.’
Nicholas takes a thoughtful sip of wine. The hubbub of the tavern washes over him while he considers his words.
‘I think some ill has passed between Hella and my wife, during their time together on the Via Francigena – something to which Bianca refuses to make me privy.’
‘Have you no idea what it could be?’
‘Hella seems convinced that the end of days is very close. I think all her talk of judgement has brought a heavy melancholy down upon Bianca.’
Galileo lets out a sharp, contemptuous laugh. ‘There are plenty of people who believe that, Niccolò. The churches are full of them, in front of and behind the altar. Every time there’s a storm or a bad harvest, or a comet appears in the sky, down they go on their knees. The Church makes a fortune out of it. When it actually happens, the Pope will have to go back to being an honest man.’
Smiling, Nicholas says, ‘All I know is that this young woman has suffered a great tribulation in her life and been witness to great violence. And something happened on the journey here, something between her and Bianca.’
‘I can solve complex mathematical questions, Niccolò; but marriage problems–’ He feigns a look of bewilderment. ‘My brother-in-law demands I pay him more for my sister’s dowry… my sister calls me a wastrel and a drunkard… If you’d come to me earlier, I’d have advised you to avoid the condition of marriage entirely.’
‘I believe I must speak directly to Hella,’ Nicholas says. ‘I must confront her – find out what has passed between her and my wife. I’ll not learn it from Bianca; she can barely bring herself to speak of the maid.’
‘Then we shall agree a day and a time,’ the mathematician says, draining his cup. ‘I’ll give you an hour. I’ll contrive to send Matteo on an errand, if I can rouse his lazy arse. As for me, I shall retire to my chamber and make eyes at the signorina who sits in her window opposite, watching what goes on in the street all day. Like Signor Purse’s sphere, she is a work in progress.’
‘Rejoice at the wonderful news,’ Bruno says when Nicholas returns to the Borgo dei Argentieri. For a moment he thinks Bruno is speaking of his cousin’s pregnancy. But he is not.
‘His excellency, the Podestà, has agreed to allow the Arte dei Astronomi to march with all the other city guilds in the great parade on the Feast of the Holy Rosary.’
‘I’m pleased to hear it,’ says Nicholas, contriving an unconvincing interest.
Bruno explains, barely able to contain his excitement. His little frame almost quivers like a spaniel catching sight of a partridge. ‘Every first Sunday in October we celebrate the victory of the Venetian fleet over the Turk. There is a grand procession, ending with the blessing of the guilds’ banners at the Basilica of St Anthony. We are recognized at last! I will have to buy a decent cloak. And I insist on finding Cousin Bianca a pretty new gown to wear.’