The next morning, as I walked down the track to my workshop, I came across Navacchio, supervising the trimming of a hedge. When I talked about the wind, he looked nonplussed.
‘You couldn’t have slept through it,’ I said. ‘No one could.’
Navacchio pinched a large, flat earlobe between finger and thumb.
I looked past him, into the gardens. There were no fallen branches, no flattened shrubs. There was no debris of any kind.
‘Did you hear the news?’ Navacchio said.
‘What news?’
‘The Grand Duke’s mother’s dead.’
Though Vittoria della Rovere had never been popular, Florence plunged into an orgy of sorrow, remorse and penitence. The palace was draped in black silk, which snapped and rippled in the raw March breeze, and noble families hung tapestries from their windows, the rich fabrics dimmed by strips of funereal ribbon. The streets leading to San Lorenzo were choked with endless candle-lit processions, which brought that part of the city to a standstill. Church bells sounded at all hours of the day and night. The Grand Duke, who had rarely felt confident of his place in his mother’s affections, and who had been ambivalent, to say the least, about her constant interference in affairs of state, wept openly, refused to eat, and spent so long in prayer that both his knees swelled up and he could barely walk. Her passing also revived his anxieties about the succession. ‘No births,’ somebody heard him moan, ‘only death, death, death!’
It wasn’t until after the requiem Mass had taken place that I summoned the courage to approach him. Toldo was guarding the entrance to the Vasari Corridor on the afternoon in question, and, once I had persuaded him that I had urgent private business with the Grand Duke and swore that I would shoulder all responsibility, he grudgingly stood aside and let me through.
I climbed a flight of carpeted steps. It was quiet in the corridor, with round windows set low down in the walls. There were soldiers stationed at regular intervals, and though they remained motionless I sensed their eyes on me when I walked past. As the corridor moved north, it gradually sloped down until it approached ground level, and I had a view of the palace gardens, scraps of muted greenery caught in the metal grilles that were fitted over the windows. According to Toldo, the Grand Duke was on his own. Had he followed the corridor all the way to the Uffizi? Once, in a burst of enthusiasm, a month or two after I delivered my commission, he had taken me to the gallery to show me a sculpture he admired. A portrayal of two wrestlers in combat, neither of whom appeared to have gained the upper hand, the piece was a study in tension and balance. Incongruously, perhaps, it reminded me of the Grand Duke’s foreign policy, the way in which he contrived both to avoid commitment and to keep all his options open, and I wondered if that was why the sculpture appealed to him. After spending a few moments thinking about how to frame the observation, I put it to him, and he turned to me with a look that was warm, almost grateful, and said, ‘Ah, Zummo, I knew you’d understand.’ How long ago that seemed!
Soon I was beyond the gardens, and the corridor began to climb again. I was able to peer down into Via Guicciardini, the street I used to travel every day during my first two years in the city. Had the passers-by glanced up, all they would have seen was a shadowy figure; they would have assumed I was a member of the ruling family, maybe even the Grand Duke himself.
Without being aware of it, I had speeded up, and as a result I nearly missed him altogether. He was sitting with his back to me, in an alcove that overlooked the nave of Santa Felicità. His head was bowed, as if in prayer; the great globe of his belly rose and fell. It was here — precisely here — that Fiore claimed to have seen him once. He had often told me how much he valued time spent in the corridor — it was one of the few places where he could escape the pressures of his position — and I knew I shouldn’t be imposing on him, but recent events had left me with no choice. I had burned my boats. My boats were ashes. I decided not to wake him, though. I would simply wait.
By the time his eyes opened, at least a quarter of an hour had gone by, and I had almost forgotten why I had come. Watching a man sleep had begun to seem like an end in itself.
‘Zummo?’
‘Forgive me for intruding, Your Highness, especially at a time like this.’
He brought a fist up to his mouth to hide a yawn. ‘It’s a sad time. Very sad.’
I told him I had been praying for his mother’s soul.
‘But that’s not what brings you here,’ he said.
‘No.’ I took a breath. ‘I’ve never bothered you with anything personal before —’
I saw his gaze turn inwards. Had I lost him already? I should have prepared the ground with more subtlety, more care. After all, he had only been awake for a few seconds. But then I heard Cuif shriek in agony as I raised him up off the dungeon floor, and I pressed on regardless.
‘Bassetti has ordered the arrest and torture of a friend of mine,’ I said, ‘a man who is innocent of all charges.’
The Grand Duke brushed at the front of his tunic, then stood up and walked off down the corridor, towards the Ponte Vecchio. Uncertain of the protocol, I remained where I was.
‘My friend’s life has been ruined. He might even die.’ I paused. ‘The interrogation was unjustified and brutal.’
Some distance away, the Grand Duke turned to face me. In his sombre mourning clothes, he seemed to fill the narrow space. ‘I wonder if you realize what you’re saying.’
‘I’m simply describing what I saw, Your Highness. Such violence — and all for nothing.’
‘These are serious allegations.’
Allegations. His choice of words told me everything I needed to know. He had decided not to back me in the matter. What on earth had made me think he would? I was overwhelmed by dizziness. The grey air prickled.
‘Bassetti occupies a position of trust,’ he said, ‘and he has occupied that position for many years.’
‘I know. Of course. Your private secretary. Your uncle’s too. And more than that, by all accounts.’
‘More than that?’
‘He guards your values. He enforces morality. He encapsulates the very spirit of your reign.’ I was babbling. Worse still, my Sicilian accent had returned. I sounded abrasive. Foreign. I doubted he could understand a single word.
‘And yet,’ the Grand Duke said, ‘you appear to be finding fault with him —’
‘Not finding fault, Your Highness. Not with him. No, no. I just think he might have been poorly advised — on this occasion.’
Better. But not good enough.
The Grand Duke adjusted the extravagant curls and scrolls of his black wig and then strolled back along the corridor towards me. As I flattened myself against the wall to let him pass, I was enveloped in the English fragrance he used — a heady concoction of primrose, eglantine, and marigold. He stood in the alcove, close to the iron grille, and gazed down into the nave of Santa Felicità. I heard him sigh.
‘Perhaps you’re not aware of this, Zummo — in fact, I’m sure you’re not — but I have already showed my support for you by choosing to ignore certain information that has come to light —’
Madonna porca. I bit my bottom lip so hard I tasted blood.
‘Information which, if true,’ he said, still peering down, ‘would make your position here untenable.’
I didn’t speak. I couldn’t.
‘I have vouched for you personally because you’re important to me. I have given you the benefit of the doubt. All this behind your back, without you knowing, because I didn’t want to distract you from your work. But if you lodge a complaint against the very people who are making accusations …’ He faced me, his eyes solemn beneath their heavy lids.