The Queen's Cipher (59 page)

“Why does the date matter so much?” Cheryl gazed lovingly at his battered face.

“Because of what Francis was being asked to do. Bodley was a top-level diplomatic spy who undertook special missions for the Queen and his ‘dear cousin’ letter is quite explicit. The young man had been given a European travel allowance but with strings attached. In his letter Bodley outlined ‘what manner of return your friends expect from you.’ The ‘friends’ sat on the Privy Council and they wanted to know about religious attitudes and political alliances in the countries he was going to visit. In other words, they were sending him on a fact-finding tour.”

“And did they get value for money?”

“They certainly did. A copy of
Notes on the Present State of Christendom
was discovered among Francis Bacon’s effects after his death. This detailed dispatch was written in the early 1580s and covered most of Protestant Europe, France, Spain and Italy, including city states like Venice. And here’s the best part, according to Bacon’s Victorian biographer Spedding, there is an eighteen month gap between the late autumn of 1580 and April 1582 when nothing is known of his movements – time enough for him to cross Europe on Her Majesty’s Secret Service.”

“Real cloak and dagger stuff, Freddie.” An amused smile played around her lips.

“That Bacon made this European tour is confirmed by his first biographer Pierre Amboise who claimed he travelled widely as a young man ‘to mould his opinions by intercourse with all kinds of foreigners’ with Italy being one of the countries where ‘his desire for knowledge carried him.’”

“So you’re saying Francis came to Venice in 1581 for informal talks with the Giovani.”

“It looks like it, yes. Judging by their later correspondence, I would guess that his key contact here would be a monk called Paolo Sarpi who led the Venetian resistance to Rome and shared Bacon’s ideas about progress in its modern science-and-technology based form. Sarpi specialized in optics, helping his friend Galileo to make a telescope. Like Bacon, he had been a child prodigy standing at the pulpit in Santa Maria Gloriosa dei Frari as a thirteen year old boy, winning a philosophical debate with the best Franciscan theologians in Venice. Sarpi was a very political priest, whose anti-papal tracts are thought to have inspired the Rosicrucian manifestos.”

“Not them again, not the spectral prophets of the new golden age,” Cheryl said in disgust.

“I don’t know what you’ve got against them,” Freddie grumbled. “They’re important historical figures …”

His words were lost, smothered by a riot of red hair as Cheryl flung herself on him. “Didn’t mean nothing by it, guv’nor, honest! What you get up to with those Rosicrucians is none of my business.” 

“Very funny,” he said, wondering why he was laughing too.

“Do you think Bacon met his enlightened monk there?” She nodded towards the ballroom.

“No, they would have met in the Ridotto Morosini near the Rialto.”

“What’s a ridotto?”

“It’s a literary salon. The Venetian historian Andrea Morosini turned his palazzo into a gathering place for scholars and statesmen; somewhere they could socialize and speak freely on every topic under the sun.”

Cheryl spread her hands in bewilderment. “So why come here?”

“Imagine you’re young – well, in your case, that’s not too difficult – and you’ve been sent to Venice. You hold your talks with the Giovani in the Ridotto Morosini, fine, but that’s not necessarily where you want to stay. Not when the Morosinis have another palace in Venice’s red light district. Wouldn’t you rather lodge where there’s plenty of night life?”

“Of course I would but that’s me, at home with the fallen women.” She pouted provocatively.

“This used to be the largest palace in Venice and only a stone’s throw away from the Campo Santa Margherita with its cluster of trade guilds. The square teemed with apprentices, courtesans and rent boys and the inns kept late hours. Every kind of erotic pleasure was on offer.”

“Maybe
he
was one of Francis’ lovers.” Cheryl pointed to the other figure in la Tintoretto’s canvas. “What do you make of our Othello?”

The chess-playing Moor wore a beard and a green turban. The upper part of his body was clothed in a gold embroidered vest with a long silver sash wrapped diagonally across his chest. Beneath his loose fitting culottes she could see red hose and Moroccan slippers. Above his head, fruit bearing branches intertwined in geometric arabesques while rippling water and a stylized city landscape served as a background to the picture.

“Othello is posing for his portrait on a summer’s day in Giudecca and he’s no more a black man than I am. He’s an actor from the Commedia dell’arte and his surname is Moro.”

Cheryl’s eyes widened. “Whoa there, Holmes,” she gulped. “How do you work that out?”

“Elementary, my dear Watson. The city is clearly Venice – that’s the Basilica San Marco with the original Campanile while off to the left you can see the Zattere – and the city only appears like this when viewed from the island of Giudecca. The canvas was painted in summer because the Moor isn’t wearing a shirt and the black mulberry tree fruits then. The green turban is supposed to signify a pilgrimage to Mecca but you can forget about that because our guy is wearing stockings. Moors never wore stockings. On the other hand, tight red stockings were traditionally worn by Pantolone, one of the principal characters in the Commedia dell’arte. As for the actor’s name, it’s obviously Moro. The ‘House of the Moor’ is just around the corner from here. It’s called that because a former occupant, Cristoforo Moro, was sent to Cyprus as the island’s civil governor in 1508 and, although white and Venetian by birth, his story is linked to that of Shakespeare’s Othello.”

Freddie paused for breath. “One thing more,” he added. “The Italian word for the black mulberry is ‘gelsomoro.’ Leonardo da Vinci recognized this when he painted a mulberry tree mural around the coat of arms of his patron, the Duke of Milan, who was a very dark-skinned individual. The mulberries were a pun on his nickname, Il Moro, the Moor. Leonardo loved his little jokes.”

Cheryl clapped her hands in appreciation. “To sum up, your Moro character and Francis meet in the Morosini salon and become chums. Tintoretto’s daughter is commissioned to paint them playing chess. Moro poses in a Moor’s costume as an in-joke and the artist apes Leonardo by adding a mulberry leaf motif to her composition. The plot thickens.”

They looked at one another and burst out laughing. “One thing though,” she said between giggles, “can we be sure La Tintoretto had a sense of humour. Women took themselves very seriously in those days because no man did.”

He stood up to go. “Let’s see where she grew up.”

Cannaregio lay between the northern bank of the Grand Canal and the Venetian lagoon. The sestiere stretched from the railway station to the city hospital where Freddie had so recently been a patient. It was famous for its artists’ studios, the first-ever Jewish ghetto and for a funnel-shaped square known as the Campo dei Moro. Once she saw the crude stone figures that gave the square its name, Cheryl had to have her picture taken next to them.

“These are effigies of the three Mastelli brothers who were medieval merchants,” she said after consulting her guidebook.

“What about the fourth statue?” Freddie asked innocently, clicking away with her digital camera.

“Oh, I don’t know, perhaps it’s a Mastelli servant.”

“Very democratic, don’t you think, to immortalise a twelfth-century servant in stone.”

“You’re not buying this, are you?”

“No, the theory doesn’t hold water – too many statues, not enough Mastelli brothers. There’s a better explanation. Earlier today, before you arrived, I read an article by a Cambridge professor in which she claimed these stone Moors were dressed like characters out of a comic opera. This one over here, the one with the outsize turban, acquired his headgear at a much later date. Why, she wondered, would anyone bother to make such a jokey addition to a statue of someone who’d died three hundred years earlier? What’s more likely is that the sculptor was poking fun at a contemporary figure and the professor suggested it might be one of the Moros because of the name and the family’s long connection with the spice trade.”

Freddie shepherded Cheryl along the pavement. “And look at the next door neighbour. Jacopo Comin, alias Tintoretto.”

“That settles it then,” she said with hardening resolve. “Tintoretto’s daughter must have known the Moro nickname. What’s next?”

“Well, if we’re quick, we might squeeze in a visit to the Biblioteca Marciana.”

As they walked to the nearest vaporetto stop he explained why. The Marciana possessed an amazing collection of early manuscripts and was bound to have the
Libro d’Oro
, the Golden Book, in which, according to custom, the names of the Venetian nobility were inscribed as soon as they were old enough to serve on the Great Council. The chess-playing Moro ought to appear in its pages.

The trip down the Grand Canal had Cheryl purring with pleasure. “This is the most beautiful place I’ve ever been to, Freddie, and I’m seeing it with you,” she said, dropping her voice for intimacy and clinging to his arm as their waterbus approached St Mark’s Square.

They were soon fighting for space in Venice’s most famous square. Cheryl’s head was buried in her guidebook. “We are now in the Piazzetta or Little Piazza and should notice its geometric pavement of dark volcanic rocks and white Istrian stone.”

“You should look at these columns,” he suggested. “The winged lion of Venice is on the top of that plinth while St Theodore is on the other one, holding a spear with a slain dragon at his feet.”

“They were called the Columns of Justice because criminals were executed between them,” she read out.

“Homosexuals were burned alive here,” he told her.

Beyond St Theodore’s column lay the Libreria, the magnificently ornate Renaissance building which Sansovina designed to hold the Biblioteca Marciana. The Roman influence was inescapable.

“It reminds me of the Coliseum or the Theatre of Marcellus,” Freddie said in a hushed tone, “essentially pagan but breathtakingly beautiful – all about Venetian wealth and power in the early sixteenth century.”

Cheryl didn’t share his sense of awe. “That’s Renaissance folk for you. They had this obsession with classical antiquity. It’s a wonder they didn’t go round in togas and tunics.”

Inside the library, great art complemented the architecture. Titian’s allegorical painting of Wisdom adorned the entrance hall ceiling while, in the Reading Room, the industrious Tintoretto had filled several of the false wall niches with canvases of heroically posed Greek philosophers.

“You want
what
?”

The voice, bordering on disbelief, belonged to an English-speaking reference librarian.

“The Golden Book of Venice, late 1570s,” repeated Freddie, trying to make it sound like a common or garden request.

“I’m afraid there is a long waiting list for all our golden books. However, if you tell me what you’re looking for, I will do my best to suggest an alternative information source.”

He wondered whether she was as stilted in her own language and attempted to answer her in Italian. It took several minutes to explain that he was seeking a member of the Moro family whose entry into the Golden Book probably coincided with the plague years in Venice.

“Do you know anything else about him?” She sounded more animated now.

“Well, he would appear to have had an interest in the Commedia dell’arte.”

“Then you are in luck. There’s an excellent book on early male actors. I’ll bring it to you.”

Cheryl was keeping a seat for him at one of the highly polished wooden tables. Freddie slumped into his chair and felt an immediate energy loss. The thought occurred that he and Francis Bacon might be enjoying a private moment together. Even so, the waiting was agony.

“Don’t bite your finger nails!” His mother used to say that. This time the scolding came from Cheryl who was less than happy when the book finally arrived. “Shit, it’s in Latin!”

Fortunately it came with pictures, including a small engraving of a decrepit, mean-looking old man dated 1585. They could barely make out the inscription.

In parte autem Carnavale Venezia Pantalone piano per Lodovici Moro, etates viginti quinque.
‘In the Carnevale Venezia, the part of Pantalone was played by Lodovico Moro, aged twenty-six.’

“He’s our man, Freddie. He’d be twenty-two when Francis came to Venice. They were almost the same age and they both liked the theatre. We’ve nailed it.”

Their rejoicing was interrupted by an announcement. The library was about to close.

25 JULY 2014

Whether it was the dazzling sun streaming through the shutters or the sound of church bells that woke her, Cheryl couldn’t be sure. Drugged with love, she snuggled into the double bed and replayed the night they had spent together.

It had begun in the gondola. She had delicious memories of lying back on soft, dark-fringed cushions, soothed by the gentle splash of the gondolier’s oar and the stillness of the night, watching the rippling interplay of water and light as they glided through a labyrinth of narrow canals, imagining herself a famous courtesan, bejewelled and bare-breasted, satisfying her lover in the dark recesses of their boat.

“Did you know gondoliers vowed never to reveal any passion they witnessed in their rowing boat,” she had said, dropping an obvious hint. “The penalty for breaking this oath was death.”

Freddie had laughed at her. “That’s a tall story if ever I heard one.”

But the thought had been planted. Their mouths met in the darkness. One of his hands cupped a breast while the other slid beneath the thin fabric of her dress. This was hardly a new experience, although she had never been groped in a gondola before, but the way she had writhed beneath him, groaning with pleasure as his fingers sent electric shocks through her body, was unprecedented.

He filled her up. He was perfect. And so was Venice. A city resting precariously on water should be ruled by Poseidon but Venice belonged to other deities, to Venus and Morpheus, the god of dreams. Half fairy tale, half tourist trap by day, the serene republic became a shimmering, enchanted world of romance once the sun set.