The Dark Heart of Florence by Tasha Alexander (ebook reader screen TXT) 📕

“The first beginnings of things cannot be distinguished by the eye,” Darius said. “How much more clearly could a sentence warn us that at first we won’t recognize what we are seeing?”

“You found that one on the landing outside this room, correct?” Colin asked. I nodded. “That is the first place a visitor reaches after passing through the more public areas of the house, which does suggest that it’s the initial message being communicated by whoever wrote it. Where are the rest of the Latin sentences?”

“I’ve only barely made a start finding them,” I said.

“It sounds as if it’s time to look for more,” Darius said. “Don’t you have a notebook for the project? Colin, fetch it for her.”

“It’s in the room on the third floor directly above our bedroom,” I said. “I’ve been using the space as my study.”

“I’ll get it,” Colin said. “Don’t start before I return.” He dashed from the room. When he came back, with lanterns for each of us as well as my notebook and pencil, he asked where I would like to begin.

“If we are to adopt an organized approach to this project, based on the layout of the house, we ought to start on the ground floor and work our way up,” I said. The air having grown chilly since sunset, Cécile and I pulled on wraps, and we clattered down the stairs, along the side of the courtyard, and into the loggia.

During the Middle Ages and the Renaissance, the loggia would have served as a semipublic space. Here, the master of the house might conduct business or hold political meetings, but it could also be used for private family ceremonies, like weddings and funerals. Over the centuries, many homeowners divided loggias, converting the space into shops, either renting them to tenants or using them for their own commercial ventures.

Our loggia, with its vaulted ceiling, showed no signs indicative of how it had been used in the past. We scrutinized every inch of its walls, illuminating their surfaces with our lanterns, finding traces of three frescoes but no graffiti, and so moved into the courtyard. The Vieri family coat of arms was displayed on the walls above the Corinthian columns that defined the space, and carved heads of individuals whose hats identified them as medieval topped the corner pilasters. A rendering of the di Vieri family tree hung near the entrance and a certain amount of faded paint remained on stones of the staircase. Above us, stars twinkled in the sky.

“I don’t see any graffiti,” Darius said, crouching down to examine one of the walls. He started to rise, but lost his balance and reached out to steady himself. His dinner jacket caught on the wall, tearing the sleeve. “That’s bloody inconvenient.”

“No cursing in front of the ladies,” Colin said, his voice teasing.

I crossed to Darius to inspect the damage. “It doesn’t look too bad. Your valet will have no trouble mending it.”

“Let’s hope so. I’ve no desire to see my tailor anytime soon.” He brushed dust from his suit. “Right. Any graffiti to be found here?”

There was none, so we moved to the storage rooms and then returned to the first floor. We found nothing more until we entered a small room off the Sala dei Pappagalli. As originally built, each floor of the palazzo contained a latrine, one stacked above the next, floor after floor. The countess, after buying the house, had modernized them, a task made easier by the existence of the admittedly primitive plumbing. Humans have a long history of scrawling on the walls of such spaces, as witnessed in the ancient public lavatories in Pompeii.

“What does it say?” Colin asked.

“A single phrase,” I replied. “Who betrayed me?”

“There’s more,” Cécile said. “Look here.” She pointed to one of the other walls.

I translated as best I could:

Love brings me happiness. I feel sorrow when I’m hurt.

There’ll be trouble for whoever tells me they’re leaving.

They’ll have to be quick or I’ll pay them back sooner or later.

“I don’t think this has anything to do with the Lucretius quotes,” I said. “The handwriting is completely different and it’s in the dialetto toscano, not Latin.” Nonetheless, I recorded it, and its location, in my notebook.

“Who betrayed me?” Darius whispered. The light from our lanterns flickered eerily. “Someone was afraid for his life. Someone who could have lived here with whoever wrote the Latin phrases.”

“Or could have lived here two hundred years later,” Colin said. “We have no way to reliably date any of the graffiti.”

“Some include dates,” Cécile said.

“Yes, but the mention of a date doesn’t prove when it was written,” he said.

“I’m not sure it matters,” I said. “We’re taking quite a leap thinking that the graffiti will lead us to the treasure. It’s an enchanting idea, to be sure, but nothing in the sources I’ve uncovered mentions it. I shall continue my project, recording everything written on every wall in the house; and then, once we have that in its entirety, we can examine the texts and locations and draw a conclusion, one way or another.”

Colin nodded. “That’s the way to proceed. In the meantime—”

“I’m awfully tired, darling,” I said, drawing out each of the words and shooting him what I hoped was a longing look. “Exhausted, even.”

He met my eyes and smiled a dreamy half smile. “Are you, my dear girl? We can’t have that.”

“I hoped you’d say so.” I held out my hand to him. “Will you escort me to our room?”

“Of course,” he said, “so long as our friends won’t scold us for abandoning them.”

Cécile shrugged. “Monsieur Hargreaves, none of the thoughts currently racing through my head is suitable for public airing. Go, without delay.”

“It was a bit clunky,” I said, once we’d reached our bedroom and locked the door behind us, “but more fun than I’d expected, despite the fact that we were standing in a latrine.”

“Let’s not dwell on that last point,” Colin said. He was pulling the pins out of my pompadour,