Page 39

CHAPTER 38

E RIC MOTORED INTO V ARALLO .

An Old World place, for sure, enclosed by low bastioned walls topped by grass. A medley of crowded houses and shops stood within, most broad and squat, their stone a warm yellow merged with bricks fighting hard to resist the assault of time. At its center spread the Piazza San Martino with a Romanesque church anchoring the northern side.

Inside the church was a most celebrated relic, the Volto Santo, enclosed within an elaborate tabernacle. An ornamented wooden cross with the face of Christ painted upon it in a strange representation that suggested a Byzantine origin. The myth accounting for its existence stated that, after its creation in 782, a bishop found it by way of a vision. He then placed it on a ship and abandoned it to the sea. Cast hither and thither in the waves, the ship finally ran aground on the western Italian shore, where the bishop of Varallo was visiting on a holiday. He decided to bring it back home, but the people of the village where he was visiting objected. To appease them he placed the cross in a cart driven by two white oxen and, as it had been abandoned to the sea, it was now given to the world. The oxen walked off on their own, pulling the cart. Legend said the cart ended up in Varallo, so the relic was kept there.

Was a word of it true? Nobody knew.

But it was a great story.

Which taught him two lessons.

People wanted to hear good things, and the better the story the better their listening.

He navigated the narrow streets and found a row of three-story red-brick facades, their front doors set back behind iron railings. His grandmother lived in the center one, which had once belonged to his parents. He parked the car and knocked on the door, which was answered by a woman dressed in a nurse’s uniform. He paid for the constant care, which was not cheap, but the old woman had long since lost the ability to care for herself. He’d called ahead and alerted the nurse that he was coming. She’d warned him that this might not be the best time for a visit, as the past few days had been trying.

But he had no choice.

“How is she?” he asked, stepping inside.

“Agitated. Uneven.”

“So, normal. Where is she?”

The nurse motioned to the front parlor where, as a boy, he’d played. “She’s in there enjoying the sun.”

He gave her twenty euros. “Why don’t you have lunch. We need to speak alone. Give me an hour.”

The woman accepted the money, nodded, then left.

He steeled himself and entered the room. A heavy mahogany table with turned legs displayed his mother’s bric-a-brac mementos, along with photographs in tarnished silver frames, one of his father in an army uniform. A bookcase carved with leaves and branches was overflowing with volumes. A chair, his father’s favorite, upholstered in faded plush with horsehair in bunches at the worn corners sat empty. The warm, still air smelled of stewed tomatoes.

His grandmother was nearly a hundred years old. Nobody really knew her exact age, as she’d always lied about her year of birth. She’d managed to outlive her husband and son. Only he and she remained of the Casaburi family. Paradoxically, she’d always had a naturally friendly face with a snub nose and high bright cheeks. But time had taken its toll. Now she was a shriveled, shrunken shell, a bony creature, the face a mass of crinkles, the lips thin, the teeth nearly gone. Her hair, once dark and thick, now hung sparse and gray. But the eyes. They remained black like a crow. Deep and dark. Ever inquiring. Surveying everything with the curiosity of a cat in a new house. She sat facing the window in another chair from his parents’ time, the curtains opened to each side, staring out at the bright afternoon. Never did she leave the house. Her entire world was within these walls. He told himself to be careful.

Prod but do not push.

“Nonna,” he said in a low voice.

She turned his way.

Recognition was not immediate. She seemed to be struggling to find the memories. Finally she grasped reality and asked, “What do you want?”

He caught the contempt in her question. No how are you , good to see you , go to hell . Nothing. Typical. But he was in no mood to humor her.

“I see you on television,” she said. “You are some sort of important man now.”

“I am an elected minister in parliament, the secretary of a national party on the rise. And if our party leader becomes the next prime minister, I will be a high government minister.”

She scoffed at his prediction. “You are a minor, insignificant man who does not realize his true importance.”

Which ran straight to the heart of their last conversation, years ago, when he’d rebuffed her insistence that he was of royal blood.

“You live in a fantasy world,” he’d said.

“You have no idea.”

“I am tired of all the stories and your riddles. Who cares if we are Medici? It means nothing.”

Which he’d meant at the time. But that was before he sensed what might be possible. Everything he planned hinged on what happened next. This woman knew things. Cardinal Richter’s rejection of his proposal for the church to help in the election had forced his hand. He now had to call the Vatican’s bluff. But to do that—

“I need you tell me about Anna Maria.”

“You never cared for any of that,” she said. “Never once.”

“I was young and ignorant.”

And that was true.

“I was also wrong,” he said.

“You made fun of me,” she said. “Like your father did. You laughed at me. I remember. I remember it all. You think I do not?”

Soften her up. Be conciliatory. “I am sorry for that. Truly I am. You told me once that God would show us a way to prove what you said. And He did. Through DNA. I tested the remains of Gregorio Cappello from the cemetery in the mountains. I also tested the remains of Anna Maria. They are related. A positive match. They were mother and son. You were right.”

A lie. But a workable one. He was still waiting on the test results. Which should come anytime. But he had faith that all would be good.

“Gregorio was her son,” his grandmother spit out. “He was Medici.”

“My DNA matches theirs,” he said. “I am Medici. Through you. Which means you are Medici.”

She seemed to consider that concession for a moment, liking it, before saying, “I am the last one alive who knows.”

“You must tell me, before.”

A curious look came to her wizened face. “Before what?”

“Before you forget.”

She went silent for a moment and returned her attention to the window and the sunshine. He’d known this was not going to be easy. But she was right. She was the last one.

“Nonna, please listen to me. It is not enough that we are Medici. To collect the debt, to make the pope pay, we must be a legitimate royal Medici heir. Illegitimacy gets us nothing. Clearly, Anna Maria became pregnant and birthed a child. But who was the father? And were they married? That is what matters now. You never explained that part of the story.”

“It is a wondrous tale,” she said. “A grand love story.”

She paused.

“Without a happy ending.”