“That’s true, my lord.” A hint of discomfort shadowed his face. “I had thought of Russia.”
“The eastern covens are at war with the patriarchs,” Lorenzo interjected, tapping the staff of the principality impatiently on the stone floor. “The patriarchs despise the Curia and would never let them past the borders.”
“A fair point.” The Prince peered down at Pierre thoughtfully. “Paris is the obvious choice, given their history with the Curia. They’ll be too concerned with staving off a massacre to wage war with us, even if they discover who sent you. Who would you choose to accompany you?”
“Max.”
The Prussian growled. “It’s a fool’s errand.”
“You were just bemoaning the fact that you wouldn’t be allowed to kill or add new recruits.” The Prince’s tone was sharp. “Pierre’s suggestion will enable you to have your fill of killing.”
He gestured to Max to stand. “Maximilian, you are hereby ordered to assist Pierre in his mission. I am placing you under his command.”
“That’s an insult!” Max spluttered. “I outrank him by over a century.”
“Audentes fortuna iuvat. In case you’ve forgotten your Latin, that means ‘fortune favors the bold.’ Pierre will lead the mission to Paris and you will accompany him. If you fail, it will mean a death sentence. If you succeed, you will be rewarded.” The Prince leaned forward on his throne. “If you refuse, I will kill you.”
If Maximilian could have gone pale, he would have. His eyes widened almost to the point of bulging, his large fists clenching and unclenching. His gaze flickered to his left, but it was unclear who he was looking at. Both Niccolò and Lorenzo avoided eye contact.
Max returned his gaze to the Prince and nodded.
The Prince turned back to Pierre. “I want you to leave at once. Gregor will see that you are outfitted for your journey. Tell no one about your mission. We can’t risk the news reaching the ears of the Curia.”
Pierre and Max bowed and exited the chamber.
The Prince cast his eyes on the remaining three members of the Consilium. “Our numbers are dwindling. We have yet to replace Ibarra and will be without Pierre and Max indefinitely. Lorenzo, invite Stefan of Montréal to join us at our next assembly.”
“As you wish.” Lorenzo bowed. “But he lacks the requisite years for Consilium membership.”
“He is a person of influence, despite his youth,” rejoined the Prince. “Let us return to the matter at hand. Are there any further objections to the new laws?”
Aoibhe stood. “None from me, my lord. I saw what the Curia did in Paris to a coven of old ones. I came here because it was widely known that Florence was one of the only European principalities the Curia ignored.” Her expression shifted. “I support the Prince and his new laws.”
The Prince nodded and Aoibhe regained her seat. He waited a scant minute before turning to Niccolò.
“Remind the brethren they are free to leave the city, should they find the new laws too restrictive. Suggest they wear the safety vests we procured to protect them from hunters, but remind them if the Curia invades, the vests won’t protect them. Let us hope we’ll have good news from Paris in short order.”
The Prince stood, as did the Consilium members, who bowed before him as he swept from the council chamber, his black velvet cloak streaming behind him.
“Take this missive to Venice at once. Instruct Tarquin to hand over the delinquent tribute immediately or risk the consequences.” The Prince addressed his lieutenant, holding out an envelope that had been sealed with the mark of Florence.
He was annoyed at having to deal with a minor irritation—the puppet prince he’d installed after defeating the Venetians in a recent war.
Lorenzo eyed the envelope nervously. “My lord, I am eager to serve you in all things. But if I deliver this message, the Venetians will kill me.”
The Prince tossed the envelope on top of his desk. “And risk another war? I doubt it. We culled their army when we defeated them.”
“Forgive me, Prince. Perhaps Niccolò would be a better choice?”
The ruler’s gray eyes lasered into his lieutenant’s. “Why would you say that?”
Lorenzo’s lips pulled into a sour expression. “They fear him.”
“If they fear him, they are more likely to kill him.”
The lieutenant’s expression relaxed, marginally. The change did not go unnoticed.
The Prince sat back in his chair. “If Venice is foolish enough to execute a high-ranking member of my principality, I’ll invade them and execute their leadership.”
“With respect, my lord, what about the Curia?”
“It’s to our benefit that the Curia see us concerned with affairs of state and not looking over our shoulders. The threat of war with Venice should put them at ease with respect to their spies. Send Gregor.”
“If I may, Prince.” Lorenzo adopted a conciliatory tone. “Why not Aoibhe? She’d charm the Venetians easily enough. Tarquin is already taken with her.”
“Yes, I know,” the Prince muttered. “That was one of the reasons why we chose him. But Aoibhe is too valuable to risk losing.”
The Prince withdrew a single piece of paper and scribbled on it. Then he folded it to form an envelope and melted some wax with a nearby candle. He sealed the envelope with the wax, imprinting it with the ring that held the symbol of Florence.
He placed the second envelope on top of the first.
“Tell Gregor to read the top message and deliver the second one. He is to leave immediately.”
Lorenzo lifted the envelopes. “As you wish.”
“Order Gregor to return with the tribute as soon as possible. Once you’ve sent him on his way, I would like you to meet with Aoibhe.”
“To what purpose, my lord?”
The Prince frowned. “You are free with your questions this evening, Lorenzo.”
The lieutenant lowered his gaze. “I beg pardon, my lord. Lady Aoibhe is, shall we say, challenging. I prefer to arm myself before accosting her.”
“Too true.” The Prince indulged himself in a small smile. “In view of the brewing conflict with Venice and the new edict we’re enacting, I think the principality is in need of a diversion. I want you and Aoibhe to plan a Bacchanalia.”
Lorenzo’s eyebrows lifted. “Yes, Prince. But given the Curia’s scrutiny . . .”
The Prince was swift to interrupt him. “The time is ripe to reward my citizens for their loyalty and to inspire their fidelity. So long as there is no killing, the brethren should be free to eat, drink, and fornicate.”
“Of course, Prince. I live to serve you.” Lorenzo bowed and w
ithdrew, leaving the Prince alone with his thoughts.
Chapter Nineteen
After almost a year of work, the restoration of the Birth of Venus was close to completion. The team had to contain their excitement so as not to rush any of the final stages.
Raven painstakingly continued to cover the magnificent painting with protective varnish, day after day. Her work was important and far from mindless, yet it led naturally to contemplation and the occasional flash of insight.
Raven had several intellectual virtues that made her an excellent art restorer. She was extremely focused and disciplined and she paid attention to detail, down to the smallest fleck of paint. However, these were not the mental powers needed to figure out why Professor Emerson had walked away from the investigation.
She knew William had interfered and that he’d done so to protect himself. He’d also interfered to protect her—using his influence to keep Batelli at bay. Having seen Professor Emerson’s anger at the theft and his wife’s sorrow, Raven was convinced it would take more than a survey of the past century’s art heists to convince him to wash his hands of it.
He’d made much of the strange disappearance of another Dante specialist, Professor Pacciani. Raven wasn’t clear on the connection between the two events, but whatever Emerson thought it was, it had intimidated him.
Raven was well aware of the antipathy that existed between the Emersons and William. She was the one who’d exacted his promise that he wouldn’t kill the man. But William wanted his revenge. He’d confessed to confronting the professor in Umbria. Funny how that confrontation came only a few days before Emerson’s visit to Vitali.
Raven meditated on these ideas, but as Monday became Tuesday and Tuesday became Wednesday, she was unwilling to mention them to William. She was concerned about Mrs. Emerson’s health and hoped that her return to Massachusetts would enable her to receive the medical care she needed. Certainly, the farther away the Emersons were from William, the better for them.
As she packed up her art supplies on Wednesday evening, she hoped the Emersons would reach their home safely and that they would stay safe, living long, happy lives that did not incur the wrath of the Prince of Florence. And she did not give up hope of persuading William someday to share his illustrations with the world.