mean? Perhaps something related to the seven eyes of the Lord described by Zechariah, or the seven horns and seven eyes of the slain lamb of the Apocalypse? And if so, what kind of a name might be found behind a number? The middle line was eloquent enough: “The number of my name you shall find on its side.” What number? A seven perhaps? Might it refer to a numeral, the seventh in an order? Like the Antipope, Clement VII of Avignon, for example? I quickly discarded that possibility. It was unlikely that our anonymous scribe was worthy of a number after his name. What then? And furthermore, how should I interpret the strange error I discovered in the fourth verse? Why, instead of invenies, had the cryptographer written rinvenies?
Oddities piled up on oddities.
My first day’s labor at Santa Maria offered me only a single fact: the last two phrases of the “signature” were, with utter certainty, formulas typical of a Dominican. Torriani’s instinct had not failed him. “Contemplari et contemplata aliis tradere” was a famous dictum of Saint Thomas, taken from the Summa theologica and accepted as one of our order’s best-known sayings: “To contemplate and to offer to others the fruit of your contemplation.” The second one, “Veritas,” or “Truth,” besides being another common Dominican motto, used to appear on our coat of arms. It is true that I had never seen both phrases together but, read one after the other, they seemed to say that in order to reach the truth, one needed to remain vigilant. At least, the advice was good. Father Alberti would have applauded.
But what about the two previous sentences? What name or number did they conceal?
9
“Have you heard anything about the new guest at the monastery of Santa Maria?”
Leonardo used to spend the last hours of daylight scrutinizing his Last Supper. The rays of the setting sun transformed the figures at the table first into reddish shadows and then into dark and sinister silhouettes. He frequently visited the monastery of Santa Maria in order to cast his eyes on his favorite work and to seek distraction from his daily occupations. The duke was pushing him to finish the colossal equestrian statue in honor of Francesco Sforza, and during the day, Leonardo allowed himself to be obsessed with the monumental horse. And yet, even Ludovico was aware that the artist’s true passion was in the refectory of Santa Maria. Almost sixteen by thirty feet, the painting was the largest he had ever undertaken. Only God knew when he would finish it, but that was a detail that did not concern him. So abstracted was Leonardo in the contemplation of his magical scene that Marco d’Oggiono, the most inquisitive of his apprentices, was forced to repeat his question:
“Truly you haven’t heard of him?”
Absentmindedly the Master shook his head. Marco discovered him sitting on a wooden crate in the middle of the refectory, his blond mane unkempt, as he often appeared at the end of his working day.
“No, I haven’t,” he answered. “Is he someone interesting, caro?”
“He’s an inquisitor, Master Leonardo.”
“A terrible occupation.”
“The fact is, Master, that he too seems very much interested in your secrets.”
Leonardo glanced away from his Cenacolo and sought out the blue eyes of his disciple. He looked serious, as if the proximity of a member of the Holy Inquisition had stirred a deep-rooted fear in his soul.
“My secrets? You ask about them again, Marco? They are all here. I told you so yesterday. Visible to all. Years ago, I learned that if you wish to hide something from the stupidity of humans, the best place to do so is there where everyone can see it. You understand that, don’t you?”
Marco nodded without much conviction. The Master’s good humor from the previous day had entirely vanished.
“I’ve given much thought to what you told me, Master. And I think I’ve understood something about this place.”
“Have you,
Oddities piled up on oddities.
My first day’s labor at Santa Maria offered me only a single fact: the last two phrases of the “signature” were, with utter certainty, formulas typical of a Dominican. Torriani’s instinct had not failed him. “Contemplari et contemplata aliis tradere” was a famous dictum of Saint Thomas, taken from the Summa theologica and accepted as one of our order’s best-known sayings: “To contemplate and to offer to others the fruit of your contemplation.” The second one, “Veritas,” or “Truth,” besides being another common Dominican motto, used to appear on our coat of arms. It is true that I had never seen both phrases together but, read one after the other, they seemed to say that in order to reach the truth, one needed to remain vigilant. At least, the advice was good. Father Alberti would have applauded.
But what about the two previous sentences? What name or number did they conceal?
9
“Have you heard anything about the new guest at the monastery of Santa Maria?”
Leonardo used to spend the last hours of daylight scrutinizing his Last Supper. The rays of the setting sun transformed the figures at the table first into reddish shadows and then into dark and sinister silhouettes. He frequently visited the monastery of Santa Maria in order to cast his eyes on his favorite work and to seek distraction from his daily occupations. The duke was pushing him to finish the colossal equestrian statue in honor of Francesco Sforza, and during the day, Leonardo allowed himself to be obsessed with the monumental horse. And yet, even Ludovico was aware that the artist’s true passion was in the refectory of Santa Maria. Almost sixteen by thirty feet, the painting was the largest he had ever undertaken. Only God knew when he would finish it, but that was a detail that did not concern him. So abstracted was Leonardo in the contemplation of his magical scene that Marco d’Oggiono, the most inquisitive of his apprentices, was forced to repeat his question:
“Truly you haven’t heard of him?”
Absentmindedly the Master shook his head. Marco discovered him sitting on a wooden crate in the middle of the refectory, his blond mane unkempt, as he often appeared at the end of his working day.
“No, I haven’t,” he answered. “Is he someone interesting, caro?”
“He’s an inquisitor, Master Leonardo.”
“A terrible occupation.”
“The fact is, Master, that he too seems very much interested in your secrets.”
Leonardo glanced away from his Cenacolo and sought out the blue eyes of his disciple. He looked serious, as if the proximity of a member of the Holy Inquisition had stirred a deep-rooted fear in his soul.
“My secrets? You ask about them again, Marco? They are all here. I told you so yesterday. Visible to all. Years ago, I learned that if you wish to hide something from the stupidity of humans, the best place to do so is there where everyone can see it. You understand that, don’t you?”
Marco nodded without much conviction. The Master’s good humor from the previous day had entirely vanished.
“I’ve given much thought to what you told me, Master. And I think I’ve understood something about this place.”
“Have you,
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