First of the Order
Due: Venice
Lucretia reached into her bag. Her rosary was a good one; it had been given to her by her grandmother before they left. "This has been in the family many years, treasure it." Her grandmother had warned, and Lucretia did. Her mother said it was silly, the crucifix was a cheap, plastic ornament Grandmother's delusions had transformed into something valuable, but Lucretia ignored her and took care of the treasure. She never let it out of her sight, unless it was stowed carefully under her mattress at home. But it wasn't in her bag. She reached in again to hunt around, but it wasn't there. Dumping out the contents of the bag over the floor did not produce it either. It wasn't in the laundry basket…where could it be?
Antonio lay peacefully in his bed in Venice, exhausted from another day's hard work. They'd spent days poring over the plans for the Borgia palace, trying to figure out what error the workman had made. Something had to be forcing the main beam out of alignment by those precious 5 degrees, but the 15 year old architect couldn't determine what it was for the life of him. He would take the problem to Rambaldi tomorrow. The older man always could see through such things, though Antonio had hoped to be able to solve this problem on his own. The older man seemed so disturbed lately. Just yesterday Antonio had felt as if Rambaldi was staring right through him, not hearing a word the boy said. Well perhaps the answer would come in sleep.
Antonio rose early, as he always did. The walk through Venice to find breakfast was something he always enjoyed. He bought a few hot rolls from a baker, some fresh fish from one of the city's gondoliers. The sun rose as he walked back to the small workshop he shared with his adopted father, not too far from the building site. It was a beautiful morning.
"Signor Pottichelli had more of those honey rolls you liked, father." Antonio said as he set the food on the kitchen table, and rolled up the mat and blankets he slept on. There was no response. Antonio thought it was a bit strange. He always rose before his father, but the man was almost always up when he returned with breakfast. He walked over to the door that led to his father's bedroom and opened it slowly.
"Father?" The room was a mess. The bedclothes were thrown everywhere, papers littered the floor, and an upturned ink bottle leaked onto many of them. But it was empty. Antonio set the ink upright and left the rest to clean later.
"Father, are you working this early?" the boy said as he opened the door to the study, the third room in the small house. It was a marvelous place to read or write, with the large south window. Rambaldi was indeed inside, sitting at his desk, scribbling furiously. Antonio thought he heard some sort of reply to his question and slipped in to hear more distinctly.
"A device so powerful, a power no one can stand against. A device so powerful, a power no one can stand against." The muttered words came clear and it was obvious that Rambaldi was oblivious to the outside world. Still, Antonio had to try.
"Father?" he put a hand on the man's shoulder. NO response. "Father?" he shook the man a little. The pen jiggled a little, but Rambaldi simply continued to write. "Father, can you hear me?" He shouted. "Are you there?" He grasped the older man's shoulders roughly and brought the man's eyes to meet his own. But it was as if the man was in a trance. He did not see Antonio, or the shop. He only started through them and continued to mumble.
"The dreams…they demand it. Power…device so powerful…" The muttered words continued on, and Antonio released his father, who returned to his scribbling. What was this? What was happening?
Antonio slipped back into the kitchen and grabbed one of the honey rolls. They were his father's favorite.
"Father, will you at least eat something?" he held the roll in front of Rambaldi, but again there was no response. Certainly the man would have to grow hungry sometime. Antonio set the roll on the desk and slipped back to the kitchen. What was he to do? The foreman would arrive at any minute. A knock at the door confirmed this, and Antonio opened it reluctantly.
"What are the orders today? The foreman asked. "What does Rambaldi say of the ridgepole?"
"Have the men continue on the east wing." Antonio knew that at least was a safe option. "My father is a little ill. He will stay in bed this week, but I have his instructions on the ridgepole. Let us inspect it." The decision had been made in a spilt second, but there was really no other choice. He would have to carry on, and hide his father's odd behavior for as long as he could.
What really amazed Antonio was that he found the problem with the ridgepole. One of the marble columns that held up the roofline was an inch too short. A small adjustment of the trusses compensated for the error and the building continued. He slipped home for dinner at midday to find nothing changed. The roll was gone, though, and the glass of water he'd set by his father was half-full. At least the man was eating. He set some of his dinner on the desk, filled the glass and returned to work.
Over the next month the deception fell into a quiet routine for Antonio. Every night he went to sleep, mind occupied by the palace that was now fully his responsibility, and the old man that sat writing in his study until long after Antonio slept. Every morning, he rose and brought back breakfast, leaving part of it for his father. He spent the day at the worksite, giving orders in his father's name, and explaining that though Rambaldi seemed to be fighting a terrible cough this fall, he was still aware of every detail of the construction process. Fortunately Cardinal Borgia was in Rome, and his steward did not wish to report any problems as long as the Palace progressed as planned.
Two months passed, Antonio immersed in the Palace, Rambaldi still catatonically absorbed in whatever he was doing. Antonio tried to read some of the pages his father had written, but they seemed to be in some sort of code he could not decipher. Progress on the palace was coming nicely. It would be complete within the week and this was the cause of most of Antonio's concern this evening. When the work finished on the roofline of the central atrium, their job would be finished. Painters and decorators would invade and the architects would move on to another job. But which one? Rambaldi did not even seem aware of the palace, let alone its near completion and their soon to be unemployment.
"Antonio?" the voice shocked the boy. The workshop had been silent for so long that the sound of Rambaldi's voice seemed alien to the boy. But he recovered from his shock quickly. His father was talking to him!
"What is it, father?" he rushed into the studio. "Are you all right? Do you know who I am?" He asked excitedly.
"Antonio," Rambaldi sounded a little annoyed. The boy wasn't sure if it was a response to his question or something else. "I need these." He handed the boy a list of items written on a scrap of parchment.
"It is night father," the boy pointed to the lit lantern and the shuttered windows, "and the shops are closed. I will bring them in the morning."
"Morning…yes…morning." The old man repeated, mostly to himself and went back to writing. Antonio made a few more attempts to converse with him, but was met with the usual silence. Well at least it was a small victory.
Antonio brought the materials the next morning. They were mostly herbs, and a few chemicals he'd bought from the alchemist. Rambaldi ignored them until dinner time, but then seemed almost to acknowledge Antonio. He even seemed to mutter a quiet thank you, but perhaps that was Antonio's imagination. Over the next week, Rambaldi recovered slowly. He was still nearly catatonic in the mornings, eyes unfocused, pen scribbling. But he improved as the day passed, allowing Antonio to lead him to the kitchen for dinner and supper. The afternoons were spent in careful sketching, and more requests were made for Antonio to bring things.
One evening later in the week, as Antonio went over the last set of measurements for the atrium, he was startled, this time by looking up to find his father examining the plans over his shoulder.
"Ah, the atrium of the Borgia Palace; I shall have to begin it soon." Antonio was too startled to make any reply beyond what first came into his head.
"It is nearly finished, father. The workmen lay the last of the tiles tomorrow."
"What? It is finished?"
"Yes father…look." He opened the shutters of the window to reveal the palace, dimly seen by the lights of Venice.
"You took this," Rambaldi pointed at the plan, "and from it built this?" He gestured out the window.
"Yes father, I hope you are not angry. The Borgias wished it finished, and you have been…inattentive…"
"Could you build this?" Rambaldi pulled the boy over to his own desk and pointed out an elaborate diagram.
"What is it?"
"That doesn't matter. Can you build it?" Antonio took a closer look at the device, it was surrounded by many captions in Italian, and most of it seemed to make sense.
"I think I could. It seems clear enough to follow."
"Ringraziare Dio, I thought it only made sense to me" Rambaldi looked as if a huge load had fallen from his shoulders, "that I would have to complete it all myself. But if you can help, my boy….if you can help perhaps the pain of the dreams will lessen. Perhaps I will achieve their goal." Antonio hadn't the slightest idea what he meant, but he would take this excited version of his father over the catatonic he'd lived with for the past six months without any reservations.
"You say the palace will be complete tomorrow?"
"Barring any obstacles, yes. The next day at the most." Antonio responded.
"Then as soon as you are done we will pack for Rome. Only Rome has everything we need."
"Need for what father?" Antonio finally ventured to ask.
"For my project, my final project. Yes, Antonio, this will be my life's work. It will change everything, change men altogether. Science will show us the nature of God. I have the outline, the plan; we must only put it into action."
And though many would have laughed at his father as a crazy old man, Antonio trusted him. The dome of Florence had seemed impossible as well. But his father had achieved that. Perhaps he would change the world.
A/N: Ringraziare Dio is Thank God in Italian