The man gave a crooked smile.
'I am glad your king was pleased.'
'We also bear messages from England,' Benjamin continued. 'His Majesty the King and my uncle, Cardinal Wolsey, have authorized us to offer you a commission. If you come to the English court, under the patronage of the king, undoubtedly there would be much work for you - and certainly more opulent surroundings than these.'
Borelli pulled a face, turned his back and went over to the easel. He picked up a brush and, holding a small pot of paint in his right hand, began to dab carefully at the canvas.
'Master Borelli!' Benjamin took a step nearer. 'Are you not interested?'
'Very,' the painter replied. 'But, as I have explained to your companion, the little woman, I am busy. I have paintings to do in Florence.' He turned back, the brush still in his hand. 'And, as for my surroundings, I like being here. I have my friends, my taverna, the sun, wine, the glories of Florence. Why should I exchange all this for an uncertain future at your cold English court?'
Borelli put the paint brush and pot down. He plucked at the rag tucked in the cord tied round his waist.
'Signor Daunbey, yes?'
Benjamin nodded.
'Signor Daunbey, I do not wish to appear rude. But I have many orders to complete and in a few days I am to go to Ferrara and on to Rome. I thank your king for his favour. I will give my reply in a few days. You are staying... ?'
'At the Villa Albrizzi.'
‘In which case I shall send it there.'
After that he fairly hustled us from the room, slamming the door shut. Maria giggled behind her gloved hand. I glared at her. Benjamin flung up his hands in despair.
'Mystery upon mystery,' he murmured. 'Why was he so surly?'
I stared at the door. Something was wrong. Borelli had hardly welcomed us and shown no surprise at our offer. He'd made no enquiry about what fee or what terms would be given if he came to England, and he couldn't get rid of us quickly enough. If I had been on my own I would have kicked the door down, dragged the fellow outside, beat his head against the wall and repeated our offer until he accepted.
'Roger,' Benjamin called, as if reading my thoughts, 'we can do nothing now.'
We left the dirty, smelly tenement. Maria took us by a different route around the old market. The day was growing hot, already people were beginning to disperse to their houses for the siesta. Sensible Florentines would lounge in their upper rooms and wait for the sun to dip and the shadows to grow longer. Maria said she was thirsty. I licked dry lips and remembered the cool white wine we had drunk at the Medici palace. I stared over my shoulder, searching the crowd, but I couldn't see anyone following us. We passed a taverna, a brightly painted, shady establishment; fragrant cooking smells wafted through the door. Outside, leaning against the wall, two tinkers, their noses dug into their tankards, smacked their lips as they slaked their thirst.
'Master,' I insisted. 'We must drink something.'
Benjamin agreed. We went inside.
It was a beautifully cool room with a high ceiling and great open windows on every side. Onions and vegetables hung from the rafters. The floor, surprisingly enough, was tiled with an exquisite mosaic depicting a hand clutching a succulent bunch of grapes. We took our seats at a table near a window overlooking the fragrant-smelling garden behind the taverna. A young boy dressed in a white apron, chattering like a monkey, came to take our order. Maria advised us to drink not wine but the juice of crushed oranges with slivers of ice in it.
'The wine will only make you thirstier,' she explained.
She was right. The boy brought back pewter flagons and both Benjamin and I exclaimed our appreciation at the cool and tangy fruitfulness which washed the dust from our mouths and slaked our thirst. Maria, still chattering about the different types of food and drink, ordered some bread with cheese and apple slices mixed together in an open earthenware bowl. We were so engrossed that I hardly noticed the wiry, grey-haired man sitting in a corner by himself, a wine cup cradled in his hand. After some minutes he got up and came over.
'Inglese?' he asked.
Maria jabbered some reply. The man nodded and drained his cup. He whispered something to Maria, then left the taverna.
'What did he say?' I asked curiously. 'He told us to be careful.'
As we started to eat one of the Eight came in through the door. He saw where we sat and abruptly left.
Maria's face was pale, her eyes anxious.
'In Florence,' she murmured, 'the Master of the Eight is feared. The old man did us a great favour.'
I stared around the taverna. I could see no one watching us and I wondered what the man really had said to Maria. I looked at my master. He, too, was staring suspiciously at the little woman.
'That's what he said!' Maria exclaimed heatedly. 'Here in Florence the Eight are not liked. It is a courtesy to warn people when they are being watched.'