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than I had supposed. Banners with the terrible arms of the Sforzas—a sort of giant serpent devouring a poor soul—dropped from the battlements. Thin blue flags waved in the wind while, from somewhere inside the fortress, half a dozen huge chimneys belched big puffs of thick black smoke. The Filarete entrance consisted of a menacing portcullis and two gates studded with bronze. No less than fifteen men kept watch, poking with their pikes the bags of grain that were being unloaded from carts in the vicinity of the kitchens.
    One of the soldiers showed me the way. I was to walk to the west end of the tower inside the fortress itself and ask for the visitors’ reception area and the “mourning offices” that had been set up to receive the delegations for the funeral of Donna Beatrice. My Cremona guide had already warned me that the whole city would come to a halt on that day. And indeed, there was not much activity going on, considering the hour. I was surprised that Ludovico’s secretary, a lanky courtier with an expressionless face, received me almost without delay. His name was Marchesino Stanga, and he apologized for being unable to conduct this servant of God unto his master. Even so, he examined my letter of introduction with a skeptical eye, making certain that the pontifical seal was authentic, and returned it to me with a gesture of regret.
    “I’m sorry, Father Leyre,” said the courtier, apologizing profusely. “You must understand that my lord is seeing no one after the death of his lady wife. I imagine you realize what a difficult moment we are going through, and the duke’s need to be left alone.”
    “Of course,” I agreed with feigned courtesy.
    “However,” he added, “when the mourning period is over, I will acquaint him with the fact of your presence in the city.”
    I would have liked to look Ludovico in the eye to discover, as in the many interrogations I had witnessed, whether or not he hid sinister intentions of heresy or crime. But the clerk, dressed in a velvet doublet and a scarlet robe trimmed with fur, and speaking in a tone of petty superiority, was bent on preventing me from doing so.
    “Nor can we provide you with lodging, as is our custom,” he said dryly. “The castle is closed and we are not admitting visitors. I beg you, Father, to pray for the soul of Donna Beatrice and to return after the funeral. Then we will welcome you as you deserve.”
    “Requiescat in pace,” I muttered as I crossed myself. “I will do so. And I will also pray for you.”
    I was in a peculiar situation. Without being able to set myself up in the vicinity of the duke and his family, and thus prevented from wandering, as I had intended, more or less freely through the castle, my first investigations would be delayed. I had to find discreet lodgings that would grant me a place to study in peace. With Torriani’s documents burning a hole in my bags, I would need a quiet atmosphere, three hot meals a day and a good deal of luck to decipher the secret. Since it was not sensible for a monk to seek a room among the laity, my choices were soon reduced to two: either the venerable monastery of San Eustorgio or the very new one of Santa Maria delle Grazie, where the possibility of crossing paths with the Soothsayer fired my imagination. Then, the question of lodging settled, I would have time enough to concentrate on the clue that Master Torriani had put into my hands in Bethany.
    I admit that Divine Providence aided me in this matter. San Eustorgio soon revealed itself to be the worst of the two options. Lying very close to the Cathedral, next to the main market, it was usually full of busybodies who would soon be asking themselves what kind of business could bring a Roman inquisitor to this place. Even though its location would afford me a certain perspective on the Soothsayer’s activities, saving me from the risk of meeting him face-to-face without knowing his identity, it nevertheless offered me more