said, “Though the letter’s much earlier than Marco’s—it looks like it was written during an invasion of Africa.”
“Yes.” Doctor Riccardi squinted at the text through her red glasses. “This dates a decade and a half before he traveled to Mexico to catch up with Cortés. In his youth, Antonio did not intend to become an American conquistatore , but rather focused on...scientific experiments—”
“Vivisections,” I said. “Of peasants, disabled people. The poor and mentally retarded.”
“Yes! Thank you for being so hideously accurate! Anyhow, he later moved his operations to Africa—this was in the early fifteen hundreds. There, he dabbled with slavery, and also investigated the Moors’ famous alchemical practices. He began searching for the secrets to immortality in metals as he once had in the human body. He became intrigued with the idea of the Americas, since Europeans hoped—with great reason, as it turned out—that they would be awash with precious metals. Thus, the venture in Mexico with Cortés, after which he returned home to Florence, killed one of his slaves in some sort of rage, and married. Upon his exile, he devoted himself to the decorative and alchemical arts, et cetera, et cetera.” She adjusted her glasses, squinting at the document I’d pulled from the archives. “This letter was written during his provocative Africa adventure. It’s what we call his ‘barking mad’ phase.”
December 3, 1510
Timbuktu, West Africa
To Giovanni, Holy Father, and our good Cousin in the World,
I understand that you are presently squandering the Church’s coffers with your Debauchery. I write you this letter to order you to cease your spending, as I shall need the Vatican’s funding for my Expeditions among the Moors, in the interests of my Philosophical projects.
Though both you and my Intended, Sofia, have oft criticized my great Goal to cultivate a Stronger and More Select Society as that of a Black Magician, I have only been a good student of Plato, aiming to usher the World from the Era of Appetite into an age of Reason. First came the necessary killings and autopsies I conducted of Criminals & Madmen in order to fathom the structure of their benighted Brains. Then, two years ago, I sailed here to Byzantium to discover the Moors’ alchemical secrets—Medicines—that would Cure this whole world of its Superstition and Barbarism. Two years! That Remedy long eluded me!
Only now, after all this long time, have I struck upon the Solution to this dark earth’s Ills—yet I think it is one you will not like.
Last week, I followed the Spaniards into the City of Timbuktu, which had just been raided by Moroccans. As the Conquistatores went off to conquer a Mosque, I took six of my Florentine mercenaries through the ruins, maneuvering past the cracked battlements, torched libraries, dead bodies, until we saw a sign of life: A thin plume of the queerest blue-green smoke drifted from a little house’s chimney.
Breaking into this lair, we saw small dark men bending over silver stills, and working with the aid of supernaturally bright torches. All about there were leather chests spilling forth with powders and marked with signs of the Philosophical Elements.
“My Lord Antonio,” whispered one of my generals. “What kind of place is this?”
“An Alchemist’s lab!” I shouted—such was my excitement.
The dusky men turned and roared with fury at the sight of us. One of the eldest stumbled forward, menacing me with his bony fists; this, despite the efforts of a younger, handsome lad to stand between us and protect his apparent Father.
“You are making the Universal Medicine here,” I said in the tongue of Mali. “The Philosopher’s Stone that can cure any disease—Death—Stupidity—Religion. I must have it—you must tell me your Secrets. In that way I will bring Light into this Dim world.”
“We shall never tell you the Receipt of that great Potion,” the brave old wizard
Learning to Kill: Stories