Baudolino (63 page)

Proceeding along that line of deceased monks, each dressed in liturgical vestments, as if they were still to officiate, kissing gleaming ikons with their livid lips, Baudolino and Boidi glimpsed faces with taut, ascetic smiles, others to which the devout survivors had pasted beards and mustaches to make them look hieratic as in the past, their eyelids closed so they would seem asleep, still others with the head now reduced to a mere skull, but with hard, leathery bits of skin attached to the cheekbones. Some had been deformed by the centuries, and appeared like prodigies of nature, fetuses clumsily taken from the maternal womb, inhuman beings on whose contracted forms unnatural, arabesqued chasubles appeared, the colors now dulled, dalmatics that you would have thought embroidered but were gnawed by the work of the years and by some worm of the catacombs. From still others the clothing had fallen, now crumbled by the centuries, and beneath the shreds of their vestments appeared scrawny little bodies, the ribs covered by an epidermis taut as the skin of a drum.

"If it was piety that conceived that sacred representation," Baudolino said to Niketas, "the survivors were impious, as they had imposed the memory of those deceased as a constant, looming threat, in no way meant to reconcile the living with death. How can you pray for the soul of someone who is staring at you from those walls, saying I am here, and I will never move from here? How can you hope for the resurrection of the flesh and the transfiguration of our earthly bodies after the Last Judgment, if those bodies are still there, decaying day after day? I, unfortunately, had seen corpses in my life, and at least I could hope that, dissolved into the earth, one day they might dazzle, beautiful and rubicund as a rose. If, up there on high, after the end of time, people like this would be moving about, I said to myself, then better Hell that burns here and hacks there. In Hell, at least it should resemble what happens in our world. Boidi, less sensitive than I to mortality, tried to lift those vestments to see the state of the pudenda, for if somebody shows you such things, how can you complain if somebody else thinks of those other things?"

Before the network of passages ended, they found themselves in a circular place, where the vault was perforated by an airshaft that revealed, up above, the afternoon sky. Obviously, at ground level, a well served to give air to that place. They put out the torches. No longer illuminated by the flames, but instead by that livid light diffused among the niches, the monks' bodies seemed even more disturbing. They gave the impression that, touched by daylight, they were about to rise again. Boidi made the sign of the cross.

Finally, the corridor they had taken ended in the ambulacrum behind the columns that encircled the crypt where, the last time, they had seen Zosimos. Glimpsing some lights, they approached, on tiptoe. The crypt was as it had been before, illuminated by two lighted tripods. Only the circular basin used by Zosimos for his necromancy was missing. In front of the iconostasis Boron and Kyot were already waiting, nervous. Baudolino suggested to Boidi that he arrive, emerging between the two columns flanking the iconostasis, as if he had followed the same route, while Baudolino himself would remain hidden.

Boidi did so, and the other two received him without surprise. "So the Poet explained to you how to get here," Boron said. "We think he said nothing to Baudolino; otherwise why all the secrecy? Do you have any idea why he wants us to meet?"

"He talked about Zosimos, and the Grasal; he made some strange threats."

"Us, too." Kyot and Boron agreed.

They heard a voice, and it seemed to come from the Pantocrator of the iconostasis. Baudolino noticed that the eyes of the Christ were two black almonds, a sign that behind the icon someone was watching what went on in the crypt. Though distorted, the voice was recognizable, and it was the Poet's. "Welcome," the voice said. "You don't see me, but I see you. I am armed with a bow, I could easily shoot you before you can escape."

"But why, Poet? What have we done to you?" Boron asked, frightened.

"What you have done you know better than I. But we must get to the point. Enter, wretch." A stifled moan was heard, and from behind the iconostasis a groping form appeared.

Though time had passed, though that man dragging himself forward was withered and bent, though his hair and beard had now become white, they recognized Zosimos.

"Yes, it's Zosimos," the Poet's voice said. "I came upon him yesterday, by pure chance, while he was begging in a lane. He's blind, his limbs are bent, but it's Zosimos. Now, Zosimos, tell our friends what happened to you when you fled from Ardzrouni's castle."

Zosimos, in a whining voice, began his narration. He had stolen the head in which he had hidden the Grasal, he had fled, but he had not only never possessed but had never seen any map of Cosmas, and he didn't know where to go. He wandered until his mule died, dragged himself through the most inhospitable lands of the world, his eyes—seared by the sun—now made him confuse east with west, and north with south. He happened upon a city inhabited by Christians, who succored him. He said he was the last of the Magi, because the others had achieved the peace of the Lord and lay in a church in the distant West. He said, in hieratic tone, that in the reliquary he was carrying the Holy Grasal, to be delivered to Prester John. His hosts had somehow heard tell of both, they prostrated themselves before him, carried him in solemn procession into their church, where he began sitting on an episcopal seat, every day dispensing oracles, giving advice on the handling of things, eating and drinking his fill, surrounded by the respect of all.

In short, as the last of the most holy Kings, and keeper of the Holy Grasal, he became the maximum spiritual authority of that community. Every morning he said Mass, and at the moment of the elevation, besides the sacred host, he displayed his reliquary, and the faithful knelt, saying they could smell celestial perfumes.

The faithful also brought lost women to him, so he could lead them back to the straight path. He told them that God's mercy is infinite, and he summoned them to the church when evening had fallen, to spend with them, he said, the night in continuous prayer. Word spread that he had transformed those lost souls into so many Magdalenes, who devoted themselves to his service. During the day they prepared for him the choicest foods, brought him the most exquisite wines, sprinkled him with scented oils. At night they kept vigil with him before the altar, Zosimos said, so the following morning he appeared with his eyes hollow from that penitence. Zosimos had finally found his Paradise, and decided he would never leave that blessed place.

Zosimos now heaved a long sigh, then passed his hands over his eyes, as if in that darkness he could still see a most painful scene. "My friends," he said, "whatever thought that comes to you, you must always ask it: are you on our side or do you come from the enemy? I
forgot to follow that holy maxim, and to the entire city I promised that, for Holy Easter, I would open the reliquary and finally display the Grasal. On Good Friday, alone, I opened the case, and in it I found one of those disgusting death's heads that Ardzrouni had placed there. I swear I had hidden the Grasal in the first reliquary on the left, and that was the one I took before running away. But some-one—surely one of you—had changed the order of the reliquaries, and the one I took didn't contain the Grasal. A man who is hammering an iron bar first thinks what he wants to make of it: a sickle, a sword, or an axe. I decided to remain silent. Father Agatone lived for three years with a stone in his mouth, until he was able to practice silence. So to all I said that I had been visited by an angel of the Lord, who had told me there were still too many sinners in the city, hence no one was yet worthy to see that holy object. The evening of Holy Saturday I spent, as every honest monk must, in mortifications, excessive, I think, because the next morning I felt exhausted, as if I had passed the night, God forgive me even the very thought, amid libations and fornications. I officiated, staggering, and, at the solemn moment when I was to display the reliquary to the devout, I stumbled on the top step of the altar, tumbling down. The reliquary slipped from my hands, and as it struck the ground, it opened, and all could see it contained no Grasal, but, rather, a dried-up skull. There is nothing more unjust than the punishment of the just man who has sinned, my friends, because the worst of sinners is forgiven the last of his crimes, but the just man is not even forgiven his first. Those devout people felt they had been defrauded by me, who until three days before, God is my witness, had acted in perfect good faith. They fell upon me, tore off my clothes, beat me with clubs that broke my legs forever, and my arms and back, then they dragged me into their tribunal, where they decided to tear out my eyes. They drove me out of the gates of the city, like a mangy cur. You don't know how much I suffered. I wandered, begging, blind and crippled. And crippled and blind, after long years of wandering, I was picked up by a caravan of Saracen merchants who were coming to Constantinople. The only pity I received was from the infidels, may God reward them and not damn them as they would deserve. I returned a few years ago to this my city, where I have lived by begging, and luckily a good soul one day led me by the hand to the ruins of this monastery, where I can recognize the places by touch, and since then I have been able to spend the nights without suffering the cold, the heat, or the rain."

"This is the story of Zosimos," the Poet's voice said. "His condition bears witness that, at least this once, he is sincere. So another one of you, seeing where Zosimos had hidden the Grasal, changed the position of the heads, to allow Zosimos to hasten to his ruin, and to deviate any suspicion. But he who has taken the correct head is the same who killed Frederick. And I know who it is."

"Poet!" Kyot cried. "Why are you saying this? Why have you summoned only us three, and not also Baudolino? Why didn't you tell us anything up there at the house of the Genoese?"

"I called you here because, through a city invaded by the enemy, I couldn't drag along with me this excuse for a man. Because I didn't want to speak in front of the Genoese, and especially not in front of Baudolino. Baudolino is no longer a part of our story. One of you will give me the Grasal, and then the rest will be up to me."

"What makes you think Baudolino doesn't have the Grasal?"

"Baudolino can't have killed Frederick. He loved him. Baudolino had no interest in stealing the Grasal, he was the only one among us who really wanted to take it to the Priest in the name of the emperor. Finally, try to remember what happened to the six heads that remained after Zosimos ran away. We took one each: I, Boron, Kyot, Boidi, Abdul, and Baudolino. Yesterday, after I found Zosimos, I opened mine. Inside was a smoked skull. As for Abdul's, as you will recall, Ardzrouni had opened it to put the skull between his hands as an amulet, or whatever, at the moment Abdul was dying, and now it's with him in the grave. Baudolino gave his to Praxeas; he opened it in front of us, and there was a skull inside. So three reliquaries remain, and those are yours. The three of you. Now I know which of you has the Grasal, and I know he knows. I also know that the possessor does not possess it by chance, but because he planned everything from the moment he killed Frederick. But I want him to have the courage to confess to us all that he has deceived us for years and years. After he has confessed, I will kill him. So make up your minds. Let him who must speak, speak. We have reached the end of our journey."

"Here something strange happens, Master Niketas. From my hiding place, I was trying to put myself in the place of my three friends. Let us suppose that one of them, whom we will call Ego, knew he had the Grasal, and was guilty of something. He would have told himself that, at this point, the best thing was to risk all, seize his sword or his dagger, dash off in the direction from which he had come, flee until he reached the cistern, and then the sunlight. This, I believe, is what the Poet was expecting. Perhaps he didn't yet know which of the three had the Grasal, but that escape would reveal it. Now let us imagine that Ego was not sure of having the Grasal, because he had never looked into his reliquary, and yet he did have something on his conscience concerning the death of Frederick. Ego therefore would have waited, to see if someone else who knew he had the Grasal would make a leap towards flight. Ego therefore was waiting, without making a move. But he could see that the others weren't moving either. So, he thought, none of them has the Grasal, and none of them feels he is at all worthy of suspicion. Therefore, he had to conclude, the one the Poet has in mind is me, and I must escape. Puzzled, he put his hand to his sword, or dagger, and started to take a first step. But then he saw that each of the others was doing the same thing. He stopped again, suspecting that the other two felt more guilty than he. This is what happened in that crypt. Each of the three, each thinking like the one I have called Ego, first remained still, then took one step, then stopped again. And this was the obvious sign that none of them was sure of having the Grasal, but that all three had something with which to reproach themselves. The Poet understood this perfectly, and explained to them what I had understood and have now explained to you."

The voice of the Poet said: "Wretches, all three of you! Each of you knows he is guilty. I know—I have always known—that all three of you tried to kill Frederick, and perhaps all three of you killed him, so the man died three times. That night I left the guardroom very early, and was the last to come back in. I was unable to sleep, perhaps I had had too much to drink. I urinated three times in the courtyard, I stayed outside so as not to disturb all of you. While I was outside, I heard Boron come out. He took the steps towards the lower level, and I followed him. He went into the room with the machines, approached the cylinder that produces the vacuum, worked its lever, a number of times. I couldn't understand what he wanted, but I understood the next day. Either Ardzrouni had confided something to him, or he had understood on his own, but obviously the room in which the cylinder created the vacuum, the room in which the chicken had been sacrificed, was the very one where Frederick was sleeping, where Ardzrouni used to rid himself of the enemies he hypocritically received as guests. You, Boron, turned that lever until in the emperor's room the vacuum had been created, or, at least, since you didn't believe in the vacuum, until that air was dense, where you knew candles were extinguished and animals were suffocated. Frederick felt unable to breathe; at first he thought of a poison, and took the Grasal to drink the antidote it contained. But he fell to the ground lifeless. The next day you were ready to steal the Grasal, exploiting the confusion, but Zosimos was ahead of you. You saw him, and you saw where he hid it. It was easy for you to change the position of the heads and, at the moment of leaving, you took the right one."