Inquisition (10 page)

As the wait continued, his concern grew greater. Supposing the old woman had warned him? Perhaps the priest had left immediately to go on a pilgrimage to another monastery, to avoid trouble. But no, that couldn’t be. Gerardo couldn’t imagine the woman, as ugly as sin and hairy with it, turning up and telling one of her trusted clients that she had betrayed him. What would she get out of it? It was much more likely that she had disappeared without telling anyone where she was going. Now she was heaven knows where, spending the money earned through her repugnant trade, and perhaps, God forbid, setting herself up somewhere else.

The little shutter opened and the novice’s beardless face appeared in the window again. ‘Unfortunately father Francesco is ill,’ he said. ‘He’s asleep and I’ve been told not to wake him.’

‘What’s wrong with him?’

‘Nothing serious,’ answered the boy. ‘His hernia has been giving him a lot of pain recently and last night they took him to the infirmary, where our apothecary has administered a calming potion.’ He gave an apologetic smile. ‘That’s why I kept you waiting so long. I couldn’t find him anywhere.’

‘I see,’ said Gerardo. ‘I’ll come back another day.’

‘Would you like me to tell him that you came to see him when he wakes up?’

Gerardo forced himself to give a reassuring tone to his words. ‘No, thank you. Better that he rests peacefully, if he can.’

The inn was right behind the Basilica of Santo Stefano, in a short, dark, muddy alley. Mondino high-handedly showed his pass to the soldier sitting on the doorstep.

‘I’ve come to see the German’s corpse,’ he said. ‘By order of the Captain of the People.’

It had all been much easier than he had thought. He had gone to the
Podestà
’
s
offices, where he ran into a judge who was an old friend of his and who immediately took him to meet PantaLeone Buzacarini, the Captain of the People. Mondino had explained that it would be very useful for his anatomical research if he were able to have a look at the strange cadaver, and the captain, a Ghibelline like himself – called to office as part of the Guelph city government’s recent policy of openness – had given his permission on the spot. ‘We can’t get into trouble with the Inquisition,’ he said. ‘So we’re not beginning investigations ex officio on this case, unless they ask us to. Nonetheless, a physician is not a judge, and I can find nothing to take exception to in scientific curiosity.’

What he was really saying was clear: his hands were tied, but it suited him that a lay citizen went along to have a quick look. So he had written the pass, signed it and given it his personal seal next to the people’s stamp that bore the bust of St Peter.

The soldier didn’t even pretend to read the pass, although he examined each of the stamps with attention. Satisfied, he said, ‘As far as I’m concerned, you can go in. But you’ll have to convince the monks who are guarding the room.’

‘Do you know the dead man’s name?’ asked Mondino.

‘Wilhelm von Trier, or so I’m told.’

‘How did they discover that he was a templar?’

The man shrugged. ‘I think he had a letter on him. The innkeeper knows Latin and when he found it among the man’s possessions he went straight to the priests.’

Mondino nodded and went up the wooden staircase that led to the first floor. He could tell immediately which room it was because standing in front of the door were two very young Dominicans with a frightened air about them. They told him that their orders were not to let anyone past, but Mondino ignored them completely, as if they hadn’t even spoken. He just pushed open the door and went in. The two young monks stood undecided for a fraction of a second too long, so Mondino simply closed the door and bolted it from the inside. Then he took out the half-orange full of dried flowers and lavender that he used to combat the stench of illness and death and pressed it to his nose, turning a deaf ear to the shouts of the two boys who were ordering him to come out.

Liuzzo’s description of the body did not prepare Mondino for what lay before him. He had been expecting something resembling what he had seen the last time, and naturally there were similarities. But it was all much cruder. The corpse was sitting on the bed with his back against the wall. He was an old man, tall and thin, with a prominent chin. He had no shirt on and his open chest revealed the obscene transformation of the heart. But this time the mysterious assassin had not confined himself to that. He had also disfigured his victim’s face.

A deep incision in the shape of a cross went from the forehead to the chin and from one cheek to the other, passing over the nose. The effect was chilling.

There was blood everywhere: on the dead man’s arms and face, in his hair, in his white beard, on his fustian breeches, on the walls and naturally on the mattress, which was drenched with it.

One thing he noticed immediately was that no one had touched the body. This was remarkable because the confusion of footprints in the bloody dust on the floor indicated that a good number of people had been in the room. There had been the cleaning woman who had found him, the passers-by who had come to her aid when she ran down into the street and the priests who had come to appraise the situation, but no one had dared to disturb the macabre
mise en scène
; perhaps out of fear of the Devil, perhaps perceiving that it had some particular significance.

Indeed it was clear, as in Angelo da Piczano’s case, that there was a symbolic aspect to the crime. The heart of iron must mean something, and also Angelo’s truncated arms and the cross cut into Wilhelm von Trier’s face.

Working out the significance of the mutilations might help Mondino and Gerardo to discover the author of the atrocities. Thinking of Gerardo brought on a rush of anger. Where was that hopeless individual now that he needed him?

However, Mondino did not let himself be distracted by such unproductive thoughts. He listened. Outside the door, all was quiet. If the monks had run for help, he did not have much time. Rapidly, he examined the room, looking at everything quickly but with minute attention. He didn’t bother to search the dead man’s saddlebags. The innkeeper had already done that and anything important that he had found, besides the letter, would already be in his pocket or in the hands of the Dominicans.

Struck by a sudden inspiration, Mondino decided to check the body. If there was anything left to find that might set him on the path of the murderer and his alchemical secret, it could only be on the dead man himself, because no one had yet had the courage to touch him.

Feeling no repugnance – due to his long familiarity with death – Mondino patted the German’s body with care. Almost immediately he felt a bulge at the height of his belt. He slipped his hand between skin and clothes, and in a pocket sewn inside the breeches he found a piece of valuable parchment, soft and carefully rolled, and a hard object. When he pulled out the latter, he saw that it was the index finger of a human, stripped of flesh, with the veins transformed into metal, like the heart in the man’s chest. But it was not the man’s finger. A quick look at the dead man’s hands confirmed that he still had all ten of them.

Mondino thought that perhaps it was Angelo da Piczano’s finger, because his hands had been missing. But there was no time to be lost in suppositions. Someone might arrive from one moment to the next.

He unrolled the parchment and saw that it was a map, with sketches showing woods and mountains, a series of symbols that he had never seen before, and a mark in red ink surrounded by some Arabic characters. Knowing perfectly well that he was committing another crime, he put it into his bag along with the metal finger. Then he quickly opened the door, frightening the two monks who had remained motionless in the corridor, put the pomander back in his bag and went downstairs.

Perhaps he had found something important, he couldn’t tell yet. More than anything he wanted to know the secret that turned blood into metal, but now the most urgent thing was to find the perpetrator before the Church did. The murderer –

Still supposing that there was only one of them – represented a serious danger, and there was only one sure way of avoiding having him talk.

However, Mondino found the idea of killing in cold blood insufferable, even if it was someone who had already killed two people in a manner that to describe as horrible would be an understatement.

He saluted the guard with a nod of the head, walked quickly out of the street door and immediately bumped into a fruit seller under the arches, almost knocking the man over. Nonetheless it was the fruit seller who excused himself, intimidated by the red robe and the fur-trimmed cloak that Mondino had put on for the banquet.

Rapidly distancing himself in the crowd that filled the piazza to overflowing, Mondino forced himself not to think of what would happen once they had found the author of the crimes. First they needed to find him. Then he and Gerardo would decide what to do.

He had never, in his whole life, had so many things about which it was easier not to think.

V

Mondino went out early. He had a lesson that day, but first he wanted to speak to another alchemist. Paying no attention to the pedlars of every description that swarmed through the streets, he walked the length of the San Donato arcade and finally arrived at the solitary house next to the Circla paling. He found the man he was looking for in a courtyard throwing handfuls of broad bean skins to the hens. He was an imposing man, with thick dark hair and big brown eyes. Mondino had been told that he was likely to find him prey to drunkenness, and to avoid this problem he had decided to go to his house early in the morning. But he was obviously not early enough. The alchemist had a nebulous look about him and at first it was not easy for Mondino to make himself understood. Together they went into the man’s laboratory, where, despite the open window, the dense vapours of distilling alcohol impregnated the air. They seemed to be having an effect on the hens, which scratched about unsteadily in the chaos of pliers, hammers and other tools. A bean soup was boiling in a pan over the fire, hanging from a hook fixed to the wall above. On a stone platform a little coal fire had been lit, over which sat a strangely shaped alembic, the like of which Mondino had never seen before. Its various components, boiler in riveted copper, swan-neck still head and cooling flask, were positioned one above the other instead of side by side. The object seemed more primitive than the normal serpentine alembics, but it looked very functional.

‘It’s called an
alquitara
,’ said the alchemist, noticing his interest. ‘As the refrigeration vase is directly above the swan neck, the vapour can condense immediately and drip into the recipient.’

‘From the name, it would appear to be Arabic,’ said Mondino. ‘I’ve seen other alembics from those parts, but nothing like this one.’

‘Nor had I, but I can assure you that it works even better than the normal ones. I got it from a sorceress, a converted Arab who earns a living preparing potions and love philtres. She gave it to me in exchange for a book. But tell me, why are you here?’

The alchemist’s large eyes gazed at Mondino with a confused expression and he belched. It was now clear, if there had been room for doubt, that the
aqua vitae
distilling in the alembic was not for alchemical purposes. It occurred to Mondino that the death of the German templar at least meant that he could be more precise in his questions without arousing suspicion.

‘I imagine you’ve heard of the strange death of that man in Santo Stefano?’ he said.

‘Who hasn’t heard? the news has done the rounds of the city. But to me it’s an absurdity.’ ‘Why?’

‘Because I’m an alchemist, Messer, and as such I know perfectly well that the heart of a human being cannot be turned into a piece of metal.’

‘Are you absolutely certain?’

The man straightened his shoulders and managed to assume a relatively lucid expression before answering: ‘Absolutely. But you still haven’t told me the reason for your visit.’

He knew nothing. It was therefore pointless for Mondino to expose himself. He looked around to find a pretext and once again his eyes fell upon the
alquitara
. ‘I’d like to buy an alembic like this one,’ he said. ‘Where can I get one from?’

‘Perhaps the person I got mine from. But I warn you, she is a strange woman.’

‘The sorceress?’ Mondino had never met one before, but he had no trouble imagining that they were strange women. ‘Yes. But is that really why you came?’

Mondino merely nodded, without going into particulars. He had just had an idea. ‘The woman speaks Arabic, doesn’t she?’ he asked.

‘With me she spoke in the Italian vernacular,’ said the man, shrugging his shoulders. He went up to the fireplace and gave the soup a stir with a long wooden spoon. ‘But she speaks Arabic too.’

‘I imagine so,’ replied the alchemist, irritated. ‘She is Arabic.’

‘And she knows how to read, since you gave her a book,’ said Mondino, almost to himself. Then, in a louder voice, ‘Do you know where she lives?’

The man was having difficulty concentrating and kept looking from the pan to the alembic. ‘She lives in Bova,’ he said. ‘I don’t know exactly where, but they should know her thereabouts. She’s called Adia Bintaba. Now, if you would excuse me.’

Mondino left and walked to the school of medicine with a smile on his lips. He would ask the woman to translate the phrases in Arabic on his map. He was sure that they held precious information.

*

Gerardo arrived towards the end of the lesson. He came up to a window from the outside, moved aside the curtain that let the air circulate, yet prevented the students from being distracted by what was going on in the street, and made a sign to Mondino. None of the students noticed him, hunched as they were over their folios of Avicenna’s
Canon
.

Mondino stared at him for a moment, with what looked like a mixture of surprise, anger and relief, and then went on talking. He must have finished the lecture and was now dealing with questions. Gerardo let the curtain fall and began to wait. He had never been a real student and yet he missed the world of the university already. It was years since his first lesson, but he remembered perfectly how Mondino, with the slightly monotonous voice of someone who has repeated the same thing many times, explained how to ask questions according to the four Aristotelian causes. It was a system that Mondino’s own teacher, taddeo Alderotti, had used before him: ‘You must think of the material cause, or rather what it is made from, then the formal cause, that is its form or essence, then the efficient cause, in other words the author of the work, and lastly the final cause, or rather the end and purpose of the chosen argument. At this point you formulate a series of
dubia
, which will be followed by the
disputatio
and, finally, the
solutio.
’

Thinking back to those days, which though not particularly happy had been considerably less complicated than the present, helped Gerardo to while away the time, and suddenly he found that the lesson had ended.

Mondino came out last, quite a long time after the students, when the steward had already begun to restore order in the lecture hall, and he set off towards Piazza Maggiore without looking behind him. Aware of the necessity for prudence, Gerardo let him go on a dozen yards before coming up beside him. He was about to greet Mondino when the physician suddenly turned.

‘You took your time,’ he snapped, angrily. ‘I thought the worst had happened.’

‘Forgive me, Master. Let’s go somewhere quiet, please, and I can explain everything. I need to speak to you urgently.’

‘And I want to speak to you too,’ answered Mondino, as if nothing could be more irritating to him. ‘But I’ve got to go to the cutler to collect a surgical fork that I need urgently. Come with me, we can talk on the way.’ ‘As you wish, magister,’ replied Gerardo.

‘And you can stop calling me magister in that deferential way, at least when we are alone. I never really was your Master, given that you didn’t come to my lessons to learn, but to hide.’ ‘Magister,’ said Gerardo, calmly, ‘I owe you an enormous debt for the help you have given me, and for that alone you deserve all the deference that I can show you. Besides, to carry on pretending to be Master and student is the best way not to attract too much attention, even if I am no longer attending your lessons.’

The physician was silent for a while and then he nodded, almost against his will. Gerardo followed him across the road, careful where he put his feet in the mud. Soon afterwards they surfaced beneath the arcade opposite, professor in front and student walking respectfully half a pace behind.

Mondino asked him what he had been doing over those days, and Gerardo told him about the lodgings he had taken in Borgo del Rondone and about his visit to the banker, but it was not the moment to ask him the favour he wanted, so instead he told him about Philomena and Masino, of his visit to the old woman’s house and of the horrible discovery he had made.

‘I have almost begun to think that Angelo da Piczano deserved that ghastly death,’ he concluded. ‘But what concerns me most now is that I don’t know what to do to save the child. Philomena has taken fright and vanished, gone who knows where.’

‘That friar of whom you spoke,’ said Mondino, without turning to face him, and continuing to walk on. ‘I think I know who he is. If I’m not mistaken his cousin is the master builder in charge of the works at the new basilica of San Giacomo Maggiore, in Via San Donato.’

‘Father Francesco.’ Gerardo said his name with contempt. ‘I tried calling on him yesterday, but he had been taken to the monastery infirmary and they wouldn’t let me see him.’

They were crossing Piazza Maggiore, passing the
Podestà
’s offices. On their right were some houses that for some time there had been talk of demolishing to build a huge basilica dedicated to San Petronio.

‘What’s wrong with him?’ asked Mondino.

‘He suffers from a scrotal hernia, as far as I could understand. It’s rather too bland a punishment for his particular sins. I wanted to talk to you about that too.’

‘About his hernia?’ Mondino stopped and looked at him with an expression that was anything but benevolent.

Gerardo gathered up his courage. ‘Well,’ he answered in a low voice, so as not to be heard by the passers-by and the pedlars who thronged the piazza. ‘I was thinking that a visit by a great physician such as you might be a good way of getting to him and making him talk. He might know something important about Angelo da Piczano. And maybe even about Philomena too.’

‘You were thinking!’ the physician burst out. ‘And who are you to tell me what to do?’

Gerardo looked around him and saw that a few people had turned to look at them.

‘We’re attracting attention,’ he said, with a conciliatory smile for the benefit of the curious. ‘All right, if you don’t want to help me, I’ll find another way of speaking to that degenerate priest.’

Mondino moved on, Gerardo followed him and after a few yards no one took any more notice of them. They got to the other side of the piazza and turned into the fishmonger’s street, first passing the silk market and Cornacchina tower on their right. Only then did the physician turn to look at him briefly. ‘The idea of the visit is a good one,’ he said. He no longer seemed annoyed.

‘So you’ll go?’ asked Gerardo. The smell of rotten fish coming from the corner behind the rows of stalls was so strong that he felt he could almost see it.

‘Yes. But first there are more important things to talk about. Have you heard about the other templar who’s been killed?’ Gerardo jumped. ‘Another? no, I hadn’t.’ outside one of the city’s most famous fish-shops, the physician paused to pay his respects to the wife of one of the Lambertazzis with a courteous bow. She was an eccentric lady who went to the market herself to check up on the servants while they were doing the shopping. Then he told Gerardo all about Wilhelm von Trier’s death and the fact that he had managed to examine the cadaver before the Inquisitors, purloining a map full of alchemical symbols. ‘A map? of what?’

‘I don’t know yet. We can talk about that later, when I show it to you. I’ve been carrying it on me since yesterday, expecting to see you. The main thing is that our assassin has produced another victim. The German’s body has been seen by quite a few people, and the fact that it had a piece of iron where the heart should have been is on everyone’s lips.’ ‘Had his hands been amputated too?’

‘No. But he had a bloody cross carved into his face. Does that mean anything to you?’

‘Nothing, apart from the fact that these murders seem to want to communicate something specific. The hands, the cross, the heart of iron... They’re all symbols. But of what?’

‘When we know that,’ replied Mondino, darkly, ‘Perhaps we shall also know who the murderer is.’

A woodcutter, bent beneath the weight of a stack that was too big for his shoulders, came between them. Gerardo walked round him and joined Mondino in front of a bakery, from which the smell of bread and spices wafted. He was convinced that their disjointed conversation, held in the commotion of the crowded street, was the result of pique on the part of the physician because he had not turned up to their meeting.

‘Master,’ he began, ‘It’s not wise to discuss these things in public.’

‘On the contrary,’ replied Mondino, who continued walking a step ahead of him. ‘We would attract more attention if we went to confabulate in a tavern.’

Gerardo did not agree, but he preferred not to insist. Mondino was highly strung and it was better not to provoke him, above all because Gerardo wanted to ask him a favour. They turned into a quieter side street, and not much further on entered a large well-kept courtyard, where there was only the metallic sound of a file to be heard.

Gerardo took advantage of the relative peace to take up their conversation again. ‘So you think he was attacked by surprise?’ he asked.

Mondino nodded. ‘When I examined him, I saw that like your friend Angelo he had a bruise on the back of his head. This is the second murder committed in this way, and tells us something about the perpetrator.’

‘You mean to say that it must be someone who is physically strong?’

‘Exactly,’ replied the physician. His aggravation at having been anticipated was obvious, and Gerardo had to stop himself from smiling. ‘Quite strong, but certainly astute enough to convince his victims to trust him to the point of letting him enter their lodgings.’