Inquisition (30 page)

In the darkness, he moved his hand around under the warm straw and with a sigh of relief found that the diary was still there. He found the lamp too, and then he had to rest because those simple movements had left him drained. When he had found his strength again, he went down on all fours and began to pat the walls and ceiling of the cell in search of something to use as a flint-stone.

In a corner he felt a crack beneath his fingers and clawed at it with his nails until he managed to break off a fragment of brick.

His arms and shoulders hurt so much that he couldn’t manage to strike the shard of brick with enough force to produce a spark. After a number of failed attempts, Gerardo gave up and instead lay slowly down until he was stretched prone on the freezing floor.

Despite the interrogation and the prospect of being tortured again the following day, his thoughts turned almost exclusively on Fiamma’s letter. The fact that she had used such an intimate tone in her letter provoked an emotion that was difficult to explain. But the sense of her words had frightened him. What had she done that was so terrible that it could never be forgiven? Why was she convinced that she was about to go to her grave? When she spoke of a crime that he hadn’t committed, was she referring to Angelo da Piczano? And how did she know about that? the answers to his questions must be in her notebook, but to be able to read it, he had to light the lamp. He tried to get up, without success. His short rest and the damp air seemed to have made his limbs even more rigid. In the end he slept on the floor, curled up on his side like a dog, his head resting on his good arm.

XV

When his waking dreams filled with images of Rainerio on his deathbed, Mondino suddenly opened wide his eyes, struck by a sense of guilt. How could he have forgotten his father?

He quickly got up, dressed in silence and left the room without finding the courage to wake Adia. Perhaps they’d never see each other again and just then he didn’t feel up to a distressing farewell.

It was still dark, but downstairs the innkeeper was already up and spreading clean straw over the floor with a pitchfork. As he worked, he kept up a continuous sniffing, hawking and spitting; he must have caught a cold despite the hot weather. Mondino mumbled a greeting without looking him in the face, paid for the previous evening’s supper and went out into the street. At the port he got on the first barge he found and accepted the inflated price that the owner requested without wasting time bargaining. He sat impatiently through the slow journey pulled by a mule along the towpath that followed the embankment. As he arrived in Bologna, the sun was just rising, the light picking out the red bricks of the houses. He got off just past the Circla in front of the salt shops and got a ride on a cart pulled by a donkey. Soon afterwards he was letting himself into his house, furtive as a thief, ardently praying that his father hadn’t died while he had been away.

Uberto rose early to receive news from Guido before the Archbishop took up his whole day re-examining the trial papers. But the prelate burst into Uberto’s study just as Guido was making his report.

‘What is this story about a student and a physician accused of murder and witchcraft?’ Rinaldo asked, without taking any notice of Guido, who immediately got up from his chair and moved discreetly towards the door, leaving as soon as the Archbishop had taken a few steps into the room. ‘And why was I not informed that the student you suspected of these murders is under arrest at the
comune
?’

‘I was going to tell you this very morning, monsignor,’ lied Uberto, wondering who had told him. ‘I was only waiting for you to get up. I’m amazed that someone else has got there before me.’

Rinaldo da Concorezzo gave him a cold look. ‘You can give up your ham-fisted attempts to find out who my informers are. All you need to know is that in every monastery of my diocese there are trusted people who keep me in touch with everything that goes on. So don’t try to keep me in the dark about anything any longer, or you will regret it.’ Uberto bowed his head without replying and the Archbishop went on: ‘Go and tell the
Podestà
that I would like to interrogate the young man myself.’

‘But, monsignor, what about going through the trial papers?’ said Uberto, playing for time.

‘The re-examination of the papers is of secondary importance with respect to the murders that have shaken Bologna in these last weeks. If the templars really are implicated in such a thing, our priority is to verify the fact. I am certain that we can count on the full cooperation of the
Podestà
.’

Uberto didn’t know which way to turn. If Rinaldo turned up at the
comune
, he would find out that Uberto had already started interrogating the templar the day before and hadn’t told him. He would also find out that it had been done under torture, and it would be futile hoping to convince him that Uberto had nothing to do with it. It was even possible that the Ghibelline of a Captain of the People would openly accuse him of having manoeuvred in such a way that the
comune
took the responsibility for torturing the prisoner while the Church reaped the benefits. PantaLeone had intimated as much to the
Podestà
the previous day.

At this moment Uberto realised that if he didn’t want to end up as parish priest in some isolated mountain area, he would have to act quickly, without getting bogged down in moral scruples.

‘It will be done as you wish, monsignor,’ he said, bowing.

‘Please be good enough to wait while I go and make the necessary arrangements.’

Guido had been waiting in the corridor outside. When they had walked far enough away not to be overheard, he said quietly, ‘What should I do?’

Uberto briefly explained. He had to spread the word that a templar by the name of Gerardo, going under the false name of Francesco Salimbene of Imola, had killed three people in an atrocious manner to respect a pact with the Devil. And incite the crowd to a good bit of hotheaded unrest.

‘It won’t be difficult,’ Uberto said. ‘The discontent about the price of bread doesn’t seem to be abating, and a spark should set them off.’

Perhaps the frenzied crowd might even break into the
comune
and tear the prisoner limb from limb. Or, as had happened occasionally in the past, the
Podestà
might decide to throw him from the balcony to be pulled apart by the populace to avoid things getting any worse. In one way or another, the resulting brawls would create the diversion that Uberto needed in order to convince the Archbishop that it was too dangerous to leave the monastery. Then, even if Gerardo did survive, it would give the Inquisitor time to think of a new strategy.

‘It will cost you,’ said Guido. ‘I’ve done this sort of thing before and I know that to get the right results you need at least six or seven good scandalmongers to unleash in the markets and taverns.’

Uberto couldn’t use the monastery’s money for that sort of operation. The bursar would notice and report him to the prior. And he couldn’t even draw on the special funds that the Inquisition could make use of because Rinaldo da Concorezzo would be going through every single note of expenditure with a fine-tooth comb. He had no choice but to pay with his own money.

‘Give them the necessary in advance,’ he said to Guido. ‘And I’ll pay you back as soon as the Archbishop has left.’

The smirk that covered the defrocked priest’s face made the Inquisitor’s guts boil in rage. Uberto knew what he was going to say before he even opened his mouth.

‘Father, unfortunately I do not possess that much money,’ said Guido. ‘If it were only me, I’d wait, but the agitators will need to be paid immediately. Besides, I need to send them out with their pockets full, to pay for the beer to create some agreement about what they are saying.’

Pursing his lips into a narrow line, Uberto looked at Arlotti for a long time, but Guido stared straight back at him. The fallen priest who lived off criminal earnings, in the company of murderers and prostitutes, was defying him. His instinct had told him that Uberto was in disgrace with the Archbishop, and he was no longer disposed to run risks if he wasn’t promptly paid. Uberto was overcome with a sudden desire for a quarrel, but he managed to control himself. Guido wasn’t his enemy, but the others, those who were conspiring against him from above and below. They were the ones who must be stopped, and Guido was the only instrument he had to do it.

‘Come with me,’ he said at last, walking towards his cell. When they got to the door, he signalled to Guido to go in. From a table by the door, Uberto picked up a soft leather bag of coins and threw it towards Arlotti contemptuously. Guido caught it in mid-air and briefly weighed it in the palm of his hand before it disappeared under his tunic.

‘There are enough florins and Bolognese lira in that to pay for everything,’ said Uberto. ‘Make sure you do a good job.’ ‘You will be well pleased, father,’ replied the ex-priest, with a cunning smile. Then, in a voice that appeared almost concerned, he added, ‘In these situations there is always a death or two. Women raped and killed in the alleys, children trampled, stabbings ... Once it is stirred up, the crowd is uncontrollable.’

‘I know, and it is a tragic pity,’ replied Uberto, shaken by an involuntary shiver at the thought of what he was about to do. ‘But this is a question of defending the Christian faith from a murderer who thinks nothing of selling his soul in exchange for who knows what squalid favours, and from a prelate who is too weak for the position he holds. Unfortunately sacrifice is necessary.’

‘If it is for the faith, that suits me,’ said Guido. ‘But when it is all over, I want the plenary indulgence you promised me without delay. I need to be absolved of all the sins I’ve committed to carry out your orders.’

‘You will have it, don’t worry,’ replied Uberto. ‘Now go, there’s no time to lose.’

Guido Arlotti went out and Uberto was about to follow him, but caught by a sudden impulse he went down on his knees and began to pray with fervour. Guido would have his indulgence, but who would absolve the Inquisitor? several times he asked forgiveness of God for what he was about to do, for the deaths he might cause and the lies that he would have to tell. Only the certainty of being in the right gave him the strength to go on. Of course he wanted to save himself too, but only because he knew that he could still do so much for the Church and the defence of the faith. It was up to him to fight, given that the Archbishop was a coward. And if he managed, if his actions were shown to be pivotal in the successful condemnation of the templars, as was doubtless the wish of His Holiness Clement V, he had no fear that his loyalty would be rewarded in a higher place.

Comforted by these thoughts, Uberto left his cell and ordered the first friar he met in the corridor to go immediately to the
Podestà
, to advise of the Archbishop’s imminent visit. Then he returned to his study, where he told Rinaldo da Concorezzo that he had made the arrangements and that in a few hours the
Podestà
would be ready to receive the Archbishop.

‘Then we’ll go on with our work,’ said Rinaldo. ‘We can go over to the
comune
later.’ ‘As you wish, monsignor.’

If Guido did his job well, in about two or three hours the centre of the city would be impassable. Uberto armed himself with patience and docility as he went to get the trial papers from the large locked cupboard at the end of the room.

Gerardo opened his eyes in the darkness. He had no idea how much time had passed. The thought of Fiamma’s diary consumed him entirely, but his tortured body was now almost frozen by the cold and prevented him from sitting up. With great patience he began to move his hands and feet a little at a time. Very slowly he rolled first on to one side and then on to the other; then he stretched his neck and lifted his shoulders. Only after interminable efforts did he manage to teach his body elementary movements again, like a dead man resuscitated from the grave. Then he managed to get on to all fours, took the lamp and struck the ground with the sliver of brick with enough strength to create a little cascade of sparks.

Nothing happened.

A spark wasn’t enough to light the wick, he needed some tinder and the straw was too damp.

With his good hand, Gerardo grabbed the hem of his tunic and put it in his mouth. He began to tear at it with his teeth until he managed to rip a piece off. Then, with minute perseverance, he pulled the strip of cloth apart, gathering the threads on the floor in a small pile. On top of them he laid some wisps of straw that weren’t too damp, and went back to striking the brick on the floor. At the fourth or fifth attempt, the tinder took and began to burn, although without a flame. Gerardo gently blew on it, careful not to put it out, and finally the pile of threads caught fire. Quickly, he took a piece of straw and held it to the wick and a second later the cell was filled with a trembling light. There wasn’t much oil left in the lamp so Gerardo quickly began to read the diary. It was written in Latin, with the date at the top of every page.

18 January AD 1305

Today I’ve been in the cave for a week, or perhaps longer. The pain in my cheek has lessened a bit, but the skin feels stretched as though it weren’t my own. I don’t know how I got here. I walked a long way, crying and raving as if I were mad, then I slept and my memory of the next few days is unclear. Whereas what happened before that is vivid in every detail, almost as though I were still there now. Initially I couldn’t see anything, I could only hear, curled up in the secret hideaway under the floor where my father had told me to hide when the three men pulled up their horses outside our house.

They were three Knights of the Temple. They entered the house, tied him up and began to torture him with scalding irons, asking him to tell them the secret of the elixir. He continued to deny any knowledge of it, but they didn’t believe him. They mentioned a Turkish alchemist who had been killed and found at the gates of Gharnata with his heart missing from his chest. They accused my father of killing him. My father denied that too, but I could tell he was lying. I knew because in the last year he had abandoned his alchemy experiments, had given up teaching me about medicinal herbs and had insisted that I learn how to cut bone and flesh like a surgeon. First he made me practise on the corpses of cats and dogs and then on human bodies that he got hold of who knows how.

In actual fact I didn’t realise then that I had understood. It was only afterwards, when I got here, that I put it all together. Then I was trembling from fear and praying to Jesus that the men would stop making my father suffer and that they wouldn’t find me.

But they did find me. I must have made a noise without meaning to, because suddenly the room fell silent, then one of the men lifted up the carpet, opened the trap door and pulled me out. I was shouting and crying, and my father was shouting too. But they were completely without pity. They tied me up and put me in front of him. Then they said that if he didn’t talk they would kill me. Crying, my father told them that he had no secret to reveal, that he had been trying all his life to discover how to make the elixir, but had never managed. The oldest Templar and the young one had a moment of doubt, and I turned to look at the one who seemed to be their leader. He was an imposing man, with blond curly hair and hairy arms. He pointed to the brazier with the hot irons that they had used to torture my father.