Veritas (Atto Melani) (51 page)

“Eyyub!” declared Populescu, turning to us with a look of triumph. “It’s the name pronounced by Dànilo before he died! And so he’s the standard-bearer of
Mahomet that my beautiful brunette in the coffee house was telling me about . . .”

Together with Sultan Mehmed and three men, the story went on, Ak emseddin dug for three days. At last, at a depth of three cubits they found a large green stone, with an inscription in Kufic
letters that said: “This is the tomb of Ebû Eyyub El-Ensârî”. Underneath the stone they found the corpse of Eyyub, wrapped in a saffron-coloured shroud. His face was
so beautiful and holy that it looked as if he had just died. In his blessed right hand he held a Mühre.”

“A what?” interrupted Simonis.

“For men of no understanding,” went on Zyprian’s tale, “it’s just a small spherical object, like the little balls they use to flatten paper. But for anyone kissed
by the benediction of true knowledge, it is infinitely more: it’s a stone with magical forces of divine origin.”

“But is this Mühre the Golden Apple?” I asked.

“The Mühre is formed in the head of a snake of royal blood,” Zyprian’s muttering tale continued, in Populescu’s translation, “and it is actually solar matter.
It is protected by seven layers of skin, which drop off one by one. And so it has to be kept in a dark nook, where no ray of sunlight can enter, and it must be covered in gold. If even a single
bead of sunlight enters, the Mühre flees into the heavenly spheres, towards the matter it is related to.”

This was not all. According to what the poor boy told us, every so often clutching his head in pain, the old emperors of Byzantium, or Constantinople, had a shiny stone on their crown as rulers
of the world; this stone had been taken from the chamber of Nebuchadnezzar, the founder of Babylon. It had been given to him by the Magi. Nebuchadnezzar, to defend his conquest magically, had had
countless signs drawn throughout his kingdom, in the shape of a snake.

“This was because the Cosmos-City itself was surrounded by a snake, which imitated the snake that surrounds the whole earth,” explained Zyprian.

And he recounted that Alexander the Great, when he was searching for the fountain of life in the land of eternal darkness, had placed a splendid stone on the tip of his spear: in the West they
said that he had obtained it at the gate of the earthly paradise; in the East, however, the wise men said that Alexander and his vizir Sûrî had reached the City of Copper built by
Solomon. This stone then became the Golden Apple.

“Just a moment, Dragomir, just a moment. I’m getting lost,” I protested, rubbing my eyes, as if seized by a terrible headache.

“I haven’t changed a single word the brat said,” Populescu defended himself, pouring himself another flagon.

The boy went on, and explained that Hüma, the bird of paradise, had revealed to Solomon the origins of the precious stone known as Mühre.

“In the Fourth Heaven there’s a mountain of golden sand, on top of which stands a splendid palace. The dome of this palace consists of the stone rings of all the men of power who
governed the world before Adam. After subduing the earth, they yielded to the ambition of wishing to conquer the heavens and become gods. And so the Angel of Death went to meet them and asked for
their rings back. In the dome of the heavenly palace the only one missing is the last ring, the one that closes the dome. That’s what the Mühre is formed from.”

Simonis and I looked at each other in amazement. Zyprian’s revelations led in contrasting and extremely intricate directions.

“In my opinion, this Mühre is the garnet stone from the statue of the Madonna of St Sophia, as Koloman told us,” remarked Simonis.

“But it could also be the golden ball that Suleiman had them mount on the bell tower of St Stephen’s, as Jan Janitzki said,” added Populescu.

“Let’s ask him where Eyyub got the Mühre from,” I said.

“It was in the centre of the world. Eyyub stole it to hand it over to the future conquering sultan,” was Zyprian’s answer.

“The centre of the world must be Constantinople,” explained Populescu, “since these are Turkish legends.”

“And now where is the Mühre?” I asked.

“Nobody knows.”

“And Kasim’s forty thousand? Ask him if he knows about the forty thousand martyrs.”

The boy unwillingly muttered a few words.

“He said: the forty thousand martyrs shout on Friday,” translated Dragomir.

“But Dànilo already told us that before he died,” I said.

Populescu asked Zyprian again.

“To be precise, they shout on Friday evening. He knows nothing else.”

The last answer, which verged on stupidity, was not encouraging.

“Ask him if the words
soli soli soli
mean anything to him,” I suggesed.

Zyprian, who in the meantime had sat down again, wiped the blood from his lip. On hearing the question he shook his head and spat on the ground. Klaus clenched his fist and with a glance sought
instructions from Dragomir Populescu, who indicated he should let the boy go.

“I don’t understand any of it,” remarked Simonis, as we left the cellar and walked towards Penicek’s cart. “A lot of the information tallies, but none of it makes
any sense. It’s not clear whether the Golden Apple is this Mühre, and whether the Mühre is the ball of the statue of the Madonna, or of Justinian or Constantine, or the one on the
top of St Stephen’s, depending on the various versions. Zyprian says it actually came from the centre of the earth, and even from Alexander the Great, from the Fourth Heaven and from
Solomon’s ring. Whatever it is, if this ball of solar matter, as he calls it, was kept in Eyyub’s tomb, the Agha’s phrase ‘we have come alone to the Golden Apple’
makes no sense anymore.”

“I don’t understand it either,” Populescu answered him, in the voice of one awash in beer, “but there must be a reason why the Turks talked about the Golden Apple to
Prince Eugene.”

“I say we should look into this Eyyub, Mahomet’s standard-bearer: it can’t be an accident that Dànilo spoke his name before he died,” the Greek suggested, climbing
onto the cart.

“No, our Dragomir mustn’t investigate anything at all now,” I intervened, casting an angry glance at my assistant and pulling out the money to pay Populescu. “Nor must
your other companions, because –”

“Well said!” exclaimed the Romanian, breaking into a broad smile at the sight of the coins. “I agree with you. For the moment we’ve learned enough. This evening
I’ve got a date with my beauty at an
Andacht
on the Kalvarienberg, and this money is just what I need, thanks!”

“Be careful, Dragomir,” I tried to speak to him, handing him the money. “There’s something you should know . . .”

“I’ll be very careful! She says she’s a virgin,” he laughed, “but I have a couple of tricks to see if that’s true.”

He was drunk. Not an ideal condition for hearing and, above all, for understanding what I had to say to him. We made him get up onto the cart with us.

“Yes, but now listen: the Agha’s dervish . . .” I tried to start off.

“The dervish? That spinning top in the white skirt?” he sneered, and then he burped. “I’ll be lifting different sorts of skirts this evening! I don’t give a damn
whether the dervish is a virgin or not, ha ha! But my dark-haired chick from the coffee house . . . Heh heh, just listen to me: I’ll get her to drink
Armoniacum
salt with spring
water, and if she’s not a virgin, she’ll piss herself, ha ha! And I’ve also got carbonised roots of ephen – or celeriac or whatever you want to call it – to put under
her nose: if she’s not a virgin, another piss! Just imagine what a fool she’ll feel, ha ha!”

I felt dispirited. Dragomir’s coarse laughter was soon joined by that of my assistant, and if that were not enough, he ordered the Pennal to laugh as well.

“Of course, it’s a real pity if she’s not a virgin,” declared Dragomir, with fussy exactitude, “but at least I can be sure of getting my oats, and without too much
of a fuss! Ha ha!”

The cart pulled up. We were outside Populescu’s house. Before I could open my mouth, he opened the door and got out.

“Just a moment, Dragomir,” I called him, “there’s something you should know . . .”

“A thousand thanks, Signor Master,” he laughed, totally drunk, bowing several times and waving the little bag of coins in the air before entering the front door.

“Off you go, Pennal!” ordered Simonis.

“No, wait!” I protested. “Simonis, I hardly said anything!”

“He’s drunk too much. He wouldn’t have understood anything. If you like, you can talk to him this evening – he said he has a date with that girl at an
Andacht
,
on the Kalvarienberg.”

“Well, I have no choice now,” I said resignedly. “I’m worn out, and we haven’t managed to warn any of your three companions. I wonder if we shouldn’t have
looked for Koloman or Opalinski first, instead of Dragomir.”

“They were both at home. Sleeping.”

“What?” I said furiously. “So why did you advise me to start with Dragomir?”

“It wouldn’t have been polite to wake them up: they’re not under my orders, like the Pennal.”

I was silent, overcome by amazement. It was too idiotic an answer, I thought, to come from a half idiot.

On our way back to Porta Coeli, the roads began to come to life. From bread shops, inns and sweet bread bakeries there came wafting the smell of chocolate – the same
smell that will unexpectedly tickle your nostrils (the only city I know where this is true) in the middle of an alleyway, a garden, or a crowded avenue, like mystic manifestations of the
afterlife.

Snow-white milkmaids, ruddy bakers, whistling musicians and lazy footmen came into the streets and began to swell the ranks of the humble toilers, while the noblemen, still in bed, breathed
sluggishly in the coils of sleep.

Proceeding cautiously so as not to knock down some careless shop boy, Penicek’s cart was turning from Carinthia Street into Porta Coeli Street, and I had already glimpsed my Cloridia
standing outside the door of the nunnery, when I realised something strange was happening.

I knew she would be worried by my long absence, and so I had stood up in the cart and was waving to her festively when I saw a shadowy figure emerge from nowhere and grip her arm. Cloridia
yelled.

The memory of what happened in the next few moments, and the great agitation that overwhelmed all of us, is still hazy to me. However, I will try to describe those whirling moments as faithfully
as possible.

We were not more than twenty paces from Porta Coeli. Simonis leaped down from Penicek’s cart and ran to assist my spouse. I tried to do likewise, even though I knew my stride to be much
shorter. However, the nag that was pulling the Pennal’s cart, sensing danger, lost its head. The cart tottered and I stumbled as I jumped out, and went crashing to the ground. I looked up at
once and saw more clearly the shadowy figure that had attacked Cloridia. He was now backing away as Cloridia hurled insults at him. From his clothing I realised immediately who it must be: the
hooded man, the friend of Ciezeber the dervish, who had so menacingly dogged Cloridia at Prince Eugene’s palace.

Simonis was almost upon him, but the individual had already taken to his heels, vanishing into the ash-grey haze of dawn. Cloridia was on the ground, terrified and weeping. Simonis lost valuable
seconds in checking that she had not been wounded in any way. Then, while I moved forward half-limping, my assistant set off in pursuit again, and I followed him. The hooded man could not escape
us.

The passers-by watched this early morning chase incredulously: from the windows they urged us to catch the thief (although he was not one), and one or two sleepy-looking youths even gave signs
of joining in the chase, although they desisted almost immediately. Running all the way down Porta Coeli Street the hooded man first reached the circle of the ramparts, then turned left along the
Seilerstätte road and then down the lane behind the convent of the Augustinian nuns of St James. Simonis was hot on his heels, but I had worked out a better move: I took the parallel street,
the Riemergasse, which, unlike the other route, which twisted and turned, ran straight as a die. Although I was by no means a fast runner, I reached the confluence between the two arteries at the
same moment as Simonis and the hooded man.

And so it was that when the two burst out of the lane, I appeared in front of the pursued man. The monstrous face loomed up ahead of me and, even as we laid hands on my wife’s unknown
aggressor, I realised to my immense surprise that I knew him and that he knew me.

As he came lurching towards me, in shape halfway between a mole and a stone marten, he goggled at me and then grinned bestially, opening his arms to enfold me in a lurid embrace. But Simonis
fell upon him from behind, and we all went crashing into a nearby cart of fruit and vegetables, knocking it over along with its owner and sending a torrent of apples, cauliflowers, turnips and
radishes cascading over the pavement in a thousand directions, like drops of quicksilver escaping from an alchemist’s alembic and slithering across the ground in a crazy bid for freedom.