The Kingdom of Light (22 page)

D
ANTE LEFT
the Guild building with few new certainties. Or perhaps none at all. At least now he knew that Frederick’s mysterious castle was somehow connected to the events that were troubling him. As was that even stranger construction that had gone up in flames. He looked up at the sky, studying the sun, which was now about to set. Soon the bell would
ring
out for the curfew. The time had come to put pressure on Cecco.

He headed briskly towards the abbey, once again entering the church through the small side-door, then climbed silently to the upper floor of the sacristy.

Along the way he had not seen a trace of his friend. For a moment he was worried that Cecco might have fled with the Virgin, but then he heard a faint, harmonious sound coming from the end of the corridor. A rhythmic melody, perhaps a dance tune, or a march to accompany a troop of soldiers into battle, but played with a delicate, gentle touch.

Dante stopped on the threshold to admire the woman sitting cross-legged on a cushion, playing a lute. Bent over the instrument, Amara tenderly caressed the strings with her slender fingers. She seemed to be inhaling the vibrations, plunged in the miraculous ecstasy of sounds perhaps inaudible to him. The candle-light played with the whiteness of her hair, turning it into a silvery cascade. Dante’s eyes lingered greedily on her perfect face as he felt his heart thumping in his chest.

Suddenly she looked up and saw him. She immediately leaped to her feet, as if afraid. The abandoned instrument rolled to the ground, emitting a muffled lament.

Dante tried to reassure her with a gesture. ‘I was looking for Cecco. Do you understand what I am saying?’

Amara nodded. Perhaps she too had felt the heat of the
passion
that had been aroused within him, and wanted to escape it? But rather than leaving, as she reached the door she stopped and beckoned Dante to her, indicating a small table in the corner. She looked round anxiously, as if searching for something. Several times she brought a hand to her lips. She seemed to be trying to speak, and kept pointing at the same spot.

The poet came over. On the little table there was a thin sheet of stone, and on it a series of perpendicular lines was carved in the shape of a chessboard. The pieces of the game – tiny ivory and ebony figures – lay in a heap, like the victims of a battle unleashed by the gods.

Amara picked up the black king and set it down in the centre of the chessboard, staring at Dante as though to make sure he was paying attention to her movements. She pointed at the little figure, which bore on its head the sharp points of a crown. At the same time she moved her lips as if trying to pronounce a name.

‘A king?’ Dante asked. Amara shook her head, then repeatedly touched the chessman’s crown. ‘The crown. Symbol of power? The empire?’ he guessed. The woman seemed still to be waiting for something, as she went on stroking the little crown. ‘The Emperor. Frederick?’

The mute woman nodded energetically, her eyes flashing with satisfaction. She picked up the black queen and set it down next to the figure of the king, then put beside them the knights and the castles. Then, with her fingers,
she
outlined a quick circle round the little group of pieces, as though including them all within a unified whole.

‘Frederick’s court?’ the poet murmured.

Again she nodded. Her little presentation seemed to be over. Dante looked several times from her face to the pieces on the chessboard, in search of a possible meaning. But Amara remained motionless, calmly contemplating her work. Then she stretched her hand out again and picked up another piece from the edge of the table, putting it next to the king, but one square behind him. It was the white queen.

‘Another woman?’

A further nod of agreement, and immediately Amara picked up another piece, setting a white pawn next to the queen.

‘A son,’ Dante muttered. ‘By another woman.’

Again the woman stopped, and froze absently once more. And yet those suspended moments clearly had meaning. By standing still, it seemed, she was trying to represent the passing of time.

Then Amara stirred, and looked once more for something among the piled-up pieces. Her hand returned to the chessboard, setting down a white piece, just behind the black king. She repeatedly pointed the piece out to Dante and then, gripping it, violently knocked over the king, which rolled several times and landed on the floor.

Such was the impact that the figure had broken at the
neck
. Instinctively, Dante bent down to pick up the two small parts. Someone, striking him from behind, had cast the king to the ground. He held up the fragments in front of Amara’s eyes, as if asking for confirmation of what he had seen. ‘Someone murdered Frederick? A member of his court?’

Once again the woman nodded.

The prior shook his head. Immediately after the Emperor’s death there had been talk that he had been murdered. Too many people had wanted him dead, and it was natural that such a rumour should have circulated. And yet Amara seemed certain of what she had acted out. Perhaps she had heard something different from the usual gossip among the conspirators. He stared once again at the little scene on the chessboard. Amara had used a white piece to interpret the role of the murderer, and the queen. Perhaps white symbolised someone outside the court, someone who had infiltrated it by concealing his true nature.

Then he felt his wrist being gripped. Once again the woman was trying to draw his attention to the chessboard. She pointed to the little pawn, still hidden behind the white queen. She picked it up and delicately set it down in the far corner. Then she looked for two more black pieces, bishops this time, and lined them up next to the pawn, as if to protect it.

‘The son escaped? Hidden among … clerics?’ he asked.
At
first the woman shook her head and then, as if she had suddenly changed her mind, she began nodding vigorously. ‘And what happened to the little one?’ Dante asked.

Amara looked bewildered. She twisted her hands, furious at her inability to find a way of expressing what she wanted to say. Her eyes fell on the little crown that he still held in his hand, and her face brightened. She snatched it from him and set it on the head of the pawn with a triumphant smile.

‘The son … is going to be crowned?’

The woman nodded. Then, with her hand outstretched, she drew a circle all around them.

‘Here? He’s going to be crowned here in Florence?’

At that moment muffled footsteps attracted the prior’s attention. He turned round to see Cecco in the doorway.

Recognising him, Amara had suddenly straightened and withdrawn to the middle of the room, as if troubled by his arrival.

‘Cecco,’ Dante said, ‘I came here to tell you something.’ The other man stopped. ‘I saw Brandano today, on the bank of the Arno. Dead.’

Cecco brought a hand to his mouth, his face turning pale. For a moment he glanced towards Amara, then turned back towards the poet. ‘Are you sure?’

‘As sure as I’m standing here now.’

Cecco leaned against a wall, clearly frightened. ‘How did he die?’

The prior waited for a moment before replying. ‘Drowned, perhaps. Although other marks on the corpse made me think something worse. As does the expression on your face. So at long last, tell me everything.’

‘I’ve told you everything already.’

‘I also want to know what you haven’t confessed to me. And you have to talk, at least in the hope of your own salvation, if not for the sake of our old friendship.

‘If Brandano has been killed, then the hand of Boniface must be behind all this. His avarice.’

‘But why? If the priests really have discovered what you’re up to, and if your undertaking was merely a way of getting a few florins out of the yokels, as you said, why would the Pope get involved with a bundle of rogues and set about eliminating them in secret? By now you’d already be in the hands of the Inquisition, you’d be in the pillory in the public square as a warning to the people, and for the greater glory of God. And Boniface.’

‘That would be the case if the pontiff really was the righteous vicar of God as he says he is, rather than a money-grubbing sectarian.’ Cecco had lowered his head for a moment, before looking up again to stare at the poet. ‘There’s one thing I haven’t told you, my friend. The plan of the Fedeli went far beyond anything that you have seen.’

‘Go on.’

‘The illusion of the Virgin is merely one stop on a
longer
journey, leading to a greater treasure. If Boniface’s men have discovered it already, all is lost.’

‘What treasure are you talking about?’

‘Frederick always took the coffers of the State treasury with him wherever he installed his court. And after the condemnation of his secretary Pietro della Vigna, he became convinced that he was surrounded by treachery and guarded them all the more jealously. But transporting the chests became more and more laborious. After the Emperor’s defeat at Parma, when his camp was sacked and it was only by a miracle that the treasure had escaped the assailants, it seems that he decided to hide it.’

‘And you know where that place is?’ the poet asked in an undertone, instinctively drawing closer to his friend.

‘The Fedeli are said to know. Why do you think I got myself mixed up in this lunatic enterprise? Did you think I’d gone soft in the head, as my girlfriend, that whore Bacchina, seems to think? Evidently the secret of its hiding place has somehow reached France, among the Fedeli of Toulouse, but they also say that it is very difficult and laborious to recover. That’s why that business with the crusade was organised: to summon the means and men required for the undertaking.’

‘And you know the secret of the hiding place?’

Agonised, Cecco shook his head. ‘Someone here in Florence was supposed to contact us and guide us, once the undertaking was complete. The Angel Inn was the
meeting
place. Only Brandano knew the man’s identity. Perhaps contact was made, but with the death of the monk the thread is broken. Now what are we supposed to do?’ he concluded, twisting his hands.

‘Sit firm and stay hidden for the time being. The death of Brandano could also have been an accident – he might have underestimated the speed of the Arno. If he died at the hands of Boniface, the Pope’s claws would have reached us already. Perhaps the stranger you were waiting for will show himself.’

Cecco nodded. He seemed to clutch with all his strength at that thin thread of hope. ‘But I have heard something about the treasure. Frederick was said to keep it locked in an octagonal building.’

Dante sat down beside the chessboard and thought. If Frederick’s much-vaunted treasure was the object of a secret dispute, that would easily have been enough to justify the chain of murders. Locked in an octagonal building. Could the sovereign have kept it hidden in his palace at Castel del Monte? If so, the purpose of the fake crusade became obvious: to assemble a crowd of idiots and drag them along the roads of Puglia, telling them they were going to set off for the Holy Land. And then, having reached the Capitanata, take advantage of the confusion to recover the treasure and hide it among the wagons of the column.

But why rebuild that mysterious castle in Florence? Perhaps to study its secret dimensions, to discover the fake
walls
behind which the gold was concealed? And if that same Bigarelli had built the original, what need could there be to make a copy?

And why transport all those mirrors, when only two were required for the illusion?

And what about the mysterious machine? And the murdered men?

And then, did Frederick really have an heir, or was it the Emperor himself, still alive, preparing to reappear in all his glory?

H
E FELT
his head getting heavy, and weariness took hold of him, flickering like the candle-smoke thickening in the air. He slowly slid on to the carpet, propping himself up on his elbows by the chessboard, and closed his eyes in search of rest.

As he slept he must have slipped off the carpet. The cold from the floor had penetrated his bones, and an intense pain was taking hold of his itchy, paralysed limbs. He suddenly felt as if someone had begun to move the mirrors into new positions, in the middle of the room. A horrible geometry of simulated reflections, as terrible as if an unexpected cosmos had taken shape in the space of the room. Behind the glass surfaces he sensed flaming demons, their snake-like tails vibrating like tentacles that slithered along the floor, twining around the candelabras.

He felt himself being pulled upright, even though he still had the languidness of sleep, and he moved a few paces, trying to get away, reaching the corner where he remembered the door of that infernal abbey to have been. But a great roar behind one of the mirrors held him back, petrifying him with fear. At the centre of the octagon a patch of shadow indicated that a great chasm had opened up. A rumbling noise seemed to be emerging from down below, as if massive pillars had begun to crumble, dragging a screaming crowd to their doom. He turned to face the door. From the darkness of that whirlpool a shapeless mass was emerging, and was getting closer all the time. Something terrible was climbing out and his dulled senses could only mark the wait with a continuous and invincible shiver.

Frozen, he stared straight ahead: bigger than a tower, the bearded, two-headed giant from the ship of death had emerged from the crater. And in each of his mouths he chewed with Leviathan fangs the body of a man, violently shaking his head and scattering blood and scraps of flesh all around.

The poet noticed with horror that the two bodies were still alive, writhing in agony, emitting heart-rending cries. Two men crowned with gold, two kings. A father and a son.

7

Dawn of 12th August, at the inn

B
ERNARDO THE
historian set down the papers he was consulting. He rose with a gloomy expression, as if his mind were still absorbed in the thoughts that preoccupied him. He was struck by a fit of coughing that took away the last of his strength. He dropped reflectively back on to his bed. ‘Give me water,’ he murmured, pointing to a jug on the table. He was drenched in sweat, his cheeks aflame with fever. But before Dante could fill his tin cup, the man grabbed it from his hand, drinking it back in one gulp. He only put it down after he had emptied it. He was shaking violently.