The Kingdom of Light (25 page)

Dante took advantage of this to address the philosopher. ‘I didn’t expect to find you teaching a lesson on the origins of Creation. I thought you were more interested in the form of our world.’

‘The form of the world, as you say, is only the consequence of the manner of its birth: just as each living creature in its adult state is nothing but the necessary development of its infantile form. I am interested in Genesis for the same reason,’ Arrigo replied evasively.

‘I hear the lesson of the great Aristotle behind your words,’ Dante replied, ‘and I bow to you. And yet those same Scriptures teach us that not all that has been created endures through time.’

Arrigo wiped his lips with the back of his hand. ‘So you too, Messer Durante, accept the thesis of those who assert that Creation was not completed on the first day, but that God attended to it even in the eras that followed, and with different intentions?’

‘That much is written in the Scriptures: God added things to the world. But you, Bernardo, what do you think?’ Dante insisted.

The historian shrugged. ‘I bow to your theology,’ he said drily, looking at Arrigo out of the corner of his eye. He seemed embarrassed. Dante had a sense that he was there to speak intimately to the philosopher, and that by coming he had spoiled Bernardo’s plans.

Arrigo must have noticed something, too. He smiled reassuringly, laying a hand on the historian’s shoulder. ‘Come on, Bernardo, the prior knows this kind of thing better than anybody. He was once my pupil, but nowadays his learning is far superior to mine. Don’t be shy, if you have any doubts that I might resolve.’

Bernardo bit his lips, glancing from one man to the other. At last he made up his mind. ‘You know about the work to which I dedicate my days. There is one point, in the last years of the Emperor’s life, about which you might
be
able to enlighten me better. Frederick’s relationship with Elias of Cortona.’

Arrigo closed his eyes for a moment, as if the sound of that name inflamed within him the pain of a wound that had not healed. But suddenly his expression became as serene as ever.

‘The Emperor sent him to the East, in the year of our Lord 1241,’ Bernardo continued. ‘Do you know why?’

‘A diplomatic mission. To resolve the dispute between Constantinople and Vatacio of Nicaea,’ Arrigo replied after a moment’s reflection. He seemed surprised by the question. Dante had a sense that for some reason he had been on the point of not replying.

‘That is what they say, and what the chronicles record. But I wonder if there wasn’t some other purpose for his mission?’

‘I was only a novice at the time. By the time I entered the convent, Elias had already returned from his journey.’

‘But didn’t you hear anything? A hint, a murmur?’ Bernardo pressed him.

‘Nothing when I was there. But, as I have said, I was only a novice, devoted to the humblest of tasks. My fellow-monks certainly didn’t let me into their secrets … if they had any.’

Bernardo bowed his head thoughtfully. He didn’t seem very convinced. He looked back up at Arrigo, and the philosopher firmly withstood his gaze. ‘So that’s how it is,’
he
stammered. ‘Perhaps it really is as you say,’ he continued in a louder voice. ‘Fine, it’s time for me to get back to my work.’ He walked away, vaguely nodding goodbye.

Dante and Arrigo watched after him until he disappeared.

‘The dispute between Constantinople and Vatacio of Nicaea?’ Dante repeated after a moment’s pause.

Arrigo smiled weakly. ‘Yes. Not so strange, Messer Alighieri. They were uneasy years, dominated by the demons of the manifold. Many kingdoms, many emperors, many gods.’

Dante pursed his lips. ‘God is one, Arrigo.’

The other man exploded with laughter. ‘Apparently nothing can shake your certainties.’

‘Certainly not that one. In fact I’m curious about the question you put to your pupils: whether light is something other than luminous bodies. How do you expect them to respond?’

Arrigo pushed aside with his foot a stone that was in his way. Then he pointed a finger towards the sky. The sun above their heads burned like a furnace. ‘Clearly they coincide, and Scripture is mistaken. When the sun sinks below the horizon, light and heat are extinguished. I am sure it is the sun’s flame that produces the beam of light, and there can be no light without combustion.’

‘Consider the nature of the heavenly bodies,’ the prior replied. ‘The moon, too, radiates a luminosity, and so
do
the stars, on clear nights. But no heat comes from them. A sure sign that light exists without combustion. And hence that light is an accident of nature that needs no flame, and could precede it in the order of Creation.’

‘That would be the case if the moon and stars gave off a light of their own. But they are merely inert mirrors. Their bright bodies do nothing but reflect the light of the sun, returning it to us from the great abyss of space.
Lucis imago repercussa
, images of light in a mirror.’

‘Non potest.’

‘Why?’

‘Because they appear when the sun sets below the horizon, sliding towards the antipodes. From where would they receive the light to reflect, when the mass of the earth is interposed between them and the sun?’

Arrigo couldn’t suppress a look of commiseration. ‘And yet, Messer Alighieri, there is a very simple solution. Think about it, and you will reach the same conclusions as me.’

Dante had blushed. Just then he could not find the rational explanation that the other man took for granted. He decided to change the subject. ‘Did you learn your subtlety at the school of Elias of Cortona?’ he tried to joke.

‘From him, and from others. But it was from Elias that I learned both the heat of research and the chill of reason.’

‘They say that the friar was a close friend of Emperor Frederick,’ Dante continued. Arrigo nodded in silence.
‘Even
helping him with his architectural works,’ the poet went on. ‘Apparently it was he who designed a very splendid and unusual castle. Castel del Monte, a work whose significance still remains incomprehensible even to experts in the art.’

‘Perhaps the art of building is not the one most likely to penetrate its meaning.’

‘Which art would be required, then? Or which science?’

‘An art that built its forms with learning as well as with stones.’

‘Alchemy? Is that what you’re thinking of? Is that Frederick’s treasure? The one that everyone is looking for?’

‘Frederick’s treasure …’ the philosopher murmured. ‘Yes, it is one of the Emperor’s treasures. But it can be reached only by passing through the door of reason. Think about it, Messer Alighieri. Find the answer to my question. And as for Brother Elias …’

‘Was he really such a great man as they say? A magician?’ the poet said encouragingly.

Arrigo stared at him for a long time without replying. Then he looked away. ‘Elias was truly great. Not in the dark sciences, however, but in the bright ones of knowledge. Come up to my cell: there’s something I want to show you. Besides, the good friars have served me wine from their vines. A goblet will rinse the dust from your throat, and perhaps the bitterness from your soul.’

Arrigo’s cell was decorated as plainly as the poet’s own.
But
unlike his, it was full of precious manuscripts. About fifty volumes were scattered around the place, lined up on an oak shelf, on the desk and piled up on the floor like little towers of wisdom.

As soon as he had passed through the door, Dante frantically rushed over to examine them. He quickly looked at a number of frontispieces, before suddenly setting down the last volume that he had picked up. Blushing, he turned towards his companion with a word of apology. Wasn’t snooping around a man’s library like snooping around his soul?

Arrigo had remained in the doorway, surprised at Dante’s excitement. ‘Don’t apologise. Fortune decreed that I should be given the chance to assemble this little collection of the words of the ancients; feel free to use it like a public drinking fountain.’

Dante bowed his head in a sign of silent gratitude, before returning to explore that sea of knowledge. ‘Some people would kill to own all this,’ he murmured, picking up an illuminated manuscript.

‘People always kill so that they may live. And for the wise man, words are the very essence of life.’

‘Your arguments seem to allow for a great deal of passion, Messer Arrigo.’

‘What if someone were to kill not because he was gripped by the passion of the senses, or by the evil of the soul, or by dulling of the brain, but because in some way he was
sure
of achieving a greater good, of clearing some obstacle from the path of virtue?’

‘No one is permitted to dispose of the life of one of his fellow men, except to defend life and goods against an act of aggression. Virtue is a collective good, and as such it must be defended. Only the people, through their magistrates, have the right to punish those who attack them.’

‘Not even if the first cause of that crime was love? You have paid a great deal of attention to that particular sickness in your writings. And great crimes have been committed for love.’

‘Crime cannot be included within the natural order of things,’ Dante firmly declared.

Arrigo went to a cabinet in the corner, opened the door and took out a bottle filled with amber liquid. Dante had been watching him distractedly, but his attention was suddenly drawn by an object placed on one of the shelves, which flashed brightly in a ray of light from the window.

The philosopher had noticed his reaction. An expression of satisfaction appeared on his face. ‘I knew that would interest you,’ he said, leaning towards the cabinet again, and beckoning the poet to do the same.

What lay on the shelf was a strange brass lamp, more than two feet tall and octagonal in shape. A little window opened in one side of it, protected by a thick piece of crystal.

The philosopher touched a finger to the metal surface,
as
if to run it along its pattern. ‘The final work of my teacher, Elias of Cortona,’ he said affectionately.

‘A lantern?’

Arrigo nodded. ‘But one of an extraordinary kind. Brother Elias said its light could cross the sea, even as far as the infidels of Palestine.’

On one side of the strange object there was a little door, held in position by a handle. Dante opened it and peered in. There was nothing inside but a small stove, screened at the back by a parabola, which must have served to concentrate the light towards the little window. He turned towards Arrigo with a disappointed expression.

‘It doesn’t seem much different from any other lantern,’ he remarked. ‘Apart perhaps from its size. But I’ve seen bigger ones on galley-ships.’

‘The wonder of it lies not in its appearance, but in the source of its light. This.’

He rummaged in the cabinet again and took out a sealed ampoule. Through the glass a whitish, sandy substance could be seen. Holding it carefully, Arrigo brought it in front of the poet’s face so that he could see it better.

‘In his last years Elias had immersed himself in the study of alchemy: this powder is his greatest discovery. But he wouldn’t tell me its composition, stressing only that it was extremely dangerous.’

‘And how does it work?’

‘You put the ampoule on the stove and heat it up. It takes only a few moments for it to ignite and give off an astonishing light, white and steady, like the illumination of the sun.’

Dante instinctively held out his hand to take the vial, but Arrigo immediately drew back his hand.

‘Be careful. Even the warmth of a hand is enough to bring this compound to life.’

‘But if it is as you say, why did Elias not reveal his secret to the Emperor? Such a device could have been used to great effect by his armies, to fight in the dark!’

Arrigo shook his head. ‘Elias was a man of peace. Besides, Elias had distilled only this amount of the preparation. Only this.’

‘What stopped him?’

Arrigo shook his head. Dante waited for him to go on, but the philosopher seemed lost in thought. He was staring into the distance, as if he had returned to the days of his youth and the dark figure of Elias were in front of his eyes. Dante saw him shaking his head in silence. ‘Nothing stopped him,’ he murmured.’ There is no need for a second sample.
Omnia in uno
.’

Suddenly he stirred as if his vision had vanished. He delicately put the lantern back into the cabinet, and closed the door.

‘Tell me about this wine. Don’t you think it’s the true nectar of the gods?’

Afternoon, at the priory

D
ANTE FOUND
a messenger waiting for him, wearing the livery of Cardinal d’Acquasparta. The man must have been there for some time, because as he spotted the poet he leaped to his feet with a look of relief.

‘His Eminence wishes you to receive this,’ he said in an official-sounding voice, handing him a piece of parchment folded in four, tied with a strip of cloth and closed with a seal.

Dante broke the seal and quickly read the message: the cardinal asked him to come as soon as possible to the headquarters of the papal legate, to discuss some confidential matters. ‘Why doesn’t he ask for an audience at the priory?’ he asked crisply, folding up the parchment again.

‘His Eminence thinks it’s more sensible like this, given the tensions in the city. A visit to the offices of the Commune would give things an official status that would be better avoided. And besides …’

‘Besides?’

‘The question concerns you, personally, Messer Alighieri.’

Dante thoughtfully bit his lower lip. The other man didn’t seem inclined to say anything else. For a moment he considered having him thrown in jail, and subjecting him to the same treatment as poor Fabio, to find out more. But he
doubted
that a fox like the cardinal would have revealed his plans to anyone. Perhaps it was better to take up the challenge and face the lion in his den.

T
HE CLERIC
walked him through the rooms of his residence, opening them up one after the other so that they formed a long corridor. On the threshold of the last door he stopped and stood aside.