The Kingdom of Light (32 page)

So he would gain time to allow Cecco and Amara to get to safety.

He ran along the road leading to the church, guided by a buzz of conversation that was growing more and more intense.

At a bottleneck in the street he had to stop, his way blocked by an old woman with a bundle of wood on her bent back, hobbling slowly in the same direction. He tried to slip between her burden and the wall to get past her, but without success. After his second failed attempt he panted, exasperated, ‘Let me pass, old woman! To hell with your wood!’

Instead of stepping aside, the woman turned round to look him in the face. ‘Why do you insult me, Prior? I’m helping the good people of Florence. There’s going to be a pyre of heretics, down by the Cavalcanti Tower. It’s my seasoned wood, good for making white smoke!’

‘Who do you want to burn, you witch? Think of your soul instead!’

‘Why don’t you think of yours!’ she retorted, showing no wish to move. ‘Or are you running to their aid?’ she added, a flash of malice lighting up her cataract-clouded eyes.

Dante furiously pushed the bundle aside. The woman fell on her backside with a flurry of curses. ‘Damn you to
hell!’
she cried as he began running once more.

He had run almost two hundred yards when he was forced to fall on his knees and gasp for breath. In front of him, at the end of the alleyway, he saw a whirl of torches outside the door of the church. Vespers had been rung shortly before, and it was still light enough to see. Those flames had a more sinister purpose, he thought as he began running again.

The road outside the portal of the abbey had been filled by a crowd of armed men. It looked as if a sample of the whole of Christendom had assembled in the churchyard, ready to set off on the crusade. Looking quickly around, Dante recognised the livery of the French pikemen of Acquasparta’s guard, and of the Genoese crossbowmen, as well as the
bargellini
and the district guard. The heavy armour of some Teutonic mercenaries also peeped out here and there, along with the rough garments of peasants armed with pitchforks.

Blood-soaked bodies lay on the cobbles. As he ran, he passed one of them, gaunt and in the grip of death. He was lying open-mouthed, his face in the road.

Suppressing a groan, Dante leaned over him. Bernardo the historian had been struck in the back, and there were two bloody gashes just below the base of his throat. Dante quickly made the sign of the cross, before closing Bernardo’s eyes. So he too was part of the conspiracy, even if his time was running out.

Or had Bernardo become involved in the clash by accident? Heedless of the risks, Dante headed on towards the open portal. Spotting him, some of the men had dashed towards him, swords drawn. Over their chain-mail they wore tunics in various colours, different from those of the other soldiers. Dante dodged the first of them, who wore a leopard’s head on his chest. Then, bending down, he managed to escape the grip of a giant with a lion’s head embroidered on his jacket. He was about to pass through the portal when he bumped into the chest of a third armed man who had emerged from the shadows. Dante slipped to the floor, just in time to see with terror that the man had bared his sword and was preparing to strike him. He just noticed the wolf’s head that he wore on his helmet, before instinctively shutting his eyes.

He was saved by a familiar voice. ‘Messer Durante, have you come to see justice at work?’ croaked the Bargello in an ironic voice, restraining the guard’s arm. ‘It does you an honour: true to your duty until the final hour. But you could have saved your strength. The Council has already elected your successor.’

Dante had regained control of himself, even if his heart was still pounding with emotion. He got rapidly to his feet and brushed the dust from his clothes. ‘My mandate ends at midnight. Like my authority. Tell me what’s happening, straight away. Why are these forces being deployed without an order from me?’ he asked, pointing
at
the crossbowmen who were furiously operating the cranks of their weapons, which rested on forks held by their fellow-soldiers.

‘A plot to endanger the security of Florence has been discovered … Prior. Under the appearance of proclaiming a crusade, the Ghibelline leaders have assembled men-at-arms, certainly to overturn the Commune and the laws of the people. The leader seems to have been that man Brandano, a false monk and a heretic. And as for the Virgin …’

‘Who gave the order to intervene?’ Dante interrupted angrily. ‘The secular arm is subject to the authority of the priory. No one can usurp its rights!’

‘No one has usurped them,’ the Bargello replied, rising to his full, small height. ‘It was your colleagues who gave me the order to act, after granting an audience to the Holy Inquisition, at the palace. That’s why the Pope’s men are here as well …’

Dante lowered his head in anger. Now that his mandate was about to expire, the crows were ruffling their feathers. He should have been more cautious. And from midnight onwards it would be vital to arouse no suspicions.

At that moment the crossbowmen, having completed their laborious loading operations, had begun to launch their projectiles at the gaps between the crenellations and the little loopholes that opened in the tower. It was impossible to tell who or what they were firing at, apart from
a
few shadows that could be glimpsed up above. Nor did there seem to be anyone coordinating the firing; everyone seemed to be shooting on a whim. Laughter and salacious comments made the atmosphere even more unreal, as if what was going on were a macabre game rather than a deadly attack.

The first salvo, fired off pretty much at random, had missed its target. Many arrows had flown over the tower and disappeared, while others had struck the wall, scattering fragments of brick and dust. Shouting with excitement, the men began to reload their crossbows.

Those Genovese don’t seem to live up to their fame, Dante thought. And the Commune had bled itself dry to acquire their services, the lazy bastards. At that moment a sudden uproar broke the silence. Something shattered at the very top of the tower. A cloud of dust swelled up and then slowly began to fall. Then, accompanied by a series of loud crashes, a small section of the crenellations leaned dangerously outwards, before collapsing on the heads of the besieging forces with a rumbling roar.

Dante was still busy assessing the effects of the firing from the crossbowmen. He instinctively gripped the Bargello by one shoulder, pulling him beneath the canopy that covered a shop doorway. They fell over one after the other, as the great collapse crashed in front of them and a hail of detritus thundered down on the wooden floor.

In the narrow square not all of the besieging forces had
managed
to find shelter. Shouts and laments emerged from the cloud of dust and rubble, confirming that more than one had been hit.

The poet struggled painfully to his feet. ‘Damned heretics, we’ll kill you all,’ the purple-faced Bargello brayed beside him. He sat there legs akimbo, panting with rage and fear. An adversary hitherto obscure and impalpable had suddenly emerged from the shadows, revealing himself to be a dangerous flesh-and-blood enemy.

‘You thought they were going to infiltrate your guards, like the Turks in the carnival procession?’ mocked the prior.

The other man coughed violently, trying to rid his throat of dust. They found themselves at the centre of a bedlam of fleeing men, blinded by the dust and seized by terror that the collapse might be repeated. Meanwhile those men who remained unscathed tried to reorganise themselves, dragging the wounded to shelter. A company of archers had retreated to the mouth of the three lanes that led into the piazza, and from there had resumed firing at the tower. Fiery arrows rained down on the stones and exploded in a shower of sparks.

Some projectiles had entered the narrow loopholes, others had become stuck in the roof-trusses. The strips of resinous cloth wrapped round the tips smoked in the air. A cry of pain, followed by the shadow of a body falling far below, indicated that at least one of the arrows had reached its target, amidst the jubilant cries of the bowmen.
Here
and there on the roof the poet saw red dots flaring where the arrows had struck and pierced the wooden covering.

Meanwhile he reflected anxiously upon what he had to do. Through the wide-open door of the church he glimpsed the blurred silhouettes of other men moving around. He impulsively threw himself forward, emerging into the abbey cloister through the unhinged door.

Spurred on by his own impetuosity, he gripped the door-post and looked all around. Having recovered from the confusion that followed the collapse of the building, the others were running, too. The place was swarming with armed soldiers scattered around the open space of the portico, wielding their swords to finish off the wounded men and women who fell to the ground amidst wails and cries of terror.

All was lost, for Cecco and the others. How could he stop the coming massacre? His own authority would expire in just a few hours. Seized by impotent grief Dante wrung his wrists beneath the sleeves of his robe.

But he could not yield to despair, he decided. He moved cautiously on, taking shelter behind a small pillar. All around him the ground was covered with shattered corpses. Someone, still in his death-throes, was groaning softly, trying to creep towards an unreachable shelter. None of the bodies on the floor wore any of the liveries that he had seen outside. The attackers must have overcome their
victims
without too much difficulty: the dead weren’t wearing armour, and there was no sign of any weapons on the ground, suggesting that God’s army had not had time to grab the swords hidden in the crypt.

Trails of blood marked the route of the assailants, who now raged on the stairs of the tower. From inside, at the height of the first landing, more groans could be heard, and pleas for mercy. Dante withdrew still further into the shadows, uncertain what to do. Whatever idea he might have had as he entered that slaughterhouse, it was too late now. Everything was lost, and for ever. He was about to make his way back out again when he heard a quiet voice from the darkness behind him.

It sounded like someone mumbling prayers, a confused and incomprehensible murmur in which the prior could make out only the word ‘damned’ obsessively repeated in the midst of other imprecations. He cautiously approached the source of the voice. It was a man crouching behind one of the pillars, who seemed to be pleading with the wall of the portico. When Dante came up behind him, he saw the man suddenly rising to his feet and turning towards him, as a purple flash split the dense darkness.

Dante felt a hand covering his mouth. He instinctively raised his arm, diverting the dagger-blow. He became aware of the sweetish taste of blood behind his lips. Then with a desperate jerk he escaped from the man’s grip, hurling himself forward in a bid to strike a blow of his own. The
movement
had impelled him into the open, dragging his adversary with him. The light coming from the flaming roof suddenly lit up their faces. Before him, his face distorted with anguish and his face covered with blood, stood Cecco Angiolieri.

Still trembling with excitement, Dante leaned against one of the pillars. He lowered the weapon, staring at the man in disbelief. His friend was wearing a plumed helmet worthy of a Roman emperor, and thick leather armour. But underneath it he saw the puff of the jerkin and the usual purple stockings. Half god of war, half satyr. A joker as usual.

Cecco seemed pleased to see him. Still quivering, he hugged Dante, covering his cheeks with kisses like a delighted dog. ‘My friend, I knew we’d make it! The Fedeli always help each other.’ Then all of a sudden he turned suspicious, casting the poet an inquisitorial glance. ‘Were you the one who gave the order to attack us?’ he added.

Dante felt it was more of an aggrieved reproach than a question. ‘I should have done it when I saw the head of the snake that is currently unwinding all its coils. But now you must flee, you must all flee! Where is Amara?’

‘I … I don’t know,’ Cecco stammered, adjusting his breeches. ‘We split up after the troops broke in. I saw her escaping towards the tower …’

The cries and mayhem continued above their heads. Cecco looked up for a moment, before staring at Dante
again
with a despondent expression. ‘The slaughter and great havoc,’ he muttered pompously, moving his blade in a circle like a bad actor on a stage.

The whole upper part of the tower was in flames, like a gigantic torch in the night. The heat had even begun to char the soft tufa from which the building was constructed, and which was now being carried away in an infernal cloud of sparks. If anyone had taken refuge up there, by now they were scattered ashes.

Something stirred on the first floor, where a loophole opened up on to a small stonework landing. Two men had appeared there, attracting the attention of the other men further below.

One gripped a human figure by the hair. ‘Look who I’ve found!’ he cried mockingly. With a violent jerk he pushed the body beyond the overhang and left it dangling in the void. ‘The Virgin of Antioch … all of her, ready for a second miracle!’

The woman uttered a moan of terror, her bare feet kicking in the void as her hands waved desperately around in the air in search of purchase. The other man stepped over and stripped her clothes off her with a broad grin, revealing her true nature.

‘But she’s a monster!’ he cried with horror. With both hands he brandished the sword he carried at his hip, raising it above his head and bringing it down with all his might.

The blade struck Amara in the loins, penetrating her
delicate
flesh and shattering her backbone. A rain of blood and innards plunged down below. From her open lips there came only a sigh, followed by a soft bleat like that of a slaughtered lamb, as her chest was drenched in blood. Her arms jerked around in one final spasm, as if in a desperate bid to fly away from her pain. She was still alive, the fallen angel in the hands of the dwellers in Sodom. The man who was holding her shook her violently, sniggering, and then let go. The mass of hair slipped through his fingers like a bundle of dead snakes, then fanned out as the body plunged far below.