The Kingdom of Light (36 page)

Still the old man did not reply. He merely looked up as though seeking in the darkness the stars that the poet had mentioned. ‘Its form is perfect,’ he murmured, nodding towards the drum of the dome that loomed above him. ‘A pointless perfection, as always when the acts of men seek to ape nature,’ he added.

Dante had caught up with him now. With a nod of his head he ordered the two monks to stop. The cart came to a halt by the sarcophagus.

The astrologer lifted a corner of the cloth and looked carefully inside. His eye stopped first on the severe face of Arrigo, then on the chest at his feet. He turned to the poet. ‘So it was in your hands. I should have known,’ he said, pointing at the bag containing the machine. ‘I was sure I had destroyed it.’

‘Alberto the
mechanicus
put it back together … before you dispatched him to the afterlife.’

Guido Bonatti nodded. ‘He was good at his job. I saw what he did, in his workshop. As good as the devils who made this,’ he said, pointing once more to the machine.

‘Like that man from the East, the one you murdered after being welcomed on to the galley. Was it in Malta that you boarded it? Or had you mingled amongst the passengers since the vessel’s departure, far beyond the sea?’

‘I was in Sidon when word reached me that the vile plan was once more under way. I persuaded those men that I could be useful.’

‘You carried out a massacre just to kill one man.’

‘His mind had to be obliterated. And his memory. Nothing else mattered.’

‘Not even the lives of all those innocent men that you wiped out with your terrible poison, the same one that you used to kill the father and the son?’

‘No one is innocent,’ Bonatti said with a disdainful shrug. ‘Arrigo wasn’t Frederick’s son. Only in his insane pride had he been able to imagine such a thing.’

‘Arrigo wasn’t the Emperor’s son by blood, but he was a worthy son of his intellect, and for that reason alone he would have deserved to live and rule. For his devotion to Frederick’s mind. A devotion that you exploited by flattering him, making him believe that his imperial destiny was confirmed in the stars. That was why you showed him your treatise on divination. And then you made him toast his enterprise with the marvellous goblet that had belonged to his father. The one that killed him, in the same way as it had killed Frederick.’

‘My treatise … a life’s work,’ Bonatti said, his voice thick with sadness. ‘Lost.’ But then he shrugged, and returned to his mocking tone. ‘And why did I do it? I loved my Emperor. Can you tell me, Alighieri?’

‘Yes. I know now. I know everything now,’ the poet exclaimed triumphantly. ‘Because Frederick was launching an enterprise that would have destroyed all your certainty.’

‘And is that why you’re here?’ Bonatti asked. ‘With him,’
he
added, pointing at Arrigo’s body without looking at it.

‘Yes. He too has the right to see what I will see.’

The old man shrank at these words, as if struck by a sudden gust of wind. ‘And what do you think you will see?’ he asked angrily after a moment.

‘Frederick’s dream. The Kingdom of Light. He summoned the best minds of his court to prepare the enterprise. Elias of Cortona to use his alchemy to create a light that would match the light on the day of Creation. Michael Scotus to study how it might be done, and Leonardo Fibonacci to measure the result with his calculations. And Tinca the
maestro
, with his admirable glass. And from the East al-Jazari with his machines, and Guido Bigarelli, to erect the testing ground. To discover how far light travelled during the six days of Creation. He wanted to know the width of the universe, to measure the realm of God.’

Bonatti nodded slowly. ‘Frederick was a mad blasphemer. A champion of the impossible. If light had a motion, it would continue for ever, heading towards a horrendous, infinite void. All certainty, all stability of the creation would collapse. All this had to be stopped. It was written in the stars that I was the one to do it.’

‘You are the madman. The measurement of the created universe would have been the supreme work of human genius, a song of praise to God.’

The astrologer had leaped to his feet with unexpected
agility
, moving towards him. Dante took a step back. But Bonatti did not seem to want to attack him. He was staring at something behind him. The poet instinctively turned round: the double wound on the bodies of the murdered men returned to his mind and he feared that the second murderous hand was hidden behind him.

But there was no one there. Bonatti was lost in contemplation of a group of stars low on the horizon. ‘Scorpio is rising … So it was written, so it will happen,’ he murmured, closing his eyes, his voice suddenly distant. ‘All the wickedness of the Moors and their necromancy can do nothing against the admirable architecture of Creation, motionless light and its stable confines.’

‘It was not the Moors who sought the truth, but the best minds of our century, of our race, of our faith, of our tongue! And many of them have been extinguished by you!’ Dante replied angrily. ‘It was not your certainty, but your power that led you to kill.’

The old man clenched his fists in front of him, as his mouth struggled to reply.

‘How old are you, Messer Bonatti?’ the prior pressed him. ‘Haven’t you lived through most of this century? And after so many years, in which you have seen and known everything, you wanted to deprive yourself of the greatest experiment of all? I challenge you to this test: in the Baptistery, with its perfect geometry. That which was not possible in Puglia will happen here,’ he continued
resolutely
, pointing his hand towards the marble mass behind them.

‘Like Saint Thomas you want to seek the truth in blood,’ the astrologer replied. ‘That blood will extinguish the infernal fire of your pride, it will temper your arrogance. I do not fear your challenge. So enter the temple, if you dare to profane it with your confused science.’

‘By the northern door. In the Baptistery they are finishing off the big mosaic in the dome, and it is left open to allow the workmen in and out.’

Behind them the two monks had been watching in silence, their puzzled expressions hidden by the hoods over their faces. The group slipped along the side of the Baptistery, passing into the narrow alley that separated it from the nearest buildings, which leaned against its perfect form like ragged beggars.

‘Push the cart in and then leave us. I will deal with the transport of the corpse,’ the poet commanded. ‘Return to the battleground and bury the remains of the Virgin of Antioch, beyond San Lorenzo.’ His voice was tinged with grief. ‘And respect them, because her end was more atrocious than her guilt. As for what you have seen, forget it all.’

Bonatti had remained apart. As soon as they were alone, his hand trembling with excitement, he lifted aside the heavy length of felt that protected one of the slabs, then brushed the icy surface with his fingers, like a blind man
using
the sense of touch to seek confirmation of his imaginings.

By the faint moonlight that entered through the windows, Dante found a candelabra and with a few strokes of his tinder-box lit the candle stumps. Then he turned towards Guido Bonatti, who had sat down on the edge of the baptismal font. He looked exhausted, covered with sweat, as if his great age had suddenly revealed itself. He struggled to breathe the thick, heavy air, staring at Arrigo’s lifeless eyes.

The poet pulled Bigarelli’s diagram from his bag. But the astrologer, having sprung back into life with unexpected force, had already begun striding across the Baptistery floor, as if that same diagram had been imprinted on his mind in symbols of fire.

‘A thousand times I have read that diabolical plan, a thousand days I have woken with its image before my eyes, a thousand nights I have descended into the darkness bringing it with me. You don’t need that filthy scrap of paper. Put the first mirror there!’

In a corner Arrigo’s body, wrapped in its shroud, seemed to be watching their movements. The edge of the cloth had slipped down, revealing his face. It was only right that he should be there, Dante thought. Less than two hours had passed since his death, and his soul was still wandering on the borders of the realm of shadows. He could still see.

One by one the eight slabs were placed against each of
the
walls. Bonatti followed the perimeter of the construction, outlining the angles from memory as if marking on the stone the trace of one last, extraordinary horoscope. Dante followed him, checking with a candle that each mirror caught the image of its companion on the right and reflected it precisely to the one on the left in a circle of repeated images.

‘Do you really think there’s any point to all this?’ the astrologer said, arms pressed to his chest as he waited for the last slab to be put in place.

‘Yes. I’m sure of it,’ the poet replied, checking in the candle-light the point where Elias’ lamp was to be placed, facing towards the first mirror.

He cast one last glance at Arrigo. His hands trembled with excitement as he opened the little door of the lamp. Then, with a more resolute gesture, he brought the vivid flame to the little bottle.

The white powder caught fire with an incandescent flash. Concentrated by the brass shield, the ray seemed to bounce against the glass surface. All around them a phantasmagoria of light lit up along the walls of the Baptistery like a crown of flames. The splendour of Elias’ light set the dust aflame, transformed by the rays into a galaxy of stars. Vague in the shadows above them still hung the face of Christ the Lord surrounded by the angelic hosts, mute witnesses to the events below.

‘There they are!’ cried Dante to his adversary, showing
the
strips of light reflected from one glass surface to another. ‘There are the rays of which al-Kindi speaks. The light has run from one mirror to the next!’

‘You are wrong! The circle of flashes all around us appeared in unison, and not by degrees. It proves not motion, but the sempiternal motionlessness of light. Omnipresent and constant as its creator.’

The prior shook his head violently and freed the spring of the machine. The toothed axle began to rotate, slowly at first, then faster and faster. He brought his eye to the slit in the side opposite the one holding the lamp. The halo of light shone all around, but the thickest darkness lay within the opening.

Bonatti too had drawn close to the observation point, and stepped back with a mocking expression. ‘Behold the darkness that punishes your ignorance, Messer Alighieri!’ he spat disdainfully. ‘I have been familiar with the nature of this devilry since Michael Scotus demonstrated its working. If the light passed through the teeth of the two opposing wheels, that would be proof of its motion. But it was merely the illusion of his hazy mind. None of this will happen.’

Dante bit his lips uncertainly. The growing roar of the gear-wheels filled the air as the thrust of the spring increased the speed of the rotation. The fins of the regulator were rising and the braking action had begun. Soon the axle would reach its anticipated speed and stabilise.

Meanwhile he went on looking through the slit, but couldn’t see anything. He ran his hand over his sweat-pearled brow, as the bitter sensation of defeat began to weigh upon him, heavy as a boulder. Then all of a sudden a flash, followed by a flood of dazzling light, spread from the slit and exploded in his face. He instinctively raised an arm, shielding himself from the glare that seared his retina.

As he tried to react to his momentary blindness he heard a muffled groan from beside him. He had a vague glimpse of Bonatti staring in alarm at his face, illuminated by the flash.

‘The light of God!’ Dante cried, still shielding himself from the glare. ‘It moves … as everything moves!’

The shape of the heavens, that sought-after realm of the just that had always eluded his words, was there in front of him right now, full of the splendour of creation. In his still-dazzled eyes the octagon drawn by the flashing lights seemed to dance in supernatural motion.

‘Frederick was right!’ he cried.

The astrologer shook his head firmly, several times. He had closed his eyes tight as though trying to keep from seeing anything. ‘You think you are victorious?’ he said after a long silence, broken only by the frantic roar of the spinning mechanism.

‘Yes! And here, in San Giovanni, here is my crown!’ Dante replied, still staring drunkenly at the flashing light.
The
image of the glory of the heavens, that image that he had sought for so long, was there now, in front of him, the Comedy was finally about to find its epilogue. ‘This was written by God in the nature of the boundless splendour, this my words will represent upon parchment, this men will read for their ultimate edification!’

Guido Bonatti looked petrified. ‘It isn’t … it isn’t possible!’ he stammered, moving towards the poet. He groped with his hands in the void, as if trying to grasp the rays of light to stop them. The poet stepped aside to let him look through the slot.

The astrologer shook his head for a moment as he began to bend towards the eyepiece. Then with a jerk he stepped back, crying out and covering his face with his hands, as if a living flame had escaped from the machine. An expression of despair replaced the sneer that he had worn a few moments before.

‘What have you to say about this sign, Messer Bonatti!’ the prior scoffed. ‘In what fallacious horoscope will its form now feature?’

The old man’s long hair, caught in one of the circular rays, looked as if it was on fire. Slowly he slipped on one of his gloves.

‘This is a work of magic. It isn’t true … it isn’t …’ he stammered. His left hand, now revealed, gleamed in the light. A silver hand.

The ‘incomplete man’. The cursed man of Mainardino.

Dante saw him activating something on his wrist with his good hand. His index and little fingers suddenly extended, turning into a pair of sparkling tongues.

At the sight of them Dante stepped backwards. Bonatti raised the weapon until it crossed the ray of light. The steel flashed in the brilliant light. He looked like an angel with his sword of fire.