The Kingdom of Light (6 page)

Still in silence, Dante nodded towards the other two, who were sitting on the other side of the table, in the corner, intent on a game of dice. One, wearing clothes that stretched tight as a drum-skin over his large belly, slowly shook the cup as though reluctant to tempt fate. The other man, with features as dark as his own outfit, and terrifyingly thin, distractedly observed his companion’s movements.

‘Rigo di Cola, the fat one,’ whispered the innkeeper. ‘Another wool merchant. He’s heading to Rome for the Jubilee as well. And the other man’s called Bernardo Rinuccio. He’s travelling with a lot of paper and ink. I think he’s writing something. He’s always with the friars, at Santa Croce, rummaging in their paperwork,’ he added with a grimace.

The man’s angular cheekbones seemed about to pierce the skin of his hollow face. A shiver ran down the poet’s spine.

The landlord seemed troubled as well. ‘He looks as if he’s already dead … doesn’t he?’

Dante nodded. Boniface was buying up works by artists to beautify Rome in time for the
Centesimus
, the grand Jubilee. His friend, the artist Giotto, was about to leave
too
. ‘And that one?’ he whispered, pointing his index finger towards a massive man who, in spite of the infernal heat, sat wrapped in a white woollen cape. His face, with a distinctive aquiline nose, was marked by a long scar that ran from one eyebrow to his cheek. A blow that had only failed by a miracle to kill him.

‘Jacques Monerre, a Frenchman,’ hissed the innkeeper.

‘A Frenchman? And what brings him to these parts?’

The innkeeper shrugged. ‘From Toulouse, he said. He’s come here from Venice. A
literatus
, like the old man at the end.’

‘Toulouse … but he’s come here from Venice,’ repeated the poet, pursing his lips. ‘And who’s the last one?’

He pointed to the one who had first attracted his attention, an old man with long grey hair parted in the centre that flowed down his thin shoulders. The man was tall and dressed in the sober, dark clothes worn by scholars. His face, illuminated by eyes that shone with youthful light, seemed marked by a network of deep wrinkles. It looked as if he was in the grip of intense cold. His hands were also protected by dark leather gloves.

‘Messer Marcello,’ replied the little man in a mixture of obsequiousness and diffidence. ‘A most learned man, apparently. From the North. He’s going to Rome to fulfil a vow. Or at least that’s what he’s told his companions. One of my serving-girls overheard him.’

Dante glanced once again at the group, then withdrew
to
avoid being seen. He didn’t want them to know they were being watched. ‘Close the door and make sure no one tries to get in. And if anyone does try, take note of it and tell me,’ he ordered the little man, before leaving the room again. Then he turned once more towards the Bargello. ‘Have the body taken away from here, to the hospital of Santa Maria. In secret, in so far as that’s possible in this city of gossips. And without giving any explanation of what’s happened.’

‘Explanation? We could do with some explanations ourselves,’ the chief of the guards replied sarcastically.

‘That’s true. We haven’t got a lead, but the wise man’s mind is happy to move through the torments of thought, where the mind of the vulgar man becomes lost and discouraged. And my mind … but all in good time.’

‘Do you want to question these men? Perhaps …’

Dante shook his head. ‘If the murderer is one of them, he will have had time to erase every trace by now. And questioning him along with the others would only give him certain advantages. He would jumble his words up with everyone else’s, like a wolf among a pack. Better to let him think we know more than we really do. That way we’ll make him anxious and give him a false sense of security. And between that Scylla and Charybdis I will stretch my net.’

He moved towards the stairs. On the steps he carefully straightened the folds of his habit and adjusted his biretta,
carefully
arranging the veil over his right shoulder. Then he started down, moving past the seated men, and made for the light beyond the door.

He had to shield his eyes with his hand before he became accustomed to the glare outside.

3

Morning of 8th August, at the priory

‘H
ERE IS
the information you requested about the guests at the inn,’ said the town clerk, showing Dante a sheet of paper. ‘It hasn’t been easy: I’ve asked all the chief guards at the city gates.’

‘Do you expect applause, Messer Duccio?’ snorted Dante, taking the sheet from his hands. On it there was a list of names, with a few words next to each. ‘Your labours don’t seem to have yielded much.’

‘Florence is a land of freedom. We don’t investigate travellers unless there’s a reason involving the security of the Commune,’ the other man replied, piqued.

The poet shrugged, then immersed himself in reading. The report added little to what the innkeeper had already revealed.

The only new clue was the record of the date when each of the men had entered the city walls. The pilgrims had arrived by different gates, from the four points of the compass. First Brunetto, the victim, on 2nd August. And
with
him Rigo di Cola, the wool merchant. The next day Bernardo Rinuccio, followed by the young Colonna and the cloth merchant Fabio dal Pozzo. Then the French knight and finally the old doctor, only two days before. As if they had arranged to meet, waiting for one last pilgrim. Instead, the last to arrive had been death, the most undesirable of guests.

Or perhaps death was already waiting for them there, its yellowish skull hidden behind one of their faces. And it was preparing to take control of their lives in that rundown tower, as it had already done on the ship of the dead.

T
HE SUN
was beginning to set, turning the façades of the houses red. Nearing Orsanmichele, Dante thought of taking the route by the Torre della Castagna, close to the houses of the Cerchi. It could be an opportunity for paying a visit to his relatives, who lived in the same street. But then he changed his mind, seeing that the shadow of the sundial fixed to the loggia was now approaching the seventh hour of the day. He had some way to travel if he was to reach Maestro Alberto in his workshop before the end of the working day.

He plunged into the labyrinth of alleyways behind the remains of the ancient amphitheatre, skirted by a wasp’s nest of humble stone houses and wooden shacks where
many
of the craftsmen of Florence lived and had their workshops. Further south, towards the Arno, the road was blocked by the row of weavers and dyers and by the carders’ big water-mills anchored to the river bank. For the last stretch he wandered around the open-air benches of the silk-steamers until he reached a point where the narrow street widened slightly, avoiding the remains of a Roman arch. Immediately after it the way was blocked by a big wall built with the remnants of the old building, where a gate led into a little courtyard. Alberto the Lombard’s house opened up on to it.

People were gathered in the little square in front of his workshop. Amidst shouts and laughter, men and women were excitedly watching something in front of them. Thinking that an acrobat was performing and making silly jokes, the prior pushed his way through the people, preparing to order him to move on.

But it wasn’t what he had expected. A pillory had been erected on the corner of the street, its wooden pincer constricting the hands and neck of a man in peasant garb, who was lamenting in a loud voice. All around, the laughter of the onlookers rose along with his mounting wails, while stones and dung picked up from the ground were hurled at him.

Dante walked over, resolving to pass by. But someone must have recognised him, because an anxious murmur ran through the crowd, followed by a sudden silence. In
that
void the voice of the convict suddenly rang out, a confused babble stuffed with Latin terms.

Filled with curiosity, Dante stopped near the pillory. ‘What are you complaining about, you rogue? What were you convicted of?’ he asked, leaning forward to meet the unfortunate man’s eye. When the other man went on staring at the ground, the poet gripped him by the few hairs he still had left, forcing him to lift his head.

Screaming with pain, the man turned his neck as far as he could to return Dante’s gaze. On his swollen face one livid eye had been closed by a blow, but the other glittered with malice. ‘Oh, Messer, by my faith I am exposed to this derision only because of a
quaestio irresoluta
, a difference of interpretation,’ he announced quietly.

‘It is over a philosophical disputation that the Bargello has bound you to this cross?’ the poet replied in astonishment, relaxing his grip.

‘Precisely, Messer. I see from your clothing that you must be a man of culture and learning,’ said the convict who, defeated by the uncomfortable position in which he found himself, had turned his face towards the ground once more. ‘So you will understand my innocence.’

‘Both prisons and hell are full of innocent men, it’s well known,’ Dante said ironically.

‘And yet you will agree with me when you know the history of my disgrace. It all originates in my desire to increase my ancestors’ little vine by acquiring a farm on
its
boundary. My neighbour and I agreed to move the boundary by thirty paces, which I asked to measure personally, with my feet.’

‘So?’

‘So, I counted out precisely thirty paces, but he declared me a cheat – and here I am.’

‘Why? It seems to me that you respected the agreement.’

The other man unexpectedly exploded into mocking laughter, as if all his sufferings had disappeared as he remembered what had happened. ‘I ran the thirty paces, Messere. But rather than appreciating the joke, that false neighbour of mine immediately reported me.’

Dante had involuntarily joined in with his laughter. ‘It’s really a matter of mutual understanding, my friend. Certainly, the measurement increases if the measurer is quick,’ he agreed.

The other man seemed content with his judgement. ‘Will you intercede on my behalf?’ he asked anxiously.

‘No. But since you’re a philosopher, accept your punishment philosophically and wait for vespers. A few strokes of the whip and you’ll be free.’

T
HE
MECHANICUS
was busy fixing pulleys to a support, for one of the cranes working at the building site of the new Duomo. As the poet walked in, he interrupted his work.

‘That consignment I sent you … where is it?’ Dante broke in.

The other man pointed to a corner of the workshop, between a shelf and a little door. The bag lay there, still tied. ‘I haven’t touched anything, in accordance with the orders of the
bargellini
,’ replied Maestro Alberto. ‘But whatever’s in there, it would be a good idea to take it out as soon as possible. The cloth is drenched with water.’

The poet quickly untied the laces and began to remove the fragments of the device, passing them to the man who arranged them on the workbench.

As part of the machine passed between his fingers, a grimace of surprise grew on the face of the
mechanicus
. Dante carefully studied his reactions. ‘So, what do you think it is?’ he asked when the bag was empty.

Without replying, Alberto took from a shelf a lamp with a brass disc behind its wick to concentrate the light. He lit it, even though the workshop was still illuminated by the sun, and concentrated his myopic eyes on the bits of machinery lined up in front of him. ‘They look like elements of a tower clock – but different from the ones I know. Apart from …’

‘What?’

‘These carvings, on one of the wheels.’

Dante brought his head close to the point that the other man indicated to him. ‘Moorish characters,’ he said after a brief examination.

The other man nodded. ‘This machine was built by the infidel. Where did you find it?’

The prior didn’t reply. The image of the galley had floated into his mind for a moment, with its cargo of death. He gestured vaguely, muttering a few words about confidential commercial matters.

But the
mechanicus
seemed to pay him no heed, gripped as he was by what he had in front of him. ‘Besides, they have always excelled at this particular art. Even Frederick the Great had to use Arabs for the clock in Palermo,’ he remarked.

‘Can you understand what they mean?’ asked the poet, touching the incisions with his finger.

‘I can’t, but my servant can. He can read the writing of his ancestors.’

The
mechanicus
left the room for a moment, before returning in the company of a boy of medium height, with olive skin and the sharp features of someone prey to hunger and rancour. ‘This is Hamid, captured off the coast of Egypt. I saved him from the oars when I discovered his skill at working metals. But I don’t know if he’s grateful to me.’

The old man held the gear-wheel out to the slave, showing him the writing. For a moment the boy stared at the spot he was pointing to, then suddenly looked away. His expression, at first impassive, now seemed perturbed.

‘So?’ Dante asked him, irritated by his hesitation.

The boy still didn’t reply, his frown deepening. ‘It’s blasphemy. It’s an insult to Allah, the powerful, the merciful,’ he finally murmured. ‘Why do you want to repeat this offence by translating it into the language of the infidel?’

Dante gave a start at the pagan’s phrase. But he restrained himself: the boy’s face showed signs of sincere discomfort. And perhaps an offence against God really was one in any language.

‘The insult against your god will be lessened in my tongue. Out with it!’

‘Allah is great,’ the Saracen finally decided to say, ‘but al-Jazari … is greater.’ He had drawn his head between his shoulders, as though fearing that Allah might be listening.

‘Al-Jazari. Who’s that?’ Dante asked him.

‘I know,’ the craftsman exclaimed. ‘Al-Jazari, of the great Persian family that made automata. The very greatest of them.’

‘Automata?’

‘Machines for imitating life. Golden peacocks capable of spreading their lapis-lazuli tails. Bronze lions able to roar on the gates of the thrones of the East, and other diabolic things of that nature. It would appear that the Emperor commissioned something from them to increase the value of his court still further,’ Alberto went on. ‘He had seen some works by this infidel in Jerusalem, when he went there as a crusader. An extraordinary mind.’