The Cellars of Notre Dame

by Barbara Frale

  “We are grateful, master. Now, about that medicine that the king of France wants…”

  “I tell you I know nothing about it,” the old man said. “But I am nevertheless honoured to produce any preparation that His Holiness might ask of me.”

  Francesco Caetani considered himself quite satisfied. Arnaldo’s answer, though a little cryptic, gave him reason to hope; he didn’t want to give Philip IV anything, but on the other hand the Catalan was full of gratitude towards the Pope and would do everything for him. All he needed to do was work a little more on the temper of the old man until he softened and told them what kind of drug it was. Boniface VIII would ask him to make it, and then would discreetly send it to Paris. Good, a partial victory – the glass could be said to be half full.

  Not without some relief, the cardinal stood up and, grasping the pommel of the heavy sword he carried hanging from his side, left the old scientist’s residence, whose vague stench of sulphur unnerved him. Behind him walked a perplexed Crescenzio and a dejected Maddalena. When he closed the door behind them, the strength of his emotions forced Arnaldo to sit down.

  The girl was a prodigy, perhaps the living answer to the secret invocations he had never found the courage to address to heaven. She was the beautiful white rose he had seen in a dream, he was sure of that now. A flower of Paradise, as pure as the human soul before original sin.

  In his prophetic dream, the unicorn had sought to take possession of it. To the old man’s refined senses this had a precise meaning: his pupil in Paris needed her. A man so powerful, in whose hands lay the destiny of millions of people, needed that helpless little girl, and she alone was able to help him.

  How? He absolutely had to find out.

  V

  A beast, of course. A being halfway between an animal and a devil, a soul without peace or any hope of salvation, and certainly not human, even if she did walk on two legs as she passed among the mass of pilgrims who crossed Sant Angelo bridge to enter the Vatican walls.

  She was probably a gypsy. A pagan, or perhaps a Saracen. She walked barefoot, covered with rags, inside which she somehow seemed not to feel any cold.

  Dante turned for the umpteenth time and saw that she was still there behind him. She stared at him through the dense crowd as though she wanted something from him, her dark eyes seeming to bore into him like sharp nails or, worse still, like a curse. She was so thin she made him think of some sick animal – but one which was no less dangerous for all that. A ravenous wolf, greedy for who knew what. For human souls, perhaps? And why did she seem to be looking for him?

  Suddenly, some lines of verse surfaced unbidden in his mind:

  And then a she-wolf showed herself; she seemed

  to carry every craving in her leanness;

  she had already brought despair to many.

  It was an immense relief for him when he passed through the gate in the walls and headed towards the Holy Palaces.

  It had been a difficult day, which had already begun with the inauspicious sign of that endless rain which frays the nerves and seems to permeate the bones. The most difficult part of all, however, had come in a letter delivered to Alighieri shortly before lunch.

  Dante, for weeks now, the Signoria of Florence has received no news from you in Rome, and this silence puts us in alarm. I do not write to you in reproach, since it was my idea to mention your name when it came to choosing the right man to entrust with this delicate task, and I do not regret it. I only hope that the delay in your communication is not due to bad news for us: Florence is uneasy and such a sense of uncertainty as has not been felt for years is palpable in the streets.

  Several days ago several exiles returned, bringing alarming news. Some of them know, or believe, that the French intend to strangle our city in an increasingly suffocating noose, seizing the institutions and putting an end to the Republic. We must prevent this, Dante: we Whites will fight to the death to defend our freedom. It is vital, though, to ascertain certain facts that, finding yourself in Rome and, moreover, in friendly relations with the pontiff’s grandchildren, you and you alone have any hope of obtaining.

  What alarms us is a fact which dates back a generation ago. Being ten years old at the most at the time, you were too young for it to have left a mark in your memory, but at that time – the year was 1276 – the cruel prince Charles of Anjou, brother of the French king Louis IX, took up arms to make dominion of the whole Italian peninsula. The Church will likely not have a year as difficult again: in the space of a few months, from January to December, three popes were elected and, after only a few weeks, died one after the other, apparently called to God. All three of these pontiffs – Innocent V, Adrian V and John XXI – were disliked by the Prince of Anjou, and did not want to comply with his plans for conquest. In those years, it is said, the men of the Signoria signed a pact with Anjou that indefinitely prolonged the mandate of government the prince already held in Florence. The terms of the agreement were so vague and at the same time so binding that they could provide Anjou with a pretext for taking Florence under his dominion.

  In the light of this discovery, Dante, these are your new instructions: try to enter the Apostolic Chancellery and consult the papal registers in search of this treaty. We fear that, with the noble aim of saving Florence from a terrible siege, our forefathers may have ended up rather selling its freedom to the French. And now Prince Charles of Valois, the great-nephew of Charles of Anjou, may have in hand that secret pact, in order to use it against us at the appropriate time. We do not know the position of the king of France in this regard; in fact, Philip IV may even be unaware of what his brother is planning to do.

  Only the pontiff can know the truth. I shall come down to Rome shortly.

  I hope to receive consoling news from you.

  May God protect you.

  Guccio de’ Medici

  Armed with that well-folded in his purse letter – though he had read it so many times that he knew its contents almost by heart – Dante was about to carry out the task he had been assigned. His first reaction as he had read those lines had been a burning sense of guilt: so taken had he been with helping Crescenzio in his investigation, he had ended up neglecting his obligations as a servant of the Florentine Republic.

  But after the guilt had come a terrible suspicion. Perhaps he hadn’t actually been wasting his time by helping his friend – perhaps there was some subtle thread that united Arnaldo da Villanova and his philtres to the looming threat to Florence.

  Was it not the power of the prince of Valois that the Signoria feared? And who more than Prince Charles could aspire to the throne of France once his brother Philip IV had fallen?

  Second-born son of the royal family and eternal second to his brother the king, Charles wanted more than anything else to find himself a crown, but each of his attempts had always ended in failure. At the age of only thirteen, Pope Martin IV had elected him king of Castile to replace the head of that kingdom, who had been deposed and excommunicated; but the outcast had managed to keep the throne well attached to his back.

  Then Valois had married Margaret of Courtenay, heir to the imperial Byzantine throne, which nevertheless remained firmly in the hands of the Greeks. It was said that his father Philip III, on the verge of death, had asked his heir Philip IV to find a kingdom for that unfortunate little brother of his. How much time had passed since then? Fifteen long years, during which Philip IV had not fulfilled his father’s request. In fact, he hadn’t so much as lifted a finger to help his brother – it was too handy to have him at his beck and call.

  Naturally, the profoundly disappointed Valois might have wished to retaliate against his deceitful sibling. Charles was the only other son of Philip III born of his first wife Isabella of Aragon; if anyone had the right to ascend the throne of France once Philip IV had been ousted, it was indeed Valois. The pages of history are full of similar betrayals even more foul than this: brother against brother, Cain against Abel. Perhaps Valois had made an agreement with
the rebels and Arnaldo da Villanova had discovered the machination, and when faced with the prospect of denouncing such a powerful man he had unsurprisingly preferred to close himself up in total silence. Even if he had revealed what he knew, Philip IV might not have believed that the man who was ready to ruin him, to put an end to him and all his sons, was one born of the womb of his own mother.

  “I think she’s looking for you,” said the guard.

  Lost in his ruminations, Dante started with surprise.

  “Who?”

  The soldier stretched out his arm and pointed his forefinger. Following it, Dante once again met the Saracen woman’s gaze. She was still there, immobile, waiting for him. Something, perhaps some invisible force, had stopped her tenacious pursuit; but the decision that was visible in her feral eyes – eyes expert in the hard business of living – suggested that it was not a farewell.

  “Who is that beggar?” Dante asked. “I don’t know her.”

  “A gypsy woman” replied the other placidly. “She comes here to get alms from the relatives of His Holiness.”

  “From Loffredo?”

  “That lot?! Nah, that lot wouldn’t give charity to Jesus Christ himself. I’m talking about that nice young doctor with his head in the clouds. Crescenzio.”

  Dante was appalled.

  “Does Signor Crescenzio Caetani have relations with such dreadful people? I’ll wager she isn’t even baptized!”

  The gendarme didn’t seem particularly scandalized. Rome was teeming with gypsies, and the beggar to whom the Pope’s nephews had taken a liking to was not a bad person. Indeed, although he didn’t know the details, he said, Crescenzio had once told him that he had used her help in a thorny affair for which no solution could be found.

  Dante gave up trying to understand. His young friend certainly had his peculiarities! However, at least that explained why the gypsy seemed to be so obstinately following him: she had probably seen him in the company of Crescenzio, and now she had started to pursue him in the hope of receiving alms also from him too. That thought made him feel a little calmer, but he vowed that he would invite his friend to free himself of that disturbing presence. We must always be afraid of those who have not received the light of Christ, he thought, because they are not free of original sin. With a swift step he set off towards the atrium of the Apostolic Palace, to find himself soon immersed in an enormous crowd of people.

  “Excuse me!” he said to the others waiting in line. “How does one access the Apostolic Library?”

  “A good question!” laughed one, with a gesture of his hand that implied Dante must be simple in the head.

  “I have an official assignment from the Signoria!” protested Dante. “I am an ambassador of Florence, not just some nuisance!”

  A cleric with more urbane manners explained to him that access to the monumental library of the pontiffs was a very rare privilege: it was granted only in exceptional cases, given that the tomes it contained, most of them unique in the world, were of inestimable value.

  “But I am on official business for the Signoria…” repeated Dante, only now his tone was pleading.

  The cleric suggested that he look for Ottone da Sermoneta, a notary Boniface VIII favoured because he had known him for at least thirty years. A good word from him would probably earn Dante access to that shrine of truth and science.

  “A notary? Perhaps I would do better to ask someone higher up in the hierarchies of the Church.”

  The cleric laughed at him.

  “This is the Roman Curia, my Lord! He who scratches the pope’s cat’s fleas jumps ahead of the Dean of the Sacred College. Did you not know?”

  Deciding to believe him, Dante climbed the staircase that led to the offices of the Apostolic Chancellery. Ottone da Sermoneta was a , that is, he belonged to the enviable caste of notaries in the service of the Holy See charged with transcribing the documents sent to or received by His Holiness in the papal registers. He had a small office on the main floor of the Sacred Palaces. To be exact, the office in itself was not actually small, it was just that he had choked it up by stuffing it so full of things that upon entering it was hard to even turn around. The desk was cluttered with registers as well as quills, drying powder, lead styluses for drawing the straight lines upon which to write, and full and empty ink bottles, left there out of inertia.

  The shelves on the walls groaned under the weight of books, organized according to an order known to their owner alone but nevertheless effective; in all that chaos, in fact, Ottone seemed able to orient himself with the same mysterious certainty that draws a dog to an underground truffle. His home being too far away for him to return for lunch, he also was in the habit of bringing with him various foodstuffs which he also stockpiled: a half-consumed ham, two beef loins, four rows of dried sausages, cheeses of various sizes, a bag of beans and another of broad beans to boil on the stove used to melt the lead with which the papal seals were made.

  Above a shelf there was also an earthenware pot in which a beautiful piece of salted codfish had been soaking for three days; from the smell it was unclear if this was an office of the Apostolic Chancellery or the back room of a grocer. Professionally speaking, however, Ottone da Sermoneta was the best of the papal notaries, and the only one that Boniface VIII trusted.

  When the Tuscan poked his head around his door, Ottone was in the middle of the postprandial pause, as his dazed expression clearly announced. He sat there motionless, his leaden eyelids about to close.

  “Good morning, . May I come in?”

  “Please, …?” asked the notary, his voice slurred with sleepiness.

  “Dante Alighieri, consul of Florence.”

  “Ah. I’m sorry but for diplomatic questions, you should contact the Apostolic Legates.”

  “Actually, I need your help, asked. You see…” Uncertain what to say, Dante stopped. “I would like to consult the pontifical registers. I was told that you could perhaps help by putting in a good word for me…”

  Ottone da Sermoneta’s sleepy face grew confused.

  “Consult the records. And why?”

  A request about the reason for which he wished to consult was already a step forward – it showed interest, however slight. Dante relaxed somewhat.

  “May I sit down for a moment?”

  “Please do.”

  Yes but where? Next to the notary’s desk there were three stools, all piled high with stacks of loose documents and papers; at first, Dante almost decided to give up, but then, feeling ridiculous for having asked for that favour, he decided to sit down gently upon a voluminous manuscript bound with wooden covers which was strong enough to take his weight. Once he was sitting down, he tried to measure his words so as to sound as credible as possible.

  “I am carrying out research on behalf of the Signoria. Some of the Priors are convinced that Florence received a large tax exemption. It was 1276 or so.”

  “Tax exemption…” the notary mumbled. “And in 1276. That was a bad year.”

  “You mean because of the fact of three popes being elected and dying within a few months?”

  Though the words themselves were aseptic and bland, Dante’s tone was allusive. Maestro Ottone picked up on the Florentine’s delicate insinuation.

  “What can one do, Alighieri? Many have died of papacy lately. As for your request, I have nothing against showing you the records of the Apostolic Chamber. But I pity you, for it will be a hard slog.”

  And so saying, he rang a bell and gave the orders to the valet who promptly hurried in. Ten minutes later, Dante was looking at an intimidating mountain of loose documents and messy files, all heaped together without logical or chronological order.

  The only thing to do was to go at it, which Dante did with the patience of someone who must atone for some heinous sin committed. Under the watchful eye of the notary, he sat poised on the pile of books for three hours while the files piled up on his aching knees, as copious and useless as leaves in autumn. Until closing time arr
ived.

  “So did you find your exemption?” asked the notary.

  The gloomy face of Alighieri was a clear answer. Ottone gave him a friendly pat on the shoulder.

  “If you haven’t found anything, my lord, then you’ve found something. By which I mean that you have found that the document is not there. Ergo, it doesn’t exist.”

  Dante could not claim to be satisfied, however, and was sorry he would have to give Guccio de’ Medici that depressing news. But now he had to leave the Sacred Palaces and return to his hostel before dark. He promised himself that he would ask Crescenzio about it and find out if papal records were held in some other place than the offices of the Chancellery.

  He crossed Ponte Sant’Angelo bridge over the Tiber and had almost arrived at his hostel when an irrational impulse forced him to turn around. The gypsy woman was there behind him, twenty paces away. She glared at him.

  Overcome by anger and fear, Dante rushed over until he was face to face with the hag. He wanted to have it out with her once and for all.

  “Who are you?” he cried. “What do you want from me?”

  Zaira raised her chin towards him with an air of absolute indifference. She didn’t fear ghosts, so she certainly wasn’t likely to be afraid of him!

  She put a strange object in his hand. A small rectangle of painted papyrus.

  “Criscenziu,” said the woman. “Vossia ci dicissi accusi: ‘Cani affamatu nun timi vastuni’.”

  “What are you babbling, you loon? And what do you want from me?”

  The woman stretched out her forefinger and touched the card. He had understood none of what she had said except for the name of Crescenzio, which he had heard clearly. The gypsy wanted him to deliver that thing to his friend, apparently, and seemed to attach great importance to the message contained in the images. Dante looked at the strange object. It was the size of a page from a book of hours. One side was all green and on the other images of a naked man and woman entwined in a passionate and vulgar embrace that could certainly not be blessed by marriage were visible