As he walked, with a sense of satisfaction, he was surprised to notice above the roofs of the huts, as if out of nowhere, the swaying mast of a ship with shreds of loose sails. This watery city seemed to spontaneously create ships and sails out of bare earth. He slipped between two little houses and found himself before an extraordinary sight: a large basin of water surrounded by a crenellated wall several workmen were still building. In the middle, proud and imposing, a galley was anchored, its sails lowered and its oars at rest. Around the pool there were open sheds and naval building sites where boats and ships of every shape and size took shelter. A chelandion had been pulled aground and various shipbuilders were busy working around the keel, where you could see an enormous gash. Heaps of rigging, hemp, timber, and towropes, as well as barrels of pitch, were piled up behind the warehouses.
He had come across an arsenal. Edgardo had read about them in manuscripts about Constantinople and Alexandria, but never imagined that Venetia might have one.
He was still admiring the display of timber and sails when a deep rumbling sound swept over him like a gust of wind, a vibration that originated from the depths of the earth.
Edgardo looked around but could not work out where it was coming from, but then he heard from afar, like a forgotten echo, shouts, voices, and crashing. A moment later, they had increased and he felt surrounded by an impending din that suddenly materialized.
A multitude of men of different ages, brandishing pitchforks, poles, swords, and torches, were running, enraged, after two defenseless young boys. The crowd was moving toward him and, to avoid being knocked down, he hid under the arch of a warehouse. The shouts were deafening. A vague shrieking, like the cries of a demented flock of seagulls.
One of the fugitives managed to find refuge inside a nearby monastery, but the other was reached by the angry crowd, held down, and tied to a pole.
Edgardo could not understand what was going on. The voices were confused and everything happened very quickly. A well-dressed man brought a flaming torch to the boy’s face and threatened to set fire to him. The prisoner struggled, crying out in pain. His hair caught fire and a blaze caressed his face. The crowd was laughing and spurring the torturer on. The torch moved closer to his eyes, closer and closer . . . Edgardo heard a sharp, final cry, thin as a whistle, blend with a soft crackling and the bubbling of roasted marrow. It was a terrifying scene. The boy fainted. Suddenly, there was silence, like a void in the air before a storm. Then he heard other distant voices and footsteps. From the opposite side of the campo, another gang of young men appeared, armed and wearing red coats.
As soon as they saw them, the first crowd dropped the pole to which the boy was tied. The fire had already spread to his clothes. The two groups stood studying each other, then a man threw himself on the burning body to extinguish the flames. It was the signal that triggered the clash. It was a senseless and chaotic unleashing of bodies: blows, cuts, crunching bones, blood, screams, and moans.
Someone had set fire to the timber gathered for the ships. Edgardo was overwhelmed by a feeling of impotence, annihilated by this senseless violence. Afraid, he took refuge inside the warehouse, among the remains of abandoned boats, but after a while he realized that he was not safe there either. The fire was all around him. Taking advantage of a pause during which the brawl moved inside the arsenal, he rolled out and began running at breakneck speed toward the lagoon, stepping over bodies, avoiding flaming beams, thinking only of saving himself. He ran and ran for what felt like an eternity, with that poor crippled body that could not keep up with the mounting terror in his heart.
When he reached the bank, he felt a deep sense of relief at finding himself before the open lagoon, navigated by ships and boats. He stopped to catch his breath, unsure of which way to go, when he heard someone calling him.
“Scribe! Scribe! Where are you running?”
It sounded to him like a voice from heaven, and he looked around, panting.
“Here we are, man of God!” There was a laugh.
A scaula was approaching the bank. Segrado was rowing, and Kallis sat in the bow, wrapped in a turquoise cloak.
“Quick, get in.”
Without even thinking, Edgardo leapt into the boat. With four well-delivered strokes of the oar, Segrado took them out to sea. A light, cold wind was blowing over the surface of the water, which was lead-gray and waved, thick and soft, as they moved. Edgardo breathed deeply the cold air that chilled his habit, still drenched in sweat. A deep sense of shame prevented him from speaking, or even looking up. Kallis was watching the horizon, looking blank and absent.
“What happened? Did they try to disembowel you?”
Segrado’s voice came from behind, like a stab in the back.
“Venetia has become a bubbling cauldron of madness. Everything is still and quiet, and then suddenly there’s trouble. You found yourself right in the middle of the usual brawl between hotheads. You should be careful. They can be a bit rough . . . even with monks.”
Edgardo listened with his head down, glad not to have to speak.
“It’s an old story that goes back to the beginning, when people from the mainland escaped from barbarian invaders and took refuge on the islands. Ever since there have been two factions made up of those that came from different lands. The Castellanis, who live in the far eastern part, and the Nicolottis or Cannaruolis, who live in the far western part. The castle of Olivolo and San Niccolò are the oldest settlements in this treacherous city, and their inhabitants hate one another and use any excuse to beat each other up. For people like me or you,” he laughed again, “who don’t want anything to do with them, it’s hard to stay out of it. Look over there,” he indicated the bank. “They’ve set fire to the arsenal while it’s still being built. They burn things and cut throats and our Doge Falier does nothing. And you know why? I’ll tell you. Because it’s convenient for him, and because he doesn’t want to upset any of the powerful Venetian families who use those poor wretches to their advantage. The Nicolottis are backed by the Candiani family, who have large holdings on the mainland and business interests they need to preserve with the Franks and the Germanics. The Castellanis, on the other hand, are manipulated by the Orseolos, who have close blood ties with Slavic and Hungarian kings, and want Venetia to be tied to the court of Byzantium. So you see, it’s all a war between lords who use deadbeats like beasts for slaughter. Doge Ordelaffo is a great knight, of course, and a truly brave fighter. When we intervened in Schiavonia* because they wanted to take the cities along the coast away from us, he gave them a really good beating. However, with all the mainland wars and those he fights in the Orient to keep on the right side of the Pope, he doesn’t take much care of his city, where it’s the rich families who rule, and they have no time for the poor . . . ”
The wind had increased in the bow of the boat as it struggled to cut through the waves. Kallis was sitting huddled up at the bottom of the keel, right in front of Edgardo.
“In any case, thank God for saving your life today,” Segrado said in conclusion.
Edgardo lifted his head. Kallis was observing him. In fact, she was probing his soul. He felt himself searched in his mind, his body, and beneath his habit. The eyes of that invasive and brazen woman were stripping him of his dignity. Through the eyes of a woman, his crippled body was being exposed in all its nakedness.
He felt himself being born a second time and became even more painfully aware of his deformity. Thanks to Kallis’s gaze, which had generated a new monster, Edgardo discovered the power of a woman’s eyes and felt ashamed.
“Where are we going?” he finally found the strength to ask.
“Home,” said Segrado. “I can’t take you back now. It’s almost time for Vespers, and it’ll be dark soon. You can stay with us. We live on an island in the middle of the lagoon, in the north. It’s called Metamauco.”
XIV.
METAMAUCO
Distanced from the familiar world, in an unknown hemisphere, the city skyline had slowly disappeared behind them. Before them and all around there was nothing but water, water and sky, which blended into each other in a unique lead-gray reflection. A thin layer of mist blurred the substance of the shoals that were peeping out just below the water’s surface. They were navigating through the void, without a point of reference, in dense and heavy silence. A voyage into the beyond.
Edgardo felt as though his body was crumbling into an infinite number of particles that were being ravished by the humid veil of sunset. Only his spirit remained, dragged along on that unstable boat, carried into a new dimension. So he gave himself up to the unknown. He put himself trustingly into the hands of Segrado, his boatman, before the eyes of his guide, Kallis, and was surprised to find that he was no longer afflicted by the weight of life, by torments, by physical pain. With carefree hopes for the future, he wished that this journey would never end, so that he could stay forever in this state of unfathomable bliss.
The current pushed the boat north and the strokes of the oars became more intense and decisive. The fog dissipated, the sky resumed its position, separating itself from the surface of the water, and in the distance a white stripe appeared, sucked in by the fading light. A long, deep beach of white and very fine sand surrounded the entire island and dense vegetation came as far as the dunes that waved uncertainly at the horizon. Segrado turned east and followed the coast for a long stretch until he reached a landing.
The island of Metamauco had a well-equipped harbor where a variety of galleys, warships, and freight boats were anchored. Not far from the mainland, between the mouths of Medoacus Maior and Minor, it served as an outpost for goods from Padua bound for the city of Venetia.
Segrado pulled alongside the bank. Kallis leapt on the junctorio and moored the boat to a pole. The district was bustling. Sailors, merchants, and fishermen were busying themselves around the boats. It was surprising to see so many people and such impressive buildings on an island in the middle of the lagoon. In the main campo, next to the church of perforated bricks, there was a white two-story stone building with a wide loggia, and coats of arms and sculptures on the façade. It had once been the Doge’s residence and was now the see of the bishopric. All around the campo and in the adjacent streets were rows of simple, well-kept houses of painted timber, with vegetable patches, orchards, and gardens at the back. Much of the island was occupied by vineyards. The white beach, lush forests, and the farming reminded Edgardo of the descriptions of earthly paradise he had read in sacred books.
Segrado left the campo and walked toward the building Edgardo immediately recognized as a monastery. Then they followed a path that snaked through marshes and minor canals until they reached a small, shabby bridge made of beams, which led to a bare and muddy little island surrounded by rushes, in the middle of which, on top of a raised, solid mound, stood a little house. The walls were made of planks coated with tar, the roof out of woven reeds and covered in stubble. At the back there was a tiny vegetable garden and a fig tree to which a goat was tied. Segrado took off the chain latch, flung the door open, and walked in.
“Tonight you’ll do penance,” he said defiantly. “You monks are used to comfort.”
“Perhaps you should take a closer look at me,” Edgardo replied touching the hump on his chest. “I do penance every day . . . ”
Kallis let loose a gurgling sound, like a repressed laugh, then rushed to the hearth, which was dug out of a brick shelf; there was a hole in the roof overhead to let the smoke out. With a torch, she set about starting a fire. Segrado indicated a corner of the hut.
“All I have is a bit of straw and a bench for the night.”
“That will be fine, thank you for your hospitality,” Edgardo replied.
The dwelling consisted of a single large room. In a corner, hidden behind hemp canvas hanging from a rope, were two high beds made of rough wood. A table and four stools stood by the fireplace, with a chest and a trunk making up the rest of the furniture in that basic abode.
The fire grew, the room lit up, and Edgardo looked around, stunned. The floor seemed to glow with its own light and the walls glistened with colored dots in blue, green, yellow and ruby, as though a swarm of multicolored fireflies had suddenly flown into the room. In a second, the modest home had turned into a magical place. Seeing the amazement on the cleric’s face, Segrado burst out laughing.
“It’s an invention of mine. What do you think of it?”
“I’m speechless. It’s like a starry sky. It’s magic.”
Kallis smiled.
“There’s nothing magic about it,” said Segrado. “When I made the lime cast for the terrazzo flooring, I mixed in colored stones, fragments of glass, leftover enamel, and cast-off mosaic tiles. This way I can walk on a carpet of precious stones and sleep beneath a starry sky.”
“It’s very clever,” Edgardo concurred.
A blanket of darkness had now stifled what was left of the light on the horizon. Even the seagulls had stopped crying, and the hut was wrapped in a stagnant silence. They sat around the table. Kallis brought a large pan blackened by the fire, full of oatmeal. Then she took three salted sardines out of a jar and put them on the plates. A mixture of oats and fish: this would be dinner. They ate without talking and Kallis did not raise her head from her plate. Segrado kept stealing glances at the cleric, the hint of a sly smile on his face, watching his reaction to the poor meal. Edgardo ate without paying any attention, contentedly, in fact. He did not know why, but he felt calm and at peace. It was the feeling of being welcome and of belonging: to a roof, two people, and a table. A state of mind he had never experienced while sitting with his fellow brothers at Bobbio Abbey, let alone in his father’s house.
“We’ll even attack the emergency supplies in your honor,” Segrado said, giving Kallis a nod. From a shelf hanging on the wall, she fetched two bunches of dried black grapes and laid them delicately on the table, so as not to lose a single one.
“Help yourself,” Segrado said.
Edgardo pulled off one grape, as did Segardo and, finally, Kallis. He felt he was taking part in a pagan ritual.
“So, what have you decided to do?” Segrado asked, sucking hungrily at the sweet pulp.
Edgardo did not understand to what he was referring. “About what?”
“About the Arabic manuscript.”
Edgardo studied the face of the man opposite him. He tried to read his eyes, to see if there was the trace of any stain there; he searched the lines of his face, his shovel-like hands, trying to decide if he could put his trust in him and speak to him as honestly and openly as he wished.
“Everybody wants to know what’s in that book, but we don’t know if it contains information useful to you or me.”
Segrado spat out a skin. “That’s why I’m asking you to investigate further. Who else knows about the book besides the merchant?”
Edgardo hesitated for a moment and turned to the woman, almost as if he were waiting for her approval. Kallis plucked a grape, lifted it slowly to her mouth and, with her lips slightly parted, sucked in the pulp in one quick slurp. Edgardo lowered his eyes.
“Master Tàtaro wanted to meet me. He has a drawing of the stone for the eyes: lapides ad legendum. He’s promised to make the stone with rock crystal in exchange for information about the Arabic book.”
“He’s lying!” Segrado railed. “Tàtaro doesn’t know the first thing about working with crystal. He wants to swindle you. All he wants is to discover a new formula for glass.”
“I’m telling you, I don’t know if there’s anything about that in the optics treatise.”
“All the glassmakers would be ready to cheat in order to discover the pure glass that transmits the purifying light of Our Lord.” Segrado wiped his toothless mouth with his sleeve. “Tàtaro cares nothing about your eyes or your failing sight
. Tàtaro cares for nothing but himself.”
Edgardo leaned toward him. “And you? What do you care about?”
Kallis placed her hands on the table like a little girl and waited.
“I don’t know you, scribe, but I know why God decided to put you on my path. For you, losing your eyesight is like losing my breath for me: I couldn’t live without it. There is creation in my breath, and in your eyes there is knowledge. It’s the meaning of our earthly lives. I believe that uniting our skills could sprout a plant that would give both you and me new lifeblood.”
Segrado stood up and went to the corner where the beds were arranged. Kallis picked up the dishes and wiped them down with a cloth. Then she turned to Edgardo.
“The well is behind the house, and the latrines by the canal.” She opened the trunk and took out a blanket. “Take this,” she said. “At night, the chill rises from the ground and seeps into your bones.”
“Thank you.”
They were standing very close. Edgardo felt her heat, a strange wave of warmth smelling of myrrh, like a scirocco wind that enveloped and dazed him.
Then Kallis stepped out of his aura and went to her bed behind the hemp canvas.
It was the first time in his life that Edgardo had slept under the same roof as a woman. Although their beds were not close, he thought he could hear her breath and heartbeat. Even when the mind is not willing, and the body is not willing either, desire awakens and sin takes over your soul. He tossed and turned under the blanket, unable to sleep. The night silence had turned into a racket. The swish of the waves along the shore had become a waterfall, and the cry of an owl had become a call of death. The faint flame of the oil lamp squashed the shadows onto the floor, awakening glistening eyes and fragments of stars.
The Eye Stone Page 10