The woman’s chubby face emerged from under the covers in a flash.
“Yes, yes, I swear it, they’re holy relics I got from a merchant in Constantinople. They’re the eyes of Saint Lucy, Saint Lazarus, Saint Ermagora and Saint Pancras, and many others.”
Zoto looked at the woman, then at Karamago. “And you expect us to believe this nonsense?”
“I swear it on Saint Mark’s body,” Teodora sniveled.
After a brief silence, the oldest man, who seemed to represent the group’s voice of reason, stepped forward.
“Tell me, merchant, and be honest: if you were looking for a murderer who tears men’s eyes out and, by chance, while pursuing a monk who was seen near where they found the last gouged man, you found yourself in the house of the man who helped him escape, and if, by chance, you found there a lovely bottle full of floating eyes . . . now what would you think?”
The logic was twisted but it seemed to have a certain effect on the group.
“I would think it’s a coincidence . . . Just pure chance,” Karamago replied, shaking.
“Well, I would think that the two of them are accomplices. The monk and the other man . . . That one of them tears out the eyes and the other one preserves them to perform who knows what kind of witchcraft.”
“They sell them to alchemists and Jews for their experiments—I know it’s true!” cried the boy.
“You’re wrong. That’s not it at all,” Karamago insisted.
“They’re relics of saints,” Teodora repeated.
“Monstrous wretches are being born without eyes,” the old man declared. “For as long as the eye murderer isn’t hanged, this curse will continue to befall our city.”
“I beg you . . . ”
“The Council will decide. Let’s take him to the Doge, to the castle.”
“No, no, my husband hasn’t done anything,” Teodora was crying.
“Take him,” Zoto commanded.
There was some commotion but Karamago did not put up any resistance. They lifted him bodily and dragged him down the stairs. Teodora leapt out of bed and, wrapped in the furs, followed her husband, constantly proclaiming his innocence.
Edgardo had heard everything from the loft. Zoto’s accusations against him and the merchant, Karamago’s defense, and Teodora’s lamentations. From the noises that came from downstairs, he had imagined the movements of the hotheads as they were taking him away. He had lived every moment of it . . . And yet he had not moved or spoken out. He had remained hidden behind the trunk, huddled like a frightened animal, holding his breath.
He would have liked to come forth, to stand up for the merchant, to tell the truth about why he had been at the mill when they had found Niccolò. He could have shown courage and shared Karamago’s fate by facing the tribunal of the Council.
That is how a knight would have acted.
But he had done nothing, nailed down by fear and cowardice, mulling over a thousand reasons: such as that he could be more use to Karamago as a free man, that he would go to testify about Teodora’s trade in relics . . . But only one thing was true: that man had saved his life, sacrificed himself without denouncing him, and he had done nothing to prevent this injustice.
To ease his sense of guilt, he started thinking about the possibility that Karamago might really be guilty of the killings, but the more he thought about it, the more ashamed he was of this theory. It just did not add up. Gouging people’s eyes out was not very profitable. It made more sense to make a deal with the undertakers and take the eyes from corpses. Besides, all the victims were connected to the world of glassmakers and their eyeballs had been replaced by beautiful, well-crafted and polished spheres of glass. Karamago was a merchant and knew nothing about the art of glassmaking. After listening to the witnesses, the Doge’s judges would reach the same conclusion and release him. He had to stay calm. Karamago was in no danger.
Freed from that worry, Edgardo regained some of his courage. There was no noise coming from downstairs. The room sounded empty. He remained hidden a little longer, waiting for the pale evening light to trail off completely, then left the attic.
He pulled the hood over his face and walked down deserted streets submerged in the darkness of a moonless night. He kept close to the walls like a thief, listening out for any creaking or sucking sounds, his mind obscured by a muddle of contrasting thoughts and feelings. He reached the Brolo. The shadow of the basilica suddenly appeared before him, like a huge whale emerging from the water, barring his way. He walked swiftly toward the dock, in search of a gondola to ferry him to San Giorgio.
When he neared the Doge’s castle, he noticed near the tower a dark shape swaying in midair. He approached hesitantly.
Suspended from a long pole with a rope around his neck, a man’s body was swinging. To his horror, he recognized Karamago’s face.
He had spat out his tongue, and his arms and legs were stiff as a salted cod. There was a seagull perched on his head, pecking at him violently, trying to swallow in one gulp a choice morsel provided by the man: an eye, fresh that day. Edgardo stood petrified, unable to take his eyes off the horrible spectacle. They had hanged him. What about the trial, the judges, the evidence, the witnesses? They had executed an innocent Karamago and he had done nothing to stop it.
He heard a rustle behind him. A boatman with an oar over his shoulder was walking toward the dock.
“Did you see, Father, they got the eye murderer, and now look at this canker . . . Justice, finally.”
“But . . . Has there already been a trial?” Edgardo stammered.
“Oh, yes, the trial,” the man laughed smugly. “It was us who put him on trial, without wasting time . . . The judgment of the people is the judgment of God.”
Edgardo could not take his eyes off poor Karamago, or the seagull enjoying its meal. He crossed himself and whispered a prayer.
“It’s too late, Father, this fellow is already roasting in hell,” the boatman said, heading for the dock. “Do you need a boat?”
Edgardo nodded and followed him, his head down.
Crossing the basin in front of San Marco, Edgardo saw in the stretch of deep, black water the reflection of his own soul, and for the first time he saw with clarity the truth about himself, the truth he had tried to hide and had never wanted to accept. That he was a coward—a coward of the worst kind. Fear was his queen and she ruled his heart and mind, shaping his every action and choice.
Suddenly, he remembered very clearly something that had happened when he was just a boy, something he had chosen to keep concealed in his heart.
Despite his crippled body, his father had trained him, alongside his brother Ruggero, to be a valiant knight. He was the eldest and that was his destiny. He had learned to ride even though it caused him unbearable pain. He had been taught to handle a sword and to shoot with a bow and arrow. With great effort, overcoming the limitations imposed by his body, the young Edgardo d’Arduino had adapted to military rules, to the principles of knighthood, to the rough, harsh life that was demanded by his rank.
Then the day of christening on the field had arrived—the rite of initiation. He was supposed to go with his brother and a group of soldiers to patrol the border of their county.
He did not sleep all night, thinking about the enterprise awaiting him. A languid tremor had seized his limbs, and he was sweating as though with a high fever.
They left the castle at dawn. The armor was wet with dew, the weapons glowed, and steam evaporated from the heat of the horses’ backs. They rode in silence as far as the river. For a moment, Edgardo was even able to enjoy the excitement of feeling at one with the nature that surrounded him: the green expanses, the fog, the light wind, the icy brine on his face.
After patrolling the bank, they went as far as the edge of a forest of oaks. Everything seemed quiet. Suddenly, they heard shouts, the sound of broken branch
es and horses neighing, and found themselves faced with five figures wrapped in black rags, armed with clubs and burnished blades.
The figures galloped at them, with inhuman screams, attacking them without a reason, without even knowing who they were. Spiraling violence that came from the darkest shadows, overwhelming them. Even though the knights were larger in numbers, the strangers had a kind of furious, primitive wrath that increased their strength.
The battle flared in an instant. Bodies, animals, and blades merged and crossed in a pattern of primeval chaos. At first, Edgardo managed instinctively to strike a blow on the neck of an enemy. A spurt of blood hit him in the face and filled his mouth. He thought he was choking. The sickly sweet taste entered his heart and he felt all his energy, all his mental clarity, all the strength in his arms, ebb away. His body became limp, defenseless, numb. He tried to shake himself, turned his horse, and found himself on the margins of the fight. For a moment, he was able to gather his wits about him and saw his brother boxed in by two men who were attacking him viciously.
“I must run to Ruggero’s aid,” he thought, “or he’ll die.”
He heard his voice repeat that thought but his limbs did not obey his command. He was petrified, a knight without a soul, unable to act, unable to break the bond of fear that gripped him tight.
He did not move; he watched impotently as his brother struggled fiercely to save his own life. A few minutes later, one of his soldiers freed himself from the scrum and managed to intervene, saving Ruggero and forcing the remaining assailants to flee.
The return trip was for Edgardo an endless journey toward the undoing of his existence. Step by step, everything crumbled: dignity, honor, his rank, his self-respect, the right to live alongside his peers. He could never again look his brother in the eye or utter a word. He just felt like a crippled little creature without a future.
Back at the castle, in recounting for their father what had happened, Ruggero made no mention of Edgardo’s cowardice.
The following day, after a tormented night, Edgardo announced to his father that he wished to enter an abbey as a cleric and to devote himself to studying. His deformed body did not allow him to carry with dignity the honor and responsibilities expected of a knight. His father willingly agreed, glad he would not be seeing his crippled firstborn around again.
And so his monastic life had begun. He had blotted out that incident for years, continuing to tell himself the lie that his choice had been dictated by the limitations of his body, while he knew only too well that he had decided to retire to a monastery because it was the only suitable refuge for a coward.
XXI.
ICE
No, stop. It’s my turn!”
“The canker on you. You’ve already had two throws.”
“It’s not true, shit-face!”
“Then get on with it, slowcoach.”
A little boy picked up a stone from the ground and got ready to throw it. It whistled through the air and brushed the ear, missing its aim.
“Dirty pig. It’s my turn now.”
A group of urchins in ragged cloaks were bustling around the foot of the gallows where Karamago’s body was still hanging.
That winter morning, the people of Venetia beheld an extraordinary sight. An icy bora wind had come down from the north during the night and, in a short space of time, had frozen the entire lagoon, as well as the merchant’s wretched body. His long, windswept beard had frozen in midair, like the ribbon of a lady’s headdress, forming a kind of embroidery suspended in the void. A crow that had landed on his shoulder to peck at what was left of his eyeballs had been caught in the blast of frost and remained wrapped in a skin of ice, like a stuffed animal placed as a decoration on an equestrian statue. That was what the little boys were using as a mark for their stones, like target shooting at a fair.
The Brolo outside San Marco was a single slate of thin ice, as transparent as the purest rock crystal. Galleys, chelandions, and scaulas stood stuck in the dock, trapped by thick slabs of ice. The entire city had been struck by a blinding, painful light that stabbed the eyes like the point of an arrow. The waters had been high over the previous days and had penetrated every gap and every corner, leaving a layer of damp everywhere. Consequently, the frost had infiltrated the oddest places: the brickwork of the basilica, the blades of grass and the branches of the trees, the folds of the sails, the hair and beards of the sailors, the assholes of birds, the thighs of whores, the open wounds of lepers, the toothless mouths, and the streams of piss between the calli, turning the latter, as though by magic, into glistening, pale yellow waterfalls.
Nobody could take a step without ending up ass over tip. Everywhere, you could see dramatic slipping and slow, quiet sliding. Women rolled cheerfully with their baskets of vegetables, fishermen slid while dragging their nets, boys pushed one another on the bank on improvised sleds, laughing at the sight of gondolas, loaded with people, being pulled by oxen and horses, gliding across the lagoon as though on a wide expanse of eel jelly.
Even though an icy wind had turned Venetia to stone, the city’s daily activities, albeit a little slower, had not ground to a halt, and Zoto had returned to the Brolo to admire his work of art and claim the credit for having obtained justice for the wretches who had been so brutally murdered. The culprit had gotten what he deserved, and now the city was safe.
“We’ll catch that foreign monk next!” he shouted smugly, boasting to the layabouts who were loitering by the hanging man, enjoying the spectacle of little boys target shooting.
A voice rose from the group. “Are you absolutely sure he was guilty?”
“Of course. We found the eyes in his shop.”
“Karamago was just a merchant who thought he was clever, but he wouldn’t have killed even a mouse.” Maestro Tàtaro approached the hanging man. “Still, that crow on his shoulder gives him a princely air. Leave it there when you bury him.”
People laughed.
“Who are you?” asked Tàtaro.
“Zoto, the crystal-maker.”
“Was it you who hired out an oven to Segrado?”
“Yes—why, there’s no law against it, is there?”
Tàtaro pressed his lips together, as though to stifle a curse, took him by the cloak, and pulled him aside. “Listen to me, you canker, do you know who I am?”
“Tàtaro, the glassmaker.”
“Then you also know that I have many ovens in Amurianum, and that I often require the services of a good crystal-maker.”
“Everybody knows Zoto is the best in town.”
“Good. Come and see me in Amurianum, and we’ll definitely find you something to do.”
“Thank you, Maestro.”
“I’m telling you now, I’m also interested in your oven. So if, one day, you decide to sell it, you could make good money.”
“For the time being, I’ve hired it out to Segrado.”
“Exactly. So keep me informed of how his business is going. It won’t be hard for you to see if he’s working on new glass, or if he’s concocting some cock-and-bull formula.” Tàtaro’s expression turned nasty. “Take a peek every now and then—do you get my meaning?”
“Of course, I understand perfectly, Maestro, don’t worry.”
“You know, just out of curiosity . . . ” Maestro Tàtaro added with a strained smile that made his lips almost disappear. “I’ll expect you at the foundry, then.”
He said goodbye and walked away, taking small, skating steps toward the basilica, where his workmen were arranging mosaic tesserae.
Zoto took a look at his own masterpiece. With a well-aimed shot, a little boy had just managed to knock down the frozen crow. Shame. Now the hanging man had lost some of his dignity.
To beg for forgiveness, to do penance, to purge his body and soul of all sin through prayer. Soon after Lauds, while it was still dark, Edgardo had retired
to the herb garden cloisters to recite the psalms from the Psalter. He knew that an offense against God could not be erased with a few prayers, but it was the only way he could ease his tormented soul and regain some hope and clarity. He walked slowly around the portico, his head down and his eyes half-closed, whispering his litany.
The curve of her belly, the scent of her sex, the fold of her breast, the taste of her lips. He was persecuted by these images and recollections, so he raised his voice, prayed louder, walked faster. The roundness of her buttocks and that split that went down between her thighs, oozing with dew he wanted to drink. Her hoarse voice, those incomprehensible words, the narrow cut of her eyes brimming with desire . . .
Images of Kallis’s body hurled against him like Barbarian armies invading his mind, sacking his thoughts, slaughtering his good intentions. Pray, pray, and pray more to banish the devil’s temptation. Scream his repentance at the sky and ask God to forgive him.
What repentance? What forgiveness? Edgardo could not stop thinking about Kallis or wanting her, and was unable to cast her out of his mind. Her body had snaked into every corner of his brain and taken possession of it. He would have given anything to drink from her lips, to caress her skin, to stroke her hair. May God forgive me—is the power of the flesh that great? Is this what people call love? Is it this devastating force that capsizes everything, then stamps all over it?
Walk faster, Edgardo, and scream your prayer, so that Our Lord may hear your supplication and deliver you from this wondrous spell.
“I’ve found you at last.” Ademaro had suddenly appeared out of the darkness behind him. “You’re sweating . . . You’re so pale . . . Stop—for the love of God, stop.”
“I can’t. I must keep walking, moving, otherwise temptations will have the advantage.”
“What’s happening to you, Brother?” Ademaro’s voice was that of his old friend.
“I’m lost, Ademaro. Forever damned. I can’t tell you everything, but events snowballed and I found myself caught up in an avalanche I don’t have the power to stop.”
The Eye Stone Page 17