The tribune, who in the meantime had suspended his inquiry, would have to start afresh, although everybody knew that a new culprit would never be found. Many believed that the eye murderer was protected by a devilish power that would safeguard him from any punishment. Thus, this terrible event drifted away from the human dimension and into the realm of the supernatural, and was added to other ill omens that had manifested themselves in Venetia in recent months.
Segrado seemed possessed by a kind of fever, an uncontrollable frenzy. He had to finish the crystalline glass cruet as soon as possible, as though his life was slipping away through his fingers.
Kallis had fallen asleep on a mat on the floor, behind the furnace. They had worked all night but the maestro was not satisfied. After many attempts, adding and subtracting the powder of manganese, he had not yet succeeded in achieving the limpidity the container of Christ’s blood deserved.
He had blown a cylinder tapered at the top, a little dome-shaped lid, and another cylinder he would then weld to the base. Yet he was not satisfied. There was always an imperceptible imperfection. A bubble almost invisible to the naked eye had marred the piece. Also, the transparency was not as he had imagined it. He had to start from scratch.
He was exhausted. He lay down next to Kallis and closed his eyes. A vision penetrated his restless sleep. Rays of light, like incandescent swords, were coming down on him, piercing him through. Yet he felt no pain but, on the contrary, a sense of immense bliss.
A hard knock echoed through his head, and he shook himself. He had only slept for a few moments but it felt like days. Someone was knocking at the door. He staggered to his feet, shook his head to get rid of the fragments of light that were still vibrating before his eyes, and went to open the door automatically, forgetting all caution. In the opalescent morning light, blinded by the glare from the saltworks, he did not recognize the person at the door straight away.
“I want to talk with you.” It was Tàtaro. His voice was hoarse, and his skin even drier and more wrinkled.
Segrado immediately closed the door behind him and carefully walked away from the foundry. “What do you want?”
“They’ve found Zoto, the crystal-maker, murdered.” Tàtaro stared at him with a prying expression. Segrado grimaced.
“Don’t feign surprise, Segrado. We know it was you who gouged out his eyes.”
“What are you saying, you canker? I haven’t gouged anybody’s eyes out.”
A kind of sob, like a gurgle, rose from Tàtaro’s stomach. “Zoto threatened to take the oven away from you. You were seen attacking him.”
“He was a Barabbas. He would have butchered his own mother for a handful of coins.”
“I could tell everything to the tribune,” Tàtaro hissed.
With a swipe of his paw, Segrado grabbed him by the cloak and pulled him toward him. He stank of spice and onions.
“It was you who killed Niccolò,” Segrado growled. “If you want to denounce me, I’m ready to fight.”
“Wait, let’s say . . . that nobody saw anything.”
Segrado relaxed his grip.
“I don’t care about that cripple, his place is in hell. However, the situation has changed now. Zoto’s foundry will go up for sale, and I could use it.”
As he spoke, Tàtaro took a few steps toward the saltworks and, for a moment, remained silent, watching the men at work. Segrado was trying to read his intentions.
“It’s time we stopped fighting,” Tàtaro continued. “It doesn’t serve either of us well. Together, we could reach the top. With our knowledge, working side by side, we’ll become the richest and most powerful glassmakers in Venetia.”
Segrado had never heard Tàtaro speak like that. “I’ve already told you, I’m not prepared to work under you.”
Tàtaro leaned sideways, spread open his arms, and gave a small smile. “No, you don’t understand!” he said. “We’ll start a partnership. We’ll go halves to buy this oven and join forces. We’re the same, Segrado. You’ve always known that, ever since we were garzoni. We both want to rise to the top.”
Segrado wondered what was happening. Why this sudden change? Was Tàtaro asking him to become a partner? Even yesterday, that would have been unthinkable.
Maybe he had heard something about the crystalline glass. Perhaps, before dying, Zoto had talked, and now Tàtaro was seeking an alliance in order to exploit his discovery. He saw that Tàtaro was breathing heavily, exhausted, as though what he had just said had cost him a huge effort. He had him in his hands. After enduring a thousand humiliations, Tàtaro was now proposing an alliance, begging him to work together as equals.
Segrado could not help emitting a smug growl. He picked a few salt crystals from the ground and rolled them in the palm of his hand.
“So, what do you think?”
“You see, Tàtaro, it’s not true to say that we’re the same.” Segrado’s tone was one of triumph. “It’s true that we both want to rise to the top, but for you, the top represents power and wealth. For me, it’s to go beyond what’s imaginable, to achieve the impossible, to seek perfection. We could never work together. You’ve got your eyes on the ground, and I on the sky. I don’t need you. I’ve achieved what I wanted.” He stared into his eyes. “What I’ve discovered will change the course of glass-making history and nothing will ever be the same again . . . Just accept it. Your era is over.”
Tàtaro bent forward, as though resisting a strong gust of wind, then wet his pale lips to gather his strength. “You’re committing the sin of pride, Segrado. You’re defying God. Remember that the punishment of the Almighty falls suddenly and unexpectedly on those who think they’re above everybody else. Do you want to remain alone? It’s your prerogative, but remember, death falls like an ax when you least expect it . . . and then what will become of your discovery? Nothing.” Tàtaro regurgitated a hollow laugh from his stomach. “You haven’t thought of that, Segrado, have you? It’s death that decides everything. She is queen, while we’re nothing. Think about it, Segrado, think.”
Tàtaro peered into his chest with his tiny, snake eyes, then did a pirouette and, gurgling to himself, walked away with small, tired steps.
He was awoken by splatters of rain wetting his face, and by an unbearable stench of urine. An old man was pissing just inches away from his face. Edgardo jumped to his feet, wrapped himself in his cloak, and spat on the ground.
In the morning mist, he made out a heap of bodies, massed like worms under the portico, tight and jammed atop one another. Some were pushing, looking for a space, while others were standing and relieving themselves without any shame. A whiff of stench suddenly took his breath away and almost made him vomit.
His sense of smell had become so sharp, it exposed his body to violent transformation. He was growing sensitive to every exhalation, and was now able to recognize the most different varieties of hidden smells. Beneath the cloak which, like a blanket, enveloped this humanity made up of outcasts, mixed together in a nauseating eddy, he could smell the rancid sweat permanently embedded in the beggars’ rags, the rot of the lepers’ festering wounds, the steaming excrement laid in the laurel bushes, an imperceptible scent of incense escaping from the church, the burps smelling of fish digested the night before, and especially, overlaid on top of everything else, the sulphurous miasma carried by the winds from the lagoon.
He tried to shake himself and looked around for a well to get some fresh water. Many beggars had already formed a line for the food. He could not bear the thought of that disgusting soup again. He rummaged in his bag. He still had a little money. Perhaps he could buy a piece of goat cheese and some barley bread in the campo. He left the courtyard and headed toward the canal, in search of a shop. His hip bones were aching and a sharp pain shot through his back with every step he took.
He tried to organize his thoughts. What should he do next? He could not keep living like this
. Kallis had told him to wait. But what if she had forgotten about him? He had to make a decision.
He was thinking when someone knocked him violently to the ground. A body weighed on top of him, stinking of vomit. He was struck in the ear, in the nose. There was a sound of bones, and the taste of blood. Paralyzed with fear, he curled up, trying to shield himself from the increasingly hard blows on his back and head.
“Pull out the money . . . The money . . . Get it out.”
He thought it was the end of him. A beggar murdered for a few coins. It happened every day. Then he heard screaming, the blows became less frequent until they stopped, and he heard footsteps hurrying away.
“He ran away . . . he ran away . . . There’s no more danger.”
A hand was placed on his aching shoulder. “Can you get up?”
Edgardo opened his eyes. Through his tears, he recognized a monk’s habit. He slowly raised his head, thinking it was a vision, a miracle sent by God. “My friend . . . ” he whispered.
Ademaro took a step back. At first, he did not recognize him, it couldn’t be him: dressed like a beggar, his beard overgrown, and his tousled hair caked with salt.
“Merciful God . . . Edgardo.”
Edgardo gave a crooked smile. The best he could do with a split lip.
“Go and fetch some water,” Ademaro ordered the monk who was with him.
Edgardo recognized Rainardo, the young novice to whom he had given writing lessons. Ademaro helped him to his feet and supported him as far as a boat abandoned on the bank.
“Sit here.” He began dabbing his wounds with the edge of his cowl. “How is this possible? In such a state . . . What happened to you, my friend?” He shook his head, an afflicted expression on his face. “Why are you here? I thought you were already in Bobbio.”
Edgardo struggled to find the right words, since he was not sure why he was there either. “We shared a path for a while, Ademaro. We had moments of brotherhood and joyous spirituality. But now, my life has taken a different turn. I still don’t know where I’m going, but I couldn’t lie to myself any longer. The abbey was no more than a safe haven, and perhaps it has been the same for writing. The time has come for me to throw myself into the world.”
Ademaro did not seem to understand. “What about the habit, the books, the monastery?”
“Away with it all. I must start from the beginning. I must confront myself and my fears.”
“How will you manage on your own, without any support? As you can see, you could be attacked at any moment.”
“I’ll learn to defend myself.”
Ademaro was not reassured. “Listen, my friend. I’ve just taken my leave of the Archbishop. We’re returning to Bobbio. The novice is coming with me. Join us.”
“I’m happy that he’s taken my place. This way you won’t be alone.”
“I can’t leave you like this.”
“Don’t worry about me. God will show me the way.”
Rainardo came running back with a carafe full of water, and leaned toward Edgardo, offering him a drink. He took a long, restorative sip. He washed his face and wet his hair. The novice was about to step back.
“Wait. Another sip.”
He took him by the sleeve, and Rainardo handed him the carafe once more. Edgardo sniffed it. It was a subtle thread of smells stirring memories and images. Where had he smelled that particular odor before? He breathed it in once again, as deeply as he could.
It came back in a flash. Cabbage and gum arabic. The boy stank of cabbage and gum arabic. It was the blend used for making ink. A common smell in scriptoriums, but Edgardo remembered smelling it somewhere else, recently.
“You have a familiar odor, boy.”
“We all have this odor in the scriptorium. It’s ink.”
“Yes, I know it well. It’s a unique smell, and, in fact, I was wondering how come I’d recently smelled it in the foundry of a master glassmaker, while I was bent over my sack, looking among my belongings.” He stopped and stared at Ademaro. “Looking for the copy of a manuscript that had been stolen from me.”
The novice got up abruptly and gave Ademaro an imploring look. The latter did not move.
“My friend, do you have an explanation for this strange coincidence?” Edgardo said.
Ademaro bowed his head, as though overwhelmed by deathly weariness.
XXV.
THE METAPHYSICS OF LIGHT
Time froze like a marble bas-relief. Two stone figures, focused on their individual remorse, awaiting the truth, saw memories of their strong friendship flash before their eyes, with its struggles, its pains, its mutual joys, faith, and passion for writing and knowledge.
“No more obscure answers, tell me the truth, Ademaro.”
Edgardo’s voice sounded deeply afflicted. Ademaro looked up at the sky, searching for a gash of blue among the low, level clouds. Rainardo took a step back, as though to make room for a clash between the two friends.
“You’re right. The time for lies has ended.” He approached Edgardo and sat down next to him. He looked at the novice. “That night, Rainardo caught you in the library and tried to stop you. He didn’t recognize you, so he started investigating and found that Alhazen’s manuscript was in the wrong place, which meant that someone had secretly read it, and perhaps even copied it. He had a few suspicions about you but, not wishing to harm you, instead of telling the abbot immediately, he confided in me. I firmly denied your involvement, knowing you would never have committed an act against the rules of the abbey, and that you were perfectly aware that no book could leave the library without the abbot’s permission. Rainardo wasn’t so sure, and said that, if I agreed, he’d investigate on his own. I allowed him. The issue was so serious that no stone could be left unturned. He tried many times to discover if you were really involved, and if you were hiding a copy of the manuscript. He followed you to Venetia, to check if you frequented characters of ill repute. He searched the foundry of that master glassmaker to see if you had hidden the copy there, but found nothing. He also looked in your cell, but with no success. However, he did discover a quill, ink, and sheets of parchment, so his suspicion that somehow you were guilty grew stronger. The other night, when you announced that you were returning to Bobbio, Rainardo thought that if you’d made a copy, you’d take it away with you. So he followed you . . . ” Ademaro tried to meet his friend’s eye. “He was right. He said he found it in your sack, and that it wasn’t difficult to get it back.”
Edgardo had been listening with his head bowed, his blood dripping onto the dust. “Yes, it’s true. I made a copy of the one chapter from Alhazen’s book. It could have been of immense help in creating the eye stone. That’s the only reason I did it. It was you yourself who brought me here to try to find a remedy for my ailment . . . ” Edgardo raised his head with a sudden burst of energy. “But tell me, Ademaro, why was it so important to get back the copy of the manuscript? Why wasn’t it supposed to leave the abbey?”
Ademaro stiffened, and assumed a cold, didactic expression. “A copy of that manuscript!”
“So then you knew the contents of Alhazen’s treatise.”
The flap of a seagull’s wings cut through the silence that had descended between the two friends.
“I remember that when I asked you,” Edgardo continued, “you said you knew nothing about books on optics.”
“When we came to Venetia, I didn’t know what Ermanno di Carinzia was translating. It’s always like that. It’s only after I arrive that I’m informed of the situation.”
Edgardo could not understand his friend’s logic, and some of his points seemed obscure. “What do you mean by ‘I’m informed of the situation’?”
Ademaro sighed. He had gone too far.
“Explain it to me,” Edgardo insisted.
Ademaro looked at his friend, reduced to a miserable state, bleeding and wearing
torn clothes, seemingly a cause lost forever. “After we arrived, Abbot Carimanno showed me the manuscripts that, in his opinion, had to be protected. Alhazen’s De Aspectibus was among them.”
Edgardo’s agitation grew with every word. “Protected from whom? Me?” he asked with involuntary defiance in his voice.
Ademaro leapt to his feet, annoyed. “Surely you don’t think that we can circulate freely all the books that come from Greece and the Orient? We must make a selection, read them, evaluate them, and make a choice. Would you have humanity indiscriminately given dangerous theories and blasphemies that could subvert all the rules and undermine the foundations of Christianity?”
Edgardo looked at him, stunned. “And so you . . . ”
“It’s a task that carries heavy responsibilities. It’s not easy to choose. You’re often tormented by doubts. Fortunately, divine light shows you the way . . . I’m proud to have been chosen for this task, which I perform in all humility.”
Edgardo closed his eyes, struggling to understand. “But these ‘protected’ manuscripts, as you call them—what happens to them?”
“Well, they’re certainly not destroyed. Whatever else, knowledge is sacred. We collect them at Bobbio Abbey, store them apart, and shield them from prying eyes. If they were spread throughout the libraries of other abbeys, we would have no control over them, and knowledge would then circulate freely.”
“But this way, you and a handful of others decide what it’s right to allow people to read, and what to transmit to scholars and wise men?”
“It’s natural that it should be so. It’s the only way to safeguard knowledge.” Ademaro was so certain, so decided. Edgardo almost envied him.
“So why is Alhazen’s manuscript considered dangerous? I don’t understand.”
Ademaro exchanged glances with Rainardo, a look of complicity between two followers of the same sect. “All our certainties, the pillars of our faith, are based on the words of the Fathers. Our strength lies in transmitting a heritage that is immutable. Anything new could turn out to be dangerous and subversive to order. Everything we need to know has been passed on to us by Aristotle and Saint Augustine. Anyone who questions the knowledge of our Fathers is a threat to the social and political order. Anyone convinced that the horizons of our knowledge can be widened and that there are unexplored fields, new worlds to be discovered, is the incarnation of absolute evil. As Saint Augustine teaches us, the soul can reach the world of eternal truths only if it’s ‘enlightened’ by God. Divine enlightenment creates a process of indirect enlightenment where the soul ‘sees’ eternal truths, and, through these, can judge everything else. In his treatise, however, Alhazen introduces the concept that the reading of empirical reality can happen only through experimentation. Our great Aristotle has already answered all possible questions, so there’s no point in experimenting. De Aspectibus is a collection of observations from which the scholar draws a series of conclusions. According to Alhazen, only eyesight allows belief, so demonstration is fundamental. If one followed this path, one would end up subverting the primacy of the word, and of hearing. We’d then go from the primacy of the mind, of writing, to visual proof, which is deceptive and transient. According to his theories, God created a little-known, mysterious world that man can investigate. This way, Alhazen no longer relies on conceptual experiments, but on the observation of nature by means of instruments that can only create false knowledge, lies, and distortions—just like his experiments with refraction. So, Edgardo, do you understand what a danger such a book represents for our survival? The spreading of his principles would mean the end of knowledge.”
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