by Umberto Eco
As for saving face, Baudolino realized, from something the emperor said one day, referring to his boyhood feat—the time he had persuaded the Terdona people to surrender—that if Frederick could only exploit a sign from heaven, any sign, allowing him to announce urbi et orbi that heaven itself was suggesting they go back home, Frederick would seize the opportunity...
One day, while Baudolino was talking with the besieged, Gagliaudo said to him: "You're so intelligent and you've studied the books where everything is written—don't you have some idea that will make everybody leave, now that we've had to slaughter our cows, except for one, and your mother is going to die of suffocation, penned up in the city like this?"
And then Baudolino had a fine idea, and he immediately asked if they had actually invented that false tunnel Trotti had talked about a few years before, the tunnel the enemy was to believe led straight into the city, but really led the invader into a trap. "Of course," Trotti said, "come and see. Look. The tunnel opens over there, in that thicket two hundred feet from the walls, just below a kind of boundary stone that looks like it's been there for a thousand years but really we brought it from Villa del Foro. And anyone who enters there ends up here, beneath that grating, from which you can see the tavern and nothing else."
"And as one comes out, you do him in?"
"The fact is that, generally, with a tunnel that narrow, it would take days for all the besiegers to come through, so they send only one squad of men, who are supposed to reach the gates and open them. Now, apart from the fact that we don't know how to inform the enemy that there's a tunnel, after you've killed maybe twenty or, at most, thirty poor bastards, was it worth the effort to do all that work? It's nothing but a cheap trick."
"If it's only to hit them on the head. But listen to the scene I can almost see with these eyes of mine: the moment the men come in, a blast of trumpets sounds and, in the light of ten torches, from that corner appears a man with a long white beard and a white cloak, on a white horse with a great white cross in his hand, and he shouts: Citizens, citizens, wake up, the enemy is here. Before the invaders have made up their mind to move a step, our people appear at the windows and on the rooftops. And after the enemies are captured, our people sink to their knees and cry that the man in white is Saint Peter, who is protecting the city, and they push the imperials back into the tunnel, saying, Thank God that we're sparing your lives; go to the camp of your Barbarossa and tell them that the New City of Pope Alexander is protected by Saint Peter in person...."
"And will Barbarossa believe a tale like that?"
"No, because he's not stupid, but since he's not stupid, he will pretend to believe it because he's more anxious to end this than you people are."
"Let's suppose you're right. Who'll arrange to have the tunnel discovered?"
"Me."
"And where are you going to find the asshole who falls for it?"
"I've already found him, and he's such an asshole that he'll fall right into the trap on his shitty face, as he deserves, but anyway we agree that nobody gets killed."
Baudolino had in mind that fop Count Ditpold, and to spur Ditpold into action it was enough to make him believe he was harming Baudolino. So all they had to do was let Ditpold find out that there was a tunnel and that Baudolino didn't want it discovered. How? Nothing easier, since Ditpold had his spies following Baudolino.
After nightfall, returning to the camp, Baudolino first passed through a little clearing, then entered the wood, but once he was among the trees, he stopped and looked back just in time to see, in the moonlight, an agile shadow slipping, almost on all fours, through the open space. It was the man Ditpold had put on his heels. Baudolino waited among the trees until the spy was about to fall on him, pointed his sword at the man's chest and, while the other was stammering in fear, he said to him in Flemish: "I recognize you. You're one of the Brabantines. What were you doing outside the camp? Speak! I'm one of the emperor's ministerials!"
The man said something about a woman, and sounded almost convincing. "All right," Baudolino said. "In any case it's lucky you're here. I need someone to guard my back while I do something."
For the other man this was a blessing. Not only had he not been discovered, but he could continue his spying arm-in-arm with its object. Baudolino reached the thicket Trotti had mentioned. He didn't have to pretend, because he really did have to scratch around to find the stone, while he grumbled as if to himself about receiving word from one of his informers. He found the stone, which did look as if it had grown there with the bushes; he worked over it, scraping foliage away until he had uncovered a grating. He asked the Brabantine to help him lift it: there were three steps. "Now listen," he said to the Brabantine. "Go down these steps and move forward until you reach the end of the tunnel, where you may see some lights. Take a good look at what you see and don't forget any of it. Then come back and report. I'll stay here on guard."
To the soldier it seemed natural, however painful, that a gentleman should first ask him to stand guard and then should stand guard himself, while sending him into the unknown. Baudolino had brandished his sword, surely to cover his back, but with lords there was never any telling. The spy made the sign of the cross and set out. When he returned after about twenty minutes, gasping, he reported what Baudolino already knew: that at the end of the passage there was another grating, not very hard to lift, and beyond it was a solitary little square, and so this tunnel led right into the heart of the city.
Baudolino asked: "Were there some turns, or did you go straight forward?" "Straight," the man replied. And Baudolino, as if talking to himself, said: "So the exit is a few dozen meters from the gates. That traitor was right...." Then, to the Brabantine: "You realize what we've discovered. The first time there's an attack on the walls, a squad of brave men can enter the city, fight their way to the gates and open them; we just have to have more troops outside, ready to enter. My fortune is made. But you must tell no one what you have seen tonight, because I don't want anyone taking advantage of my discovery." With a munificent air he handed him a coin, and the price of silence was so ridiculous that, if not out of loyalty to Ditpold, at least for revenge, the spy would immediately run and tell him everything.
It requires little imagination to picture what was to happen. Thinking that Baudolino wanted to keep the news secret, so as not to harm his besieged friends, Ditpold hurried to tell the emperor that his beloved son had discovered an entrance into the city but was taking care not to reveal it. The emperor raised his eyes to heaven as if to say: the dear boy, him too, then he said to Ditpold: very well, I offer you the glory; towards sunset I'll deploy for you a good attack force just outside the gate, I'll have some onagers and some rams placed near the thicket. When you slip into the tunnel with your men it will be almost dark and nobody will notice you, you enter the city, open the gates from inside, and overnight you become a hero."
The bishop of Speyer immediately claimed the command of the forces outside the gate, because Ditpold, he said, was like his own son. Imagine!
And so, on the afternoon of Good Friday, when Trotti saw the imperials waiting outside the gate, as always when darkness was falling, he understood it was a display to distract the besieged, and behind it there was the hand of Baudolino. So, discussing it with Guasco, Boidi, and Oberto del Foro, he took care to provide a credible Saint Peter; one of the original consuls, Rodolfo Nebia, volunteered, and had the suitable physique. They wasted only a half hour debating whether the apparition should hold the cross or the usual keys, deciding on the cross, which would be more visible in the gloaming.
Baudolino was a short distance from the gates, certain that there would be no battle, because someone would first emerge from the tunnel bearing the news of the celestial assistance. And, in fact, in the time of three Paters, Aves, and Glorias, from inside the walls a great stir was heard, a voice that to all seemed superhuman shouted: "To arms, to arms, my faithful Alessandrians!" and a chorus of terrestrial voices cried: "It's Saint
Peter! Oh, miracle! Miracle!"
But right at this point something went wrong. As they would later explain to Baudolino, Ditpold and his men had been promptly caught and everyone tried to convince them that Saint Peter had appeared. They would probably have fallen for it, the lot of them, except Ditpold, who knew very well from whom the revelation of the tunnel had come, and—stupid, but not that stupid—he realized that the idea had been conceived by Baudolino. He freed himself from his captors' grip, ran down a narrow street shouting in such a loud voice that nobody could understand what language he was talking, and in the twilight they believed he was one of them. But when he was on the wall, it was obvious that he was addressing the besiegers, to warn them of a trap—it wasn't clear what he was protecting them against, since those outside, if the gate wasn't opened, couldn't come in and therefore were hardly at risk. It made no difference that, precisely because of his stupidity, Ditpold had courage and was at the top of the wall waving his sword and challenging all the Alessandrians. They—as the rules of a siege demand—could not admit that an enemy had reached the wall, even if arriving from within. Above all, only a few were in on the plot, and the rest suddenly saw an Alaman in their midst as if nothing had happened. So someone decided to stick a pike into Ditpold's back, flinging him down from the bastion.
At the sight of his best-beloved comrade falling lifeless at the foot of the keep, the bishop of Speyer lost his head completely and ordered the attack. In a normal situation, the Alessandrians would have behaved as usual, firing on the attackers from the top of the fortifications, but as the enemy pressed at the gates, a rumor was spreading that Saint Peter had appeared, to save the city from danger, and he was preparing to lead a victorious sortie. Meanwhile, Trotti had thought to exploit this misunderstanding, and had sent his bogus Saint Peter to go out first, drawing all the others after him.
In short, Baudolino's trick, which should have clouded the minds of the assailants, clouded instead those of the assailed: the Alessandrians, gripped by mystic furor and by the most bellicose ecstasy, were flinging themselves like beasts against the imperials—and in such a disordered way, contrary to the rules of the art of war, that the bishop of Speyer and his knights, bewildered, fell back, imitated by those who were meant to push the crossbowmen's towers, leaving them at the very edge of the fatal thicket. For the Alessandrians it was an open invitation: immediately Anselmo Medico with his Piacentines slipped into the tunnel, which now was truly helpful, and emerged behind the Genoese, with a group of bold men carrying poles on which they had stuck balls of burning pitch. And so the Genoese towers caught fire like kindling. The crossbowmen jumped off, but as they hit the ground, the Alessandrians were there to strike their heads with clubs; one tower first tilted, then crumbled, spreading flames among the bishop's cavalry, the horses seemed crazed, upsetting the ranks of the imperials even more, and those not on horseback contributed to the disorder, because they ran through the ranks of the riders shouting that Saint Peter in person was arriving, and perhaps also Saint Paul, and some had even seen Saint Sebastian and Saint Tarcisius—the whole Christian Olympus, in other words, had joined that loathsome city.
At night, some men brought to the imperial camp, already in deep mourning, the corpse of the bishop of Speyer, struck in the back as he was fleeing. Frederick sent for Baudolino and asked what his part in this story was and what he knew of it, and Baudolino wanted to sink through the ground, because that evening many brave men had died, including Anselmo Medico of Piacenza, and valorous sergeants, and poor foot soldiers, and all for that fine plan of his—which should have resolved everything without a hair of anyone's head being touched. He threw himself at Frederick's feet, telling him the whole truth, how he had thought to offer him a credible pretext for raising the siege and instead things had gone as they had.
"I'm a wretch, dear Father," he said. "Blood revolts me, and I wanted to keep my hands clean, and spare many other deaths, and look at the slaughter I've wrought. All these deaths are on my conscience!"
"Curse you, or curse those who botched the plan," Frederick replied, apparently more saddened than angered, "because—don't tell this to anyone—that pretext would have indeed been a help to me. I have had fresh news: the League is on the move, perhaps as soon as tomorrow we'll have to fight on two fronts. Your Saint Peter would have convinced the soldiers, but now too many have died, and my barons are demanding revenge. They're going around saying that this is the right moment to teach the people of this city a lesson. It was enough to see those people when they came out: thinner than we are, and they were really making their final effort."
By then it was Holy Saturday. The air was tepid, the fields were decked with flowers, and the trees were joyously sprouting. The people were sad as at a funeral, the imperials because each said it was time to attack and nobody felt like doing it, the Alessandrians because, after the effort of the last sortie, their spirits were high, though their bellies were hanging between their legs. Thus it was that Baudolino's fertile mind set to work again.
He rode once more towards the walls, and found Trotti, Guasco, and the other leaders grave and frowning. They also knew about the arrival of the League, but they had heard from a reliable source that the various communes were deeply divided as to how to proceed, and very uncertain as to whether they should actually attack Frederick.
"Because it's one thing, Master Niketas—now mind you, this is a very fine point that maybe Byzantines aren't subtle enough to grasp—it's one thing to defend yourselves when the emperor is besieging you, and another thing to start a battle on your own initiative. I mean: if your father hits you with his belt, you have the right to try to grab it and tear it from his hands—that's self-defense—but if you're the one who raises his hand to strike your father, then it's patricide. Once you have definitively shown disrespect to the holy and Roman emperor, what do you have left to keep the Italian communes together? You understand, Master Niketas, there they were, having just torn Frederick's troops to pieces, but they continued to recognize him as their sole lord. They didn't want him underfoot, but it would have been awful if he no longer existed: they would have massacred one another not even knowing if they were acting well or badly, because the criterion of right and wrong was, in the end, the emperor."
"So," Guasco said, "the best thing would be for the emperor to abandon immediately the siege of Alessandria, and I assure you the communes would allow him passage to reach Pavia." But how could he be permitted to save appearances? We had already tried the sign from heaven, and the Alessandrians had gained a great satisfaction, but they were again back where they started from. Saint Peter had been too ambitious, Baudolino then remarked, and a vision or an apparition, whatever you choose to call it, is something that's there and isn't there. Besides, the next day it's easy to deny it. Finally, why trouble the saints? Those mercenaries were people who didn't believe even in the Father Almighty; the only thing they believed in was a full belly and a hard cock...."
"Let's suppose..." Gagliaudo said then, with the wisdom that God—as all know—gives only to poor folk, "let's suppose that the imperials capture one of our cows, and they find her so stuffed with wheat that her belly's about to explode. Then Barbarossa and his men will think that we still have so much food that we can hold out in sculasculorum, and so it'll be those very same lords and soldiers who'll say let's clear out, otherwise we'll still be here for next Easter...."
"I've never heard such a stupid idea," Guasco said, and Trotti agreed with him, tapping his brow with one finger, as if to say the old man was by now weak in the head. "And if there was still a cow alive, we'd have already eaten her, even raw," Boidi added.
"Not because this man's my father, but the idea doesn't seem to me something to be disregarded," Baudolino said. "Maybe you've forgotten it, but there is one cow left, and it's Gagliaudo's very own Rosina. The only problem is whether, even if you scrape every corner of the city, you'll find enough wheat to make the animal burst."
"The problem
is that you're a dumb animal yourself, you animal!" Gagliaudo leaped to his feet. "Because obviously to understand that she's full of wheat, the imperials have not only to find her, but also cut her open, and we haven't slaughtered my Rosina because for me and your mother she's like the daughter the Lord never granted us, so nobody's going to touch her: I'd sooner send you to the shambles, after you stay thirty years away from home, while she's stayed here with us, without any bees in her bonnet."
Guasco and the others, who until a moment before were thinking this idea worthy of a madman, once Gagliaudo opposed it became instantly convinced that it was the best conceivable plan, and they bent every effort to convince the old man that, when the fate of the city is involved, you sacrifice even your personal cow, and it was useless for him to say he'd rather give up Baudolino, because cutting open Baudolino wouldn't convince anyone, whereas cutting open the cow might make Barbarossa drop everything. As for the wheat, they didn't have any to squander, but by scratching around, a bit here and a bit there, they should collect enough to fatten Rosina, and without being over-fussy, because once it was in the stomach, it was hard for anyone to say if it was wheat or chaff, and without bothering to remove the weevils, or roaches, or whatever you call them, for in wartime you found them even in the bread.
"Come now, Baudolino," Niketas said, "you're not going to tell me that everyone was seriously considering such a piece of nonsense."