by Umberto Eco
"Not only did we consider it seriously, but—as you'll see subsequently—the emperor took it seriously, too."
In fact, this is how the story went. Towards the third hour of that Holy Saturday all the consuls and the persons of greatest authority in Alessandria were under a shed where a cow was lying, and a more skinny and moribund cow it would be hard to imagine, the hide blotchy, the legs like sticks, the teats seemed ears, the ears seemed nipples, a stunned gaze, even her horns drooping, and the rest more carcass than body, not so much a cow as the ghost of a cow, a Totentanz cow, lovingly tended by Baudolino's mother, who stroked Rosina's head, saying that after all this may be for the best, her sufferings would end, and after a hearty meal, and hence she was better off than her master and mistress.
Nearby, sacks of wheat and seeds kept arriving, collected as best anyone could, and Gagliaudo put the food under the muzzle of the poor creature, urging her to eat. But the cow now looked upon the world with moaning detachment, and no longer even recalled what ruminating meant. So, finally, some hardy souls held her legs fast, others her head, and still others forced her mouth open, and as she was weakly mooing her refusal, they thrust the wheat down her throat, as is done with geese. Then, perhaps out of an instinct for self-preservation, or stirred by the memory of better days, the animal began moving with her tongue all that plenty, and a bit through her own will and a bit through the help of the bystanders, she started to swallow.
It was not a joyous meal, and more than once it seemed to all that Rosina was about to give up her animal soul to God, for she ate as if she were giving birth, between one moan and the next. But then the life force took the upper hand, the cow struggled to her four hoofs and went on eating by herself, sticking her muzzle directly into the sacks that were offered her. In the end what they were all seeing was a quite odd cow, very skinny and melancholy, with her spine protruding and marked as if the bones wanted to escape the hide imprisoning them, while the belly, on the contrary, was opulent, rotund, hydropsical, and taut as if she were heavy with ten calves.
"It won't work, it won't work." Boidi shook his head, in the face of this profoundly sad portent. "Even a fool can see that this animal isn't fat: she's just a cow hide that's been stuffed...."
"And even if they do believe she's fat," Guasco said, "how could they accept the idea that her master still takes her out to pasture, risking the loss of both his life and his precious animal?"
"My friends," Baudolino said, "don't forget that, whoever the men who find her are, they'll be so hungry that they won't stop to see if she's fat here and thin there."
Baudolino was right. Towards the ninth hour Gagliaudo had barely ventured out the gate, to a meadow half a league from the walls, when from the woods came a band of Bohemians, who were surely out hunting for birds, if there was still a bird alive in those parts. They saw the cow, unable to believe their ravenous eyes, they flung themselves on Gagliaudo. He promptly held up his hands, and they dragged him and the animal towards the camp. Soon a crowd had gathered around them, warriors with hollow cheeks and bulging eyes, and poor Rosina's throat was soon slashed by a Como man who seemed to know the art, because he did it with one stroke, and Rosina, in the time it takes to utter an amen, was alive one moment and dead the next. Gagliaudo really did cry, and so the scene appeared convincing to all.
When the animal's belly was cut open, what was to happen happened: all that food that had been so hastily forced into her now poured out on the ground as if it were still intact, and to all it seemed indubitable that it was wheat. The amazement was such that it prevailed over appetite, and in any case hunger had not robbed those armed men of an elementary ratiocination: if, in a besieged city, the cows could feast to this degree, it went against every rule, human and divine. A sergeant, among the bystanders, was able to repress his own instincts, and decided that his commanders should be informed of the wonder. Shortly the news reached the ear of the emperor, with whom Baudolino was lingering, with apparent indolence, while tense and nervously awaiting events.
The carcass of Rosina, a canvas sheet in which the overflowing grain had been gathered, and Gagliaudo in irons were brought before Frederick. Dead and split in two, the cow no longer seemed fat or thin, and the only thing that could be seen was all that stuff inside and outside her belly. A sign that Frederick did not underestimate, as he immediately asked the peasant: "Who are you? Where are you from? Whose cow is that?" And Gagliaudo, even without understanding a word, replied in the purest dialect, I don't know, I wasn't there, I have nothing to do with this, I was just passing by chance, and this is the first time I've ever seen this cow, and if you hadn't told me yourself, I wouldn't even have known it's a cow. Naturally Frederick did not understand, and he turned to Baudolino; "You know this bestial language, tell me what he's saying."
Scene between Baudolino and Gagliaudo (translation): "He says he knows nothing about the cow, that a rich peasant in the city gave her to him to take out to pasture, and that's all."
"Ask him how that happened."
"He says that all cows, after they've eaten and before they've digested, are full of what they've eaten."
"Tell him not to play dumb, or I'll tie his neck to that tree! In this town, in this city of bandits, do they always give wheat to their cows?"
Gagliaudo: "With lack of hay and lack of straw, we feed the stock on wheat ... and arbioni."
Baudolino: "He says no, only now when there's a shortage of hay, because of the siege. And anyway it's not all grain, there are also some dry arbioni."
"Arbioni?"
"Erbse, pisa, peas."
"By the devil, I'll give him to my falcons to peck at, or my dogs to tear limb from limb, what does he mean by saying there's a shortage of hay but none of wheat and peas?"
"He says that in the city they've collected all the cows of the area, and now they can eat beefsteaks till the end of the world, but the cows have eaten all the hay, and that people, if they can eat meat don't eat bread, or—even less—dried peas, so a part of the wheat they had stored up they are giving to the cows. He says it's not like it is here with us, who have everything; there they have to make do the best they can because they are poor citizens under siege. He says this is why they gave him the cow to take outside, so she could eat a bit of grass, because this stuff by itself is bad for her and she gets ringworm."
"Baudolino, do you believe what this clod is saying?"
"I'm only translating what he says. As far as I recall from my infancy, I'm not sure that cows like to eat wheat, but this one was surely full of the stuff, and the evidence of your eyes can't be denied."
Frederick stroked his beard, narrowed his eyes, and took a good look at Gagliaudo. "Baudolino," he said then, "I have the impression that I've seen this man before, only it must have been a long time ago. You don't know him?"
"Father, I know more or less everybody around here. But the problem now isn't to ask who this man is, but whether it's true that in the city they have all these cows and all this wheat. Because, if you want my sincere opinion, they could be trying to deceive you, by stuffing their last cow with the last of their wheat."
"Good thinking, Baudolino. That hadn't occurred to me."
"Most Holy Majesty," the marquess of Monferrato spoke up, "we must not credit these peasants with more intelligence than they possess. It seems to me we have a clear sign that the city is better supplied than we had supposed."
"Oh, yes, yes," all the other lords said with one voice, and Baudolino concluded that he had never seen so many people of bad faith, all together, each clearly recognizing the bad faith of the others. But it was a sign that this siege was by now intolerable for all.
"And so apparently it must seem to me," Frederick said diplomatically. "The enemy army is pressing us from behind. Taking Roboreto wouldn't save us from having to face the other army. Nor can we think of conquering the city and shutting ourselves up inside those walls, so ill-made they'd be an insult to our dignity. So, my lords, we have come to
this decision: we'll abandon this wretched town to its wretched cow herders, and prepare ourselves for quite different conflict. Have the appropriate orders issued." And then, coming out of the royal tent, he said to Baudolino: "Send that old man home. He's surely a liar, but if I had to hang all liars, you would have left this world long since."
"Hurry home, Father. You've been lucky," Baudolino whispered, removing Gagliaudo's irons, "and tell Trotti that I'll be waiting for him this evening at the place he knows."
Frederick did it all in haste. There was no need to remove any tents, those tatters that now constituted the besiegers' camp. He lined the men up and ordered everything to be burned. At midnight the vanguard of the army was already marching towards the fields of Marengo. In the background, at the foot of the Tortona hills, some fires were glowing: in the distance the army of the League was waiting.
Asking leave of the emperor, Baudolino rode off in the direction of Sale, and at a crossroads he found Trotti waiting for him with two consuls of Cremona. They rode together for a mile, until they reached an advanced post of the League. There Trotti introduced Baudolino to the two leaders of the communal army, Ezzelino da Romano and Anselmo da Dovara. A brief council followed, sealed by a handshake. Having embraced Trotti (it's turned out fine, thanks to you; no, no, thanks to you), Baudolino went back as quickly as possible to Frederick, who was waiting at the edge of a clearing. "It's settled, Father. They won't attack. They have neither the desire nor the nerve. We will pass, and they will hail you as their lord."
"Until the next fight," Frederick murmured, "but the army's tired. The sooner we're quartered in Pavia, the better. Let's go."
It was the early hours of the feast of Easter. In the distance, if he had turned around, Frederick would have seen the walls of Alessandria shining with tall fires. Baudolino turned and saw them. He knew that many flames were those of the war machines and the imperial lodgings, but he preferred to imagine the Alessandrians dancing and singing to celebrate victory and peace.
After a mile they came upon a vanguard of the League. The squad of horsemen separated and formed two wings, between which the imperials passed. It was not clear if this movement was a greeting or if the troops were drawing aside as a precaution; you never can tell. Some of the League men raised their weapons and this gesture could have been interpreted as a salute. Or perhaps it was a show of impotence, a threat. The emperor, frowning, pretended not to see them.
"I don't know," he said. "I feel as if I were retreating, and these men are showing me the honor of arms. Baudolino, am I doing the right thing?"
"Yes, you are, Father. You are no more surrendering than they are. They don't want to attack you in the open field out of respect. And you must be grateful for this respect."
"It's my due," Barbarossa said stubbornly.
"If you think they owe it to you, then be happy that they are giving it to you. What are you complaining about?"
"Nothing, nothing. As usual, you are right."
Towards dawn they glimpsed in the distant plain and on the first hills the main body of the opposing army. It blended with a light mist, and once again it wasn't clear whether they were moving away from the imperial army out of prudence, or simply gathering around, or if they were pressing closely, and menacingly. In little groups the people of the communes were moving, sometimes accompanying the imperial process for a stretch, sometimes posting themselves on a hillock to watch the army pass. At other times they seemed to flee it. The silence was profound, broken only by the sound of the horses' hoofs and the tread of the soldiers. From one peak to the next they occasionally glimpsed, in the very pale morning, slender threads of smoke rising, as if one group were sending signals to another, from the top of some tower concealed in the green, up there on the hills.
This time Frederick decided to interpret that perilous passage as occurring in his own honor: he had the standards raised and the oriflammes, and he marched past as if he were Caesar Augustus, who had put down the barbarians. However it was, he passed, father of all those unruly cities that could, that night, have annihilated him.
By now on the road to Pavia, he called Baudolino to his side. "You're the usual rogue," he said. "But after all I did have to find some excuse to leave that mud puddle. I forgive you."
"For what, dear Father?"
"I know what. But you mustn't think I've forgiven that nameless city."
"It has a name."
"It doesn't, because I haven't baptized it. Sooner or later I'll have to destroy it."
"Not immediately."
"No, not immediately. But before then, I imagine you'll have invented another of your tricks. I should have understood, that night, that I was taking a rascal home with me. By the way, I've remembered where I saw that man with the cow before!"
But Baudolino's horse seemed to rear up, and Baudolino, pulling on the reins, had been left behind. So Frederick could not tell him what he had remembered.
15. Baudolino at the battle of Legnano
With the siege over, Frederick, relieved at first, withdrew to Pavia, but he was not content. A bad year followed. His cousin Henry the Lion was giving him trouble in Germany, the Italian cities continued to be unruly and turned a deaf ear every time he demanded the destruction of Alessandria. By now he had few men, reinforcements failed to arrive, and when they did arrive, they were insufficient.
Baudolino felt somewhat guilty because of the cow trick. To be sure, he hadn't deceived the emperor, who had simply gone along with his game, but now both of them felt some awkwardness looking each other in the eye, like two children who have devised a prank and are then ashamed of it. Baudolino was touched by the almost childish embarrassment of Frederick, who was now beginning to go gray, and it was, in fact, his handsome copper beard that first lost its leonine glints.
Baudolino was more and more fond of that father, who continued to pursue his imperial dream, risking more and more the loss of his lands beyond the Alps, to keep control over an Italy that was eluding him on all sides. One day it occurred to Baudolino that, in Frederick's situation, the letter of Prester John would have allowed the emperor to extract himself from the Lombard swamps without seeming to renounce anything. In short, the Priest's letter was a bit like Gagliaudo's cow. He then tried to talk to Frederick about it, but the emperor was in a bad mood and told Baudolino he had far more serious things to concern himself with than the senile fancies of Uncle Otto, rest his soul. Then he gave the youth some other missions, sending him back and forth across the Alps for almost twelve months.
At the end of May of the year of Our Lord 1176 Baudolino learned that Frederick was installed in Como, and he decided to join him in that city. In the course of his journey he was told that the imperial army was now moving towards Pavia, so then he turned southwards, hoping to meet it halfway.
He met it along the Olona, not far from the fortress of Legnano, where a few hours earlier the imperial army and the army of the League had met, without any desire on either side to join battle, though both were forced into a conflict to save their honor.
As soon as he arrived at the edge of the field, Baudolino saw a foot soldier running towards him with a long pike. He spurred his horse, trying to run the man down, hoping to frighten him. The soldier was frightened, and fell on his back, letting go of the pike. Baudolino dismounted and seized the pike, while the man shouted threats to kill him, standing up and drawing a dagger from his belt. But he was shouting in the Lodi dialect. Baudolino had become accustomed to the idea that the people of Lodi were with the empire, and keeping the soldier at bay with the pike, because he seemed out of his mind, Baudolino shouted: "What are you doing, you fool, I'm with the empire too!" The man shouted back: "I know. That's why I'm going to kill you!" At that point Baudolino remembered that Lodi now was on the side of the League, and he asked himself: What shall I do? Kill him? The pike is longer than his knife. But I've never killed anybody!"
He jabbed the pike between the man's legs, sending him sprawling full leng
th on the ground, then aimed the weapon at his throat. "Don't kill me, dominus, because I have seven children, and if I die they'll die of hunger tomorrow," the Lodi man cried. "Let me go. I can't do your people much harm: you see how I give in like an idiot!"
"You're an idiot, all right—anyone can see that at the distance of a day's march. But if I let you go with something in your hand, you could still do some harm. Take off your breeches!"
"My breeches!"
"That's right. I'll spare your life, but I'm making you go around with your balls in the air. I want to see if you go back to fighting like that, or if you run straight home to your lousy children!"
The enemy took off his breeches, and began to run through the fields, leaping over the hedges, not so much from shame, but because he was afraid an enemy knight could see him from behind and, thinking he was displaying his buttocks in contempt, impale him, Turkish-style.
Baudolino was content that he had not had to kill anyone, but now a man on horseback was galloping towards him. The rider wore French dress, so was obviously not a Lombard. Baudolino decided to sell his life dearly and he drew his sword. The rider passed by him, shouting: "What are you doing, you lunatic? Can't you see that today we screwed you imperials! Go home; that's best for you!" And off he rode, not seeking any trouble.
Baudolino remounted and asked himself where he should go, because he understood absolutely nothing of this battle, and until now he had seen only sieges, in which case you clearly know who is on this side and who on the other.
He rode around a clump of trees, and in the midst of the plain saw something he had never seen before: a great open wagon, painted red and white, with a long pennon and banners at its center, and an altar surrounded by some soldiers with long trumpets like the ones angels hold, which perhaps served to urge the men into battle, whereupon he said—as they said around his part of the country: "Hey, that's enough!" For a moment he thought he had happened upon Prester John, or was in Sarandib at the very least, where they went into battle on a wagon drawn by elephants, but the wagon he now saw was drawn by oxen, even if all decked out like gentlemen, and around the wagon there was no fighting. The men with trumpets let out a blast every so often, then stopped, unsure what to do next. Some of them pointed to a tangle of people on the shore of the river, who were still flinging themselves on one another, letting out cries to wake the dead; others were trying to make the oxen move, but restive as they generally are, they now seemed even more reluctant to get mixed up in the brawling.