by Umberto Eco
"So you loved her?"
"I think I did, but it was the first time I'd taken a wife, and I didn't really know what to do with her, except those things that husbands do at night, but during the day I didn't know if I should pat her like a child, treat her as a lady, scold her for her clumsiness—because she still needed a father—or forgive her everything, and perhaps spoil her instead. But, at the end of the first year, she told me she was expecting a child, and then I began looking at her as if she were the Virgin Mary. When I came home, I would beg her forgiveness for having been away, I took her to Mass on Sunday to show everybody that Baudolino's fine wife was about to give him a son, and on the few evenings we spent together we told each other what we would do with that Baudolinetto Colandrinino she was carrying in her belly. She sometimes imagined that Frederick would give him a dukedom, and I was almost ready to believe it myself. I told her about the kingdom of Prester John, and she said she wouldn't let me go there alone for all the gold in the world, because there was no telling how many beautiful ladies there were down there, and she wanted to see if any place could be finer and bigger than Alessandria and Solero put together. Then I told her about the Grasal and her eyes widened: Just think, dear Baudolino, you go down there, you come back with the cup from which Our Lord drank, and you become the most famous knight of all Christendom, you build a shrine for this Grasal at Montecastello, and they come to see it all the way from Quargnento.... We daydreamed like children, and I said to myself: poor Abdul, you believe that love is a faraway princess, but mine is so close that I can tickle her behind the ear, and she laughs and tells me I give her goose bumps.... But it was short-lived."
"Why?"
"Because while she was pregnant, the Alessandrians made a pact with Genoa against the people of Silvano d'Orba. They were just a handful, but still they roamed the area and robbed the peasants. Colandrina that day went out beyond the city walls to gather some flowers because she had heard I was about to arrive. She stopped near a flock of sheep, to joke with the shepherd, who was one of her father's men, and a band of those bastards rushed over to seize the sheep. Perhaps they didn't mean to harm her, but they roughly pushed her about, flung her to the ground, the sheep ran off, trampling her underfoot.... The shepherd had already taken to his heels, and when her family found her, late in the evening, after realizing she hadn't come home, she had a fever. Guasco sent someone to find me, I came home at full speed, but meanwhile two days had gone by. I found her in bed, dying, and, on seeing me, she tried to apologize because, she said, the baby had come out ahead of time, and he was already dead, and she tormented herself because she hadn't even been able to give me a son. She looked like a little wax madonna, and you had to put your ear to her mouth to hear what she was saying. Don't look at me, Baudolino, she said, my face is all splotchy from weeping, and so you find not only a bad mother but also an ugly wife.... She died begging my forgiveness, while I was asking hers, for not having been at her side in her moment of danger. Then I asked to see the little corpse, but they didn't want to show it to me. It was ... it was..."
Baudolino stopped. His held his face up, as if reluctant to let Niketas see his eyes. "It was a little monster," he said, after a moment, "like the ones we imagined in the land of Prester John. The face had tiny eyes, like two slits, a very thin chest, with little arms that looked like a polyp's tentacles. And from its belly to its feet it was covered with fine white hair, as if it were a sheep. I couldn't look at it for long. I ordered it buried, but I didn't know if a priest could be called. I left the city and wandered all night around the marsh, telling myself that until then I had spent my life imagining creatures of other worlds, and in my fancy they seemed wondrous portents, whose diversity bore witness to the infinite power of the Lord, but then, when the Lord asked me to do what all other men do, I had generated not a portent but a horrible thing. My son was a lie of nature. Otto was right, but more than he had thought; I was a liar and I had lived the life of a liar to such a degree that even my seed had produced a lie. A dead lie. And then I understood...."
"You mean..." Niketas ventured, "you decided to change your life...."
"No, Master Niketas. I decided that if this was my fate, it was useless for me to try to become like other men. I was by now consecrated to falsehood. It is hard to explain what was going through my head. I said to myself: All the time that you were inventing, you invented things that were not true, but then became true. You made San Baudolino appear, you created a library at Saint Victoire, you sent the Magi wandering about the world, you saved your city by fattening a scrawny cow, if there are learned doctors in Bologna it is also your merit, in Rome you caused mirabilia to appear that the Romans themselves had never dreamed of, starting with the gabble of that Hugo of Jabala, you created a kingdom of supreme beauty, then you loved a ghost, and you made her write letters she had never written, and those who read them went into ecstasy, including the lady who had never written them, and she was an empress; but the one time you wanted to do something true, with the most sincere of women, you failed: you produced something no one can believe in or desire to exist. So it is best for you to withdraw into the world of your portents, for there at least you can decide yourself how portentous they are."
19. Baudolino changes the name of his city
"O poor Baudolino," Niketas said, as they continued the preparations for their departure, "robbed of a wife and a son, in the prime of life. And I, who could lose tomorrow the flesh of my flesh and my beloved wife at the hand of some of these barbarians. O Constantinople, queen of cities, tabernacle of the Lord most high, pride and glory of your ministers, delight of foreigners, empress of imperial cities, most rare spectacle of things rare to be seen, what will become of us who are about to abandon you, naked as when we came forth from our mothers? When shall we see you again, not as you now are, vale of tears, trampled by armies?"
"Silence, Master Niketas," Baudolino said to him, "and remember this may be the last time you will be able to taste these delights worthy of Apicius. What are these little balls of meat that have the aroma of our spice market?"
"Keftedes, and the aroma comes from cinnamon and a bit of mint," Niketas replied, already comforted. "And for this last day I have succeeded in having a little anise brought to us, which you must drink while it dissolves in water like a cloud."
"It's good, it doesn't dull the mind, it makes you feel as if you were dreaming," Baudolino said. "If only I could have drunk some after Colandrina's death perhaps I could have forgotten her, as you are already forgetting the misfortunes of your city as you lose all fear of what will happen tomorrow. But instead, I became heavy with the wine of our parts, which puts you suddenly to sleep, and when you wake you're worse off than before."
It took Baudolino a year to emerge from the melancholy madness that had gripped him, a year of which he remembered nothing except that he went on long rides through the woods and over the plains, then he would stop in some place and drink until he plunged into long and agitated sleep. In his dreams he saw the moment when he finally reached Zosimos and tore from him not only his beard, but also the map, in order to reach a kingdom where all newborn infants would be thinsiretae and methagallinarii. He did not return to Alessandria, fearing that his father or his mother, or Guasco and his family, would talk to him of Colandrina, and of the son never born. Often he took refuge with Frederick, paternally concerned and understanding, trying to distract him with talk of the great things Baudolino could do for the empire. Until one day, he said Baudolino should make up his mind and find a solution for Alessandria, for his wrath by now had evaporated, and to please Baudolino he wanted to heal that vulnus without being forced to destroy the city.
This mission gave Baudolino new life. Now Frederick was preparing to sign a definitive peace with the Lombard communes, and Baudolino told himself that in the end it was all a question of pride. Frederick could not tolerate the idea of a city they had made without his permission and one that, furthermore, bore the name of hi
s enemy. Very well, if Frederick could found that city anew, even in the same place but with another name, as he had done at Lodi, in another place but with the same name, then he would not end up empty-handed. As for the Alessandrians—what did they want? To have a city and to conduct their business. It was pure chance that they had named it after Alexander III, who was dead, and therefore couldn't take offense if they now gave it a different name. Hence the idea: one fine morning Frederick would come with his knights to the walls of Alessandria, all the inhabitants would come forth, a cohort of bishops would enter the city, they would deconsecrate it, if it could be said ever to have been consecrated, or they would debaptize it and then rebaptize it with the name Caesarea, city of Caesar, the Alessandrians would pass slowly before the emperor, paying him homage, then they would go back inside, taking possession of their brand-new city, as if it were another, founded by the emperor, and they would live happily ever after.
Obviously, Baudolino was recovering from his despair, with another fine exploit of his fervid imagination.
Frederick did not dislike the idea, but in that period there were some difficulties in his returning to Italy, because he was settling some important matters with his Alaman vassals. Baudolino assumed responsibility for the negotiations. He hesitated before entering the city, but at the gate his parents came towards him, and all three of them dissolved in liberating tears. His old comrades acted as if Baudolino had never married, and before he could begin talking of his mission, they dragged him off to their old tavern, getting him good and drunk, but with a tart little white wine of Gavi, not enough to put him to sleep but enough to stimulate his genius. Then Baudolino told them his idea.
The first to react was Gagliaudo: "When I'm with this character, I become as foolish as he is. Now really: do we have to play out this farce, first coming out, then going back inside, and after you, no after you? All we need is a piper and we'll be dancing the trescone for the feast of San Baudolino...."
"No, this is a good idea," Boidi said, "but afterwards, instead of being Alessandrians, we'll have to call ourselves Caesareans, and I'd be ashamed; I couldn't go and say it to the people of Asti."
"Enough of all this nonsense! No matter what, they'll still know us for who we are!" Oberto del Foro interjected. "For my part, they can go ahead and rename the city, but it's the passing in front of him and rendering homage that I can't stomach. After all, we're the ones who put one over on him, not him on us, so he shouldn't act too grand."
Cuttica of Quargnento said the rebaptizing was all right, and who cared if the city was called Caesaretta or Caesarona, for him even Caesira was fine, or Olivia or Sophronia or Eutropia. The problem is whether Frederick will want to send us his governor or will he be satisfied to give his legitimate investiture to the consuls we would elect.
"Go back and ask him what he plans to do," Guasco said. And Baudolino said, "Yes, of course. I keep going back and forth across the Alps until you come to an agreement. No sir. You delegate full powers to two of your people and they come with me to the emperor and they work out something that suits everybody. If Frederick sees another pair of Alessandrians he'll get a case of worms, and to get rid of the two, you'll see, he'll accept an agreement."
So two envoys from the city set out with Baudolino: Anselmo Conzani and Teobaldo, one of the Guascos. They met the emperor at Nuremberg, and the agreement was reached. Even the question of the consuls was resolved promptly; it was only a matter of saving appearances: the Alessandrians should go ahead and elect them; it would suffice if the emperor then appointed them. As for the homage, Baudolino took Frederick aside and said to him: Father, you can't come yourself; you must send a legate. So you send me. After all, I'm a ministerial, and as such, in your immense kindness, you've bestowed on me the sash of knighthood, and I'm a Ritter, as they say here."
"Yes, but you still belong to the nobility of service; you can have feudal estates but you can't confer them, and you are not entitled to have vassals, and..."
"What do you think that matters to my compatriots. For them, it's enough for a man to have a horse and issue orders. They pay homage to your representative, and hence to you, but your representative is me, and I'm one of them, and therefore they don't have the impression of paying homage to you. Then, if you like, the oaths and all those other things can be made to an imperial chamberlain of yours who is beside me, and they won't even know who's the more important. You also have to understand how people are made. If in this way we settle things finally, won't it be good for all?"
So in mid-March of 1183 the ceremony took place. Baudolino was in dress uniform, and he looked more important than the marquess of Monferrato; his parents devoured him with their eyes, as he, hand on the hilt of his sword, sat astride a white horse that wouldn't keep still. "He's decked out like a lord's dog," his mother said, dazzled. He was flanked by two ensigns bearing the imperial standards, the imperial chamberlain Rudolph, and many other nobles of the empire, and more bishops than you could count, though at that point nobody was noticing details. There were also representatives of the other Lombard cities, such as Lanfranco of Como, Siro Salimbene of Pavia, Filippo of Casale, Gerardo of Novara, Pattinerio of Ossona, and Malavisca of Brescia.
When Baudolino had taken his place before the gate of the city, all the Alessandrians filed out, with their little children in their arms and the old men leaning on them, and even the ill were carried out on carts, including the simple-minded and the lame, along with the heroes of the siege who had lost a leg or an arm, or even bare-assed on a plank with wheels, propelling themselves with their hands. Since they didn't know how long they would have to remain outside, many brought along provisions, some had bread and salami, others, roast chickens, and still others, baskets of fruit, and in the end it all looked like a grand picnic.
Truth to tell, it was very cold, and the fields were covered with frost, so sitting down was torture. Those citizens, now deprived of power, stood erect, stamped their feet, blew on their hands, and someone said: "Can we get this show over with quickly? We've left our pots on the stove."
The emperor's men entered the city and nobody saw what they did, not even Baudolino, who was outside, waiting for the return procession. At a certain point a bishop came out and announced that this was the city of Caesarea, by grace of the holy and Roman emperor. The imperials behind Baudolino raised their arms and their standards, cheering the great Frederick. Baudolino spurred his horse to a trot, approached the first line of citizens and, in his position as imperial envoy, announced that to this noble city including the seven towns of Gamondio, Marengo, Bergoglio, Roboreto, Solero, Foro, and Oviglio, the name of Caesarea had been given and he ceded it to the inhabitants of the afore-named places, here gathered, inviting them to take possession of this turreted gift.
The imperial chamberlain listed all the articles of the agreement, but everyone was cold, and they allowed the details of the donation to pass in haste: the regalia, the curadia, the tolls, and all those things that made a treaty valid. "Come, Rudolph," Baudolino said to the imperial chamberlain, "it's all a farce anyway and the sooner it's over the better."
The exiles took the return path, and they were all there except Oberto del Foro, who hadn't accepted the shame of this homage. He who had defeated Frederick had delegated in his stead, as nuncii civitatis, Anselmo Conzani and Teobaldo Guasco.
Passing before Baudolino, the nuncii of the new Caesarea swore their solemn oath, though speaking in Latin so horrible that if afterwards they said they had sworn the opposite nobody could have contradicted them. As for the others, they followed with lazy, grudging salutes, some saying Salve, Baudolino; how are things, Baudolino; hey there, Baudolino; long time no see; well, here we are again, eh? As Gagliaudo went by, he muttered that this thing wasn't serious, but he was sufficiently sensitive to raise his hat, and inasmuch as he raised it in front of that scapegrace son of his, as an homage it was more effective than if he had licked Frederick's feet.
When the ceremony was
over, both the Lombards and the Teutonics went off as quickly as possible, as if they were ashamed of themselves. Baudolino, on the contrary, followed his fellow-citizens inside the walls and heard some saying:
"Look at this fine city!"
"You know something? It looks just like that other one—what was the name?—that was here before."
"These Alamans, they're really geniuses! In no time at all they've run up a city that's a true masterpiece!"
"Just look over there. That house looks exactly like mine! They've remade it exactly like it was."
"Now, boys," Baudolino shouted, "be thankful you've pulled it off without having to pay iugaticum!"
"As for you—don't put on too many airs! You'll end up believing what you say!"
It was a beautiful day. Baudolino laid aside all the signs of his power and went off to celebrate. In the cathedral square girls were dancing in a circle. Boidi took Baudolino to the tavern, and in that cave with its aroma of garlic they all went to draw the wine directly from the barrels, because on that day there were to be no more masters or servants, especially the tavern's serving wenches, some of whom had already been carried upstairs, but as everyone knows, men are born hunters.
"Blood of Jesus Christ!" Gagliaudo said, pouring a bit of wine on his sleeve, to show that the cloth wouldn't absorb it and the drop remained compact, with ruby glints, a sign that this was good stuff. "Now we'll go on calling it Caesarea for a few years, at least on the parchments with seals," Boidi whispered to Baudolino, "but then we'll start calling it what we called it before, and I want to see if anyone cares."
"Yes," Baudolino said, "then we'll call it by its old name, because that's what that angel Colandrina called it, and now that she's in Paradise, there's a risk she might send her benedictions to the wrong address."