Baudolino

by Umberto Eco

  "And so?" Baudolino asked.

  "So," the Poet said, "the only solution is to make everyone believe Frederick died somewhere away from here, where it wasn't our job to protect him."

  "How?"

  "Didn't he say he wanted to go to the river? We'll put some clothes on him and wrap him in his cloak. We'll go down to the small court, where there's nobody around, but where the horses have been waiting since yesterday evening. We'll tie him to his saddle, go to the river, and there the waters will carry him away. A glorious death for this emperor who, old as he is, confronts the forces of Nature. The son will decide whether to go on to Jerusalem or return home. And we can say that we are continuing on to the Indias, to carry out Frederick's last wish. The son, apparently, doesn't believe in the Grasal. We'll take it, we'll go and do what the emperor would have liked to do."

  "But we'll have to stage a mock death," Baudolino said, his eyes dazed.

  "Is he dead? He's dead. It grieves us all, but he's dead. We're not saying he's dead when he's still alive, are we? He's dead, may God receive him among the saints. We will simply say that he drowned in the river, in the open air, and not in this room that we were to defend. Are we lying? Only a little. If he's dead, what does it matter whether he died in here or out there? Did we kill him? Everyone knows that's not so. We will have him die where even the people most hostile towards us can't slander us. Baudolino, it's the only way. There's no other, if you hold your life dear and want to reach Prester John and celebrate in his presence the extreme glory of Frederick."

  The Poet, though Baudolino cursed his coldness, was right; and they all agreed with him. They dressed Frederick, carried him to the second court, bound him to his saddle, thrusting a support behind his back, as the Poet had done once with the three Magi, so that he seemed erect on his horse.

  "Only Baudolino and Abdul will carry him to the river," the Poet said, "because a large escort would attract the attention of the sentinels, who might think they should join the group. The rest of us will stay and guard the room, so Ardzrouni or others cannot think of entering, and we will tidy it up. Indeed, I'll go to the walls and chat with the men on guard, to distract them while the two of you ride out."

  It seemed that the Poet was the only one in a condition to make sensible decisions. All obeyed. Baudolino and Abdul rode out of the court, slowly, with Frederick's horse between them. They took the side path until they reached the main one, descended the broad steps, then trotted over the plain, towards the river. From the ramparts the armigers saluted the emperor. That brief journey seemed to last an eternity, but finally they reached the shore.

  They hid behind a clump of trees. "Here no one can see us," Baudolino said. "The current is strong, and the body will be swept away immediately. We'll ride into the water to attempt rescue but the bed is treacherous, and will not allow us to reach him. Then we will follow the body from the bank, calling for help. ... The current goes towards the camps."

  They untied Frederick's corpse, stripped it, leaving only what scant clothing the swimming emperor would have required to cover his shame. As soon as they pushed him into the middle of the river, the current seized the body, and it was pulled downstream. They entered the river, tugging on the bit so that the horses seemed to be shying in fear; they climbed out again and galloped after that poor relic, battered by water and rocks, as they waved their arms in alarm and shouted to the men in the camp to save the emperor.

  Farther on some men noticed their signaling, but failed to understand what was going on. Frederick's body was caught in eddies, whirling in circles; it would vanish into the water, then rise briefly to the surface. From a distance it was hard to understand that a man was drowning. In the end some did understand; three horsemen entered the water, but when the body reached them, it slammed against the hoofs of the frightened horses and was dragged on. Farther ahead, some soldiers went into the water with pikes, and, finally succeeding in harpooning the corpse, pulled it ashore.

  When Baudolino and Abdul arrived, Frederick lay there, bruised by the rocks, and no one could now imagine that he was still alive. Loud cries rose, the son was informed, and he also arrived, pale and even more feverish, lamenting that his father had wanted once again to challenge the river's waters. He raged against Baudolino and Abdul, but they reminded him that they didn't know how to swim, like almost all land creatures; and that the son knew very well, when the emperor wanted to dive into the water, no one could restrain him.

  To all, Frederick's body seemed bloated with water, and yet—if he had been dead for hours—he surely hadn't swallowed any. But so it goes: if you pull a dead body from the river, he looks drowned and so you think he's drowned.

  While Frederick of Swabia and the other barons laid out the remains of the emperor, debating in their anguish what steps were to be taken, and while Ardzrouni came down into the valley, informed of the terrible event, Baudolino and Abdul returned to the castle, to make sure that by now all was in order.

  "Imagine what had happened in the meantime, Master Niketas," Baudolino said.

  "It's not necessary to be a wizard." Niketas smiled. "The sacred cup, the Grasal, had disappeared."

  "So it had. Nobody could then say whether it had disappeared while we were in the small court tying Frederick to his horse, or afterwards, when everyone was trying to tidy up the room. All were in an emotional state, buzzing around like bees; the Poet had gone to distract the guards and wasn't there to coordinate, with his usual common sense, the actions of each of the others. At a certain point, when they were about to leave the room, where by now it did not seem anything dramatic had happened, Kyot glanced at the ark, and realized the Grasal was no longer there. When I arrived with Abdul, each was accusing the other, whether of theft or of negligence, saying that perhaps, while we were putting Frederick on his horse, Ardzrouni had entered the room. No, no, Kyot said, I helped carry the emperor down, but I came back up at once, precisely to make sure nobody entered; in that brief time Ardzrouni wouldn't have been able to come up. Then you seized him, Boron growled, grabbing him by the neck. No, if anything, you did, Kyot rebutted, pushing him away, while I was at the window throwing out the ashes collected in the fireplace. Calm down, calm down, the Poet shouted, and where was Zosimos while we were down in the court? I was with you, and I came back up with you, Zosimos swore, and Rabbi Solomon confirmed this. One thing was certain: somebody had taken the Grasal, and from there it was a short step to the conclusion that the thief was the same person who had somehow killed Frederick. It was all very well for the Poet to say that Frederick could have died naturally on his own, and then one of us had exploited the situation to take the Grasal, but nobody believed this. My friends, Rabbi Solomon said to calm us, human folly has imagined horrific crimes, from Cain on, but no human mind has ever been so twisted as to imagine a crime in a locked room. My friends, Boron said, when we came in the Grasal was here, and now it isn't. So one of us has it. Naturally, each then insisted that his bags be searched, but the Poet started laughing. If someone has taken the Grasal, he has put it in a secret place in this castle, where he can go and recover it afterwards. The solution? If Frederick of Swabia put up no opposition, all of us would set off together for the kingdom of Prester John, and nobody would remain behind to come and recover the Grasal. I said it was a horrible thing: we would undertake a journey full of dangers, each having to rely on the support of the others, and each (minus one) would suspect all the others of being Frederick's assassin. The Poet said it was that or nothing, and he was right, damn him. We would have to embark on one of the greatest adventures good Christians had ever faced, and all of us would distrust all the others."

  "And did you set out?" Niketas asked.

  "Not right away: it would have looked like flight. The entire court met constantly to decide the fate of the expedition. The army was dissolving, many wanted to go home by sea, others wanted to sail for Antioch, still others for Tripoli. Young Frederick had chosen to proceed by land. Then the argument beg
an over what to do with Frederick's body, some proposing to extract at once the viscera, the most corruptible part, and bury them as quickly as possible; others wanted to await our arrival at Tarsus, the homeland of the apostle Paul. But the rest of the body could not be preserved for long, and sooner or later it would have to be boiled in a mixture of water and wine, until all the flesh had separated from the bones, and could be buried at once, while the rest could be placed in a sepulcher in Jerusalem, once the city was reconquered. But I knew that before having the body boiled, it would have to be dismembered. I didn't want to witness that horror."

  "I have heard that no one knows what became of those bones."

  "I have heard the same. My poor father! On reaching Palestine young Frederick also died, consumed with grief, and with the hardships of the journey. For the rest, not even Richard the Lionheart or Philip Augustus ever arrived at Jerusalem. It was truly an unfortunate venture for all. But I learned these things only this year, after I returned to Constantinople. In those days in Cilicia I succeeded in convincing Frederick of Swabia that, to fulfill his father's wishes, we should set out for the Indias. The son seemed to me relieved by this proposal of mine. He wanted only to know how many horses I needed and what provisions. Go with God, Baudolino, he said to me, I believe we will never see each other again. Perhaps he thought I would be lost in distant lands, and it was he who was lost, poor unhappy youth. He was not bad, though he was consumed by humiliation and envy."

  Each suspecting the others, our friends had to decide who would take part in the journey. The Poet pointed out that there should be twelve in the party. If they wanted to be treated respectfully along their way to the land of Prester John, it would be advisable for people to believe they were the twelve Magi Kings, on their return journey. But since it wasn't certain that the Magi really numbered twelve, or three, none of them should ever come out and say they were the Magi; on the contrary, if anyone asked, they should answer no, like someone forbidden to reveal a deep secret. Thus, denying it to all, each would believe what he chose to believe. The faith of others would make the group's reticence become truth.

  Now there were Baudolino, the Poet, Boron, Kyot, Abdul, Solomon, and Boidi. Zosimos was indispensable, because he continued to swear that he knew the map of Cosmas by heart, even though the rest of them were a bit disgusted that this crook would pass as one of the Magi; but they couldn't be too particular. Four people were missing. At this point Baudolino trusted only the Alessandrians, and had let some in on the plan: Cuttica of Quargnento, Colandrina's brother Colandrino Guasco, Porcelli, and Aleramo Scaccabarozzi, known as Bonehead, but a sturdy, trustworthy man, who asked few questions. They had accepted because, by now, it seemed also to them that nobody would reach Jerusalem. Young Frederick provided twelve horses and seven mules, with food for a week. Afterwards, he said, Divine Providence would take care of them.

  While they were making their preparations for the expedition, they were approached by Ardzrouni, who addressed them with the same reticent politeness he had earlier reserved for the emperor.

  "My dear, dear friends," he said, "I know you are setting out for a distant kingdom...."

  "How do you know that, lord Ardzrouni?" the Poet asked suspiciously.

  "There are rumors. ... I heard also some talk about a cup...."

  "Which you've never seen, have you?" Baudolino said to him, moving so close to him that Ardzrouni had to draw back.

  "Never seen it. But I've heard it mentioned."

  "Since you know so many things," the Poet asked, "do you by any chance know if someone entered this room while the emperor was dying in the river?"

  "Did he really die in the river?" Ardzrouni asked. "That's what his son thinks, for the present."

  "My friends," the Poet said, "it's obvious that this man is threatening us. With the confusion that exists these days between the camp and the castle, it would be a simple matter to stab him in the back, and fling him somewhere or other. But first I'd like to know what he wants from us. Then perhaps I'll cut his throat afterwards."

  "My lord and friend," Ardzrouni said, "I do not desire your ruin; I want to avoid my own. The emperor died in my land, after eating my food and drinking my wine. From the imperials I can expect no favor, or protection. I'll have to thank them if they leave me unharmed. Here, however, I am in danger. Once I received Frederick as my guest, Prince Leo realized that I wanted to draw the emperor to my side, against him. As long as Frederick was alive, Leo could do nothing to me—and this is an indication of how that man's death has been for me the greatest of misfortunes. Now Leo will say that, through my fault, he, prince of the Armenians, was unable to assure the life of his most illustrious ally. An excellent opportunity to put me to death. I have no escape. I must disappear for a long time, and return with something that will restore my prestige and authority. You are leaving to discover the land of Prester John, and if you succeed it will be a glorious enterprise. I want to come with you. Doing so, above all, I will show you that I didn't take the cup you speak of, because if that were the case I would remain here and use it to negotiate with someone. I know well the lands to the east, and I could be useful to you. I know that the duke has given you no money, and I would bring with me what little gold I possess. Finally—and Baudolino knows this—I have seven precious relics, seven heads of Saint John the Baptist, and in the course of the journey we could sell them, one here and one there."

  "And if we were to refuse," Baudolino said, "you would go and whisper into the ear of Frederick of Swabia that we were responsible for his father's death."

  "I didn't say that."

  "Listen, Ardzrouni, you're not a person I'd take with me anywhere, but at this point in this damned adventure each risks becoming the enemy of the other. One more enemy will make little difference."

  "The truth is that this man would be a burden for us," the Poet said. "There are already twelve of us, and a thirteenth brings bad luck."

  While they were arguing, Baudolino was thinking about the heads of the Baptist. He wasn't convinced that those heads could really be taken seriously; but if they could, undeniably they were worth a fortune. He had gone down into the room where he had seen them, and had picked them up one by one to examine them carefully. They were well made, the carved face of the saint, his great eyes wide and without pupils, inspired holy thoughts. To be sure, seeing all seven of them in a row emphasized their falsity, but displayed one by one, they would be convincing. He had replaced the heads on the kneading trough, and gone back upstairs.

  Three of the group agreed to taking Ardzrouni along; the others were hesitating. Boron said that, after all, Ardzrouni did have the appearance of a man of rank; and Zosimos, partly for reasons of respect for those twelve venerable persons, said he could be passed off as a squire. The Poet objected that the Magi either had twelve servants or else they traveled on their own in great secrecy; a single squire would create a bad impression. As for the heads, the party could take them without having to take Ardzrouni. By now Ardzrouni was weeping and saying that truly they wanted him dead. In the end they postponed any decision to the next day.

  It was, in fact, the next day, when the sun was already high in the sky, as they had almost completed their preparations, that suddenly someone realized that, for all that morning, Zosimos had not been seen. In the frenzy of the final two days, nobody had kept watch over him; he had also helped prepare the horses and load the mules, and had not been kept on his chain. Kyot noticed that one of the mules was missing, and Baudolino had a sudden inspiration: "The heads!" he cried. "The heads! Zosimos is the only one, besides me and Ardzrouni, who knows where they are!" He dragged everyone into the little room with the heads, and there they saw that the heads now numbered only six.

  Ardzrouni dug under the trough, to see if by chance one head had fallen, and he discovered three things: a human skull, small and blackened, a seal with a "Z," and some burned residue of sealing wax. All was now, alas, clear. Zosimos, in the confusion of the fatal mo
rning, had taken the Grasal from the ark where Kyot had replaced it, and in a flash had gone down to the little room, opened a head, taken out the skull, and hidden the Grasal in its place; with his seal from Gallipolis he had closed the lid, put the head back where it had been before, and gone upstairs innocent as an angel, to await the opportune moment. When he realized that the travelers would share out the heads, he knew he could wait no longer.

  "It must be said, Master Niketas, that in spite of my rage at being tricked, I felt a certain relief, and I believe that all the others felt the same. We had found the guilty party, a rascal of most credible rascality, and we were no longer tempted to suspect one another. Zosimos's villainy made us livid with anger, but it restored our reciprocal trust. There was no evidence that Zosimos, having stolen the Grasal, had had anything to do with Frederick's death, because that night he had been tied to his own bed; but this brought us back to the Poet's hypothesis: Frederick hadn't been murdered."

  They gathered and held council. First of all, Zosimos—if he had fled at nightfall—by now had a twelve-hour lead on them. Porcelli pointed out that they were on horseback and he on a mule, but Baudolino reminded them that there were mountains all around them, stretching God knew how far, and on mountain trails horses move more slowly than mules. It was impossible to pursue him at top speed. He had given himself a half-day's start, and that would remain. The only thing was to find out where he was heading, and then take the same direction.

  The Poet said: "First of all, he can't have set out for Constantinople. There, with Isaac Angelus on the throne, the air isn't safe for him; further, he would have to cross the lands of the Seljuks, which we have just left after so many hardships, and he knows that sooner or later they would have his hide. The most sensible hypothesis, since he's the one who knows the map, is that he wants to do what we wanted to do: reach the Priest's kingdom, proclaim himself the envoy of Frederick, or whoever, return the Grasal, and be covered with honors. So to find Zosimos we have to journey towards the kingdom of the Priest, and overtake him along the way. We'll set out, we'll ask questions as we proceed, we'll look for the trail of a Greekling monk, since you can tell his race a mile off, then you will allow me finally the satisfaction of strangling him, and we'll recover the Grasal."