Inquisition

by Alfredo Colitto

  Mondino examined the paper. It seemed to have been hurriedly ripped off a larger piece and it contained just a few words, engraved into the paper with a stylus, or perhaps with the pressure of a fingernail.

  ‘Philomena, watering place, market,’ read Mondino out loud. ‘It’s a woman’s address. A prostitute?’

  ‘I think so, Master. It is possible that Angelo did not fully respect his vow of chastity.’

  Mondino’s lips assumed a sarcastic smile and Gerardo prepared himself to rebut a comment on pleasure-loving priests, but the physician said nothing and turned back to the piece of paper.

  ‘There are many places where they water and wash the animals and various markets in the city,’ he said. ‘But I would bet that it’s the one near the Campo del Mercato.’ ‘How can you be so sure?’

  ‘Your friend wasn’t from these parts. If he only wrote down these words, without being more specific, it seems likely that he was referring to the biggest livestock market there is.’

  He was probably right,but Gerardo was tired of praising him. ‘So I’ll begin my search there,’ he said simply. ‘For tonight—’

  ‘Tonight you can stay here,’ interrupted the physician, pushing himself away from the desk. ‘There is no bed, but you can spread the blankets in the chest on the table and sleep there.’

  ‘I will spend the night in prayer for Angelo’s soul,’ replied Gerardo. The mere idea of lying down on the marble slab where so many cadavers had been eviscerated gave him the shivers.

  ‘As you prefer. Tomorrow I’ve got a lesson after breakfast, but the steward comes around daybreak to prepare the lecture hall. Make sure that he doesn’t find you here.’

  ‘I’ll be gone before dawn, don’t worry,’ said Gerardo. ‘What will you do while I’m looking for the woman?’

  ‘I’ll go and talk to some alchemists that I know. In the afternoon, just before vespers, we’ll meet in the Church of San Vitale and Agricola, near my house. You’ll find me sitting in my family pew.’

  ‘I’ll be there, you can be sure of that.’

  ‘Good,’ said Mondino, opening the door.

  ‘Until tomorrow, magister,’ said Gerardo. ‘And thank you for everything.’

  The physician turned slowly, looking at him closely. ‘I have always been impulsive in my decisions,’ he said. ‘Helping you was not an exception. I hope you will make sure that I don’t regret it.’

  Then he went out into the dark street, without even a lantern to light his way, and turned his steps confidently towards home.

  Gerardo stood motionless on the threshold listening to the peaceful sounds of the night. If the neighbours had already returned to their beds, it meant that the fire had not caused serious damage. Nonetheless, a description of him would have been given to the authorities and beginning the next morning it wouldn’t just be the Inquisition that was after him, but the city guards too. He would have to find somewhere else to live, assume another name and be doubly cautious from now on.

  He closed the door and secured it with the metal bar. Then he drew his hands through his shoulder-length hair, more to calm himself than to tidy it, and went to kneel at the linen chest. In the absence of a body, he would watch over Angelo da Piczano’s metallic heart buried in the wooden chest beneath two blankets.

  He was certain that Angelo’s soul, wherever it was now, would have great need of comfort.

  II

  Beneath a leaden sky, Uberto da Rimini was crouching down on the narrow pathway of San Domenico’s cemetery, pulling out the weeds around the tombs. He had woken early, still irritated that he hadn’t found the dead body mentioned in the anonymous informer’s letter. His annoyance had increased when he remembered the arrogant reception he received from the physician who had refused to let him enter by threatening to cause a student uprising. Uberto took it out on a friar who had knocked over a jug of water on the floor, ordering him to do a day’s hard labour in the cemetery.

  In theory, only the prior had the power to deal out punishments, but he was a weak man, who from the day that Uberto had arrived at the monastery had done his best to make himself invisible. So that when his authority was bypassed, he could always say that he had not been present, that he had not seen anything and that he knew nothing.

  Consequently, it was really Uberto who was in command, and although it seemed proper, given that he was more than capable, he had to be careful not to fall into the sin of pride.

  This was why he had later decided to join the monk in his punishment of weeding the cemetery. He took satisfaction in being as inflexible with himself as he was with anyone else. Besides, physical effort was the only thing that might help him give vent to his anger that morning.

  They worked on in silence, each alone with his thoughts. Uberto bent down to pull out a dandelion growing from the crack between two bricks, but its long conical root broke just below the surface and he was left with a handful of leaves. This meant that the plant would reappear in a few days’ time. He straightened his back, observing the lines of tombstones before him. The requests of prelates and notables who wanted to be buried near St Dominic’s tomb rose year on year, and the monastery had difficulty fitting them all in. The cemetery was full of tombs, and although the friars did their best to keep it in order, the weeds simply carried on reappearing.

  Heresy carried on reappearing too, thought Uberto, after every effort to extirpate it. But it wasn’t heresy’s fault. It was the Inquisitors who, in order not to lay themselves open to criticism from the civil authorities, contented themselves with niggling trials and mild sentences. How could you frighten a heretic if, in the worst case, he was condemned to carry out a pilgrimage to St Peter’s in Rome?

  The only way to stamp out heresy completely was to extract it at the root, whatever the cost. There would be mistakes, certainly. The odd innocent man might finish at the stake, but his soul would be saved because he had died for the good of the Church. It had been the fate of the Cathars of the Languedoc, and, more recently, of Fra Dolcino and his acolytes too. Both Cathars and Dolcinians had disappeared altogether. And the same would have to happen to the templars. The Holy Inquisition’s job in this case was not to find certain proof of guilt or innocence, as the Archbishop of Ravenna, Rinaldo da Concorezzo, wanted. The accusations against the templars were too serious and their power too great for the Church to run the risk of absolving them. The order must be destroyed, and its leaders burned at the stake. The job of every good Inquisitor was to help the Church reach that objective, even if it meant making difficult decisions.

  Uberto da Rimini sat down at the foot of a tomb to think, while the friar went on working without stopping or raising his head.

  The evildoers did not concern themselves with obeying the law when they committed their crimes. Why should those who fought against them have to be hampered by a series of useless regulations? If he wanted to find the corpse of a templar showing signs of the Devil’s work, as indicated in the informer’s letter, Uberto could not follow legal channels. He had sent for a trusted man, a former priest who lived at the edge of the law. However, what he meant to ask of him would not receive the Archbishop’s approval, so he had to be very careful.

  The youth who had escaped arrest the night before was one of Mondino de Liuzzi’s students. And the fact that the physician had denied Uberto entry to the school of medicine still seemed highly suspicious to him. He would have to investigate, but in secret. Then, once he had found proof, Uberto would be able to work out how to do things according to the law. There was no doubt that this case could reveal itself as crucial in speeding up the fall of the templars. If he were successful, many high-placed prelates, and perhaps the Pope himself, would approve of what he had done.

  On the other hand, if he failed he would cover it all up. In that way he would risk nothing.

  A friar came walking swiftly t
owards him and told him that a certain Guido Arlotti wished to speak to him on an important matter.

  Guido Arlotti was the former priest whom Uberto had been waiting for. He was anxious to see Arlotti but didn’t want to be seen dirty and sweaty as he carried out his penance like a peasant.

  He cut short the friar’s explanations with an abrupt wave of his hand and told him that he would receive the visitor in his study. Then he set off towards a gate that led to the orchards, rapidly refreshed himself at the well, cleaning his hands of the stains of the weeds, and entered the monastery by a back door, while thunder sounded in the distance.

  Guido stood waiting for him in the study. He was thickset with short reddish-brown hair. His knee-length sleeveless tunic showed off his muscular arms and thick calves clad in woollen stockings. On his feet he wore flat laced sandals, not elegant but made of good leather. Looking at him, no one would have said that he had once been a priest. Now he earned his living by exercising the questionable art of procurer of women, but he was still a Christian in his way. He had a genuine fear of hell and helped the Church in its job of singling out people suspected of heresy in return for money and indulgences for his sins.

  Uberto greeted him and offered him a glass of water from the jug on the table, which Arlotti refused. Thus they immediately came to the point of the visit, both remaining on their feet. This was a way of underlining that Guido should not really be there and that the meeting would be as short as possible. Uberto was pleased to see that the discomfort was not only his own. The de-frocked priest also felt out of place in the house of God, and this made it easier to lend the right tone to their relationship.

  ‘I came as soon as I received your message, father,’ said Guido. ‘How can I be of service?’

  Uberto took a step away from him. Guido didn’t exactly smell bad, but his body and clothes still bore the cloyingly sweet odours of the perfumes burned in brothels.

  ‘I must entrust you with a most delicate task,’ he said.

  ‘I’m listening.’

  ‘I have reason to believe that a physician of the Studium has given refuge to a fugitive from justice, probably a Knight templar disguised as a student. And that he has helped him to get rid of a cadaver. How could he have done this?’

  Guido remained silent for a time, his face dark. He stretched a hand out towards the jug of water, and then thought better of it. ‘There are plenty of ways,’ he said, finally. ‘What is the physician’s name?’ ‘Mondino de Liuzzi.’

  Guido nodded. ‘I know who he is. Mondino is in contact with all the grave-diggers in Bologna. He buys corpses from them for his dissections. He might have asked one of them for help.’

  ‘And would you be able to find out?’

  ‘It won’t be easy,’ answered Guido. ‘As you know there are lots of small cemeteries in the city and a large number of grave-diggers. If one of them has helped Mondino get rid of a body, he’ll obviously keep quiet about it. But with the promise of safety, and perhaps a little money ...’

  ‘Do as you think best,’ said Uberto, cutting him short. ‘The important thing is to find proof that Mondino is involved, and naturally find the hidden cadaver.’

  Guido darkened again. ‘That might not be possible. If I were a gravedigger charged with such a task, I’d throw the body into a mass grave with the lepers. Then it would soon be covered with quicklime, becoming unrecognisable.’

  ‘Let’s hope that not everyone has your intelligence,’ said Uberto. ‘If you get me what I ask, your pay will be twice the usual.’

  ‘I’d also like a certificate of plenary indulgence, signed by the Archbishop.’

  ‘Forget it. Rinaldo da Concorezzo must not even be aware of your existence, at least until the trial of the templars is concluded.’

  Guido looked annoyed. ‘I understand. But you know that I can’t speak of many of my sins in confession. And more than a year has gone by since the last indulgence I received.’

  He was referring to the crimes against the law, including murder, committed on his own account or by order of a man of the Church. Uberto knew that he was not the only one to take advantage of Guido’s services. He needed to keep him sweet.

  ‘I’ll see what I can do,’ he said. ‘You concentrate on getting results.’

  Guido Arlotti’s wide face broke into a smile at last. ‘Results are my speciality,’ he said. Then he made a slight bow and left.

  When Uberto returned to the basilica’s cemetery, the cover of dark clouds had got thicker, but there was still time for a bit of work before it began to rain. He looked over at the friar with whom he had been sharing the penance. He had been working hard without rest since the early morning, bent down among the tombs. He was sorry for him, but they would have to start again from the beginning.

  He went up to him and good-naturedly explained how the work should be done, gouged out weed by weed.

  ‘But like that it will take weeks to rid the whole place of them,’ the monk protested, raising his sweating face to look at him.

  The good nature vanished from the Inquisitor’s face with the rapidity of a dream, and the friar hurriedly excused himself for his impertinence. Then he knelt down on the ground and started to delve painstakingly into the cracks between the stones with the point of the sickle.

  It was a good idea. In an élan of modesty, Uberto decided to do the same. He picked up a pointed shard of earthenware and dug around the dandelion root until he managed to extract the whole plant, avoiding breaking it even at its delicate end. Then he threw it on the pile of other weeds and filled the hole up with earth, without leaving even the smallest trace of the plant that had once grown there.

  Gerardo walked in the rain, with the hood of his cloak falling over his eyes. He was tired from his vigil and the events of the night, which now seemed to him somewhat unreal. Other than praying for Angelo’s soul, he had asked God’s pardon for the manner in which he had been forced to dispose of the body. The idea that his friend was lying in a mass grave, without even a cross to recall his name, seemed to him almost more horrible than his death itself.

  According to his agreement with Mondino, he had to start looking for the people with whom Angelo da Piczano had been in contact during the few days he had spent in Bologna. But first of all Gerardo needed money, given that he had left all his possessions in the burning house and all that he had now were the few coins in his pouch.

  He had left the school of medicine at dawn and immediately begun to look for new lodgings. Naturally he had changed neighbourhood, choosing the area near the Porta Stiera, and more precisely Borgo del Rondone, not far from the Church of San Naborre and San Felice. It did not seem to him that the dialect spoken in San Felice was so different from that of Strada Maggiore, as heard by Dante, the famous florentine poet who had passed through Bologna, but it was also true that he didn’t have much of an ear for Languages.

  He had found it difficult enough to learn Latin. In any case, dialect apart, it had not been easy to find a room, because he wanted somewhere from which he could guarantee his escape if need be. Fortunately it seemed that there was hardly a family in the city that didn’t rent out rooms to students. He had found one near a bakery, with a separate entry at the rear so that he could come and go without attracting attention. He had presented himself to the owners using his real name. Since the identity of Francesco Salimbene was now compromised, he might as well revert to his own. Three years had passed since the order for the arrest of the templars and no one would be bothering to look for a neophyte like him any more.

  And that was the irony of it: Gerardo had dreamed of becoming a templar since he was a boy, and just when, after years of spiritual and military training, he had finally taken his vows and was awaiting his first posting, Philip the fair’s offensive against the order had begun. To escape arrest, Gerardo had left Ravenna and come to Bologna, changing his
name and breaking off all contact with his family. He had altered his physical appearance, growing his hair and relinquishing his beard and the robe worn by the order. He had enrolled in Mondino’s lessons, but studied the absolute minimum necessary to keep up the fiction and was waiting out the end of the trial before deciding what to do with his life.

  And now he was in trouble again, wanted for arson, not just for being a Knight of the temple.

  He had considered leaving the city, then decided against it, not only because if he left he wouldn’t be able to find Angelo’s murderer, but also because he was convinced that it would be easier to continue to hide among Bologna’s forty thousand inhabitants, as he had until now, than in some little town in the countryside, where his presence would be noticed.

  But now he had to venture back into the centre of the city, where many people knew him, not least his ex-landlord. It was the most dangerous part of town for him but it was also where the bankers had their offices and he needed to ask for a loan. Gerardo hoped that his hood would suffice to avoid discovery, but he couldn’t relax and continually struggled against the temptation to look over his shoulder.

  An insistent rain was falling and everyone was looking for shelter under the arches. The streets were left to the horses and carts and the people carrying things that were too bulky to allow them to thread their way through the columns. Gerardo stopped to wait for a small flock of goats to cross the paved piazza in front of the Church of San Francesco. The route was shorter by Trebbo dei Banchi but passed Mondino’s Studium and it obviously wasn’t the moment to show his face in that area. All of a sudden a kid goat nipped through the open door of a tavern, and by the time the goatherd followed, it had mysteriously disappeared. A loud altercation followed in which the shepherd dog also took part, barking furiously to keep the flock together while his Master argued.

  Gerardo walked on, thinking that the kid would already have had its throat cut by the taverner’s wife to stop it bleating, and that the shepherd would never see it again.