Inquisition

by Alfredo Colitto

  He wound his way between the stalls of the Mercato di Mezzo, splashing his shoes in the mud, took the bridge over the Aposa and reached the chapel that housed the stone cross dedicated to the Holy Apostles. There he saw that two countrymen, sheltering from the rain beneath the canopy, were roasting a piece of pork on the church steps, perhaps ignorant of the fine they risked receiving from the city guards. Pretending to want to warn them, he took the opportunity as he spoke to have a good look round him.

  The countrymen told him to mind his own business but Gerardo was already long gone. He turned right at the Asinelli tower and found himself in the Trebbo dei Banchi neighbourhood. Once more he was seized by an irresistible need to look over his shoulder, but he knew that he would only attract attention, raising the likelihood of being recognised. He tried to remain calm; he put his head down and walked on.

  He arrived at the office belonging to Remigio Sensi, trusted banker to the templars. The wooden hatch, which when open and resting on two supports served as a counter on which to count out money and sign bonds, was beneath a portico that was too high to provide efficient protection against bad weather, and perhaps for that reason it was closed.

  So Gerardo went up to the door of the banker’s house, which he found open. Just over the threshold, in a badly lit hall, lounged two massive attendants in grey indoor tunics, daggers at their belts. He told them that he wanted to see Remigio. The two moved aside to let him pass. Gerardo walked down the windowless corridor that was lit by lamps even in the middle of the day, took off his wet cloak, laid it on a bench and entered the studio through a double wing oak door.

  He was surprised to find a girl in the room. Her head was lowered and her blonde hair was covered in a silk veil of the same tone of green as her embroidered robe. She was writing on a piece of parchment with a quill, making a scratching sound. It was the first time in his life that he had seen a woman writing. Even his mother, who was perfectly able to read, had to dictate her letters to a scribe.

  ‘Come in, Messer,’ said a man’s voice, and only then did Gerardo notice the banker sitting at the centre of the long table that divided the room in two. He was no longer a young man, had very little hair, a flattened nose and wore an avid expression. He had a prominent stomach that his well-cut long black tunic did little to hide. Behind him, against the wall, there was a very solid-looking coffer with two locks, and to either side of it, two bookshelves overflowing with documents held together by hard leather covers.

  Gerardo went up to the banker and introduced himself, mentioning the name of the confrère who had sent him but without saying that he was a Knight of the temple. He didn’t know if he could trust the girl.

  As though reading his mind, Remigio asked her to go and find out what the kitchen girls were up to. She laid down the quill, blew on the words she had just written and turned to give the banker an annoyed look that was certainly not that of a servant. ‘I checked on them a moment ago,’ she countered. ‘May I finish writing this letter first?’

  She seemed to be avoiding looking in Gerardo’s direction, with her profile turned towards the banker, and an elbow on the table.

  Remigio Sensi sighed. It was clearly not the first time that his orders had been questioned. ‘Do as I told you,’ he said quietly.

  The girl glared at him, she was on the point of answering back, then thought better of it. She nodded and rose. In order to get out from behind the table, she had to face Gerardo straight on, showing a terrible scar that disfigured the left side of her face. The young man was shocked, but even more so by her eyes, that were so dark and deep, shaded by an immense sadness.

  It was only for a second, then she dropped her gaze, as befitted the modesty of a young woman, and walked swiftly out in her yellow felt slippers that matched her hair.

  ‘I’ve never seen a female scribe before,’ Gerardo felt the need to comment, sitting down on a silk cushion on the high-backed chair.

  Remigio laughed. ‘Fiamma is my adopted daughter. When I took her in, she already knew how to read and write.’

  ‘Strange for a woman. Was she the daughter of a noble family?’ Gerardo did not really want to know about Fiamma’s family, but something inside him refused to let the matter drop. ‘Her father was a Venetian merchant who ran his business in the Kingdom of Aragon, too close to the saracen lands,’ explained Remigio. ‘One day the city was sacked and Fiamma’s family killed. But a Knight of the temple certainly did not come here in order to talk about that.’

  ‘No, of course not.’ Gerardo took a breath and added, ‘To be brief, Messer Remigio, due to an unfortunate incident I have lost all my money and I need a loan. I have land near Ravenna that I wish to sell, and I will use a part of the proceeds to restore your money to you.’

  ‘An incident? of what type?’

  ‘Does it matter?’

  Remigio Sensi laid his palms on the dark table and looked him in the eye. ‘You are a Knight of the temple. If the incident of which you speak has anything to do with the Inquisition, the probability that you will soon be caught is high. And I must know the risks to which I am exposing myself.’

  Gerardo nodded slowly. He could not tell him everything and decided to tell a half-truth instead. ‘The Inquisition doesn’t come into it,’ he lied. ‘The house where I had a room took fire and I had to escape. I have no way of paying my landlord back.’

  ‘A fire?’ said Remigio, with an alert look. ‘You mean the house behind the Church of sant’Antonino that burned down last night? I know the owner, he lives near here.’

  Gerardo felt himself exposed. He wanted to make up an excuse, any sort of lie, but he paused a moment too long and the banker made a sign as if to say that it didn’t matter to him. ‘Your secrets are safe with me, don’t worry,’ he said. ‘I certainly won’t denounce you. But now let’s get back to business.’ He raised his eyes to look at a large painting of St matthew, protector of the moneylenders, as if to ask for inspiration. Then he set out the conditions of the loan.

  ‘As you know, the comune permits moneylending, on condition that the interest does not exceed four denari per lira a month. Naturally, in the case of a wanted man, this absolutely does not cover the risks.’

  ‘So what do you propose?’ asked Gerardo, knowing that the preamble was prelude to a hammering.

  ‘It depends on how much money you need, in any case I would say that I cannot accept less than fifteen denari per lira a month, with full restitution of the debt a year from the agreement.’

  Gerardo had been expecting an even more exorbitant request and he took heart. But his relief did not last long.

  ‘Furthermore,’ continued the banker, ‘There would have to be a fine for default in case of failure to pay on the due date.’ He sighed as though it displeased him to have to say such a thing, and added, ‘Fifty per cent of the entire sum.’

  Gerardo leaped to his feet in outrage. ‘What? But this is usury! It is a very serious crime, condemned by—’

  ‘Calm down, Messer. Do not insult me,’ interrupted Remigio, without losing his composure. ‘Are you or are you not aware of the risks that I run, lending money to a wanted man, a member of the order accused of heresy and filthy practices and currently under trial? And just so that you know, that is not all.’

  ‘You don’t need to go on,’ said Gerardo, holding up his hand and walking towards the door. ‘I will look for better conditions elsewhere.’

  ‘You won’t find them. Just as you won’t find anyone you can trust absolutely, who understands your situation and who will not betray you. Think about it. Anyway, the other thing I wanted to mention besides the conditions that I have already put forward is not more interest but just two guarantors who will stand surety for you.’

  Gerardo opened his arms slightly to let some air circulate between his shirt and tunic, to disperse the wave of heat that had overcome him. He too tu
rned towards St matthew on the wall and silently asked God’s forgiveness for accepting conditions that benefited the sin of usury. Then, through gritted teeth, he said, ‘You well know that I can’t refuse. But I don’t know where to find the two guarantors that you ask of me.’

  ‘You are fortunate,’ said the banker, in a conciliatory tone.

  ‘In fact you need only find one. I can recommend the other myself.’

  ‘Who would that be?’ inquired Gerardo, warily.

  ‘A templar like yourself. He is french, he is rich and he has just arrived in the city. I’ve known him for some time. I will mention your situation to him and I am sure that he will agree to help a confrère in difficulty.’ Remigio rose to his feet and added, ‘I cannot abandon my work right now, but I would be honoured if you accepted to share my table. I will have someone accompany you to the kitchen, where Fiamma will serve you a bowl of minestra. After all it is nearly time to eat.’

  It was clear that the offer of friendship was self-interested. Remigio certainly didn’t want to make an enemy of the Knights of the temple. After all, now that they were under trial, they brought him even better business than before. Hearing the name of the girl mentioned, Gerardo replied impulsively, ‘I will accept to please you, Messer Remigio, but don’t go to too much trouble. A bowl of warm milk and a slice of bread would do very well. However, first of all, I have a question to ask of you.’ ‘Go on.’

  Perhaps the banker knew something of Angelo da Piczano. It was possible that the templar had called on him during his brief stay in Bologna.

  ‘I heard that my friend Angelo da Piczano, who is also a templar, has been in the city for a few days,’ he said. ‘Has he by chance been to see you? I would be grateful if you could tell me where I can find him.’

  The banker had started shaking his head even before Gerardo had finished speaking. ‘I have never heard that name,’ he said. ‘And in any case, even if I did know the person you are looking for, I would not tell you.’ He raised a hand to ward off the young man’s protests. ‘My profession is based on discretion,’ he explained. ‘If someone were to come here and ask for you, I certainly wouldn’t tell him where to find you.’ ‘However, I happen to know that many templars passing through the city have met thanks to you,’ Gerardo answered back, annoyed.

  ‘Certainly. But only after I’ve made sure that both of them were disposed to meet.’

  He explained that the system was simple. A client said that he wanted to meet a person. Remigio answered that he did not know the man, then went to him and gave him the message. If the fellow agreed, he set up a meeting. If not, he did nothing. ‘So if your friend should approach me in the next few days,’ he concluded, ‘I will not fail to pass on your request. And should his reply be positive, I will advise you. Otherwise it is futile to ask. I’m sure you understand.’

  Gerardo nodded wearily. Angelo would not be returning from the afterlife to speak to Remigio Sensi, or indeed anyone else. To find out whom he had met during his sojourn in Bologna, he would have to look elsewhere.

  The banker went over to open the door. He gave instructions to one of the servants to prepare bread and milk for their guest, and then he returned slowly to sit down at the table. ‘Good, now tell me how much you need.’ Gerardo took a deep breath and said, ‘At least forty Bolognese lira.’

  ‘Find the guarantors and the affair is done,’ replied Remigio, with a smile that was meant to be benevolent but only managed to convey avarice. ‘Then we will occupy ourselves with selling that property of which you were speaking. A propos, where are you lodging?’

  ‘I would prefer not to say for the moment,’ answered Gerardo.

  ‘As you wish.’

  The smile on the face of the banker vanished, indicating that he didn’t understand such a lack of trust after his speech about discretion. They bid one another goodbye and Gerardo left, following the servant to the kitchen.

  It was a large room, lit more by the fire flaring in the hearth than by what little light came from the single window, which was fortified with thick bars. Fiamma was scolding a barefoot girl of about nine years of age with a runny nose who had a contrite air about her. A second, older girl wearing a grey bonnet sat at a shelf made of terracotta tiles near the fireplace, plucking a chicken.

  ‘Forgive me,’ said the mistress of the house immediately, making the delicate green veil that covered her head flutter as she turned to face him. ‘This numbskull didn’t find milk in the first place she tried, so instead of looking elsewhere she came back empty-handed. I’ll send her straight out again, but I’m afraid you’ll have to wait a little.’

  ‘Please do not put yourself to any inconvenience, mistress,’ replied Gerardo. He went to sit down at the table in the centre of the kitchen and added, ‘Bread and cheese will do very well, if you have any.’

  Fiamma immediately sent the girl to fetch some cheese from the larder, and then she herself poured him a tankard of wine from the pitcher on the table.

  The little girl walked off sniffling and soon came back with a piece of fresh cheese on a thick slice of bread. Gerardo took the food, thanked them and began to eat in silence. He was ravenous, but tried not to tuck in too voraciously because he was in the presence of a lady.

  Fortunately the wine had been diluted with water, but even as it was, perhaps because of his exhaustion after the night’s vigil, it went straight to his head, spreading a pleasant warmth through his body and a sensation of well-being that was most inappropriate in the circumstances. In the meantime the older girl had finished plucking the chicken, had scorched it by passing it over the flames and was now concentrated on gut

  Ting it, putting the heart, liver and throat to one side and throwing the rest of the entrails into a wooden pail. ‘Is the fare to your liking, Messer?’ asked Fiamma. Gerardo was lost in thought, and contrary to both good manners and the Code of the templars to which he had sworn obedience, he raised his head and found himself looking her in the eye. The young woman did not avert her gaze, and they remained looking at one another until Gerardo, painfully aware of the impure manner in which he was staring at the woman, managed to utter in a dreamy tone, ‘It is all delicious, mistress.’

  He heard a muffled giggle and turned quickly round. The little servant next to the fireplace was facing the other way as she worked, but Gerardo was certain that she had seen everything. He rose to his feet as if the chair were scalding him.

  ‘I must go now,’ he said. ‘Thank you for everything. I haven’t felt like this for a long time.’

  And after that strange comment, and a loud sneeze of adieu from the barefoot child, he went out of the kitchen, leaving the three females wondering what on earth he meant. They would have found it difficult to guess, for he didn’t even know himself.

  He recovered his cloak from the entrance hall, went out into the street and set off for the seven churches that made up the Benedictine Basilica of Santo Stefano, the fulcrum of the architectonic arrangement commissioned centuries before by Bishop Petronio and known throughout Christendom as Jerusalem Bononiensis.

  Following an impulse he went through the spacious doorway of the first church, which went by the name of the Holy Crucifix. He felt ill at ease, and a brief visit to the house of the lord could not but do him good. He walked quickly up the aisle and turned left to enter the church where the Holy sepulchre of Jerusalem had been reproduced. Around the small octagonal sanctuary that held the mortal remains of St Petronio, the main patron saint of Bologna, there were six monks kneeling in prayer. Gerardo stood contempLating the small but important work of architecture. It was said that it perfectly respected the proportions of the original and that under the floor there was a sacred wellspring whose waters were able to heal all illnesses. There was even a rumour of an underground temple predating the church, dedicated in remote times to the cult of the pagan goddess Isis.

  And
yet, Gerardo derived no relief from his visit to that consecrated place. Afterwards, he felt more worried than ever. Moving quietly so as not to disturb the monks in prayer, he walked out of the right-hand door, crossed the deserted cloisters and went into the Church of the Holy trinity. He was on the point of leaving, when he saw a priest kneeling in a corner. The man had heard his steps and turned to look at him, without saying anything. Gerardo stopped, feeling uncomfortable. While he searched for something to say that would justify his presence there, the words came out spontaneously, as though they were the only appropriate ones for that place and time. ‘Father, I would like to confess.’

  The priest nodded, rose and beckoned him over. Gerardo went to kneel before him, waited for the priest to pronounce the customary words and then began to confess all the sins that he could remember, mentally asking God’s pardon because he could not reveal the things that tormented him the most. In theory the lips of the priest were sealed, but he knew well that the superiors usually absolved a priest guilty of vioLating the sacrament of confession, if such a violation was committed for the greater good of the Church. At that moment the Church seemed to consider the elimination of the order of the templars as the greater good, and Gerardo could not take the risk.

  While he searched his soul for hidden sins, still in the state of slight inebriation induced by the wine and his nocturnal vigil, at a certain point he heard himself say that he had thought with joy of being able to form a family, with a wife and children, and of dedicating himself to the glory of the lord.

  The priest interrupted him, curious. ‘And why do think of that as a sin, my son?’

  Gerardo realised his error. The thought was a sin in that it was contrary to his monastic vows, but he couldn’t very well say that.

  ‘The woman who inspires these thoughts in me is married, father,’ he lied. ‘I am in a state of mortal sin.’