Inquisition

by Alfredo Colitto

  The priest nodded with a serious air, as though expecting that explanation. He asked if Gerardo had anything else to confess, and at his negative reply he imposed a heavy penance on him, then gave him absolution and moved away. Gerardo got up and left. When he found himself outside, he felt all the tiredness of his sleepless night descend heavily on him, as if the confession had emptied him.

  The rain had got more intense. He pulled his hood up again, and crossing the piazza with unsteady steps, he took two decisions. First, he would go home and sleep for a bit before going to find the Philomena in Angelo’s message. And second, he would make sure that he didn’t find himself alone with the banker’s daughter again.

  The grey light of afternoon entered through an open window of the Liuzzi family home, in a side street to Via San Vitale, and a smell of wet earth rose from the courtyard. Summer was not far off, but the rain gave everything a wintry tinge. For the third time, Mondino took the quill from the table, dipped it into the inkpot, and for the third time he put it back down again. In front of him were a white sheet of paper, a new candle and an entire ream of cotton paper waiting to be filled with anatomical notes. But there was nothing he could do about it. He simply could not concentrate.

  That day he had cancelled his lesson at the Studium and spent the entire morning speaking to three alchemists. They lived in the Porta Procola area, near the Circla. The Circla was the familiar name for the paling that for the moment constituted Bologna’s third city wall. The work on the actual wall had yet to begin.

  Unfortunately he had gathered nothing of use from any of the three, in part because he had not dared to be too specific in his questions. He did not believe that he was at great risk, because alchemists generally tended to keep their affairs to themselves and to keep away from judges and magistrates, but you could never be too careful. He had been told of another alchemist, who had settled in Bologna not long before, after years of travelling, and he intended to go and question the man soon.

  However, he wasn’t nurturing much hope, because the person who had suggested he try the alchemist had also said that he was given to the use of aqua vitae for more than alchemical and medicinal purposes.

  With an effort of will, Mondino compelled himself to finish a drawing of the articulation of the muscle between the arm and the shoulder. Its form recalled the Greek letter Delta upside down and some medical men had thus begun to call it the deltoid muscle. To the side of the drawing, he noted down advice about how to detach the muscle from the bone and then he moved on to the pectoral muscles. But his thoughts automatically ran on to what the human body kept under those muscles and the thoracic cavity that they covered: the heart. From there to the mystery that he had stumbled on the night before was only a short step, and Mondino found himself once again with his quill poised in mid air, lost in a fascinating and dangerous dream.

  Exasperated, he rose to go and fetch the bundle of pages he had already written. Passing the window he stopped to contemplate the rain. But the monotonous and almost soporific sloshing of the water on the leaves of the apple tree in the garden and on the roofs of the neighbouring houses couldn’t relax him either. Looking towards the Caccianemici Piccoli towers and the bell tower of the Church of San Vitale and Agricola in Arena that rose above the houses round about, he imagined Gerardo fleeing over the rooftops, dragging his friend’s body behind him until he had managed to get down to the ground by traversing a series of terraces that dropped down to a fenced-in orchard. Mondino knew the owner of that house, a Ghibelline like himself who, by the irony of fate, had once saved himself from the reprisals of a Guelph family by taking the opposite route to that of Gerardo. He had clambered up from one terrace to another and then scrambled between the rooftops until he was within shouting distance of some friends’ houses behind Piazza Maggiore. At that point he shouted for help until someone came. The retaliation ended up with three dead and numerous wounded on both sides and Mondino and his Uncle Liuzzo had given aid to everyone without distinguishing between factions.

  Thinking back to that episode, Mondino shook his head.

  Bologna would never return to the splendour of the previous century if the Bolognese continued to tear themselves to pieces from rivalry between the Guelphs and the Ghibellines.

  But at the same time he was not disposed to surrender without a fight to the dominion the Church wanted to impose on the comune. The ideal would have been to hold on to freedom, without being accountable either to the Pope or the Emperor. But since this was not possible it was better to be in league with Enrico VII, crowned King of Italy in milan a few months previously. A few days before, Enrico had set off in the direction of Lodi and Cremona. If he managed to subdue them, his reign would acquire solidity. Mondino thought of what he would do if the sovereign turned up at the gates of Bologna, as Barbarossa had done so long ago. His Ghibelline faith encouraged him to negotiate an honourable peace, but if the city decided to take up arms and fight, he would fight. In such an uncertain world, the freedom of the comune came before every other consideration.

  A clap of thunder shook him out of his daydream, and he remembered the reason that he had got up from his writing table. He went to fetch the bundle of notes for his book from a shelf. There were hundreds of leaves, thick with notes and drawings,where the structure of the human body was described point by point and organ by organ. Mondino loved to imagine his treatise finished and bound in leather as a great book, with its simple title stamped in gold: Anothomia. A book that physicians in years to come would study with a respect equal to that which the jurists reserved for the work of the great Irnerius. And that, like the work of Irnerius, would be integrated and improved with the advance of human knowledge, while nonetheless remaining the discipline’s essential foundation.

  For the moment, however, the treatise consisted more than anything else of an accumulation of notes that Mondino continually revised, and that he did not yet dare to write down in fair copy. He needed to discover more and explore further before offering his findings to the world like a map to be followed without risk of getting lost.

  Thus, to unearth the secret that enabled blood to be changed into iron could represent a step forward of enormous importance. It was risky, certainly, but the gift of never running risks belonged to Liuzzo, not to him. His uncle was an excellent physician, but he lacked the desire to go forward. He restricted himself to applying rules decided on by others, and perhaps precisely because of that he had managed to make his way rapidly in the Studium.

  Liuzzo prized results,but was not prepared to expose himself in any way to obtain them. Mondino had decided not to say anything at all to him about current events. His uncle would take fright and try to stop him, making his life impossible.

  As though conjured up by his thoughts, Liuzzo appeared on the threshold.

  ‘Good evening, Uncle. I didn’t know you were here.’

  ‘You too could go down and visit your father, from time to time,’ said Liuzzo, in a reproachful tone. ‘He told me that he hasn’t seen you yet today.’

  ‘That’s not fair. I went down not long ago. He was asleep and I didn’t want to wake him.’

  His father was ill. Mondino was sure that he had a carcinoma, or a sarcoma, as Galen defined it, in his left lung. Sure enough, if he turned on to his right side he couldn’t breathe, because his good lung was compressed by the weight of his body and the left, overcome by the tumour, didn’t inflate properly. It was incurable and there was nothing they could do but make the old man as comfortable as possible in the last months of his life. Mondino and his three sons, Gabardino, Ludovico and Leone, took turns sitting with the old man whenever they had a bit of free time.

  Liuzzo came into the study and went over to the writing table, which was strewn with papers. ‘All your time is taken up with making these notes,’ he said, sighing. ‘When you’re not giving a lesson, you write. And at night, instead of going to sl
eep like any other good Christian, you dissect corpses. It’s not only your father who never sees you any more. Even your children know that they can’t rely on you nowadays. When Leone needs advice, he turns to Pietro and Lorenza.’

  Pietro and Lorenza were a couple of family retainers whom Mondino had taken into service when his wife died. They were young and full of energy, and their little girl brought life to the house with her merry shouting.

  ‘Have you nothing to say?’ insisted Liuzzo.

  ‘What do you want me to say?’ burst out Mondino, irritated. ‘That you’re right? Well, you are right. Happy now?’

  Liuzzo stiffened. ‘I only came by to remind you that your presence is expected at the sunday banquet,’ he said, in a formal tone. ‘I’ll be waiting for you to pick me up at my house, as is the duty of a younger member of the Studium.’

  Having said that, he turned round and left the room without a word of goodbye. Mondino stood listening to his steps on the wooden stairs that went down to the ground floor. Then he turned to the bookshelf and put the bundle of rough copies back in their place. It was clear that he wouldn’t be getting any work done that afternoon.

  It had stopped raining by the time Gerardo arrived at the Campo del Mercato. The working day had ended and the piazza was now full of people chatting and playing dice; taking their ease. There was no end in sight of the previous year’s famine that had caused the price of grain to rise, but people just wanted to forget about it. Three young lads played at making pebbles ricochet off the low wall surrounding the watering trough, while opposite them a peasant was washing his donkey, throwing water over its back with a wooden pail held together with strips of tin. When Gerardo asked the boys if they could show him where a certain Philomena lived, they replied in a chorus, ‘The hairy woman?’ and bolted like jackrabbits. Gerardo didn’t want to draw too much attention to himself by asking adults, so he decided to sacrifice some money. He showed the coin to the boys, who had stopped not far off. The one who seemed to be their leader, a blond, lank child, with knees covered in scabs beneath a short sleeveless tunic, came towards him, stopping at a safe distance. With a gesture he made Gerardo understand that he wanted the money first, and the templar threw it at his feet. The boy pointed to an alley not far from the watering trough and shouted, ‘The second last house on the right!’

  Then he ran off with his companions, proudly showing them the coin he had earned without much effort.

  Gerardo followed his directions, surprised, but not very, by the lads’ strange behaviour. If the woman he was looking for was a prostitute, it was likely that their parents must have told them to keep away from her house and her clients.

  The lane was foul-smelling, as were all the narrow alleys of the city. They tended to be overrun by filth and excrement despite the vigilance of the borough administrators, whose job it was to denounce anyone caught in the act of throwing rubbish away. The system worked in the main streets, but in the alleyways other customs were in force that were hard to eradicate. Gerardo walked up to the penultimate dwelling, stepping over a dead dog on which fortunately someone had thrown some quicklime, and knocked at the door.

  It was opened by the ugliest woman he had ever seen. She was old, over fifty, with grey hair under a dirty bonnet and a slovenly gown. She had a dull look about her and it was quickly obvious why the boys had saddled her with such an offensive nickname. The backs of her hands were covered in dark bristly hairs like those of a man. She didn’t exactly have a beard but her cheeks showed signs of the razor and her eyebrows were as thick as silkworms. With a shudder, Gerardo thought what her legs might be like. Fortunately her long grey tunic covered them down to her feet.

  ‘Are you mistress Philomena?’ he asked, incredulous. Angelo da Piczano could not possibly have broken his vow of chastity for a woman of this sort. ‘And who are you?’

  ‘My name doesn’t matter, I’ve been sent by a friend.’ the old crone asked who the friend was and Gerardo told her, but she didn’t recognise the name. Angelo had obviously introduced himself to her under an alias. So Gerardo described him to her, saying that his friend had come to visit some days before and had been very happy with the outcome. Finally the woman’s face lit up.

  ‘Come in,’ she said, in a croaky voice. ‘Payment in advance.’ Gerardo tried to explain, but the woman did not want to hear another word before seeing his money. So he gave her a few coins, promising the rest later. He had absolutely no intention of sinning with her, but hoped that the avidity provoked by the money would induce her to answer some questions.

  The woman led him into a kitchen with smoke-blackened walls. She closed the street door and immediately went to open another leading into a little corridor. Gerardo went in, thinking that she would follow him, but the old hag shut the door behind him, leaving him alone. Or rather, worse than alone.

  Now everything became clear. There was a boy of about six or seven, half-dressed, waiting on a reasonably clean straw mattress. The room had no windows and was lit only by a stub of candle, probably stolen from church. The child got up without a word, walked over to Gerardo, pushed his hands up under the monk’s tunic and began to fumble with his breeches.

  Only then did Gerardo react, pushing him away with more violence than was necessary. The little chap fell back on to the bed, but he got up again immediately to return to his task. While his expression had initially been empty and almost absent, now he looked terrified.

  Gerardo brushed him away again, more gently this time, but the child came back and set to work again. Now he was on the verge of tears. In a flash of intuition, Gerardo asked, in the gentlest voice possible, ‘Are you afraid that if you don’t do your duty, they’ll beat you?’

  The child suddenly froze, stared at him for a while, and then nodded twice.

  ‘Don’t worry, it won’t happen this time. But now please be still. I am not one of those wicked men who come to you. What’s your name?’

  Again, the little fellow looked at him with mistrust as though trying to work out whether he was telling the truth or if it were a trick. At the end he pointed at his mouth with a finger and opened his hands in a gesture of powerlessness. ‘Are you dumb?’

  He nodded his head. Yes. ‘Did they kidnap you?’ Another soundless yes.

  Gerardo had heard talk of such repugnant practices, but it was the first time that he had seen them in person. Initially he had reacted impetuously, concerned only to avoid sinning, and he had frightened the child. Now he tried to reassure him and inspire his trust. One thing was clear: although he was here for another purpose entirely, he would never leave the little boy in the hands of that woman.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ he said softly, sitting down on the bed next to him. ‘I’ll take you away from here.’

  To see the apprehension in the child’s expression transform itself into hope was more than he could bear. He got up from the mattress, making the candle’s flame waver, and went to open the door. It was bolted from the outside. He started beating it and shouting and the hag came quickly.

  ‘Why did you lock me in?’ asked Gerardo, his face now a deep magenta.

  ‘I always do,’ explained Philomena, her breath smelling of wine. In the half-light her hirsute hands and bushy eyebrows seemed to belong to a hellish being. ‘To stop the boy running away. I paid dearly for him and I’m not going to take any risks. If he runs off, who’ll chase after him? I’m too old.’

  She gave a throaty cackle, showing her yellow teeth. Gerardo walked out and she bolted the door again with a wooden bar and followed him into the kitchen, looking a bit perplexed. A half-full jug of red wine stood in the centre of the table.

  ‘What is it? Does Masino not please you? I must say you are the first. Your friend—’

  ‘My friend what?’ he snapped, forcing himself to control the rage that had taken hold of him. For the moment, finding out about Angelo was the mos
t important thing.

  ‘He enjoyed him greatly. He even said he’d be back soon.’ Gerardo had seized her by the throat. ‘You’re lying!’ he said. ‘Angelo would never do such a thing.’

  The shrew didn’t reply. In her eyes, Gerardo read obstinacy and cunning. She had realised that letting him enter was a mistake and had decided to say nothing further. There was no time to think. Someone might come along and there was the risk that she might cry out for help. All his instincts held him back from hitting a woman, but he overcame them and gave her two hard slaps, continuing to throttle her with his free hand to stop her from shouting. She growled an oath, trying to strike him with her fist. Gerardo caught her wrist and squeezed it harder than her throat, finding that her rough skin, her hair and her masculine appearance made it easier for him not to yield to compassion.

  Philomena began to entreat him. ‘What do you want from me?’ she wheezed. ‘I beg of you.’

  ‘You must tell me everything that you know about Angelo,’ replied Gerardo, harshly. ‘Then I’ll let you go. If you attempt to shout or I find out that you are lying, I’ll kill you.’

  She nodded, and this time there was genuine fear in her eyes. ‘He’s not really your friend, is he?’ she said. ‘You want to harm him, accuse him of sodomy.’

  Without removing his hand from about her neck, Gerardo reflected rapidly. If he replied in the affirmative, the woman would not collaborate, because in a trial for sodomy of her client she would be condemned to death too. But he preferred not to tell her that Angelo was dead.

  ‘I only want to make him understand that he must get out of my way,’ he lied. ‘Now that I know his secret, he’ll be more careful. Talk.’

  He loosened his hold and the crone started to speak. She said that his friend had turned up and mentioned the name of a man whom she knew well, so she had let him in. ‘What was the man’s name?’

  She shook her head, with a defiant expression. Gerardo squeezed again, harder this time, and after a second’s hesitation he shook a fist in her face. Before he had to hit her again, Philomena relented.