Inquisition

by Alfredo Colitto

  Despite all this, he would have felt more comfortable with a knife at his belt. He had no intention of killing the old woman, even if she deserved it a thousand times over for what she had done to Masino and almost certainly to other children too. But perhaps if he had a weapon, it would be easier to make her obey him and he would be able to defend himself should the two accomplices he had seen last time make a reappearance.

  He didn’t have a real plan. He thought he would knock at the door, disguise his voice so that she would open up and then push the woman inside, putting her out of harm’s way, while he freed the child and took him away. His exhaustion the evening before had prevented him from thinking clearly. He hadn’t even gone along to his meeting with Mondino, because as soon as he got to his room he’d collapsed on the mattress and slept the whole night through, the next morning and part of the afternoon, waking up when the sun was already descending in the west. Now he felt restored and had no doubt that he would succeed in what he had decided to do.

  He avoided the market place as he had done the previous evening and he kept close to the walls, turning down a couple of streets before, and approaching Philomena’s doorway from the opposite alleyway.

  This was his chance. He knocked and waited, preparing to disguise his voice.

  No one came to the door. He knocked again, louder, and called out her name. Still no answer.

  He climbed up to the window, a few feet above him, and tried to look through a crack between the closed shutters, but everything was dark inside. Not even a lamp was lit. It was quite possible that Philomena had gone out, leaving the boy at home, but somehow Gerardo knew that this was not the case. With a heavy heart, he kept his balance with one hand and forced the shutter open with the other, shouting to Masino to make a noise or to throw something on the ground if he was in his room.

  Nothing happened. Behind the wooden shutter, the kitchen looked deserted. The fire was out, and on the table and shelves there wasn’t even a frying pan, a wooden spoon or a knife. Under the table he thought he could see the pieces of the jug that had been broken the night before.

  The old hag, perhaps afraid that he would come back with some guards in tow, had hastily moved out, taking her little prisoner with her. It was too risky to ask her neighbours where she’d gone and, anyway, he doubted that they would know.

  He was about to get down when he felt someone grab his ankles. He managed to kick out with one foot, hitting his assailant in the face, who swore and let go of him. Gerardo jumped down and found himself facing a man who was as thin as a nail, with an unkempt beard, missing incisors, long hair and a tunic that was too short and from which appeared a pair of patched breeches. But the thing that attracted his attention the most was the long knife that the man quickly took out from under his tunic. ‘By God. Quick, Bernardo!’

  Hearing that name, Gerardo was reminded of Philomena shouting the night before. They were her accomplices, left behind to watch over the house, perhaps awaiting her return. He heard a sound behind him, four or five paces away, and without turning round to look he attacked the man in front of him, catching him by surprise. With one hand Gerardo grabbed his weapon arm, twisting his wrist to make him drop the knife, while with the other he swiped him in the throat making him flop to the ground wheezing.

  Gerardo bent down to pick up the weapon and immediately rolled to the side to avoid the attack of the second man who had launched himself at him. The man found himself grabbing thin air and Gerardo gave him a kick to the head, sending him flailing on top of his ally. Then, while his aggressors were trying to get to their feet, Gerardo turned and ran towards the piazza at breakneck speed. He emerged from the alleyway near the trough where the same three boys from the day before were playing with a ball of rags. Before they recognised him, Gerardo hid the knife beneath his arm and turned sharp left, walking twenty or so yards at a normal pace until he arrived at the first arcade. There he hid behind a column and waited for the two men, who didn’t take long to appear at the end of the alley. They looked around them for a second, trying to work out which way he’d gone, then decided to turn right and ran on.

  Gerardo finally relaxed and suddenly all the fear that he had repressed during the fight overwhelmed him, causing his hands and legs to shudder. It was the first time that he had encountered an enemy in the flesh, outside his lessons with the Master of Arms. He had indeed risked his life and this knowledge did not cease to frighten him. His fear was only tempered by one fact: his training had saved him. All those hours spent learning to fight without letting himself be hampered by emotions had turned out to be useful. He went over each different phase in the brief altercation in the alleyway and couldn’t help smiling. Those two cut-throats were not what his Master of Arms would have defined ‘Enemies of the faith’, but when it was a question of saving one’s skin, academic definitions lost their importance.

  With care he inspected the knife he had wrested from his aggressor. The handle was made of wood and the blade of steel; low quality but sturdy and well sharpened. Gerardo hid it under his tunic, wedging it beneath the cloth belt that held up his breeches, and then he set off for his hired lodgings.

  The fact that he hadn’t managed to save the boy caused him a pain in the centre of his chest like a closed fist. But at least he was no longer weaponless.

  Leaning against the wall of a house from where he had a full view of the Church of San Giovanni in monte, Wilhelm von Trier looked around him continually. In the Bolognese reconstruction, the church symbolised the mount of olives, the place at the foot of which Christ had retired before the Passion, in the garden of Gethsemane. Wilhelm wondered to himself why the anonymous ‘Friend’ in the letter had chosen that particular place for their meeting. The friend had shown himself to be too precise for it to have been by chance. Vespers had rung a while before and several people had passed by but no one had come near Wilhelm. He asked himself how he would recognise the man, but knew that it was pointless to concern himself with such a thing. The friend probably knew what he looked like. He’d made it clear that he knew rather too much.

  After sunset, the to-ing and fro-ing in the piazza had lessened to the point of almost stopping completely and the only other person besides Wilhelm who was stationary was a beggar who sat beneath an arch about twenty yards away. He was reaching out for offerings from passers-by with the stump that was his right hand and the palm of his left. Wilhelm watched him closely. Instead of the habitual makeshift sackcloth tunic with which all the poor clothed themselves, the man was wearing a very greasy black cassock that must originally have been made of good cloth, probably a charitable donation.

  Suddenly the church bell rang compline. As though waiting for precisely that signal, the beggar got up and came rapidly towards him.

  Wilhelm watched, trying to work out whether he was a real beggar or the friend in disguise. But when the man got to him every doubt vanished: the smell and filth that he had about him couldn’t possibly be part of a disguise. Wilhelm got ready to refuse a request for alms, but the man said a phrase in laboured Latin in which the templar recognised the word amicus.

  Suddenly wary, he asked the beggar to repeat himself and after various attempts managed to make out the message: the friend with whom he had a meeting could not come. He asked Wilhelm to return to his lodgings and wait for him there.

  The beggar held out his good hand and Wilhelm grudgingly let drop a coin. How did the friend know where he was staying? After eating and resting, the only place he’d been to that afternoon was the office of a trusted banker to the templars, where he had changed some silver florins into Bolognese lira. But he had certainly not told the banker that he was staying in a low order of tavern.

  Beginning to feel concerned, he turned back to the inn. When he got there he was surprised not to find the innkeeper sitting at the entrance to check on the comings and goings of his clients. However, loud shouts and the cackle of
hens could be heard coming from the garden. He went to have a look and saw the innkeeper struggling with a stray dog that had got into the hen coup and killed two hens already. Wilhelm shook his head and went upstairs, going into his room.

  He immediately felt a terrible pain at the nape of his neck and everything went black.

  When he came to his senses, Wilhelm von Trier found that he was paralysed and couldn’t speak. He had a bitter taste in his mouth. Someone must have made him swallow some poison while he was unconscious. He knew that he’d been caught in a trap. The hunter, had become prey.

  He heard a slight movement in the room and a clinking of metal, as though someone were preparing metallic instruments. He pretended to be unconscious, trying to discern what was happening from the noises and whether it would be possible to free himself. But he couldn’t figure it out. In the end, terrified, he slowly opened his eyes.

  By an association of thoughts, what he saw took him back to the name of that evening’s rendezvous, to the word ‘Passion’ from the Latin patior, to suffer. It was about to begin.

  At the end of his bed was death, looking him squarely in the face and smiling.

  IV

  Mondino walked into the banqueting hall with a heavy heart. When a new physician hosted the customary entertainment to celebrate getting his licentia docendi, even the older and more respected masters abandoned their usual gravitas to laugh and enjoy the pleasures of the feast. Mondino, who was closer in age to his students than to the other teachers, given that many of the students were nudging forty, made the most of these merry occasions and thoroughly enjoyed the music and singing. As a rule, he never had to be asked twice to dance a stampita or a farandole, even if he had absolutely no sense of rhythm and was always hopelessly out of step.

  He was firmly of the opinion that humanity gained something with the arrival of a new graduate in the world of medicine, jurisprudence or the liberal arts. So it was right to rejoice. And this particular banquet was being given by a student from syracuse with ample means who certainly hadn’t stinted. All the teachers from the faculty of medicine had been talking about it for weeks.

  And yet, as he glanced around the great hall with its cross

  Vaulted ceiling and florentine tiled floor, filled with three long tables placed in a horseshoe and covered with snow-white tablecloths, Mondino felt listless. And as he watched the servants busying themselves arranging bowls, cutting boards and spoons, he didn’t even feel the slightest pleasure at the thought of eating. He’d not yet received any news from Gerardo and the joy of the banquet was ruined by the thought that if the young man had been arrested, it would be his last supper.

  ‘Magister, what a pleasure to see you at my humble table,’ said the graduate, coming over to welcome him. He was a tall, bulky man of about thirty-five, with drooping cheeks. Mondino was convinced that he would make a good physician, once he had returned to his distant syracuse.

  ‘I wouldn’t have missed the graduation banquet of one of my best students for the world,’ Mondino answered, in an affable tone. ‘Not to mention that many of my colleagues only got through the rigours of lent by thinking of this event.’

  The student laughed, replied that Mondino was too kind and that he hoped he would not disappoint his guests’ expectations, then he accompanied Mondino to his place and went back to supervising the last preparations.

  Mondino noted with satisfaction that he had been put at the centre table where the roasts would be carved. It was a sign of great respect. Seated there were the rectors of the two universities, ultramontane and cismontane, and the two head bursars, whom Mondino went to greet before going to take his place next to Liuzzo. The black or brown robes of the notables from the Studium contrasted with the red robes of the physicians. The other guests had been anything but sober in their choice of dress and the room was a riot of colour. There was not a bare head in the place and even in headwear there was noticeable variety, although everyone had chosen light materials because the warm season was approaching and with the wine and dance they were likely to sweat.

  ‘I came by to collect you, Uncle, as we had agreed, but you had already left,’ said Mondino, as soon as he sat down.

  ‘I had to go out on rather a strange errand,’ Liuzzo replied. He seemed to have recovered his temper since the day before.

  ‘A murder in an inn near the Basilica of Santo Stefano.’

  ‘But haven’t you seen plenty of murders before?’

  His uncle looked at him, as if uncertain whether to go on or not. Liuzzo sighed. ‘The fact is that the man who was killed, a German who had arrived in the city not long ago, had something particularly horrible about him. The woman who found the body ran out of the inn screaming. Some passers-by heard her and went to have a look. Then someone went to inform the authorities. They said the thorax was opened in the manner of a dissector and the heart transformed into a block of iron, so the judge thought that it would be better to take a physician along with him, and he sent for me before going to the house. But is there something wrong?’

  Mondino called on all his strength to put on a strained smile. ‘Nothing, Uncle. It’s just that these stories are not made to increase the appetite. But what you are saying is interesting. Please go on.’

  ‘I don’t know if I should, Mondino. You’ve gone very pale. Are you sure you are feeling quite well?’

  ‘Yes, yes, I’m fine. You were saying that the heart had been turned into a block of iron? that seems incredible.’

  ‘I thought so too,’ agreed Liuzzo. ‘In any case we didn’t have the chance to see anything for ourselves. The innkeeper had informed the priests and when we arrived, the Inquisition barred the door. I was already late for the banquet, so I made my apologies to the judge and left. It seems that the dead man was a Knight templar in disguise, and the Dominicans want to use this death to demonstrate that the templars are involved in devilish practices. Just imagine, they didn’t even want the cadaver to be removed. They asked for nothing to be touched until it has been seen by Uberto da Rimini, who is returning from his visit to the archbishop in Argenta this evening.’

  ‘You mean to say that the dead man is still there?’ asked Mondino. ‘And for how long?’

  ‘I don’t know. The fact is that no one dares make any decisions in the absence of the Inquisitor. It seems that they’re all petrified at the idea of making a mistake.’

  Mondino nodded. During their brief encounter, the Inquisitor had not appeared to him to be a man inclined towards clemency. He was about to ask more questions, when their host requested silence for the commencement of the banquet. By now the guests were all seated and the steaming soup tureens containing the ravioli in broth for the first course were already towering over the tables.

  The speech of thanks given by the graduate was suitably brief. Then the rector of the cismontane university, to which the new doctor belonged, spoke of his appreciation. After this there was a prayer and then they began to eat. Fortunately there was a bowl for every two guests and everyone had their own spoon. This was not always the case and sometimes resulted in detestably ill-mannered scenes. At some of the poorer banquets where Mondino had been present, the less important guests, who were often left without bowl or cutlery, forgot all sense of decorum and launched themselves on the tureen itself, slurping the soup with cupped hands and dirtying their sleeves up to the elbows.

  The servants refilled the bowls with broth teeming with pieces of ravioli about the size of half a chestnut, and the assembly of serious professors dedicated all due attention to eating. However, Mondino left most of their shared bowl to his uncle, hardly even tasting the broth. He didn’t know how to get more information out of Liuzzo without arousing suspicion, and he certainly couldn’t reveal to his uncle what he had done with Gerardo: Liuzzo would be absolutely furious.

  And yet he had to do something. If another corpse
had appeared in the city, similar to that of Angelo da Piczano, then he must see it. Perhaps he would find some clues that would help him catch the murderer before the man was taken by the Inquisition. If the priests got their hands on him first, under torture the man would surely confess to the killing of another templar in the same way, and that would soon lead to Gerardo’s arrest. For the moment, at least so he hoped, the comune would have better things to think about than pursuing a student suspected of causing a fire that had not done much damage. But two murders such as those of Angelo da Piczano and the German in Santo Stefano would set off a manhunt from which Gerardo would not be able to escape. And the arrest after that would be his own.

  General conversation took up again while the servants removed the now empty tureens and brought great platters full of civet of hare à la française. Liuzzo did not even make as if to serve himself, simply waiting for his nephew to serve them both. Out of the platter, Mondino picked three fine pieces of meat covered in abundant dark sauce, laying them out on a thick slice of bread, which he placed on the tablecloth between the two of them.

  ‘Mondino, there is something tormenting you,’ said Liuzzo. He said nothing more, but it was clear that he was waiting for an explanation.

  ‘Well yes, Uncle,’ replied Mondino, taking up a piece of hare between his fingers and starting to eat it more for appearance’s sake than because he had an appetite. ‘If you want to know, the idea that the priests are taking it upon themselves to administer justice in our homes does not please me one bit. That death of which you were telling me was a templar? fine, let the comune judges be consulted and no one will deny the Inquisition permission to treat the murder as their own. But it’s this deceit, this presumption, that I dislike.’

  He had begun his speech more than anything to divert his uncle’s attention, but then he’d become genuinely heated, as he did every time that he spoke of the interference of the papacy in the life of the city. He was suddenly silent, while an idea that had come from those words, took form in his mind.