Inquisition

by Alfredo Colitto

  It was as close to a direct insult to Mondino that he could expect. Speaking of his students with contempt, the prelate obviously intended to spite him: in Uberto’s opinion, the teachers of that ‘Rabble’ were certainly no better than their disciples. The discussion was taking a dangerous turn. Mondino knew that he would do better to ignore the cutting remark and agree with the priest. But it was more the insult to knowledge than to himself that drove him to respond in like spirit.

  ‘And yet even renowned Christian scholars have taken up alchemy,’ he insisted. ‘Albertus Magnus himself, Doctor Universalis, who apart from anything else was a Dominican like yourself, and taught at the university of Paris.’

  ‘That’s enough!’ shouted Uberto, slamming his hand down on the table and leaping to his feet. ‘I will not permit you to compare a celebrated Christian, who was also archbishop of the Church, to that mob I was talking about before. Albertus was given the title of Doctor Universalis, or Doctor Expertus, precisely because he soared to heights that were unattainable by that scum. And I should remind you that although he certainly taught in Paris, he taught theology! He understood the need of many young people, in danger of losing their souls in the pursuit of worldly pleasures and profane knowledge, and he went among them. And the young prized him. They deserted the halls of law and medicine to follow his lessons, and so many of them came that Albertus had to start teaching in the public square, because there was no hall big enough to contain all his students.’

  Mondino had also got to his feet, to respect etiquette but in part too because he didn’t want to let himself be dominated. Now the Inquisitor came towards him. Thin as Uberto was,and shorter by almost a head, he still managed to be frightening.

  A silence fell that neither of them bothered to bring to an end. The light coming from the window was failing, a sign that the sun was about to go down. A lamp needed to be lit in the room, but Uberto da Rimini did not seem to notice. He was clearly satisfied at having finally reduced his adversary to silence. He allowed himself a smile, in which a flicker of anger still resonated.

  ‘Alchemy,’ he said, in a calm voice, ‘Will soon be rejected by Christian science. It will be likened to sorcery and oppressed, as indeed it should be. And when that time comes, scientists, physicians and philosophers would do well to have purged their learning of the influence of the infidels. However,’ he added, and again his smile took on a wild look, ‘I did not only want to talk to you about the German templar’s death.’

  Mondino felt his heart sink in his chest. He did his best to assume an impassive attitude and asked, ‘Perhaps you have need of my medical services? your complexion seems to me somewhat heightened; you probably suffer from an excess of yellow bile. In that I could certainly be of help.’

  Uberto circled around him, forcing him to turn round. The Inquisitor moved with an almost feminine grace, but there was nothing attractive in his expression. Spontaneously, the banal comparison came to Mondino of a cat preparing to finish off a mouse. ‘If your medical services consist, as I have heard,’ said the priest, ‘Of tearing the heart out of dead people and making bodies disappear, then no thank you, I have no need of them.’ He looked at Mondino with a malicious joy in his eyes, and gently added, ‘Magister, you have been found out.’

  Gerardo felt extremely ill at ease dressed as he was. His shirt was sweaty, encrusted with dirt and ripped in more than one place. He wore no stockings or breeches, and he was covered in a grimy sackcloth that could in no sense be described as a tunic. Perhaps that was the reason for his bad mood and his inclination to address the Commander without due respect. ‘Mondino maintains that you had already seen the map before he showed it to us in the banker’s study,’ he said, suddenly. ‘Is that true?’

  Hugues de Narbonne astonished him by making a sincere reply. ‘It’s true.’

  ‘So why didn’t you say so?’

  The Frenchman stopped in the middle of the street. Even dressed in rags like a beggar, he had the authoritative appearance of a leader. ‘I’m the one who chooses what I say or don’t say, Gerardo,’ he answered, in a tone that did not admit a reply. ‘Mondino is not one of us and I don’t know how much we can trust him. All you need to know is that the map is useless. Some people believed that it could lead them to a place where the secret of immortality was kept, but after years of trying they had to conclude that it was false.’ ‘The secret of immortality,’ repeated Gerardo, incredulous. As usual they were speaking in Latin, but in very low voices, to avoid giving themselves away. Latin certainly wasn’t the Language of beggars.

  ‘Imagine what people of superior intelligence could do if they were not subject to death,’ said Hugues. ‘They could defend the faith better and explore human knowledge more deeply than it has been until now. In the right hands, it would be an inestimable gift.’

  ‘But the map is false, you said so yourself.’

  ‘Exactly. Or it is hiding its secret too well. But perhaps there’s another way to get the same result.’ ‘What other way?’

  ‘That’s enough now, Gerardo. If I think it appropriate, I will tell you about it on our way back.’ He pointed in front of him.

  ‘There’s the ruined house. Am I right?’

  ‘Yes.’

  They started walking through the debris and Gerardo made his way towards the entrance of the underworld, listening carefully. A dim light was coming from below. Reassured by the silence among the ruins, he turned towards Hugues de Narbonne and simply said, ‘All clear.’

  Hugues made a sign that he should start to go down. Bare foot and dressed as a vagrant, the Frenchman was unrecognisable. Gerardo hoped that his own disguise was equally effective. The smell coming from their clothes was unbearable, but now at least he was starting to get used to it.

  He began to pick his way among the rocks and bricks, thanking heaven that he still had shoes on. That had been Hugues’ idea. He had said that the only hope of getting the information they needed and escaping the underworld alive was to pass themselves off as vagrants. To achieve a realistic effect, that morning they had hit two genuine vagrants over the head, taking their beggar’s bags and their clothes, which were stiff as suits of armour with dirt. They had left their own clothes at the Frenchman’s house and just before sundown they had set off. Hugues had no problem doing without shoes and he moved naturally in bare feet. Gerardo had tried, but continued to hop and trip, and in the end they both decided that he would attract less attention if he kept his shoes on. A beggar with nearly new shoes was an impossibility, but Gerardo had dirtied them with grease and dust and trusted that in the dark he would get by without arousing suspicion.

  Once they had entered the tunnel, they stopped again to look around them. The torch that Gerardo had used the previous day was no longer there. It was probable that the first beggar returning in the evening had used it to light the others along the way.

  ‘Is everything clear?’ asked Hugues. ‘Remember that you are the only one to speak, I am mute.’

  ‘I remember everything perfectly,’ answered Gerardo, tetchily. He was annoyed because it was the third time that the Frenchman had asked him if everything was clear. ‘Now please try to use your Latin as little as possible. Someone might hear us.’

  Hugues can’t have been used to letting the initiative fall into someone else’s hands, but in this case it was inevitable. He only spoke french and Latin so he had decided to pretend to be dumb. Whereas Gerardo could talk in the dialect of Ravenna, which he knew well having learned it from the family servants during his childhood. They already had a story ready to justify their presence and why they were looking for the Ferrarese. Gerardo only hoped that the beggar really would be able to tell them something useful about Wilhelm von Trier’s death. He didn’t quite know how he was going to raise the subject without arousing suspicion, but he’d tackle that problem when he came to it. Now he needed to find the room with the fresc
oes that the boy had told him about.

  They made their way down the narrow raised passage, Gerardo in front, Hugues behind, each with their beggar’s bag across one shoulder. A fetid smell rose from the dry canal, coming from the putrefied rubbish that had accumulated there over the years. There were torches sticking out of the walls, placed every twenty or thirty yards and these gave enough light to prevent them tripping over. As he went, Gerardo began to think that perhaps it was not a sewage system after all, but an ancient secret passage. The tunnel was neither narrow nor wide. Stretching his arms he could touch both walls. The lancet vault, just above their heads, and the whole passage itself were made out of bricks and stone and seemed very solid, despite being centuries old.

  Only at one point, where the tunnel widened slightly and turned to the left, did a stretch of wall seem in danger of collapsing in on itself, but it was held firm by a horizontal beam wedged between the walls. The two templars had to bend down to pass beneath the prop, and soon after they came out into a great circular hall, lit by small fires dotted around the place. Gerardo counted about fifteen people, but other beggars could be heard coming along the tunnel. In the city above them, compline must have already rung. ‘We’re here,’ he whispered.

  Hugues nodded without saying a word.

  The smoke from the fires and the torches had covered the walls in a blackish patina under which the remains of the Frescoes that had once decorated them could still just be made out. The ground in the hall was not flat but descended towards the tunnel in a series of low steps. Gerardo was more and more convinced that it was an old Roman house, or perhaps a spa, buried by later buildings.

  But they were not there to admire the work of the ancients; they had a job to do. Going up to one of the fires, he began to ask about the Ferrarese.

  The first beggar that Gerardo spoke to was a gaunt youth covered in a sack with bloody bandages around his head and hands. Without even looking up, he said that he didn’t know the maimed man they were looking for. He was in the process of unwrapping the bandages around his wrists, revealing dirty but perfectly healthy hands, and then he began to rummage among his belongings, taking out a dead cat that his two companions welcomed with smiles and shouts of approval.

  As Gerardo was approaching the next fire, Hugues touched his shoulder.

  ‘Don’t turn round too suddenly, but look to your right,’ he whispered in his guttural Latin.

  Gerardo’s first reaction was irritation. Then he said to himself that if Hugues was prepared to risk exposing his illiterate mute’s disguise, then he must have a pretty good reason for it. Smiling as though he wanted to greet someone, he turned in that direction and his blood froze: a few steps away from them stood a strapping great man, wearing only a rag wrapped around his hips. He still had an obvious swelling and a scab of blood on the top of his shaved head, where he had been hit by a club. Gerardo recognised with horror the first beggar whom they had hit over the head in order to steal his clothes. If he recognised them, they were doomed.

  At that moment the man looked up and caught his eye.

  *

  The Inquisitor spoke in a soft, unthreatening voice that somehow made his accusation all the more powerful and definitive. His tone affirmed a fact, without leaving room for doubt.

  Mondino realised that his career as a physician, and probably even his life, had come to an end. Absurdly, he didn’t think of his dear ones or the trouble that awaited them. He had just one thought, one regret that filled his whole being: the treatise on anatomy would never be finished.

  ‘I don’t know what you are talking about, father,’ he said, without much conviction. ‘It is true that I dissect corpses for study, but ...’

  ‘But not long ago one came along whose appearance quite markedly resembled that of the German found in Santo Stefano. The chest was open and the ribs broken and bent outwards. What’s more, even the dead men’s profession when they were alive was the same: they were both Knights templar. Is that not strange?’

  It was clear that the Inquisitor knew everything. So it was therefore pointless to continue denying it. However, to admit anything voluntarily was suicide. If Uberto wanted his head, thought Mondino, he would have to come and get it. He would not be offering it up of his own accord. ‘What are you getting at?’ he asked.

  ‘It’s simple. The only difference between the two corpses was that one of their hearts had been transformed into a block of iron, while the other’s had been removed. It is reasonable to suppose that the second had received the same treatment. You could be accused of committing both crimes, but that is probably not true, and the Church is only interested in the truth.’ Mondino made an effort to control his breathing. He desperately wanted to sit down again. The Inquisitor’s game was clear up to a point. He was saying that the Church had nothing to gain by accusing him of the murder of the two templars. This was good news, however Mondino had a nasty suspicion that worse was yet to come.

  ‘Indeed it is not true, father. I didn’t know the people you are talking about and I wouldn’t have a motive for killing them. What’s more I don’t possess the necessary knowledge to do what was done to them.’ ‘You mean you are not a sorcerer.’

  ‘Father, I don’t know if this is the work of one—’

  ‘Certainly it is, magister! this is definitely the work of a sorcerer. And one who obtained his macabre power through a pact with the Devil. There is no room for discussion.’

  Mondino said nothing. Uberto da Rimini could believe what he wanted. The main thing was that his accusation of Devil worship fell on someone else’s head.

  ‘Do you agree with me that to transform the heart of a man into a block of metal is a work of sorcery?’ asked the priest. He had been very precise in his question. Quite obviously he had an objective, but however much Mondino racked his brain he couldn’t work out what it was. He had the uncomfortable feeling that he was walking along the edge of a precipice in the pitch dark. ‘It could be.’

  An authentic, almost friendly smile appeared on Uberto’s face. Mondino felt that he would do anything to keep that smile intact, and he hated himself for his cowardice. Outside the window came the screech of a pulley. Despite it being nearly dark, someone was drawing water from the garden well.

  ‘Good, I see we are beginning to understand one another,’ said Uberto. ‘I shall put you out of your misery, magister. It was the grave-diggers who betrayed you.’

  Mondino was perspiring. He had the feeling that his body was both hot and cold at the same time. All those words were designed to frighten him; he was being softened like wax in the hands of the clergyman. However, he couldn’t give up yet. His pride would not allow it.

  ‘I don’t deny that I used that corpse for my anatomical studies,’ he said. ‘But—’

  ‘Be quiet!’ interrupted Uberto violently. His kindly smile had vanished. ‘Don’t you realise that you have no way out? In the German’s saddlebag there was a letter that identified him as a templar. It accused him of the brutal murder of a Christian, committed with some of his confrères, and invited him to come to Bologna, to find out an obscure secret. These Knights of the temple whom you seem to want to defend, do you understand who they really are?’

  ‘I am not defending anyone, father. And I know little or nothing about the templars.’

  ‘That’s just as well, although your actions seem to contradict you. Now, in the light of what you have done, do you not agree that it would be easy for us to put you on trial, identifying you as the assassin of the first templar and hence also the second, by similarity of modus operandi? thus obtaining your death sentence, as well as the confiscation of your family’s possessions. Answer me: do you agree or not?’

  The Inquisitor’s voice had been increasing in volume until he was shouting. Beads of spit formed at the corners of his mouth. He wiped them away with the back of his hand without taking h
is eyes off the physician. Mondino looked down at the terracotta tiles at his feet and realised that he didn’t want to look up again. But he made himself raise his eyes and look straight into Uberto’s, before admitting defeat. ‘I agree, father.’

  ‘And you are right to. That way you can save yourself and not throw your life away. As I said, despite the proof against you, the Church is inclined to believe in your innocence, at least for the moment, and you will not be accused of anything.’

  ‘I am grateful to you.’

  A murmur of voices could be heard in the garden. The Inquisitor went over to the window and peered into the night. Suddenly the voices stopped and Uberto turned back to face him.

  ‘Let’s say that you shall show your gratitude in more than just words, magister,’ he said. ‘If the Inquisitor’s tribunal required you to give evidence, in your capacity of doctor and professor at the Studium, that the heart of that German monk was transformed into metal thanks to a work of sorcery, would you do it? Just answer yes or no.’

  His intentions were finally clear. The Church had spotted an opportunity to exploit that mysterious killing as grounds for proof in the trial against the templars. To condemn Mondino was not ideal because it would shift the attention from those whom the Inquisition wanted to be the guilty parties, despite the two dead templars being victims and not murderers. This was why they were offering impunity in exchange for his witness statement. Mondino was in a trap; he had no choice. His whole being wanted to reply yes. Instead the word that came out of his mouth was the exact opposite. ‘No.’