When he had calmed down, Mondino said a prayer, then opened his eyes and stood up. With a nod of his head towards the door he signalled to Liuzzo that he wanted to speak to him and left the room. Mondino’s two smaller sons followed them while Gabardino stayed to watch over his grandfather. In the corridor, Mondino briefly paused next to the vertical loom, covered in a drape since the death of his wife Giovanna. In that house, death was about to claim its second victim. He shook his head silently and went on.
They went back into the hall. Mondino sent the two boys to bed, telling Ludovico to get up and take over from Gabardino at his grandfather’s bedside in a few hours. He told Leone to take Ludovico’s place at lauds.
Refusing Lorenza’s offer to make him something to eat, he sent her and her husband to bed too. Fortunately their daughter had not been woken by all the turmoil in the house.
When they were alone, Mondino asked Liuzzo what he had given his father.
The old physician shrugged his shoulders. ‘The usual mixture of hyssop and henbane to help expectoration and relieve the pain. Only this time I doubled the dose of henbane, to allow him a bit of sleep.’
‘Have you stopped the hot brick compresses?’
‘Only while he’s asleep. Then I’ve told them to carry on. I know they don’t do any good, but Rainerio seemed to take some relief from them, and it helps your sons feel they are being useful.’
Mondino nodded. The hot compresses sometimes dried the excess of black bile that caused the tumour, rebalancing the four humours and allowing the patient to get better. But this could only happen in the initial phases of the illness. Now only God could help Rainerio.
‘Do you think it’s time to call the priest?’
‘No. If anything happens suddenly, the Church of sant’Antonino is right next door. It won’t take a second to send for one. But you can’t carry on disappearing like this without telling anyone where you are going.’ liuzzo’s expression was severe and as he spoke he came up to the great dining table in the centre of the room, without motioning to Mondino to sit down. He leaned his fists on the wooden tabletop and said, ‘Now tell me where you’ve been all day.’
The moment that Mondino was dreading had arrived. Liuzzo would not be satisfied with vague explanations and he certainly couldn’t involve him in the problem.
‘I can’t tell you,’ Mondino said, with a sigh. He had neither the strength nor the desire to make up a lie.
Liuzzo took two quick paces to the brazier under the window with the barred shutters and leaned over it as if he wanted to pick it up and throw it at Mondino. But naturally that wasn’t his intention. He checked that the brick that had been put there to heat up was well covered by the embers, then he straightened his back and said, ‘At my school of medicine, I do not intend to keep an associate who hides things from me.’ He raised a hand to stop his nephew’s protests. ‘Don’t deny it,’ he said, in an irritated tone. ‘First, you walk out of a graduation banquet making vague excuses. Then you disappear for hours every day without telling anyone where to find you. Now you’ve begun to come home in the middle of the night. Do you think I am stupid?’
‘No, Uncle, of course I don’t. You are right in thinking that I am hiding something from you, but I really can’t talk about it.’
Liuzzo sighed and returned to the table, his expression a mixture of worry and exasperation. ‘While they were out looking for you this evening,’ he began, ‘A man said he had seen someone wearing a physician’s cloak come out of the Priory of San Domenico. Tall, thin and looking nervous. Was it you?’ ‘Yes.’
‘What on earth were you doing at the Dominicans? Please don’t tell me that you went to visit a patient.’ ‘No, Uncle, I did not go to visit a patient.’
‘Did you go there to speak to the Inquisitor?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why?’
‘I was the first person to examine the body of that German templar who was killed in Santo Stefano last saturday. Uberto da Rimini asked me to stand witness at the trial against the templars. I must declare under oath that it was an act of sorcery.’
‘You answered yes, I hope.’
Once again their difference in character prevailed. In his place Liuzzo would have no hesitation.
‘I answered no. Uncle, you know perfectly well that sorcery—’
Losing his patience, Liuzzo thumped the table. ‘Forget what I know or don’t know!’ he said, reddening with anger. ‘Don’t you realise that both because we are physicians and because we are Ghibellines, we must keep up good relations with the Church? Have you thought what it means if the Inquisition owes us a favour? And what does it matter if you believe that it was an act of sorcery or not? the Church wants to dissolve the order of the templars and it needs to amass valid pretexts. Since when have you cared about what happens to the priests?’
Mondino, standing on the other side of the table, didn’t reply. His uncle had understood the situation perfectly. Liuzzo’s political abilities had always enabled him to root out the hidden motives behind people’s words and to act accordingly. It was an ability that Mondino, on the other hand, entirely lacked. His stubbornness in always trying to draw out the truth only caused problems.
But he preferred not to tell Liuzzo that, if he did give evidence, it would be he who owed the Church a favour, not the other way round. And if he didn’t, he would be arrested and sentenced, with serious consequences for his family and the school of medicine too.
Disheartened, he thought that he would never be able to extricate himself from the whole mess in the two short days he had. He stood there in an obstinate silence. When Liuzzo realised that he wasn’t going to get a reply, he said, ‘I’ve had the bed made up in the room next to your father’s. I shall stay here tonight to look after him because I don’t want him left on his own if you suddenly decide to go out on more mysterious business.’
Then he turned on his heel and walked out of the room.
The only man who got to his feet in response to the semi-naked beggar’s cry was a small ruffian who had a nasty look about him. Gerardo reviewed the situation. Hardly anyone seemed to want to help his accuser. He was repelled by the idea of fighting a beggar, particularly the one he had hit over the head to steal the man’s miserable belongings, but at that point it was the only way to make him shut up.
However, Hugues de Narbonne was a second ahead him. He stepped forward and punched the beggar full in the face, making him topple backwards. He was about to hit the vagrant again when, seeing something out of the corner of his eye, he turned to Gerardo. ‘Heus! Post tergum!’ he shouted.
Gerardo turned round just in time to dodge the bearded man about to knock him on the head with a rock grabbed from beside the fire. Gerardo managed to push him backwards, but then he began to shout: ‘Did you hear that? the mute speaks Latin! It’s either a miracle or he’s not really one of us.’
‘Let’s get out of here,’ said Hugues, in a low voice. And without waiting for a reply he began to run towards the mouth of the tunnel, jumping nimbly in his bare feet over the fires and bodies lying on the floor. Gerardo followed him without hesitating. In the meantime the subterranean hall was transforming itself into a representation of hell. Between the smoke and the fires, the beggars got to their feet, yelling and trying to steal off each other in the commotion. Scuffles broke out all over the place. But a compact group led by the fair, bearded man and the beggar they had robbed began to chase after them.
Hugues ran down the centre of the drainage canal, between the filth and the rats. He was twice Gerardo’s age and in bare feet and yet Gerardo had difficulty keeping up with him. They could hear the echoing shouts of the incensed beggars at their backs.
He finally caught up with Hugues at the turn in the tunnel. The Frenchman was puffing, but he hadn’t stopped because he was out of breath; he was pushing the beam that held
up the walls with all his might. ‘Help me!’ he yelled.
‘But they’ll die,’ said Gerardo. The idea of saving his own skin at that price appalled him.
Hugues de Narbonne gave him a quick, piercing look. ‘They certainly won’t die and I can assure you that I’d rather they did,’ he snarled, and went on gasping and pushing. ‘Now stop behaving like a child and help me. Otherwise that lot will kill us and throw us in the pot for supper.’
What he said had the worrying sound of truth. Rumours about the vagrants’ tendency to eat absolutely anything, including human flesh, did not seem exaggerated just at that moment. Gerardo stood beside the Frenchman and began to push the beam with all his strength.
All of a sudden, he saw the bearded man’s face appear about four or five yards away. At first the beggar’s expression was one of malicious joy but it soon changed to one of terror when he realised what they were doing. He sped up in order to throw himself on them, but in that second the beam finally gave way. Having now lost its support, the precarious wall collapsed, taking a part of the roof with it and completely blocking off the tunnel.
‘Run,’ said Hugues. ‘I don’t know how long they’ll take to clear it.’
They ran on, at a less breakneck speed, until they got to the cascade of rubble that served as the entrance to the tunnel. Outside it was already dark, but the almost-full moon lit their way.
Hugues leaped up the rocks with ease and this time Gerardo kept up with him. As they came out of the gap in the ruined house, they both stopped to get their breath back, only then realising how unhealthy the smoky and fetid air had been below ground. Then something, perhaps instinct sharpened by years of warfare, made the Frenchman turn round suddenly. ‘Get down!’ he shouted, jumping back down the hole. Without stopping to think, Gerardo automatically followed him. He fell raggedly down between the rocks while three crossbow darts whistled over their heads. From above, they heard the muffled sound of someone swearing.
‘It’s an ambush,’ murmured Gerardo, sitting up with difficulty and massaging his bruised shoulder.
Hugues de Narbonne agreed, still out of breath. ‘They were waiting for us.’
‘I owe you my life, Commander.’
Hugues shook his head. ‘You owe it to your own quick reflexes.’
‘Who do you think they are?’ asked Gerardo, nodding towards the gap above them.
‘I’ve no idea. First let’s try to get out of here, then we’ll worry about that.’
It was clear that the men had been waiting for them and that they were used to killing in silence. Apart from the whistle of the arrows and the muffled blasphemy, not even the slightest noise had betrayed their presence. Now Gerardo could hear them having a confab in low voices, hidden behind the pillars of the ruined house.
‘Give yourselves up and come out with your hands raised,’ said a gruff voice. ‘We won’t harm you.’
Hugues replied in french. It was a phrase that Gerardo couldn’t understand, but which sounded deeply vulgar, above all coming from a monk, albeit a soldier monk. Something like, ‘Go and bugger the Devil.’
There was silence from above them, probably because Hugues had spoken in a foreign Language; but they could now hear the beggars’ angry voices in the tunnel. Their pursuers must have already cleared a way through the fallen debris and it wouldn’t take them long to widen it in order to get through. On one side were the beggars, on the other, the archers. There was no way out. Gerardo turned to look at Hugues de Narbonne and only then saw, in the light of the moon, the blood staining his hair. ‘You’re hurt,’ Gerardo said.
‘It’s nothing,’ replied the Frenchman. ‘I just hit my head on a rock.’
Then his knees buckled and he fainted.
Gerardo caught him just in time to stop him from falling face down on the ground, and leaned him against a boulder. The voices coming from the tunnel were becoming more distinct. Soon the beggars would be upon them.
Gerardo was sweating. He was alone and he had to decide whether to die at the hand of the beggars or to try his luck with the arrows in a desperate attempt at escape. Quietly, he clambered up to the top of the rubble, but as soon as his head emerged into the half-light an arrow whirred past his ear. He crouched down instantly.
At that moment he heard a cry of pain. One of the archers had been hit. But by whom? He raised his head slowly and saw two shadows emerge from behind the safety of a column and go up to something on the ground behind them. It was his moment and there wouldn’t be another. Shaking with courage and fear, Gerardo pulled out his dagger and leaped forward.
Mondino sat at the table in the hall for a long time. Suddenly he heard a noise coming from his father’s room and thinking that the old man must have woken up, he went in on the tips of his toes. When he saw what was happening he couldn’t control his anger.
‘Lorenza!’ he hissed.
The woman was talking quietly to Gabardino and in her hands she had a wooden cup full of milk. Hearing his tone of reprimand, she turned round guiltily, her face scarlet under the white cap that covered her hair. Mondino signalled to her to join him in the kitchen and there he told her off harshly for disobeying his orders. Still holding the cup in her hands, Lorenza burst into tears and Mondino’s fury immediately vanished, a deep sadness taking its place.
‘I told you not to give milk to my father,’ he said, ‘Because milk encourages the production of damp humours which he already has in excess.’ Perhaps by trying to explain the reason for his orders in simple terms, it would be easier for the woman to respect them. ‘In short, giving him hot milk could hasten his death.’
‘This milk is different,’ she murmured, head bowed, but in a stubborn tone nonetheless. ‘And he likes it so much.’
Mondino’s voice immediately lost its understanding tone. ‘Do not question my orders. If I find you giving milk to my father again, you will be driven from this house. Do you understand?’
Lorenza nodded twice without raising her eyes, then asked meekly if he’d like something to eat. Mondino dismissed her with a brusque wave and she left the kitchen. To tell the truth, his stomach did feel rather empty but he knew quite well that it was not hunger. It was a nervous impulse brought on by anxiety. Instead of eating or trying to get some rest, he decided to watch over his father’s slumber and let his elder son go to bed.
Sitting on an uncomfortable chair that he had brought in from the hall, Mondino was amazed that he didn’t feel like sleeping after the accumulated tiredness of the past days. However, he was tormented by a sense of guilt. His father was dying and he couldn’t be near him. His children needed a guide at that delicate moment, an authoritative presence that would help them to accept the mystery and reality of death, and he was always away. And the worst thing was that he couldn’t explain the reason for his absence.
Perhaps to escape the pain or perhaps because the scientific part of his brain was destined always to take the upper hand, he began to think about Rainerio’s illness. He had seen plenty of tumours in the dead bodies he studied. Lumps of organic material that genuinely resembled crabs clinging to the organs and bones, justifying the term ‘Carcinoma’ coined by Hippocrates from the Greek karkinos, crab. Sometimes they were compact and well defined; sometimes they spread, sending out fistulas or metastatic branches to the organs nearby. Then the cancer looked more like a malign octopus. In those cases there was nothing to be done besides praying for a miracle. However, when there was no metastasis, Mondino believed that there was a possibility of surgical intervention. He had carried out the operation on cadavers and had often been successful, managing to isolate and remove the carcinoma without damaging the vital organs.
The problem was in the fact that you couldn’t open the body of a live man as you could a dead one because the operation would kill the patient. Mondino was convinced that one day internal surgery would be possible but m
uch depended on the better understanding of the mechanisms of the body. Take the blood, for example. Galen taught that there were two types of sanguinary circulation, that of the veins and that of the arteries. The idea was confirmed by the observation that the venous blood and the arterial blood were different shades of red. But as for the idea that the left cavities of the heart received blood from the right, in his dissections Mondino had never found evidence of the tiny holes in the interventricular septum or of the ‘Wonderful network’ described by Galen.
But what if the arteries and the veins were in some way linked by other veins that were as thin as hairs, so small that they escaped observation altogether? And what if such a link could allow the closure of one or more veins without cutting off the circulation of the blood?
Perhaps that was the mystery that represented the key to attempting internal surgical operations in the future. It had been the deciding factor that drove Mondino to help Gerardo without thinking of the consequences. But now those consequences had come back to haunt him and there was no getting away from them.
Mondino put a hand in the inside pocket of his tunic, where he had kept the map from the day that he had removed it from the German’s body. Unlike Hugues de Narbonne, he was convinced that it had something to do with the secret of the heart of iron. He pulled out the little rectangle of parchment, unfolded it and looked at it long and hard. The three colours of ink – black, white and red – alluded to the three phases of the alchemical process: dissolution, coagulation and union. The green and red lions in the bottom corners represented the beginning and end of the process. The sun and moon at the top stood for gold and silver, the incorruptible metals, but also mercury and sublimated sulphur.
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