These meanings had been clear to him from the first time he had set eyes on the map. But however much he tried, he couldn’t understand the message. He was convinced that the key to reading it was hidden in the Arabic script and he didn’t trust Hugues de narbonne’s interpretation of them. Mondino knew various priests who would be capable of transLating from the Arabic, but at that moment the last thing that he wanted to do was to put the map in the hands of a cleric who could testify against him later. The only other person whom he could ask for a translation was Adia Bintaba, the sorceress. He hadn’t liked the imperious manner in which she treated him, but if he wanted to understand the message, he would have to swallow his pride. He would pay her another visit and he hoped not to find her on the point of going out again.
Exhausted, Mondino put the map back in his pocket and closed his eyes. He didn’t want to sleep, but his thoughts began to become entangled, interweaving with images that had nothing to do with the map or the Inquisitor’s bribe. One of the last things that he saw before dozing off where he sat, while old Rainerio continued his restless sleep in the bed, were the dark eyes of the sorceress, looking at him with an ironic expression.
The light of the moon coming in from the entrance hall and through the cracks in the ruined house allowed Gerardo to pick his way over the uneven ground and creep right up to his aggressors.
There were three of them. One was lying on the ground, the other two standing. They were wearing short swords at their sides and carried crossbows, and they had their backs to him. By pure instinct, Gerardo went up to the one who was closest to him and grabbed his collar with one hand, as he had done many times in training. But this time, instead of just miming the action of slitting the man’s throat, he plunged in the knife and pulled hard to the side.
The man collapsed with a horrible gurgle and his accomplice quickly turned round. He had just let fly an arrow towards a shape crouching in the dark about ten yards away and knew that he would not have time to reload the crossbow. Instead he threw it at Gerardo and unsheathed the weapon at his side.
Gerardo jumped sideways and the crossbow glanced off his shoulder. He looked at his enemy and knew that he was going to die. The man in front of him was taller, had a larger frame and carried a sword against his dagger.
But if he were already dead, then he had nothing left to lose. There was no need to be afraid. He studied the man, ignoring an indistinct sound that he couldn’t quite identify at that moment.
Suddenly his adversary stepped on a loose stone and lost his balance. He didn’t fall over, just moved his sword arm to the side a bit, and only for a second.
Before he even saw his chance, but anticipating the man’s movement, Gerardo darted forwards, planted the knife under the man’s ribs and grabbed the wrist of his sword arm with his free hand. The man fell to his knees. Before Gerardo could ask himself if he should finish him off or leave him alive, a sword fell on to the archer’s forehead, splitting it in two.
Gerardo turned quickly. There was Hugues de Narbonne, with his curly hair full of blood and a staring expression. In his hand was the sword of the man whose throat Gerardo had cut.
‘Well done, lad,’ he said. ‘Excellent work.’ His voice didn’t seem to belong to him either. It was as though it came from a long way off.
‘Do you feel all right, Commander?’ asked Gerardo, while Hugues dropped the sword and knelt down to pick up the dead man’s crossbow and arrows.
‘No, I’m not feeling at all well,’ replied Hugues. ‘Go and see who that is over there,’ he said, pointing at the dark shape groaning in the shadows. ‘And finish him off. Meanwhile I’ll welcome our friends.’
Only then did Gerardo realise that the noise behind him was the sound of the beggars about to burst out of the tunnel. Hugues loaded the crossbow, with an effort that made him grit his teeth, let the arrow go and the first of the beggars who had emerged from the gap in the ground fell back with a stunned cry.
Silence returned to the ruined house.
Gerardo hurried over to the shape lying in the dark just outside the entrance of the house. He recognised the wheeled board and stick legs of Bonaga, the little cripple. He had a dart stuck into his shoulder and another in his stomach. Although still alive, he had little chance of making it. He was crying and moaning softly, with his catapult gripped tight in his hand. When he saw Gerardo, he tried to speak, but the templar put a finger to his lips.
‘Thank you for your help,’ Gerardo said. ‘Don’t worry, we’ll get you out of here.’
He moved the little cart out of the shadows, trying to work out if he could carry the boy to Mondino’s house and still avoid being caught by the beggars.
‘I betrayed you,’ Bonaga managed to stutter in a small, shaky voice. He smiled weakly. ‘Then I regretted it. But I didn’t know they wanted to kill you.’
He was about to say something else when his smile changed into an expression of absolute terror. Gerardo quickly turned round but he was not in time to stop the blade that hit the boy’s forehead, splitting his head in two just like the archer’s. ‘Commander, no!’ shouted Gerardo, almost crying. ‘He saved our lives!’
‘And what were you going to do, leave him for the rabble that are about to turn up?’ replied Hugues, still sounding distant. ‘Or did you think you could make your escape dragging him along behind you?’
Gerardo was horrified. He looked at the body of the poor boy that had shown him the beggar’s hideaway for ten soldi and he felt his heart tighten. Blood was pouring out of the crack that divided the mop of hair in two. Bonaga had died instantly. If he had stayed put in his corner and kept quiet, no one would have seen him. But he had wanted to help them, and had lost his life at the hand of one of the two people he had saved.
Gerardo shook his head, trying to hold back the tears, but without success. To kill your enemy was one thing. To kill a friend was betrayal. And no secret knowledge could justify an act of that sort. For the first time it occurred to him that he had made a terrible mistake in trusting Hugues de Narbonne. ‘He was about to tell us something important,’ he said, aghast. ‘He said that he had betrayed me, then that he had repented.’
The Frenchman didn’t seem to give the matter any importance. ‘Well, it’s too late to ask him now,’ he said, cynically. Then, seeing the expression on Gerardo’s face, he added, ‘He was done for, don’t you see? I only shortened his suffering.’ Hugues winced and let the sword fall, putting a hand to his head. Then he stumbled, but this time Gerardo didn’t hold him up. Hugues started groping around as if he couldn’t see very well and eventually found Gerardo’s shoulder. ‘Take me home,’ he said, in a whisper. ‘I can’t stand up any longer, and that lot,’ pointing towards the gap in the rubble, ‘Will be on us as soon as they realise that there’s no one threatening them with a crossbow.’
X
Mondino woke with a jolt and couldn’t immediately understand where the noise was coming from. Then he realised that someone was knocking at the street door and he got up hurriedly to go and see what was going on. He came out of the kitchen and walked briskly across the courtyard. Before opening the heavy door, he asked who it was, but he knew already. ‘Magister, it’s me, Gerardo. Please open the door.’ Mondino opened up. The street was immersed in silence. The bells for lauds hadn’t rung yet, but the dark of the night was already beginning to pale. His ex-student seemed tired in the uncertain light. His hair was scruffy, his eyes bloodshot and there was a nasty smell on him as though he had been rolling in dung.
‘What is it?’ asked Mondino, darkly. ‘Do you know what time it is?’
‘Master, you must come with me. The Commander has been hurt and is delirious.’ ‘Hurt? By whom?’
‘He hit his head.’
Mondino asked what had happened, but Gerardo simply said that Hugues had fallen into a deep sleep and he couldn’t wake him up.
‘My father is dying,’ answered the physician. ‘I can’t leave his side to come and treat that Frenchman.’
Gerardo sighed. ‘I understand, magister. But in his delirium the Commander spoke of blood and iron. And of a dead man ...’
Still befuddled by sleep, Mondino leaned on the doorjamb while the meaning of the words sank in. ‘You mean,’ he said slowly, ‘That the murderer we are looking for is Hugues de Narbonne?’
Gerardo moved his head in a manner that was neither negation nor affirmation. ‘That’s what I want to find out. But he’s got to be woken up first.’
Mondino left the young templar there in the street, waiting in front of the open door. He went back into the house, up to his room, put some instruments that he might need into a bag, took an ointment and some pieces of silk and linen, and then changed his clothes. For what he had to do it was better not to be too recognisable. He took off his robe and put on a pair of grey breeches and leather boots, and over his shirt a brown knee-length tunic leaving much more freedom of movement than the almost floor-length ones that he usually wore.
He put on a light cloth cap that matched the grey of his breeches, quickly glanced at himself in the silver mirror hanging on the wall and then went back down to the kitchen.
While he was getting ready to go out into the courtyard, he sensed that there was someone behind him. He turned round quickly and saw Liuzzo at the hall door, in nightshirt, cap and felt slippers. He was watching Mondino fixedly without saying a word.
‘Uncle, I’ve got to go. There is a wounded man who needs my help.’
‘Then I’ll go. You stay with your father. Today might be his last.’
Mondino felt the full weight of that sentence. Liuzzo was right and yet he had to go. The stakes were too high: it was a question of his freedom and that of his family. In that moment he felt himself hate his uncle for cornering him like this.
‘No, I must go,’ he said, between gritted teeth. ‘I can’t explain, but ...’
‘I am tired of you telling me that you can’t explain!’ replied Liuzzo, without moving from the doorway. ‘Tell me what is more important than watching over your father in the last hours of his life, for God’s sake!’
The blasphemy was so utterly out of place coming from Liuzzo that Mondino was momentarily speechless. He shook his head slowly, then said, ‘I will not be able to take my lesson today. Please would you take my place, Uncle.’
‘Certainly I can take your place, don’t worry about that. But not only for today. From now on! If you go out of that door without telling me where you are going and why, you can consider our collaboration at an end.’
Mondino bowed his shoulders, he turned towards Gerardo who was waiting outside in the street, and went out in silence, closing the door behind him.
A phase of his life had ended. Everything was beginning to fall down around him.
Guido Arlotti congratulated himself on not giving in to the desire to go home to bed. If he had done so, he would have missed a piece of good luck. A physician of Mondino’s fame did not wander around seeing patients at dawn, unless it was a case of extreme gravity. Or illegal business.
He followed them at about twenty yards, being very cautious. The physician had highly acute senses, and the night before he had almost caught him. Mondino seemed to think he was being followed now too because as he crossed the city he looked over his shoulder a couple of times. But now Guido knew what he was up against so there was no danger of being spotted. He walked under the arcade that was still in darkness, moving warily from one column to another.
A noise made him suddenly turn round, automatically clenching his hands into fists. At night it was always better to walk down the middle of the street, like Mondino and his companion. You had to watch out for muddy puddles, horse dung and the uneven surface of the road, but at least you avoided nasty surprises leaping out of darkened doorways or from behind the columns of an arcade. In the space between two columns, Guido heard a sound: the rustle of cloth followed by a hurried panting. He unsheathed the dagger that he carried hidden under his tunic and leaned round the pillar to have a look. He could make out an indistinct shape in the dark that on closer investigation revealed itself to be two bodies clutching one another. A man and a woman with ripped clothes; two vagrants with no home to go to at night had nonetheless found the time and inclination to dedicate themselves to the pleasures of the flesh.
Guido relaxed and went on, taking up his furtive pursuit again. In the hotchpotch of the streets in the centre of town, the two men always chose those that were wider and better lit. They talked with their heads close together and Guido would have given a golden florin to hear what they were saying, certain that the Inquisitor would give him twice as much in turn. But unfortunately he couldn’t get close enough and had to resign himself to sneaking among the few remaining shadows while the walls took on the pink tinge of dawn. Mondino and his companion crossed the silk weaver’s arcade, turned into the fishmongers’ and then the key-makers’ road, appropriately named Keyholers. The first artisans were beginning to open up their shops, calmly bringing out their wares. The poor who had slept under the arches got up in a hurry before someone arrived to move them on. Guido gave a sharp kick to a boy who took hold of him by the hem of his tunic, asking for charity, and then he shot behind a column. Mondino certainly wouldn’t have heard the beggar boy’s shout, or if he had would have assumed it was a quarrel between the dispossessed.
He emerged from his shelter when the two had already turned the corner and hurried after them. First they went south towards San Niccolò of the Vines, where the Basilica of San Domenico was slowly taking shape. Then they turned east. They crossed the bridge over the Savena and went into the neighbourhood of the paper-makers, who were pulling out large bundles of cotton paper to sell to students and notaries for their notes, and piles of parchment leaves divided according to quality and whiteness, held down by pebbles from the river to stop the wind carrying them off.
It was the worst time of day to be shadowing someone, thought Guido furiously. He didn’t have the cover of darkness and there weren’t enough people out on the streets so he could get lost in the crowd. On the contrary, the few people around might notice a man dashing furtively from one column to another and try to stop him. He decided to change tactic and adopt a relaxed pace, pausing every so often in front of a stall, exchanging the odd word with an artisan or shopkeeper, and turning away from Mondino and his friend whenever he could.
In the end the two men stopped at a relatively modest house, perhaps the home of a small tradesman or a successful artisan. The younger man opened the door with a large key that he took out of the pocket of his tunic and they went in. Guido quickly noted that all the shutters were closed so he wouldn’t be able to peer through to see what they were up to.
He found a spot from where he could keep an eye on the front door and settled down to wait. If they opened a window, he would go closer to hear what they were saying, otherwise it was pointless running any more risks.
The house was immersed in darkness and, before going inside, Mondino waited while Gerardo lit a candle in an earthenware candlestick. Stepping over the threshold, he saw in the flickering light of the wick that the kitchen had been left in complete disorder. Every single object – plates, jugs, pans, crockery, chairs and cloths – was somewhere other than its proper place. It seemed as though someone had been having fun emptying the cupboards but without actually using anything.
Gerardo placed the candle on the chimney piece and confirmed the fact.
‘It was me,’ he said. ‘After putting the Commander to bed I was looking for something to eat, but I couldn’t even find a bit of stale bread. Oh, by the way, there are no servants here, we don’t have to whisper.’
Mondino nodded. ‘Take me to him. Is he in the bedroom?’
‘Yes. But first we must fin
ish our conversation.’
‘What conversation?’
In fact Mondino knew very well to what he was referring. Along the way, the physician had told him about the meeting with the Inquisitor and what it implied.
‘Magister,’ said Gerardo, in a serious tone. ‘You can’t do that to me.’
Mondino felt a dull rage rise in him. ‘What can’t I do? Who was it that knocked on the door of my Studium with a corpse in tow? If I am in this situation, it is entirely due to you. Besides I’m not saying that I will send you to your death. If I am forced to denounce you, I will let you know beforehand so that you’ve got time to get away. After all, it doesn’t change much for you. You are already a fugitive from justice.’
Gerardo was standing next to an oak table, on which stood a huge copper basin surrounded by a set of plates and other tableware. At those words he picked up a wooden spoon and started brandishing it like a weapon. For a second Mondino was afraid that he was going to set upon him, but the young man only used the spoon to beat it against the palm of his hand while he was speaking.
‘I am wanted as a templar monk and as a probable arsonist,’ he said. ‘The fire is difficult to prove and in less than a month, if the trial came to an end with the acquittal of the order, I might even be able to go back to living as a free citizen. Whereas, after your testimony I shall be a murderer on the run. I will no longer have home or friends, I will have to emigrate to a distant land, change my name and rebuild my life from scratch.’
‘You should have thought of that before dragging me into this affair.’
‘You can’t say that!’ said Gerardo, beating the ladle against a tin plate with a dry cLang. ‘If you didn’t want to help me, you should have said so that night. If you denounce me now, it will be a betrayal, just like that of Hugues.’
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