Gerardo reassured him with a wave of his hand and moved hurriedly on. Despite all the confusion in his mind, he asked himself if he hadn’t quickened his pace simply to bring the job to an end and finally get some sleep. However, he had to admit that, above all, what made him hurry was the hope of seeing Fiamma again while he spoke to the banker.
He arrived at Remigio Sensi’s house and immediately saw that something was wrong. The hatch that opened onto the street was closed but that was normal given the hour. Less normal was the fact that the front door of the house was open, while the two armed retainers usually posted there were nowhere to be seen. Then he saw one of them come out of a narrow lane that ran adjacent to the internal courtyard of the house. The other immediately followed and they both appeared worried.
Gerardo stopped them and asked what was going on. ‘There’s a dead man back there,’ said one.
‘A vagabond,’ added the other. ‘The women are very shaken. But that’s not the real problem.’ ‘What is it then?’
The man was about to reply, but his colleague nudged him, pointing to the entrance of the lane with his chin, and he suddenly went silent. Fiamma was coming out of the little lane dressed in her indoor clothes, with her blonde hair escaping from her linen cap on all sides. The white scar on her cheek showed up more than usual in her flushed face.
‘Messer Gerardo, thank God you are here,’ she said. ‘I don’t know what to do.’
‘What’s happened? I heard someone had died.’ In the heat of the moment, Gerardo put a hand on her shoulder to calm her. Fiamma blushed even redder and looked at him hard before stepping away.
‘Come and see,’ she said, and began to walk towards the lane. Gerardo hurriedly followed her. The alley was unpaved and on top of the dried mud were layers of rubbish that someone had pushed up against the walls so as to be able to get past. On top of one of the piles lay the body of a human being.
Fiamma stood aside to let him past and Gerardo went forward to have a better look. He immediately recognised the pilgrim’s ash wood walking stick and the black cleric’s cassock, greasy and frayed. When he saw the left wrist ending in a stump, there was no more room for doubt. It was the Ferrarese. The man was holding his bloody hand tight against his stomach, where he had been stabbed by a knife or short sword. His eyes were open and his teeth bared in a grimace of pain. ‘Who killed him?’ asked Gerardo.
Fiamma looked at him as though deciding whether she could trust him. ‘I have no idea,’ she said, dropping her gaze. ‘Have you called the guards yet?’
‘For a dead vagrant? they wouldn’t come. I’ve sent for the grave-diggers. Why are you so concerned about this man?’
‘Me? you seemed to be the ones who are concerned. There is great distress at your house.’
Fiamma put both hands to her face in a gesture of desperation as though she had just remembered something terrible. When she took them away, there was a resolute expression in her eyes. Gerardo thought that perhaps she had decided to trust him after all.
‘The distress you noticed is not for the death of this man,’ said the young woman, on the verge of tears. ‘Why is it, then?’
‘Remigio has disappeared.’
In order to get to Bova, Mondino had decided to take a barge up the Cavadizzo canal so as to make the journey quicker. He patted the pocket in which he kept the map, keenly hoping that his meeting with the sorceress would not turn out to be a waste of time. He tried not to give in to despair, but could not avoid thinking that his life was plunging towards a chasm. And he couldn’t even count on the support of his family. On the contrary, he had to put up with their disapproval in silence, as well as hiding all the anxiety that came from knowing that he deserved it.
It must have been shortly before daybreak and the city was waking up. Mondino could hear the characteristic morning sounds of spitting and the clearing of throats that had always turned his stomach in the past. Now they only reminded him of his father’s painful condition. Rainerio suffered from prolonged coughing fits and spat out enormous quantities of mucus that the handkerchiefs on his beside table weren’t large enough to contain.
Mondino reached the iron gate in front of the chapel that housed the Apostle’s Cross, one of the four placed there by St Ambrose to protect the city almost a thousand years before. Then, following an impulse, he turned sharply into the little chapel. As he went in, he saw someone dash behind a pillar about ten yards off. The person seemed strangely familiar but Mondino didn’t take much notice and knelt down to pray. He addressed the most Holy Apostles of Christ, to whom the cross was dedicated, asking them to help his father to pass away and to forgive his own guilty absence at the bedside. Then he asked St Ambrose to give him the strength necessary to come out of this battle victorious and to protect him from his enemies.
Mondino knew and loved the power of prayer, but he would have wanted a Church that was closer to Christ’s teachings and not obsessed with temporal power. This too was probably a dream, like the idea of discovering the secret of the circulation of the blood. Perhaps it was normal for a scientist to be a dreamer; the point was to give the right direction to the dreams. He had let himself be dragged into a mistaken dream and now things were getting out of hand and threatening to overwhelm him completely. He absolutely had to find the murderer of the two templars. Only then would he be able to avert, at least in part, the misfortunes that were raining down on him. And he had very little time left.
To calm the distress that had taken hold of him, he quietly intoned the hymn Te lucis ante terminum that was normally sung at compline, after sunset. It was the only hymn composed by St Ambrose that he knew, and he found it appropriate to the situation. A dark night full of horrors was about to submerge him, even if it was early morning.
When he left the chapel he felt much better. The sun filled the street and the heaviness that had weighed on his soul just before seemed to have vanished. Mondino leaned on one of the stone griffins at the corner of the railings and breathed deeply, mentally thanking the apostles and St Ambrose. At that moment he noticed a man standing in front of a fruit seller.
He had his back to Mondino and seemed to be negotiating the purchase of a punnet of cherries. From his stocky build, Mondino recognised the man that he had seen drinking alone in the tavern the night before. In a flash, he remembered the shape that he had noticed behind him when he came out of the hostelry, and that of the man who had disappeared behind a pillar just before he turned to go into the Chapel of the Cross. It was the same person every time.
He made himself pretend indifference and walked towards the Torresotto at Porta Govese. He was bewildered. The man was definitely following him and almost certainly by order of the Inquisitor. He might have seen him speaking to Gerardo after Mondino had told Uberto da Rimini that he didn’t know him. On no account should he see him speaking to the sorceress as well. What to do?
Without stopping, Mondino began to look around him, searching for a way to give the man the slip. When he got to the moline canal, just beyond Porta Govese, he should have turned left towards the Cavadizzo, but there was no sense in taking a barge now. It would be too easy to follow him. On an impulse he turned right and followed the canal in the opposite direction, towards the windmills that gave the canal its name.
The closer he got to the market square, the more crowded it became. There were men, women, children and animals clogging up every road leading to the piazza. It was saturday and the weekly livestock sale was in full flow. Many farmers and shepherds had arrived the night before and slept beside their animals to protect them from thieves. As far as they were concerned there was no reason not to begin buying and selling, so they went ahead without waiting for the official opening of the fair. In any case, the presence of notaries and bankers only served for the more important deals; for one or two beasts it was much easier to agree with a shake of the hand.
Mon
dino saw a jurist whom he knew walking past, followed by a train of assistants in clerks’ clothing, and he stopped to exchange a word or two, taking the opportunity to check on his stalker. He didn’t see the man this time, but knew he was there. Then Mondino said goodbye to the jurist and mixed in with the crowd. Now, as often happened with him, fear gave place to anger.
Then it occurred to him that running away was not the only solution. He had not had much time to observe the man following him but he was sure that he was smaller than him, although possibly broader. Perhaps he could get the better of the stalker after all.
Looking around for a suitable place for a fight, he left the busy road and went as close as possible to the edge of the canal, beneath the jerking and screeching of the blades that turned the grain milling machines. There was no one around. When he reached the fifth windmill, familiarly referred to as ‘Fantulino, the little mill’, he noticed a large recess behind a tiled wall. He took a step to the side and hid in the shadows. The only noise he could hear was the roar produced from the vertical wheel in the centre of the canal, held up by a wooden truss stretching between two identical cabins on either bank. With his heart in tumult, he waited for what seemed like an age, but was in reality not much longer than that needed to recite a Pater Noster. Then he heard a footstep close by and a second later his pursuer appeared. Mondino didn’t give him time to think. He stuck out a foot and tripped him up. While the man was stumbling and trying to keep his balance, Mondino grabbed him by the shoulders and dragged him over to the shelter of the wall. Before he could interrogate him he had to immobilise the man somehow, but from the way the man was struggling he realised that he had underestimated him. He was short, but extremely strong.
Fortunately the man didn’t seem to want to attract attention either. He didn’t shout or call for help. Snorting like a bull, he pivoted on one of his stumpy legs and, freeing himself from Mondino’s hold, he turned and charged at the physician with his head down. Mondino received a headbutt full in the chest and fell back against the wall. He managed to get out of the way before the man could seize hold round the waist and thumped him on the nape of his neck. They grappled in silence, putting as much force as possible into their punches, both aware that they needed to hurry before someone came along. Suddenly Mondino felt himself being bitten on the neck, then he gradually began to run out of steam. Somehow, in the midst of the struggle, without intending to, he planted a finger in the other man’s eye. His aggressor let out a strangled cry and let go, covering his face with both hands. Mondino took a run up and bundled him like a sack to the edge of the canal.
The man stuck his feet in but didn’t manage to put up enough resistance. He tried to catch hold of Mondino by the hair, but only got his cap. Stumbling against the low parapet wall, the stalker’s knees buckled and a second later he fell into the water with a splash. He stood up almost immediately, dripping wet and furious, and began to wade towards the bank, his eyes alight with a ferocious determination.
Two men on the other side shouted and jumped into the water, not to help the man but to catch Mondino, who they had obviously taken for the villain. Another two people ran towards the bridge just ahead to cut him off. If they caught him, they might even kill him. It was not infrequent that thieves were lynched by citizens and came before the judge either dead or as good as. Mondino turned and began to run between the houses, vines and orchards, knowing that his lungs wouldn’t hold out for ever.
When Guido Arlotti climbed out of the canal he was just in time to catch a glimpse of Mondino’s spare form disappearing behind the wall of the house, already a good distance from his pursuers. If they managed to catch him, Guido hoped that they’d give him a good going-over before bringing him back to the windmill.
Boiling with rage inside,Arlotti told his rescuers that the man had tried to rob him, but fortunately hadn’t succeeded. Perhaps they’d noticed how Mondino was dressed? He certainly didn’t look like a common pilferer. Guido said that he, Mondino, was a penniless student who had resorted to crime to pay his debts. But the others didn’t seem to think it mattered much. They asked if he was all right and Guido thanked them and accepted the offer to go into the windmill to get dry and wait for news. But first he gave a coin to a boy and told him to go and fetch two men from the tavern that he used as a base in Borgo di Galliera, which luckily was not far away. He promised the boy another coin if he brought them back in good time.
The windmill was small and full of people. There were clients bringing sacks of grain to mill, others who came to buy flour from the miller’s wife and people who were just dropping by to talk about the weather and the price of goods, which gave no sign of dropping. The miller lent Guido a spare tunic and his wife, a plump blonde with a generous bosom, went to hang out his clothes in the sun to dry. Guido had to repeat his story an infinity of times: the attack, the fight, his fall in the canal and the crook’s escape.
He smiled and thanked them for their help, but inside he was beside himself with fury. When the crowd finally tired of his tale, he retired to a corner to wait for his accomplices and to plot his revenge. Even if the people running after him didn’t catch Mondino, he would find him and make him pay for what he’d done. In fact he rather hoped they didn’t catch him. After all, he knew where to find him. It had now become a personal issue.
*
Mondino was now sure that the men trying to catch him had abandoned the chase so he slowed down to a normal pace, then he stopped to get his breath back, leaning on the wall of a house. He was exhausted. That sort of exercise made the blood too hot and burned the lungs, but also produced a pleasant feeling of euphoria. Alternatively, he thought, perhaps it wasn’t the exercise that produced it, but the satisfaction of having fought and come out on top. He was certain that the man would come after him again, after all, he must know exactly where he lived. But it didn’t matter. On the following evening, the time the Inquisitor had conceded to him ran out and one way or another the question would be resolved. At that point even the spy would go back to his master. Right now the important thing was to have got away. Mondino wanted to ask for the translation of the map as quickly as possible and then get back to Hugues de narbonne’s house to see how he was. He had decided that if the Frenchman was conscious, he would interrogate him before Gerardo got there.
Mondino crossed the Circla paling near the postern of Borgo di San Pietro, passed a wool-fulling mill and cut left through the fields, still following the canal that ran parallel to the city walls towards Porta delle Lame.
There were more people around than last time, perhaps because it was a saturday, and this made it easier to pass unobserved. From early in the morning, the traffic was almost all moving in the direction of the city. For the most part they were farmers and artisans heading for the market on foot or with hand-pulled carts. Every now and then someone walked or trotted by on a horse.
Since he now knew the way, it took him less time to get to the sorceress’s house than he had thought. No one came out to greet him this time either, but as soon as he shouted her name the woman called for him to go in. Mondino went forward cautiously, however the dogs were nowhere to be seen. He reached the door, pushed it open and stood on the threshold, transfixed by surprise. The single room, made up of kitchen, study and bedroom, was much bigger than the outside walls suggested and it was well lit. The place was full of a seemingly immense quantity of objects and yet order reigned supreme. It was not a conventional order, thought Mondino, taking in the piles of books that made towers and columns across the floor, the clumps of medicinal herbs hung to dry head down in a corner, the shelves full of terracotta and glass jars, the Arabic alembic and numerous copper and wooden objects for which he couldn’t imagine the use. But the general impression was that the owner, bent over the pages of a great volume that was open on the table in the centre of the room, would immediately be able to put her hand on anything she needed. Mondino had never been insi
de a sorceress’s house before but he had imagined it quite different.
‘Come in, do,’ she said, looking up. ‘You’ve returned. So I imagine you will be more polite this time.’
Mondino made a slight bow that could be understood as a greeting or an affirmative response. He went in and stopped in the middle of the room. The woman closed the book, smiled and seemed to remember her own good manners. She gestured regally towards the only bench in the house, at one of the long sides of the table, and added, ‘Sit down, please. You haven’t yet told me who you are.’
Mondino said that he was a scholar from the Studium, using the name of one of his students. The woman gave him a sharp look and then introduced herself too: ‘Hadiya bint Abi Bakr, at your service. But you may call me Adia Bintaba like everyone else.’ she sat down on the bench at an easy distance from him. Then she added, quite naturally, as though they had only left one another minutes before, ‘You mentioned a map.’
Mondino hurriedly took out the parchment, without talking of money this time. If the woman wanted payment for the translation, she would have to ask him for it.
Adia looked at it carefully. ‘The Arabic sentences are verses alluding to a marriage,’ she said, confirming Hugues de narbonne’s opinion. ‘But they are incomplete, as though some words were missing. Written like this, they don’t make sense. As for the map itself, the characters between the two lions indicate something red, which seems strange to me.’ ‘Why?’
‘Because there’s no point in writing “red” under the red circle. It must mean something else.’ ‘Could it be a place in spain?’
Adia’s face lit up. ‘But of course. The red fortress in the city of Gharnata that you call Granada. It probably indicates the point of departure, while the red circle at the top that has no writing next to it represents the point of arrival.’
Hugues de Narbonne had been telling the truth. Mondino slumped forward, putting his elbows on his thighs and his head in his hands. To say that he was disappointed did not do justice to his state of mind at all. Only then did he realise that he had doubted the Frenchman’s word on purpose, to cultivate the dream that an important message was hidden in the verses. But they really were meaningless words and if they were hiding anything, it was directions to reach a place in spain.
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