Inquisition

by Alfredo Colitto

  He was very surprised to find that he had been brought in front of the Podestà in person, standing next to the Captain of the People. Although he was no expert in matters of prosecution, it was clear to him that something strange was going on. The arrest of a student and arsonist was not important enough to require the Podestà’s intervention.

  However, Gerardo was determined not to let himself be intimidated. Despite the dazed feeling he’d got from the blows to his head, in the cell he had worked out his defensive strategy, very simple but difficult to refute: he would deny everything.

  The fire had happened; there was no getting away from it. But there was no evidence that he had started it. No one had seen him go into the house and no one had seen him escaping over the rooftops. The only proof they could lay at his door was the fact that after the fire he had disappeared. He hadn’t gone to see his landlord to ask for an explanation, or to the judge to ask for compensation, given that all his belongings had been burned in the fire. They would ask him why he had behaved in that way if he were innocent?

  Gerardo would maintain that he hadn’t gone home that evening, and once he found out about the fire he had decided to hide for fear of being unjustly accused.

  It wasn’t a very solid defence, but neither was it very easy to prove the contrary. And anyway he had to do everything he could to avoid a sentence. Arson was considered a crime against the city and the punishment was severe. Only a few months earlier, an arsonist had had his eyes put out after boiling lead was poured down his back.

  However, Gerardo’s strategy depended entirely on the fact that he would be interrogated without torture, while the place where he found himself now seemed to deny that basic premise.

  He stood in silence and stared at the floor in front of him as behoves a prisoner, observing the Podestà out of the corner of his eye. Enrico Bernadazzi from Lucca was Podestà in charge for that quarter. He was a bearded man with a large face, who just then was looking at a spot somewhere above Gerardo’s head, as though deep in thought. Over his yellow, fine wool tunic, which reached his feet, he was wearing a sky blue, sleeveless surcoat and a cloth cap of the same colour that vaguely recalled a helmet. His elegant appearance was decidedly out of place in that damp, dirty room full of machines and gruesome devices.

  There was a heavy silence, but Gerardo waited patiently, head down, until the Podestà asked him, in his soft tuscan accent: ‘Are you Francesco Salimbene from Imola, medical student?’

  Gerardo tried not to show his relief. They hadn’t found out his real name.

  ‘Yes, your excellency.’

  ‘Do you know why you have been arrested?’

  ‘Yes, your excellency. For a fire that they say I started, but I’m innocent.’

  The Captain of the People, PantaLeone Buzacarini, exchanged looks with the Podestà, and then he took over.

  ‘You are not innocent. A witness saw you go into the house on the night of the fire, but no one saw you come out again.’ He sighed, as though tired of having to continually convince stubborn criminals of their wrong-headedness. ‘Your fate is decided, Messer. We can easily find other witnesses to testify against you, and furthermore I am certain that, under torture, you would confess.’ He was a man with an angular face and athletic body, of about Gerardo’s height. With a circular gesture of his arm, he indicated all the instruments of torture dotted around the room. The action was accompanied by the rustle of the dark surcoat that he wore over his short military style tunic and striped red and black breeches. There was the pendulum, the torture most regularly used because it was among the blandest, in that it only caused the dislocation of the limbs. There was also a breaking wheel and a furnace to heat irons and pincers, which, fortunately, was not lit just then. Gerardo shivered involuntarily, which did not escape the captain’s attention.

  ‘But this is a civil trial!’ he protested. ‘The use of torture is not allowed.’

  ‘The fire in that house in the parish of sant’Antonino is the last of your problems, believe me,’ intervened the Podestà, touching his beard. ‘When the Inquisitor, Uberto da Rimini, was informed of your arrest, he asked that you be transferred to the Dominican prison, near the Basilica of San Domenico. But he was somewhat mysterious about the motives for his request. Before deciding whether to consent to it or not, I would like to know from you what you are accused of by the Inquisition. You can tell us of your own free will, or under torture. The decision is yours.’

  Gerardo stood in silence. His mind was racing, but despite all his efforts he couldn’t work out what he should say. Mondino had explained that the Inquisitor’s accusation towards him would be the murders of Wilhelm von Trier and Angelo da Piczano using black magic and a pact with the Devil. But it wasn’t in his interest to tell them that, even if he were innocent, because it was a much more serious crime than arson. Besides, any admission he made on the subject would implicate Mondino and that was a thing he should avoid at all costs. Apart from the moral considerations, just then the physician represented his only hope of salvation. Gerardo would only be exonerated if Mondino could find the real murderer. The chances of him convincing the Podestà or the Inquisitor of his innocence were precisely none, unless a culprit were found.

  He had to play for time by continuing to deny everything. ‘I have nothing to say,’ he said, first looking the Podestà in the eyes, then the Captain of the People. ‘Other than that I declare myself innocent of the crime of which you accuse me.’ the two exchanged looks. With a finger, PantaLeone Buzacarini scratched at a white mark on one of the black stripes of his breeches.

  ‘As you will have noticed, Messer,’ he said, raising his eyes to stare Gerardo hard in the face, ‘We have had you brought here without the presence of a judge or an executioner. We were hoping to resolve the matter in a friendly manner. You tell us what we want to know, and we will offer you the guarantee of a just trial and a sentence that is not too excessive. I am asking you for the last time: why is the Inquisitor so keen to see you?’

  Gerardo finally began to understand. The comune of Bologna, although it was part Guelph and therefore favourable to the papacy, disliked the Inquisition’s tendency to meddle in the administration of justice. The killing of the German templar was first and foremost a penal crime, and hence fell into the jurisdiction of the Podestà. The Captain of the People had allowed Mondino to go and examine the German’s corpse because he was irritated by the fact that the Inquisition had claimed the right to investigate the murder.

  They had had him brought down there to frighten him with the sight of the instruments of torture and now they were soothing him with the promise of a mild punishment. They could sense that something was afoot that was much bigger than mere arson, and they wanted to know what it was in order to be able to take the necessary countermeasures and to protect themselves from an eventual usurpation of their powers.

  And yet, he couldn’t trust a verbal promise. The two notables would be able to go back on it without a second thought as soon as they found out what they wanted to know. And the stakes were too high. It wasn’t just a question of his personal safety, but of the survival of one of the most glorious ecclesiastical orders. If he agreed to the Captain of the People’s proposal, everything he had done up to that moment would lose its justification. The fire, the hiding of Angelo da Piczano’s body, the death of that poor crippled boy, the lies, his escape ... There would no longer be a superior motive. Gerardo would become, in his own eyes more than in those of secular justice, a common criminal.

  ‘I have nothing to say,’ he repeated.

  PantaLeone Buzacarini came a step forward and punched him full in the face. Gerardo, already weakened by the beating-up before his arrest and from lying in the cell, dropped limply to the floor like an empty sack, bringing his hands to his face. He felt warm blood flowing from his nose through his fingers, staining his tunic that was already in a sorry state.r />
  ‘Don’t you understand that you’ve got no way out?’ exclaimed PantaLeone, in an angry voice. ‘Well then, we’ll have to make you understand. I’m going to call the executioner and the notary. You will tell us what we want to know. I can guarantee that.’

  He turned to go, but the Podestà raised his arm to stop. He seemed to be thinking. For a second no one moved and a silence fell in the underground room, through which they could hear, albeit from a distance, the noises of life on the upper floors of the building. Exclamations, slammed doors, bolts sliding across.

  ‘We cannot directly challenge the Inquisitor,’ said Enrico Bernadazzi, with an astute smile. ‘But I’ve just thought of a way to find out what we want to know without colliding with the Church. Take the prisoner back to his cell.’

  The Captain of the People opened the door and a second later the two massive guards came in. Gerardo was dragged out. He didn’t have time to hear the Podestà’s idea. But it didn’t make much difference. In the hands of a lay executioner or a cleric the suffering would be much the same.

  Straight after the midday meal, Uberto da Rimini joined the prior outside the basilica. Putting on a show of cordiality, he interested himself in the work on the new bell tower that had just started again after a month’s interruption due to financial difficulties. There were unlikely to be any more problems now and the prior was confident that the bell tower would be inaugurated within a couple of years: in the year of our lord, 1313.

  The walls of the building were teeming with day workers and labourers dressed in sackcloth, among whom the more comfortable and elegant clothing of the master builders stood out. As did the black and white robes of some Dominicans who drifted among the stones carrying out various jobs.

  ‘It will be magnificent,’ said the prior, with an ingenuous smile. He was a vastly fat man, taller than Uberto by a head, but decidedly stupid. The only thing that interested him in life was to be remembered in the basilica registers as the originator of the new bell tower. ‘It was the only thing missing from our church.’

  ‘I agree,’ said Uberto. To avoid the dust, they were standing a convenient distance from the site, at the point where a low wall marked the edge of the churchyard, paved in cobblestones, and the cemetery behind the basilica. ‘I’m sure that the Archbishop will be most impressed when he sees it.’

  The prior’s face was instantly diffused with a guilty red. ‘How did you know he was coming?’ he asked, without bothering to deny the fact.

  That morning Uberto had overheard a snippet of conversation between two confrères, the bursar and the cook. They had been talking about there being various guests to supper and he had worked out the rest for himself. But he didn’t waste time in explanations and simply answered the question with another.

  ‘Why wasn’t I told?’

  ‘The messenger only got here this morning,’ replied the big man, without looking at him. ‘And we have been caught unawares. In the rush of preparations it must have slipped my mind.’

  Perhaps he was telling the truth and perhaps not. Uberto suspected that the Archbishop had meant to make him a surprise visit and would have specifically asked the prior not to tell him. All things considered, he couldn’t have chosen a worse moment to come and upset the applecart.

  He looked in the direction of St Dominic’s cell, now converted into a chapel. ‘It doesn’t matter,’ he said, pretending indifference. ‘It’s only that I would have liked time to prepare myself.’

  The prior nodded, excusing himself again, and went back to looking at the slow growth of what he thought of as his ‘Creation’. Meanwhile Uberto tried to work out how to ward off that rough stroke of destiny. He had asked the student cum arsonist to be transferred to the prison in the basilica so that he could interrogate the youth at his ease and extort a confession by his own means. He assumed that someone had immediately gone to report this development to the Archbishop. However, once the accomplished fact had been laid before him, Rinaldo wouldn’t be able to do anything about it without coming up against Clement V in person. Only now Uberto discovered that the Archbishop would be arriving in Bologna that very evening. And that he would not be staying at the episcopal palace or the templar House where three years previously he had set the trial in motion with the archbishops of Pisa and Cremona. He would be staying at the Basilica of San Domenico. Naturally this had not seemed strange to the prior, he was simply happy to have another memorable event to note down in the registers: a visit from the Archbishop of Ravenna during his priorate.

  Rinaldo would insist that the interrogation be conducted according to the law and nothing useful would come out of it at all. The only possibility seemed to be that of putting off the request for the prisoner’s transfer till after the Archbishop’s departure, but that too presented problems. Above all Uberto didn’t know how long the visit would last. It might be a day, but it might be a week. Obviously Uberto didn’t want to leave the prisoner in the hands of the Podestà for too long. If condemned for arson, he might end up dead or incapable of speaking again.

  Fortunately no one at the monastery apart from Uberto knew about the youth’s arrest. This gave him a bit of time to reflect, but he needed to make a decision in a hurry.

  He was about to take his leave of the prior when a young messenger from the comune turned up in the churchyard and began to walk their way. Uberto assumed that he was bringing news from the Podestà. Whatever it was that he had to tell Uberto, the prior must not hear. He started to get to his feet but the giant took him by the arm. With a benevolent smile, he said, ‘Let him come to us, father. I know how modest you are, but hierarchies must be respected.’

  Before Uberto could reply, the messenger had reached them. He made a bow and handed a rolled parchment with the Podestà’s seal on it to the Inquisitor, immediately retiring to a respectful distance to allow him time to read it.

  ‘My orders are to wait for a reply,’ he said. ‘If you would like to go up to the monastery to write your answer, I can wait for you here.’

  Uberto nodded and signed to him with a wave of his hand, grateful to have the pretext to leave. ‘It will be quicker if you come with me,’ he said. Then he turned to the prior. ‘Please excuse me,’ he added, turning away before the man had a chance to reply.

  As they were walking towards the monastery, Uberto broke the seal and began to read the letter. The Podestà of Bologna, Enrico Bernadazzi, agreed to his request to interrogate Francesco Salimbene, but since the student under arrest was responsible for a civic crime, he could not consent to the transfer to and incarceration at the Basilica. However, the Inquisitor was welcome to come and interrogate him at the comune prison in the presence of the Podestà, the Captain of the People and a notary.

  Uberto’s thin lips slowly shaped themselves into a smile. The Podestà had certainly intended to insult him with that letter, and in normal circumstances he would have succeeded.

  But just then the chance of interrogating the prisoner without the Archbishop seemed heaven sent. And perhaps it really was. Nonetheless, everything depended on secrecy and speed. There was not a moment to lose.

  ‘I will give my reply to the Podestà in person,’ he said to the messenger. ‘I’ll come back to the comune with you now.’

  He made a sign for the man to go on ahead and prepared to follow him. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the prior, who suddenly seemed more vigilant than usual. Could he be Rinaldo’s spy, the person who kept the Archbishop informed of Uberto’s every movement? It seemed impossible to him, but by now the question was losing its importance. If he managed to make the prisoner confess, Rinaldo da Concorezzo would no longer have a chance to put a spoke in the wheel.

  As he walked, Uberto tore the parchment into tiny pieces and crossing one of the numerous bridges over the Savena, he threw them into the river and watched them float on the current, little white blotches covered in black
ink.

  A minuscule fleet of Dominicans running to the defence of the faith.

  Hearing the door open, Gerardo thought the guards had come to collect him again. He mentally prepared himself for torture. Not knowing if or for how long he would be able to stand it, he only hoped that he wouldn’t collapse like a sickly child at the first hint of pain.

  He had closed his eyes so as not to feel the shooting pain of sudden light in the cell. He heard a man’s voice say, ‘You can go in, but don’t stay too long’, and then he smelled the unexpected scent of clean clothes and perfumed hair. A woman’s smell.

  Completely thrown, he opened wide his eyes and then quickly had to shut them again. What he had seen in that brief instant didn’t make any sense at all.

  ‘Does the light hurt?’ asked Fiamma. ‘If you would like, I’ll put out the lamp.’

  She must have covered it with something because the light grew less strong. Gerardo opened his eyes again and looked at her properly. She was wearing a simple white gown with a veil over her head and was sitting on her heels on the dirty floor. She had put the lamp behind her, next to the closed door. Gerardo was mortified by his own appearance and the acidic stink that hung like a pall in the cell. He hardly noticed it any more, but Fiamma did. She was holding a linen handkerchief pressed to her mouth.