Inquisition

by Alfredo Colitto

  ‘So you are Francesco Salimbene,’ said Uberto, in a placid tone. ‘The templar monk who lived in the lodgings in the parish of sant’Antonino that burned down two weeks ago. Do you admit that?’

  ‘I admit that I lived in those rooms, father, but I am a medical student, not a templar monk.’

  ‘And yet the person who was staying with you, Angelo da Piczano, was. To whom would a templar wanted by the Inquisition go for hospitality, if not his confrère?’

  ‘He would go to a friend. I knew Angelo and his predicament, and I did not think I was breaking the law by inviting him to stay with me for a few days. I committed no crime according to secular justice.’

  ‘The Knights templar have no friends among ordinary people.’

  ‘I don’t know about that, but if you say so, it must be true. I only know that he and I were friends and I had no reason to deny him help.’

  Silence fell, broken only by the scratching of the notary’s pen. He was sitting to the left of Gerardo, transcribing the questions and answers on to a sheet of parchment laid out on the slanting surface of a writing bench and held down with two iron paperweights in the shape of cubes. Uberto reflected that if they carried on like that, they would never get anywhere. He had hoped to draw the young man into making a series of small admissions that could gradually be constructed to form a solid cage around him. This was why he hadn’t immediately charged him with using a false name. However, Francesco Salimbene was showing himself to be more astute than he’d thought, despite his youth. There was only one way to make the templar confess his crimes quickly, but at the comune Uberto’s hands were tied.

  ‘Could you tell us exactly what you think this young man is guilty of, father?’

  This was said in the aspirate Luccan accents of Enrico standing at the door, elegant as ever, accompanied by the sinister-looking PantaLeone Buzacarini, Captain of the People.

  Bernadazzi, the Podestà. Uberto spun round to find him ‘This was not part of our agreement, excellency,’ protested the Dominican. ‘I only agreed to come here to interrogate the prisoner because I was assured that I would have full liberty of movement.’

  ‘You agreed because you had no alternative,’ intervened the Captain of the People. ‘However, the conditions of our agreement have changed. Do you really believe that telling us what you think the prisoner to be guilty of is a limitation of your movements?’

  PantaLeone Buzacarini was a noted Ghibelline who held that position due to the new Guelph policy to include their rivals in the government of the city, while nonetheless keeping them in a minority. Uberto would have to be doubly cautious with him.

  ‘It is not that,’ replied the Dominican, choosing the path of prudence. ‘It is only that I would prefer not to talk about it until I have something tangible in hand. I do not like accusing people without proof.’

  ‘I would have said the opposite,’ murmured PantaLeone, almost inaudibly, bringing a smile to the face of the Podestà, although he was a diehard Guelph.

  ‘What did you say?’ asked Uberto, who had heard PantaLeone perfectly.

  ‘Nothing of any importance. But if you don’t even tell the prisoner what crime you are accusing him of, how is he going to be able to confess that he’s guilty?’

  Uberto would have happily subjected the Captain of the People to torture on the wheel. His disrespectful attitude was the direct result of the weakness of prelates such as the Archbishop of Ravenna.

  Da Rimini crossed his arms over the white tunic he wore beneath his order’s black cloak and hood; a stance that usually struck terror into those subjected to his investigations. ‘How and when I decide to communicate it to him is my affair, Captain. Now, if you will allow me, I would like to go on with the interrogation.’

  The notary had stopped writing and was watching the three of them from his bench, scratching his ear with the quill.

  Francesco Salimbene, for his part, did not lose a word of what was being said and the look on his face alternated between hope and despair like a game of light and shade played by the sun filtering through the leaves of a tree.

  ‘Please go on,’ said the Podestà, going to sit down behind the notary, followed immediately by PantaLeone. ‘We won’t be any bother.’

  The young man’s face grew definitively morose, but Uberto was too cross to derive any satisfaction from that. Alas, that insolent Captain of the People was right. To interrogate the prisoner on their conditions was the only alternative left to him, given the circumstances. And he needed to get a result pretty fast.

  But perhaps there was a way of resolving the situation to his advantage.

  ‘As far as I know,’ he said to the Podestà, ignoring the Captain of the People, ‘Serious circumstantial evidence points to this man being an arsonist, and yet he maintains that he wasn’t there when the fire broke out.’

  ‘That is true, but this is a crime that must be assessed by the comune.’

  ‘And how will you assess it, given that the accused will not confess?’

  The Podestà gave Uberto a perplexed look. ‘The evidence against him is serious enough to justify the use of torture. But you know that quite well.’ ‘So please go on.’

  ‘Do you mean to say that rather than reveal what you intend to accuse him of, you will relinquish interrogating him altogether?’

  ‘Not at all,’ replied Uberto. ‘I’ll be straight with you. The crime that I intend to accuse him of is the murder, with recourse to the dark arts, of a templar, whose name I do not yet know, who died after the fire in the parish of sant’Antonino ...’ He noticed that the Captain of the People was about to interrupt him and he silenced PantaLeone with a look. ‘I know that it was murder,’ he said, anticipating the man’s objection, ‘Because I’ve found the corpse. Now may I go on?’

  ‘Yes, you may,’ intervened the Podestà.

  ‘Furthermore, I mean to accuse this young man, who in all probability is not called Francesco Salimbene at all, of the murder of Wilhelm von Trier, the German templar found dead in an inn near the Basilica of Santo Stefano with his heart turned into a block of iron. But to be able to prove my accusations, I need the prisoner to declare that he was guilty of starting the fire. Now, if you consider it opportune, I will stand aside while you interrogate him on that subject and when he has confessed to the crime, I will proceed with the other accusations.’

  The Captain of the People began to clap slowly, a vulgar habit that the populace usually used to show its appreciation of spectacles such as acrobats and ballad singers. Uberto, the Podestà, the notary and even the prisoner all turned to stare at him.

  ‘My compliments, Inquisitor,’ said PantaLeone. ‘I didn’t think you were so astute.’

  ‘What do you mean by that? explain yourself,’ intervened the Podestà, assuming a severe tone.

  ‘Everyone knows that Archbishop Rinaldo da Concorezzo abhors the use of torture,’ the Captain went on. ‘And as you know, an Inquisitor needs permission from the Archbishop to torture an accused man. Now, since the prisoner has not confessed cospectu tormentorum, the Inquisitor, seeing the instruments of torture, thought he could leave us the job of torturing him and take advantage of the results.’

  ‘So?’ replied Uberto, forcefully. ‘It was you who invited me to conduct my interrogation here instead of handing over the prisoner. Now I am proposing a collaboration that could turn out to the benefit of both Church and comune. What reason could you have to refuse?’

  The Captain of the People was about to say something, but the Podestà stopped him with a wave of his hand. ‘That’s enough, PantaLeone. Don’t let your Ghibelline spirit get in the way of reason. If this young man is really guilty of crimes against the city and the Church, the best thing, in everybody’s interests, is to forget our differences and combine forces. Call the executioner, please.’

  This time it was Ube
rto who had to stop himself applauding. ‘Well said!’ he exclaimed, while the Captain walked out of the room.

  His words were followed by a fraught silence that continued until PantaLeone Buzacarini returned with the executioner. Uberto went to stand next to the Podestà and left the Captain the job of interrogating the prisoner. Gerardo merely repeated his version of events and so was immediately subjected to the pendulum. The executioner bound his hands behind his back with a rope attached to the wooden frame fixed to the ceiling. Then, rotating the other end of the rope round a spool, he slowly began to lift the templar off the ground by his arms. They left him the time to feel the intense pain of his shoulders being stretched in that unnatural manner. Then, at a sign from the Captain, the executioner let go of the rope so that the prisoner dropped and then the executioner immediately grabbed it again, stopping Gerardo fall with a jolt. Gerardo let out a yell of pain as his arms jerked upwards behind his back, almost coming out of their sockets.

  ‘This is only the first stage,’ explained PantaLeone Buzacarini.

  ‘If you confess immediately, you will be spared the second. At the third almost everyone confesses.’

  ‘No ... I didn’t start the fire, believe me,’ replied Gerardo, in a strangled voice. ‘When I got back to the house it was in flames. I was afraid they would blame me for it so I ran away.’ the notary took down the question and answer. The Captain turned to look at the Podestà and receiving a nod of the head, he ordered the executioner to winch the prisoner up again. This time when the ropes lifted Gerardo off the floor, the pain brought a few tears and a forlorn groan.

  ‘You’ve still got time to save yourself from agony,’ admonished the Captain. ‘Will you confess?’

  ‘It wasn’t me,’ the young man managed to say, through his teeth. ‘I beg of you, I’m innocent.’

  The executioner let the rope go again. This time the prisoner’s cry finished in a sob.

  ‘Did you start the fire in that house in the parish of sant’Antonino two weeks ago?’ asked the Captain in a monotonous voice.

  Uberto, standing at the Podestà’s side, didn’t take his eyes off the young man’s face, even for a second. He was noting the signs of surrender that were beginning to appear. The youth would soon confess. Then, weakened by the pulling of the ropes, he wouldn’t have the strength to oppose the interrogation about the double killing. And even if he did, he would only be tortured again until he confessed. After that it wouldn’t be difficult to convince him to repeat his admissions sponte non vi, that is, without the use of torture. Uberto knew from experience that when a prisoner yielded once, he never recovered strength enough to resist after that and ended up doing everything they asked of him.

  ‘I am innocent,’ insisted Gerardo, showing uncommon obstinacy. ‘Of this accusation and of the others that the Inquisitor wants to charge me with.’

  The Captain nodded in the direction of the executioner, who began to pull on the ropes again. At that moment voices were heard coming from along the corridor. A guard entered the room and said that two people were demanding to see the Captain of the People and the Inquisitor. ‘Who are they?’ asked Uberto.

  ‘A Dominican friar and a paper-maker. The Dominican says that he has a message from the Archbishop and the artisan wants to speak to Messer PantaLeone to report a monstrous crime.’

  Exchanging hostile glances, Uberto and PantaLeone Buzacarini left the room and followed the guard. The two men waiting for them were showing signs of great anxiety. The first to speak was the paper-maker. When they were still a few yards away, he couldn’t stop himself shouting, ‘Captain, in the paper-maker’s borough a man has been found tied to his bed with his head full of worms and a piece of iron where his heart should be!’ Hearing those words, Uberto stopped in his tracks. Another person killed in that extraordinary way! this automatically cleared Mondino’s student, who couldn’t be the perpetrator given that he’d been in jail at the time. The whole edifice of accusations that he had prepared was in danger of collapsing miserably.

  But he didn’t have time to think about that before his assistant, friar Antonio, came up. The young priest, who was even shorter than him, must have been running because he was out of breath and red in the face. But he bowed with the usual propriety. ‘Forgive my disturbing you, father,’ he said, in a low voice. ‘The Archbishop has arrived and is asking for you urgently.’

  ‘Did he use the word “urgently”?’

  The friar nodded. ‘He is already sitting at your desk going through all the trial papers to make certain there are no irregularities.’

  Uberto da Rimini had never sworn in his life and didn’t even do it now. But he had to exercise every ounce of self-control not to ask God why He insisted on frustrating every effort he made. Less than an hour would have been enough to get a confession out of the bogus student,but he didn’t dare go any further now. The most important thing was to maintain secrecy; he wouldn’t even mention the arrest to friar Antonio. God willing, he could come back the next day and go on with the interrogation.

  ‘As you heard, a matter of great urgency requires me to return to the monastery,’ he said to the Captain of the People, who had been speaking to the paper-maker in a hushed voice. ‘I would ask that the interrogation be stopped and continued only in my presence, in the name of the collaboration that unites us in this cause.’

  ‘Agreed,’ replied the Podestà, coming up from behind him.

  ‘But we will only wait until noon tomorrow. Then we will proceed with or without you.’ He turned back towards the interrogation room, where the notary and the executioner had remained, and shouted, ‘Untie the prisoner and take him back to his cell. We’ll carry on tomorrow.’

  Uberto made him a brief bow and hurried away, preceded by the friar.

  ‘There’s one more thing,’ said the young Dominican, quietly. They had left the comune and were navigating their way through the confusion of shops that filled most of the space beneath the huge arches, leaving only the narrowest gaps for people and handcarts to pass. ‘I didn’t want to mention it in front of strangers.’ ‘What is it?’

  ‘The ex-priest, Guido Arlotti. He came looking for you at the monastery, saying that he had some important news. He was covered in bruises and his clothes were ripped. Since you weren’t there, he went home to change and deal with his injuries, but he said he’d be back later.’

  Uberto nodded, with a sigh. Too many things all at the same time. He had to take a moment to think clearly and decide on his plan of campaign. But to do that he had to be free of constraints. He only hoped that the Archbishop would go back to where he’d come from as soon as possible.

  The trip to the port of Corticella was straightforward and enjoyable. They followed the bank of the Navile by land, surrounded by the shouts of the muleteers urging on the mules pulling the barges and the whistles of the boatmen telling each other to watch out when they passed each other. All that coming and going was in itself protection enough from Guido Arlotti and his henchmen if they had been thinking of getting their own back. But Adia doubted whether they would feel like trying anything in their current sorry state, and Mondino agreed with her.

  They walked along in line: first the donkey, weighed down with bags held in strong cord nets. Then Adia and Mondino, who took turns in spurring the donkey with a slap on his rear when he came to a halt, and then the dogs constantly running back and forth, panting with their tongues hanging out, but aware of every movement around them.

  They were still talking about the death of the German templar and Adia asked if the corpse had by chance had the mark of a wound like that of an awl in the chest.

  Mondino looked at her with a combination of amazement and suspicion. ‘How did you know that?’

  While general information about the state of the corpse was by now in the public domain, that particular had not leaked out. In fact, Mondino might hav
e been the only one to have noticed it, and only because Angelo da Piczano had an identical wound.

  Adia smiled enigmatically. ‘Thanks to my sorceress’s gifts, naturally. Didn’t the people who told you about me say that I can also read the past and the future?’

  ‘Don’t joke, please, just answer my question.’ Adia smacked her hand against the donkey’s rump, clicking her tongue at the same time, and the animal, which had stopped for a second to stare at the canal, obediently walked on.

  ‘It’s only a guess, Messer physician,’ she said, with a twinkle in her eye. ‘If that man was killed with a powder that transforms blood into iron, it’s unlikely that he drank it dissolved in a liquid, don’t you think?’

  ‘I’ve already thought of that,’ said Mondino. ‘If it did, all the blood vessels in the poison’s passage would be transformed into metal too. Whereas the transmutation only took place in the heart and surrounding veins.’

  This was the question that most flummoxed him from a scientific point of view. And the one that he hadn’t known how to answer when Gerardo and Hugues de Narbonne had put it to him.

  ‘That means,’ continued Adia, ‘That the poison, as you call it, was injected directly into the heart. Through a hollow stiletto or something similar.’

  ‘But such an instrument doesn’t exist!’ exclaimed Mondino.

  ‘I keep myself up to date with the most modern scientific discoveries and I’ve never heard of a thin, hollow blade that is strong enough to puncture the heart of a man without bending.’

  A costermonger came out of a turning to their left, pulling a cart heavy with vegetables. His dog, a great big half-breed with drooping ears, started snarling and barking at the two Molossers and Mondino was afraid that a dogfight would break out. Adia issued a brief command in Arabic and the mastiffs stood stock still on the verge, without showing the slightest animosity towards the costermonger’s dog, which went on snarling and drooling, but didn’t come any closer. The man, having yelled at his hound without response, dropped the handlebars of his cart and went to give the dog a decent kick up the road. As they walked on, Mondino noticed that he made a superstitious sign to ward off evil with his left hand.