Inquisition

by Alfredo Colitto

  ‘Magister!’ exclaimed the young man. ‘Thank goodness you’ve come.’

  ‘I didn’t come, I was arrested.’

  The guards stopped a few feet from the Podestà, and the section leader went forward to ask for his orders. ‘Leave us alone,’ said Enrico Bernadazzi.

  The three men obeyed and when they had left, closing the door behind them, the Captain of the People greeted Mondino and explained the situation to him, raising his voice to make himself heard above the clamour. But understanding wasn’t that easy: Mondino couldn’t believe that the banker’s young daughter and the vicious murderer whom they had been looking for could be the same person. It was as though his mind were paralysed, reacting with lumpen slowness to every new piece of information. In less than an hour he had discovered that he was wanted for murder, had been arrested and now found out that he was a free man again. All of a sudden it occurred to him that it was a trap, set up with Gerardo’s complicity, to induce him to contradict himself and to admit to crimes he hadn’t committed. He only became convinced when PantaLeone Buzacarini pointed to Fiamma’s letter and diary lying open on the table. Mondino picked them up, flipped through them, reading a few sentences, and finally he relaxed. ‘My God,’ he said at last.

  The Captain of the People and the Podestà both nodded. ‘That’s what we said when this young man showed us what you see there,’ said Enrico Bernadazzi. ‘We allowed him this interview thinking he wanted to confess. You wouldn’t believe our amazement and disbelief when we found out how things really stood.’

  ‘I can imagine,’ said Mondino, still shaken. Then, when he’d calmed down, he added, ‘Does this mean that I can go home?’ ‘First, we must stop Fiamma!’ exclaimed Gerardo. ‘Or she’ll kill herself!’

  The youth was in an obvious state of euphoria. His eyes were shining and he was trembling, as though he had continually to get the better of an impulse to jump up and run away. His left arm was the only motionless part of his body.

  ‘Why do you think that she wants to kill herself?’ asked Mondino. ‘In the letter it says, “I’ll soon be in my grave”, but it doesn’t say when or how she’ll die.’

  ‘I believe that Gerardo da Castelbretone is right,’ interjected the Captain of the People. Mondino realised that Gerardo had told them his real name and the physician was pleased. One less lie to keep up. ‘Now she has taken her revenge and delivered the proof of her guilt, it can only mean that she had organised her escape to avoid punishment, either in another country or in the next world.’

  ‘Then we should let her kill herself,’ said Mondino, coldly. He felt no pity for the woman who had so nearly ruined his life.

  ‘Magister!’ Gerardo exclaimed in a tone of reproach. He only seemed able to express himself with exclamations.

  The Podestà raised a hand to silence Mondino’s irritated rejoinder. ‘The diary and the letter stand as strong evidence of guilt,’ he said, above the racket. ‘But if Fiamma Sensi were to take her own life before confessing, it would take much longer to acquit you.’

  Mondino stood there speechless. From the piazza there rose three small words, chanted at regular intervals: ‘Hand... Him... Over! Hand... Him... Over!’

  ‘So go and get her,’ he said then. ‘I don’t see what the problem is.’

  ‘Don’t you understand?’ intervened the Captain of the People, walking over to the window and drawing aside the linen drape. ‘This is the problem.’

  Mondino glanced outside and was horror-struck. Seen from above, the scene was appalling and impressive at the same time. Some members of the city militia, lined up in battle formation in front of the comune, seemed somewhat pathetic with respect to the mass of people crammed into the piazza. There must already have been some injuries and perhaps even some deaths; people crushed by the throng.

  ‘They are threatening to storm the comune,’ said PantaLeone Buzacarini, letting the drape fall. ‘I can’t spare a single man to go and get that woman. Apart from the fact that we don’t even know where she is.’

  ‘And what are you going to do to disperse the crowd?’ asked Mondino.

  ‘The easiest thing, to avoid mishaps, would be to hang this young man from the balcony,’ said the Podestà. ‘Unjust, I agree, but done for the good of the city.’

  ‘You’re not serious!’ protested Mondino. Gerardo had turned round fast but said nothing, as if the idea didn’t strike him as such a bad one. ‘Such an act would not only be a heinous injustice, but a grave step backwards in the defence of civil liberties.’

  ‘Of course I wasn’t being serious,’ said Enrico Bernadazzi, with a look that contradicted his words. ‘However, the problem remains. We might be attacked from one moment to the next, and we can’t send anyone to catch Fiamma Sensi. Besides, right now a squad of guards would have little chance of getting through the mob uninjured.’

  ‘We’ll go!’ said Gerardo.

  ‘Where?’

  ‘To fetch Fiamma. There’s no time to lose. I think I know where to find her.’

  There was a moment’s silence, in which everyone weighed up his suggestion.

  ‘As the one responsible for civic justice,’ the Captain of the People then said, ‘I cannot allow it. It’s too risky, and besides citizens cannot make an arrest. Furthermore, although you two may have been cleared of the accusation of murder, you are still guilty, respectively, of arson and of concealing a corpse.’

  Mondino had finally made up his mind. The idea of going out into that hell hole and risking his life didn’t attract him one bit, but it was the quickest way to free himself from an accusation that could earn him the death sentence or, at the very least, irredeemably ruin his career. Besides, his mind was filled once more with the dream that had been at the origin of everything: once she was in the hands of the law, Fiamma would be unreachable. If he had a chance of understanding her secret, it was now. He had risked everything; it was madness to pull out at the last moment.

  ‘They are accusations that we can get off easily with the help of a good lawyer,’ he said, addressing the two notables.

  ‘And you know that. I will pledge my house as a guarantee that we will not take advantage of our freedom to run away. I’ll even sign a promissory note right away.’

  At those words Gerardo gave Mondino a grateful look that he preferred to ignore. ‘Just lend us one guard dressed in city clothes,’ he added. ‘He can arrest Fiamma Sensi and the formalities will be respected.’

  The Podestà and the Captain of the People glanced at each other, undecided.

  ‘Apart from anything else,’ concluded Mondino, ‘If the mob really did manage to storm the comune, it would be better if they didn’t find us here.’

  ‘Do you really know where she is?’ the Podestà asked Gerardo. ‘I’d be very surprised, after all that she’s done, if she were sitting at home waiting for us.’

  ‘At this point nothing matters to her any more,’ replied Gerardo. ‘Although you are right to think that she’s not at home. I’ll tell you where I mean to look for her only when you have given me your word that you will agree to send me with the guards who must arrest her. Under my guidance they’ll waste less time trying to find the place.’

  ‘Very well,’ said the Podestà, springing into action. ‘I will send three men with you, no more. Now let’s write that letter.’ He had parchment, quill and ink brought, but as there wasn’t a notary to be found in the building he had to draw up the deed in person and countersign it. Then he called the three guards who had been waiting just outside the door. The Captain of the People took them to his private rooms and lent them some nondescript civilian clothes that were baggy enough for them to hide the daggers that they wore at their sides fastened to a belt between shirt and tunic.

  ‘It would be better if we were armed too,’ said Mondino.

  ‘The law is clear on that one and I’m c
ertainly not going to be the one to break it,’ responded PantaLeone. ‘It is forbidden for citizens to carry arms within the confines of the city walls. You will be with my men so no harm will come to you.’

  Soon afterwards, the posse left the comune quietly by the rear entrance. The crowd was thronging the front of the building and they passed by unnoticed. But they had only gone about fifty yards, making quick headway through the deserted stalls of the Mercato di Mezzo, when they heard a cry behind them: ‘The murderer’s getting away!’

  They all turned round together, and with a leap of his heart Mondino recognised the stocky frame of Guido Arlotti pointing an accusatory finger at them.

  The outermost part of the crowd began to undulate like a field of corn in the wind. Many of them turned towards the little group and the cry ‘The murderer’s getting away!’ was repeated by dozens of voices. Gerardo saw that a lot of people were breaking away from the crowd and coming towards them, first slowly, as if undecided, then faster.

  ‘Run!’ yelled Mondino behind him. Gerardo followed him without delay, going as fast as his broken body allowed. Whereas the three guards, perhaps responding instinctively to their fear, made the mistake of unsheathing their daggers. An indistinct but concerted cry was discharged from the crowd, and they were on top of them in an instant. Gerardo heard the cries of pain as the guards were torn apart; he clenched his fists without turning round. He couldn’t have done anything to help them even if both his arms had been working, but with the left one out of its socket, there was absolutely no chance. Mondino was running a few steps ahead of him, holding up his ankle-length red robe and taking great long paces.

  Just before the bridge over the Aposa they saw two groups of richly dressed people approaching each other at a solemn pace. Gerardo realised that it was a nuptial procession. The bride came from the left, on horseback, surrounded by her family and followed by a cohort of wedding guests. The groom was approaching from the right, on foot, with a falcon on his wrist, also encircled by friends and family. They were probably getting married in St Peter’s Cathedral and had decided to meet on the road to the Mercato di Mezzo to walk the rest of the way together. Gerardo noticed that the bride was a beautiful blonde, dressed in white and gold with an embroidered veil that rippled in the breeze. The decorations to the horse’s harness took up the same theme as her gown.

  He saw their expressions change from surprise to alarm. The groom let go of the falcon, which sailed rapidly up into the blue sky, and pulled out his ornamental sword. Then all the men in the cortège followed suit. Mondino dashed off to the right and Gerardo followed him. However, behind them the mob threw themselves on to the swords without hesitating, perhaps trusting in their numbers, perhaps simply out of a suicidal mania. The two packs bumped into each other head on with shouts and cLanging of metal, a sign that many of their pursuers were armed, despite the law. Gerardo hoped that the bride would manage to turn the horse in time and get away at a gallop.

  Not even in the panic of the chase had Mondino forgotten where they were heading, and twice he tried to take a turning towards Santo Stefano, but both times the masses armed with clubs barred their way. They were latecomers converging on the main piazza so as not to miss out on the spectacle. Mondino might have been able to trick them, but preferred not to take the risk. In the end they were pushed south, towards the Church of San Domenico, the last place that Gerardo wanted to find himself. Just the memory of Uberto da Rimini’s shining face and wily expression brought a knot to his stomach.

  All of a sudden Mondino stopped and turned to him, puffing and pressing a hand to his side.

  ‘Are they still following us?’

  Gerardo nodded, too breathless to speak. Their pursuers were fewer in number now, because the majority were still busy in the skirmish with the nuptial cortège, but the shouting was coming closer. There must be at least six or seven people: too many for two unarmed men to take on.

  The streets were now full of other bands of men, yelling and armed with clubs. It seemed as though the mob had divided and instead of staying put in the piazza had begun to look for opportunities to let off steam around the city. Every so often the neighbouring streets rang with the noises of a fight or insults flung at some noble who had dared to lean out of his window. Now and again there were cries of ‘Bread! Bread!’ All the doors were bolted.

  Gerardo and Mondino reached a high city wall with no way through. They certainly couldn’t stop there. Worn out from running, they still hurried on, until they got to San Domenico’s Basilica. They darted into a shadowy lane between two rows of houses and finally stopped to get their breath back. Just then Gerardo saw a strange procession emerging from the church courtyard. Two broad-framed Dominican monks, in white habits and black cloaks, walked along shaking incense burners. They were followed by another monk carrying a gold cross, and behind them came the Archbishop, in full vestment with all the paraphernalia: mitre, white dalmatica with red stripes back and front and a silver-plated staff. Bringing up the rear he saw the bald head of Uberto da Rimini, hoodless and looking disdainful as ever.

  Gerardo wondered where they were going and if they knew the danger they were in. The ecclesiastics were feared and respected, but they were unpopular among the people just then, and at times of public disorder such as this the best thing for them was to be safely shut up in their churches and monasteries. He would have run the risk of telling them as much, if it weren’t for the presence of the Inquisitor. Uberto da Rimini didn’t know about the new developments in his situation and might react in a rash manner on seeing him free. Beside him, Mondino was also looking in amazement at the posse of priests striding towards disaster.

  Perhaps he should have warned them anyway, but now there was no time. A bevy of marauders rushed out of a side street, shouting and hitting the doors of the houses with their clubs. As soon as they saw the priests they paused, intimidated by the sight of an archbishop in full pomp. But it sufficed for one of them to pick up a stone from the ground and fling it with a cry, for them all to descend on the religious group with their clubs raised.

  A furious riot broke out. The two thurifers in the front line began to wield their incense burners like iron clubs, dispensing smoke and sparks around them. One managed to catch one of the aggressors on the head, sending him crashing down to lie in a heap. A piece of burning coal landed in the collar of another and he dropped his stick, shouting and jumping around to get rid of the embers. But these episodes only served to enrage the others all the more and they began to fall on the priests in a close-knit pack. The Archbishop and the Inquisitor were standing stock still as though the scene had nothing to do with them. Then one of the thurifers was hit on the head with a club and three men leaped on the Archbishop; they were now too angry to be intimidated by his sacred regalia.

  A chorus of women wailing could be heard behind the closed windows of the neighbouring houses. Gerardo, who until then had merely been watching, found himself running forward without knowing he was doing it, and heedless of Mondino’s shout to come back. He would happily have left Uberto da Rimini to look after himself, but he could not stand by and watch while the crowd ravaged an archbishop of the Church of Rome, above all one with the reputation for fairness of Rinaldo da Concorezzo. The image that stuck in his mind, as he raced out of his hiding place in the alleyway and threw himself into the mêlée, was the ecstatic expression on the Inquisitor’s face. The man seemed to be contempLating the scene as though witnessing a miracle, not a horrific spectacle of violence. Gerardo saw two men lift their clubs to cosh the Archbishop and Uberto doing nothing whatever to defend him. On the contrary, Uberto was watching with an expression of sublime joy and at a certain point seemed even to have nudged him forward into the fray. Rinaldo da Concorezzo bent double beneath the attack, lost his mitre and fell to his knees.

  The two rioters exchanged a look, in all likelihood stunned by the enormity of their actions, and
in that moment Gerardo thundered in, dispensing kicks, and thumps with his good hand, to push the men away from the prelate. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Mondino, who had followed him, pick up a stick that had been dropped and begin to swing it at arms length to keep them at bay.

  Gerardo helped the Archbishop get back to his feet, but just then Uberto da Rimini hurled himself at the templar and clamped his hands around his throat. Gerardo saw a murderous intent in the dark gimlet eyes that terrified him. But the Inquisitor was smaller than him and not as strong; nor was he trained to fight. Two swift punches to the face were enough to knock him to the ground, where he lay with a stupefied expression on his face. At that moment they were joined by a swarm of monks from the monastery, unarmed but ready to use their fists. People started coming out of the surrounding houses as well, and yet the aggressors gave no sign of retreating. More rabble-rousers, attracted by the sounds of a fight, began to assail the monks from behind with a shower of stones. They were mainly men and women farmers, barefoot and dressed in sackcloth clothes with chausses wound around their calves and ankles.

  ‘Let’s go, they don’t need us any more,’ said Mondino, coming up beside him.

  Gerardo realised that the physician was right. The fight continued, but the monks and the people who’d come out to help them were getting the upper hand. It was not the moment to waste time and risk having to give explanations that might not be believed.

  The templar felt his bad arm being grabbed, causing him a wave of intense pain, while the peevish voice of the Inquisitor bawled as loud as possible: ‘Here’s the sorcerer! Here’s the murderer!’ holding on to him with a strength that was difficult to credit in such a small pair of hands. Gerardo turned quickly round, elbowing him full in the face. Mondino, with noteworthy readiness, followed the blow with a stroke of his club to Uberto’s bald head, laying the man flat out on the ground. ‘Run!’ he shouted, looking around for an escape route. Fortunately the Inquisitor’s shout had been lost in the general hubbub and no one took any notice of them. On impulse, Gerardo knelt down by the Archbishop and kissed his ring. ‘We are innocent, monsignor,’ he said. ‘The Podestà has set us free. Please tell the Inquisitor, when he comes round.’