The Kingdom of Light

by Giulio Leoni

  Dante’s face lit up with interest. ‘And its purpose?’

  ‘A chain of whirling rotations. Gradually accelerated by the reduced diameter of the wheels.’

  The two men stared each other in the eye, sure that the same idea was passing through their minds.

  The poet was the first to break the silence. ‘Just as in the universe the moon’s heaven orbits more quickly than that of Saturn, the most remote before one reaches the realm of God. But why?’

  ‘That’s what I don’t understand. If its purpose were sure-footedly to measure the passing of time, if it were put in motion it would keep a non-human time, closer to a fly’s wing-beat than to the beat of a human heart. As if someone had wished to construct a time-keeper to mark the day of people who were not of this earth …’

  ‘Perhaps al-Jazari built a clock for the angels?’

  ‘Or for the demons. And besides, there’s this detail, here – it’s the sign of a genius … If I have understood correctly, here the maker’s mind really has penetrated the mind of God,’ the old man went on, his eyes burning with admiration.

  ‘What’s so extraordinary about it?’ Dante asked, perplexed. He had seen that hungry, shady expression before. Men who had gone to the pyre because of their hankering to overcome the limits that God has imposed upon reason not illuminated by grace.

  ‘You see this lever and the two lead spheres on the ends of the two little moving arches?’

  Dante narrowed his eyes to peer at the tiny detail, then looked quizzically back at the maestro.

  ‘It regulates the speed of rotation – so simple, but really the offspring of the illumination that only God can give. The solution to an enormous problem. Don’t you understand? Our science too is capable of building a spinning mechanism, driven by the energy accumulated in a curved arc of steel, or supplied by a descending weight. But no one has ever found a way of rendering constant the motion that derives from it, as this machine has done.’

  The mechanicus went on studying the device admiringly. ‘And look here,’ he continued, pointing at the hole in a strip of bronze on the side of the contraption. A skilful hand had carved around the aperture the stylised design of a human eye. He glanced quizzically at the poet, as if waiting for an explanation from him.

  Dante approached to see better. The circular hole corresponded precisely to the pupil of the carved figure. ‘An invitation to look through the hole?’ he guessed uncertainly.

  On the other side of the aperture there was a bronze frame, pivoted in such a way as to be set at a variable angle. He assessed its dimensions, as a bizarre idea came into his mind. It could hold one of the mirrors in the Virgin trick. He leaned the other way: in front of the other hole there was an identical frame. Confused, he bit his lower lip.

  Meanwhile the mechanicus had started talking again. ‘I thought so too. It could be an unusual model of an astrolabe, and this would be the hole to look at the stars through. But it doesn’t make sense. There is in fact a symmetrical hole, on the other side of the machine. But if you look through it, your vision is obstructed by the rotating blades. It makes no sense,’ he repeated, shaking his head once more.

  ‘Unless its purpose is to invite people to observe its parts in motion,’ the prior remarked.

  Alberto bent over the table with his head in his hands. ‘Al-Jazari had gone mad. Perhaps the purpose of the machine is merely to celebrate his mastery. A monument to blind pride.’

  ‘An admirable game, but one without purpose. Do you think so many men would have died for that?’ The old man looked up at him, disturbed, but before he could comment Dante interrupted him. ‘Try to penetrate his secret, Maestro Alberto. You have no idea how important it is.’

  ‘Give me some more time, Prior.’

  ‘Time is the material least available to us,’ Dante murmured. The mechanicus had leaned over his bench again, with his hands inside the device. Dante looked round.

  Hamid stood silently in a corner. He was sunk in prayer, bent over on his little rug. The poet sat down on a chest beside the workbench and watched carefully, his hands twined together under his chin.

  He knew it was the custom of Moors to pray towards Mecca, but seeing Hamid prostrate against a wall, immersed in an incomprehensible litany, inspired hilarity in him rather than religious piety.

  The slave must have heard his laughter, because he broke off and stared angrily at him.

  ‘Tell me of your paradise, pagan. What is written in the book?’ Dante asked him. ‘And forgive me for interrupting your conversation with your god.’

  He knew he had offended Hamid. But why? he wondered, shaking off that sentiment. The conversation he had interrupted was, after all, merely a dialogue with the void.

  ‘Across the seven skies, the Prophet reached the house of God the powerful and merciful on the wings of Buraq, the magic flying horse. Up there He revealed the secrets of all things.’

  ‘And what might those secrets be?’

  ‘God put a seal upon the Prophet’s lips so that nothing would be revealed.’

  ‘Of course! Because he saw nothing. Why should God receive a heretic and converse with him, explaining his intentions to him like the lord of a castle to his bailiff? Flight through the air one might concede, but only as an expiation and a warning to the whole of humanity.’

  ‘Mohammed is the noblest of men, the first and last of the prophets. Who is more worthy than he to visit the higher realms and bear witness to them?’

  ‘God could summon to himself the worst of sinners, just because he had granted him the gift of a higher faculty of the rational mind. A man whose fabric was illuminated by a spark of the supernal light.’

  ‘A man like you, Messer Alighieri?’

  Dante shrugged impatiently. ‘So your paradise extends beyond the crystal vaults of the heavens. And what is it like?’

  ‘By the stairs that appeared to him, the Prophet – may God’s glory be upon him – first ascended through the seven heavens of the seven planets. In the precise order in which the wise astronomers of Baghdad arranged them, with their marvellous vision. Crossing deserts of darkness and light. And the fiery lake of sin.’

  Dante shook his head. ‘In the order in which the wise men of Greece arranged them, you mean. Aristotle and the great Ptolemy. Those lakes of fire and darkness of which you speak are not the pillars of the world, but something that our eyes might see even if our mind were crushed by the sight of them. God is far from us, and not even your Avicenna could count the paces that separate us from Him.’

  The Arab did not reply. Dante’s thoughts had slipped once more to the series of crimes. He thought once again of the face of Fabio dal Pozzo, the mathematician. Not even a mathematician could have counted out those paces. So why did it take one to bring that obscure project to its conclusion?

  A sudden anxiety had taken hold of him. He hurried out of the door.

  He strode down the long street to the inn, as quickly as his strength permitted. As he did so he cursed himself for his short-sightedness. Seized by emotion over what he had seen at the Stinche, he had ordered the man to be freed. It had been a decision that had been dictated not by reason, but only by his sense of guilt at having been the indirect cause of the man’s torture. By freeing him Dante had obeyed the desire to erase from his memory that bloody face, those dislocated joints.

  But perhaps he still had time to stop him. The mathematician would probably wait until he had recovered a minimum of strength before heading north.

  He went on walking until he reached his goal. The ground-floor hall was empty, and he didn’t meet anyone on the stairs, either. He climbed to the first floor, where Fabio dal Pozzo had his cell. Without knocking he lifted the latch and walked in.

  It took him only a quick glance to ascertain that the room was completely empty. There were papers on the desk, with geometrical figures and numbers traced on them. He touched his fingertips to the traces of ink, which were still damp. The mathematician must have left the room
only a few moments before.

  He quickly read the pages that seemed to have been written last: they contained scattered observations, notes on the declination of Venus. In one corner he saw a reddish smudge, as if the paper had been touched with blood-drenched hands. Dante instinctively looked up towards the ceiling. Vespers had just rung, the best time to study the evening star in all its splendour. Perhaps Fabio had gone out on to the roof of the tower to complete his observations. Deep inside he felt an admiration for a man who could not ignore his mind’s passions even in a state of terrible pain.

  He left the room and climbed the stairs towards the top of the building. At the end of the stairs a closed trapdoor led out on to the roof. He lifted it and poked his head through the opening.

  He felt a great sense of disappointment as he saw that the place was deserted. He lowered the trapdoor, but at that moment his attention was attracted by cries from below. Something dramatic seemed to have happened. He dashed back down again.

  The cries came from the other side of the ancient Roman walls, beyond which the countryside began. He passed through an arch to the other side of the wall, reaching a group of people bent over something at the base of the tower.

  The mathematician’s body lay shattered on the stones, amidst a pool of blood.

  The onlookers included the innkeeper, who recognised him. ‘A terrible business, Prior!’

  Dante shooed everyone away from the body and walked over for a closer look. The skull and limbs showed clear signs of the brutal impact against the stone. He looked up towards the distant top of the tower. Fabio must have fallen from the summit, perhaps while intent on his observations.

  But when had it happened? The body was still warm, and yet he had not heard the thud of the body, or a cry. Nothing.

  ‘How did you become aware of what had happened?’ he asked the little crowd around him. They all shrugged and looked at their neighbours.

  Then a boy stepped timidly forward. ‘I found him,’ he stammered. ‘I was coming to take the wine order …’

  ‘Did anyone see him fall?’

  A new expression of puzzlement floated amongst the dull-witted faces of the bystanders. Dante leaned over the corpse once more, studying the twisted limbs. He turned it delicately over: on its chest, level with the heart, two scarlet-rimmed wounds were clearly visible. One of the two blows must have killed him straight away and, since he had not cried out, this meant it had been the first to be inflicted. The second blow could have been motivated only by the murderer’s ferocity. The victim must have known him, since his killer had been able to launch a surprise attack without provoking any kind of reaction.

  The innkeeper had come over, trembling.

  ‘Who was in the inn?’ the prior asked him, rising to his feet.

  Before the innkeeper had a chance to reply Dante had quickly turned towards the door to the tower. The hall was still deserted. He climbed the stairs once more, this time checking each of the cubicles. They were all empty.

  The innkeeper had followed his movements. ‘I’m not absolutely sure, but I don’t think there was anyone with the merchant,’ he replied. ‘Or at least that’s how it seemed to me … We could ask the staff …’

  Dante gestured to him be quiet. It was pointless now. He thought he had worked out what had happened.

  The murderer had approached Fabio at the top of the tower and killed him, before throwing his body down below. Then he had climbed the stairs again, taking refuge in one of the cubicles when he had heard the poet coming up. Finally he had made off during the confusion that followed the discovery of the body, taking advantage of the fact that the door to the inn could not be seen from the spot where Fabio’s body had fallen. It would have taken nerves of steel not to give himself away. That and a lot of good fortune.

  If only he had arrived a moment before, the prior told himself reproachfully, perhaps all this havoc could have been avoided. Good fortune seemed to have vanished from his horizon, he thought bitterly.

  The corpses on that mysterious ship, experts in mechanics. And Guido Bigarelli, the accursed sculptor, Frederick II’s architect. And Rigo the carpenter. And now Fabio, a mathematician. These men must be connected in some way.

  Meanwhile he heard a heavy footstep on the stairs. He stepped out on to the landing, to find the massive bulk of Jacques Monerre coming up.

  The poet blocked his path. ‘I imagine you know what happened.’

  The Frenchman nodded. ‘I saw the body,’ he replied brusquely. ‘An accident?’

  Dante said nothing, and only studied Monerre’s reactions very carefully. But the man remained impassive, waiting for a reply. ‘No,’ he said at last. ‘A killer’s hand put an end to his life.’

  Monerre gave a start, glancing rapidly around as if afraid the murderer might be hidden somewhere. Then he stared at Dante again with his one good eye. ‘Do you know who it was?’

  ‘No, no more than I know who killed the others.’

  ‘Do you think there’s a link between the crimes?’

  Dante nodded. There was no point discussing the topic with someone who might be the culprit. ‘I need you to tell me something,’ he said, changing the subject. ‘You said you came from Toulouse.’

  The other man silently concurred with a nod of his head.

  ‘And in that city did you ever bump into the monk Brandano, the man of God who is preparing to lead a new and glorious crusade?’

  Monerre had been listening without any show of emotion, but the scar on his face seemed yet more vivid against his suddenly pale skin. Nonetheless, when he replied he was perfectly calm. ‘No, I don’t really think so. Toulouse is a vast city, full of traffic and pilgrims passing through before crossing the Pyrenees on the way to Santiago de Compostela. It isn’t possible to know them all, even for someone like myself who leads a relatively outgoing life. But a face like the monk’s would be hard to forget.’

  Dante nodded, then disappeared into his thoughts.

  It was Monerre who broke the silence. ‘But why did you ask me that? What does my far-off city have to do with Brandano?’

  ‘Apparently nothing. And yet there’s someone who swears he saw him in those places. So I hoped you might be able to confirm this information.’

  ‘Is it of any importance?’

  ‘Toulouse isn’t a city like any other. It’s a place of great culture and wealth, but also the centre of all major heresies, and the source of constant disturbances on French soil. If the monk really does come from there, and the matter is known to the Inquisition, we may expect that sooner or later they will intervene to stop this dubious adventure.’

  The poet stopped, studying the Frenchman’s reactions, to work out whether he knew about the hoax. Or whether indeed he was a secret accomplice.

  Monerre stared at him. ‘What do you think of the miracle we all witnessed, Messer Alighieri?’ he asked suddenly, as if he wanted to reveal the trick.

  ‘That’s what I’d like to ask you.’

  The Frenchman seemed to want to take his time. ‘On my travels I have seen things that might have been stranger. I have seen the shades of the jinns, the devils of the pagans, wandering among their red-hot stones. But certainly nothing as weird as that. Only the mythical Phoenix, which is reborn from its own ashes, could match it for unbelievability.’

  ‘If it was real,’ Dante murmured.

  ‘If it was, it would be worthy of inclusion in an emperor’s treasury.’

  ‘A treasury like Frederick’s?’

  Monerre gave a start. ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘Because it is rumoured that the Emperor’s treasure was hidden in Toulouse, transported there by his devoted followers after his death, to hide it from the aggression of his enemies and the greed of his heirs. If that is true, the extraordinary relic could come from those very treasure-chests.’

  ‘And yet, Messer Alighieri, where I come from people say that Frederick’s treasure was hidden somewhere else,’ Monerre replied, glancing at him
enigmatically. ‘And it is even suggested that it might be here in Florence. And that this is the true meaning of the “sub flore” prophecy that has always been part of Frederick’s legend.’

  ‘And where might it be hidden?’

  ‘Better than that, what is Frederick’s treasure? Is there anyone who can answer that question?’

  6

  Morning of 11th August

  AS SOON as he left the priory, Dante bumped into a group of local guards. Recognising him, the men came towards him excitedly.

  ‘Prior, we find you at last. A terrible accident has happened, down at the Carraia. A drowned man. We are going to recover the body,’ said one of them, making the sign of the cross.

  The poet too felt the instinct to cross himself. Death by water was always a harbinger of misfortune in the popular consciousness. And perhaps there was something in that belief, because earth is the place where the body is supposed to find its eternal repose. There is something unnatural about a burial at sea.

  But why should the highest authority of the Commune have to take an interest in such an event, however painful it might be? Drownings in the Arno were not rare events, especially in the summer when many people tested its treacherous beds, trusting in the shallowness of the water.

  He was about to tell them to approach someone else when a strange presentiment ran through his mind. He immediately changed his decision. ‘Take me there,’ he called out, following the men.

  They moved along the bank of the Arno below the Ponte Vecchio, clambering over the row of water-mills. At that moment the current of the river, almost running dry in the summer shallows, was flowing slowly, often swirling in wide eddies.

  On the gravel bed, near the first pillar of the Ponte alla Carraia, a small crowd had formed, all gazing at something and chattering excitedly. Once he had reached the spot, the poet realised the reason for such agitation: stuck in the poles of the last mill he saw a human body, still emerging from the water with each turn of the wheel, like some macabre river god revealing himself in all his dramatic fragility at the top of the circle, drenched with sparkling water, then plunging back into the river once more, immersing itself in its liquid tomb.