by Giulio Leoni
‘And yet Mainardino da Imola had no doubts. He was sure that the Emperor had been poisoned by someone very close to him, someone the sovereign trusted.’
‘His doctor, I know, that too has been said.’
‘A doctor did effectively make an attempt on his life, after the battle of Parma. But he was discovered. No, it was someone else. Mainardino was certain that he could prove it, if only …’
‘If only?’
‘He had managed to understand how the poison had been administered. Frederick had grown suspicious, and he never consumed anything without first having it tried by his tasters. And yet somehow he was poisoned.’
‘Did Mainardino never tell you the murderer’s name?’
‘No. But he hated him with all his strength. Not only had that man killed a sovereign, but he had also stubbed out any hope of the emergence of a just order of things.’
Dante leaned towards him. ‘How can you be so sure? I too have heard many rumours, but no more, no different from those that always accompany a great man’s death.’
‘It was Mainardino who told me in person, on his deathbed. And he told me he had never had any doubts about who it was that poured the poison. He disdainfully called him “the incomplete man”.’
‘The incomplete man? What did that mean?’
‘Perhaps it referred to a physical imperfection. Or a moral defect, a vulnus in his conscience.’
‘And why wasn’t the man brought to justice, if his identity was known?’
‘That’s what I asked my teacher. He told me that his suspicions had run up against an insurmountable barrier: he hadn’t been able to work out how the poisoning could have been accomplished. Certus quis, quomodo incertus, he wrote. Certain the murder, uncertain the method. Frederick, already ill, had been put on a diet of nothing but fruit. And he drank nothing but watered-down Pugliese wine – all, as I have said, after having everything tried by his tasters, men of his Saracen guard, extremely loyal men. And yet someone managed to pour acqua tofana into his cup without their noticing, and without their suffering any harm.’
Bernardo broke off. Dante thought he saw a tear shining in his myopic eye.
‘Then, when the Emperor was already in his final convulsions, and his reign was coming to an end, in the agitation of those hours, and as rivalries and hatreds flared up, Mainardino decided to put off the accusation for a while.’
‘And where did that cup end up?’
‘I don’t know. It disappeared in the confusion that followed the Emperor’s death. Mainardino was sure that the murderer had taken it away, to hide the proof, fearing that one day it might be the very thing that revealed the how, the certainty of the who.’
Throughout the morning
YET THERE was another clue enigmatically linked to the crime. The prior quickly made for Santa Croce, and the workshop of Alberto the Lombard.
In his laboratory on the first floor he found the mechanicus still at work on the contraption that he had discovered on the galley. He immediately noticed with satisfaction that what lay on the bench was no longer a confusion of brass cogs like the innards of some mysterious animal. They must have regained their position inside the machine; but, far from giving them a recognisable appearance, that made them look even more peculiar.
‘You seem to have achieved your goal, Maestro Alberto. Tell me what you have discovered.’
The man turned towards him with a discontented expression. ‘I have succeeded in setting the parts back in their places, according to their logical relations. There is a principle of necessity that governs machines, just as there is without a doubt in nature. But if nature is the child of the unfathomable will of God, the possibilities of machines, which are born of the limited human mind, operate according to a more restricted number of combinations. This enables us to go from the parts to the whole, something that would be impossible with a living body once it had been dismembered. But …’
‘But,’ the poet pressed him anxiously.
‘But even though the machine has been reassembled and is now able to move, I still can’t work out its secret function.’
The instrument consisted of a wooden cube about a foot across, which held the complicated arrangement of wheels. Some lighter parts revealed the damaged areas, which the craftsman had replaced. Over the box, connected by one last toothed wheel to the internal mechanism, lay a long horizontal bronze bar at whose extremities were fixed two balanced semicircles a span in diameter.
‘It makes no sense,’ Alberto decreed.
Young Hamid had approached too, and watched in silence. ‘The will of Allah is also veiled in clouds,’ he murmured.
Dante shrugged. ‘You said it worked. Show me how.’
The other man nodded, then ran his hand behind the contraption. Underneath, at a point unseen by the poet, a crank-shaped lever protruded from the machine. Alberto gripped it and began to turn it, provoking a metallic whirring sound.
‘This crank tenses a steel spiral. Wait.’
He turned the crank a dozen times. Dante had a sense that the resistance of the steel was becoming greater with each turn. At last Alberto seemed satisfied.
On the opposite side from the crank there was a kind of metal butterfly. The mechanicus adjusted it by the fraction of a turn, and something inside went off with a ticking noise. Now the upper bar had begun to turn, progressively accelerating the speed of rotation.
Dante watched with agonised interest. The whir of the two semicircles had become intense, like the wings of a gigantic insect about to rise up from the bench. The machine was vibrating slightly, but the weights of the rotating parts must have been measured with extreme care, because the vibration did not alter the balance of the rotation.
‘Watch carefully now,’ said Alberto, moving the butterfly again. He nudged it another quarter-turn and the rotation of the bar grew even faster.
‘The key acts on the internal brake, making it possible to regulate the speed of rotation.’
Carried along by their whirling motion, the two opposing semicircles formed in the poet’s eye the image of a complete circle of solid brass.
‘But what’s it for?’ Dante asked. After a moment Alberto turned the butterfly slowly back, extinguishing the life of the contraption, which came to rest with one final jerk of its hidden gears.
‘As I said, I don’t know,’ he replied. ‘It doesn’t seem to have any practical use. It just makes those two wing-like objects spin.’
Dante went on studying the object, trying to find a possible answer. ‘It couldn’t be part of a larger apparatus?’
‘I thought of that, too. But it isn’t. The whole chain of the internal gears is perfectly arranged to obtain that one effect, and there is no other opening on the box that would enable it to be connected to any other mechanism. And in turn, the moving external part presents nothing that would encourage us to think that anything is missing. No, everything you brought me is here, in front of your eyes.’
Dante had dropped on to a stool. With his elbows on the bench and his chin in his hands, which were clenched to fists, he went on studying the wooden cube. ‘And yet the existence of a regulator for the rotation would lead us to suspect some kind of moderation,’ he said after a while. ‘But are you sure you rule out the possibility that it might be some kind of time-keeper?’
‘Prior, no human time could be measured by this machine. Perhaps it really is a spherical astrolabe, but one dreamed up for other heavens, and for other worlds.’
Dante nodded, slowly. He looked up once more, then stared at Hamid, in the faint hope that the Arab might have something to add. But the boy remained mute, staring suspiciously at the machine. Behind him the curtain that concealed his bed was half-open. Through the chink the poet’s eye fell on the manuscript of the Mi’raj, open on the humble rug. He sighed. ‘And yet I thank you, Maestro Alberto, for what you have done.’
In a corner there was a chest. With the help of the mechanicus, the poet rested the machine in it. �
��Cover the chest with a sack,’ he said. ‘I’m grateful to you, and soon I will ensure that your work is compensated.’
He hadn’t the slightest idea how he would justify that expense to the Communal clerk, but he would sort it out in some way or other. And he didn’t even have a clear idea what to do with that mysterious contraption. But instinctively he felt he had to take it away with him. Too many people knew it was here.
‘Don’t trouble yourself, Prior. Your city welcomed me when I fled from the persecutions against the Waldensians. See my work as a gift.’
As he was leaving, Dante looked back at the young slave. ‘Help me transport the chest,’ he ordered brusquely, after asking permission from the mechanicus with a nod of his head. Suddenly he had thought of a possible hiding place.
What better refuge than the abbey of the Maddalena? Many things had already been hidden there, both men and objects. If that church was destined to be a receptacle of secrets, he would hide his own there, too.
HE QUICKLY made for the abbey, followed by the Arab with his burden on his shoulders. The machine wasn’t especially heavy, but in the terrible heat the boy was soon drenched in sweat. But he went on following the poet without a word of complaint.
On one side of the street the awning of a workshop cast a shadow on the scorching pavement. Dante nodded to the boy to stop, then sat down on the chest that he had set on the ground.
‘So in your book, God takes care of the just, seated on his throne. And the unworthy?’
‘When he reached the third heaven, the abyss of sins was opened up, and he saw the horrible funnel of the perverted, and the seven steps of their perdition.’
‘Seven? According to their sins?’
‘And punished according to their crime, with a contrary punishment.’
‘A talion. That too you have stolen from Aristotle,’ the poet smiled ironically. ‘And how did your prophet ascend to the heavens?’
‘He was accompanied by the archangel Gabriel,’ the boy replied, wiping his brow with the back of his hand.
Dante considered the reply for a moment, pinching his lower lip with his fingers. ‘And why did he need an archangel to support him? Why couldn’t he have gone there alone?’
Hamid looked at him quizzically. ‘Alone you would burn your wings,’ he replied after a while, shaking his head. ‘Only a celestial spirit can endure the sight of His Terrible Majesty.’
‘Perhaps a celestial spirit will help me, then,’ Dante murmured, leaping up again and setting off on his way.
When they were near the old Forum, about a hundred yards from his destination, the prior stopped, sending Hamid away with a coin. The boy set the chest down, looking round in puzzlement, but said nothing. It was not by chance that Dante had chosen that spot by the market. He was confident that no one would have paid them any attention, even in this gossipy city, if they had seen him in the company of a porter with an anonymous burden.
He waited until the slave had disappeared, then hoisted the chest on to his shoulder and set off towards the abbey.
He had encountered some familiar faces on the way, but he had carried on walking, staring straight ahead, and avoided returning anyone’s greetings. He arrived at the church just as the abbey bell was ringing out for vespers. Having reached the second door, and having checked that no one was observing his movements, he entered with his load.
Inside it was deserted. He took advantage of the fact and quickly opened the trapdoor that gave access to the crypt, and climbed down. Remembering where the oil-lamp had been left, he lit it and set off in search of a hiding place.
There were no hiding places in the room. For a moment he thought of stowing the machine in the underground cleft, but was deterred by fear that the water in the well might somehow rise up all that way.
The image of the Virgin came into his mind. In a corner, deposited on an old Roman sarcophagus, was Bigarelli’s reliquary, which seemed to stare at him with its terrible pietra dura glare. He walked over to it, seized by the desire to observe from close up the fruits of the sculptor’s madness.
Then his attention was drawn by the lid of the sarcophagus. The stone seemed to have been moved, and recently, judging by the traces on the floor. With a huge effort, he managed to open it a crack.
Dante was expecting to glimpse ancient, bony remains. Instead the quivering light reflected on a large number of gleaming steel points.
Someone had hidden a bundle of swords in there. He looked round. There were two other sarcophagi in the crypt. He quickly moved their lids, too, discovering other weapons. There was enough in there to equip a small army. New blades, without the slightest trace of rust.
Dante stopped to think for a moment. Then, moving the weapons a little, he made enough room on the bottom to put the machine inside.
He was about to put the cover back in its place when he noticed a movement on the stairs of the crypt. In the faint light of the lamp he saw Cecco. He was clutching a short sword in his hand.
Seeing Dante, he lowered the weapon. ‘I heard noises. So you came back, eh? I was about to …’
‘Why did you lie to me?’ the poet interrupted, finishing his work.
A comically pained expression appeared on the man’s face. ‘What do you mean?’ he stammered, scratching his prominent belly.
‘The crypt is full of weapons. What are you planning to do with them, if your purpose is only to extort a few florins from the yokels?’
‘I knew about those weapons. But I didn’t know why they were hidden here, I swear!’ He walked over to Dante, throwing his sword aside. ‘The Fedeli organised everything, but I don’t know the overall plan. None of us has been informed. But if Boniface’s men discover it …’ Cecco looked like a corpse. A violent tremor had taken hold of his limbs. His knees bent and he fell to the floor. ‘Then we are finished …’
‘What does the Pope have to do with it?’ Dante replied, immediately alarmed. At that moment the last thing he wanted to face was a clash with Caetani.
The other man bit his lips anxiously and didn’t reply. Then he finally seemed to make up his mind. ‘The Fedeli have something big in mind.’
‘Here in Florence? What?’
Cecco had assumed a circumspect attitude, as if afraid that someone was listening to them. He seemed to have recovered from his initial fear, assuming his usual arrogant expression once more. ‘Money, my friend, money. I’m sure of it. That’s why they got involved in the illusion, what else? A pile of money, something dating back to the days of Frederick, may God’s glory preserve him! So I’ll be able to send my father to hell at last …’
‘What has the Emperor got to do with it, damn your soul?’ Dante cried, exasperated. ‘You all talk about him as if his shadow had returned to walk the earth. But rather than doing so with the reverence due to the dead, you drag him from his sleep to use him as a screen for your intrigues. What is the purpose of all this?’
Cecco shook his head. ‘There are many different parts, like the branches of a great tree. Each of us knows his own task … but only the First one knows everything. I, though, have worked out: the imperial treasure … the friends are on its trail. And then you can safely bet that much of that metal will end up in my pockets, which have great need of it. And in yours, if you will help me. As you did that time at Campaldino …’ he concluded, slapping the poet hard on the shoulder.
Dante irritably removed his hand. ‘Who is the head of the Fedeli now? Is he the First of whom you speak?’
Cecco shook his head. ‘The leader of the Fedeli was for a long time our friend, Guido Cavalcanti. And perhaps he still would be, if he hadn’t been struck by the banishment order to which you put your seal,’ he replied bitterly. ‘But now the leader is someone far higher up. That is all I know for certain.’
Dante put his head in his hands. All the elements of this enigma were spinning around in his mind like crazed moths round a flame.
‘I know they want to avenge the Emperor, I’ve heard that, too.
His death,’ Cecco said.
‘His death?’ the prior echoed.
Bernardo’s words had come back to him. ‘Cecco, do the Fedeli think the Emperor was murdered as well?’
‘That’s what we say to each other. Poison, and possibly by his own physician.’
‘And how might he have done it?’
‘No one knows,’ the other man replied with a shrug. Dante felt a twinge of anger. Once again someone had brought him to the threshold of a revelation and then closed the door in his face.
Late morning
DANTE CROSSED the open space that lay behind San Piero, still lined with the ruins of the Ghibelline houses destroyed in the fury that followed their defeat in 1266. There, incorporating large tracts of the old walls, the future Palazzo della Prioria, with its vast tower, was going up. But for now the offices of the Commune were scattered among the little surrounding buildings, which had been let for the purpose.
The clerk of the Commune was based in one of these, at the beginning of the road to the market, on the first floor. On the floor below, and in the basements, lay the city archives, where deeds, depositions and minutes of the meetings of countless assemblies were bound between ornate boards.
‘Greetings, Messer Duccio,’ said the poet.
The bald man, who had greeted him solicitously, quickly replied with a bow, setting aside the big dossier he was compiling. ‘What can I do for you?’
‘You know everything about this city. The debits and credits. And above all the activities that go on there, who performs them and where.’
The other man half-closed his eyes with a barely perceptible twinge of pleasure, which he then disguised with a little smile. ‘You are too generous in listing my humble qualities. In fact it is the Guilds, with their local registries, that keep precise account of the activities pursued by the affiliates of the various camps. Although it is true that in my office we take general note of everything … to give the tax-man a hand,’ he added with a wink. ‘Those merchants will stop at nothing to avoid paying tolls and taxes.’