by Giulio Leoni
The prior saw Arrigo clench his fists, as if he had heard something that wounded him. Meanwhile Dante moved, trying not to make a sound. Now the two men were only a few yards away, but still they gave no sign of having noticed his presence. It was he, in fact, who spotted the shadow of a third man arriving from the other end of the bridge. He was walking silently, brushing the stones with the hem of his robe. Tall and with a slightly swaying gait, the doctor Marcello had begun to climb the opposite slope, and was rapidly approaching.
The three men met in the middle of the bridge without any apparent surprise, as if they had arranged a secret rendezvous. After a moment Dante joined the group. He remembered the cardinal’s furious words: perhaps the four horsemen of the Apocalypse really had come to Florence.
The men exchanged a silent glance, before Monerre spoke.
‘Curious that we should meet in the middle of a bridge, the place where the ancients imagined that the twists of fate occurred.’
‘Perhaps because it’s on bridges that fate finds it simplest to accomplish its plans, where the path narrows and escape is more difficult,’ Marcello suggested.
‘And where they say the devil lies in wait for wayfarers to deceive them with his tricks,’ Dante murmured, with a sense that there was something strange about this encounter.
‘But of course none of us is here to play such a malignant role, Messer Alighieri,’ Monerre broke in kindly.
The poet was about to reply, but stayed silent. The other man had resumed staring at the top of the parapet. From where he was now standing Dante could see what it was that had first attracted their attention: a fragment of Roman statue set into the wall. A bearded face with monstrous features like the demons carved into cathedral gutters: two opposing faces profoundly marked by time and neglect.
‘You are struck by this Janus head, Monerre?’ asked the poet. ‘A sign of ancient superstition, from the time of the false and lying gods.’
Monerre turned his one eye towards the poet and stared at him. For a moment he seemed about to reply, then turned his attention back to the statue.
‘Our friend seems fascinated by all things double,’ Arrigo observed. ‘Perhaps because his visual capacity was injured by nature, he is filled with a yearning for completeness that only a pair can provide.’
Marcello was still silent, his eyes fixed beyond the parapet, towards the big mill in whose wheel Brandano’s life had ended, just under another bridge. He suddenly stirred, turning towards Dante. ‘But perhaps the malignant nature of a bridge lies in its very form, and not in the people who walk across it. Don’t you agree, Messer Alighieri?’
‘Strange words you speak. They certainly conceal an allegory, but one that my mind cannot grasp.’
‘Perhaps I can help you,’ said Arrigo. ‘If I have understood correctly, I believe Messer Marcello is referring to the purpose of such constructions. And in this sense it is true that they do contain a spark of the ancient arrogance that cast us out of Eden. Because every bridge, by removing a barrier that God has placed in our path, constitutes an insult to his design.’
‘Ah, I understand. A subtle observation. But not one that can be shared, I fear. It presupposes that God’s design is born complete and definitive, and hence not susceptible to any modification on man’s part. But this contradicts the Scriptures, in which it is written that God made man the lord of all creation, to subject everything to his dominion. If he couldn’t subject so much as a course of water, then that supposed dominion would be reduced to very little.’
The old doctor shook his head. ‘But it is written in those same Scriptures: “You must not eat from the tree of knowledge of good and evil”; so, not everything has been subjected to our rule.’
Arrigo burst out laughing. ‘But that tree apart, we would seem to be able to pick the fruit from all the others. And cut them down, if need be, for our fireplaces! In fact, Messer Durante, do you not think there may be more sense in that observation of Heraclitus, to the effect that our days are but the dust of time, lost in the cosmos like the atoms of Lucretius?’
‘I believe there exists an order in things. If the world was put there by chance, what point would there be in reward or punishment after death? And would the Son of God have had to become flesh because of a chance event, and die on the cross only because of a fortuitous aggregation of atoms?’
Marcello gravely nodded his agreement.
But Arrigo calmly returned to the task. ‘But do you not see, in that chance, a trace of cosmic beauty?’
‘Perhaps, Messer Arrigo,’ Marcello replied. ‘But this mass of combinations, however immeasurable it might be, cannot be infinite. In far-away Persia, before Mohammed arrived there with his sword, it was believed that all things lived and were consumed for two hundred and sixty of our centuries, before starting all over again in a cycle of combinations only apparently infinite.’
‘Twenty-six thousand years? But that vast amount of time is merely a blink of God’s eye,’ Dante objected. ‘How could his infinite power repeat the same thing ad infinitum? So however vast it might be, his kingdom periodically returns to zero? And again the six days of Creation, every time, and every time the beginning of light, and his walk in darkness?’
‘Why not, Messer Alighieri?’ replied Marcello. ‘Everything will return to zero and then regain its shape, in a sublime repetition of the same thing all over again. An eternal order will be reconstructed.’
‘That is madness, Messer Marcello!’ exclaimed Arrigo. ‘And these flies that are tormenting us now, will they too re-enter your sublime design? Would they too have to repeat themselves in an infinite cycle? And the mules and donkeys of Florence, and their dung that floods the city?’
‘Of course! And you will experience precisely that!’ cried the old man.
Dante had been listening attentively. ‘So everything will return?’ he said. ‘Even the murder of Guido Bigarelli? Could nothing prevent it, Marcello? Not a scruple, not a change of heart? Your teaching chains us to evil.’
It was Monerre who broke the silence. ‘Perhaps crime too is part of this order. It forms a logical part of a design.’
‘And if the crime is part of a higher, infinite design, what’s the point of trying to solve it?’ Arrigo said slyly.
‘To do justice. To bring earth closer to the Paradise we have lost. To draw to earth a spark of God’s light,’ the poet replied.
‘I wouldn’t want to find myself in that light,’ Monerre said with a note of irony. ‘My one good eye is already repelled by excessive brightness, and better suited to dusk than to the brilliance of the stars.’
Dante didn’t reply and merely stared at them, convinced that their words contained a deeper significance. No, that had not been a chance meeting, as they had tried to suggest. Perhaps his arrival had interrupted a secret agreement. Or the elaboration of a plan. Or the verification of an accord?
And perhaps their dialogue had continued even in his presence, under cover of a philosophical dispute, and the three of them were laughing at him. He was tempted for a moment to reveal his thoughts, and ask the reason for their behaviour. But together they were stronger: if his suspicions had any foundation, under pressure they would have backed each other up, defeating all his efforts to reach the truth. Instead he would have to wait, and catch them in his net one by one.
‘Nothing will stop the punishment of the murderer,’ he exclaimed at last. ‘You will see,’ he added, raising his index finger. He took a step backwards and then turned resolutely around, abandoning the three men without a word.
Behind him he became aware of a guilty silence. Or maybe it was mockery.
At the priory
PANTING, THE Bargello stopped at the top of the stairs to catch his breath. Then he moved firmly towards the prior. ‘There is news, important news. My men have uncovered a secret during a check of the banks in the market.’
While they were extorting money in return for turning a blind eye to all the thieving and trickery that
goes on there in broad daylight, Dante thought. ‘Tell me.’
‘There’s someone in the city. A dangerous Ghibelline. Apparently he’s come from the North, doubtless to make contact with his colleagues and plot harm to our Commune. I’m waiting for them to reveal his whereabouts, and then I will arrest him and all his accomplices. What you saw at the Stinche is nothing, if he ends up in my clutches.’
‘And who might this dangerous demon be?’ the poet asked, folding his arms.
‘A foreigner, from France, apparently. And I have formed an idea of who he might be. I think you might wish to be present at his capture. As soon as …’
Dante firmly raised his hand. ‘What I saw at the Stinche is enough to make me recommend that you be prudent. Florence is a land of freedom, where every man – whether he was born there or arrived from elsewhere – has the right not to be imprisoned without certain proof of guilt. So if you want to throw someone in chains, you will need more than market-place chit-chat.’
The head of the guard had turned purple in the face. ‘But he’s a Ghibelline,’ he protested in a strangled voice.
‘Don’t do anything yet, that’s an order. And keep me informed about everything. I will tell you if and when to act.’
Having said this, Dante turned round and headed for the door, with the Bargello’s gaze piercing his back.
A short time later, at the Nuncio’s palace
THE BARGELLO had practically slipped into the cardinal’s room on his knees. Reaching the great mass of Acquasparta, he bowed his head and greedily kissed his ring as if he wanted to eat it. The cardinal smugly withdrew his hand, then sketched a swift blessing on the man’s forehead.
‘You urgently wanted to speak to me. So, what can I do for you?’
The Bargello bowed again, then cleared his throat. ‘I need some advice, your Eminence, on how to perform my office so that my deeds are always welcomed by the Church.’
The senior prelate gave a faint nod of agreement.
‘My men have identified a head of the Ghibellines hidden in Florence. But it would appear that the Commune authorities are not so diligent in putting him out of harm’s way. I have been ordered to wait, when with a very small investigation I could discover his hiding place. Please give me your advice.’
‘Dante Alighieri,’ the cardinal hissed, narrowing his eyelids to slits.
The Bargello nodded.
‘Pope Boniface’s love for the cities that are loyal to him prevents me from interfering in internal matters of yours,’ Acquasparta explained, ‘so I can hardly advise you to ignore an order from the Florentine authorities. Even if that order might conceal the head of a poisonous snake. Even if that order might fly in the face of all foresight and prudence, and even if no one could reproach you for doing the very opposite.’
‘But, your Eminence … I would need the endorsement of other priors at least …’
‘You will have it. And yet you will be able to invoke a state of emergency. It’s impossible to ask a man in danger not to defend himself: nemo ad impossibilia tenetur. And your actions will have our full support.’
The cardinal clapped his hands vigorously. A moment later the grim silhouette of the head of the inquisitors emerged from behind the curtain. Noffo Dei, rather than coming straight towards him, crept along the wall for a while, as if to avoid the direct sunlight that entered through the window. Then, keeping his hands hidden in the sleeves of his black and white habit, he bowed before Boniface’s representative.
‘This fine man has come to reassure us of his devotion. He seems to have found the key to the plot that has been causing us such grave concern. Help him by giving him information about the other strands of the problem. Who knows, he might be able to untangle it.’
Noffo bowed, and gestured to the Bargello to follow him.
‘Listen well to what he has to tell you,’ the cardinal ordered, as the head of the guards walked backwards from the room.
After curfew
‘WHY SO much interest in the statue of Janus?’
The rooms at the Angel Inn looked deserted. Dante asked Manetto for news of the Frenchman, Monerre. He had spent the whole afternoon mulling over what he had heard on the bridge. Something had sparked a doubt in his mind. And now he was cursing himself for not having gone into the matter, rather than irritably walking away from the challenge like a stupid peasant.
‘He isn’t here any more,’ the innkeeper replied. ‘He seems to have moved to another inn,’ he added in an offended tone.
Dante pinched his lip with his fingers, as he always did. ‘He didn’t leave a message of any kind?’
‘No. Perhaps my humble lodgings aren’t fit for sophisticated foreigners, and I’m not worthy of their trust. He left in the company of two strangers.’
‘Foreigners?’
‘They didn’t speak. But I would swear to it.’
Dante took his leave of the innkeeper. What was he going to do now? He was worried. He instinctively sensed that Monerre was the one most deeply involved in the plot, with his mysterious ways and the affected politeness of a transalpine gentleman. If he really had disappeared, his crimes too would remain swathed in darkness for ever.
Walking slowly, he had turned into an alleyway behind Santa Maria Maggiore, keeping his eyes fixed on the ground. His attention was attracted by a double shadow in front of him. A little way off, two men were walking side by side.
They were foreigners, judging by their clothes, but there was something familiar about them. His curiosity fired, Dante began to follow them. Meanwhile he desperately scoured his memory for an explanation of that sense of familiarity.
Suddenly he remembered. They were two of the men who had sat apart from everyone else in Ceccherino’s tavern, apparently uninvolved in the climate of perversion that prevailed there.
He quickened his pace, coming up behind them as they drew near the ancient Roman well.
‘Greetings, gentlemen,’ he said, blocking their way.
The two men stopped with a look of surprise. ‘Do we know each other?’ the taller man asked after a moment of embarrassment.
‘I don’t think I’ve ever seen you before,’ said the other, glancing quickly around as if to check that the poet was alone.
‘Don’t worry, there’s no one else with me. But I have a request to ask of you.’
The foreigners stared at him in silence, maintaining a cautious attitude.
‘We have a friend in common, I’m sure of it. And perhaps more than one. I’m referring to Messer Monerre.’
The two men remained silent, impassive, as if that name meant nothing to them.
‘I’m sure you know who I’m talking about. Tell him I need to meet him and that I will wait for him behind the Baptistery choir tomorrow night an hour after compline.’
The two men did not reply. Still staring impassively at him, they nodded curtly and went on their way, disappearing at a turn in the road.
The prior watched them until the last moment. He was thinking about how easy it would be to disappear from sight in his city, as if the walls of the houses had been built in tribute to some diabolical design and the streets were really filled with those jinns that Monerre said he had met in the East.
At the priory, night of 12th August
HE WAS in a terrible state of anxiety. A sense of moral derangement, of torpid sensuality, stirred within him. He was being pursued by Amara’s elusive face, almost featureless, like the surface of a far-off moon.
He paced up and down in his cell, mentally caressing the body of the woman whose splendid figure he had glimpsed on the cart, feeling a tension that refused to assume the form of words, even though he had tried several times to turn it into poetry. He thumped his desk. The violent pain in his fingers brought him back to reality for a moment, driving away those erotic fantasies.
He was ashamed of that instinct. But why? The feeling of love is a proof of noble sentiments, and only a heart rendered superior by learning and virtue is capable
of feeling its pangs, of turning a vile sickness of the body into a state of ecstasy … and he had to leave her in the hands of that rogue Cecco Angiolieri, with his filthy innuendos.
Perhaps at that very moment Cecco’s hands were running over her body, taking advantage of the darkness and the fact that they were alone. Did he have to consent to a girl in his city being exposed even to rape, perhaps, with no one to apply the rules of common courtesy on her behalf?
All of a sudden he closed the wax tablets and jumped to his feet.
THE CITY streets were deserted. Dante was very familiar with the route of the night patrol, which was mapped out with the sole purpose of protecting the houses of important families. He had no difficulty in avoiding their measured pace when he spotted them in the distance.
Having drawn close to the abbey, he peered into the street ahead of him for the last time to make sure no one was there. Approaching the corner of the building, he thought he heard a metallic sound, followed by the quick, rustling footsteps of someone leaving in a hurry. He waited a few moments, but complete silence had fallen once more.
Only then did he open the little door. Inside, the nave was in total darkness, apart from a faint beam of moonlight that caught the tops of the windows. He reached the door of the sacristy and walked in.
The first room was empty. He quickly climbed the stairs to the corridor with the old cells along it. Here, too, contrary to what he expected, he didn’t encounter a living soul. Cecco and the woman seemed to have disappeared. They might even have fled.
A confused emotion took hold of him. He was reassured by the idea that they might be far away. It meant that the plan to defraud Florence had now been abandoned. The burden that weighed upon his conscience over his failure to reveal the plot grew lighter. But his hopes of exposing the murderer were fading, too. Now that Brandano was dead and his accomplice had vanished, another thread in that mesh of clues and shadows had been severed.