Kallis stared into the void. “I heard the sailors who were transporting my glass mention it. They were talking about this lucrative and successful mummy trade, but from Alexandria to Venice, not the other way around.”
“Why would anybody buy mummies in Venice?” Edgardo felt on the brink of a gut feeling, and that frightened him.
“I don’t know. I heard that many thieves would go plunder ancient Egyptian tombs and then purloin them, to sell them at a high price.”
“From Alexandria to Venice,” Edgardo repeated. “In that case, why kill and mummify Costanza if she wasn’t going to be sold in the Orient?”
“Are you saying that Alvise isn’t guilty?” Magdalena murmured.
“Nena only hears what she wants to hear.” Tommaso was fidgeting in the semi-darkness of the bedroom, wrapped in a fur cape. “The execution has merely been suspended. They’re conducting more enquiries.”
“I only want for this business to be over as soon as possible.” Magdalena’s voice was faint and exhausted.
“You mustn’t worry about it anymore, it’s all over. We can begin anew.”
Tommaso sat on the edge of the bed where his wife lay wrapped in fox fur blankets.
“This is the beginning of our new life.” He showed her a small bottle. “The miraculous medicine I told you about. It’s finally arrived.”
It was an oily, cinnabar-colored liquid.
“Are you sure?” Magdalena asked, worried.
“Many women in the Orient have become pregnant after taking this potion, and given birth to strong, valorous sons.”
Magdalena remembered Abella’s words, trying to warn her. “And is there no danger?”
“Trust me. I care about your health above anything else.”
“Even above another son?”
Lowering his head almost as though trying to hide, Tommaso began to rub his eyes. “Above anything else,” he replied, then removed the stopper from the bottle.
A stale, rancid smell wafted out into the air. Magdalena pulled away.
“Drink it,” he commanded.
Her hand shaking like that of an old woman, Magdalena clutched the bottle and lifted it to her mouth. A foreboding of death spread through her chest.
“A new life will be born,” Tommaso said, encouraging her.
She closed her eyes and drank the sticky liquid.
An itchy effervescence burst in her throat, while a sickening taste of festering water remained glued to her tongue and palate; then a flinching, a stirring of her internal organs, as though the body was rejecting this substance.
Magdalena lay down, holding her chest and, gradually, the turmoil subsided. There seemed to be a fidgeting demon in her belly that was tickling her vagina.
Tommaso was undressing to lie down next to her. She knew what awaited her.
He turned her on her front and spread her legs as though tearing two strips from a cloth. “We’ll have a new heir . . . and it will be as though Luca has returned.”
Magdalena closed her eyes tight and clung to oblivion. She felt herself penetrated by a member as hard as granite, resolute, devastating, which shattered the sweet memory of her dead child. She took his blows, praying to God to hear her prayers and make her pregnant.
When, in the end, the sperm carrying humor spread through her belly, she felt as though it mixed with the tincture she’d just drunk, and the image appeared to her of a ram with a siren’s head and a swollen belly staring at her from the top of a mountain. She wondered if it was a good or a bad omen.
XXXII.
AVICENNA
All night, Abella had followed the path of the moon lighting sand banks and fords around Torcellus. A demon had gotten a grip on her mind, tormenting her with doubts and questions that had given rise to a deep sense of guilt in her soul.
She couldn’t remain indifferent to the thrust of questions without answers, even if that meant endangering her own life.
Alvise wasn’t safe yet, and what she’d seen at the mill could throw light on many corners that were still dark in that affair.
She remained in uncertainty until dawn, when she saw a heron take flight in front of the monastery of San Giovanni and cross the horizon, skimming over a glowing lagoon that radiated hope.
She went back into her laboratorium. In her trunk, she kept her most precious memories: a woollen dress that had belonged to her mother, an arrowhead used by her father when he hunted, a wooden wheel carved from a tree trunk, the only toy she’d had as a little girl . . . and the manuscript.
She picked up the volume, untied the ribbon, and opened the first sheet: Avicenna, Liber Canonis Medicinae.
She stroked with her eyes the Carolingian minuscule that made up the page in a magical pattern. She touched the manuscript with her fingers, like a caress.
She’d never left it behind, but taken it with her from Salerno, as she wandered from city to city, like a relic, the cornerstone of knowledge. She was convinced that, sooner or later, God would punish her for her sin: purloining, or rather stealing, such a precious text from the library of the School of Salerno, thus betraying the trust of all those who had welcomed her, taught her, and given her their knowledge. When she’d run away, she’d been unable to resist it. And she still felt guilty about it.
For years, she had admired it, leafed through it, caressed it like a baby in swaddling clothes, her baby.
She placed it delicately on the stone table. Now all she had to do was wait.
Edgardo arrived at the chimes of Terce, as agreed. He felt full of energy and, for the first time, his view of the world shone with light. His mind was crammed with future projects with Kallis and he couldn’t think of a single obstacle that couldn’t be overcome. He even felt on the right path as far as Alvise’s fate was concerned.
He found Abella sitting outside the door, staring into space.
“I heard from a merchant—” Edgardo started without even greeting her.
“What merchant?” Abella interrupted.
The scribe fell silent, unsure whether to reveal at least part of the truth to the companion of his adventures.
“The Alexandrian merchant.”
“So you continue to frequent him?” Abella said, suspicious.
“I met him by chance,” Edgardo lied. “He told me that the trade in mummies is conducted from Alexandria to Venice. It’s here that the goods are picked up, and we need to discover why.”
“Come in, I might have the answer.” Abella’s tone was weary, almost melancholy, like someone about to undergo a difficult trial. She took him into her laboratorium. “Look,” she said.
The manuscript seemed to be floating on the gray stone.
“It’s a rare copy translated in Toledo of the Liber Canonis Medicinae of the great Avicenna. Do you know him?”
“I heard his name mentioned when I was a copyist at Bobbio.”
“Ibn Sinà, known as Avicenna, is the most illustrious Persian physician. This manuscript comprises all his knowledge: the classification of diseases, causes, remedies, anatomical studies, new medicines. Everything a scholar of medicine must know.” Abella paused and bit her lip, betraying uncontrolled tension. “I have reason to believe that we’ll find the answer to our questions in this manuscript.”
She was confused, unsure. Edgardo couldn’t understand the reason for this hesitation.
“In the embalmer’s mill I noticed tools I know well, because they’re used in the laboratoria of physicians and apothecaries . . . ”
“So tell me, what did you find in the manuscript?”
“Let me drink a bowl of water first.”
Abella went to the jug. She was exhausted. She was about to place her life in the hands of this illogical scribe: why? Why face such a grave danger? Why sacrifice her whole tormented existence for the sake of sincerity? To save young Alvise?
That wasn’t true, and she knew it. It was for Edgardo. She wanted to submit her pure soul to his judgement . . . what an absurd feeling she had for this frail, limping creature with a confused mind. She didn’t want to give what she felt a name, or perhaps it would be more accurate to say that she couldn’t find a name for what she had never felt before. Was it perhaps that feeling some call love?
She took a sip of water, and that perked her up. “Alright, now I can explain but, before that, let me add a few words to what I’m about to say.” She was ready to open up her soul and disclose all her feelings. “I’ve decided to be totally honest with you. After all, we’ve been walking side by side for many days now, so the time for subterfuge and lies is over, don’t you think?”
It was like a knife through his heart. Edgardo didn’t expect to hear that, not from Abella.
He’d always considered her a strong, decisive, learned woman and, throughout all their adventures, he’d always neglected to notice her moods, to appreciate her generous thoughts, her words of affection. He had stuck to appearances and felt like a nonentity, a man without principles, because he had not been totally honest with her.
“Wait. Before you bare your soul, it is I who must beg your humble pardon. I was the first to deceive you. I don’t want there to be any shadow to darken the transparency of our friendship.
“I must confess a secret: the Alexandrian merchant we’ve just met isn’t called Ibrahim al-Fazari, he has another identity. It’s a woman called Kallis. She disappeared from Venice over ten years ago and I thought she was dead . . . and now she has returned, she lives in Alexandria. She was a slave when I met her, and we were deeply in love. It’s for her that I left the habit and the monastery . . . Now she’s here and I don’t want to lose her again. I’ve bared my soul to you, and I beg you to keep this a secret.”
While pouring out the feelings oppressing his chest, Edgardo didn’t notice the deep transformation in Abella’s face: her rosy cheeks had turned to an icy pallor, her eyes swelled with tears, and her mouth tightened to repress a suffering grimace. Edgardo noticed nothing, and Abella somehow managed to conceal her burst of anger, disappointment, and torment. She said nothing.
“So, what did you want to confess?” Edgardo said.
“Nothing, nothing of importance,” the Magister replied in a thin voice.
“You were saying that we would perhaps find the answer we are looking for in Avicenna’s manuscript.”
“Maybe.” Abella pointed at it. “Look for yourself.”
“There are many sheets. Where should I look?”
“Look in the book that deals with medicines.”
Edgardo leafed through the parchment. “Why waste more time? Tell me yourself,” he added, irked.
“I want you to realize for yourself.”
Only then did Edgardo notice the tension that had altered Abella’s face. “I don’t see why you insist. I trust what you say.” He stopped, and a thought flashed through him that made him give a start. Then he continued. “As you wish, I’ll look through the manuscript.” He began searching his tunic pocket. “I need my instrument. Without the circles, I’m wretchedly blind.” He rummaged in his inside pocket, then in the breeches one. “I don’t understand, I always carry them with me.” He looked at Abella, bewildered. “I fear I may have left them in my room, in the palazzo. I hope I haven’t lost them. There are no other circles in Venice.”
A layer of sweat had appeared on Abella’s forehead, which made her face look even more ghostly.
“I’m afraid you’ll have to lend me your eyes.” The scribe pushed the manuscript toward her. “Tell me what it says in the colophon.”
Edgardo waited, watching her with a treacherous smile.
Abella brought her hand close to the volume, opened the first sheet, and gently caressed the characters that filled the page, her eyes running along the lines.
“Go on,” Edgardo prompted.
Abella parted her lips as though to take her final breath. She closed the sheet again and turned to the scribe.
Her face had disintegrated in an expression full of such deep sadness that Edgardo was upset by it.
“I can’t help you,” Abella murmured. “I can’t read.”
Edgardo stared at her, motionless.
“I’ve lied to you, and I’m sorry.” Abella’s voice was like the song of a little girl. It revealed a part of her soul deep inside her being.
“I suspected as much,” Edgardo replied.
“You knew?”
“There isn’t a single manuscript in your laboratorium, and you’ve always avoided having anything to do with reading, even during the signing of the merchant’s contract. Also, you’ve never wanted to go into detail when anyone mentioned your teachers at the School of Salerno.”
The Magister got up abruptly. She seemed relieved. Her cheeks recovered a brighter color.
“I really did live in Salerno, and was at Trotula de Ruggiero’s side. I learned everything from her. I spied on her, watched her every gesture, memorized every formula. I was her servant. My parents worked the land and were very poor; they were afraid I’d die of starvation, so they left me in a Benedictine convent.
“I was raised by nuns. From them I learned the usage of herbs and spices. They said I had a talent for it. That’s when I discovered the supernatural power my mouth possesses: to taste, with my palate and tongue, the composition of substances so precisely that I am able to place the origin of diseases.
“When I was a little older, the nuns sent me to work at the School of Salerno, and there I put the most illustrious scholars and renowned physicians out of a job.”
“Without ever studying the texts.”
“Never. I always managed to find a way around it.” She gently touched the parchment. “When I left Salerno to go seek my fortune, I stole this manuscript and promised myself I’d learn to read. This contains all knowledge. Avicenna is a great master . . . I dreamed that one day . . . ” She stopped and put a hand on Edgardo’s shoulder. “What do you mean to do now?” Abella uttered those words, aware that the answer would contain her future, her life.
“Nothing,” Edgardo replied bluntly. “You know my secret, and I yours. You’re a great magister medicinae and I am living proof of that.” He touched his chest, where his hump had once protruded.
A soft light appeared in Abella’s eyes, which could have been taken for gratitude, but it was much more than that.
“But now let’s get back to work.” Edgardo took the manuscript. “You said we had to look in the book of medicines?”
“Yes, but what will you do without your eye circles?”
“Of course, I forgot.” Edgardo put a hand in his pocket. “By the devil, look, they were here.” He took out the case. “I’m very absent-minded,” he added in a cunning tone.
Abella’s face twisted in anger, but then immediately relaxed into a smile of complicity.
“Come on, read,” she said, spurring him on.
Edgardo brought the contraption up to his eyes, and the miracle took place again: the writing appeared clear and sharp.
The work was divided into five books: theoretical and practical medicine; the Materia medica—on simple medicines; specific diseases and particular parts of the body; non-specific diseases; the composition and administration of medicines.
“Go to the Materia medica.”
The list was long and complex.
“What should I look for?” Edgardo asked, alarmed.
“A reference to embalming and mummies.”
Edgardo got down to work: mineral drugs, animal drugs, vegetable drugs, composite drugs, powders, pills, syrups, poultices, ointments, balms, a sea of remedies you could get lost in.
“I can’t find anything like that,” he said impatiently.
“And yet the tools and instruments I saw at the embalmer’s w
ere similar to the ones used for making medicines. Read on.”
The scribe persevered. Abella followed him with apprehension and envy for his ability and speed at reading.
“Just a moment.” Edgardo took the circles away then brought them close again, as though to make sure his ailing eyes had seen correctly.
“Mumia calida est in fine tertii sicca prout creditur in primo. Inest autem ei proprietas omnem spiritum confortandi,” he read out loud.
“Wonderful!” Abella cried out joyously. “I’d seen correctly. Avicenna considers the mummy as a medicine.”
“He also says that ‘the mummy’ is very effective against a large number of ailments: abscess, outbreaks, fractures, bruises, paralysis, epilepsy, cough, palpitations, liver and spleen disorders, and any kind of poison. There’s the black, common mummy, the one found in sepulchers, and then there are spiritual mummies that have supernatural powers.”
“In the mill, on the millstone, I noticed remains that looked like bone splinters, and from that I deduced that the stone was used to mince the cut-up mummies, and turn them into thin powder. Then I saw a pot filled with wine vinegar, where one usually leaves substances to marinate from which one wants to extract the medicine.”
“That’s why there were all those mummies in the embalmer’s mill.” Edgardo was excited by the discovery. “They were for extracting the medicines which are apparently in great demand, enough to organize a trade between Alexandria and Venice.”
Abella interrupted. “But since mummies from Egypt are very rare . . . some cunning person decided to create new ones, using local corpses, and then sell the medicine as original. A very profitable business.”
Edgardo stood up and took a few steps, lost in thought. “There’s a question to which I still can’t find the answer: why kill Costanza, the relative of a Venetian nobleman, to turn her into a mummy, when they could find servant girls and slaves at a much lower risk?”
“Perhaps revenge against the Grimani family?”
Edgardo did not reply. His mind was absorbed in a labyrinth of conflicting theories and conjectures.
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