“This has nothing to do with diplomacy, nephew. Philip IV wants to bring Arnaldo da Villanova back to Paris. I know for sure, because he wrote to me asking for it expressly. I turned a deaf ear to his request, after all I do not see why I should force the Catalan to return to a kingdom where a handful of ignorant fanatics almost had him burned at the stake! But now, since official diplomacy has failed, I fear that the king is trying to get back the old man in a more underhand way. The task of poor Matthew is specifically to convince Arnaldo to leave, but let us ask ourselves: why is that so important for Philip IV? You, my nephew, must find out what is behind it all. Is that clear?”
Crescenzio decided to try the extrema ratio.
“Holy Father, if possible, let this chalice pass me by…”
“Oh no, you will drink it all down. You are as stubborn as a mule. You refuse the dazzling career in the Curia that I could assure you with a snap of my fingers. And for what? To get married? To have children and thus ensure legitimate heirs for your house? No, you want to study medicine! Well it just so happens that this madness of yours might now prove precious and so I intend to take advantage of it. Arnaldo da Villanova is indeed a doctor: you must talk to him about the matter.”
“Isn’t it better if you do it, Your Holiness?”
“I have tried, my son. I encouraged him to confide in me. The Catalan answered me briefly, and only because he could not remain silent in the face of a request from the Pope. He is very reluctant to reveal the details of what happened in Paris, and I do not want to provoke him. Unlike me, you have time to dedicate to him: try to win his trust. Besides, who else could I turn to? The old man has relations only with you and with your sister Maddalena. You are the only ones for whom he does not feel contempt.”
“We followed some of his lessons when he taught in Salerno.”
“Good!” said the Pope. “Inform your brother Francesco about everything: invite the cardinal of Acquasparta to dinner at his residence in Santa Marie in Cosmedin. And have Maddalena also be with you: it must be an informal, family meal – a meeting of the Caetani siblings. Let Matthew talk and try to understand what the secret designs of the king of France on Arnaldo are. Let it be understood that for my part I would like to cooperate and to go along with the sovereign’s wishes, as far as possible. But one thing must be clear: Philip IV will get nothing if he does not bow his head before my spiritual and temporal power. I am Christ, and I am also Caesar!”
II
The light of that dull day faded into a haze of leaden vapours, and an uncertain sunset tinged the sky with erratic splashes of russet red. In the sumptuous residence near Santa Maria in Cosmedin, the home of Cardinal Francesco Caetani, dinner had just finished.
A guest of the pope’s relatives just as His Holiness had ordered, Matthew of Acquasparta was sitting with his back so straight that you might almost have concluded he had swallowed a broomstick. He was eager to speak about the thorny issue for which he had undertaken that long journey from France, but as his host had the various courses brought out, he had only been able to make small talk.
Fortunately, Dante Alighieri – who had become friends with Crescenzio Caetani the previous year when he had come as a pilgrim to Rome for the great universal jubilee – had also been invited to the dinner. He had now returned to the city for reasons of study, or so he said. His presence diluted the tension of the meal, which attempted to pass itself off as a friendly repast even though they all knew that sooner or later they would be discussing issues upon which peace in the Church depended. Young Maddalena Caetani, a thirteen-year-old budding beauty with an angelic voice, was asked to sing , one of Alighieri’s most famous rhymes, which had been set to music by his friend Casella. The cardinal took the opportunity to explain to Dante his concerns about the unfortunate idea of a poem set in hell, but the more he spoke about it, the more fervent and resolute the Florentine seemed about wanting to compose it, so that in the end the cardinal gave up in exhaustion. He wasn’t there to discuss poetry, he was supposed to be unravelling the complex tangle concerning Arnaldo the Catalan!
In the middle of the evening Crescenzio arrived, apologizing for the delay and blaming a demanding and unavoidable commitment. He looked tired and a little distracted, and when he approached Matthew of Acquasparta to kiss his ring, the cardinal seemed vaguely to smell a woman’s scent on him. “He’s been up on the rooftops like a cat in heat,” the cardinal thought silently. His arrival, however, was a boon.
“Crescenzio, would you be so kind as to wake up your brother?” he asked immediately with peremptory politeness.
In fact, after the abundant libations he had imbibed, Francesco Caetani was sleeping in a very comfortable chair lined with velvet cushions, his arms languidly stretched out on the arms of the chair and his head reclined in deep digestive slumber. You could call him anything except an ascetic, though with respect to many others he, at least, had some mitigating circumstances. Although happily married to Marie da Supino, he had been hurriedly raised to the sacred purple to replace another nephew of Boniface VII, also a cardinal, who had died prematurely. Francesco was not much for priestly ways, much less the mortifications of the flesh: fasting for even a single day weakened him so much that the pope, fearing to see another blood relative die, had granted him a dispensation in perpetuity to eat meat even on Christmas eve.
It was a dispensation of which he took the utmost advantage. That evening he had quickly gobbled down a bowl of ravioli cooked in capon broth, then lasagna dressed with cheese in the manner of Ravenna, a cake filled with grated caciocavallo cheese, two pigeons in a pan stuffed with bitter black bread, apple fritters and a large portion of Parmesan that they had served with strawberry-tree honey, with a cascade of pine nuts and dried apricots. He was the perfect embodiment of what reformers called the ‘fat clergy’… He exhaled a fervent odour of healthy male flesh and vigorous blood, interrupting his soft snoring occasionally to chew on nothing. Perhaps in his sleep he was continuing to indulge in the abundant libations which he had allowed himself while awake.
Crescenzio grabbed the nock of the napkin and with a gracefully, decisive gesture, slapped his elder brother’s ruddy nose with the soft fabric. Francesco Caetani winced and woke up with a start.
“What is it? What’s going on?” he asked, looking rapidly from side to side. His mouth was still clumsy with sleep and bitter with the heavy vapours of digestion.
“Forgive me,” lied Crescenzio politely, “there was a wasp resting upon your nose. I think it was about to sting you.”
Francesco Caetani did not have the mental clarity to argue that a wasp would be an uncommon sight at the threshold of winter, so he unbuttoned his tunic, opened his shirt revealing a chest drenched in sweat and began to fan himself. With a quick nod to the valet, he had the silver basin of fresh water brought over with which to rinse his face and then invited the guest to speak freely: with his vast culture, Dante Alighieri, an extremely trustworthy person, might be able help. Matthew did as he was asked, and when the story was over, a chilling silence descended over all of them.
“The fourth horseman of the Apocalypse,” murmured Francesco Caetani with a shudder. “If I didn’t know you as a man of integrity, Matthew, I might think that you had invented this nightmarish story simply to scare us. Are there really people in the world so perverse that they would condemn an entire nation to death in order to oust the king?”
“What amazes me most,” intervened Dante, “is the extraordinary power that is attributed to the Catalan in this whole affair. Can that old man really have created an antidote capable of averting an epidemic?”
“Yes, he can,” asserted Crescenzio. “We know that Nero’s doctor Andromachus managed to compose a prodigious panacea. No one knows exactly it was, but it had the power to reinvigorate the human body to the point of making it practically invulnerable. Some believe that this drug was some unknown mineral, a fragment of a comet fallen from the sky in the mists of time and endowed with frightening power over the phys
iology of the human body.”
Dante frowned. “I am no doctor, but this seems to me unheard of.”
“Perhaps it is not so,” said Matthew of Acquasparta. “Saint Thomas Aquinas recognizes the stars’ ability to affect the human body. It would not surprise me at all if this prodigious panacea actually was a fragment of some comet fallen to the earth from the sidereal depths.”
“You say that Arnaldo spoke publicly about this epidemic. So the old man has the gift of precognition?”
“Certainly, Alighieri. The old man has no need to be a prophet as long as he has a decent knowledge of astronomy. In the , Saint Augustine admits that the motions of the stars can predict certain events, even if they are not able to provoke them.”
“And we should add that the Catalan has mastered Arabic medicine…”
That sentence left hanging, which was followed by a quick and silent look of understanding exchanged between Crescenzio and his sister, obviously pricked the curiosity of all present.
“What do you mean?” Francesco urged him. “Speak more clearly.”
“My teacher in Salerno, Matthaeus Silvaticus, once told me about some Arab scientists with whom he was in contact. They were Egyptians, and they had found in the desert sands certain ancient papyruses which described various incredible methods of healing. Apparently, the pharaohs’ doctors were even able to open the cranial bones and operate on the brain.”
Matthew of Acquasparta stared in shock. “And the patient didn’t die?”
“No, reverend father. But these doctors didn’t simply use sharp blades and sophisticated surgical instruments. During the entire operation, it was necessary to recite rites capable of evoking powerful spirits from the realms of the shadows. I don’t think I need to say anything more…”
No, he didn’t; Dante and the two cardinals quaked with unease.
“God help us!” cried Alighieri. “But then, everyone knows that the Saracens have the habit of evoking the devil. They cultivate friendship with the ranks of darkness, and use unclean spirits to achieve their ends.”
Crescenzio screwed up his nose.
“You are free not to believe me, Dante; but I assure you that it is not so. Some Syrian merchants docked in Salerno, bringing hard-to-obtain minerals and spices; I too attended them, and once went with them to Damascus. There are undoubtedly infamous people among them too, but the Saracens have no sympathy at all for the Evil One. They fear him just as we do. Perhaps even more so.”
“But the practice you mentioned earlier is certainly to be condemned, my son,” protested Matthew of Acquasparta. “If the Catalan makes use of magic, then…”
“Making use of a practice does not mean believing it, reverend father. Certainly, Arnaldo knows the power of minerals, herbs and celestial bodies by heart. There are hundreds, or rather, thousands of substances that can stimulate a beneficial or harmful reaction in the human body. I have heard with my own ears the Catalan quote specific passages from the texts of Averroes, and we know that Arab thinker managed to free his city from a terrible plague. The Catalan may very well have composed an antidote capable of stopping an epidemic. And he may also have found a way to produce it.”
Matthew shook his head.
“Even if he is the most sinister of sorcerers, he must return to France. Please do all you can to convince him!”
“You make it sound a trifle!” cried Francesco Caetani. “Even if the Pope agrees to let him go, how can you be sure that the Catalan will want to come? He certainly didn’t find a very warm welcome in Paris!”
“Perhaps you can offer him something he wants,” suggested Dante. “Perhaps he needs rare substances for his experiments. Minerals, or preparations that he cannot get by himself.”
“I doubt it,” said Crescenzio. “Arnaldo is as shy as a hermit. He makes sure that he is never obligated to anyone, not even to his Holiness.”
“Actually… there is something.”
The pretty little voice which had delighted them earlier with its beautiful singing, but which all the men present had soon forgotten, suddenly filled the air. During the discussion Maddalena had remained silent, loyal to the precepts with which a young woman of her rank was brought up; now, however, she felt he had something very important to say. Something decisive, perhaps.
“And what do you know?” asked Francesco.
A little intimidated by the fact that she found herself at the centre of attention, the girl tried to gather her ideas.
“Just this morning, Arnaldo asked me if I could get him a green jasper.”
“A jasper?” asked Matthew. “That is not such a hard stone to find…”
“No, reverend father, you are right. But you see, Arnaldo meant that particular variety of jasper that Galen recommends for curing the ills of the oesophagus. If held against it, it is also good for an ulcer. Some even engrave them with the head of a snake surrounded by rays, as Nekauba teaches in his fourteenth book.”
“And who is this Neka…?” Matthew objected. “I have never heard of an author with that name.”
“He is not a doctor of the Church,” she explained. “He was an ancient Egyptian pharaoh who understood therapeutic minerals and physiological interactions. Master Arnaldo told me about him.”
All present looked at one another in puzzlement. Matthew of Acquasparta was amazed: he certainly hadn’t expected to hear such precise medical terminology from a young child like her, who one could at most imagine being an expert of needle, thread and embroidery. Even Crescenzio could scarcely believe it.
“Did the Catalan really speak with you of certain matters, little sister? You aren’t by chance telling us a beautiful fairy tale, are you?”
“No!” she protested resentfully, “It’s true! I was walking in the gardens, and at a certain point I felt that Maestro Arnaldo was in need of help. I don’t know why: I just felt it. I ran to his garden. The gate was open and I saw that the old man had climbed a medlar tree to pick the fruit, but he had accidentally kicked the ladder down. He was so frightened, he looked like a scared kitten… I put the ladder back in place and he climbed down. He told me that he had thought he was done for and at that moment had invoked the soul of his ancient master, the one who had taught him when he was young. And his master had sent me to help him.”
“Well how about that!” muttered Crescenzio. He understood the old man’s fear, and his gratitude; but his talking about certain things with his sister was unusual to say the least.
Matthew of Acquasparta got up from the table to say goodbye to the others.
“Francesco,” he said, “you must take advantage of the sympathy that the Catalan shows towards your siblings. People of culture always love to speak with other intellectuals like themselves. If the old man really possesses the antidote of which the King of France speaks, then he must deliver it into trusted hands. He has the sacrosanct duty to prevent many unjust deaths. Talk to him, Crescenzio! You too, dear girl. you.”
As he left that sumptuous home, Matthew of Acquasparta felt incredibly relieved. Unexpectedly, he had identified a breach in the wall of isolation that surrounded the Catalan on all sides and made him inaccessible: sweet young Maddalena Caetani. A wise, pure girl, the perfect icon of the Holy Virgin. Closed garden, sealed spring, ivory tower…
She was the path to take. The secret key able to unlock the Catalan’s flinty heart. It was upon her that they must rely.
III
There was a musty smell beneath the low, dark vaults of the sanatorium. The stale air was saturated with the stench of breath soured by disease, full bedpans left forgotten under beds and unwashed human flesh. All around were poor anonymous bodies, from which occasionally a faint lament emerged.
In the sparse light of the sunset, Crescenzio entered, pulling his sister by the hand. A nun slipped by them, a dark vestal of charity. She glared at him censoriously. “Bringing that little girl in here!” her accusing eyes seemed to say. And could he blame her?
“I shouldn’t have let my
self be talked into this,” he complained. “It would have been better if you’d stayed at home.”
“Why do you say that, Crescenzio? Gaita took me to visit the sanatoriums in Salerno. How can one learn medicine otherwise?”
“You studied with the nuns. How many sick people can you have seen?”
“You cannot imagine how many people come knocking on the doors of convents seeking relief from illness, Crescenzio.”
“It is different here, Maddalena. I decided to come to this sanatorium following an intuition. An idea that came into my mind the other night when Matthew of Acquasparta told us that chilling story about Arnaldo da Villanova and the epidemic that someone is planning to spread in France. If I can work out what the disease is, perhaps I’ll have some chance of finding the antidote without even involving the Catalan. Our uncle the pope says that the old man is reticent even when interrogates him. If he doesn’t want to reveal what he knows to the Pope himself, how much hope do we have?”
“Who knows,” she said. “The worst epidemic the world has ever known is the one that broke out in the year one thousand. The fire of Saint Anthony, or in any case some incurable inflammation that led to death.”
Crescenzio nodded. When the cardinal of Acquasparta had told them the gruesome news from across the Alps, he too had immediately recalled certain pages from Rodulfus Glaber’s accounts. The German monk described an illness that had risked depopulating Europe around the year 1000: a devastating fire burned the limbs while the victims were still alive, and as well as the deaths there was also a kind of collective madness that overcame the others, making them as terrible and ferocious as beasts. The pious monk described the nightmarish scenario, as if the demons had emerged from the gates of hell to walk the earth.
“The horrors committed by men in that age are enough to make one’s flesh creep,” murmured Crescenzio. “They were driven by a rabid hunger to devour human flesh. Travellers were attacked, and their bodies were butchered and then cooked on the fire and eaten. Even those who were travelling from one country to another in the hope of escaping the famine had their throats slit during the night and were served as food for the people who had offered them hospitality. Many would entice children to some hidden place with the promise of a fruit or an egg, only to them slaughter and eat them. This is what the annals tell us.”
The Cellars of Notre Dame Page 8
