The Cellars of Notre Dame

by Barbara Frale

  Crescenzio bit his lip. There was something mischievous about that gesture and the glint of amusement that shone in his eyes.

  “If anything you will be a hostage of the Medical School of Salerno, .”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I wrote to Matthaeus Silvaticus and briefly explained everything to him. The doctors of Salerno are so excited at the thought of having you amongst them that if by chance the king of Naples were to lift a finger to force you to do something you did not wish to do, whatever it was, they would form a wall around you to protect you. They are even willing to declare a collective abstention from work as a protest, which would lead to the closure of the university. Which will never happen, clearly. When the professors of Paris did something similar a generation ago, the gesture caused the kingdom so much economic damage that since then sovereigns look upon university students as a caste of untouchables. Nobody will dare bother you, believe me.”

  When he had finished, Crescenzio took a deep breath and looked into the Catalan’s eyes. The old man was speechless. He detested the doctors of His Holiness who were forcing him out for reasons of professional jealousy, but he had to admit that the young man had spoken from the heart and was acting for the best. While protecting his uncle the Pope, he had not neglected to take into consideration the best way to protect him, entrusting his security to the formidable corporation of the School of Salerno. All things considered, it was admirable.

  “You’re honest, lad. So answer me one last question. Tell me clearly: do you really think I have knowledge inaccessible to the rest of the world? Do you really believe that I heal people using the power of the devil?”

  Crescenzio put the vial he had been examining back down on the cluttered table, which necessitated moving aside the remains of a bezoar stone that had been filed to almost nothing and a voluminous white wad of wool from a vegetable lamb of Tartary.

  “The only proof of the existence of the Devil, Arnaldo, is men’s powerful desire to see him at work. And you keep sulphur sticks to frighten the servants – when you light them, they imagine terrible evocations of demons and you avoid the risk of having them coming in here and stealing your precious metals or contaminating your preparations with their dirty hands.”

  “Incredible!” exclaimed Arnaldo. “What a magnificent pupil you would have been! And what a disappointment for me to see this obtuse skepticism towards the invisible powers…”

  The old man was sincere. He’d had the Pope’s niece summoned with the excuse of examining her again so as to remedy the nervous defect for which her relatives had recommended her to his care; but in reality it was the brother that Arnaldo wanted to examine. He had hoped that Crescenzio possessed a soul similar to hers. He had hoped so with all of himself. If it had been so, he would not have hesitated a moment to set him, who was male, upon the initiatory path. But it was not to be…!

  They were siblings, it was true, born of the same mother and the same father. Siblings, but vastly different. As soon as he had entered Arnaldo’s laboratory, Crescenzio had peered around him with curious eyes, but his sharp and doubtful expression betrayed the fact that he was putting every detail to the test of his disbelief. And he kept levelled upon the old man an inquisitive gaze that made Arnaldo feel as uncomfortable as if he were before a severe teacher.

  The sister, on the other hand, looked to be prey to some kind of ecstasy. And she was: what joy Maddalena had felt upon entering that temple of science! As soon as she set foot in there, she had been overcome by an acrid metallic odour which had dazed her slightly. She had been frightened at first, fearing that it was the residue of some demonic presence.

  “No,” she had thought to herself, “The wise men say that the devil leaves behind him a sulphurous trace, while the pungent scent I can smell must rather derive from mercury. All those strange instruments on the oak table must be the alchemist’s paraphernalia. That looks like a rudimentary glass athanor with a round belly like a philosophical egg, and a sharp beak to let the sublimated vapours out. And that mineral with a golden yellowish colour must be an orpiment. The name says it itself: , golden colour. For some it is the hiding place of the golden substance, others burn it to extract toxic and arsenious scents.”

  She was delighted to have helped Gaita to copy certain alchemical manuscripts from Byzantium, work to which the abbess of San Giorgio would surely have objected had she been informed. In that specific branch of science, under the guidance of such a skilful teacher, Maddalena had learned much more than her brother, so now she gazed with admiring greedy eyes at all those crucibles, funnels, retorts, filters, colanders and whatever else was required for the noble art of working minerals. She remembered the wise words that Gaita had secretly taught her:

  “Everything in Creation has a soul. Science consists in knowing how to awaken it, and the wise man is he who can distinguish the hidden face of every single thing.”

  And among all the living sages, Arnaldo da Villanova was the wisest of all.

  The old man aroused an uneasy fear and veneration. When he smiled there was a strange sparkle in his eyes, and he still had all his teeth, which moreover were as white and shiny as those that sprout in the mouth of an infant. His hands were bony, with long fingers and nails blackened by the acids with which he undoubtedly tested metals.

  But the interest Maddalena felt for him was fully reciprocated. Arnaldo wondered how he had managed not to notice her immediately. Everything about her spoke to his secret senses, suggesting a subliminal message: even that dress that she had always wore with the embroidery upon its breast: seven white roses gathered in a bundle around which a gold viper was wrapped. It alluded to the coat of arms of her mother, a lady of the Orsini house, but how had he not seen that the rose was an image of the mysticism with which the initiatory journey is nourished and that the viper symbolizes the bond of the sage with the invisible energies of the cosmos in the East? She had been wearing that same tunic when the tragic accident which had nearly killed her had happened, and since then, according to her relatives, she had wanted to wear no other clothes.

  It was the shroud of the old creature of flesh and blood, the baptismal garment of the new creature of the spirit.

  “There’s nothing for it!” the old man thought. “The girl is as precious as the Philosopher’s Stone and her brother is completely unsuitable. Obviously, it was not to be…”

  “All right, lad,” he said. “You may tell your brother the lord Cardinal that I am very honoured to accept the hospitality of the King of Naples. Write also to Matthaeus Silvaticus and thank him from me.”

  Crescenzio had to restrain himself so as not to show too clearly the intense relief the news gave him. Maddalena was not as discreet. With the sacred inability to hide her emotions that belongs to the pure of heart, the girl’s eyes glistened with tears. Arnaldo saw it, and it was a blow to him. The little one was fond of him. Very fond. But why?

  Quick as a comet’s flight into the depths of the universe, an idea appeared in his mind.

  “When were you born, little girl?” he asked her suddenly.

  “Nine days before the calends of March,” she replied through her sniffling. “That would be the twenty-fourth day of February. It was two hours to midnight.”

  Catalan examined his astral tables.

  “Just like me,” he muttered between his teeth. Born under the sign of Pisces, and her ascendant was in Scorpio. Now he understood the reason for that immediate empathy he had felt towards her, that emotional affinity that united them: their two souls were twins. Practically two drops of water, shaped by the identical way in which the energies of the cosmos had flowed when they had come into the world. Then the smile died on his lips.

  “What is wrong, master?” she asked. “You have gone pale…”

  “Nothing,” he replied caustically. “Now go away, I’m busy.”

  Crescenzio took Maddalena’s arm and pulled her after him as he gratefully took his leave from Arnaldo. He had succeeded: t
he Catalan and his secret, whatever it was, would soon become someone else’s problem.

  Once he was alone, Arnaldo sank into a chair and breathed deeply. He didn’t like what the stars had revealed to him. That the girl was the same as him had moved him and was profoundly seductive to his vanity; but unfortunately, the discovery possessed a corollary which was full of unknowns.

  In light of what he had just learned, the mysterious dream that had tormented him for so long also acquired a meaning.

  The enraged and desperate unicorn, his former apprentice, wanted to take possession of the pale rose, which was Maddalena, because he could not have Arnaldo at his mercy but she represented the perfect alter ego of the old man – a soul equally suitable for interpreting the invisible.

  What an awful vision!

  Was the key to the future hidden in that dream? Was the girl in danger then?

  Poor little Maddalena, a pure innocent rose threatened by the claws of that beast!

  The old man took a gulp of wine, but he was so agitated that it went down the wrong way. He coughed violently and spat several times. He must calm down, he would make himself sick if he continued to torture himself like this. After all, there was no real reason to be alarmed. No relationship linked the Pope’s niece to that sinister traitor who was at the Louvre; nevertheless, the stars said that Maddalena and Fontainebleau were destined to merge, if they met. And at the thought of it, Arnaldo felt a chill run down his spine.

  Maybe he should teach the little girl. Or at least try to. He had to put aside all his concerns and prejudices and see how she reacted to his teachings.

  If she knew what awaited her, Maddalena could face the future with open eyes. Making her aware of the danger that hung over her was the only way to help her defend herself.

  VIII

  Inside the Vatican walls, beyond the Sacred Palaces, the landscape suddenly became wooded and sylvan, and was interspersed occasionally with clearings and meadows. In the sweetest hour of the day, just before lunch, the cardinals would go for a stroll while they waited for the Pope to close the hearings, enjoying the gift of a sun so hot that it seemed a fragment of summer wandering lost through the gloom of the cold months . They formed two compact but separate groups, like bunches of bloody roses on the grass of the meadow tinged with autumnal colours.

  Some surrounded the Protodeacon of the Sacred College, the elderly and patriarchal Matthew Rosso Orsini. Tall and of a powerful build, he had the long beard of a biblical prophet, and would have been perfect inspiration for a painter who wanted to portray Moses guiding God’s people towards the Promised Land. Those loyal to Boniface VIII, many of whom were his relatives, had nicknamed him “the Bastion” because of his physical size, and because he truly was the most valid bastion of the papacy; those who sided with the Iron King, instead, mangled the pronunciation, making the epithet became “the Beastion.”

  These others, the opposition, formed a sunburst around the Frenchman Jean Lemoine, who, gaunt but somewhat dissatisfied with his own asceticism, might at most provide reliable inspiration for a portrait of Job. They called him “Miserere” for his grim and sickly appearance, but also because Boniface VIII, when he saw him, muttered between his teeth “Miserere, Domine!” imploring God to forgive his murderous impulses.

  This group did not harbour cordial sentiments for Pope Caetani, and they had lost the most bitter of their number, cardinals Pietro and Giacomo Colonna, when they had openly rebelled against the pontiff. Mutual suspicion ran between the two sides, and each group talked amongst itself, peering at those of the other group with glances which were now sly, now filled with a kindness that oozed hypocrisy.

  Crescenzio Caetani approached them with the light step of one who proceeds towards an urgent goal. He was in a very bad mood: after being conciliatory about the idea of leaving the city for Salerno, the Catalan had made it known to the pope that he did not intend to leave until spring. It was not appropriate to travel during the bad season: there were torrential rains, mud and frost, thunder and lightning, not to mention hail… The old man had not explicitly said no to the request that came from a man as important as Francesco Caetani, the nephew of His Holiness, but had postponed the journey until the Greek calends: in short, he did not intend to leave Rome.

  If he hoped to finish his investigation, Crescenzio needed to attempt other approaches, so that morning he had come looking for Lemoine. Lemoine was the head of the pro-French faction of the Sacred College, and as such the member of the Curia who had the closest relations with King Philip IV.

  Although Crescenzio was the nephew of Boniface VIII – something which in Lemoine’s eyes was certainly no recommendation – the cardinal had heard a great deal about him; he esteemed him for his loyal character, for his rectitude and intelligence, and also because he made his awful uncle’s life difficult with this strange idea of his of snubbing the sacred vows to devote himself rather to the study of medicine.

  “Forgive me, most reverend father. I need to talk to you in private.”

  After shooting him a stern look – which was not, however, devoid of a glimmer of sympathy – the cardinal invited Crescenzio to follow him towards a stone bench which stood a little off by itself along the avenue.

  “I know that the king of France esteems you most highly,” began Crescenzio, “so I have decided to turn to you in the hope that you can help me. Perhaps you know that my uncle has commissioned me to assist Cardinal Matthew of Acquasparta, who came to Rome on a rather delicate mission.”

  “Matthew told me about your brother’s dinner party,” replied Lemoine, with the cool courtesy of the consummate diplomat.

  “According to the cardinal, what actually lies behind the arrest of the bishop of Pamiers is an attempt by your king to induce the pope to send Arnaldo da Villanova back to Paris. Which is perfectly comprehensible, if the Catalan did indeed take something very important with him when he left France. There is talk of an antidote. A remedy against the spread of some terrible epidemic disease. To me, however, this version of events does not sound particularly convincing.”

  The long pauses with which Crescenzio punctuated his speech were meant to invite the cardinal to give some hint of confirmation or dissent. Some hope! Lemoine’s face was as inscrutable as a sphinx.

  “Some diseases are disabling,” the youth said. “Let us take one that everyone knows: leprosy. It disfigures the face and corrupts the limbs. Poor King Baldwin of Jerusalem had to live with that condemnation, and he reigned until his death. But that cannot be the case of Capetian kings. Their special talent is to heal scrofula patients with a touch of their hands, and they would not even be considered sovereigns if they could not exercise that prerogative. What would happen if Philip IV had contracted such a disease? The firstborn is too young to reign and another king would have to be chosen. One of Philip IV’s brothers, for example: but who? Charles of Valois or Louis of Oeuvre? Or why not one of the cousins? They too are the descendants of King Louis the Holy, are they not? Indeed, they have French blood on both their father’s and mother’s sides, while Philip IV was born of a Spanish queen. Some might call him a half-breed, most reverend father…” He stopped again, and again Lemoine said nothing but stared at Crescenzio with a bland expression of patience. Lemoine was doubtless a very talented gambler, reflected Crescenzio. And as he gave absolutely nothing away, the young man realized that he would have to show his hand even more. “It occurred to me that perhaps the word ‘antidote’ was not being meant literally. I cannot say with certainty, of course, but I must confess that this suspicion becomes more insistent within me each day.”

  “And which suspicion might that be?”

  “That perhaps Philip IV was speaking in allegories, most reverend father. We all do it, actually, when we cannot call a certain thing by its name because it would be embarrassing or because it might cause serious problems. We use a synonym, or perhaps a phrase that evokes in the mind the real subject of our speech. For example, we say ‘move one’s bowel
s’ so as not to expressly say faeces, the mere mention of which already causes us a feeling of disgust. If I am right, the king was using the term ‘antidote’ metaphorically. What he really wants to prevent is not an epidemic but some equally serious calamity which might cause an equally large number of deaths and devastate the kingdom. A civil war, for example. Something that frightens him so much that he does not even want to pronounce its real name.”

  “Go on,” said Lemoine, this time with a nod.

  “In short, my uncle his holiness the Pope does not want to put pressure on Arnaldo to force him to return to Paris. It would not help, after all: the old man won’t listen to reason and, to be quite frank, couldn’t care less if Philip IV is in trouble. That being the case, my brother Francesco is working to have Arnaldo welcomed in Salerno under the dominion of the king of Naples. Charles of Anjou is the uncle of your sovereign, and he will surely manage to convince the old man to put aside his grudges. And perhaps, over time, the Catalan will come round to the idea of assisting your king.”

  Lemoine shot him an admiring look.

  “You would make a wonderful diplomat, my son! You have the gift of making it appear that you are bending over backwards to save the world when in reality you have barely lifted a finger, and even then only to safeguard your own interests!”

  Those words might have sounded like an offence, or at the very mockery, but Lemoine’s tone was so benign that Crescenzio was completely taken aback.

  “I do not know what else I could do in my position,” he replied.

  “You could, for example, solve the problem,” the cardinal quipped, “namely, help the king of France get out of the tragic situation in which he finds himself.”

  “I? And how?”

  “Give my sovereign what he needs, boy,” Lemoine urged. “The question that grips him is as old as he himself is; I am aged enough to guess exactly what it is, but my lips are sealed by the oath of silence. You are sharp, though. If you really think you understand what it is that affects Philip IV, you must proceed along the way you have so far walked so profitably. When the king of France has nothing more to fear, he will no longer have any reason for keeping the bishop of Pamiers in prison. Logical, wouldn’t you say?”