The chosen candidate, or at least the only one who had come forward so far, was Uncle Poncello Orsini, the brother of her poor mother Elisabetta. Uncle Poncello had a good character, but unfortunately was almost thirty years older than her. But perhaps it was for the best. Better to become his than to end up in the mouth of who knew which shark!
But what was this hurry to get her married off? She would have liked to complete her medical studies, even though she was aware that, given the lot which commonly awaited women, she had already managed to obtain for herself an incredible privilege by studying for several years in the convent.
Her anguish growing, she wondered if there was anything she could do to prevent or at least delay that unwanted wedding, and in that moment something came to mind – a slightly spiteful comment that her brother Francesco had come out with the day they had gone to see the Catalan. She had been talking about the strange dreams that left her dazed and restless, the ones in which she was certain to meet dead people, who tormented her with their agonies and asked her for her help. Francesco had been worried and had asked Arnaldo to free her of this torment.
It occurred to Maddalena that perhaps she could turn her brother’s fixation to her advantage. She must try and act queerer and moodier than ever; Uncle Poncello, who was a practical man, would surely withdraw his marriage proposal.
As she ruminated upon these plans, she heard a singular rhythmic tapping on the pavement stones. It was not unknown to her, that noise of ancient wood combined with a slightly lopsided step; she had heard it many times before, but always in the enclosure where Arnaldo da Villanova lived.
She looked up and saw that the old man was there. What? Arnaldo leaving his fortress garden? The fact wasn’t just unusual, it was extraordinary.
“Good morning, .”
She made to get to her feet out of respect, but he gestured to her not to bother with formalities.
“Sit down, girl, but move over a little and make some room for me. My old legs are weak. Standing up makes me tired.”
Maddalena obediently obeyed and pulled the skirt of her dress to her so as not to take up too much space.
The old man opened the laces of the knapsack he wore over his shoulder and took out an old-fashioned book that he placed closed on the bench together with a pack of cards. Maddalena recognized them. They were the mysterious talking images of Egypt, which nobody in Europe knew; by manoeuvring them in certain combinations, the gypsy Zaira divined from their drawings the secret recesses of fate.
“Do you recognize them?”
“Of course, master. They are . I have seen others that are the same in the hands of the gypsy who you yourself know. Once she looked at those cards and told me strange things about my destiny.”
Arnaldo allowed himself the shadow of a smile.
“They are in fact the same as those of Zaira. I have decided to leave them to you, my girl. I think that you are the only one who can read them. They will be my farewell gift.”
His words were a blow to Maddalena. “So it’s true? You are leaving?”
“Your brothers have gone out of their way to convince the King of Naples to welcome me, and Carlo d’Angiò has put at my disposal a very comfortable and spacious home. There is also a beautiful garden overlooking the sea. Bridges of gold for the enemy who departs,” he concluded bitterly.
“But you are not an enemy, !”
“I am a problem, child. If I stay here, my presence will end up getting the Pope into trouble. I know Philip IV’s soul very well and believe me, he is not a man capable of desisting from his purposes. But perhaps I should have known. I agreed to live in the Vatican, enclosed in my enclosure, because I thought I was starting a new life far from everything and everyone. But I was deluding myself. You cannot escape your past. The past always returns and sets us before the mistakes we have made!”
Inadvertently, perhaps because the flow of words and memories had made him agitated, Arnaldo had grabbed the pack of cards and started shuffling them.
“Would you show me how to use them, master?”
Maddalena followed his every gesture closely, hypnotized by that intriguing game. The old man placed three in front of her, all with the blank side facing upwards. He turned over the first one.
“Here, little girl. Look at that card, tell me what it is.”
She shrugged her shoulders. It didn’t seem difficult. “He must be a hermit. He walks around at night leaning on his staff,” she replied. “He wanders through a forest with a lantern. He is looking for something that seems essential and which does not give him peace. He resembles you, master. Perhaps it is you.”
“I? And what should I be looking for?”
She shook her head, a solid certainty in her heart.
“You alone know what you are missing. Or perhaps you do not know, and it is this which torments you. The hermit’s search is an anxious one, it seems the purpose of his whole life. Can I see the other two cards?”
With a nod and a gesture of his outstretched hand, Arnaldo conceded her the task of deciphering the silent message enclosed in the two .
“The Sun on the left,” she murmured. “The Hermit turns his back on it, separating himself from it. It is a gesture of abandonment. Perhaps even refusal.”
Arnaldo’s face, until then gilded with a hint of a gruff smile, grew tense and almost alarmed. Maddalena turned over the other .
“The Moon,” she said, intrigued. “She is depicted as a beautiful and mysterious woman. The Hermit proceeds in her direction, so he is searching for her. But he cannot find her, even though he is right in front of her; it’s as if he cannot see her. He seems trapped in a perverse game between the two astral bodies. Pursued by the Sun, he desperately searches for the Moon. Does that make sense to you?”
It certainly did! That much was obvious to Maddalena, given the way the old man had suddenly grasped his staff as if to defend himself, or to run away. In addition, he stared at her with upon his face an almost intimidated expression, as though she possessed an unsuspected talent for divination.
“Perhaps there is a meaning,” he murmured finally. “If the Hermit represents me, then the Sun and the Moon represent my two students. Every scholar must have two apprentices to whom to transmit the science he has gathered during his life. The Master is called , which in Arabic means Mercury. His students are , which means Sun, and , which is the Moon. The first must possess strong qualities of logic and reasoning while in the second intuition and sensitivity prevail.”
Fascinated, she hung on his words; she was disappointed when she realized that the explanation ended there.
“Do you have two apprentices, master? I did not know.”
“I only had one, some time ago. I thought him worthy of my knowledge, but unfortunately I was mistaken!” he exclaimed, beating his chest.
“Who was it?”
“His name is Philip of Fontainebleau. He is a brilliant man, however unfortunate. An individual full of conflict. He believes he has a strong and sincere faith, but that does not prevent him from committing shameful acts.”
“What acts?”
The old man sighed. “The greatest enemy of Fontainebleau is the king of France,” he answered mysteriously. “And he is a terrible enemy, because they can never be separated. He tries to escape him when he has the opportunity, but most of the time he is forced to bend his head and succumb to him.”
“I don’t understand, master!”
“It doesn’t matter, child. The path of understanding is long and fraught with dangers. I cannot tell you more.”
“Tell me of the other student. There are always two, if I understand correctly.”
Arnaldo shook his head resolutely.
“I failed with , the rational student, so I never looked for . The tragic mistake I made in Paris must not be repeated.”
“In Paris, master? That awful experience with the Inquisition they speak of… Sorry, I see that it still disturbs you greatly. Except… I don’t unders
tand! The king of France is raising hell to have you back in Paris, yet you were there with him. He could have interceded for you, had you freed. Why didn’t he? And that pupil of yours didn’t lift a finger either, did he? You said he is a powerful man, close to the sovereign…”
“One thing is the man, child, and another is the position. Philip of Fontainebleau loved me, that I know. But his hands and feet are chained to the throne, and in the end, the king prevailed.”
Maddalena was disoriented by that labyrinthine game of riddles. The only thing she understood was that the Catalan spoke of the king of France and of his pupil that the sovereign somehow held prisoner with equal reproach, but that he did not condemn them in the same way. When he spoke the name of Fontainebleau, the pain in the old man’s voice was audible, as though he missed his pupil after all – it was evident that he still felt a powerful affection for him – while of the king of France he spoke exactly as if Philip IV were some kind of soulless automaton. He rejected them both, but saw one as victim and one as tormentor. The old man understood her thoughts and gave her a grimace that might perhaps have been an attempt at a smile.
“What is that book you keep on your lap?”
“It is the Chronicles of France, . I was hoping to assist my brother in his investigation. You know, Crescenzio has a certain suspicion about the late King Philip III…”
Now Arnaldo’s wrinkled face expressed intense commiseration for her naivety.
“You are so young, child! And you love books. I love them too, like you. I find the chronicles and the annals remarkable not so much for what they report, but rather for what they choose to leave out.”
“You, though, seem to know everything, . Will you tell me the truth?”
The bells of San Pietro tolled vespers. The Catalan was overcome with sadness. Talking with Maddalena was like drinking some beneficial elixir that calmed his anxieties and gave relief to his soul. If he went away, if he left Rome, it was unlikely that he would see her again. There was, though, one way to avoid being forced to leave. Was it really true? He decided he would try it and see.
“Tell me what you want to know from me, child. There is a question you have been holding inside you for some time now and which you dare not ask. Don’t try to deny it! I can see it in you. Know that you are as transparent as glass for me.”
Maddalena blushed and lowered her eyes; deep within her, though, something cried out with relief that the old man could read her soul. She took from her bag the letter from Paris – the one that her brother had received from Immacolata. The old man scanned it quickly.
“I see that it is written by Egidio Colonna,” the Catalan murmured. “A remarkable man, that friar. He knows the king of France well. And his innermost fears.”
“Then it true, master. You possess evidence that could save the sovereign, but you don’t wish to help him. Don’t you fear for your life? If you refuse to cooperate, the king might send an assassin to kill you. He has many supporters here in Rome, even inside the Vatican walls!”
The old man was moved by the sincere affection that veiled the girl’s gaze and rewarded her with a smile that, though enigmatic, was reassuring.
“Do not be afraid, child. Philip IV wants to keep me alive more than anyone else. It is not my death that wants, but an answer.”
“An answer?”
“Call it a medical consultation, if you like.”
Maddalena was startled.
“Is that all? Then why not give him this consultation. What does it cost you?”
The old man’s eyes darkened with resentment.
“But I have no desire to release him from his torment. Let him drown in his fears, he deserves it!”
Maddalena shook her head. “But dearest , do you realize what is at stake? The king of France is on the verge of declaring war against the pope – a war that could be disastrous. And all because of this answer that you deny him. Don’t you think of the poor bishop of Pamiers? He has been in prison for months, for the sole purpose of blackmailing the pontiff!”
Arnaldo stroked his long white beard, somewhat embarrassed by the fact that the girl was in her way right.
“Monsignor Saisset is not the victim of circumstances he would have us believe,” he objected. “But in any case, you have a point. Peace in the Church is sacrosanct, and God would punish me if I didn’t do what I can to save it. Much, however, will depend on you.”
“Me?”
“Certainly, my child. I want to see if you truly are as you seem to be. If your soul is like mine. Now we will find out.”
Bewitched by the old man’s words, Maddalena sat motionless looking at him as he picked up the ancient, tattered book he had earlier placed next to him on the bench. Clearly Arnaldo had brought it with him to show it to her. The old man had something in mind. Maddalena saw pages of thick paper, darkened by time and dense with writing that was incomprehensible yet as beautiful as the curlicues of a Persian rug.
“It is written in Arabic, isn’t it?”
“Well done, child. It is the treatise on surgery of the great Abul-Qasim of Cordova. One of the cornerstones of Arabic medicine.”
“Why do you show it to me, master? I cannot understand a word of it!”
“Because I want you to think, Maddalena. To put the gears of your ingenious little head, which is so quick to sense the profile of things, in motion. What is the king of France afraid of?”
“I know what my brother discovered, master. The king of France fears that he is an illegitimate son – a bastard who has no right to be on the throne.”
“And why do you think so, child?”
“Because many say so. Among them the bishop of Pamiers.”
A vague grimace of dissatisfaction flickered across the old man’s face.
“Come on, Maddalena. You can do better than that!”
“I don’t know,” she replied, “if the bishop of Pamiers feels he has the right to shout it from the rooftops, there must be a reason. According to my brother, some say that the sovereign’s father was a sodomite.”
“This creates deep insecurity in the king’s heart,” murmured Arnaldo. “Growing up without a mother and with a father who loves another man! It would make anyone feel disoriented, wouldn’t it? He would feel flawed.”
“So he confided in you. What did you say to him?”
“Nothing in particular. I reassured him. I explained to him that the truth was written only inside him, no matter who he was and what the people who raised him had done. Each of us is the arbiter of himself, Maddalena, and is responsible for all his actions. For the good and for the evil that he does to others.”
“I’m not surprised that the king wants you back,” she said. “You were more than a doctor. You were a good friend. A spiritual guide.”
Arnaldo shook his head and sighed.
“Perhaps, child. Today, however, the king of France does not want advice from me but scientific proof. Your teacher in Salerno must have spoken to you about male fertility and about unnatural acts. What did she teach you?”
Maddalena shifted her gaze to the branches of the cypresses that swayed in the wind, as if they could help her recall her memories more quickly.
“I know the Bible condemns that sin,” he replied. “In fact, the Lord destroyed Sodom in a hail of fire.”
“Let us leave the doctrine to theologians, child! We are talking about medicine. What is said about sodomy?”
“That it prevents men from procreating, master. That sin irreparably damages men’s bodies because it contaminates them. It does not allow anything pure and good to survive …”
The girl broke off abruptly, and from her eyes, now wide with astonishment, the old man realized that she had understood everything.
“Of course!” Maddalena cried. “King Philip III must have been sterile from committing the crime of sodomy. He could not bear children, or at least, his children could not have survived because they were contaminated by his sin. And since the king of France gre
w to adulthood, we can deduce…”.
“Very good!” he exclaimed proudly. “That is what terrifies Philip IV: that there is a medical reason why he absolutely cannot be the legitimate son of the deceased French sovereign. Or at least, that is what his detractors say.”
The sarcasm in the Catalan’s voice pointed her towards a certainty.
“But you can prove them wrong, maestro, can’t you? That must be why the king wants you back in his power. Only you can show that the doctors are wrong. “
Arnaldo da Villanova nodded, then raised his index finger and recited some verses in the solemn tone of a prayer.
“This is written in the Koran, child; the holy book of the Saracens. Taking as his starting point the fact that the Koran is the truth, the wise man Abul-Qasim questioned himself on this point: why should the Almighty render men who unite with other men sterile, if he then offers them the opportunity to repent? Why should he punish them so if he is always willing to forgive? After reasoning on the text and then proceeding to direct anatomical examination…”
“Abul-Qasim came to discover that sodomy does not make men barren at all,” she argued. “How did he do it?”
Arnaldo da Villanova threw up his hands in renunciation.
“Ah, do not ask me this! These are not things of which I can speak with an innocent pure young girl like you. Study, child. In books there is often the key to everything.”
Disappointed, she stared at those incomprehensible pages full of doodles.
“So will you translate Abul-Qasim’s text for me?”
“I have no intention of doing so, my child. You can easily find the answer you need by yourself. If you look for it in the right place.”
Maddalena was not sure that she had understood correctly. Arnaldo da Villanova looked down on many illustrious professors and when he was in a bad mood he was peevish even to the cardinals. But with her he was another person, and now he was apparently even giving her a challenge. He wanted to test her – but why? There could only be one reason: to evaluate her ability, and then, once he was sure of it, perhaps to teach her something. She wasted no time asking herself if she was up to the task. She grabbed the letter, stuffed it into her bag then turned on her heels and dashed down the road to her destination.
The Cellars of Notre Dame Page 22
