Now the ring was more than twice as large as when I had last seen it on him: in addition to the Roman keys there were now the keys to all the cellars of Vienna. And that was no small achievement: as Cardinal Piccolomini had observed three-hundred years earlier, the city’s cellars are deep and spacious, giving rise to the saying that in Vienna there are as many buildings below as above ground.
“If you don’t confess straightaway, I’ll tear all your adored keys from you and throw them away,” I threatened.
Ugonio began to whimper and said that if that was how things were he could tell me some more about the matter, but not until tomorrow. He repeated several times that he would rather go straight to hell than talk now, and he would prefer a thousand times to rot in the terrible imperial dungeons, where – he well knew – he risked being tortured and having his limbs mutilated. It would still be far preferable to the horrifying fate that would await him if he revealed to us the secret of his pacts with the dervish.
Ugonio’s terror was practically a confession. I had no doubt about it now: it was Atto who had tracked Ugonio down and hired him; he was the link between the Abbot and the Turkish embassy. Atto had known the corpisantaro for thirty years. He had learned how valuable he was for certain shady dealings. And he also knew how to make the best use of him without being swindled. Had the decrepit old castrato really hoped, I thought with a smile, that I would never find him out?
“All right. Tomorrow morning here, then. Let’s say at nine: I’ve got a cleaning job at Porta Coeli – immediately afterwards we can meet. In the meantime, for surety, I’ll keep hold of these,” I said at last to Ugonio, taking from his overcoat the ring with the keys, to keep as hostages. “I’ll give them back when you show up again.”
Ugonio desperately stretched out his hooked hands towards the ring. Then he lowered his head: if he had had the slightest idea of doing a bunk, now he knew that it would cost him his precious keys.
“Now listen carefully, Ugonio. We saw Ciezeber performing strange rites in the wood,” I announced, glancing meaningfully towards Cloridia, who was caressing our son’s head, as he was clearly scared.
My wife went out, taking the boy into the cloisters, to spare him from hearing this grim conversation.
I started up again, recounting the arcane rituals that we had seen the dervish performing, right up to the point when Ciezeber had pulled out his little knife from his bundle of things and the small mass of dark stuff. At the end I fixed my pupils questioningly on Ugonio’s. He was still highly offended by the loss of his key ring and drummed his yellow, claw-like fingers on the table nearby. Then he said:
“I cannot furnish Your Presumption with any furtherances. My dealifyings with the dervishite are only on businesses, and wholly licit swindlifications. But I was able to identificate the little knife and the black objection that Ciezeber extricatified in the forestal woodiness, and which you have descripted with such claret.”
“So you know what I’m talking about?” I said, taking heart.
“Undoubtfully. I had notified the peculiarousness of the dervishite’s paraphernations.”
“And so? Did you work out what that stuff was for?”
“To be more padre than parricide, I can ensure you, after careful exanimation, that they are instrumentations of an insanitary purpose.”
“They’ve got something to do with diseases?” asked Simonis.
“Are you deaf, by any chance?” asked Ugonio impatiently, casting a longing look at the key ring I still held in my hands.
“Ah, they’re medical instruments,” I muttered in disappointment.
“I confirmate.”
How had I failed to think of that? Cloridia had even told me that some dervishes were also healers. And what we had witnessed in the wood near the Place with No Name must have been a mystic ritual to confer greater power on their treatments. In the dervish’s operations I had sought a trace of the poison which, under the false name of smallpox, was killing the Emperor; now I discovered that it was the exact opposite, a therapeutic intervention.
I was stuck midstream. I had not yet managed to find any proof of my suspicions with regard to Atto Melani, the Ottoman embassy and the secret poisoning of Joseph I. And yet I had to find something: I had to do something, damn it, I repeated to myself as I observed Ugonio and wondered how to proceed. If by ill chance someone were to discover Atto Melani, the enemy agent, I would end up on the gallows with him. The mystery of the head remained unsolved, and this – by now it was clear – was the key to everything, but I still had to find a way to drag the truth out of the corpisantaro. There was another path, which might lead to the truth.
“Ugonio, have you ever heard of the Golden Apple?”
He caught his breath. He was not expecting that question.
“It is a complicable and horrendiful story,” he said at last.
According to Ugonio, the whole thing had begun three years earlier. As we already knew from Frosch, in 1708 a sister of Joseph the Victorious, Anna Maria, had married the King of Portugal, John V. After a few months, the young Queen had heard from the ladies of her new court of a strange popular belief. Spain’s war of succession, which was raging throughout Europe, would only be won by the Empire if the original Golden Orb or Apple of Justinian, which guaranteed the supremacy of the Christian West, were to be placed on the tallest spire of the most sacred church of the Caesarean capital – which is to say, the bell tower of the Cathedral of St Stephen: substituting, that is, the sacrilegious orb created and mounted on the bell tower by Suleiman. In some mysterious fashion Justinian’s Golden Orb had ended up in Spain, and then had gone on to Portugal. That was not all. Emperor Ferdinand I had had a holy cross placed on top of Suleiman’s orb after a rather disconcerting episode: as soon as the Sultan had abandoned the siege of the Caesarean capital, there had appeared in the sky, in full daylight, none other than the Archangel Michael, who, with the blazing tip of his unsheathed sword, had engraved in letters of fire a mysterious message at the top of the spire, on the pedestal supporting the sacrilegious orb.
“The Archangel Michael is the very figure who traditionally holds the Imperial Orb in one hand, while he drives out Lucifer with his sword in the shape of the holy cross,” I said in amazement, recalling Koloman Szupán’s tale.
“Exactly,” said Ugonio.
The corpisantaro went on. Seven times the Archangel pointed his sword at the pedestal, and seven were the words he engraved there. The sparks from his sword were seen by a multitude of the faithful gathered in the square before the Cathedral of St Stephen. They testified without a shadow of a doubt to the truth of the miraculous event, and the Emperor at once sent two labourers to the spire to make a faithful copy of what the Archangel had written there. The two labourers were carefully chosen among the illiterate, so that no one apart from the Emperor would be aware of the secret. What they delivered to him troubled him to such an extent that he spent the whole night praying in the Caesarean chapel, prostrate, with his face to the ground, and the next day he ordered that the holy cross of the Redeemer should be placed immediately on top of the sacrilegious orb, thus transforming it into the Imperial Orb of the Archangel Michael. Ferdinand I chose never to confide to anyone what the Archangel had written, and took his secret with him to the tomb. After his death several attempts were made to send someone up there to read the message on the spire, but various misfortunes rendered all attempts vain: one person tumbled from the tower, another was blinded by a sudden flash from the sky, another one fell, et cetera et cetera. It was even rumoured that a priest of the Cathedral Chapter, on a night of full moon, had ventured up there, but nothing further was heard. The story related that the Archangel’s message concluded with an express imposition of silence.
These tales of the Golden Apple and the Archangel Michael were reported to Joseph I’s sister, the new bride of the King of Portugal. And so it was that a flying Ship had set out from Lisbon, equipped with a highly secret system of propulsion and drive
n by a mysterious and unidentified figure, whose mission it was to put the true Golden Apple in its place, on the highest point of St Stephen’s, and at the same time to read the Archangel’s mysterious message.
Simonis and I exchanged glances: Ugonio’s tale tallied with the accounts of the students. Hristo, Populescu, Koloman and their friends had established that, according to the legends, the Golden Apple was the symbol (but maybe something more) of the power of the West. They had learned that the mysterious object dated back to Justinian; that it had been buried in Constantinople with Eyyub, Mahomet’s standard-bearer; that it had then ended up in Spain; that during the first siege of Vienna, Suleiman had had another one made. And finally, that Ferdinand I had had a holy cross placed on Suleiman’s orb, which had enraged the Sultan. And recently, we ourselves had read in Frosch’s gazette that the Flying Ship had arrived in 1709 from Portugal, steered by a person nobody knew, and that it had got stuck – it just so happened – on the spire of St Stephen’s. These things could not just be coincidences.
There was something else that tied in curiously with these events, which only I knew about: the mysterious flying helmsman, mentioned in the Diary of Vienna as a presumed Brazilian priest, in fact had all the characteristics of the strange individual I had met in Rome eleven years earlier, during my second adventure with Atto Melani: the violinist Albicastro, who, it just so happened, always played the same melody known as folia, a dance that originated in Portugal.
“Let’s sum things up,” I said. “While all these strange things are happening in Portugal, the Agha is received by Prince Eugene and tells him soli soli soli ad pomum venimus aureum. Meanwhile, your Ciezeber plans to chop off –”
“Just a momentum.”
Ugonio asked me to repeat the sentence that the Turkish ambassador had pronounced in front of Eugene of Savoy.
“It is an indicative phraseology, incontrovertebrate and plause-worthy.”
“What?” asked Simonis.
“He says the Turks’ message is perfectly clear,” I translated.
There was no doubt, the corpisantaro declared with conviction: the Ottomans, too, had come to Vienna to get back the Golden Apple. Only in this sense had they “come to the pomum aureum”, as the Latin phrase used by the Agha said literally.
“It may be so,” I admitted, “but why did they declare it to Eugene?”
“I ignorify that,” Ugonis merely said, shrugging.
“And where is the Golden Apple now?”
“I have besought it highly and lowly and with undefaltering fast-steadness. Some insinufy that the driver, before they threw him into deep dudgeon, snuggled it into the Flying Ship. Misluckily I have not catched a glint of it there. The guardian and his feline ferocities are too snoopivigilant.”
“So where is it?”
“To be more padre than parricide, I hope to be able to beseek it more caringfully. I’m also doing my utfulmost to get a deacon of the cathedral to speak: he is obsessified with sacred relishes. Tomorrow, in exchange for a corpus santus he will perhaps belch forth the Archangel’s phrase.”
“That’s the way. Give him Adam’s apple core,” Simonis scoffed.
My assistant and I had hardly any time to discuss the encounter with the old corpisantaro; a few minutes after he had left, the Chormaisterin herself came and knocked at our door. She had heard what had happened, since her sisters had told her about the attack on Cloridia, the subsequent chase and finally the chaotic arrest of Ugonio. I explained how things had gone, taking care to play down my relations with the corpisantaro. I said he was a minor thief I had met long before in Rome, whom I had decided to forgive as a compatriot. Much more important was the news that Camilla herself gave us:
“Let us all thank the Lord,” she declared with a sigh, “the Emperor is much better. His illness seems to be progressing well, the doctors foresee that in a few days’ time His Majesty will not only be out of danger but restored to full health.”
The public prayers that had begun the day before throughout the city, and especially in St Stephen’s, had had an effect. For this reason they would continue to recite the sacred orations for another six days, that heaven might grant in full the imperial subjects’ prayers. But in particular they had commenced the oration of the Forty Hours, which had been recited a few years earlier when Archduke Charles, Joseph’s younger brother, had fallen dangerously ill; on that occasion, too, the illness had passed with the help of God. The oration could only be done by men, it lasted a week and prayers had to be recited six hours a day, in shifts which were divided (it hardly needs saying) by social classes. On the first day, the Sunday that had just passed, the imperial family had started the prayers. Today it was the turn of the nobility, then the five social classes would pray, obviously during working-hours: from eight to eleven and from three to six. The oration would be concluded by us artisans and traders with all our employees. The women, during this period, were exhorted to pray in church as fervently as possible.
We all rejoiced at the splendid news. Simonis and I embraced poor Camilla, who had been suffering so grievously until that moment and who was already preparing herself for the long prayer vigils that awaited her for the whole week. We had not slept and nor had we had breakfast, but the news revived our spirits and our senses.
“Today is Monday, Simonis.”
“To work, Signor Master,” answered my assistant, with his slightly foolish smile that always inspired such confidence.
Work, of course. But we both knew that what was really calling us was the mystery of the Golden Apple. The key to our doubts awaited us at Neugebäu, in the Place with No Name.
7 of the clock: the Bell of the Turks, also called the Peal of the Oration, rings.
The road was finally clear of snow. The news of the improvement in the poor Emperor’s health was, I thought, truly welcome. But the dark shadow of misfortune and death that those days had cast over us was far from dissipated. As we trudged along I still pondered on the terrible end of Hristo and Dànilo Danilovitsch, and the suspicious origins of the illness of Joseph the Victorious – and such unexpected facts as the revelation that Hadji-Tanjov was an Ottoman subject. Not to mention the highly mysterious indications left by the Bulgarian student of a link between soli soli soli and checkmate . . .
The nocturnal quarrel with Abbot Melani had yet to be settled; my suspicions were far from allayed. Sooner or later Atto and I would talk again, and then perhaps I would get a clearer view of his shady conduct. It was true that he had been taken seriously ill when I accused him of conspiring for Joseph’s death, but that could have been the perturbation of a guilty man caught red-handed, rather than that of an innocent man wrongly accused. Or again, it could have been a skilful performance to get out of a tight spot, playing the part of the guileless innocent: I was all too familiar with the prodigious acting skills of the old hypocrite, impostor and trickster.
That day at Neugebäu it was not only the riddle of the Golden Apple that awaited us, but also a great deal of work. I was afraid that I would not be able to get the full benefit of Simonis’s assistance: he had to go back to town to take part in the ceremony to mark the return to lessons after the Easter holidays.
“Don’t worry, Signor Master,” he reassured me. “The celebration is in the afternoon.”
“In the afternoon? And the lessons?”
“They don’t start till tomorrow. Otherwise there would be more people absent than present.”
“And why would that be?”
“The students here get the most out of all holidays. They will have been revelling and feasting, eating and drinking right up until dawn. Today the student body of the Alma Mater Rudolphina will be snoring peacefully in their beds, sleeping off their hangovers. That’s why they wisely postpone the reopening ceremony until Monday afternoon, and lessons until Tuesday.”
We stopped for a break in the vineyards that Porta Coeli owned at Simmering. We identified the buttery and cleaned the flue, as we had promised t
he Chormaisterin. It was a spacious room, so that we could not resist the temptation to draw off a little wine and go and drink it in the commodious room where the fireplace stood.
As we continued on our way, it struck me that on my two previous visits to the Place with No Name I had seen no trace of any other artisans. Nor had Frosch, the gruff watchman at Neugebäu, made any mention of other artisans, workers or architects in the manor house or in his gardens. Indeed, Frosch had seemed totally in the dark as to the imminent restoration work ordered by the Emperor. Perhaps, I told myself, the architects and carpenters had preferred to wait until the thaw. Over the next few days maybe they would come along as well and start their operations, but it still struck me as strange, and I made a note to myself to ask Frosch about it.
After the unexpected snow of the previous days, the countryside now seemed to show the first timid signs of the new season. The unseasonable snow was already melting, the sharp air and thick morning mists were definitely yielding to the rays of the day star and to the cold crystalline air of the Viennese spring.
We came in sight of the Place with No Name just as dawn was shyly caressing its pure white walls. Wielding immaterial paintbrushes, a fiery ray tinged the towers with pink and gold, daubing them with the first patina of dawn light. As soon as the last traces of mist lifted, brilliant rays struck the roofs of the castle, the spires of the corner turrets and the peaks of the great hexagonal towers, scattering the reflections of the copper tiles in all directions. Sharp and powerful, refracted by the roofs of the Place with No Name, the fair and blessed light of the sun shimmered throughout the plain of Simmering. With a murmur of wonder, we immediately lifted our hands to our brows in order not to be blinded by the dazzling light; every bush, every blade of glass, every single stone seemed to be overwhelmed by that magnificent and almost unbearable vision. It was as if the castle, suspended in the grassy plain, were being annihilated by fire and, at every instant, freshly recreated, ready for a new ineffable combustion. What a striking contrast, I thought, between our journey shadowing the obscure Ciezeber along this same road and the overwhelming splendour of this vision.
Veritas (Atto Melani) Page 38
