Baudolino

by Umberto Eco

  "Madness!" he said to himself. "You turn your back for a moment and they pull a trick like this on you," and he spurred his mule to reach the valley as quickly as possible. After crossing the river, on a big barge that transported stones of every kind and size, he stopped where some workers, on an unsteady scaffolding, were constructing a little wall, while others, from the ground, with a winch, were raising to those above some baskets of rubble. But it was a winch only after a manner of speaking, for a more crude contraption could hardly be imagined: made of withes instead of sturdy stakes, it swayed constantly, and the two men on the ground made it spin. They were less concerned with pulling the rope than with controlling that menacingly wide sway of the baskets. Baudolino promptly said to himself: There, it's obvious, the people from around here, when they do something, they do it either bad or worse. Just look; is this any way to work? If I were master here, I'd grab all of them by the seat of the pants and throw them in the Tanaro."

  Then he saw, a bit farther on, another group, supposedly constructing a loggetta, with crudely hewn stones, beams clumsily finished, and capitals that seemed shaped by an animal. To hoist the construction material they had rigged up a kind of pulley, and Baudolino realized that, compared with this bunch, the men at the little wall were masters worthy of Como. He then stopped making comparisons as, proceding a little farther, he saw others building the way children do when they play with mud, and they were putting the finishing touches, the last licks, you might say, on a construction similar to three others near it, made of mud and shapeless stones, with roofs of straw carelessly packed: thus a sort of street was being born of hovels very ill-made, as if the workers were competing to see who could finish first before the holiday, with no regard for the rules of the art.

  As he tried to find his bearings in that multitude of crafts, Baudolino discovered a multitude of dialects—which showed how one collection of huts was being made by peasants of Solero, a twisted tower was the work of Monferrato people, that mortar was being stirred by the Pavesi, those planks were being sawed by men who until then had cut down trees in the Palea. But when he heard someone giving orders, or saw a band working properly, he heard Genoese spoken.

  Have I fallen into the midst of the construction of the tower of Babel? Baudolino asked himself. Or into the Hibernia of Abdul, where those seventy-two sages have reconstructed the speech of Adam, putting all languages together, just as you mix water and clay, pitch and bitumen? But here they no longer speak the language of Adam and, though altogether they speak seventy-two languages, men of such different breeds, who as a rule would be hitting one another, they are all mixing in loving harmony!

  He had approached a group that was skillfully covering a construction of wooden beams, as if it were an abbatial church, using a windlass of great dimensions which was not moved by manpower but by the toil of a horse. Not oppressed by the collar still in use in some rural districts, that would constrict his throat, the animal pulled with great energy thanks to a comfortable harness. The workmen emitted sounds surely Genoese, and Baudolino addressed them at once in their vernacular—even if not in a manner sufficiently correct to hide the fact that he was not one of them.

  "What are you up to?" he asked, to open the conversation. And one of them, giving him a nasty look, said they were building a machine to scratch their cock. Now, since all the others started laughing and it was clear they were laughing at him, Baudolino (already in a temper from having to act the unarmed merchant on a mule, while in his baggage he kept, carefully wrapped in a bolt of cloth, his courtier's sword) replied in the Frescheta dialect, which after all this time returned spontaneously to his lips, that he had no need of a machine because, as a rule, his prick, as respectable people called it, was regularly scratched by those sluts of their mothers. The Genoese didn't understand clearly the meaning of his words, but they guessed their intention. They abandoned their tasks, one grabbing a stone, another a pick, to form a semicircle around the mule. Fortunately, at that moment some other men were approaching, one of whom looked like a knight, and in a language half-Frank and half-Latin, half-Provençal and half God knows what, he told the Genoese that the traveler spoke like a man of these parts, and so they were not to treat him as someone who had no right to pass this way. He had asked questions like a spy, the Genoese explained, and the knight replied that if the emperor did send spies, so much the better, because it was time he knew that a city had risen here, just to spite him. And then he said to Baudolino: "I've never seen you before, but you look like someone returning home. Have you come to join us?"

  "My lord," Baudolino replied with urbanity, "I was born in Frascheta, but I left it many years ago, and I knew nothing of all that is happening here. My name is Baudolino, son of Gagliaudo Aulari...."

  Before he could finish speaking, from the group of newcomers an old man with white hair and beard raised a stick and began shouting: "Wicked, heartless liar, may lightning strike you. How dare you use the name of my poor son Baudolino, son of Gagliaudo, here in person, and Aulari too, who left his home so many years ago with a grand Alaman lord, and after all maybe was one who made monkeys dance because I never heard another word about my poor boy and after all this time he has to be dead, so my sainted wife and I have suffered these thirty years, for the greatest sorrow of our life, that was already miserable enough, but to lose a son is a sorrow no one can know unless he's suffered it himself!"

  At which Baudolino cried: "Dear Father! It's really you!" His voice broke and tears came to his eyes, but they could not conceal a great happiness. Then he added: "And it hasn't been thirty years of suffering, because I left only thirteen years ago, and you should be pleased because I've spent those years well, and now I'm somebody." The old man came over to the mule, looked carefully into Baudolino's face, and said: "Why, you're really you! Even if it was thirty years, that jackass look you've never lost, so you know what I have to say to you? Maybe you're now somebody, but you mustn't wrong your father, and if I said thirty years it's because to me it's seemed thirty, and in thirty years you could have sent news, you wretch. You're the ruin of our family. Get off that animal that you probably stole, and I'll break this stick over your head!" He seized Baudolino by the boots, trying to pull him down from the mule, but the man who seemed the leader stepped between them. "Come now, Gagliaudo, you find your son again after thirty years—"

  "Thirteen," Baudolino said.

  "You shut up! The two of us will talk later—you find him after thirty years and in this situation you embrace and thank God, for God's sake!" Baudolino had already dismounted and was about to fling himself into the arms of Gagliaudo, who was now crying, when the lord who seemed a leader again stepped in and seized Baudolino by the collar: "But if there's anyone here who has a score to settle it's me."

  "And who might you be?" Baudolino asked.

  "I'm Oberto del Foro, but you don't know that, and you probably don't remember anything. I was maybe ten years old and my father deigned to visit yours, to see some calves that were for sale. I was dressed the way a gentleman's son should be, and my father didn't want me to go into the stable with him for fear I would get dirty. I was wandering around outside the house, and you were right after me, so dirty and ugly you looked like you'd come out of a dunghill. You faced me, looked at me, and asked me if I wanted to play a game; I stupidly said yes, and you gave me a shove that sent me into the pigs' trough. When my father saw me in that state, he gave me a whipping because I had spoiled my new clothes."

  "That may be," Baudolino said, "but it happened thirty years ago...."

  "First of all, it was thirteen, and since then I've thought about it every day, because I've never been so humiliated in my life as I was that time, and, growing up, I kept telling myself that if I one day met the son of Gagliaudo, I'd kill him."

  "And you want to kill me now?"

  "Not now, no. On the contrary, because we're all here and we've almost finished constructing a city, to fight the emperor when he sets foot again in thes
e parts, so obviously I don't have time to waste killing you. For thirty years..."

  "Thirteen."

  "For thirteen years I've had this rage in my heart, and now, at this very moment, strangely enough, it's gone."

  "Like they say, sometimes..."

  "Now don't try to be smart. Go and embrace your father. Then, if you apologize to me for that day, we can go to a place nearby where they're celebrating the completion of a building, and in these situations we draw from the keg of the best and, as our old folks used to say, we drink the night away."

  Baudolino found himself in a huge cellar. The city wasn't yet finished, and already the first tavern was open, in a cave that was all hogsheads and long wooden tables, full of fine mugs, and salami made with ass's meat, which (Baudolino explained to a horrified Niketas) arrived looking like swollen wineskins; you pierce them with a knife, drop them in some oil and garlic to fry, and they are a delicacy. And that's why all those present were in high spirits, stinking and tipsy. Oberto del Foro announced the return of the son of Gagliaudo Aulari, and immediately some of the men threw themselves on Baudolino, punching his shoulders, as he first widened his eyes, surprised, then responded, in a whirl of recognitions that threatened never to end. "Good Lord, why you're Scaccabarozzi, and you're Cuttica of Quargnento—and who are you? No, don't tell me, I want to guess. You must be Squarciafichi! And are you Ghini or Porcelli?"

  "No, he's Porcelli, the one who always threw stones at you! I was Ghino Ghini, and to tell the truth I still am. The two of us used to go and slide on the ice, in winter."

  "Good Lord Jesus, it's true: you're Ghini! Weren't you the one who could sell anything, even the dung of your goats, like that time when you passed some off on a pilgrim as the ashes of San Baudolino?"

  "That's right, I did! In fact, now I'm a merchant. Talk about fate! Now look at him—try and say who he is...."

  "Why, it's Merlo! What was it I always used to say to you?"

  "You used to say: 'Lucky Merlo, stupid as you are, you never take offense.' Now, look at me; instead of taking, I've lost..." and he held up his right arm, the hand missing. "At the siege of Milan, ten years ago."

  "Yes, I was going to ask. As far as I know, the people of Gamondio, Bergoglio, and Marengo have always been for the emperor. So how is it you used to be for him and now you're building a city against him?"

  They all started trying to explain, and the only thing Baudolino understood clearly was that around the old castle and the church of Santa Maria of Roboreto a city had risen, made up of people from the neighboring settlements, places like Gamondio, Bergoglio, and Marengo, but with whole families who had come from everywhere, from Rivalta Bormida, from Bassignana or Piovera, to build the houses they would then live in. So that since May three of them, Rodolfo Nebia, Aleramo of Marengo, and Oberto del Foro had brought to Lodi, to the communes assembled there, the support of the new city, even if it existed, at that moment, more in their intentions than on the banks of the Tanaro. But they had all worked like animals, all summer and autumn, and the city was nearly ready, ready to block the emperor's path, the day he came down again into Italy, as was his bad habit.

  What did they think they were blocking? Baudolino asked, slightly skeptical. "He could simply skirt it...."

  "No, no," they answered, "you don't know the emperor [Imagine!]. A city that rises without his consent is an offense to be cleansed in blood; he'll be forced to lay siege to it [on this point they were right; they well knew Frederick's character]; that's why you need solid walls and streets designed specially for warfare, and that's why we needed the Genoese, who are sailors, true, but they go to distant lands and build many new cities, and they know how it's done."

  "But the Genoese aren't the kind to do something for nothing," Baudolino said. "Who paid them?"

  "They paid! They've already given us a loan of a thousand Genovese solidi, and they've promised another thousand for the coming year."

  "And what do you mean by saying you make streets specially designed for warfare?"

  "Have Emanuele Trotti explain that to you. It was his idea. You speak: you're the Poliorcete!"

  "What's the Polior thing?"

  This Trotti (who, like Oberto, had the air of a miles, a knight, in other words, a vassal of a certain dignity) said: "A city must resist the enemy, prevent him from scaling the walls, but if unfortunately he does scale them, the city must still be ready to stand up to him, and break his neck. If the enemy, inside the walls, immediately finds a tangle of alleyways where he can slip in, you'll never catch him again; some go here, some there, and after a while the defenders end up like a mouse. No, the enemy must find an open area under the walls, where he remains exposed long enough to be assailed by arrows and stones from around the corners and from the windows, and before he can move past that space, half of his forces will be done for."

  (True, Niketas sadly interjected, on hearing the story, this is what they should have done in Constantinople; instead, at the base of the walls they allowed that tangle of alleyways to develop.... Yes, Baudolino would have liked to reply, but you'd also need men with balls like my countrymen, and not a bunch of namby-pambies like your weak-kneed imperial guard—but he remained silent so as not to hurt his interlocutor, and he said: "Be quiet, don't interrupt Trotti, let me continue.")

  Trotti said: "If the enemy then gets past the open area and slips into the streets, they should not be straight, made with a plumb line, not even if you are inspired by the ancient Romans, who designed a city on a grid. Because with a straight street the enemy always knows what's awaiting him, but not if the streets are full of corners, or elbows, if you like. The defender waits around the corner, on the ground and on the rooftops, and he always knows what the enemy is doing, because on the next roof there's another defender, crouching on a corner, who glimpses the enemy and signals to those who haven't yet seen him. The enemy never knows what's in store for him, so he slows down his advance. Therefore a good city must have its houses badly arranged, like a crone's teeth, which seems ugly but is what's really beautiful. And, finally, you want the false tunnel!"

  "You haven't told us about that yet," Boidi interjected.

  "Naturally. I just heard about it myself from a Genoese who heard it from a Greek, and it was an idea of Belisarius, the general of the emperor Justinian. What does a besieger want? He wants to dig tunnels under the walls that will lead him to the heart of the city. So what is his dream? To find a tunnel already made. So we promptly dig a tunnel for him, which from outside leads inside the walls. On the outside, we conceal the mouth of the tunnel with rocks and bushes, but not cleverly enough to prevent the enemy from discovering it sooner or later. The end of the tunnel, the one that opens inside the city, must be a passage so narrow that only one man, or at most two, can go through at a time. It is closed with a metal grating, and the first one to reach it will see a square and perhaps the corner of a chapel, a sign that the passage leads right into the city. At the grating you set a guard, and when the enemy arrives, they have to emerge one by one, and as each comes out, the guard fells him...."

  "And the enemy are all stupid and they keep coming out, not noticing that those ahead of them are dropping like figs," Boidi snickered.

  "Who says enemies are stupid? Calm down. Maybe the idea should be studied a bit more, but it isn't something to reject."

  Baudolino stepped to one side with Ghini, who was a merchant and must therefore be a man of sense with his feet on the ground, not like those knights, vassals of vassals, who to achieve military fame fling themselves even into lost causes. "Listen to me a minute, Ghini, pass me that wine and tell me something. I'll go along with the idea that, when you make a city here, Barbarossa is forced to besiege it to save his reputation, and that gives time to those of the League to strike him from behind after he's worn himself out with the siege. But the losers in all this are the people of the city. You'd have me believe that our people will leave the places where, for better or worse, they were getting along, a
nd come here to get themselves killed to please the people of Pavia? You're telling me that the Genoese, who wouldn't shell out a penny to ransom their mothers from the Saracen pirates, are giving you money and labor to build a city that, at best, serves the purposes of Milan?"

  "Baudolino," Ghini said, "the story is much more complicated than that. Take a good look at where we are." He dipped a finger in the wine and began to make marks on the table. "Here's Genoa, right? And here are Terdona, then Pavia, then Milan. These are rich cities, and Genoa is a port. So Genoa must have free access for its trade with the Lombard cities, right? The passes go through the Lemme valley, then the Orba valley, the Bormida, and the Scrivia. We're talking about four rivers, aren't we? And they all intertwine more or less along the shore of the Tanaro. So if you have a bridge over the Tanaro, from there your way is open to trade with the lands of the marquess of Monferrato, and God knows where else. Is that clear? Now, while Genoa and Pavia were getting along nicely, it was fine for them if these valleys remained without a lord, or else, if the situation demanded, they formed alliances, for example, with Gavi or with Marengo, and things went smoothly.... But with the arrival of this emperor, Pavia on one side and Monferrato on the other, both allied with the empire, Genoa is cut off to the left and also to the right, and if it goes over to Frederick, it can kiss its trade with Milan good-bye. So they have to remain on good terms with Terdona and Novi, since one will allow them to control the valley of the Scrivia and the other, the Bormida. But you know what happened: the emperor razed Terdona, Pavia seized control of the Terdona region as far as the Appenines, and all our towns went over to the empire, and, by God, I ask you: puny as we were, could we have tried acting strong? What did the Genoese have to give us to persuade us to change sides? Something we'd never dreamed of having: namely, a city, with consuls and soldiers, and a bishop, and walls, a city that collects tolls on transients and goods. You realize, Baudolino, that just by controlling a bridge over the Tanaro you make piles of money, you sit there comfortably and you ask money of one man, a couple of hens from the next, a whole ox from the one after that, and they pay up right away. A city is a gold mine. Remember how rich the people of Terdona were compared to us in the Palea. And this city, which is good for us, is good also for the League, and good for Genoa, as I was telling you, because, weak as it might be, by the mere fact of being there, it disrupts the schemes of all the others and guarantees that in this area neither Pavia nor the emperor can be master, nor can the marquess of Monferrato...."