“It is indeed,” said the poet, with a mischievous smile, and began:
In Barbary there once lived a rich man who had a beautiful daughter, a simple-minded girl of fourteen. Her name was Alibech. She was not a Christian, but she knew a Christian boy named Neerbale, and she asked him how a person should serve God. He told her that the ones who served God best were the hermits who renounced the world and went to live in the desert.
The next morning, prompted by nothing more than a young girl’s fancy, Alibech sneaked out of her father’s house and went to visit the hermits in the Theban desert. Tired and hungry, she came upon a small hut. In the doorway stood a holy man.
Alibech said, “Can you teach me how to serve God?”
But the holy man, seeing that she was pretty, was afraid to invite her in, lest the Devil tempt him. So he gave her some dates to eat and some water to drink and sent her on her way. She found a second hermit and got the same response. Then she came upon the hovel of a third hermit, younger than the others. His name was Rustico.
“Can you teach me how to serve God?” she asked.
Rustico saw that she was very pretty, but thought he had a will of iron. So he invited her in. He asked her to lie down on a bed of palm leaves, but when he saw her there, he knew he was in trouble. She was so young and beautiful, and he had not seen a woman in years. Casting aside his piety and his prayers, he meditated on the young girl’s beauty. A wicked thought entered his head, and he wondered how to approach the girl with his proposal. They talked awhile, and Rustico discovered that Alibech had never slept with a man. She was even more innocent than she seemed. I’m in luck, he thought, and he knew just how to trick her into granting his desires.
He began with a long sermon about how the Devil was God’s greatest enemy. Then he explained that the best way to serve God was to put the Devil back into Hell.
The girl asked how this was done, and Rustico said, “Just do whatever I do.” Then he undressed until he was completely naked. The girl followed his example.
Rustico sank to his knees, as if in prayer, and told her to kneel facing him. In this posture, the girl’s wonders were displayed to him in all their glory, which inflamed his desire and brought about the resurrection of the flesh.
Alibech was amazed. “What is that thing sticking out in front of you?”
Rustico said, “This is the Devil I was telling you about.”
“Does he hurt you?” she asked.
“Oh, yes. He torments me. I cannot endure it.”
She said, “Thank God I have no such Devil to torment me.”
“You have something else.”
“Oh? What is that?”
“You have Hell,” said Rustico. “Take pity on me, O merciful child. Help me put the Devil back into Hell. It will relieve my suffering and render great service unto God.”
“Oh, Father,” she said. “If I really do have a Hell, then we should do as you say, as soon as you’re ready.”
“I’m ready now,” said Rustico.
He conveyed the girl to the bed, where he tutored her in the art of incarcerating the accursed fiend. But the young girl had never before put a Devil back into Hell, and found this first experience a bit painful. She said, “The Devil is truly evil, Father. Not only does he plague mankind, but he even hurts Hell when he is forced back inside.”
“It will not always be like that,” Rustico assured her, and to prove it they put the Devil back into Hell a dozen times that night, curbing his arrogance so completely that the Devil did not rise again for the rest of the day.
Later, however, the Devil’s pride reared its head repeatedly, and the girl said to Rustico, “Now I know what Christians mean when they say that serving God is so enjoyable. I’ve never done anything that gave me so much pleasure as putting the Devil back into Hell. It seems to me that anyone who does anything but serve God is an idiot.”
After that, she went to Rustico many times a day, saying, “Father, I came here to serve God, not waste my time. Let’s go put the Devil back into Hell.”
But by constantly calling Rustico to his Godly service, the girl took so much out of him that he began to turn cold where another man would be hot, so Rustico told her that the Devil should only be put back into Hell when he raised his head with pride. In fact, said Rustico, they had tamed the Devil so well that he was now pleading with God to be left in peace.
This did not satisfy the girl for long.
“Look here, Father. Even though your Devil no longer pesters you, my Hell refuses to leave me alone. The least you could do is get your Devil to quench the fires of my Hell.”
But Rustico had more than met his match. Some days he responded to the call, but this happened so rarely that it was like tossing a bean into the maw of a lion.
At the height of this tempest between Alibech’s Hell and Rustico’s Devil, caused by a surplus of desire on the one hand and a shortage of power on the other, a fire broke out in the girl’s home town. Her father was burned to death, so that Alibech inherited the entire estate. When Neerbale heard that the daughter was still alive, he searched for her, and before the authorities could appropriate her father’s estate for lack of an heir, he found her. To Rustico’s relief, and Alibech’s dismay, Neerbale took her back home and married her, thus inheriting a half-share of her father’s fortune.
Before the marriage was consummated, the women of the town asked Alibech how she had served God in the desert. She told them she had done so by putting the Devil back into Hell, and that Neerbale had committed a terrible sin by stopping her.
The women asked, “How do you put the Devil back into Hell?”
With words and gestures, Alibech told them how it was done, and the women laughed so hard they are laughing even now.
“Don’t worry, dear,” they said. “People do it just as well in the town as in the desert, and your husband will give you plenty of help in serving the Lord.”
The story spread from one gossip to the next, and soon it became a proverb that the most enjoyable way of serving God is to put the Devil back into Hell. The dictum later crossed the sea to Italy, where it survives to this day.
And so, my friends, if you desire God’s grace, see that you learn to put the Devil back into Hell, for it pleases both God and man, and much good can come of it.
Giovanni sat back down with a grin on his face. He watched Nadja struggle to tame her blushing as Marco and Petrarch recovered from laughter. The lone holdout was William, who stood quietly by a window, looking off into the distance. He said, “That’s not the story I was thinking of.”
The room erupted in another gale of gaiety. William’s face turned pomegranate. He cloaked it with his cowl and went for the door.
“I’m sorry, Father,” Giovanni said. “It’s just a story.”
William turned in anger. “This is a war, Giovanni. Choose God or choose the Devil, but do it now. I’m running out of patience, and we’re running out of time.” He stepped into the darkness beyond the door.
The silence held until Petrarch said, “What was that about?”
Giovanni hesitated. The friar’s rebuke had rattled him, and he did not want to lose Petrarch’s good graces by appearing a fool. Their pilgrimage seemed more foolish now than ever.
“We’re going to Hell,” Nadja said.
Petrarch took it as a jest. “Not any time soon, I hope.”
“As soon as we can.” Her voice was somber.
Now their host looked uncomfortable. He glanced back at Giovanni, seeking confirmation. “The wine is strong tonight.”
Giovanni set his cup aside. “In vino veritas. I’m guiding them to the gate. They plan to take the dark road down.”
“Down?”
“To Inferno.”
Petrarch considered this at length. “Very well, my friends. I’ll play along.” He asked a servant for more wine and took a measured sip. “Will you be going to Jerusalem?”
“Not that far,” said Nadja.
“Inferno is beneath the Ho
ly City. Dante is clear on that. Perhaps the gate is in Gehenna.”
“They hope to go by another gate,” Giovanni said.
“Theseus descended at Taenarum.”
“We follow the path of Aeneas.”
“Ah.” Petrarch smiled. “The cave of the Sibyl.”
“Dante left directions.”
“Did he?”
“In the text.”
“Dante was lost.”
“Canto one. Line twenty. He says, ‘the lake of my heart.’”
“A metaphor,” said Petrarch.
“A clue. He describes himself as someone struggling for breath, who swims ashore and turns back to look at the waters.”
“So the gate is near a lake?”
“Lake Avernus.”
“The world is full of lakes.”
“There are other clues.”
“Are there?” The sarcasm was thick in Petrarch’s voice.
Giovanni did not waver. “Rachel says to Beatrice, ‘Do you not see the death that combats him on the river over which the sea has no boast?’”
“Canto two, one hundred and eight,” Petrarch noted. “But Avernus is not a river.”
“A lake is a river that does not meet the sea. Therefore, the sea cannot claim it.”
“Interesting.”
“Beneath Avernus is a river that boils up from Hell.”
“A myth is not a map.”
Giovanni pressed his case. “Who does Dante meet? Virgil. Poet of the Aeneid.”
“‘I am not Aeneas.’ Canto two, thirty-two.”
“But he draws the parallel,” Giovanni argued. “He’s not worthy. Worthy of what? To follow Aeneas. It’s the same road. The same gate. Not Jerusalem, not Taenarum, but here. In Italy. The cave of the Sibyl.”
Petrarch surveyed his guests. “This is no idle visit.”
“No.”
“Very well. You are my guests. You came a long way to see me. How can I help?”
Giovanni said, “We have reason to believe you possess a certain relic which will aid our cause.”
“What relic?”
“The Holy Lance.”
The smile fled Petrarch’s face. He locked eyes with Giovanni and said with no amusement, “We should speak of this in private.”
CHAPTER 16
Leaving the others to the wine and cheese, Petrarch and Giovanni entered a dark hallway. The laureate held a flickering cresset as shadows parted before them, revealing ancient statues and displays of armor. Many of the weapons were strange and unfamiliar, but Giovanni could see that they were very old.
“Quite a collection,” he said.
“I prefer the manuscripts,” Petrarch answered, “but Rienzo was fond of the weapons. I taught him the value of antiquities. I said, ‘Cola! Buy this Phidias. Buy that Praxiteles.’ And he would buy them all. Relics, too. Quite a demand for those. The statues we bought cheap, the relics dear.”
“Where do you keep the relics?”
“Some here. Some there. Some were lost in the confusion. When Rienzo fell from power, I smuggled out what I could.”
They entered a private study. Petrarch closed the door behind them and lit a fire in the fireplace. “If it is in my power,” he said, “I will give you what you ask.”
“The Lance of Longinus.”
“An odd request, even from a poet.”
“You have it, then? Here in Padua?”
“I will give you a lance, perhaps the one you’re looking for. I have many relics. Bones of saints and heads of baptists and enough thorns to make a trinity of crowns. I cannot swear by their authenticity. The claims are wild and various. I doubt these relics have any special powers. One of them may be the lance you seek. Or not. I will show you my collection, and you may choose whichever you wish.”
“Thank you.”
“You are far from Lake Avernus,” Petrarch said. “Do you plan on walking the entire way?”
“If need be.”
“It needn’t. I can provide you with horses and provisions. And you could do with a new set of clothes.”
“I could do with a bath.”
“That goes without saying. Draw up a list of what you need, and I’ll see what I can do to ease your journey.”
“You are too kind.”
“In return for my startling generosity,” said Petrarch, “you must do something for me.”
Giovanni expected as much. “If it is in my power.”
“It is.” Petrarch stared into the fire. “You came to Padua once before.”
“Yes. Last year.”
“Why?”
“A diplomatic mission.”
“From Florence?”
“Yes.”
“What exactly was the nature of this mission?”
“I delivered a message to the Carrara.”
“What message?”
“I’m not at liberty to say.”
Petrarch turned his back to the fire and faced his guest. “I’m disappointed in you, Giovanni. I’ve offered you everything you asked for. You asked for a relic. I will give you a relic. Your knight lacks armor. You need horses, clothes, food for the journey. I will give you these. But everything has its price. My generosity depends entirely upon your answer to a very simple question: what was the message you delivered to the Carrara?”
Giovanni’s throat tightened. “If your generosity requires me to break my oath and betray my city, then I’ll leave the way I came, though perhaps a bit wiser. For that I thank you.”
“You will not tell me?”
“No.”
“I could have you tortured.”
“I can be very stubborn.”
“Good.” Petrarch clapped his guest on the shoulder. “My friend, you passed the test.”
Giovanni understood at once, and felt his tension ease. “You don’t want to know?”
“I know already. That is not the issue. I need a courier. Someone I can trust. I heard you were such a man, and now I know it for a fact. You have nothing to fear from me, Giovanni. I have no interest in torturing you, except, perhaps, with some of my early work.”
“That would be a pleasure.”
“Don’t be so sure.”
Giovanni stepped up to the hearth and warmed his hands in the lemony glow. “You wish me to deliver a message.”
“Yes.”
“South, I hope.”
“To Abruzzo, near Sulmona. It should not be far out of your way. Take the coastal route along the Adriatic and ride south from Pescara. With fresh horses, your detour will cost you less time than you would lose by walking.”
Giovanni nodded. The offer made sense. The town of Sulmona—birthplace of Ovid—was three hundred miles south of Padua, but more or less on the way to Cumae. “Who in Abruzzo do you wish me to see?”
“Cola di Rienzo.”
This came as a shock, and Petrarch laughed to see the younger man’s reaction.
“Rienzo?” said Giovanni. “I thought he fled to Naples.”
“He did. Now he’s with the Fraticelli, living as an eremite on Mount Maiella. Some men would pay a fortune to learn where he is. Rienzo is as hated as he is loved.”
“I am honored by your trust.”
“You travel with a Roman soldier.”
“Marco.”
“How well do you know him?”
“Not well at all. He scarcely knows himself. If he knew Rienzo, he would not recognized him today.”
Petrarch seemed pleased to hear it. “Do not tell the others your true purpose until you reach the mountain.”
“Understood.”
Petrarch picked up a sealed letter from the desk. He handed it to Giovanni and gave him specific instructions, telling him what to say when he reached the mountain hermitage. The words were scripture. “Can you remember that?”
“I know the passage well,” Giovanni assured him. “And now, what of the Holy Lance you promised?”
“Tomorrow.”
At dawn Petrarch and Giovanni ambl
ed the garden path. The flower beds were dry and withered. Roses had gone to weed, and bloom to bramble.
“It is this drought,” said Petrarch.
“Or the Grail.”
“You can’t believe that.”
“I’m not sure what I believe,” Giovanni said. “The land is dying. The people are dying.”
“The Holy Grail is a poet’s fancy.”
“Then it must be true.”
“If all poems were true, all women would be beautiful.”
“They are.”
Petrarch laughed. “You have the soul of Ovid and the eyes of Tiresias.”
“You should come with us,” Giovanni suggested.
“It is a fool’s road.”
“A poet’s road.”
“You believe Dante found the gate?”
“I believe he told the truth.”
“And the girl?”
“She predicted the pestilence.”
“Are you in love with her?”
Giovanni hesitated, then shook his head. How long had it been since he had last fallen in love? A lifetime, at least. He said, “My heart is taken.”
“Fiammetta,” Petrarch said. “The woman in your poems.”
“She died last year.”
“I’m sorry.”
Giovanni sat down on a stone bench beneath a statue of Mnemosyne. He leaned over and plucked a thorn. Testing it on a fingertip, he traced the grooves in his skin.
“My brother Gherardo was a monk in Montrieux,” Petrarch said. “There were thirty-six in his monastery. Only he survived.” Petrarch sat beside Giovanni on the bench. “We were once a crowd. Now we are nearly alone.”
“Fiammetta was everything.”
“I lost my Laura.”
The thorn caught flesh and summoned blood. Giovanni scarcely felt it.
“Beauty cannot survive this world,” Petrarch said.
“My lady was beautiful. God gave her black sores and purple bruises and pain beyond endurance. She shares her grave with a dozen strangers.”
“Write to her,” Petrarch suggested. “She will read it.”
“My pen is mute.”
The laureate nodded. “A time for words and a time for silence. The words will come.” He sighed. “We are haunted by memory and spurned by her daughters.”
“My muse is dead.”
Petrarch put a comforting hand on Giovanni’s shoulder. “Then follow Dante.”
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