‘You state in your book, Professor, that many violins were given names, which helps to establish their provenance?’
‘Yes, that’s correct. Many have names, you see. Individuals. Like people.’
‘In that context, does the name, Empress, mean anything to you?’
Bernadini looked up, surprised. ‘Oh yes. The Empress – die Kaiserin, as it is known in German – was a very famous violin. It was named after Kaiser Franz Josef’s wife, Elisabeth, in 1867, the year of her coronation in Hungary. She was a great beauty – very popular indeed and much loved by her subjects. The violin belonged to a Hungarian noble family, the Esterhazys.’
‘Do you know what happened to it?’
‘Yes, it’s quite a story.’
‘Please tell us.’
‘Well, there was this young virtuoso, a boy from France, giving a concert in Vienna in 1905. Apparently, his violin was stolen the day before the concert at the railway station – the gypsies they said, of course. Count Esterhazy, a great music lover, heard about it and came to the rescue. He lent the boy a violin for the concert – the famous Empress. However, there was a condition ...’
‘What condition?’
‘The boy had to play Paganini – the Count’s favourite. Of course the boy obliged and his performance was a sensation. At the end of the concert, the Count stood up in his box and announced that the young man should keep the violin because there was no one else in the Empire who could play like him. Well, of course the whole of Vienna was talking about the magnanimous gesture. Pity we don’t have patrons like that anymore,’ lamented Bernadini.
‘Can you tell us the boy’s name?’
‘Unfortunately there appears to be no record of it. But the papers referred to him as Little Sparrow.’
‘Do you know what became of the Empress?’
Bernadini shrugged, apologetic and looked towards the judge. ‘The boy took the violin back to Paris. And after that ... it just disappeared. Turbulent times they were ... wars ... revolutions ... the world changed. That was the last ...’ Bernadini stopped mid-sentence and turned to look at Carrington.
‘You are not suggesting,’ whispered Bernadini, ‘that this violin is ... the Empress?’
He sat straighter in his chair. ‘Of course! How stupid of me ... it is, isn’t it? You must tell me!’ Bernadini was almost shouting. He reached for the violin and cradled it to his chest.
‘Professor Bernadini, please,’ interrupted the judge, looking sternly at the witness. ‘Calm down and answer Mr Carrington’s questions. This is no time for questions of your own.’
‘Sorry, Your Honour, it’s just that this is ... once in a lifetime ...’ Bernadini voice trailed off.
Carrington deliberately rearranged his papers on the bar table and took his time asking the next question. The jury needs time to fully appreciate the significance of the Professor’s evidence, he thought. And Bernadini did, indeed, need to calm down.
‘Is it the case, Professor, that you are also a restorer of musical instruments?’ Carrington asked, introducing his next topic.
‘Yes. Over the years, it has become a natural extension of my field. It helps me understand the true character of the instruments,’ the professor explained. ‘A bit like dissecting a body during an anatomy lesson.’ Archibald stopped playing with his pencil and sat up.
‘In that case, Professor, may I take it you wouldn’t have any difficulty removing a sound post?’
‘No, it’s not that difficult, if you have the right tools that is.’
‘How would you do it?’
‘I would use this,’ answered the professor, reaching for a leather tool pouch inside his pocket. ‘I have this always with me,’ he explained. ‘My tools.’
Bernadini held up a small, curved, S-shaped tool made of brass. ‘This is a sound post setter,’ Bernadini explained. ‘The name says it all.’
‘Could you remove the sound post without damaging this instrument here?’ Carrington asked, coming to the question everyone had been waiting for.
‘Yes, I suppose I could – but why? Touching this Strad would be ... well, vandalism!’ Bernadini slipped the sound post setter back into the pouch and looked pleadingly at the judge.
‘Please remove it,’ Carrington said calmly, ignoring the question. Bernadini began to fidget nervously in his seat.
‘Professor ... please,’ said the judge quietly. Bernadini reached into his coat pocket again and slowly pulled out the small leather pouch.
Bernadini mumbled something in Italian, sounding to Carrington like an expletive, and loosened the four strings. Then he picked up the sound post setter and inserted it skilfully through the f-hole. Like a surgeon in a delicate operation, he began to probe the inside of the violin. Suddenly, a smile began.
‘Bene, bene,’ he mumbled to himself, trying to dislodge the little piece of wood. ‘Here it is,’ he announced as he pulled the sound post through the eye of the f-hole and held it up for all to see.’
‘May I approach, Your Honour?’ Carrington asked the judge.
‘Please do.’
Carrington walked slowly across to the witness box and looked at the violin in Bernadini’s lap. The journalists in the gallery stopped scribbling; the jurors leant forward to get a better view. All eyes were on Carrington.
‘Please, take a closer look at the sound post here,’ Carrington said. ‘Can you see anything unusual?’ Bernadini leant forward.
‘There is something,’ Bernadini said after a while, adjusting his glasses. ‘It’s hard to see. Some writing and ... how curious.’
‘Can you tell us what it is?’
‘It looks like ...’ Bernadini hesitated and lifted the piece of wood closer to his face until it almost touched his nose.
‘What is it?’
‘It looks like ...’
‘Yes?’
‘A star?’
The judge had to call for order several times before the excited journalists in the gallery settled down.
‘Anything else?’
‘Two words.’
‘Can you read them?’
‘Yes; the first one here says R–o–h–a ...’
‘And the second?’
‘Parzival.’
Once again, the judge had to call for order.
‘Anything else?’
‘Over here, on the other side ...’
‘What is it, Professor?’
‘Numbers: 8241 ...’
‘Thank you, Professor,’ interrupted Carrington, ‘there’s no need to read out all the digits.’ Carrington realised that the case had reached a high point. There was only one more important piece of evidence he needed.
‘Finally, Professor, are you able to tell us when all this may have been inscribed into the wood?’
Professor Bernadini ran the tips of his fingers several times over the surface of the little post. Holding it up towards the light, he began to examine it carefully with a magnifying glass.
‘It’s impossible to be absolutely accurate, you must understand, but judging from the discolouration of the inscribed area and the faded residue of ink, I would say it has been there for quite a long time.’
‘Are we talking months, years, decades perhaps?’
‘I’m certainly not talking in terms of months.’ Bernadini paused, and traced the outline of the star with his index finger. ‘What I can say with confidence, however, is that it has been there for a long time; several years, I’d say. I’m sorry, that’s the best I can do.’
‘And the sound post itself? Would you say it was the original, or a later replacement?’
‘Oh, no, this is no replacement! This is an authentic Stradivarius sound post.’
‘Thank you, Professor Bernadini, I have no further questions,’ Carrington said, adjusting his gown, which had almost slipped off his shoulders. ‘I tender the sound post, Your Honour.’
When he sat down, Carrington noticed that Archibald had broken his pencil in half. ‘He’s all yo
urs,’ Carrington said, turning to his opponent.
‘I have no questions,’ Archibald told a stunned court without even looking at Bernadini in the witness box.
‘Brave step,’ Carrington whispered. Archibald ignored him.
‘You are excused, Professor Bernadini,’ Her Honour said, smiling encouragingly at the man in the box.
‘We will now turn to ...’ A strange, gurgling noise from the dock below interrupted her. When she looked down, Newman was getting to his feet and, as he tried to loosen his tie with both hands, he knocked over the glass of water in front of him. Staring at the judge with bulging eyes, he opened his mouth like a dying fish at the end of the hook. Before the court attendant could reach him, Newman collapsed, hitting his head against the wooden bench with a thud that resonated through the courtroom.
PART IV
TABOT MUSA
Egypt; October 1305
The Nubian porters waded ashore first, their naked, muscular bodies glistening like polished ebony in the glare of the desert sun. They ignored the crocodiles basking in the mud close by, tied the boat to the trunk of a palm tree and watched the five tall white men tinker with a large wooden chest strapped to the mast. The bearded, red-faced men were dressed in body armour that, to the Nubians, was both awe-inspiring and frightening. Two curious hippos circled the boat, waiting for the right moment to attack the unwelcome intruders. Despite the large spray of murky Nile water from their flared nostrils each time they surfaced, no one gave them a second glance.
As a seasoned commander, Fra. Armand knew exactly just how vulnerable he and his men were. Fra. Armand suspected the Abyssinians had somehow made contact with the porters who seemed, suddenly, suspicious and hostile. He realised there was little time; five knights, no matter how well armed and experienced, couldn’t defeat an army. Moreover, they’d had little food for days and some of them had had a raging fever since leaving Axum.
Their attempt to reach the Gulf of Aqaba, sailing north along the African coast, had been put to an end by a storm in the Red Sea. Shipwrecked, and with only meagre provisions, they had travelled inland across the desert to reach the Nile. Two knights had perished along the way.
‘We’ll take the boat and leave the porters behind,’ said Fra. Armand, reaching for his sword. He knew surprise was their best weapon. ‘We must do it now, when they least expect it. Look, they’re all on shore, just waiting for the right moment to finish us off.’ The other knights nodded.
‘Now!’ Fra. Armand shouted and cut the rope. Carried along by the strong current, the boat left the shore. The Nubians plunged into the river to swim after it. Surprised by the commotion, the hippos took a dive. The knights hoisted the triangular sail and pointed the vessel towards the middle of the Nile. As Fra. Armand hacked off the hand of the first Nubian climbing on board, the others behind him turned away in horror. Fra. Armand smiled; the boat was theirs – at least for the moment. If the Greek trader they had met the day before was right, they should reach Thebes by nightfall.
‘There, look,’ shouted Fra. Armand, pointing to the shore. ‘The portals of Thebes.’ Partially buried under drifts of sand, the ruins of a mighty temple-city came into view. The knights pulled into a small cove and covered the boat with dry palm fronds. Fra. Armand was certain the Abyssinians had followed.
‘This is as far as we go. I think we’ve reached the end of our journey, my friends,’ he said. ‘Hurry, please. They’ll be here by daybreak, if not sooner.
‘What’s your plan?’ asked Fra. Bernard, following his commander through the tall stone arch into the temple.
‘I’m looking for the right place, before it gets too dark.’
‘For what?’
‘To hide something ...’
‘You don’t mean ...? The chest’s far too big to bury in here,’ protested Fra. Bernard. ‘Anyway, they would find it in no time.’
‘Quite so. But that’s not what I have in mind.’
‘What then?’ Fra. Bernard looked puzzled.
Fra. Armand put his arm around the tall knight’s shoulder. ‘You are the youngest and strongest among us,’ he replied. ‘I believe, with God’s help, you can make it to Alexandria ... alone. We’ll stay here and face our enemies in the morning – but not you. You must slip away after dark tonight. I have asked the Good Lord for guidance and he has answered me. Yours will be a sacred mission, Bernard. If you succeed, we’ll not have died in vain.’ Fra. Armand’s face lit up. ‘Tomorrow we shall surely die; but we shall not be defeated,’ he added, placing his hand on the hilt of his sword.
‘What mission?’ asked another knight.
‘We’ll give Bernard something to take back to France so powerful and precious that the Pope will tremble and the king will pale with envy, when they hear about it,’ explained Fra. Armand.
‘Bernard, you will only take one. You cannot possibly conceal two. And so, we mustn’t tempt fate, we must shape it,’ he said quietly to himself. ‘The other will be hidden – right here.’
The knights lifted the Ark of the Covenant out of the chest and placed it on a slab of broken granite. Stepping back from the relic, they stood in awe, watching the moonlight caress the two golden angels protecting the mercy seat with outstretched wings. The mercy seat began to glow, illuminated by a moonbeam. The knights fell to their knees, bowing their heads in prayer.
‘If we have offended Thee, O Lord, forgive us,’ Fra. Armand began to pray. ‘If we have failed Thee, O Lord, forgive us. Protect our brother Bernard on his journey. Guide him safely back to France and give us strength to die with honour, as true knights serving Thee.’
‘Amen,’ came the chorus.
When, later that night, the Abyssinians found the empty boat hidden under the palm fronds, they burnt it. Without the boat, their foe was trapped. They surrounded the ruins with armed torch bearers and made ready to attack at first light.
Just before dawn, the knights embraced for the last time. Preparing their weapons for combat, they watched the sun rise slowly out of the desert. As the sun rose, the Abyssinian battle drums began to beat, like the heartbeat of a thousand warriors longing for glory. The Abyssinians entered the temple from all sides at once, searching for their elusive enemy. When they reached the great hall of the temple with its rows of gigantic columns soaring towards heaven, they could see the Ark in front of them on a makeshift altar of broken stone. At each of its four corners stood a knight in full body armour – splendid, motionless and silent. Emperor Wedem Ara’ad’s warriors stood still, paralysed by superstition and fear.
Slowly, the silent knights began to move. First, they raised their shields, then their swords and began to beat the shields with the blades – an unmistakable reply to the bellicose drums beating all around them. The spell was broken.
The first wave of attackers was hacked to pieces before it could reach the Ark. The second climbed over the writhing bodies of the dying and met the same fate. The disciplined defence of the warrior monks seemed impregnable. The Abyssinians continued to attack, but made little progress until a carefully aimed lance pierced Fra. Armand’s left eye, killing him instantly. The dead knight fell backwards, his bleeding head crashing against the Ark. A trail of blood ran down the white tunic that covered his armour and merged with the red cross of the Templars on his chest. The knights’ defence was no longer unassailable.
Stripped naked by the jubilant victors, the blood-encrusted bodies of the four knights were carried on shields to the river. There, the corpses were decapitated and thrown into the Nile, fodder for the waiting crocodiles. Intoxicated by victory and blood, the Abyssinians did not notice one of the knights they had followed to the temple the day before, was missing.
67
Heinrich Newman sat in the empty hospital waiting room with his eyes closed. It was 10 pm; seven hours after his father’s dramatic collapse.
‘Wake up,’ said Dr Oberndorfer – Newman’s personal physician – tapping Heinrich on the shoulder.
‘How is he?’
Heinrich asked.
‘Not too well, I’m afraid,’ the doctor replied. ‘He had a massive stroke.’
‘Can he talk?’
‘Come, he wants to see you.’
Newman lay propped up in the bed. Staring vacantly into space, with his mouth partially open, he was breathing heavily. A nurse was dabbing his forehead with a sponge. Newman had aged a decade in a few hours and looked vulnerable and frail.
‘How are you?’ Heinrich asked quietly, reaching for his father’s hand. It felt limp and cold. Newman turned his head slowly towards his son.
‘He can hear you,’ Dr Oberndorfer said, ‘but you must speak up.’ Newman began to move his lips, but there was no sound.
‘It takes a little while before he can say anything,’ the doctor explained. ‘Lean over a bit more.’
‘Sorry, I can’t hear you,’ Heinrich said, squeezing his father’s hand.
‘Get Habakkuk,’ whispered Newman, slurring the words, his weak voice barely audible.
‘What did you say?’
‘Habakkuk; get him – now!’ Newman looked pleadingly at his son. ‘Now,’ he repeated.
‘Habakkuk?’
Newman nodded.
‘As you wish,’ said Heinrich. ‘I’ll call him.’
‘Hurry!’
‘What’s the prognosis?’ Heinrich asked, following Dr Oberndorfer out of the room.
‘Impossible to say at this stage. As you can see, he’s very agitated and wants to talk. He shouldn’t really, but we both know what he’s like; there’s obviously some urgency.’
By the time Father Habakkuk arrived, Newman had recovered somewhat. He appeared lucid and composed and, when Heinrich finally realised his father would not talk in his presence, he brushed past Habakkuk, gave him a disapproving look and left the room.
‘We’re running out of time,’ Newman began, trying to focus on the black priest sitting by his bedside. ‘You know what happened in court?’
The Empress Holds the Key Page 29
