by Giulio Leoni
Arrigo shook his head. ‘Elias was a man of peace. Besides, Elias had distilled only this amount of the preparation. Only this.’
‘What stopped him?’
Arrigo shook his head. Dante waited for him to go on, but the philosopher seemed lost in thought. He was staring into the distance, as if he had returned to the days of his youth and the dark figure of Elias were in front of his eyes. Dante saw him shaking his head in silence. ‘Nothing stopped him,’ he murmured.’ There is no need for a second sample. Omnia in uno.’
Suddenly he stirred as if his vision had vanished. He delicately put the lantern back into the cabinet, and closed the door.
‘Tell me about this wine. Don’t you think it’s the true nectar of the gods?’
Afternoon, at the priory
DANTE FOUND a messenger waiting for him, wearing the livery of Cardinal d’Acquasparta. The man must have been there for some time, because as he spotted the poet he leaped to his feet with a look of relief.
‘His Eminence wishes you to receive this,’ he said in an official-sounding voice, handing him a piece of parchment folded in four, tied with a strip of cloth and closed with a seal.
Dante broke the seal and quickly read the message: the cardinal asked him to come as soon as possible to the headquarters of the papal legate, to discuss some confidential matters. ‘Why doesn’t he ask for an audience at the priory?’ he asked crisply, folding up the parchment again.
‘His Eminence thinks it’s more sensible like this, given the tensions in the city. A visit to the offices of the Commune would give things an official status that would be better avoided. And besides …’
‘Besides?’
‘The question concerns you, personally, Messer Alighieri.’
Dante thoughtfully bit his lower lip. The other man didn’t seem inclined to say anything else. For a moment he considered having him thrown in jail, and subjecting him to the same treatment as poor Fabio, to find out more. But he doubted that a fox like the cardinal would have revealed his plans to anyone. Perhaps it was better to take up the challenge and face the lion in his den.
THE CLERIC walked him through the rooms of his residence, opening them up one after the other so that they formed a long corridor. On the threshold of the last door he stopped and stood aside.
Dante walked to the middle of the room, where a huge man was waiting, his insolent features hidden behind a mask of fake bonhomie. He was sitting on a little wooden throne decorated with the insignia of his post. His wide-brimmed hat, with its woven cord, lay on his knees.
‘So, Messer Alighieri, we meet again,’ the cardinal muttered in his shrill voice, with a hint of laughter that made his double chin quiver. He held out his gloved hand, decorated with a large ring.
Dante took a single step towards him, stopping in front of the throne. Rather than turning towards the outstretched hand he folded his arms. ‘I knew you wanted to see me. Why just me, rather than requesting an audience with the whole Council?’
The cardinal withdrew his hand, seemingly undisturbed by the prior’s behaviour. Only a rapid contraction of his fleshy lips and a gleam in his eye revealed his true sentiments for a moment. But he immediately resumed his curial pose, his face dominated by a massive nose like the mask of an ancient Roman. ‘Because if you want to talk to a man on his own, it makes more sense to address his mind directly than to appeal to his limbs or his guts. And as far as we can tell, you are certainly this Council’s mind.’
‘It would appear that my humble person is the object of detailed study by the servants of Boniface,’ the poet remarked.
‘The servants of Boniface are the servants of the Church. The pastors of the people of God. And they benignly lead the herd that trusts in him, firm in the certainty of faith, and standing up to the wolves that wish to massacre that herd to sate their greed. As for you …’ he went on, raising his ringed hand once more in a menacing gesture. ‘As for you, for some time now your actions have given the Holy Church cause for concern.’
Dante rose up to his full height. But those words had sent a shiver down his spine. He had to control himself to keep from looking round. He remembered the threatening black and white figures he had seen at the abbey, their snake-like eyes fixed on the things going on around them. He was sure that Noffo Dei, the head of the inquisitors, was nearby, perhaps hidden in the next room.
‘So tell me what you want.’
A smug expression appeared on the cardinal’s face. ‘To know from your own mouth what your political feelings are.’
‘Of what interest could that be to you?’
Rather than replying, the prelate held out a hand towards a cushion set down next to his chair, and picked up a little bundle of papers. He cast a glance at the first, but then looked back up at Dante, as if he was very familiar with what was written on them. ‘You are a lover of history, are you not?’ he asked; then without waiting for a reply, he continued: ‘And you are also curious about those who want to turn history into a narrative, like that fellow Bernardo whom you seem to have started seeing. A man who rummages through the refuse of time with the sole aim of creating a scandal.’
‘Recording and rigorously narrating the events relating to a reigning house that has made its mark on the century is a noble project. Why shouldn’t it have your approval?’ Dante replied.
Acquasparta gestured vaguely, then began waving the papers around again. ‘I expect it is as you say. I want, however, to speak not of the story of that sordid tribe, but of your own, Messer Alighieri.’
‘Mine?’ Dante couldn’t conceal his alarm. ‘I didn’t know I had one that deserved attention.’
‘And yet it does. Yours is one of those tales that would have delighted the ancient story-tellers, but which prompts disquiet in the children of goodness.’
‘Why?’ asked the poet.
‘Because it doesn’t make sense. And everything that doesn’t make sense is a source of uncertainty. And uncertainty is the seed of disbelief. And disbelief is the enemy of faith, the door through which Satan slips into the homes of men.’
The cardinal broke off, still weighing the papers in his hand and shaking his massive head, then went on: ‘It seems as if there are two different people within you, Messer Alighieri. First the young lover of the cheerful life, the poet of sweet manners, lascivious and luminous, all drenched in a dream of impossible love. I too have read your verses about Beatrice, whoever she might be. Because you’re not going to try and make me believe that the woman you were involved with is a certain – let’s see …’ He flicked through several pages. ‘Here we are, Bice dei Portinari, a poor girl who went on to marry the old man Bardi. Truly very moving verses, a model for all loving spirits. And in fact …’
Dante said nothing. The cardinal had stopped again, and now he was flicking through the bundle as if looking for something.
‘And in fact,’ he continued, ‘those verses suddenly became a fashion, and other young enthusiasts, picking up your style, sang of their loves, so similar to your own. And you also gave them a name, didn’t you? The Fedeli d’Amore?’ The priest stopped again, as if waiting for confirmation of his words.
But Dante remained speechless, frozen in place.
‘The Fedeli d’Amore … And apparently there’s also a leader of this group of yours, your friend Guido Cavalcanti. Or former friend, perhaps? I know you had him exiled, and I wonder why. And then others, all original figures. Like Francesco d’Ascoli, the astrologer. A heretic, a blind leader of his kind. Or that man Cecco Angiolieri, who has now come to your city after spending time as a guest in the jails of his own.’
‘You spoke of two people who dwell together within me …’
‘Oh, yes, you’re right. Because all of a sudden, off that noble-minded young man goes to Paris to study. But rather than coming back with his knowledge and learning reinforced, suddenly he disappears. And in his place you appear, Messer Alighieri, the man you are now. The second one.’
‘The second
one?’
‘Another man who, against all of his previous customs, and in contrast with his declared aversion to the vulgarity of the mob, sets off along a difficult path. He begins to enchant the simple people with his ornate words in street-corner meetings, he is elected to insignificant committees, he wastes his genius deciding which streets need mending or which extraordinary taxes should be imposed. And he moves from that fascination with eternity that previously governed him, to mingle with shopkeepers and merchants, climbing step by step a path to nothingness. To where we find you today. Why, Messer Alighieri?’
‘Perhaps because within the just man there is the call to goodness, as our great men have taught us,’ Dante replied frostily.
‘Verum. But who are those great minds who have served as your example and your inspiration? Apart, of course, from that man Brunetto Latini, a notorious sodomite who died just in time to escape the death sentence he deserved. And he too drank from the springs of Paris, so much so that he actually wrote his work in the language of that place.’
‘Many have loved my fatherland, and are worthy examples. Farinata degli Uberti, Mosca dei Lamberti and Tegghiaio Aldobrandi among them.’
Acquasparta narrowed his eyes to slits. ‘Are these the men who inspired you? A Ghibelline leader, pitiless in his fury; a thoughtless lunatic who unleashed civil mayhem with his bad advice; and then yet another sodomite. It would actually seem that this rabble has won your sympathies.’
Dante’s eyes flashed and he stepped towards the cardinal, who didn’t seem to care greatly about his growing anger.
Once again he waved the report in front of his eyes. ‘You know, Messer Alighieri? The men in my secretariat who have been dealing with your case have a theory of their own. Just imagine, they are convinced that everything begins with your father’s death. A man whose dealings were not always, we might say, beyond reproach, but who was still able to ensure you, during his lifetime, of that brilliant and lavish lifestyle that you enriched with your songs. Although, once he had been called to the Lord, he meant for you to earn your livelihood elsewhere.’
The cardinal struggled to his feet, snorting as he tried to free his massive body from the arms of his little throne. Then he walked over to the window, inviting his guest to look outside with him. ‘You see the fervour of work that pervades your city? How many new buildings, how many streets, how many shops are opening? And for each one a permit, a licence, debits and credits, not gold as in your heavenly Jerusalem, or in the Republic of your philosophers, but at least silver, certainly that … I know that you have been in charge of the roads.’
‘That’s true. But what are you getting at?’
‘You were in charge of building a new road to the fields of Santa Croce,’ the cardinal continued, pointing to the papers. His eyes were half-closed, as if he had no need to read.
‘It was a necessary piece of work, it encouraged traffic to the eastern districts.’
‘Oh, very true. But as chance would have it, one of your own farmhouses is there, transformed by a stroke of the pen from uncultivated weeds to building land, for which you Florentines seem to have such an appetite. Chance, certainly. But chance, Messer Alighieri, often favours the audacious, as we have been taught by those pagans upon whom you moulded your own convictions.’
Acquasparta fell silent again, then returned to his chair, as if that brief excursion to the window had exhausted him. He slumped on to his little throne. ‘But I, Messer Alighieri, don’t agree with my secretariat – for once. I have observed you and I have read you with the infallible eye that tranquillity of the soul gives to those who live the righteous life. And I don’t believe that your allegiances derive from the simple desire to enrich yourself by extorting money in favour of your offices. No. It would be as if a venal animal dwelt within you, corrupted either by its insatiable appetites or by a desire for public approval. Were that the case, it would take only a few florins to buy you, enough to pay for your debts and your prostitutes. But within you lies an abyss deeper than that one.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘We are convinced that your entry into politics is part of a plan dreamed up over many years by the Fedeli, to infiltrate their men into the highest positions in the Guelph cities. And once they were established, to work in secret for your true purpose, clumsily masked behind rhymes and laments of love: to drag Italy from the righteous dominion of the Church to put her in chains under the supporters of the Emperor. But the Church,’ the priest continued, rising to his feet again, this time with unexpected swiftness, ‘has over the centuries repelled the coils of the snake that tried to suffocate her, since the days when Charlemagne’s successors betrayed the pact conceding the imperial crown to them. And the Church has always defeated them. And the Church will defeat the activities of little men like you. You have pointlessly convened the horsemen of the Apocalypse in Florence to no good purpose!’
The cardinal had raised a threatening finger. He was panting with excitement, his double chin trembling. After groping for words, open-mouthed, he went on: ‘You will perish, have no doubt! And you will follow to its ruins the damned rabble of the Ghibellines, ready to betray everyone, starting with the very source of their iniquities: that man Frederick whom you admire so much, and whom they themselves murdered, driven by their greed!’
‘What do you mean?’
‘The Antichrist was assassinated by his bastard son Manfred, to get hold of his lands and his crown, after Pope Innocent had promised to crown him King of Sicily.’
‘You are lying!’ the prior exclaimed furiously. ‘King Manfred was a noble, courteous man! Only the slanders of your servants paint him as a parricide, but those are words written on water, the fruit of your intrigues!’
‘And what do you know about things that happened before you were born, when you were but an insignificant possibility in the unfathomable mind of God? What do you know about what has defined the Holy Church over the centuries? Frederick died in violence and rage, swept away by the same storm of Satan from which he had emerged when that whore d’Altavilla gave birth to him at Jesi.’
Dante glared at him contemptuously. ‘If that is what you believe, I should consider myself honoured. A little man like me at the centre of such a grand design.’
‘Oh, don’t flatter yourself too much, because as you wait for your dream to become reality, we know that your plans are currently heading for disaster. You are in search of Frederick’s gold, even more than his return. It would seem that the snake has hidden his golden eggs, and that some people think they know where they might be.’
‘And you’d like to be one of those people!’
Acquasparta drew himself up to his full height. ‘The Church has the right to that gold, to use it to accomplish the mission that God himself entrusted to her: to pacify Italy beneath the crozier of Saint Boniface. Deliver it to us, and the holy water of forgiveness will fall upon your head. The Church will slaughter the fatted calf, because the prodigal son, who once was lost, has now been found.’
‘A calf in exchange for a fortune and a pact that would certainly be pleasing to Boniface.’
‘Blasphemer! You believe in nothing.’
‘I believe in a single God who moves all things and is not moved. Who reigns in three persons, who is three in one. Knowable not to proof, but to faith and illumination.’
The cardinal laughed sarcastically. ‘Even a Patarine, even an Albigensian could subscribe to your words. Perhaps what they say about you is true.’
‘What do they say?’ the poet asked indifferently.
‘That in Paris you supped your knowledge from very strange springs. Including those of the Mohammedans, like Sigieri.’
‘Sigieri di Brabante was not a Mohammedan.’
‘But an admirer of Averroes, and that’s enough.’
Dante came closer, leaning towards the cardinal as if to kiss him on the cheek. His lips brushed Acquasparta’s ear. ‘Better the light of the pagans than the shadows o
f your stupidity,’ he whispered.
Acquasparta, purple in the face, staggered backwards. ‘You will regret your arrogance. We know everything, everything! You, friend of the Antichrist! But not even the four horsemen who accompany him will be able to save you from ruin when the time comes. And we will be the ones who decide when!’
Dante shrugged. ‘May the will of God the almighty and merciful be done.’
Only on the stairs did he realise that he had used the formula of the pagans.
THE POET turned off towards the bank of the Arno, skirting the tanners’ workshops. He tried to protect himself against the afternoon sun with the veil of his biretta, waving his hand in front of his nose to chase away the miasmas rising from the vats in which the skins were macerating. It was a pointless gesture, but he went on repeating it automatically, plunging further and further into that sticky, tepid wave in which everything was submerged.
His head was filled with the buzzing of the flies that infested the whole district; without noticing, he had left the most direct road to San Piero, seeking the comfort of the shadows in the little vegetable plots behind the Church of the Holy Apostles.
He emerged from the alleyways at the feet of the ramp that climbed towards the Ponte Vecchio. The place seemed unusually deserted, as if a spell had frozen the comings and goings of the crowd that spilled into its arcades at all times of day. Only the quick dart of a fleeing mouse or the shadow of a stray dog disturbed that uneasy stillness.
There was perfect silence, broken only by the cry of a gull from as far away as the sea. Dante could distinctly hear the gurgle of the low water of the Arno, which was now almost running dry. For a moment he thought that the demon of noon had erased all forms of life. Then a breath of wind brought the sound of human voices to his ears.
There was someone at the end of the bridge, beneath the little portico. Two men deep in muttered conversation. Arrigo da Jesi and Jacques Monerre.
Dante began to walk along the row of wooden shops, barred after the end of the working day. The two men didn’t seem to have noticed him. They went on exchanging unintelligible phrases, eye to eye, before staring again at the other end of the bridge, as if they were waiting for someone. There seemed to be a secret tension between them.
