Authors: David Wisehart
“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 Holy
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 ambled 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.”