Authors: David Wisehart
“I’d rather not.”
“We need a guide.”
“You may copy my Dante.”
“No time,” said William.
“Apocalypse approaches. The Fourth Horseman rides the Earth. The end is
coming.”
“The end is always coming.”
William gazed into the
canyon, studying the darkness. “Christ said to Peter, ‘
super hanc petram
aedificabo ecclesiam meam et portae inferi non praevalebunt.
’ But now, with a false pope in Avignon
and no bishop in Rome, the gates of Hell may yet prevail.”
“It might be wise,” Giovanni
said, “not to knock upon those gates.”
“That is our burden.”
“Yours, Father.”
William nodded. “I’ve
battled evil all my life. I’ve wrestled with darkness and demons and monsters beyond
measure, in the black forests of Germany and in the troubled hearts of men, for
it is there, in the human heart, that evil festers and grows. But evil has a
source, and we must find that source: at the bottom of the abyss. We must
descend into the Devil’s lair, and penetrate the heart of all evil.”
“Good luck with that.”
William smiled. “In Munich,
before we set out, Nadja saw you in her falling dreams. Did she tell you?”
No,
Giovanni thought, but did not care to say
it. The idea troubled him. He glanced back down the hill at Nadja, who sat
praying over the wounded knight.
“God has a plan for us,”
William said.
“That may be true, Father,
but He hasn’t told me.”
“He speaks through her.”
Giovanni fleered. “I wish I
had your faith.”
“It is yours by right. A
gift from God. Take it.”
“How?”
The friar hesitated, as if
about to share a confidence. “There are two paths,” he said. “A path of
knowledge, and a path of love.”
“I have studied the
scriptures.”
“But have you loved?”
“Yes.” He was thinking again
of the Lady Fiammetta.
“It is through love that one
acquires faith.”
“I loved a woman,” Giovanni
said. “In Naples.”
William considered this,
then said, “All true love is the love of God. To love a woman, yes. That is
good. That is divine: ‘
fecistis uni de his fratribus meis minimis mihi
fecistis.
’ But also love
yourself. And why not? God loves you. Align your love with God’s. Let His love
fill your heart until it becomes your own.”
“I have lost the things I
love.”
“You miss these things. That
is natural. But nothing truly loved is ever lost. When the flesh falls away,
the love remains.”
“Did you ever love a woman,
Father?”
“Yes.”
“Did you lose her?”
The answer was long in
coming.
“Yes.”
“Then by your own logic, you
did not truly love her.”
The friar sighed, then nodded.
“It may be as you say. If I had loved this woman truly, I may not have lost
her.”
“Tell me, Father. When you
lost her, how did it not end your faith in God?”
“It was my faith’s
beginning.”
A thin cloud, torn in
tatters by the wind, raced across the moon. They let it pass in silence.
“Forget Naples,” said
William. “It is not what you remember.”
“Nothing ever is.”
“You think you can escape
the darkness, but the darkness is everywhere.”
“Then what hope is there?”
“We must confront the
darkness. Together. Trust in God, and come with us.”
“I trust in myself.”
“It’s a start.” The wind
picked up. William pulled the cowl over his head, whispering, “‘
regnum Dei intra vos est.
’”
They were the words of Christ to the
Pharisees:
The kingdom of God is within you.
“Have you become a mystic,
Father? I would not have thought it from your writings.”
“God opened my heart. Let
Him open yours.”
Giovanni felt annoyed. This
conversation was not going the way he planned. He had lost his advantage. “Six
years of canon law, and the world makes less sense to me now than when I was a
child.”
“You studied the canon?”
“Six years of business, six
years of law. The one thing I learned is I despise them both.”
“You did not feel the
calling?”
“I wasn’t called. I was
pushed.”
“Your father?”
He nodded.
“And how does your father
feel about you being a poet?”
Giovanni shrugged. “He’s
dead. I don’t suppose it matters to him now.”
“I’m sorry.”
“That makes one of us.”
Giovanni picked up a handful
of dirt and sifted it through his fingers, leaving a small white stone in his
palm. He tossed the stone over the verge and watched it drop into darkness. If
it made a sound, Giovanni did not hear it.
“Marco needs clothes,”
William said.
“We’ll be in Cumae soon
enough.”
“For the journey, I mean.”
“He has your blanket.”
“You understand what I’m
saying?”
“Of course, Father. You want
me to give him my clothes.” He tossed another rock into the canyon.
“It would be the Christian
thing to do.”
“We’re all Christians here.”
“Nadja and I have only the
clothes we wear. Marco has none. You, on the other hand—”
“He’s twice my size.”
“You’re exaggerating.”
“I’m a poet.”
“Your clothes may be tight
on him, but Nadja could make the altera—”
“No.” Giovanni’s voice
trembled with indignation. “No one cuts my clothes. Absolutely not.”
The friar waited.
Giovanni said, “They were a
gift from King Robert.”
“Impressive.”
“For my poetry.”
“Of course.”
“The king loved my work. He
honored my work. Can you understand what that means?”
“It means King Robert was a
great judge of talent.”
“I wouldn’t be on this road
if Robert were alive. What am I doing here?”
“Saving the world.”
The poet laughed. “Saving my
skin. Running away, like everyone else.”
“We all have our reasons.”
“We’ve all
lost
our reason. Our reason, and everything
else.”
“Not our hope.”
Giovanni rose to his feet.
“I’m a poor man, Father.”
“You’re speaking to a
mendicant.”
“Don’t ask me to give my
clothes to a stranger.”
“Then give them to a
friend.”
Giovanni stepped onto the
road, pacing. Hadn’t he lost enough already? His friends, his family, his
position in the world. His muse was dead, his art diminished. Even his father’s
estate, which had passed to Giovanni, was denied him by the pestilence. Like
Dante he was exiled. He could not go back. Everywhere it was the same. Patrons
became beggars. Bailiffs became outlaws. Farmers became gravediggers. In every
town the streets were filled with corpses. How could he give up his clothes
when all the cloth merchants were dead? How could he share his bread when every
farm lay fallow? He had spent his last fiorino in Capua buying wine, cheese,
and wormy apples. He still had a few denari sewn into his shoes, but they would
not last long. One false step and he would tumble into the pit of penury. If he
could not find a patron in the Angevin capital, he might be forced to sell his
cart, his donkey, even his books.
William said, “We should
think about what’s best for Nadja.”
The poet stopped. “What do
you mean?”
“She’s a virtuous girl, but
I fear for her soul.”
“Now you’ve lost me.”
“She has a strong will and a
Christian heart, but do you think it wise to tempt her with the flesh of a
naked man? Especially one as strong and handsome as our heroic knight?”
Giovanni glanced back at the
circle of firelight. He saw Nadja kneeling beside the reputed Templar, holding
his hand. The man’s waist was covered with William’s blanket, but his chest and
arms were bare. Nadja bowed her head over him. Her eyes were no doubt closed in
benediction, but from this vantage point she appeared to be admiring his battle-forged
physique.
Jealousy flared in
Giovanni’s heart. “He can have my clothes.”
“God will bless you for it.”
“He can have all my
clothes,” Giovanni said. “I’ll go naked if I have to.”
William smiled. “That will
not be necessary.”
CHAPTER 7
In the early
morning light, William stood watching as Giovanni drew, in his notebook, a map
of the Inferno: a deep delve with nine concentric levels; a walled city; rivers
and bridges and stairs leading down. The details were difficult to see. William
knelt closer.
“Is that a passage?” he
asked, pointing to a dark spot on the map.
“The Gate of Dis,” Giovanni
said.
“Guarded?”
“Of course.”
“By whom?”
“Medusa, three furies, and a
thousand demons.”
“Interesting.”
From the pouch on his belt
William retrieved a piece of smooth, round glass that had once belonged to
Roger Bacon. William did not consider it his personal property—that would
be against his vows—but he held it in trust, and had carried it with him
since his student days at Oxford.
“What’s that?” Giovanni asked.
“A glass lentil.” William
scrutinized the map through the instrument, which magnified the details of the
drawing. “It helps my eyes.”
He glanced up and saw
Giovanni staring at him, curious.
“A seeing stone,” Nadja
said, stirring the porridge that would soon break their fast.
“Not exactly.” William
handed the glass lentil to Giovanni, who tried it for himself.
Closing one eye, the poet
moved the glass forward and back to study the effect. He smiled.
“It creates a false image,”
William explained, “making small things appear large.”
“Like water in a Murano
cup,” the poet said.
William nodded. “The same
principle.”
“Magic,” said Nadja. “Some
say it is the Devil’s work.”
“Is it?” Giovanni asked.
William took back the glass.
“Not at all. The lentil offers strength to weak eyes. I use it to read
scripture. No sin in that. Jesus said, ‘
vestri autem beati oculi quia
vident.
’ He restored
sight to the two blind men. I believe the glass lentil can assist us in the
work of our Lord. But then, I have been called a heretic for less.”
“For what, exactly?”
Giovanni asked.
“For claiming that Christ
meant what He said: ‘
quaecumque habes vende.
’”
“Not a popular phrase at the
papal palace.”
“They thought it meant,
‘Sell all you have and give it to the pope.’ These French pontiffs do not
follow the path of Christ, but of David: from being shepherds they would make
themselves kings.”
Studying the map, William
noticed a line running straight down the middle of the page. He magnified it
with the glass lentil. The line appeared to be older than the poet’s map, for
the ink was dry and greyer than the ink Giovanni used now. The poet ignored the
vertical line, drawing his map over it.
“What is that line for?”
William asked.
“Bookkeeping. Two columns.
Debits on the sinister, credits on the dexter.”
“Ah. Of course.”
“This was my father’s
ledger,” Giovanni said. “I use it now for poetry, though as you can see I
haven’t—”
Marco stirred.
William tucked the glass
lentil into his pouch and went to the wounded man.
To Nadja he said, “Get some
water.”
Slowly the knight returned
to himself. He was dressed in one of Giovanni’s undertunics, which was
stretched tight across his skin. His eyes blinked against the morning sun. He
coughed. A dry, hacking sound. Nadja gave William a leather costrel. The friar
cradled Marco’s head in one arm as he brought the water to the man’s cracked
lips. Marco drank eagerly.
When he was finished, the
knight looked up. “Thank you.”
“Thank God,” said William.
“You are a difficult man to save.”
That afternoon Giovanni dug
fresh charcoal from the kiln as Nadja fussed over the wounded knight. Marco da
Roma reclined a few feet away with his head resting in the girl’s lap. Nadja
held a mazar bowl to his lips, from which the knight slurped an infusion of
willow bark in small wine.