Inquisition (35 page)

He saw something falling on top of him and managed to roll out of the way just in time. It was severed ears, clutching at a wound to his abdomen with both hands. Gerardo must have succeeded in disarming him and knifing him with his own dagger, but there were still three adversaries left and the templar couldn’t fight alone.

With an effort of will, Mondino forced himself to raise his head.

Gerardo was now armed and having a go at Guido’s two other accomplices. Taking advantage of the narrow space, he concentrated on hampering their movements in turn, so that he could take them on one at a time. But Guido Arlotti was about to stab him in the back.

Mondino rolled on to his side again, so that he could stick his feet between Guido’s legs, who, caught by surprise, lost his balance. Gerardo, without taking his eyes off the attackers in front of him, jabbed Guido in the face with the handle of the knife and he collapsed on to Mondino with a cry.

The strike had been a hard one, but Arlotti was a strapping man and immediately tried to get back to his feet. Mondino couldn’t move his right arm, but he could kick. He leaned on his good elbow and planted a shoe in the other man’s face, pushing him back down on to the ground. Then, with all the strength he could muster, he kicked out again, getting Guido in the throat.

With his senses in a kind of fog, Mondino could hear the noise of Gerardo struggling above and he dragged himself on top of Guido and began to hit the man repeatedly in the face, using the same arm and hitting in the same place until there was no more resistance. Only then did he look up, in time to see the last of their foes bolting for safety after Gerardo had stabbed his accomplice in the heart.

‘Magister, are you all right?’ asked the young man, leaning over him.

‘No, but the wound isn’t a serious one,’ replied Mondino.

‘Leave me here and go and find Fiamma.’

‘Are you sure?’ asked Gerardo, doubtfully.

‘I’ve seen enough injuries to know that this one isn’t fatal, even if the pain is bad. Help me to stop the blood, then go. There’s no time to lose.’

As Guido Arlotti was still unconscious, Gerardo reached under his tunic and pulled off his linen shirt. He cut a piece with the knife and gave it to Mondino, who pressed it to the wound. Then he took off Guido’s belt and used it to tie Arlotti’s hands behind his back. Gerardo did the same to severed ears, who was just alive, but instead of his hands, he bound his legs. Finally, after handing a dagger to Mondino to keep the prisoners at bay, he went into the ruined house and disappeared among the rocks that cluttered up the interior.

At the
comune,
preparations were well under way. The crowd in Piazza Maggiore had begun to disperse soon after Gerardo and Mondino had left with the guards, but the
Podestà
and the Captain of the People knew well that this was not the prelude to a return to peace. On the contrary. Reports continued to come in of bands of citizens carrying sticks or makeshift weapons who attacked anyone they found in their path, preferably nobles and representatives of established authority. It even appeared that, by some miracle, the Archbishop had narrowly escaped death, although Enrico Bernadazzi didn’t believe it. What on earth had the Archbishop been doing wandering the streets on a day like that, anyway? It had to be a rumour exaggerated by continual repetition.

In any case, a catastrophe of that sort had to be avoided. ‘Are we ready yet?’ he asked the Captain of the People, who was looking out of the window.

‘Not long now. The men are already beginning to fall in. As soon as they’re ready, I’ll go down too.’

PantaLeone Buzacarini had given the order for the entire civil militia to line up outside the
comune
, as well as any volunteers that could be found. He would divide them into groups, the largest under his own command, and then begin to patrol the city to reinstate order. The groups were to keep as close together as possible and stay in contact via runners. Enrico had complete confidence in the Captain of the People, who had already directed a similar operation some months before when both of them were fresh in their posts, and it had been a success. Yet he couldn’t help asking himself why a problem of the sort had to happen to him, almost at the end of his term of office. He sincerely regretted not throwing the young templar to the crowds. The only reason he hadn’t done so was because that type of action required everyone to be in agreement and Mondino hadn’t assented. It had occurred to Enrico to give them both to the crowd, but that would have caused a problem. Mondino was too important a personage. There would have been an inquiry and thorny questions to answer and it all might have gone horribly wrong.

But if he had known there’d be a revolt of this sort, perhaps he would have done it after all. Now he would be called up in front of Council of the elders, and was in danger of spending the last month of his tenure defending himself from the accusations of incompetence that would be levelled at him, at enormous cost of time and money.

The only honourable path left was to quell the disorder with a firm hand and catch the two prisoners, hoping that they had succeeded in finding Remigio Sensi’s daughter. In that case all would end well and the elders would approve his decision to let them go. If, on the other hand, the pair were killed by the mob, their death would be yet another blunder for which he would be held to account.

‘I’ll come with you,’ he said to the Captain of the People.

‘We can’t both go. One of us should stay here, to receive reports and coordinate the operation.’

It was true. To leave the
comune
without a leader capable of assuming command and issuing orders would be to invite disaster. Enrico nodded reluctantly. Alas, there were no guarantees that the affair would be quickly resolved. And as for finding Gerardo da Castelbretone and Mondino de Liuzzi, there was no certainty of that either. After the events of the last few days, the
Podestà
was ready to believe the strangest things, and yet the underworld that the young man had mentioned seemed more like a figment of his disturbed mind.

‘Very well. But you must send me a dispatch every half hour,’ he said to the Captain.

PantaLeone assured Enrico that he would and left. The
Podestà
stood four-square in the middle of the room and began to wait.

In an hour or two at the most his destiny would be decided.

As soon as he got to the underworld, Gerardo ran down the right hand tunnel. It led to the crypts of the seven churches of Santo Stefano’s Basilica, near Santo Sepolcro that poor Bonaga had told him about. Fiamma couldn’t be aware that Gerardo knew about the underworld, so she had thought she could allude to the place where she had chosen to die without danger of being found out.
Protected by he who protects Bologna
it had said in the letter. And the Church of Santo Sepolcro held the remains of St Petronio, one of the city’s patron saints.

But knowing about the place was no guarantee of saving her. Gerardo was not sure what he really wanted. On the one hand, to fully exonerate both his order and himself from all the accusations, it was vital that Fiamma be interrogated in court. On the other, the idea that she might be tortured was insufferable to him, even if she was a murderer.

Gerardo now had personal experience of torture. The feeling of impotent terror that he had felt at the hands of the executioner made him shudder more than the memory of the physical pain itself.

Even in her madness, Fiamma was a victim.

He headed towards the light that shone dimly at the end of the tunnel and soon after entered a small room on the tips of his toes. It was decorated with frescoes that had now almost disappeared with the damp.

Fiamma had her back to him. She was dressed entirely in black and stood in front of a rectangular platform at the opposite side of the room.

By the light of the two tall candles standing on blocks of stone, Gerardo also recognised Remigio Sensi. He was lying on the platform as though on a sacrificial altar, dressed in a white linen shirt. Around him, in the half light, Gerardo could make out the remains of three or four bodies, in various states of decomposition. Each one had its sternum cut lengthways and ribs broken. They must have been the beggars that Bonaga had talked about. Fiamma had used them to practise on.

‘Fiamma,’ said Gerardo, under his breath, almost as though he were in a church.

She turned round slowly to stare at him, astounded. She was wearing a black gown, embroidered with gold, which went down to the ground and was pinned to her shoulder with a gold stud. Her bodice and shoes were made of black cloth too and a dark veil covered her blonde hair falling around her shoulders. Draped in all that black, her pallid face shone out like a beacon.

‘Gerardo. How did you find me?’

‘A crippled boy showed me the entrance to the underworld. When I read your letter, I knew this was the place you were referring to.’

Fiamma nodded. ‘Bonaga. He showed it to me too, a year and a half ago. That was when I realised that the moment had come.’

In the diary there had been no mention of Bonaga and the underworld, but the day when Fiamma had decided to begin taking her revenge was recorded. She had access to all her adoptive father’s papers and had known for some time where she could find her tormentors. She had written the letters to lure them to Bologna. To convince the knights, she had put in each letter a finger transformed into iron, taken from the hands of one of the beggars she had killed. At the same time she began to send anonymous letters to the Inquisition, reporting the templars on the run that passed through Remigio’s offices.

‘Don’t talk like that, please,’ said Gerardo. ‘It’s not too late to—’

‘To what? to be burned alive like a witch? I’ve spent years preparing all this and I’ll be the one to decide how it ends. Don’t come any closer!’

Gerardo had taken a step towards her, but he stopped immediately. Fiamma picked up a strange-looking awl with a triangular blade that was lying on the stone platform next to a multi-coloured glass that shone in the candlelight.

‘The handle of this stiletto is full of the powder that turns blood into iron,’ said Fiamma. ‘And the blade is hollow. It would only take a scratch, and you’ll die a horrible death. Please, don’t make me do it.’

Gerardo didn’t move a muscle, but he was overcome by an interior turmoil. He knew what Fiamma was about to do and he wanted to stop her, but didn’t know how. She moved towards the stone altar, without completely turning her back on him, and with a sudden movement she planted the stiletto first in one of Remigio’s feet and then in the other. The banker hardly moved at all and didn’t even whimper.

‘His body is paralysed, but he is quite able to feel all the pain he deserves,’ said Fiamma.

Gerardo had read the part about Remigio in the diary. He had adopted Fiamma as a little girl, but treated her as a wife, abusing her from the age of thirteen. Gerardo had been appalled and wanted to get back at the banker himself. And yet, seeing the inhuman punishment reserved for him by the girl, the templar couldn’t help feeling pity for him.

Remigio Sensi’s veins were swelling and hardening visibly, breaking the skin in certain places like knotted tendrils creeping slowly up his legs. His pupils, the one part of his body that could move, were darting frenetically this way and that, but it didn’t seem as though he could see, lost as he was in a sea of pain and terror.

‘Pilate, Longinus and Caiaphas died quickly,’ said Fiamma.

‘He abused me for six long years. He deserves a slower death.’ Hearing her names for the three dead templars, Gerardo became fully aware of her madness. Fiamma wasn’t there with him at that moment, just as she had never really been living in the present at all. Her soul had remained hidden in the cave in spain, where she had experienced the desperation of losing her family, her home and her beauty all in one go and hadn’t been able to bear it. She identified herself with none other than Jesus Christ, the blameless sacrificial lamb. But unlike Christ, she had not forgiven the people who’d done her wrong. She had prepared her revenge with great patience. She had got herself taken into service and then adopted by Remigio so that through his contact with the Knights of the temple, she would be able to trace her father’s murderers; to carry out her plan she had put up with the years of violence that the banker had subjected her to. But while she’d done all this, her soul had been dead and only her body kept up the appearance of life. Gerardo had no doubt that if he tried to disarm her, Fiamma would stab him with the poisoned stiletto. With a sense of shame, he had to admit that his courage did not stretch to risking the same ghastly death as Remigio.

The banker’s legs were now as rigid as tree trunks, laced with a network of iron that stuck up under the taut skin and broke through in places. In its inexorable progress towards his heart, the poison had already reached his torso, but Remigio was still alive. Fiamma looked into his eyes, sensitive to every tiny start of his body.

‘How did you convince him to follow you here?’ asked Gerardo.

She replied without removing her gaze from the eyes of her adoptive father. ‘I used the lure of my body, just as I did for the beggars you can see around the place.’

Gerardo looked at those poor martyred souls, callously abandoned by the walls of the room.