Inquisition (9 page)

Thanks to his principles, Mondino had been banished to Faenza for three years, leaving his father and uncle to take care of his family. And then they’d used up everything they had to pay the fine so that he could come home, and it still wasn’t enough. Of course, being a good physician, Mondino had been able to rebuild the family patrimony since then, but now Gerardo had turned up and dragged him back into trouble again.

No, he thought, not even that was true. Gerardo had only come to ask for help, but he could have refused him. If Liuzzo had been in his place, he would have called the guards and let justice follow its course.

And Liuzzo certainly wouldn’t have let himself be tempted by the dream of uncovering the mystery that transformed blood into metal.

Before the pause ended and someone noticed his absence, Mondino walked quickly out of the hall. He didn’t want to say goodbye to anyone or give any sort of explanation. It was better this way. His uncle would make his excuses for him.

As soon as he was in the street he stepped in some horse droppings because he was absorbed in thought and not looking where he put his feet. He had to stop to clean his leather shoe with a stick. He couldn’t stop thinking about what Liuzzo had said.

There being no way he could tell the man the truth, he had had to lie to him. The danger in which Mondino had put himself and his family by helping Gerardo had got much greater with the appearance of a second corpse. He knew that Liuzzo would criticise him severely if he knew everything. He would call him an impulsive and irresponsible idiot, as he had done in the past. And this time Mondino would not be able to stand it.

Above all, because he was beginning to think that it might be true.

The meeting was not going well. Uberto da Rimini had undertaken the journey all the way to Argenta, through hazardous and marshy country, because he intended to present an important request to the Archbishop of Ravenna, Rinaldo da Concorezzo, and was certain that he possessed the arguments necessary to convince the man. However, the prelate had immediately started by criticising his efforts with regard to the fire on the previous thursday because it had not resulted in the discovery of a corpse.

‘Monsignor, forgive my boldness,’ said Uberto, resolutely, while doing his best to appear submissive. ‘But the person who gave us the information has always shown himself reliable in the past.’

‘I do not doubt that,’ answered the Archbishop. ‘The fact remains that you have found no proof of anything at all.’

It was this quibbling mentality that had carried Rinaldo upwards through a brilliant career at the Curia. But Uberto did not understand how a man with such a bland spirit could have been charged by the Pope to direct the trial against the templars of northern Italy. It was a job that required someone made of altogether different stuff. Someone who, faced with an exceptional situation, would be prepared to take exceptional action and bend the rules of normal behaviour. Someone like himself, for instance.

‘We didn’t find any proof because there was someone else in the house. Instead of opening the door, he set the place on fire and escaped over the roofs, taking the corpse with him.’ ‘You do at least have proof of that?’ asked Rinaldo, stolidly. They were in the great hall where the Archbishop received important visits, and this sign of respect had pleased Uberto. But Rinaldo da Concorezzo had not sat down, so he too had to remain on his feet, shivering in the middle of that enormous draughty room. He had the suspicion that the Archbishop was doing it on purpose, and felt the colour rise to his cheeks.

‘No, monsignor, we are not absolutely certain that there was someone in the house, still ...’

‘So why are you talking of murder, of commerce with the Devil, of people escaping over rooftops with corpses on their backs? these are serious allegations, and I am not disposed to accept them in the absence of concrete facts to support them.’ Uberto made a visible effort to control himself and said that perhaps it would all be simpler if the Archbishop gave him permission to start again from the beginning.

Rinaldo da Concorezzo walked over to the open window and turned around so that the hot early afternoon sun warmed his back.

‘Please do, father,’ he said.

Uberto began with the anonymous letter delivered three nights before at the San Domenico Basilica. The bearer had slipped it under the door of the monastery, knocked hard and then disappeared. It was not the first time that they had received information in that manner, always from the same person as shown by the handwriting in the letter, and always revealing itself to be useful. Various templars who escaped the first wave of arrests had been caught thanks to this mysterious informer.

‘And have you ever tried to find out his identity?’ asked Rinaldo da Concorezzo.

‘If someone gives us factual help but prefers to remain anonymous, monsignor, I don’t see a reason to waste time and resources trying to find out who he is.’

Uberto immediately regretted those words. If one of the friars had addressed him in that tone, he would have found a way to send him off to spread the lord’s word in the most remote corner of Christendom. Uberto scrutinised the Archbishop’s face, anxious to know what price he would have to pay for his insolence, and he realised that from where the prelate stood, with the light behind him, it was impossible to make out the man’s expression. Once again Uberto asked himself if the Archbishop were not doing it on purpose.

‘However, I do see a reason not to accept anonymous information or accusations, father Uberto,’ replied Rinaldo, coldly. ‘And so that you can see it too, I order you to reflect upon it while weeding the tombs in the cemetery of your abbey for a whole day from sunrise to sunset, without stopping to eat, drink or rest. Now go on with your tale and do not dare to show me such disrespect again.’

Uberto swallowed his humiliation, happy to have got away with so little. And at the same time he absorbed an important piece of information. The punishment given to him by Rinaldo could not have been chosen by chance. Someone must have informed the Archbishop of his initiative to weed the cemetery. Uberto made a mental note: the prelate had spies in the monastery. From now on, he must tread very carefully.

In the meantime, in Language as respectful as possible, he explained that having received the letter he had gone to the
Podestà
to request some guards be assigned to him. He had then gone with them to the house where, according to the letter, he would find a horrendous crime. A templar from Bavaria had been killed in the course of a ritual to propitiate Baphomet, the pagan idol adored by the Knights templar. Only, as the guards knocked on the door, flames were seen issuing from the top floor. They had tried to break the door down, but a neighbour who lived on the ground floor arrived just at that moment and opened it for them. By now the fire had spread, making it impossible to go upstairs. And once the flames had been overcome, there was nothing to be found in the debris.

‘Who does the house belong to?’ asked Rinaldo.

‘A wool merchant, monsignor, who is above suspicion,’ replied Uberto. ‘But he had rented an apartment on the top floor to a medical student, a certain Francesco Salimbene from Imola. We suspect him to be a Knight templar.’

‘You suspect him? Is his name not in the registers that you sequestered?’

‘He is obviously using a false name, monsignor,’ said Uberto. ‘Besides, he might also be a foreigner, so there would be no mention of him in the registers of the templar house of Bologna in any case.’ He took a deep breath and added, ‘But perhaps one of the templars who are already under arrest might know him. That was actually the reason for my visit.’

‘Really? Would you be a little more clear, father.’ Uberto was certain that he could perceive a nuance of irony in the prelate’s voice, but, once again, when he looked the man in the face he was unable to make out his eyes as they were against the light. Was it possible that an Archbishop of the Church of Christ would make a fool of an Inquisitor friar?

‘I have come to make a humble request that I made to you once in the past, and for which you refused your consent. But perhaps now—’

‘You are not going to tell me that you have come all this way to ask me to authorise torture!’ exploded Rinaldo. ‘What makes you think that I would say yes if I have already expressed my absolute opposition to the practice?’

The Archbishop had abandoned his good humour and now his tone was imbued with all the authority of the position that he held. And yet Uberto da Rimini was certain that he could make him change his mind.

‘Monsignor, there is little more than a month before the conclusion of the trial and no proof to condemn the templars has emerged. I am certain that our pope, Clement V—’

‘Do not dare to interpret the wishes of Christ’s Vicar on earth with your feeble mind!’ thundered Rinaldo, striding over from the window and bringing himself up to his full height in front of Uberto. ‘As long as I am responsible for this trial, I will never authorise the extortion of confessions by torture. You have made a fruitless journey, father Uberto. Now go, and do not forget your penance. I will ask the prior to let me know when you have completed it.’

Having said this, he turned his back and went to sit down on one of the great hall’s comfortable seats.

‘As you wish, monsignor,’ said Uberto, through clenched teeth. Then he made a bow and left, closing the door behind him.

He hurried down the stairs, waylaid a passing novice and sent him to call the two guards who made up his escort. They were no doubt lazing around in the kitchen. When the two men arrived, they found him already in the saddle and waiting. They thought better of asking questions and quickly mounted their own horses.

Not long afterwards the little group left through the castle gate, heading in the direction of Bologna at a lively trot. The sun had disappeared behind a grey scud that fitted Uberto’s mood perfectly. The meeting had been a total failure.

However, the one thing that bucked up his morale was the possibility that Guido Arlotti, the lowlife whom he had ordered to investigate Mondino, might have made an interesting discovery when interrogating the grave-diggers. If he had found concrete proof to lay at the door of the physician, he would have him arrested and, using any method whatever, Mondino would be made to confess the whereabouts of the templar who pretended to be his student. Then he would present the archbishop with a
fait accompli
.

Uberto was not stupid, even if Rinaldo persisted in treating him as such. He knew very well that to accuse someone of something you needed proof. But proof, he thought to himself, while brutally pulling up his horse to stop it nibbling the grass at the roadside, is only to be had by those who know how to find it.

Gerardo da Castelbretone was lying on his bed staring at the ceiling when the knowledge that he had been a complete idiot hit him with a thump. Old Philomena had let drop a significant fact and he had completely ignored it.

He leaped up, hurriedly pulling on his breeches and coat and not forgetting the baggy cap with the pleat that fell down over his forehead to help cover his face. He left his room and went down to the street door, treading as quietly as possible so as not to draw the attention of his landlady, who since receiving payment in advance for a month’s rent had shown herself particularly kind and protective towards him.

The matron did, however, manage to intercept him in the corridor and kept him talking about Emperor Enrico VII’s taking control of Lodi and Cremona and the siege of Brescia, begun recently.

‘Do you think he will reach us here?’ asked the woman. ‘I tremble at the idea that our experience with Barbarossa will happen all over again.’

‘It won’t happen again. I don’t believe that Enrico, if he should succeed in forcing Brescia to surrender to him, would come as far south as Bologna. But should he do so, we will be here waiting for him.’

Gerardo was not interested in the subject, but he had spoken with feeling. The idea of letting Bologna fall into the hands of the Emperor made him shudder.

The baker’s wife was distracted by the sudden cry of one of her small children in the room next door and Gerardo took his chance to nip out of the door with a wave and a smile, hurriedly making his way towards the Church of San Filippo and San Giacomo of Savena. The Augustinians were living there, while awaiting the completion of the new basilica that was being built not far away, in a piazza next to Via San Donato.

Making his way along the nearly deserted streets lit by the soft afternoon sun, Gerardo felt a strange sadness that he recognised only too well. He would never have admitted that he did not like sundays, the lord’s day, but it was true. Since he was a child, sunday had always been an empty day for him, with nothing of interest to do and too many adults getting in the way. Whereas on weekdays he felt much freer and happier. And that feeling had stayed with him even now that he was a grown man.

Passing Asinelli’s the fishmonger at Porta Ravegnana, he pinched his nose against the smell of rotten fish that polluted the air even when the shop was closed. When he arrived at the door of the monastery, he knocked and said to the novice who came to open the shuttered window that he wanted to speak to father Francesco. The boy asked him to wait and closed the shutter.

Standing in front of the closed door, Gerardo became aware that he didn’t have a plan. He had hurried to the monastery as soon as he realised his oversight, intending to force the priest to tell him everything that he knew about Angelo da Piczano. If Angelo had introduced himself to the old harridan in the priest’s name, it was clear that they must have known one another. Perhaps father Francesco could reveal something that would help him to find the murderer. But he certainly wouldn’t tell the Augustinian anything voluntarily, given that the man, like Angelo, engaged in a vice that was punishable by death. The only way, thought Gerardo, was to try to lure him to an isolated part of the monastery and frighten him, using the knife and the knowledge of his secret.