The Kingdom of Light (7 page)

Dante had averted his gaze, staring into the void. He
was
thinking about the relic in the church, with its simulacrum of life. The idea that it might have been nothing but a statue animated by a hidden mechanism had never left him.

‘But also a … a perverse one,’ Alberto was saying.

‘Perverse. Why?’ asked Dante, struck by these words.

‘There’s something indecent about wanting to simulate life, to invert the order of creation and elevate things of wood and metal to the level of live creatures, even threatening the place of the living.’

‘Inverting logic and nature?’ the prior asked. Those words had suggested an idea to him. The galley that he had explored also seemed like an incredible inversion of the meaning of things. An object born to protect life on the hostile seas, transformed into an infernal ferry-boat. ‘But God instructed us to possess the earth, to name its riches, to regulate its mutability. Even your clocks, Maestro Alberto, are regulators. Is your art not blasphemous, too? Shouldn’t you be writing something similar on your toothed wheels?’

Alberto shook his head and was about to reply, but Dante interrupted him. ‘Meanwhile tell me if you can grasp the purpose of the machine by studying its remains.’

The other man shrugged, with a dubious expression. He went back to staring at the fragments, rearranging their order a number of times and attempting to link them in different ways. His clenched lips and beetled
brow
revealed his growing dissatisfaction. At last he stopped, after one final attempt. ‘Perhaps. But not entirely. Some essential parts are missing. Certainly, it’s like a big clock in some respects. You see this toothed pivot and this fragment of chain? It’s the heart of the mechanism, I’m sure of it. Fixed around its axis, this strip of steel activates the first wheel, which transmits the movement to the other, smaller wheels, by means of a sequential application of rotational speed at a calculable rate; if I had all the parts …’

‘And you say it was built by this al-Jazari,’ Dante went on after a brief pause in which he had tried to weigh up the other man’s explanations.

‘Al-Jazari was the greatest machine-maker in the whole of the known world, the very glory of our trade. If only we had access to his constructions …’ Alberto resumed staring at the metal fragments, his expression full of religious respect. ‘If only he hadn’t been killed,’ he went on.

‘Al-Jazari was killed? Why?’

‘He was executed by his co-religionists. Apparently he’d gone mad. Or at least that’s what was said years later, in Christian lands.’

The prior stroked his chin reflectively. He pulled so hard on it that he seemed to be trying to stretch his lower jaw. Lost in reflection, he brushed a finger along the incised characters, going over their spirals once more. ‘Allah is great, but al-Jazari is greater.’ Blasphemy. Blind
pride
. Even the best were his victims this time.

‘When did he die?’

‘Around the middle of the century. Just before Emperor Frederick.’

Dante went back to observing the mechanism. So, if it really was al-Jazari’s work, as everything suggested, this most complex object must have been constructed at least fifty years before. Where had it been kept for so long? And why had it now come in the company of death, in lands so far from its origins? Above all, what was its purpose?

‘There was another thing that was said about him.’ The
mechanicus
had spoken in a low voice, but it had been enough to interrupt the thread of the poet’s thoughts.

‘What?’

‘That he was driven mad by one of his discoveries.’

‘A machine?’

The other man shook his head. ‘No, his machines were his pride, his joy. Al-Jazari went mad because he had discovered the limits of God.’

‘The limits of God?’

‘That’s what they say.’

Dante fell silent for a few moments. The faces of the dead were dancing before him. Then he remembered the astrolabe that the Bargello’s men had found on the ship. He looked for it in the bag. Now, in the bright light, he noticed that the tiny marks were not a decoration, but regular
carvings
of degrees and orbits. Along the rim, once again, Arabic characters. An object of extraordinarily refined manufacture.

He turned round, seeking the young Saracen. Hamid had knelt down on a little rug and was praying with his head turned towards the wall.

Dante walked over to him, holding out the instrument. ‘And what’s written here?’

The slave hesitated, as if he feared being exposed to another blasphemy. Then, after a rapid glance, he seemed to take heart. ‘It’s a dedication. “To him who measures the stars.” A gift from the Sultan to the head of the astrologers of Damascus.’

The poet and the
mechanicus
stared at one another, waiting for the young man to continue. But there was nothing more to say. Thinking about what he had just heard, Dante looked away, his attention drawn by the room around him. As well as the big workbench, some of the shelves were covered with tools and mechanical parts. In one corner of the room he saw a little niche holding a mat and a rolled-up bed-roll. It must have been the place where the slave-boy slept, he thought, spotting the edge of a manuscript peeping out from beneath the cloth.

Curious, he bent over the mat and lifted it up. It was a decorated manuscript in which the arabesques of the characters merged harmoniously with the ornaments in
the
margins. The boy had followed his movements apprehensively. Dante caught his eye when he looked up to question him.

‘It’s a precious, pagan book. What is its title?’

‘The story of a dream. It’s the
Kitab al-Mi’raj
.’

Without being aware of it, the prior had placed his hands on the text, as if he wished to keep it. Years before, his teacher Brunetto had spoken to him of this rare volume, known in Latin as the
Liber scalae Machometi
. Mohammed’s journey into the realm of shadows, to the throne of God. He would have liked to know its contents. And now it was in his hands, but written in a language that he was unable to decipher. He held out the manuscript to the Saracen, but still clutched it tightly. ‘You will tell me what is written. If you don’t want the Commune to drag you out and burn you, for an act of heresy.’ The boy lowered his head. ‘But not now. I will come back, to learn what I wish to know.’

Near the hospital of Santa Maria Nuova

‘
O
H
, D
ANTE
! Always running, as if the Furies were after you!’

The poet froze, recognising the clumsy voice yelling abuse at him. The newcomer stood, legs spread, on the other side of the street, winking at him with a vulpine expression in
his
keen eyes. Then he raised his hand, gracefully moving his fingers like a flirtatious girl. His broad face was stamped with an ironic little smile.

‘Can I greet you, too? Or are only the Beatrices and your other girlfriends allowed to flash their eyes at you? And yet I too could make the air tremble as they do … with my farts, perhaps!’

The poet turned towards him, his fists clenched and his face bright red.

The other man shielded himself, with a comical expression of terror. ‘For the love of God, Prior, what a terrible face! The same one that I saw on the plain of Campaldino. That’s why we won: the Aretines had no one as terrible as you.’

Meanwhile Dante had reached him. He looked the man up and down, taking in his showy outfit. ‘Cecco, are you still here?’ he hissed. ‘You know there’s no place in Florence for debauchees and ne’er-do-wells. I thought you were already on your way to Rome: in the Eternal City there will certainly be more room for you and your enterprises, and the air there is more favourable to corruption.’

Cecco Angiolieri sat down on a stone at the corner of the crossroads, after carefully arranging his stockings and lifting his jerkin, the better to display his breeches.

‘And you should know that the laws of Florence forbid indecent and lubricious clothing. What in the devil’s name are you dressed like?’ the poet pressed him.

But the other man didn’t seem at all concerned. He gestured with his hands, indicating the people around him. ‘My friend, it is true that in the city of Boniface there are more taverns than stoups and more brothels than confessionals. And in fact it is there that my star revolves, regretting what I have done and gaining the indulgence of the
Centesimus
. But a stay in your virtuous city is obligatory for anyone setting off on the path of goodness and contrition. And as for my breeches,’ he went on, stretching out his squat legs and darting Dante a smug glance, ‘I must say that no one in Florence has complained, if the truth be known.’

Dante burst out laughing. ‘If you frequented our temples and lecture halls rather than our taverns, you would be less full of yourself.’

‘Ah, Dante, it’s the weight of terrible melancholy that is crushing me and dragging me from the good life. And, above all, an irritating lack of money. If my old man doesn’t decide to kick the bucket soon, and leave me the little he has left, I will be forced to beg. Unless you know of a decent opening somewhere. It looks as if things are going really well for you accursed Florentines. It could be that there’s a scrap of bread for me, too. I’m here to offer my services.’

‘To whom, might one know?’

‘Oh, there’s always someone who needs a sharp tongue or a ready hand. But you, on the other hand …’ Cecco
winked
at Dante, nudging him in the ribs. ‘Tell me about your work. What is the prince of Tuscan poets about to offer the world? I heard a rumour, among the Fedeli. A journey into the kingdom of the dead.’

‘Of the dead and those who will not die.’

‘Nothing less …’ Cecco murmured in an ironic voice. But Dante had plunged back into his reflections. ‘Apparently you want to match the French for arrogance,’ said the Sienese, pointing to the walls of the new Duomo, which were rising up behind Santa Reparata. ‘Vast cathedrals are being erected, with tall pinnacles and huge pointed vaults. It’s as if you want to build a stairway to God, rather than calling to him humbly here below, as we do in our churches.’

Dante, at this last remark, suddenly came to. ‘Climbing to God … Yes, that’s the problem …’

‘What do you mean?’

‘The threefold realm of the dead, in darkness and in light. In my mind I have already drawn the first two states, the lost and those who purge their sins in fire. But of the third realm …’

‘Paradise? How do you imagine it?’

‘That door is still locked to me, Cecco. The realm of Good has still not assumed definitive form in my mind. None of what I have thought so far does justice to the power of God’s throne. Sometimes the vague image of a lake of light floats into my mind, with the souls of the
just
warming themselves around it …’

‘A circle of idiots around a bonfire, like camel-dealers camped out in the desert. And that would be your Paradise? That’s our reward for all the gall and shit that we have to swallow in this life?’ the other man exploded with a snigger. ‘My word, I can understand the faith of the Mohammedans, with their Paradise rich in milk, honey, wine and beautiful women.’

An expression of nausea appeared on Dante’s face. He waved with his hand, shaking his head as if to expunge what had just been said.

Meanwhile he went on walking, sidestepping the crowd of men and beasts that sometimes threatened to run him down. Cecco seemed distracted, as if his thoughts had turned to something a long way off.

Reaching the foot of the steps, Dante stopped, gripping his friend by an arm. ‘Cecco, I am here to perform a very sad duty. To inspect the corpse of a murdered man.’ He moved towards the entrance of the hospital, but after a few steps he stopped, turning towards Cecco. ‘Come inside with me, if you like. For once your cunning and cynicism might be of use to me.’

Without replying, Cecco followed him.

T
HEY WENT
down into the cellar where the bodies of the dead were displayed. The air was almost impossible to
breathe
, poisoned as it was by the smoke from lamps running on stale oil, and the miasmas that rose up from beneath the stained sheets thrown over the corpses. Protecting his face with his veil, Dante approached the last of the plank beds, where the men of the Misericordia had arranged the naked limbs of the dead man. The head had been reconnected to the torso, and only the frayed strip on one side of the neck bore witness to the horror.

A merciful hand had undressed and washed the body. Dante approached to study that face once more, while Cecco had stopped a certain distance away, his face contorted into a grimace. He observed the heavy features, worn by the abuse of time. And the nose, bent to one side as if broken long ago.

Dante was struck once more by the same sensation that he had felt at the inn. He had seen that face before, he thought as he stroked the gaunt cheeks. Conquering his horror, he gripped the head, bringing it close to his own face. ‘Who are you?’ he murmured.

He felt as if he was walking in a circle around the edge of a dark well. Then, suddenly, like a bubble of air rising to the surface of a muddy pond, a name appeared in his mind.

He had known this man more than twenty years ago, when he had attended the Francescan school at Santa Croce.

Cecco waited behind him in silence, with a look of
nausea
on his face. ‘What does it mean?’ he murmured at last, while Dante remained silent.

By way of reply the poet merely nodded ahead of him, as if indicating something beyond the cellar wall. He moved his finger as if searching in the air for words that his thoughts had left behind. Then his mind returned from the hypothetical landscape that he had been exploring. ‘There, in the church. The reliquary of the virgin. This man is Guido Bigarelli, sculptor of the dead.’

Cecco looked at the victim with perplexity, as if the name suggested nothing to him. Dante, on the other hand, seemed increasingly prey to uneasy astonishment. Could Bigarelli have come back to Florence to be killed there, when one of his works was reappearing in such a marvellous way? It couldn’t just be a simple coincidence.