them was lost.
‘More writing?’ said the Bargello, looking ill. ‘A book?’
The prior shook his head. ‘Too big. And no trace of binding between them,’ he said, picking up one sheet and examining its edge, which crumbled under his fingers. ‘More like drawings of some kind,’ he continued. His thoughts had returned to the big, empty bag in Bigarelli’s room, with its smell of ink.
‘The fourth man? The one who murdered the others? In that case, who killed him?’ the Bargello muttered suddenly, confused. He seemed to be waiting for Dante to resolve some inexplicable mystery. But the poet merely reflected, holding his chin between his fingers.
His eyes ceaselessly crossed the space around him, sliding from the burnt remains to the corpse. There had to be a logical connection. He felt he was close to the truth, but it kept slipping through his fingers.
The sun was setting. Soon there would be no point in staying there. After ascertaining that the dead man’s pockets were empty, he ordered the body to be buried in the shade of a pine, away from the burnt area.
No one said a prayer over that wretched corpse.
T HEY WERE halfway back to the city when Dante heard the intense sound of galloping horses. He barely had time to order his men to stop before a group of horsemen in hunting attire, carrying quivers and bows, emerged from a thicket.
At the sight of them the newcomers reined in their mounts and stopped a few yards away. The poet was sure he had never seen any of them, apart from the youngest, who seemed to be the leader of the group.
‘Good evening, Messer Alighieri!’ cried the student Franceschino Colonna, ostentatiously removing his cap. ‘And you, pay tribute to the Prior of Florence!’ he called to his companions. The three men bowed their heads slightly in greeting and muttered something inaudible.
‘What brings you to these parts, Colonna? Aren’t you a long way from the road to Rome?’
‘My city has stood solidly on her hills for twenty centuries, and will remain there for many centuries yet to come. There’s no hurry to get there, since your lands are so abundant with game,’ the young man exclaimed, drawing a blood-covered rabbit from his saddlebag.
‘It doesn’t look like much booty for four fat men,’ the prior observed, nodding to Franceschino’s companions, who remained at a distance. ‘Your friends?’
‘Jolly travelling companions. They too are pilgrims for the Jubilee, I met them on the road from Bologna. As we wait to resume our journey, we’re taking occasional rides in the countryside.’
‘Do you know where you are?’
‘Somewhere north of the new walls, I think. But we’ve been wandering about without paying any attention to the road. Have we accidentally trespassed?’
Dante shook his head.
‘Then have a safe journey, Messer Alighieri, and I will see you again when God wills,’ the young man replied, tugging on his bridle and spurring his horse.
Dante watched him take off before disappearing in the direction of the fire. ‘I’ll see you again when Florence wills,’ he murmured.
His instinct told him they were heading straight for the place where Rigo di Cola had been killed. He had heard that murderers often return to the scene of the crime, because of that mysterious attraction that binds conscience and the sin committed. But he had always thought it mere foolishness.
And yet those men weren’t there by chance. He had had time to study the prey that Franceschino had shown him. The animal was covered with dried blood, as if it had been dead for many hours. Whatever their intent, those men had not been hunting.
A S SOON as they had passed through the city gate, the Bargello came and stood next to him. ‘You know, Prior? I’ve had an idea. I was thinking about that pile of timber that went up in smoke, and the other lot, ready for use. It would take a clever carpenter to put together a piece of work like that. Who knows what a merchant was doing
‘More writing?’ said the Bargello, looking ill. ‘A book?’
The prior shook his head. ‘Too big. And no trace of binding between them,’ he said, picking up one sheet and examining its edge, which crumbled under his fingers. ‘More like drawings of some kind,’ he continued. His thoughts had returned to the big, empty bag in Bigarelli’s room, with its smell of ink.
‘The fourth man? The one who murdered the others? In that case, who killed him?’ the Bargello muttered suddenly, confused. He seemed to be waiting for Dante to resolve some inexplicable mystery. But the poet merely reflected, holding his chin between his fingers.
His eyes ceaselessly crossed the space around him, sliding from the burnt remains to the corpse. There had to be a logical connection. He felt he was close to the truth, but it kept slipping through his fingers.
The sun was setting. Soon there would be no point in staying there. After ascertaining that the dead man’s pockets were empty, he ordered the body to be buried in the shade of a pine, away from the burnt area.
No one said a prayer over that wretched corpse.
T HEY WERE halfway back to the city when Dante heard the intense sound of galloping horses. He barely had time to order his men to stop before a group of horsemen in hunting attire, carrying quivers and bows, emerged from a thicket.
At the sight of them the newcomers reined in their mounts and stopped a few yards away. The poet was sure he had never seen any of them, apart from the youngest, who seemed to be the leader of the group.
‘Good evening, Messer Alighieri!’ cried the student Franceschino Colonna, ostentatiously removing his cap. ‘And you, pay tribute to the Prior of Florence!’ he called to his companions. The three men bowed their heads slightly in greeting and muttered something inaudible.
‘What brings you to these parts, Colonna? Aren’t you a long way from the road to Rome?’
‘My city has stood solidly on her hills for twenty centuries, and will remain there for many centuries yet to come. There’s no hurry to get there, since your lands are so abundant with game,’ the young man exclaimed, drawing a blood-covered rabbit from his saddlebag.
‘It doesn’t look like much booty for four fat men,’ the prior observed, nodding to Franceschino’s companions, who remained at a distance. ‘Your friends?’
‘Jolly travelling companions. They too are pilgrims for the Jubilee, I met them on the road from Bologna. As we wait to resume our journey, we’re taking occasional rides in the countryside.’
‘Do you know where you are?’
‘Somewhere north of the new walls, I think. But we’ve been wandering about without paying any attention to the road. Have we accidentally trespassed?’
Dante shook his head.
‘Then have a safe journey, Messer Alighieri, and I will see you again when God wills,’ the young man replied, tugging on his bridle and spurring his horse.
Dante watched him take off before disappearing in the direction of the fire. ‘I’ll see you again when Florence wills,’ he murmured.
His instinct told him they were heading straight for the place where Rigo di Cola had been killed. He had heard that murderers often return to the scene of the crime, because of that mysterious attraction that binds conscience and the sin committed. But he had always thought it mere foolishness.
And yet those men weren’t there by chance. He had had time to study the prey that Franceschino had shown him. The animal was covered with dried blood, as if it had been dead for many hours. Whatever their intent, those men had not been hunting.
A S SOON as they had passed through the city gate, the Bargello came and stood next to him. ‘You know, Prior? I’ve had an idea. I was thinking about that pile of timber that went up in smoke, and the other lot, ready for use. It would take a clever carpenter to put together a piece of work like that. Who knows what a merchant was doing
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