there in the middle of it.’
‘Perhaps he wasn’t a merchant after all. And someone must have helped him. But I’m sure it was only at the moment of death.’
‘Are you thinking of the cloth merchant Fabio dal Pozzo, who’s staying at the Angel Inn?’ he asked the poet, who nodded. He too had been thinking of the dead man’s companion. ‘He’s an outsider. He’s not one of us. And he’s already killed someone, someone close to him.’
Dante thought with a shiver of how justice was done in his city. ‘It might be useful to listen to him. I want to question him once we get to Florence. See to it that he doesn’t get away.’
At the priory, early afternoon
H E MUST have been dozing for some time, overcome as he was with exhaustion. He got up from the bed with his mind still confused, still prey to the images of his dream. He threw open the door of his cell and emerged on to the portico, taking deep breaths. In the afternoon air a damp night-time smell was slowly becoming noticeable, but it couldn’t yet defeat the fierce heat of the sun, still high in the sky. The usual animation of the streets beyond the monastery wall reached his ears, amplified by the echo of the walls.
He saw that the guards had clustered around the open gate, busy studying something outside. Trying to get his thoughts in order, Dante went down to the cloister. Crowds of men and women could be glimpsed through the portal, walking back from the Oltrarno, passing through the Ponte Vecchio and heading for the northern part of the city. ‘Where are they going?’ he asked one of the soldiers.
But he already knew the answer. ‘Towards the Maddalena. There’s a rumour that the Virgin is going to be exhibited again today.’
The image of Bigarelli’s broken body had never stopped haunting him. Along with his splendid and horrible work, if what he had been told was true. And then the face of that statue and its curious simulacrum of life. His reason drove the prior to seek the guilty man among the guests at the inn, taking refuge from the ambiguous realm of shadows that had been manifested in the abbey. And yet his instinct cried that the miracle was yet another link in the chain of death. ‘Tell the other priors they’ll have to manage without me at the meeting. There’s something that requires my presence,’ was all he managed to convey to the guard.
W HEN HE got there, the church was already full to capacity. Once more the poet elbowed his way through the throng, trying to reach his earlier observation point behind the pillar. The canopy designed to receive Bigarelli’s reliquary had already been carried in front of the altar, and someone had drawn the curtains to display it to the view of the faithful. But the monk and the prodigious relic had yet to appear.
Dante took advantage of this to study the mass of humanity all around him. Something had changed since last time: the rumour of the miracle must have spread quickly, reaching the furthest points of the city. Now, apart from the vulgar faces and the coarse greyish clothes of the rabble , the nave was animated with patches of colour, the sumptuous clothes of aristocrats and members of the upper classes.
The halt and the lame had managed to grab a place behind the altar. Here and there was the dark clothing of a notary, and in a corner, unsettlingly, the white habits of two Dominicans.
The poet instinctively withdrew behind the pillar: if even the Inquisition had taken the trouble to come, it was a sure sign that news of the miracle had passed beyond the walls of that little monastery.
At that moment the monk Brandano entered through the back door, on slow and majestic footsteps, followed by the two men charged with the duty of carrying the reliquary. The same procedure was repeated, but this time the expectant atmosphere in the auditorium was more palpable, practically frantic. The eagerness of those who had already witnessed the miracle was now joined by the morbid
‘Perhaps he wasn’t a merchant after all. And someone must have helped him. But I’m sure it was only at the moment of death.’
‘Are you thinking of the cloth merchant Fabio dal Pozzo, who’s staying at the Angel Inn?’ he asked the poet, who nodded. He too had been thinking of the dead man’s companion. ‘He’s an outsider. He’s not one of us. And he’s already killed someone, someone close to him.’
Dante thought with a shiver of how justice was done in his city. ‘It might be useful to listen to him. I want to question him once we get to Florence. See to it that he doesn’t get away.’
At the priory, early afternoon
H E MUST have been dozing for some time, overcome as he was with exhaustion. He got up from the bed with his mind still confused, still prey to the images of his dream. He threw open the door of his cell and emerged on to the portico, taking deep breaths. In the afternoon air a damp night-time smell was slowly becoming noticeable, but it couldn’t yet defeat the fierce heat of the sun, still high in the sky. The usual animation of the streets beyond the monastery wall reached his ears, amplified by the echo of the walls.
He saw that the guards had clustered around the open gate, busy studying something outside. Trying to get his thoughts in order, Dante went down to the cloister. Crowds of men and women could be glimpsed through the portal, walking back from the Oltrarno, passing through the Ponte Vecchio and heading for the northern part of the city. ‘Where are they going?’ he asked one of the soldiers.
But he already knew the answer. ‘Towards the Maddalena. There’s a rumour that the Virgin is going to be exhibited again today.’
The image of Bigarelli’s broken body had never stopped haunting him. Along with his splendid and horrible work, if what he had been told was true. And then the face of that statue and its curious simulacrum of life. His reason drove the prior to seek the guilty man among the guests at the inn, taking refuge from the ambiguous realm of shadows that had been manifested in the abbey. And yet his instinct cried that the miracle was yet another link in the chain of death. ‘Tell the other priors they’ll have to manage without me at the meeting. There’s something that requires my presence,’ was all he managed to convey to the guard.
W HEN HE got there, the church was already full to capacity. Once more the poet elbowed his way through the throng, trying to reach his earlier observation point behind the pillar. The canopy designed to receive Bigarelli’s reliquary had already been carried in front of the altar, and someone had drawn the curtains to display it to the view of the faithful. But the monk and the prodigious relic had yet to appear.
Dante took advantage of this to study the mass of humanity all around him. Something had changed since last time: the rumour of the miracle must have spread quickly, reaching the furthest points of the city. Now, apart from the vulgar faces and the coarse greyish clothes of the rabble , the nave was animated with patches of colour, the sumptuous clothes of aristocrats and members of the upper classes.
The halt and the lame had managed to grab a place behind the altar. Here and there was the dark clothing of a notary, and in a corner, unsettlingly, the white habits of two Dominicans.
The poet instinctively withdrew behind the pillar: if even the Inquisition had taken the trouble to come, it was a sure sign that news of the miracle had passed beyond the walls of that little monastery.
At that moment the monk Brandano entered through the back door, on slow and majestic footsteps, followed by the two men charged with the duty of carrying the reliquary. The same procedure was repeated, but this time the expectant atmosphere in the auditorium was more palpable, practically frantic. The eagerness of those who had already witnessed the miracle was now joined by the morbid
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