The one also called Lovinus or Luini?”
“Do you know him?” the pilgrim asked.
“I know his work. He’s a young imitator of Leonardo who obviously commits his same mistakes. But have no fear, he’ll fall as well.”
“What are you thinking of doing? Killing him?”
The pilgrim realized that something was terribly wrong. He heard behind him a metallic scraping, like that of a sword being unsheathed. His vows forbade him to carry weapons, so he mouthed a prayer to the false Maestà, begging for counsel.
“Am I to die as well?”
“The Soothsayer will do away with all of the wicked.”
“The Soothsayer—?”
He had not finished asking his question when a strange convulsion shook his innards. The sharp blade of a huge steel sword pierced his back. The pilgrim let out a terrible groan. The metal sliced through his heart. The keen sensation, brief as lightning, made him open his eyes wide with terror. The false beggar felt no pain, only an icy coldness, a frozen embrace that made him stagger over the altar and fall on his bruised knees.
It was the one and only time he saw his assailant.
The Soothsayer was a sturdy shadow, black as charcoal and expressionless.
Night was falling in the church. Everything was growing dark and still. Even time seemed to be strangely slowing down. As he slumped to the altar pavement, the bundle the pilgrim carried on his back became undone, and a few pieces of bread and several cards printed with curious effigies tumbled onto the floor. The first corresponded to a woman wearing the Franciscan habit, a triple crown on her head, a cross like that of Saint John the Baptist in her right hand and a closed book in her left.
“Cursed heretic!” said the Soothsayer when he saw it.
The pilgrim returned a cynical smile, as he watched the Soothsayer pick up the card and dip a pen in his blood to jot down something on the back.
“You’ll never…open…the priestess’s…book,” the pilgrim said.
From his hunched position, his heart pumping streams of blood onto the paving stones, he managed to see something that he had up to now overlooked. Even though Uriel was no longer pointing at John the Baptist as in the true Opus Magnum, his open eyes spoke volumes. The “fire of God” was pointing with his sideways look toward the wise man of the Jordan, as the true Savior of the world.
Leonardo, he consoled himself by thinking, before falling into the eternal darkness, had not betrayed them after all. The Soothsayer had lied.
16
We waited for the first light of Saturday the fourteenth of January to abandon the interior of the monastery and explore at ease the brick façade of Santa Maria delle Grazie. Father Alessandro, who had proven to possess a certain natural ability for solving riddles, was once again exultant. It was as if the frost that, hours earlier, had frozen this part of the city were no concern of his. At half past six, immediately after the service, the librarian and I were ready to go out into the street. It was to be a simple operation that would take us no longer than a couple of minutes, but which, however, troubled me deeply.
Father Alessandro took notice and decided to remain silent.
He knew full well that, whatever the “number of the name” that we would obtain by counting the round windows on the façade, we would still not have solved the problem itself. We’d have a number, perhaps the number rendered by the name of our anonymous informer, though we could not even be sure of that. What if it were the sum total of the letters of his family name? Or of the number of his cell? Or—?
“I’d forgotten to tell you something,” he said at last.
“What is it, Father?”
“It’s something that may console you. Once we’ve obtained that blessed number, we’ll still have much work ahead if we want to get to the bottom of this puzzle.”
“That is so.”
“Well, then you should know that Santa Maria houses a community of monks who are the most
“Do you know him?” the pilgrim asked.
“I know his work. He’s a young imitator of Leonardo who obviously commits his same mistakes. But have no fear, he’ll fall as well.”
“What are you thinking of doing? Killing him?”
The pilgrim realized that something was terribly wrong. He heard behind him a metallic scraping, like that of a sword being unsheathed. His vows forbade him to carry weapons, so he mouthed a prayer to the false Maestà, begging for counsel.
“Am I to die as well?”
“The Soothsayer will do away with all of the wicked.”
“The Soothsayer—?”
He had not finished asking his question when a strange convulsion shook his innards. The sharp blade of a huge steel sword pierced his back. The pilgrim let out a terrible groan. The metal sliced through his heart. The keen sensation, brief as lightning, made him open his eyes wide with terror. The false beggar felt no pain, only an icy coldness, a frozen embrace that made him stagger over the altar and fall on his bruised knees.
It was the one and only time he saw his assailant.
The Soothsayer was a sturdy shadow, black as charcoal and expressionless.
Night was falling in the church. Everything was growing dark and still. Even time seemed to be strangely slowing down. As he slumped to the altar pavement, the bundle the pilgrim carried on his back became undone, and a few pieces of bread and several cards printed with curious effigies tumbled onto the floor. The first corresponded to a woman wearing the Franciscan habit, a triple crown on her head, a cross like that of Saint John the Baptist in her right hand and a closed book in her left.
“Cursed heretic!” said the Soothsayer when he saw it.
The pilgrim returned a cynical smile, as he watched the Soothsayer pick up the card and dip a pen in his blood to jot down something on the back.
“You’ll never…open…the priestess’s…book,” the pilgrim said.
From his hunched position, his heart pumping streams of blood onto the paving stones, he managed to see something that he had up to now overlooked. Even though Uriel was no longer pointing at John the Baptist as in the true Opus Magnum, his open eyes spoke volumes. The “fire of God” was pointing with his sideways look toward the wise man of the Jordan, as the true Savior of the world.
Leonardo, he consoled himself by thinking, before falling into the eternal darkness, had not betrayed them after all. The Soothsayer had lied.
16
We waited for the first light of Saturday the fourteenth of January to abandon the interior of the monastery and explore at ease the brick façade of Santa Maria delle Grazie. Father Alessandro, who had proven to possess a certain natural ability for solving riddles, was once again exultant. It was as if the frost that, hours earlier, had frozen this part of the city were no concern of his. At half past six, immediately after the service, the librarian and I were ready to go out into the street. It was to be a simple operation that would take us no longer than a couple of minutes, but which, however, troubled me deeply.
Father Alessandro took notice and decided to remain silent.
He knew full well that, whatever the “number of the name” that we would obtain by counting the round windows on the façade, we would still not have solved the problem itself. We’d have a number, perhaps the number rendered by the name of our anonymous informer, though we could not even be sure of that. What if it were the sum total of the letters of his family name? Or of the number of his cell? Or—?
“I’d forgotten to tell you something,” he said at last.
“What is it, Father?”
“It’s something that may console you. Once we’ve obtained that blessed number, we’ll still have much work ahead if we want to get to the bottom of this puzzle.”
“That is so.”
“Well, then you should know that Santa Maria houses a community of monks who are the most
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