The Kingdom of Light by Giulio Leoni Read Free Book Online

Cavalcanti?’
    The innkeeper nodded. The chattering of his teeth was plainly audible in the silence. It was then that Dante understood the reason for the sense of strangeness that had accompanied him since the moment he had stepped into the inn: there were none of the usual sounds normally heard in such places. No shouting, no laughter, no women’s voices. Not even the rattle of crockery or the clatter of hoofs on cobbles. Everything seemed as dead as the victim.
    ‘Who was this man?’
    ‘A pilgrim on his way to Rome. He said his name was Brunetto da Palermo, a painter. I thought he was one of the many who were going to see the Pope to work on the Jubilee …’
    The poet’s eye turned to the dead man’s hands. Knotty, covered with the dark marks of old age. But still strong. ‘Have you taken anything from here?’
    ‘No, heavens above! I wasn’t even brave enough to come in when I was told about … about …’
    ‘Who discovered the crime?’
    ‘One of Monna Lagia’s whores. She had gone to see if any of the guests felt like – well, you know how these things are …’
    Dante nodded distractedly. ‘You mentioned guests. Who’s staying in the other rooms?’
    The innkeeper cleared his throat. ‘There are six guests. Apart from … from this one,’ he said, pointing to the body, still without looking at it.
    ‘Tell me exactly the names of each of them, and where they’re staying.’
    ‘I can do better than that, Prior. I can show you in person. They are drinking together in the big room down below. If you’ll follow me …’
    Dante set off behind him, followed in turn by the Bargello. A wide trapdoor opened in the wooden floor of the first storey, perhaps the loading bay of the old barn. The innkeeper lifted it and beckoned the poet over.
    Below them a group of men were sitting around an oak table, drinking from earthenware pitchers. They were sunk in quiet conversation, far from the usual effervescence of tavern noises. They seemed to be biding the time as they waited for something.
    ‘Are those your guests?’ the poet asked in a low voice.
    The other man, after a quick glance, nodded.
    Dante cast his eye over the group, settling on each in turn. He pointed to the one sitting at the top of the table, his head sunk between his shoulders, a vexed expression on his kindly features. Dante thought he had seen him somewhere before. He was the youngest, twenty or younger.
    ‘Franceschino Colonna, from Rome,’ the innkeeper murmured. ‘On his way back from Bologna. He’s a student and he’s going back home.’
    The prior remembered the young man he had noticed in the miracle church.
    ‘And that one’s Fabio dal Pozzo,’ added the innkeeper, following his hand, which had turned towards a squat man sitting beside the first, with a goblet of wine in his hand. ‘Cloth merchant. He’s come from the North to sell Scottish wool.’
    Still in silence, Dante nodded towards the other two, who were sitting on the other side of the table, in the corner, intent on a game of dice. One, wearing clothes that stretched tight as a drum-skin over his large belly, slowly shook the cup as though reluctant to tempt fate. The other man, with features as dark as his own outfit, and terrifyingly thin, distractedly observed his companion’s movements.
    ‘Rigo di Cola, the fat one,’ whispered the innkeeper. ‘Another wool merchant. He’s heading to Rome for the Jubilee as well. And the other man’s called Bernardo Rinuccio. He’s travelling with a lot of paper and ink. I think he’s writing something. He’s always with the friars, at Santa Croce, rummaging in their paperwork,’ he added with a grimace.
    The man’s angular cheekbones seemed about to pierce the skin of his hollow face. A shiver ran down the poet’s spine.
    The landlord seemed troubled as well. ‘He looks as if he’s already dead … doesn’t he?’
    Dante nodded. Boniface was buying up works by artists to beautify Rome in time for