The Kingdom of Light by Giulio Leoni Read Free Book Online Page B

revealed.
    The only new clue was the record of the date when each of the men had entered the city walls. The pilgrims had arrived by different gates, from the four points of the compass. First Brunetto, the victim, on 2nd August. And with him Rigo di Cola, the wool merchant. The next day Bernardo Rinuccio, followed by the young Colonna and the cloth merchant Fabio dal Pozzo. Then the French knight and finally the old doctor, only two days before. As if they had arranged to meet, waiting for one last pilgrim. Instead, the last to arrive had been death, the most undesirable of guests.
    Or perhaps death was already waiting for them there, its yellowish skull hidden behind one of their faces. And it was preparing to take control of their lives in that rundown tower, as it had already done on the ship of the dead.
    T HE SUN was beginning to set, turning the façades of the houses red. Nearing Orsanmichele, Dante thought of taking the route by the Torre della Castagna, close to the houses of the Cerchi. It could be an opportunity for paying a visit to his relatives, who lived in the same street. But then he changed his mind, seeing that the shadow of the sundial fixed to the loggia was now approaching the seventh hour of the day. He had some way to travel if he was to reach Maestro Alberto in his workshop before the end of the working day.
    He plunged into the labyrinth of alleyways behind the remains of the ancient amphitheatre, skirted by a wasp’s nest of humble stone houses and wooden shacks where many of the craftsmen of Florence lived and had their workshops. Further south, towards the Arno, the road was blocked by the row of weavers and dyers and by the carders’ big water-mills anchored to the river bank. For the last stretch he wandered around the open-air benches of the silk-steamers until he reached a point where the narrow street widened slightly, avoiding the remains of a Roman arch. Immediately after it the way was blocked by a big wall built with the remnants of the old building, where a gate led into a little courtyard. Alberto the Lombard’s house opened up on to it.
    People were gathered in the little square in front of his workshop. Amidst shouts and laughter, men and women were excitedly watching something in front of them. Thinking that an acrobat was performing and making silly jokes, the prior pushed his way through the people, preparing to order him to move on.
    But it wasn’t what he had expected. A pillory had been erected on the corner of the street, its wooden pincer constricting the hands and neck of a man in peasant garb, who was lamenting in a loud voice. All around, the laughter of the onlookers rose along with his mounting wails, while stones and dung picked up from the ground were hurled at him.
    Dante walked over, resolving to pass by. But someone must have recognised him, because an anxious murmur ran through the crowd, followed by a sudden silence. In that void the voice of the convict suddenly rang out, a confused babble stuffed with Latin terms.
    Filled with curiosity, Dante stopped near the pillory. ‘What are you complaining about, you rogue? What were you convicted of?’ he asked, leaning forward to meet the unfortunate man’s eye. When the other man went on staring at the ground, the poet gripped him by the few hairs he still had left, forcing him to lift his head.
    Screaming with pain, the man turned his neck as far as he could to return Dante’s gaze. On his swollen face one livid eye had been closed by a blow, but the other glittered with malice. ‘Oh, Messer, by my faith I am exposed to this derision only because of a
quaestio irresoluta
, a difference of interpretation,’ he announced quietly.
    ‘It is over a philosophical disputation that the Bargello has bound you to this cross?’ the poet replied in astonishment, relaxing his grip.
    ‘Precisely, Messer. I see from your clothing that you must be a man of culture and learning,’ said the convict who, defeated by the