Authors: Javier Sierra
After our conversation, having shown me the Soothsayer’s latest letter, he returned to the Order’s Mother House, leaving Bethany before sunset. Torriani had ordered him to return and apprise him of my reaction. In particular, he wanted to know my opinion regarding the rumors about the serious irregularities in the renovation of Santa Maria delle Grazie. My assistant must have given him my message, which was brief and clear: if my old fears were finally taken into account, and if, in addition, the revelations of the Soothsayer were to be considered credible, then he had to be found in Milan, and he had to tell us, from his own lips, the extent of the duke’s secret plans for the monastery.
“In particular,” I had insisted to Giovanni, “the work of Leonardo da Vinci must be examined closely. Already in Bethany, we were well aware of his fondness for hiding heterodox ideas in paintings apparently pious. Leonardo worked in Florence for many years and was acquainted with the descendants of Cosimo the Elder. Among all the artists working at Santa Maria, he is the one most likely to share the ideas of Ludovico il Moro.”
Giovanni added my one other serious concern to his report to Master Torriani: I had insisted on the need to open an investigation on the death of Donna Beatrice. The Soothsayer’s exact forecast suggested the existence of a sinister occult plan, conjured up by Duke Ludovico or by one of his wicked advisors, in order to install a pagan republic in the very heart of Italy. Even though it made little sense for the duke to order the assassination of his wife and one of his future heirs, the mind of those steeped in the occult sciences often follow unpredictable paths. It was not the first time that I’d heard of the need to sacrifice a noteworthy victim before a great undertaking. The ancients, barbarians of the Golden Age, did so often.
I believe that Torriani was roused by my conclusions.
The Master General alerted Brother Giovanni of his intentions, and on the following morning, while snow was still falling over Rome, he left his rooms in the Monastery of Santa Maria sopra Minerva set upon attacking the very root of the problem.
Defiantly riding a mule up the snow-laden roads leading out of the Eternal City, Torriani reached the headquarters of Bethany and asked to see me as soon as possible. I never learned what terms Brother Giovanni had employed to inform him of my concerns, but it was obvious that they had impressed him. I had never seen our Master in such a state. Two bruised bags hung under his gray eyes, extinguishing all light; his back seemed bowed under the weight of the bleak responsibility that now stifled his joyful character and made his shoulders drop despondently. Torriani, my mentor, guide and old friend, was hastening toward the end of his life with all marks of disillusionment on his face. And yet, a faint glimmer in his look betrayed a sense of urgency.
“Can you attend to a servant a God, drenched and sick?” he asked as soon as he saw me in the atrium of Bethany.
I was surprised to see him there at such an early hour. He had ridden up alone, without a retinue, a blanket flung over his habit and his sandals covered in rabbit skins. For the superior of the Order of Saint Dominic to have abandoned in such a state our Mother House and his parish, and crossed the city in a storm in order to meet with the head of his intelligence service, the matter had to be of utmost gravity. And even though his somber features invited immediate discussion, I dared not ask any questions. I waited for him to divest himself of his humble wraps and to drink the glass of hot wine that was offered him. We climbed up to my small study, a dark room full of boxes and manuscripts, from which all of Rome could be seen, and as soon as the door was closed, Father Torriani confirmed my worst fears:
“Of course I’ve come about those blessed letters!” he cried, arching his white eyebrows. “And you ask me who I think is the author? Precisely you ask me that, Father Agostino?”
Torriani took a deep breath. His wizened body struggled for warmth, aided by the wine. Outside, the snow continued to fall heavily on the valley.
“My impression,” he continued, “is that our man must be someone in the duke’s service or, if not, a brother in the new monastery of Santa Maria delle Grazie. It must be someone well familiar with our customs, someone who knows into whose hands these letters are delivered. And yet—”
“And yet?”
“You see, Father Agostino, since I read the letter I sent to you yesterday, I have not slept a wink. Out there is someone warning us of a serious act of treason against the Church. The matter is of greatest urgency, especially if, as I fear, our informant belongs to the community of Santa Maria—”
“You believe the Soothsayer to be a Dominican, Father?”
“I am almost certain. Someone from within, witness to Ludovico’s advances, who doesn’t dare denounce him for fear of retaliation.”
“And I suppose you’ve already examined the lives of all those friars in search of your candidate. Am I mistaken?”
Torriani smiled with satisfaction.
“All. With no exception. And most of them come from good Lombard families. They are men of the cloth loyal to both Ludovico and the Church, men not inclined to fantasies or conspiracies. In a word, good Dominicans. I can’t imagine which of them might be the Soothsayer.”
“If it truly is one them.”
“Of course.”
“Let me remind you, Master Torriani, that Lombardy has always been a land of heretics…”
The Master General, shivering, stifled a sneeze before responding. “That was long ago, Father Agostino. For the past two hundred years, there hasn’t been a trace of the Cathar heresy in the whole area. It is true that those cursed souls who inspired our beloved Saint Dominic to create the Holy Inquisition took refuge there after the Albigensian Crusade, but they all perished without having been able to spread the contagion of their ideas to others.”
“And yet, Master, we cannot dismiss the possibility that their blasphemous notions appealed to the Milanese mind. Otherwise, why are they so open to heterodox ideas? Why would the duke accept pagan beliefs if he himself had not grown up in an atmosphere inclined to them? And why,” I continued, “would a Dominican, loyal to Rome, hide behind anonymous messages, if he himself did not take part in the heresy he now denounces?”
“Fabrications, Father Agostino! The Soothsayer is not a Cathar. On the contrary: he is concerned with maintaining orthodoxy with greater zeal than the General Inquisitor of Carcassonne himself.”
“This morning, before your arrival, I once again went over all his letters. And the Soothsayer is clear about his goal from the very first message he sent us: he wants us to send someone to stop Ludovico il Moro’s plans for Santa Maria delle Grazie. It is as if whatever the duke does with the rest of Milan—the piazzas, the navigation channels, the locks—were of no importance to him. And that lends weight to your theory.”
Torriani nodded with satisfaction.
“But, Master,” I ventured to contradict him, “before taking action we should decide whether his request does not hold a trap.”
“What? Do you propose to leave the Soothsayer to his own devices in spite of the proofs he has offered us? But you yourself have for some time now denounced the doctrinal strayings of the duke’s late wife!”
“Precisely. They are a cunning family. That man, whoever he is, asks for our help, which we can no longer deny him. Furthermore, with the assistance of Cardinal Ascanio, brother of the duke, I’ve corroborated even the smallest detail in his reports. And believe me, they are exact.
“Exact,” I repeated, while attempting to place my thoughts in order. “But what surprises me most in this affair, Master, is your own change of attitude.”
“There has been no such change,” he protested. “I set aside the Soothsayer’s letter until I had solid proofs to back them. Had I not believed in them, I would have destroyed them, don’t you think?”
“Well then, Master Torriani, if our informer is supported by truth, if he is indeed a Dominican worried about the future of his new monastery, why then does he mask his identity when he writes to you?”
Master Torriani shrugged his shoulders in perplexity.
“I wish I knew, Father Agostino. It worries me. The more time goes by without our finding answers, the more disturbed I become. These days the breaches in our order are many, and to open yet another wound within the bosom of the Church means bleeding Her with no hope for cure. That is why it is time for action. We cannot allow for the events in Florence to be repeated in Milan. It would be disastrous!”
Yet another wound. I hesitated to bring up the subject, but Torriani’s silence left me no alternative.
“I imagine that you’re referring to Father Savonarola—”
“Who else?” The old man took a deep breath before continuing. “The Holy Father’s patience is at an end, and he is considering excommunication. Savonarola’s sermons against the papal opulence are becoming more and more acrimonious, and furthermore, his prophecies regarding the end of the House of Medici have been fulfilled. Now, with a crowd in tow, he announced the Lord’s dire punishments against the Papal States. He says that Rome must suffer to purge its sins, and the wicked man rejoices in his prediction. And the worst about it is that every day he has more followers. If by chance the Duke of Milan were to join in his apocalyptic ideas, no one would be able to stop the discredit to our institution.”
In confusion, I crossed myself at the bleak prospect outlined by the Master General.
In those days, Father Girolamo Savonarola was, as all of Rome knew, Torriani’s most worrisome problem. Everyone spoke of him. A persistent reader of the Book of Revelation, this Dominican of brilliant tongue and great seductive power had recently established a theocratic republic in Florence to fill the gap left by the flight of the Medici. From the vantage of his new pulpit, he raged against the excesses of Pope Alexander VI. Savonarola was a madman or, even worse, a fearless rogue. He lent deaf ears to the calls to order from his superiors, and he deliberately ignored canonical legislation. The Dictatus Papae, which, from the eleventh century, exempted the Pope and his court from all possibility of error, filled him with outrage, and challenging even the nineteenth sentence (“No one may judge the Pope”), he shouted from the altar that His Holiness must be stopped in the name of God Himself.
Our Master General had been driven to despair. Not only had he been unable to stifle that madcap’s dreams of grandeur, but he had been helpless to prevent Savonarola’s attitude from compromising the entire order in the eyes of His Holiness. The rebel, proud as Samson before the Philistines, had rejected the cardinal’s hat offered to him to silence his criticism, and had even refused to abandon his tribune in the Florentine monastery of San Marco, alleging that he had a more important divine mission to accomplish. For this reason alone Master Torriani did not want the loyalty of the Dominican preachers questioned in Milan. If the Soothsayer was a Dominican and he was correct in his warnings against Ludovico il Moro’s pagan plans for our new house in the city, then our order itself would once again be called into question.
“I’ve reached a decision, Father Agostino,” the Master General declared with severity, after a moment’s reflection. “We must abolish any shadow of a doubt from the works at Santa Maria delle Grazie, even appealing to the Holy Inquisition, if need be.”
“Master, you are not thinking of bringing the Duke of Milan before a court?”
“Only if necessary. You know full well that nothing pleases the princes of this world more than to uncover the weaknesses of our Church and use them against us. That is why we are obliged to forestall their movements. Another scandal like that of Savonarola, and our House would be left in very bad standing in the eyes of the Papal States. You understand that, don’t you?”
“And how, if I may ask, do you intend to reach the Soothsayer, confirm his denunciations and gather the necessary information to judge him, all without raising suspicion?”
“I’ve given the matter much thought, my dear Father Agostino,” he muttered enigmatically. “You know better than I do that if I sent one of our inquisitors at the wrong time, the Milan tribunal would ask too many questions and thereby destroy the discretion demanded in this case. And if such a far-reaching plot does indeed exist, the accomplices of Ludovico il Moro would quickly hide its evidence.”
“And so?”
Without answering, Torriani opened the study door and went down the stairs to the entrance gate. He entered the stables courtyard and sought out his mule: the emergency meeting was at an end. Outside, the storm was still blowing strongly.
“Tell me, what are you planning to do?” I insisted.
“Ludovico il Moro has decreed that the duchess’s state funeral should take place in ten days’ time,” he answered at last. “There will be envoys from everywhere coming to Milan, and then it will be easy to enter Santa Maria and make the pertinent inquiries to find the Soothsayer. However,” he added, “we can’t send any simple friar. It must be someone discerning, knowledgeable in laws, heresies and secret codes. His mission will be to find the Soothsayer, to confirm his accusations one by one and to stop the heresy. And it must be a man from this house. From Bethany.”
The Master General cast a wary glance at the road he was about to take. With luck, the ride would take him an hour, and if his mule did not slip on a sheet of ice, he would reach his home with the midday sun.
“The man we need,” he said as if announcing something of momentous importance, “is you, Father Agostino. None other would solve the matter with greater efficacy.”
“I?” I was astonished. He had pronounced my name with morbid delectation while searching for something in his saddlebags. “But you are aware of the fact that I have work to do here, commitments—”
“None like this one!”
And pulling out a thick wad of documents sealed with his personal ring, he handed it over with to me with one last command:
“You will leave for Milan without delay. Even today, if possible. And with that”—he looked toward the wad I now held in my hands—“you will identify our informer, find out what truth lies in this new danger and attempt to discover a remedy for it.”