And the sea of stone generated a forest. As a result of the devastating rainfall that had afflicted the Venetian lands, the Medoacus maior, the Silis, and the Plavis had swelled beyond measure and, in addition to soil and mud, had vomited into the lagoon chunks of mountains, forests, and huts. Sailing from Torcellus, Edgardo saw wrinkled tree trunks slicing through the waters like battering rams. Brambles and roots that dragged carpets of leaves, bushes, and grass covered the entire lagoon, so much so that the boat steered by Abella seemed to be gliding over a woody pasture just devastated by a tempest.
It took great effort to reach the Crowned Wolf, struggling against a slimy bog that swallowed your feet with every step, refusing to give them back.
The front door and windows were shut. Edgardo knocked and called out but there was no answer. “Maybe he’s at the back of the shop and can’t hear us.”
“Or he’s not happy that we’ve come to call,” Abella said “Don’t forget that according to his plans, you should already be underground.”
They leaned out on the bridge over the canal near the shop.
“If we walk on the boats moored along the little canal, we’ll get to the courtyard at the back,” suggested Edgardo, who had by then regained his strength.
“I’m used to these ventures with you.”
They lowered themselves onto the floor of the first boat, then, leaping from one to the other, they reached the courtyard. The expanse of grass had turned into a pool. They went to the door. It was shut.
“Perhaps Sabbatai has left Venice,” Edgardo said.
“If so, then it’s proof his conscience was dirty.”
At that moment, it stopped raining. Edgardo sat on the steps of the well, absorbed in thought. “However much my mind tries to explore the most twisted arguments, I can’t find a reason to explain why Sabbatai should want my death.”
“Maybe it’s not Sabbatai who wants your death, and somebody may have used him.”
“That’s even worse,” Edgardo said. “Why hate me so much?”
“It has nothing to do with hatred. You’re looking for the person responsible for Costanza’s death, and somebody doesn’t like it.”
Edgardo hadn’t considered this. He admired Abella’s iron logic.
He was about to get up when his attention was caught by a shiny fragment on one of the steps by the well. He picked it up and brought it closer to his eyes.
“What have you found?” Abella asked.
“I have no idea,” he said, bringing it even closer. “I can’t see.”
“Use your circles,” she suggested.
“You’re right.” He took the contraption out of its case, and placed it before his eyes. “Ah, finally!” he exclaimed. “It’s glass . . . colored glass . . . it seems . . . it looks like . . . ”
“Come on, tell me.”
“It’s incredible. I’d venture a theory that it’s a piece of a bead.”
Silence fell. Abella looked at the scribe. “So?”
Edgardo closed his eyes and remained still as a civet that, sniffed out by a wolf, pretends to be dead in order to save its life. Then, suddenly . . . “Help me remove the iron plank that covers the puteal.”
With some effort, they pushed the plank to the ground. Edgardo leaned over the cistern flue. A sickly-sweet breath blew in his face. He picked up a stone and threw it down. A loud thud echoed up to the opening of the well.
“Did you hear that? With all the rain over the past few days, the cistern should be full, and yet a stone has just fallen on bare ground. The well is empty,” he explained, proud of his deduction.
From the hook he took down the rope on which the bucket hung and climbed onto the crown of the puteal.
“What are you trying to do?” Abella asked, worried.
“I want to go down to the bottom.”
“Where do you get this insane passion for climbing into every cleft?” Abella was trying to disguise her anxiety. “Are you sure you feel strong enough?”
“I have more energy than a lion.”
As a matter of fact, Abella thought, he really did look like a lion with that red, bristly hair that blended in with his beard like a huge mane.
“Do you have a piece of tow, or a bit of tallow?”
“I don’t carry the whole house in my pocket.” Abella searched the pockets of her tunic. “Perhaps this will do the trick.” She handed him a woven ribbon.
Edgardo clung to the rope and began his descent, propping himself with his feet. Despite the excruciating pain in his bones, he touched the bottom. His feet landed on a compact, dry surface. As he had anticipated, there was not a trickle of water. The air was steeped in a sickly-sweet, moldy stench.
He tried to find the flint to make some light.
He bumped into something, pulled away, then reached out gingerly with his hand.
A stringy, soft substance was coming out of a hard surface. He felt it again and came across something flabby, fleshy . . . like a mouth.
He let out a raucous cry.
“What happened?” Abella cried from above.
“There’s a presence down here,” Edgardo replied uncertainly.
“What kind of presence?”
“I’ll tell you in a minute.”
He rubbed the flint on the ribbon. After a few attempts, it caught fire and the place slowly lit up.
A shock shook his chest and he felt his stomach liquefy. He leaned back against the wall as far as he could. A step away, right in front of him, hung a woman . . . a woman with perfect features, with a youthful, appealing form, full breasts, a silky belly, soft hair, and fleshy, almost rosy lips. Only her eyes, which you could glimpse beneath the lids, had lost their original sheen. She looked asleep.
Edgardo stood staring at her, entranced by such beauty. Around her neck, she wore a copper thread with a row of beads.
An unexplainable feeling of overwhelming emotion rose to his throat. His eyes filled with tears. It looked to him as though in its perfection, that being had won man’s eternal battle against death.
At the same time, he felt relieved: it was not Kallis’s body, it was not his ghost. He could continue to hope that she would return from the land of the dead.
“Have you discovered the substance of that presence?” Abella shouted from above.
“I’ve found a dream, a vision, the image of man’s immortality.”
“This is not the time to turn poet, come back up.”
He stroked the angelic face one more time, and climbed back up to the opening of the well. When she saw him come out, Abella thought she was before a living corpse. “What did you see?”
“We’ve found the virgin of the beads, the girl stolen from the church of San Geminiano. They’ve hidden her in the well. I can’t understand why.”
“Evidently, Sabbatai is involved in the trafficking of corpses . . . this one was too tempting. I’m not the only one in Venice who practices anatomy on lifeless bodies.” Abella looked upset, as though someone had stolen the secret of a remedy from her.
“This could explain why the apothecary has tried to send me to heaven before my time,” Edgardo said.
“Possibly. Though I can’t see why you would represent a danger to his trafficking.” Abella stared at him, lost in thought. “Strange. You look as if you’ve prematurely aged . . . your hair and beard are completely white.”
Edgardo shook himself: a cloud of dust rose in the air.
“Your clothes too . . . and your hands . . . ” Abella said.
The scribe was about to rub himself.
“Stop!” She blocked his hand and tried to pick up a pinch of the strange dust. Then she lifted it to her lips and, with the tip of her tongue, raised it to her palate for a taste.
She rolled, clicked, knocked, gurgled and, in the end, forcefully announced, “It’s natron!”
“Natron? Like what we found on Costanza’s body? Are you sure.”
“Absolutely certain.”
“By the horns of Beelzebub and the tail of Titivillus, now this is a discovery!” Edgardo was as excited as a little boy fascinated by the tail movements of a lizard that writhes even after it’s been cleanly severed from the body.
“It means that there’s a secret link between the virgin and Costanza,” he added.
“Sabbatai lied to us. He swore he knew nothing about natron.”
“God almighty!” Edgardo suddenly exclaimed. “How many nights have passed since my poisoning?”
“Three.”
“Ermanno d’Istria assured me that if he found the pages in Herodotus about the use of natron, he’d wait for me at the Golden Head Inn after four days. We must go there as soon as possible.”
And they smiled at each other, like two associates who’d just sold a load of counterfeits to a Turkish merchant.
The tavern was heaving with customers. Edgardo wondered if it was because the weather was bad. They looked around for Ermanno: Persian merchants, Mamluks, Slavonian sailors wrapped in thick furs, all in the company of provocative young girls with sad eyes. No sign of the monk.
“We’re too late,” Edgardo said, downhearted.
“Let’s ask the owner,” Abella suggested.
“No, it’s no use, she’s an old shrew with a confused mind,” Edgardo replied abruptly, not wishing to reawaken unpleasant memories.
They were about to leave the inn when, at the door, Abella collided with a protruding belly advancing in a rush.
“I beg your pardon, illustrious Magister,” said the man, noticing the physicians’ scarlet robe.
“Ermanno!” Edgardo cried.
“My young friend, thank God I’ve found you. For an entire day, while waiting for you, I’ve had to engage in what seems like an ever-losing battle to keep sober.”
Ermanno gave him an affectionate hug.
“I am with an esteemed physician of great knowledge, whom I have the pleasure of presenting to you,” Edgardo said. “Her name is Abella.”
Ermanno’s face widened in an exaggerated smile. “A female scholar . . . oh . . . what a surprise, I didn’t know they existed, let me look at you closely, I am honored to make your acquaintance. Do you come from a land beyond the Pillars of Hercules?”
“She studied medicine at the School of Salerno,” the scribe added to increase Abella’s credit.
“Really? Many years ago, I met one of your colleagues, Bernardo di Provenza, who taught at Salerno.”
Abella interrupted him in a way Edgardo found almost discourteous. “I’ve heard of him. I’d left the school by then.”
“Of course, of course,” Ermanno said, looking around. “There’s the mid-Lent crowd here today, and so many attractive Circassian girls*. Come with me, I know this hovel’s every secret.”
He pushed them into a small room at the back of the inn, behind the counter.
“My respects, sweet Teodora.” Ermanno produced a musical tone. “A carafe of sweet Cyprus wine for my friends.”
The innkeeper grunted in return and, with a huge effort, lifted the outsized behind she was resting on two stools. For a moment, she stared at Edgardo, then wobbled her flabby flesh in the direction of the barrels.
“Good news,” Ermanno said. “I’ve found it. In the Second Book of Herodotus’s Histories, there’s something about natron.”
“Really?”
“Natron, a powder that looks like salt, with a faint smell and a savory taste, can be found in crystal form in the sands of the Natron Valley, situated between Alexandria and the Al Qattara desert,” he continued. “For Ancient Egyptians, it was a miraculous substance, essential for embalming the dead.”
Edgardo and Abella exchanged inquisitive looks.
“You’ve been very helpful,” Edgardo said.
“I’m glad. Here,” he said, handing him a rolled-up parchment. “I’ve copied the whole passage. Read it, it’s very instructive . . . These Egyptians had strange rituals.”
Abella and Edgardo stood up.
Ermanno stopped them. “A favor. I would be grateful if you could settle the bill with that harpy for this divine nectar. A translator’s life is a very wretched one.”
Edgardo bowed and kissed his hand, and, while Abella went toward the exit, he looked for Teodora. It wasn’t hard to find her. All he had to do was follow the nauseating scent of myrrh and civet. He quickly handed her the money. The woman looked up at him, then remained staring, like a statue of salt. “The more I see you, the more you look familiar . . . By all the relics of Saint John and Saint Paul, you’re that timid scribe, that shitty coward, with no faith or compassion, who sent my lovely husband Karamago to the gibbet! You Judas . . . you could have saved him but you ran away as fast as you could!”
She grabbed him by the sleeve. Crushed with shame, Edgardo tried to leave.
“Repent! Repent!” the hag shouted.
The customers turned to look. The scribe managed to disengage himself with a tug and ran out, pursued by coarse screaming.
Teodora was right. That act of cowardice belonged to his past. He’d done nothing to save the merchant who had given him shelter and saved his life. After all this time, the gravity of that sin still weighed on his conscience.
He caught up with Abella, shaken and embittered.
“You took a long time! Did the lady ask you to marry her?” This time, Abella’s sarcasm was painfully annoying. “We’ve made giant steps,” the Magister continued. “We know that natron is used in embalming . . . and since Costanza and the virgin’s bodies were covered in it, I assume that most probably that’s the treatment they were intended for.”
“True.” Edgardo tried to calm down. “But I can’t imagine why. To abduct, rape, and kill a girl, sew up her anal orifice and then embalm her is, I’d say, incomprehensible behavior. Who could have concocted such a plan?”
“The virgin of the beads was also about to undergo the same treatment. What’s the connection between the two girls?” Abella paused, deep in thought. “Sabbatai has disappeared, but maybe I know where to go for more information about this business of mummies and corpses. Come with me.”
They picked up the pace, splattering mud all around.
She knew where to find the fat man and the man from Bergamo. They lived on the island of San Serviglius, in a hut behind the hospice built by Benedictine monks to accommodate the droves of pilgrims who came to Venice prepared to face a long and perilous journey in order to visit the holy places in Jerusalem and, in this way, earn eternal salvation.
Some of them would get sick, even seriously sick, and quickly yield their souls to God.
The monks would bury unclaimed bodies behind the church, and that was where the fat man and the man from Bergamo would go to gather what for them was manna from heaven.
Corpses that were still fresh, dug up at night, and immediately delivered to the houses of physicians, alchemists, sorcerers, all those—and they were many—who would ask for them. A lucrative and not too strenuous trade about which they couldn’t complain.
Magister Abella went straight to the point. “I want to know about the mummies.”
The two men looked at each other in amazement, with the most innocent air in the world.
“In the well of Sabbatai’s shop we found the Metamauco virgin covered in natron. We know it’s used for embalming,” Edgardo said. “Have you heard any rumor, any hint, even a whisper, about the abduction from the church of San Geminiano?”
“Forgive us, Signore,” the man from Bergamo replied, “we’re just poor devils, we know nothing.”
Abella stood in front of the fat man. He had a good build for fighting, but one had to admit that the Magister outshone him in boldness and agility. “You’d better search your memory if you don’t want to lose a good customer,” she threatened.
“Well, actually, yes, it’s true . . . now that I think about it, we have on occasion done business with Sabbatai.”
“Go on.”
“The dwarf started trading in corpses, just for a joke, and sometimes we get him the odd mummy . . . when we have to, you see.”
“Who needs mummies?”
“I don’t know. We’re working men. He orders a corpse and we take it to him. Sabbatai gets some nice bodies—because of his shop he knows all the dying people in Venice.”
“Sabbatai tried to kill me, if I report him you’ll also be involved, and the trade will be exposed,” Edgardo said aggressively.
“There’s a merchant who keeps going back and forth between Venice and Alexandria with good corpses . . . I’ve also heard something about mummies.”
The fat man gave him a dirty look.
“A merchant from Alexandria? Do you know his name?”
“No, no, all we do is give Sabbatai a hand to carry them . . . we’re just working men, we know nothing else.”
“A merchant from Alexandria,” Edgardo repeated, calling for Abella’s attention. “You see, everything starts to make sense, and the mosaic is taking shape.”
Abella was always a little astounded by the scribe’s sudden deductions.
“We must go back to where it all began, to the Alexandria merchant’s palazzo in San Lorenzo. The circle is closing.”
“Are you sure?” Abella replied, perplexed.
“And I even know what stratagem to use in order to get straight to the merchant,” Edgardo added proudly.
The fat man and the man from Bergamo had listened to the whole exchange with moronic smiles, pleased that their situation wasn’t deteriorating.
“So, illustrious Magister, as soon as a pilgrim drops dead, we’ll bring it to you as usual,” the man from Bergamo said, as though to seal a pact of non-aggression. “We’ll give you a special price.
Abella did not reply. She wasn’t convinced by Edgardo’s confidence. The days were passing, and the announcement of Alvise’s execution could arrive at any moment.