The Secret Supper (10 page)

His heart beat faster. There, utterly alone in the church, the pilgrim warily stretched out his hand, as if he might be forever united to the sacred scene. It was true. As true as the blessings of his faith. Those who had traveled here before him had not lied. None of them. This work of Master Leonardo held the clues that would allow them to end the millenary quest for the true religion.

As he cast his eyes once more on the celebrated painting, suddenly a detail caught his attention. How strange! Who had painted halos over the three heads of the evangelical characters? Had his brothers not told him that this superfluous adornment, the fruit of backward minds thirsty for wonders, had been deliberately omitted by the masterly painter? Why, then, were they there? The false beggar felt frightened. The halos were not the only thing that had been altered in the Opus Magnum. Where was Uriel’s finger, pointing toward the true Messiah? Why was his hand on his lap, instead of identifying the authentic Son of God? And why was the angel no longer fixing his eyes on the viewer?

The pilgrim was overcome by a vertiginous feeling of horror. Someone had meddled with the Maestà.

“You doubt, do you not?”

The pilgrim did not dare move a muscle but remained frozen to the spot at the sound of the dry, deep voice behind him. He hadn’t heard the door of the church creak open, so the intruder must have been watching him for a fair while now.

“I can tell you’re like all the others. For some dark reason you heretics come in droves to this House of God. Its light attracts you, but you are incapable of recognizing that.”

“Heretics?” he asked in a whisper, without stirring.

“Come now! Did you really think we wouldn’t notice?”

The pilgrim was unable to speak another word.

“At least this time you won’t have the consolation of praying to your despicable image.”

The pilgrim’s pulse was racing. His hour had come. He felt dazed and angry, cheated in having risked his life to kneel before a fraud. The painting he was looking at was not the Opus Magnum. It was not the promised Maestà.

“It can’t be—” he whispered. The intruder laughed out loud.

“It is easy enough to understand. I’ll grant you the mercy of knowledge before sending you to burn in hell. Leonardo painted your Maestà in 1483, some fourteen years ago already. As you might suppose, the Franciscans were not much pleased with it. They had expected a painting that would reinforce their belief in the Immaculate Conception and that might serve to illuminate the altar. Instead, he offered them a scene that is not described in any of the Gospels and that brings together Saint John and Christ in a pause during the Flight to Egypt.”

“The Mother of God, John, Jesus and the angel Uriel. The same one who warned Noah of the Flood. What wrong can you see in it?”

“You are all the same,” the voice replied with bitterness. “Leonardo agreed to make changes in that first version and eliminate the insolent details.”

“Why insolent?”

“How else would you refer to a work in which you cannot distinguish Saint John from Jesus Christ, and in which neither the Virgin nor Her Child are crowned with the halo of sainthood that belongs to them by rights? What are we to make of the fact that both holy infants are identical to one another? What kind of blasphemy is this that seeks to confound believers?”

A sudden feeling of relief allowed the pilgrim to breathe deeply for the first time. The executioner—because he was certain it was he to whom he was speaking—had not understood anything. The brothers who had preceded the pilgrim and who had never returned must have died at the hands of the executioner without revealing the motives for their discreet worship, and he himself was resolved to maintain his vow of silence even at the cost of his own blood.

“I won’t be the one to clarify your doubts,” he said serenely, without daring to face the voice.

“A pity. A real pity. Don’t you realize that Leonardo has betrayed you? If you look closely you’ll see that he’s painted a new version of the Maestà. In the painting before you, you can see that both infants are now clearly distinguishable from one another. The one next to the Virgin is Saint John. He carries his long-stemmed cross and prays, while receiving the blessing of the other infant, the Christ Child. Uriel is no longer pointing his finger at anyone, and it is clear at last who is the awaited Messiah.”

Was it possible that Leonardo had betrayed his brethren?

The pilgrim once again stretched his hand toward the painting. He had arrived here protected by the crowds who were streaming into Milan to attend the funeral of Donna Beatrice d’Este, his protector. Had she too given them up? Was it possible that everything for which they had struggled and for so long was now collapsing?

“In fact, I don’t need you to clarify anything,” the voice continued, defiantly. “We already know who inspired this wickedness of Leonardo’s, and, thanks be to God, that miserable creature has long ago gone to the grave. Do not doubt it: God will rightly punish Amadeo of Portugal and his Apocalipsis Nova. And with him, his notion of the Virgin, not as Mother of Christ, but as symbol of wisdom.”

“And yet, it is a beautiful symbol,” the pilgrim protested. “An ideal shared by many. Or are you planning to condemn all those who paint the Virgin with the Child Jesus and Saint John?”

“If they lead to confusion in the souls of the believers, yes, we will.”

“And do you really think they will allow you to lay your hands on Leonardo, on his apprentices or on Master Luini?”

“Bernardino de Lupino? 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 ingenious in solving riddles in the whole of Italy.”

I smiled. The librarian, like so many other servants of God, had never heard of Bethany. So much the better. But Father Alessandro insisted on explaining the reasons for his proud assertion. He assured me that the favorite pastime of these thirty select Dominicans was, precisely, to solve riddles. A number excelled in the art; not a few amused themselves by composing riddles for the others.

“The woods bear sons who later lay them low. Who are they?” the librarian recited in a singsong voice, in spite of my disinclination to include games in our mission. “The handles of the ax!”

Father Alessandro spared me no details. Of everything he said, what most drew my attention was to learn that riddles at Santa Maria were not used only for recreational purposes. Often the monks could use them in their sermons, turning them into instruments of indoctrination. If what the librarian was saying was not an exaggeration, within these walls was the largest training camp for riddle makers in the whole of Christendom, not counting Bethany. Therefore, if the Soothsayer had sprung from somewhere, this was the perfect place.

“Follow my advice, Father Agostino,” said the librarian, anticipating my thoughts. “When you have the number and if you don’t know what to do with it, consult any of our brothers. The person you least imagine may give you your solution.”

“Anyone, you say?”

The librarian made a gesture.

“Of course! Anyone! I’m certain that the brother in charge of the stables will know more about riddles than a Roman like you. Don’t be afraid to ask the prior, the cook, the pantry keepers, the scribes, any one of them! One thing, however: make certain you don’t speak too loudly or you’ll be admonished for breaking the vow of silence that every monk must keep.”

And with these words, he lifted the bar that blocked the main entrance to the monastery.

A small avalanche of snow fell from the roof, crashing with a dull sound at our feet. To be candid, I had not expected that something as banal as exploring the façade of a church at dawn would prove to be such a delicate exercise. The intense coldness of the morning had turned the snow into a dangerous sheet of ice. Everything was white, deserted and wrapped in an intimidating silence. The very idea of approaching Maestro Solari’s brick wall and skirting the enclosure of the third cloister would have put fear in the heart of the bravest of men. An ill-timed slip might break our necks or leave us lame for the rest of our days. Not to mention the difficulty of having to explain to the monks what we were doing at that time of dawn so far from our prayers, risking our lives beyond the monastery walls.

We gave the matter no further thought. Cautiously, trying not to get our sandals more wet than necessary, we advanced slowly between the chunks of ice toward the center of the façade, parallel to the street. We crossed it almost on all fours and, once Father Alessandro and I saw that we were at a proper distance, with a perspective on the ensemble of the building, we observed the windows with great care. A feeble interior light made them sparkle like the eyes of a dragon. There they were, in front of us, a series of round windows that adorned the church along its entire length. The main façade was now around the corner, barely a few steps beyond, its “face” turned away from us.

“Look not on its face,” I whispered through chattering teeth.

Frozen, hiding my hands in the sleeves of my woolen cloak, I counted: one, two, three…seven.

That seven disconcerted me. Seven verses, seven round windows…There was no doubt now that the number of the anonymous correspondent was that recurrent, blasted seven.

“But seven what?” asked the librarian.

All I could do was shrug.

17

What happened later that day showed me the way to proceed.

“So you are the Roman father who has sought lodgings in our house?”

Father Prior Vicenzo Bandello of Santa Maria delle Grazie scrutinized me with great severity before inviting me to enter the sacristy. At last I was meeting the man who had written the report on the death of Beatrice d’Este for Bethany.

“Father Alessandro has spoken much about you,” he continued. “Apparently, you are a scholarly man. A meticulous intellectual, with strong willpower, someone who may enrich our community during his stay among us. What did you say your name was?”

“Agostino Leyre, Father Prior.”

The prior had finished the office of terce as the insufficient sun hovered over the Valley of Padana. He was about to withdraw to prepare his sermon for Donna Beatrice’s funeral when I accosted him. Only partly was it an impulsive act on my part. Hadn’t Father Alessandro insisted that I ask any of the brethren about my riddle? Had he not assured me that the least expected among the monks might grant me the correct answer? And who was less expected than the Father Prior himself?