Страница 76 из 85
It was Atenulf who had pla
Half-mechanically, still with my mind on this, I began again to gather together my belongings. The line joining Wilfred and Gerbert was plain enough: they had been in the same community of monks. And that joining Gerbert and Atenulf? Could he have been associated with Atenulf in arranging my mission to Potenza? What had a prelate such as he to do with the King's fame? But supposing the reason for the mission had been other? The afternoon we had met in the chapel, he had come with his companions from the south side of the crossing, the side where the light was obstructed higher up, the side where the shadows came from. Next day the King was pla
A feeling of wondering surprise came to me. Why had Gerbert come there at that time? Certainly not to tell me of the change in the King's plans, and not to tell Demetrius – he already knew it. Somebody else then, somebody waiting there? But I had sca
Atenulf had sent me to Spaventa. Why should they wish to conceal the source of his payment if his mission were only to kill a traitor to the King? There could be no risk to paymaster or pursebearer in this. It was a question that had always puzzled me. Yusuf too had been suspicious of it, sufficiently to take pains to disguise the provenance of the money.
But if Atenulf were serving some other master, if the quarry were another, if the consequences of failure were perilous to the sender…
It came to me now that I still had Spaventa's token – there had been no time to deliver it to Atenulf, and he had not sent for it, I suppose not expecting me to return so soon, and afterwards not finding me at the Diwan. It was where I had put it when Spaventa gave it to me, in the cloth pouch I wore at my waist; it had been reposing there disregarded, through all the time since. I took it out now and peered at it, but the light was not enough inside the room, I could not make it out. A sense of urgency was growing in me, I was unwilling to pause and fumble to light the lamp. I went out of the room and down the staircase and passed outside on to a narrow terrace that looked towards the lake. Here in the daylight I held the token up to my eyes and looked closely at it. The bird was a hawk, just as Atenulf had described to me. The head only was shown, in profile; it was very small, but there was no mistaking the rapacious curve of the beak, the fierce eye, the flat head: it was the imperial eagle of the Roman standards, symbol of dominion. What had Speventa said? Render unto Caesar. Who was Caesar now? Spaventa had thought I knew. He would have not lingered and boasted otherwise, not a man like that. Some message regarding my role had gone astray or been garbled.
The day darkened suddenly and I looked up to see banks of cloud, silver at the edges, drawing over the face of the sun. A rustling wind stirred the trees by the lake and there was a coolness in the air, a breath of relief, presage of rain. This long trance of summer was ending at last.
What else had Spaventa said? Something about trying again. He had laughed at my reply, as if I had made a joke, he had not been suspicious then. What had been the first attempt? Once more I thought of those flitting, evanescent shadows, some movement unaccounted for, my vague sense that the light was broken higher up. There could only be one reason why a man should wait there, on the eve of the day of Christ's apotheosis and the King's, in the one place in all the chapel which afforded a clear view of the royal person.
I had not made the right response to the toast; he had understood his mistake, in circumstances more favourable he might have killed me for it. He had said something before this, before his suspicions were roused, something I had not understood. We will meet him on Mount Tabor, no, not meet, serve. We will serve him well on Mount Tabor. Stefanos too had said something that puzzled me, the evening we had supped together.
But it had not been the meaning of his words, it was something else, something contained in them. He had been speaking of the Day of Christ's Transfiguration.
The knowledge that came was pure, it had been there always, waiting for the right touch, the touch of harm, the finger laid on my lips, to bring it forth. After six days he leadeth them up into a high mountain apart by themselves: and he was transformed before them. Typical of Spaventa, once a novice priest, to cloak his secrecy in religion. That high mountain to which the disciples were led was Tabor, so it was believed.
The King was intending to be present for the liturgy on the Day of the Transfiguration. Was that to be the second attempt? Sitting in his loge on the north wall he would be inviolable, wrapped in majesty, invisible to all below. But not to someone high up on the opposite wall, someone positioned there would have a view across, would see the upper part of the King's body, above the marble of the balustrade. Twenty-five paces, perhaps less… A bolt from above to strike the King down. An iron bolt, from a crossbow. At that close range, it would transfix him. The perfect symbol, Atenulf's masterwork. Who could use symbols to build could use them also to demolish… A bolt from heaven, a judgement on the King's misrule, to blast him while he sat in state with the words of prayer on his lips.
The Sunday after next, Stefanos had said: by my hasty reckoning that was three days hence.
XXVI
The sense of surprise persisted as I returned to Palermo but now it was directed at my own obtuseness. If I were right in the suspicions that had only now come to me, all this while I had been confusing parties that were quite different in their aims, the one seeking to use me against Yusuf and so come closer to the King, the other seeking to use me for the King's harm. I tried to find excuses. Alboino and Gerbert were both churchmen of high rank; it was natural therefore to assume they had the same interest to serve, the same desire to expel the Saracens, increase the power of the Latin Church. And I had thought Alicia loved me and was working secretly to make our meetings easier and so had somehow contrived that I should carry the purse to Potenza. But she had used her knowledge that I was going there only to ensnare me further, only to build up my hope and dash it down again.
My misery was if anything deepened by these attempts at self-excusing; within them lay the proof – if more proof were needed – that I was a failure, unfit for the world I lived in. Returning by the Admiral's Bridge I remembered my joyful expectations on the day I rode out to Favara for the first time and how, crossing the Oreto here, a song of love and promise had come to my lips. I was very far from singing now.
Once in the city all other feeling was swallowed up in the dread of being recognised. Muhammed had said that the names of those making depositions against Yusuf had not been published, but he might have lied to me for reasons of his own, or the names might have been made known only now, only this morning. It seemed to me that I could read accusation in every eye that met my own, as if there were a mark on my brow, a brand, plain for all to see. And all would think as Muhammed had thought, that I had betrayed Yusuf for my own advancement, on the promise of taking his place. I could not go to the Diwan: the idea of encountering Stefanos, meeting his gaze, was unbearable. I could not go to anyone with my suspicions. How could I go to the King's Constable with a story of shadows and reflections and stray words? I had been the pursebearer, it might be thought I was one of the conspirators, seeking to betray my companions so as to gain favour. No, all I could do was wait for Sunday.