Barry Unsworth - The Ruby In Her Navel

My last defence was stripped away by this reading, my last attempt to attenuate her treachery. There had been no threat to her life or to any member of her family, there had been no forcing of her. My bitterness returned, the sense of having been treated cruelly, like some tender-skinned creature that has strayed into a blistering light it is helpless to avoid and so can only wriggle and suffer.

To escape from these thoughts I turned back among the sheets until I found again the sketch of the triangle. Yusuf had drawn lines which went out at right angles from the exact centre of each side. I saw that these lines were designed to show connections between the three names written at the angles. Gerbert's name was at the apex, Atenulf's at the angle on the left. Along the line that came out on this side two things were written, one above and one below. I drew the lamp nearer and strained my eyes to read. The writing above the line related to Gerbert and gave a date of three months previously when he had visited the city of Augsburg, where at that time Conrad Hohenstaufen was holding court.

Below the line was a briefer note: Tostheim-Augsburg 6 leagues. Tostheim was Atenulf's birthplace, his father's lands were there – this much I knew. No date was given, but it was natural that a son should sometimes return to the home of his parents. A simple matter, in the course of one such visit, to travel those leagues. Departure and return would be scarcely noticed. Natural also that a prelate of high degree like Gerbert, with his knowledge of the language and his experience of the country, should be chosen to bear missives from Rome to the King of the Germans…

I sat back, staring straight before me. These two events might have coincided – that must be what Yusuf had meant by drawing only the single line. That would mean that on a certain day in the early summer of this present year Atenulf and Gerbert had been at Augsburg together in the royal presence. Render unto Caesar. Who was Caesar now, I had asked myself. There was an answer here. He who hated King Roger with a mortal hatred as usurper of his lands and powers. He who had himself crowned King of Italy at Monza at a time when he still possessed no more than a German Dukedom. He was Caesar and heir to all the Caesars, in his own eyes at least, grandson and nephew of Emperors, bent on the Roman Imperial title and the lands of Italy conquered and held in subjection by Charlemagne. Conrad of Hohenstaufen. Was it for him I had carried the purse?

There was still nothing to do but wait. I could not go with such a story to the Justiciars or the Curia Regis. There was no definite evidence of a plot, no evidence that Atenulf had made the journey from Tostheim to Augsburg or that Gerbert had sought an audience with Conrad or that the times had coincided. If I made accusations now, my own part in carrying the money would come into question. Moreover, the plan – if indeed there was one – would be abandoned; some other means, some other time, would be found.

It was still no more than suspicion but it was with me while I measured out the time of waiting. It was a prospect of action, it helped to save me from the misery of dwelling on the past – by day at least. At night it was otherwise; I was sleeping badly and would wake sweating from dreams of gleaming water and looming, distorted shapes, and the nausea would return to me. Caterina brought me food but I had no appetite for it. As the day approached a passion of desire grew in me that I should be proved right, that I might recover a particle of self-regard as one who was not always duped, might even win some small degree of pardon from Yusuf, since these had been his suspicions too. It came to me in the fevers of my sleep that he and I were joined again, together again in understanding, and I had brief happiness in this, though we were united not in friendship but in suspicion, the common sentiment of the Diwan.

When the morning came I rose at first light and dressed hastily. As I made my way towards the Royal Chapel, the dawn call to prayer was sounding from the minarets of the city, followed soon by the bells of the churches announcing daybreak. Groups of labourers with the tools of their trade strapped at their backs were gathering at street corners, waiting to be hired for building work. Familiar sounds and sights – the familiarity troubled me with doubts. Could there be an element of such astounding difference in this place known so well, in this pearly light of a summer morning seen so often before?

The doors of the Chapel were open wide. There were women carrying armfuls of flowers inside to scatter in the aisles and transept, white lilies, in memory of the shining raiment of Christ on the morning of the Transfiguration. They had been gathered early – I saw the dew on them as the women went past me. The flowers were to honour the King's attending the liturgy and I thought they must have been brought by order of the palace. This was confirmed when I went inside and saw an under-chamberlain I knew slightly directing the proceedings, a man named Lupinus, who was employed in the King's household.

The flowers gave a scent of great sweetness, which filled the whole space of the church. I think of all the moments that had elapsed since the shadows of the birds' wings on the surface of the pool at Favara and the vague birth of my suspicions, this was the one when the notion of a plot against the King's life seemed strangest. The bustle of the women, the air of importance Lupinus assumed as he directed them, the sweet odour of the scattered flowers, the daylight that entered through the open doors and filled the body of the church, it was all so much to be expected on such a day as this, an occasion of happiness, the one day before His death when Christ was imbued with the divine light and showed the divine nature, when God declared Himself well pleased with his beloved Son. Today the King would be present to bathe in this light, to share in it as God's deputy on earth…

I began to walk down the nave towards the Sanctuary. I could see nothing yet, the wall of the nave cut off my view. It was not until I had almost reached the crossing, close to the place where I had come upon Gerbert and his companions, that I was able to look up at the south wall of the transept. A platform there was, though it was not possible to see any scaffolding or planks that might be joined together, because of a dark drapery that fell round on either side and was gathered below. However, I could see the ropes that secured the four corners; they rose through the canopy and were hooked together higher up, close to the ceiling. The covering itself was silk, by the look of it, and dark purple in colour.

It was so arranged that it allowed a parting in the middle, though this was closed now and I saw no way of opening it from below. There was a window directly behind, not visible in its shape but giving some faint light to the area enclosed by the curtain. I saw no sign of life or movement, no faintest shadow of a human presence, within this canopy. It hung there, directly opposite the King's viewing place on the opposite wall, a little higher than this.

I had stared up too long: a faintness came over me and for some moments I felt in danger of falling. This passed but I was still slightly uncertain of my footing as I walked over to Lupinus, the floor being made uneven by the strewn lilies. He gave me good-day but showed no gladness at the sight of me. By this time I was reassured that Muhammed had spoken the truth when he said my name had not been published, so set down Lupinus' lack of warmth to a suspicion that I had come from the Diwan of Control to meddle in his work. To counteract this I fell to complimenting him on the beautiful appearance of the church, with the flowers strewn everywhere, but even as I did so I was reminded of the litter on the floor of Yusuf's rooms and the sickness and sorrow that had come to me standing in the midst of it.