Andrew Davidson - The Gargoyle

Although you really had no need for a book, you pressed some money into Benedetto’s hand to pay for it. “With the father gone, the family will need this more than words.”

Benedetto agreed, saying that he didn’t know why his friend had a book in the first place. “Apparently, it was written by a great poet of Firenze, but I always kidded Niccolo about it. What do men like us need with poetry?”

The following morning, you and Brandeis had to pretend that you were as surprised as anyone that Benedetto had fled. Kuonrat the Ambitious was livid and demanded that a large expedition be immediately dispatched to “find and kill the traitor!” Herwald was more reasonable. He decided that only a small tracking crew would be sent after Benedetto, and only for a short time.

Herwald reasoned, “The Italian will return to his home country. Let him go. He is not German; he is not one of us. But do not think this represents a shift in policy. If a fellow German runs, we will not stop until he is found and killed. Even if it takes years.”

This speech appeased the troop, most of whom had never liked the foreigners in their midst. For them, it was enough that both Italians were gone, however it had happened. Kuonrat the Ambitious remained angered at Benedetto’s disappearance, but the renewed threat of death to German deserters brought a smile to his face. Still, he recognized this was the perfect opportunity to begin a campaign of whispered slander. “The old man Herwald is turning soft.”

It was at this point that you abruptly stopped telling the story, and looked down at the floor of the Engelthal infirmary so bashfully that I had to ask what was wrong.

“This book,” you said, “there’s something strange about it. When I first saw it, it seemed to call to me. As if it wanted me to take it.”

“That’s not so odd. I feel that way about books all the time.”

“But Sister Marianne,” you confessed, “I cannot read.”

I don’t know why you would’ve thought that I expected you to be able to. I was well aware that my ability to read was the exception, not the rule. If you hadn’t taken the book, I pointed out, the arrow would have pierced your heart and killed you. “Surely you have found more value in this book,” I said, “than any that I will ever read.”

You knew, or at least it was your best guess, that the book was in Italian rather than German. I confirmed the fact, but added that I could translate it. You were suitably impressed, because you didn’t know anyone who could read one language, much less two. I promised that I would take a closer look at it, back in my cell, and would let you know what it was about. This pleased you, but you still asked for one more favor.

“Please pray for the soul of my dead friend Niccolo, and for his wife and children. And for Brandeis. I would do it myself, but my prayers are not worth as much as yours.”

I assured you that everyone’s prayers were worthy, if spoken with a sincere heart, but that I would certainly do as you’d requested.

That very evening, I commenced upon a translation. The book had an enormous amount of religious imagery in it, so Paolo’s prayer book was a great help, but it seemed to be written in a rough vernacular, which I found quite challenging. It was apparent from the start that the writing was unlike anything I’d ever read. This was yet another book best kept secreted away from the eyes of the other nuns. Inferno, the cover proclaimed, by Dante Alighieri.

While it was clear that this Dante was a deeply religious man, it was equally clear that he had little regard for the Church’s daily practices. I gasped when I came to the section of Hell that housed heretical popes. One of the popes was Boniface, who’d served during my lifetime. Gertrud and even Mother Christina had spoken highly of him.

By night I furiously translated, and by day I tended you. When the nun-nurses stepped out for their prayers, I’d read you what I had finished the night before. It felt as if we were sharing something wicked, but wonderfully wicked. The story took each of us to a different place. The rough language and the harsh imagery brought me towards your world, but the religious ideas brought you towards my life of spirituality. Somehow we met in the middle.

I’d always been taught that I would find God all around me, in every aspect of creation, but I never really did. I was told that if I was not finding God, I needed to pray for more guidance, or to make myself more pure so that He would give Himself to me. So imagine my surprise when I began to achieve a deeper understanding of the Divine through the voice of Dante and, after a lifetime of immersing myself in the words of Heaven, I finally grasped God only after being given a vision of Hell.

Our moments alone were never long enough. The other sisters would return and we would have to turn our conversation to things other than the book. Over time you softened your original resolve not to discuss your life in the condotta. I found everything you told me fascinating, including how you became a mercenary in the first place.

As a child, you had always assumed that you’d follow your father into the masons’ guild. You were training under him and your life seemed set until your early teens, when your father had a fatal seizure while moving stone, and your mother died shortly afterward, of a disease that no one could name, much less treat.

Just like that, you went from being the son of a good family to being an orphan. The city appropriated your home and, as you had no relatives, you taught yourself to live on the streets. Petty thievery didn’t seem like much of a sin when it was your only option.

One day you tried to steal some coins from the purse of Herwald, who was in town for supplies. When he caught you, he was more impressed with your nerve than displeased with your offense. He offered you a position in his troop, and you could see no reason not to accept it. It offered excitement and, simply put, you couldn’t imagine anything better coming along.

The choice to enter the condotta was not a particularly bad one, or so it seemed. The power struggle between the pope and Emperor Louis left princes all over the country in disarray. When the German military forces became exhausted, the nobility started to assemble private armies. The situation was so complicated that they often didn’t know their allies from their enemies and the only thing certain was that there was always work for a mercenary troop. When I asked with whom you sided-Pope John or the Emperor-you answered that as soon as a man has chosen a side in war, he’s already picked the wrong one. “All history is just one man trying to take something away from another man, and usually it doesn’t really belong to either of them.”

This attitude explained how you managed to go from day to day with a crossbow in your hands. It was simply a matter of practicality. I’d never heard anyone speak as plainly as you did, not even the parchmenter, and I’d certainly never had anyone speak to me the way you did. I hated the fact that it excited me, but it did. It had always comforted me to imagine soldiers as unthinking killers and nothing more, but you disproved that. I was probably a bit of a snob after spending my life in books, but I had to admit there was much you knew that I did not.

The flesh across your chest was tightening as it healed. You instructed me to cut it open so that it could expand. I didn’t want to, and it was painful for me to see your agony coming from a knife in my hands. It was different from when I had cut away the bad flesh because, in those first days, I had still been able to divorce myself from my emotions.

But you insisted. You said that you could feel that the treatment was necessary, you could feel it in the way it hurt to lift your arms. So every few days you’d wedge a knot of fabric into your mouth and I’d cut new stripes across your chest to ease the tightening. It was horrible and I had to avert my eyes, but there was still the sound of your muffled screams. You have no idea how much I admired your courage. The treatment seemed to work: eventually, you were able to leave the infirmary bed for short walks, and sometimes our hands accidentally touched.