two letters of the Latin name of each of those signs, in the order he gave them, that is to say, CA-ES-AR, you’ll have the hidden name we’re looking for.”
“Ca-es-ar…Clear as water! Perfect!”
“Indeed.”
“And something like that is hidden in your Cenacolo, Master?”
“Something like that. But I doubt that this inquisitor, whom you so much fear, will ever discover it.”
“But—”
“And, yes,” Leonardo interrupted him, “the knot is one of the many symbols accompanying Mary Magdalene. One of these days I’ll tell you all about it.”
10
I must have fallen asleep at my desk.
When Father Alessandro shook me toward three in the morning, just after matins, a painful stiffness had taken over my whole body.
“Father, Father!” the librarian was clamoring. “Are you all right?”
I must have answered something, because between shakings the librarian said a few words that all of a sudden had me wide awake.
“You speak in your dreams.” He laughed, as if still mocking my inability to solve riddles. “Matteo, the prior’s nephew, heard you mutter some strange phrases in Latin and came into the church to let me know. He thought you were possessed!”
Alessandro was watching me with a look partly amused and partly worried, snorting through that hooked nose of his with which he seemed to threaten me.
“It’s nothing,” I apologized with a yawn.
“Father, you have been working for a very long time. You have hardly eaten anything since you arrived, and my concern for you goes unheeded. Are you certain that I can’t help you in your labors?”
“No, it won’t be necessary. Please believe me.” The librarian’s maladroitness regarding the clue of the hook did not promise great assistance.
“And what was that about Oculos ejus dinumera? You repeated the words again and again.”
“Is that what I was saying?”
I turned pale.
“Yes. And something about a place called Bethany. Do you often dream of Biblical places, of Lazarus and his resurrection, and things like that? Because Lazarus came from Bethany, didn’t he?”
I smiled. Father Alessandro’s innocence seemed limitless.
“I doubt you’d understand, my brother.”
“Try me,” he said, rocking on his feet to the rhythm of his words. The librarian was standing barely a hand’s width away, observing me with growing interest, his large Adam’s apple rising and falling in his throat. “After all, I’m the monastery’s man of letters…”
I promised to satisfy his curiosity in exchange for something to eat. I had only just realized that I had not even gone down to supper on my first night at Santa Maria. My stomach was making noises under my habit. With solicitude, the librarian led me to the kitchen and managed to rustle up a few scraps from suppertime. Outside the night was pitch-black, while the pale flicker of a candle lit the indoors.
“It’s panzanella, Father,” he explained, helping me to a still-warm bowl that heated my freezing hands.
“Panzanella?”
“Eat. It’s a bread soup, made with cucumber and onion. It will please you.”
The thick and aromatic gruel slid like silk down my innards. I also devoured an excellent nougat confection called torrone, as well as a couple of dried figs. Then, with my stomach satisfied, my reflexes began to respond once again.
“Won’t you eat, Father Alessandro?”
“Oh, no.” The tall man smiled. “The fast forbids me. I’ve been fasting since before you arrived.”
“I understand.”
The truth is that I paid his words no more attention.
So I fell asleep repeating the first verses of the Soothsayer’s message, I reproached myself. It was not surprising. While thanking Father Alessandro for his care and praising the deserved reputation of the kitchen, I remembered that already in Bethany, I had been able to assert that those lines did not belong to any quotation from the Gospels. In fact, neither did they belong to any text by Plato or other known
“Ca-es-ar…Clear as water! Perfect!”
“Indeed.”
“And something like that is hidden in your Cenacolo, Master?”
“Something like that. But I doubt that this inquisitor, whom you so much fear, will ever discover it.”
“But—”
“And, yes,” Leonardo interrupted him, “the knot is one of the many symbols accompanying Mary Magdalene. One of these days I’ll tell you all about it.”
10
I must have fallen asleep at my desk.
When Father Alessandro shook me toward three in the morning, just after matins, a painful stiffness had taken over my whole body.
“Father, Father!” the librarian was clamoring. “Are you all right?”
I must have answered something, because between shakings the librarian said a few words that all of a sudden had me wide awake.
“You speak in your dreams.” He laughed, as if still mocking my inability to solve riddles. “Matteo, the prior’s nephew, heard you mutter some strange phrases in Latin and came into the church to let me know. He thought you were possessed!”
Alessandro was watching me with a look partly amused and partly worried, snorting through that hooked nose of his with which he seemed to threaten me.
“It’s nothing,” I apologized with a yawn.
“Father, you have been working for a very long time. You have hardly eaten anything since you arrived, and my concern for you goes unheeded. Are you certain that I can’t help you in your labors?”
“No, it won’t be necessary. Please believe me.” The librarian’s maladroitness regarding the clue of the hook did not promise great assistance.
“And what was that about Oculos ejus dinumera? You repeated the words again and again.”
“Is that what I was saying?”
I turned pale.
“Yes. And something about a place called Bethany. Do you often dream of Biblical places, of Lazarus and his resurrection, and things like that? Because Lazarus came from Bethany, didn’t he?”
I smiled. Father Alessandro’s innocence seemed limitless.
“I doubt you’d understand, my brother.”
“Try me,” he said, rocking on his feet to the rhythm of his words. The librarian was standing barely a hand’s width away, observing me with growing interest, his large Adam’s apple rising and falling in his throat. “After all, I’m the monastery’s man of letters…”
I promised to satisfy his curiosity in exchange for something to eat. I had only just realized that I had not even gone down to supper on my first night at Santa Maria. My stomach was making noises under my habit. With solicitude, the librarian led me to the kitchen and managed to rustle up a few scraps from suppertime. Outside the night was pitch-black, while the pale flicker of a candle lit the indoors.
“It’s panzanella, Father,” he explained, helping me to a still-warm bowl that heated my freezing hands.
“Panzanella?”
“Eat. It’s a bread soup, made with cucumber and onion. It will please you.”
The thick and aromatic gruel slid like silk down my innards. I also devoured an excellent nougat confection called torrone, as well as a couple of dried figs. Then, with my stomach satisfied, my reflexes began to respond once again.
“Won’t you eat, Father Alessandro?”
“Oh, no.” The tall man smiled. “The fast forbids me. I’ve been fasting since before you arrived.”
“I understand.”
The truth is that I paid his words no more attention.
So I fell asleep repeating the first verses of the Soothsayer’s message, I reproached myself. It was not surprising. While thanking Father Alessandro for his care and praising the deserved reputation of the kitchen, I remembered that already in Bethany, I had been able to assert that those lines did not belong to any quotation from the Gospels. In fact, neither did they belong to any text by Plato or other known
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