The Kingdom of Light Read Free Page A

last of his strength at the sentinel on the tower, who peered down, poking his torch through a gap in the crenellations. In the semi-darkness the line of exhausted men and horses was a muddled collection of dark silhouettes. ‘And jump to it when I give you an order,’ the poet shouted.
    ‘Bugger off!’ shouted the man high above them, cupping his hands around his mouth, the better to be heard. ‘It isn’t market day today, and you can’t get in before the third hour. You and your rabble go and camp far from the walls, or I’ll come out with the guard and stroke your bones.’
    ‘You whore-son!’ yelled Dante, bouncing furiously up and down on his saddle. The unexpected noise and movement terrified his mount, which shifted sideways and made his foot slip from his stirrup. He landed heavily, sending up splashes of mud, only just managing to stay on his feet. Behind him the malevolent laughter of the
bargellini
exploded in sympathy with their fellow-guard. Even the Bargello had been unable to suppress a barely stifled chuckle.
    Meanwhile, drawn by the hubbub, the other soldiers of the guard corps were crowding round, amidst sounds of yawning and the rattle of armour. Purple faces, still filled with sleep, appeared between the merlons, hurling down insults and making obscene gestures at the people below.
    ‘Open this door, you rogues!’ the Bargello finally decided to shout, letting them know who he was. From above, the yelling suddenly stopped, replaced a few moments later by the sound of the chain being removed. Dante, drawing his horse by the bridle, moved slowly beneath the low arch. He tried to look in the guards’ faces to memorise each one of them, cursing them under his breath.
    At that very moment, a distant chant rose up behind him, a kind of psalmody of indistinguishable words. For a moment he thought he was hallucinating and turned round. Beyond the bend in the road he saw a curious line of people slowly approaching. It was from them that the chant was coming.
    The group seemed to be made up of the survivors of a shipwreck . At their head came a tall man, wearing a rough, dark habit, his bearded face half-concealed by its hood. He came forward leaning on a long stick topped with a cross placed in a circle. Behind him a little crowd of men and women were dressed as if their guide had assembled them while they were still going about their daily business. Peasants and merchants, nobles and fishermen, warriors and prostitutes, doctors and usurers, a kind of confused and sorrowful representation of humanity.
    In the middle of the crowd of dusty wayfarers were a number of mules loaded up improbably with luggage and parcels. One in particular was constantly shifting sideways, under the weight of a big chest, in spite of the firm hand of the military-looking man who was leading it by the reins. Its load was covered by a white linen sheet emblazoned with a red cross.
    After a brief interruption the psalmody had resumed, led by the monk at the head. The procession moved slowly beneath the gate unimpeded by any of the guards.
    ‘Who are they?’ asked the poet.
    ‘Pilgrims on their way back from Rome, I should imagine,’ replied the Bargello.
    ‘All in search of salvation at the court of Boniface?’
    ‘They travel in groups, hoping in that way to get through the mountain passes without being robbed. Whatever those beggars have worth stealing,’ replied the head of the guards, glancing with contempt at the rabble that had passed through the gate. ‘And if they escape the brigands, our innkeepers will soon finish the job!’ he added with a snigger.
    Dante went on watching after the group, then remounted his horse.
    ‘Where do we unload all our stuff?’ asked the Bargello after they had walked a hundred yards or so into the city, as if he couldn’t wait to rid himself of that cargo of scrap metal.
    ‘Escort me as far as the priors’ palace, at San Piero. Deliver the bag to Maestro Alberto, the Lombard who