Background to the excerpt: Luca da Posara has reason to think the corpse
he found in the baptistry square is not who he is purported to be. With the
muscular priest Don Antonio and a cathedral pay clerk who can identify a
birthmark on the body, he goes to the mortuary chapel to find out more:
Don Antonio sprang up the mortuary chapel steps, with Luca and the pay clerk following sluggishly behind. They disturbed two hooded Brothers in the process of screwing down the lid on Bartolomeo’s coffin.
“What’s going on here?” said Don Antonio in an authoritative voice. Tall in his black biretta and well-built beneath his smooth cassock, he commanded respect and the Brothers were suitably impressed.
“We are preparing the coffin of this poor sinner for burial, Monsignore,” said one of them, elevating Don Antonio’s clerical status by a notch or two.
“But I thought he was to rest here for two days,” Luca blurted out. “That’s the normal period for a vigil, isn’t it?”
One of the Brothers looked at him closely. “Oh it’s you. The boy who left so abruptly yesterday afternoon. Very rude.”
“Particularly when we’d had such high hopes for you, asking you to join our confraternity,” said the other Brother. “No hope of that now.”
“And you were fiddling around with the corpse’s clothing,” said the first. “We’ve heard about people like you.”
The situation seemed to be getting out of hand, but Don Antonio was not flustered: “This young man was perfectly justified in his actions. This dead man is not who he seems to be. It’s a case of misidentification.”
“Well, you’re not going to get very far with identifying him now.”
“What do you mean?”
“Not only is his head battered to a pulp, but his body’s all swelled up, fit to burst out of the coffin,” said one Brother.
“And he’s beginning to smell to high heaven,” said the other, not without relish.
“I’m off,” said the pay clerk, looking very pale under his curls and making a move towards the door.
“Just you stay here,” said Luca, grabbing the man by the elbow, though in truth he too would have liked to have made a hasty exit.
“The boy’s quite right,” said the first Brother again. “Normally we’d hold vigil over the body for two days after death. But the thing is, this man didn’t die yesterday, when he was brought in. He must have been dead a good few days before that.”
“Now he’s swelling – and stinking,” said his companion, with some satisfaction in his voice.
“Nonetheless, you must open the coffin again,” said Don Antonio.
“Not sure we can do that,” said the first Brother, “what with earlier desecration of the body ...”
“I only moved the linen band over his hands,” cried Luca.
“... and now exhumation,” the Brother continued.
“By all the saints,” said Don Antonio, “we’re not digging him up. We just want to look at him.”
“Yes, but ...”
Don Antonio drew himself up and addressed the Brothers. “I am Secretary to Luigi Mazzini, Cardinal Archbishop, Papal Legate and friend to the Holy Father himself. In his name, and in my own, I order you to remove the lid of that coffin.”
It was an impressive performance, thought Luca, though he doubted how much ecclesiastical authority it carried. It worked on the Brothers, however, and with only a little more grumbling they began unscrewing the coffin lid.
The Brothers were right, of course, and as they slid the lid away there was a terrible stench of rotting flesh. Luca felt a cold sweat on his brow and he felt a little dizzy. The pay clerk was paler than ever and he clutched at Luca for support. Luca sneaked a look at the corpse under the flickering light of the four pillar candles. It was grotesquely bloated and the clothes, now stretched over the distended body, were damp and darkly stained. Even Don Antonio seemed a little taken aback. “Let’s get this over with,” he said and he asked the trembling pay clerk. “Where’s this birthmark?”
“On his ankle,” said the man, determinedly not looking at the body.
“On his ankle! Then it’s underneath his hose and his boot.”
“You’re not going to get them off, that’s for sure,” said one of the Brothers. Luca risked another look: the stained yellow stockings were taut about the dead man’s thighs and the light-brown boots, once loose, were now tightly fitting. The Brother was right; no-one could pull them off, even if he felt up to the task.
“We’ll have to cut it away,” said Don Antonio. “Has anyone got a sharp knife?”
There was no reply and with a sigh Don Antonio reached into the pocket of his cassock and, after some rummaging, brought out a small knife in a brown leather sheath, which he pulled off. The double-sided blade was no more than the length of a man’s finger, and perhaps half as thick at the hilt, tapering to a fine point. This is a very resourceful man indeed, thought Luca, as the priest handed him the sheath, I shouldn’t like to argue with him. Don Antonio made an incision in the dead man’s boot with the point of his knife.
“No, no, stop!” the pay clerk cried out.
“It has to be done. Look away if you must.”
“No, no, you’re cutting into the right boot. The birthmark’s on his left ankle.” The clerk’s curiosity seemed to have overcome his revulsion and he’d obviously sneaked a glimpse as Don Antonio began to cut.
The three of them, Luca, the priest and the pay clerk were standing beside the coffin with the body’s right side facing them. There was nothing for it than to traipse all the way round to the other side, avoiding the pillar candles in their holders. If anything the stench of putrefaction here, farther away from the open door, was worse, but Don Antonio put one hand on the man’s left boot and with the other made a long cut with his knife, then a shorter one at right angles, and peeled back the leather...
Don Antonio sprang up the mortuary chapel steps, with Luca and the pay clerk following sluggishly behind. They disturbed two hooded Brothers in the process of screwing down the lid on Bartolomeo’s coffin.
“What’s going on here?” said Don Antonio in an authoritative voice. Tall in his black biretta and well-built beneath his smooth cassock, he commanded respect and the Brothers were suitably impressed.
“We are preparing the coffin of this poor sinner for burial, Monsignore,” said one of them, elevating Don Antonio’s clerical status by a notch or two.
“But I thought he was to rest here for two days,” Luca blurted out. “That’s the normal period for a vigil, isn’t it?”
One of the Brothers looked at him closely. “Oh it’s you. The boy who left so abruptly yesterday afternoon. Very rude.”
“Particularly when we’d had such high hopes for you, asking you to join our confraternity,” said the other Brother. “No hope of that now.”
“And you were fiddling around with the corpse’s clothing,” said the first. “We’ve heard about people like you.”
The situation seemed to be getting out of hand, but Don Antonio was not flustered: “This young man was perfectly justified in his actions. This dead man is not who he seems to be. It’s a case of misidentification.”
“Well, you’re not going to get very far with identifying him now.”
“What do you mean?”
“Not only is his head battered to a pulp, but his body’s all swelled up, fit to burst out of the coffin,” said one Brother.
“And he’s beginning to smell to high heaven,” said the other, not without relish.
“I’m off,” said the pay clerk, looking very pale under his curls and making a move towards the door.
“Just you stay here,” said Luca, grabbing the man by the elbow, though in truth he too would have liked to have made a hasty exit.
“The boy’s quite right,” said the first Brother again. “Normally we’d hold vigil over the body for two days after death. But the thing is, this man didn’t die yesterday, when he was brought in. He must have been dead a good few days before that.”
“Now he’s swelling – and stinking,” said his companion, with some satisfaction in his voice.
“Nonetheless, you must open the coffin again,” said Don Antonio.
“Not sure we can do that,” said the first Brother, “what with earlier desecration of the body ...”
“I only moved the linen band over his hands,” cried Luca.
“... and now exhumation,” the Brother continued.
“By all the saints,” said Don Antonio, “we’re not digging him up. We just want to look at him.”
“Yes, but ...”
Don Antonio drew himself up and addressed the Brothers. “I am Secretary to Luigi Mazzini, Cardinal Archbishop, Papal Legate and friend to the Holy Father himself. In his name, and in my own, I order you to remove the lid of that coffin.”
It was an impressive performance, thought Luca, though he doubted how much ecclesiastical authority it carried. It worked on the Brothers, however, and with only a little more grumbling they began unscrewing the coffin lid.
The Brothers were right, of course, and as they slid the lid away there was a terrible stench of rotting flesh. Luca felt a cold sweat on his brow and he felt a little dizzy. The pay clerk was paler than ever and he clutched at Luca for support. Luca sneaked a look at the corpse under the flickering light of the four pillar candles. It was grotesquely bloated and the clothes, now stretched over the distended body, were damp and darkly stained. Even Don Antonio seemed a little taken aback. “Let’s get this over with,” he said and he asked the trembling pay clerk. “Where’s this birthmark?”
“On his ankle,” said the man, determinedly not looking at the body.
“On his ankle! Then it’s underneath his hose and his boot.”
“You’re not going to get them off, that’s for sure,” said one of the Brothers. Luca risked another look: the stained yellow stockings were taut about the dead man’s thighs and the light-brown boots, once loose, were now tightly fitting. The Brother was right; no-one could pull them off, even if he felt up to the task.
“We’ll have to cut it away,” said Don Antonio. “Has anyone got a sharp knife?”
There was no reply and with a sigh Don Antonio reached into the pocket of his cassock and, after some rummaging, brought out a small knife in a brown leather sheath, which he pulled off. The double-sided blade was no more than the length of a man’s finger, and perhaps half as thick at the hilt, tapering to a fine point. This is a very resourceful man indeed, thought Luca, as the priest handed him the sheath, I shouldn’t like to argue with him. Don Antonio made an incision in the dead man’s boot with the point of his knife.
“No, no, stop!” the pay clerk cried out.
“It has to be done. Look away if you must.”
“No, no, you’re cutting into the right boot. The birthmark’s on his left ankle.” The clerk’s curiosity seemed to have overcome his revulsion and he’d obviously sneaked a glimpse as Don Antonio began to cut.
The three of them, Luca, the priest and the pay clerk were standing beside the coffin with the body’s right side facing them. There was nothing for it than to traipse all the way round to the other side, avoiding the pillar candles in their holders. If anything the stench of putrefaction here, farther away from the open door, was worse, but Don Antonio put one hand on the man’s left boot and with the other made a long cut with his knife, then a shorter one at right angles, and peeled back the leather...