Free The Kingdom of Light by Giulio Leoni

had a sense that in some way the man was waiting for him. ‘I think I know you,’ he said when he had reached Marcello, greeting him with a slight bow.
    ‘I know you too, Messer Alighieri. By reputation, if not in person,’ the old man replied, bowing his head in turn.
    ‘One’s reputation sometimes runs faster than one’s feet. And what brings your own feet to these parts?’
    ‘If you know of me, then you also know my art. The study of the tribulations of the body, and of the movements of the stars that determine or cure them. I planned to visit the hospital, to see if my art might be of any use to my unfortunate companion, at the inn. But it would appear that there is nothing more that medical science can do for him, other than confirm his departure from the land of the living.’
    ‘Even with the greatest art imaginable, you could have done nothing for him. He must have died immediately. Did you know him? Was he your friend?’
    Marcello remained silent for a moment, as if meditating on his reply. ‘Do we not in the end all know each other, everyone on earth?’ he asked at last. ‘Are we not, by virtue of our humanity, all part of a single family? It seemed to me that it was my duty to go with this man as he took his first steps into eternity.’
    ‘But you knew who he was?’ Dante insisted.
    The old man hesitated, as if he could not find words to express what he had in mind. ‘No, I didn’t know him. Except for that brief time when we shared lodgings, in the inn. And yet I had the impression that he knew me. That in fact …’
    ‘What?’ the poet said by way of encouragement.
    ‘That he had gone to that inn deliberately. To wait for me. As if he knew I would be turning up there,’ the other man murmured.
    ‘Explain what you mean.’
    ‘It was something in his manner – the confidential tone with which he addressed me from the evening of our arrival. He was constantly asking me questions, as if he expected me to ask questions of him. He did the same with Bernardo.’
    ‘The
literatus
?’
    ‘He knew of Bernardo’s research, and talked to him for a long time, about the past.’
    ‘What did he say?’
    ‘He spoke of his passion, the life of Emperor Frederick. They debated whether the Emperor had ever been to Florence. And now this … But it’s too late for anything now.’
    ‘A man’s death closes his accounts with the art of medicine. But not with justice,’ Dante replied, staring at Marcello.
    The man nodded. ‘It’s true. In fact, justice is infinitely more powerful than my humble knowledge.’
    Meanwhile Dante had drawn level with the old man, until he could touch his right arm. Beneath his clothes he could feel the solid resistance of his muscles, as if his body were younger than it really was.
    Marcello had instinctively recoiled, as if to escape the poet’s touch. ‘Forgive me, Messere,’ he said quickly as he caught the prior’s startled expression. ‘It’s an old habit of mine, contracted when I was healing lepers, beyond the sea.’
    ‘Did you plan to return to your lodgings?’ Dante asked him.
    ‘Yes … but your city has changed a great deal since I was here last, many years ago now,’ the old man replied, glancing at the buildings around him. ‘Would you mind accompanying me a little way?’
    Without speaking, the prior took his arm, walking slowly towards the ruins of the old baths, along the street that led to the inn.
    ‘What set you on the road to Rome?’ asked the poet.
    The other man stopped and turned to face him. ‘As a man grows older, the time comes to settle his accounts with God and pay off his outstanding bills. I am close now to the
redde rationem
, when Saint Peter will weigh out the debits and credits on his scales. And for that day I want my soul to be washed clean. I am going to Rome to fulfil an old vow and beg forgiveness for the sins I have committed on my long journey through this vale of tears.’
    ‘And how heavy is your