The Dante Conspiracy

CHAPTER 27



The chest was on display, kind of, tucked into a corner of one of the galleries, with the lid closed. Beside it was a full-colour picture of the painting, together with a statement by some unidentified art expert that reiterated and expanded on the doubts Massimo had already explained to them.

In the foreground of the painting was an unmistakable Christ figure, looking out of the picture, right hand raised in benediction, and below it an inscription in Latin that was helpfully translated on the accompanying description. The Latin read ‘Forgiveness of all sins transports the spirit from Hell to Paradise’.

‘Now that could almost have been lifted straight out of The Divine Comedy,’ Perini said.

‘Dante,’ Massimo supplied automatically. ‘Yes, I suppose it could. Certainly very much the same sentiment. And that, obviously, is the image that’s troubled art critics over the centuries. I must confess I’d never thought about Dante in connection with this object, but of course he and Giotto were contemporaries, so perhaps this picture is an indication that the two men knew each other, and that Giotto painted this picture to please Dante, or perhaps to make the point that he was perhaps beginning to doubt his faith. Because that part of the picture is quite unambiguous.’

He pointed at the background of the picture, where a figure wearing the ecclesiastical robes of a Pope was being led away by two demons. They were dragging him towards a yawning opening that was presumably intended to represent the gates of Hell, where a figure that was unmistakably the devil was waiting for him, an expression of eager anticipation on his face.

‘I see what you mean,’ Lombardi said. ‘Not exactly a Vatican-friendly theme, is it? Is that Pope recognizable as Boniface VIII, or is it just a generic image?’

‘According to this, the surviving images of Boniface suggest that it could be him,’ Perini said, reading the last section of the accompanying description. ‘But it also points out that the whole picture is quite small, and the background image is obviously smaller still, so it’s by no means certain.’

‘There’s a statue of Gaetani in the Museo dell’ Opera del Duomo here in Florence,’ Massimo pointed out.

‘Who?’

‘Boniface VIII. His name before he became Pope was Benedetto Gaetani,’

Perini reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out the paper on which he’d written the verses he’d been trying to interpret.

‘I thought so,’ he said. ‘There’s a reference here to “Gaetani’s bane”, but I had no idea that could have meant the Pope.’

‘What is that, inspector?’ Massimo asked, pointing at the paper.

‘It’s some verses we’ve been trying to understand, which are clearly something to do with Dante.’

Briefly, Perini outlined what had happened in and around Florence over the previous few days.

‘Interesting,’ Massimo said, when Perini finally paused for breath. ‘Dante certainly had no love for the Pope. In his poem he consigns Boniface to Hell for simony, and that particular Pope was certainly one of the most un-Christian the Church has yet produced. He had a long-running feud with the Colonna family that ended when he demolished their home city of Palestrina, after it had surrendered to him, and killed over six thousand civilians in the process. He also imprisoned and quite probably killed his predecessor on the Throne of St Peter, and of course he orchestrated the victory of the Black Guelphs in Florence, which was the source of Dante’s personal argument with him.’

‘So what’s this “Gaetani’s bane” thing?’ Lombardi asked.

‘I have no idea,’ Perini said, ‘but it really must be something to do with Pope Boniface. The line from the verses reads: “By his hand the masterpiece lies below Gaetani’s bane”.’ He paused briefly, then finished the thought. ‘I wonder if that line is making a deliberate literal reference, using the word “below” in its common, everyday meaning. In other words, the relic is hidden in the chest but underneath this bane thing.’

He looked at the chest, considering.

‘Has this ever been properly examined? Checked for any hidden compartments, I mean?’

Massimo shook his head.

‘I doubt it. It’s just a plain wooden chest, and of importance only because of the painting that’s inside it. There would be no need for anyone to do any other checks on it.’

‘So how about we do that right now?’ Perini said, taking a couple of steps forward. ‘Have a proper look at it.’

‘Just a moment,’ Massimo said. ‘You’d better not damage it. That’s a very valuable exhibit.’

‘If I’m right about those verses, signor, what I think is inside that chest is probably more valuable than all the other exhibits in this palace, put together.’

‘What? What do you mean?’

‘I mean that somewhere inside that wooden chest could be not simply a hand-written copy of the Divina Commedia itself, but the original manuscript.’

Massimo’s eyes bulged.

‘You can’t be serious. We believe we’ve located all the early copies, years ago.’

‘No.’ Perini shook his head. ‘I didn’t say a copy. I said the original manuscript, written in Dante’s own hand.’

For a few moments, the director just stared at the detective.

‘You’re serious, aren’t you?’ he said at last. ‘You really think it might be here?’

‘We’re perfectly serious,’ Perini replied. ‘Just as serious, in fact, as the criminals who have so far killed two men here in Florence and broken into Dante’s cenotaph looking for the same thing.’

‘I’m not surprised there’ve been deaths,’ Massimo said. ‘The value of that manuscript is incalculable. Anyone who knew about it would probably be prepared to kill to get their hands on it.’

Lombardi had been examining the wooden chest while Perini and Massimo had been talking, and now he looked up.

‘There seems to be a break in the lid,’ he said. ‘It looks like a join between two of the pieces of wood, but it’s a bit wider. And there are a couple of small slots in the lid on either side that could be intended to take the end of the blade of a knife or dagger.’

‘Let me see,’ Massimo instructed, and bent down to see for himself.

‘You’re right,’ he said. ‘Somebody should have spotted these a long time ago.’

‘Maybe they did, and the cupboard’s bare,’ Perini said.

‘Only one way to find out.’

The sergeant reached into his trouser pocket and pulled out a switchblade knife that he opened with a click.

‘We need something for the other side,’ he said.

Perini took out a small multi-tool, equipped with files and pliers and a host of other gadgets that he’d never used, selected one of the knife blades and slid the end of it into the slot that Lombardi had pointed out.

Almost immediately there was a faint sound, less a click than a creak, and the gap between the two pieces of wood on the lid of the chest opened a fraction wider. Lombardi inserted the point of his switchblade into the gap and levered slightly. There was another creaking noise and a small section of the wood forming the top of the lid opened up just a couple of centimetres.

Lombardi peered inside the hidden compartment and then glanced up at Perini, his eyes glinting with excitement.

‘There’s something in there,’ he said, and slid his fingers into the gap.

‘Stop!’ Massimo almost yelled. ‘Don’t touch it.’

Lombardi froze, the tips of his fingers a bare centimetre from the object he’d spotted, then he took a step back.

‘Why?’ he asked.

Massimo didn’t immediately reply, just bent down himself so he could look through the narrow opening.

‘It looks like a piece of parchment,’ he said, ‘and if you two are correct it’s been here for almost six hundred years, which means it needs careful handling. And that doesn’t include grabbing it with your fingers and dragging it out. Just wait a moment.’

He reached into his pocket, pulled out a pair of thin white cotton gloves and put them on.

‘Can you open the gap a little wider?’ he asked Lombardi, who obliged by levering the wooden panel up another three or four centimetres. Then all three men could clearly see the light brown piece of parchment that lay inside.

Delicately, Massimo took hold of either side of it and lifted it out of the recess. He turned it so that it was upright and gave it a very delicate tap with the tip of one of his fingers. A small cloud of brownish dust drifted off it, and he laid it down carefully on a shelf near the wooden chest.

There were lines of text visible on the parchment, and while Perini and Lombardi watched, almost holding their breath, the director scanned what was written on it.

After a couple of minutes he straightened and looked at them.

‘The bad news from your point of view,’ he said, ‘is that this has nothing at all to do with the Divina Commedia, though it’s certainly something that Dante knew about and had in his possession. What you’ve found in that chest is what the person who wrote those verses described as “Gaetani’s bane”, and it’s pretty explosive stuff.’