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his most noble ambition,’ the philosopher replied after a moment.
    ‘Knowing everything is another name for omniscience. And omniscience is the attribute of God alone, as Thomas Aquinas and Saint Bonaventura teach, amongst many others,’ the poet replied. Without noticing, he had begun to cross minds with his former teacher, returning to an interrupted challenge.
    ‘There are also other teachers to lighten our darkness. Others have sought and continue to seek the light, besides the great men to whom you have just alluded. We spoke of some of them, back then. But others it was not wise to mention, not even in the lands of France.’
    ‘And here in Florence?’
    ‘Perhaps.’
    Dante felt that he had stepped on to a slippery slope. ‘So what do you think about what we just saw?’ he asked, changing the subject.
    ‘What we saw … Are you sure we both saw the same thing?’
    ‘Certainly our eyes are different, as are our hands and our noses. But essentially the image that our minds draw, from what our senses convey to them, must be the same: because our mind is the mirror of God’s, which is one.’
    ‘And what if there were no God?’ replied Arrigo, calmly.
    ‘You blaspheme, Arrigo!’ Dante raised a threatening finger, and there was a chuckle in his voice. He didn’t believe that a man with a chair in the Faculty of Theology could really nurture such a doubt. But the other man didn’t share his hilarity. ‘I mean, if there were not a single God. If, as with light and shade, the divine principle were also divided into a realm of goodness and its opposite? If that were the case, which of the two dominions would what we have just witnessed belong to?’
    Arrigo shrugged. ‘Forgive me, Messer Alighieri. It is the continuous use of doubt that may easily become a habit of mind in anyone who, like me, uses it for the investigation of nature. But let us return to the monstrous spectacle that has been presented to us. It seems that God has suspended his laws. Never in my study of the phenomena of nature have I encountered a creature that could survive without half of its organs.’
    ‘Are you, as I am, thinking in terms of a doll, with some sort of mechanism to bring it to life?’ asked Dante.
    ‘Maybe. Or maybe not. In France I have seen several of those animated puppets that decorate clock towers. But never one as apparently natural as that. You might almost believe …’
    Still immersed in their conversation they tried to reach the exit. But outside the crowd seemed to have come to a standstill, and excited voices rose as if an altercation were in progress. Dante stood on tiptoe, trying to discover the source of the noise, and recognised the Bargello shoving his way through the crowd, flanked by a little group of soldiers and darting his eyes all around.
    ‘Messer Durante!’ he cried when he spotted Dante. ‘They told me I would find you here!’
    ‘Why so keen to see me?’ replied the prior, instinctively becoming defensive.
    ‘We need you at the Angel Inn. There’s been a death.’
    Dante lowered his head, clenching his fists and his eyelids to conquer the dizziness that had taken control of him. His heart had started thumping like crazy, as a mute rage filled his soul. Again! He struggled to breathe deeply.
    As if the streets of Florence were those of Hades. The warm air entering his lungs seemed to have become impossible to breathe. He sought a different image in his memory. Pietra’s face, her scornful smile. ‘You deal with it – I’m tired. There will be someone among the priors who can take care of it. Ask one of them.’
    ‘No …’ The Bargello had already broken off after his monosyllable, as if he couldn’t find the words to continue. He cast a suspicious eye at Arrigo, who had stepped discreetly backwards. ‘The dead man is someone … who shouldn’t be there. He’s very old. He’s wearing Turkish clothes,’ he added, emphasising the last two words.
    Dante half-closed his eyes.