Q - Luther Blissett Read online

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  Luther Blissett

  Q

  Translated from the Italian by Shaun Whiteside

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  First published in the United Kingdom in 2003 by William Heinemann

  Copyright (c) 2000 Giulio Einaudi editore S.p.a., Torino

  Translated from the Italian: Q

  Translation copyright (c) Shaun Whiteside 2003

  ISBN 0 434 01000 6

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  William Heinemann

  The Random House Group Limited

  20 Vauxhall Bridge Road, London, SW1V 2SA

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  The publisher's website:

  www.randomhouse.co.uk

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  The authors' website:

  www.wumingfoundation.com

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  The partial or total reproduction of this book, in electronic form or otherwise, is consented to for non-commercial purposes, provided that the original copyright notice and this notice are included and the publisher and source are clearly acknowledged.

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  Papers used by Random House for the non-electronic edition of this book are natural, recyclable products made from wood gron in sustainable forests. The manifacturing process conform to the environmental regulations of the country of origin.

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  To Marco Morri

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  Prologue

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  Out of Europe, 1555

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  On the first page it says: In the fresco I'm one of the figures in the background.

  The meticulous handwriting, no smudges, tiny. Names, places, dates, reflections. The notebook of the final fevered days.

  The yellowed and decrepit letters, the dust of decades.

  The coin of the kingdom of the mad dangles on my chest to remind me of the eternal oscillation of human fortunes.

  The book, perhaps the only remaining copy, has never been opened.

  The names are the names of the dead. My names, and those who have travelled those twisting paths.

  The years we have been through have buried the world's innocence for ever.

  I promised you not to forget.

  I've kept you safe in my memory.

  I want to recall everything, right from the beginning, the details, chance, the flow of events. Before distance obscures my backward glance, muffling the hubbub of voices, of weapons, armies, laughter, shouts. And at the same time only distance allows us to go back to a likely beginning.

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  1514, Albert Hohenzollern becomes archbishop of Magdeburg. At the age of twenty-three. More gold in the Pope's coffers: he also buys the bishopric of Halberstadt.

  1517, Mainz. The biggest ecclesiastical principality in Germany awaits the appointment of a new bishop. If he wins the appointment, Albert will get his hands on a third of the whole German territory.

  He makes his offer: 14,000 ducats for the archbishopric, plus 10,000 for the papal dispensation that allows him to hold all these offices.

  The deal is negotiated via the Fugger bank of Augsburg, which anticipates the sum required. Once the operation is concluded Albert owes the Fuggers 30,000 ducats.

  The bankers decree the mode of payment. Albert must promote the sale of the indulgences for Pope Leo X in his territory. The faithful will make a contribution to the construction of St Peter's basilica, and will receive a certificate in exchange: the Pope absolves them of their sins.

  Only half of the takings will go to the Roman builders. Albert will use the rest to pay the Fuggers.

  The task is given to Johann Tetzel, the most expert preacher around.

  Tetzel travels the villages for the whole of the summer of '17. He stops on the borders with Thuringia, which belongs to Frederick the Wise, Duke of Saxony. He can't set foot there.

  Frederick is collecting indulgences himself, through the sale of relics. He doesn't tolerate competitors on his territories. But Tetzel is a clever bastard: he knows that Frederick's subjects will happily travel a few miles beyond the border. A ticket to paradise is worth the trip.

  The coming and going of souls in search of reassurance infuriates a young Augustinian friar, a doctor at Wittenberg university. He can't bear the obscene market that Tetzel has set in motion, with the Pope's coat of arms and the papal bull in full view.

  31st October 1517, the friar nails ninety-five theses against the traffic in indulgences, written in his own hand, to the northern door of Wittenberg church.

  His name is Martin Luther. With that gesture the Reformation begins.

  * * *

  A starting point. Memories reassembling the fragments of an era. Mine. And that of my enemy: Q.

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  Carafa's eye

  (1518)

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  Letter sent to Rome from the Saxon city of Wittenberg, addressed to Gianpietro Carafa, member of the theological meeting held by His Holiness Leo X, dated 17th May 1518.

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  To the most illustrious and reverend lord and honourable master Giovanni Pietro Carafa, at the theological meeting held by His Holiness Leo X, in Rome.

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  My most respected, illustrious and reverend lord and master,

  Here is Your Lordship's most faithful servant's report on what is happening in these remote marshlands, which for a year now appears to have become a focus for all manner of diatribes.

  Since the Augustinian monk Martin Luther nailed his notorious theses to the portal of the Cathedral eight months ago, the name of Wittenberg has travelled far and wide, on everyone's lips. Young students from bordering states are flowing into this town to listen to the preacher's incredible theories from his own mouth.

  In particular, his sermons against the buying and selling of indulgences seem to have enjoyed the greatest success among young minds open to novelty. What was until yesterday something perfectly ordinary and undisputed, the remission of sins in return for a pious donation to the Church, seems today to be criticised by everyone as though it were an unmentionable scandal.

  Such sudden fame has made Luther pompous and overbearing; he feels as though he has been entrusted with a supernatural task, and that leads him to risk even more, to go even further.

  Indeed yesterday, like every Sunday, preaching from the pulpit on the gospel of the day (the text was John 16, 2: 'They shall put you out of the synagogues'), he linked the 'scandal' of the market in indulgences with another thesis, one which is to my mind even more dangerous.

  Luther asserted that one should not be overly frightened of the consequences of an unjust excommunication, because that concerns only external communion with the Church, and not internal communion. Indeed only the latter concerns God's bond with the faithful, which no man can declare broken, not even the Pope. Furthermore, an unjust excommunication cannot harm the soul, and if it is supported with filial resignation towards the Church, it can even become a precious merit. So if someone is unjustly excommunicated, it can even be seen as a precious merit. So if someone is unjustly excommunicated, he must not deny with words or actions the cause for which he was excommunicated, and must patiently endure the excommunication even if it means dying excommunicated, and not being buried in consecrated ground, because these things are much less important than truth and justice.

  Finally he concluded with these words: 'Blessed be he who dies in an unjust excommunication; because by being subjected to that harsh punishment because of his love of justice, which he will neither deny nor abandon, he shall receive the eternal crown of salvation.'

  Uniting the desire to serve you with gratitude for the confidence that You have shown in me, I shall now make so bold as to convey my opinion of the things that I have mentioned above. It seemed clear to Your Mos
t Reverend Lordship's humble servant that Luther had sniffed the air and smelt his own coming excommunication, just as the fox scents the smell of the hounds. He is already sharpening his doctrinal weapons and seeking allies for the immediate future. In particular, I believe he is seeking the support of his master the Elector Frederick of Saxony, who has not yet publicly disclosed his own state of mind as regards Friar Martin. Not for nothing is he called the Wise. The lord of Saxony continues to employ that skilled intermediary, Spalatin, the court librarian and counsellor, to assess the monk's intentions. Spalatin is a sly and treacherous character, of whom I gave you a brief description in my last missive.

  Your Lordship will have a better understanding than his servant of the disastrous gravity of the thesis put forward by Luther: he wants to strip the Holy See of its greatest bulwark, the weapon of excommunication. And it is also apparent that Luther will never dare to put this thesis of his in writing, since he is aware of the enormity that it represents, and the danger it might present to his own person. So I have thought it opportune to do so myself, so that Your Lordship may have time to take all the precautions he considers necessary to stop this diabolical friar.

  Kissing the hand of Your Most Illustrious and Reverend Lordship,

  I beg that I may never fall from grace with Your Lordship.

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  Wittenberg, 17th May 1518

  Your Lordship's faithful servant

  Q.

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  Letter sent to Rome from the Saxon city of Wittenberg, addressed to Gianpietro Carafa, member of the theological meeting held by His Holiness Leo X, dated 10th October 1518.

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  To my most illustrious and reverend lord and master the most honourable Giovanni Pietro Carafa, at the theological meeting held by His Holiness Leo X, in Rome.

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  My most respected, illustrious and reverend lord and master ,

  as Your Lordship's servant, I have been hugely flattered by the magnanimity that You have bestowed on me; since it is a great privilege for me to be able to serve you, being useful to you fills me with real joy. The official accusation of heresy levelled against the friar Martin Luther, to which the Sermon on Excommunication lent definitive support, should lead the Elector Frederic finally to adopt a position as regards the monk, as Your Lordship predicted. The facts that I am about to recount to you may perhaps be considered as an initial reaction on the part of the Elector to the unexpectedly hasty developments: indeed he is preparing to bolster the ranks of theologians at his university.

  On 25th August Philip Melancthon, from the prestigious university of Tübingen, was appointed Professor of Greek at Wittenberg. I do not believe that any university in the Empire has ever seen a younger professor than this man: he is only twenty-one, and with his gaunt and feeble appearance he looks even younger. Although a certain fame has preceded and accompanied him on his journey, the initial welcome from the doctors of Wittenberg has not been enthusiastic. But their attitude, and Luther's in particular, soon changed when this prodigy of classical knowledge delivered his inaugural lecture, in which he illustrated the need for a rigorous study of the Scriptures in the original texts. Since then he has had a strong and immediate understanding with Martin Luther. The two professors have certainly become a potent weapon in the hands of the Elector of Saxony, since the moment when they forged this agreement despite their considerable differences. Each supplies the other with what he lacked to become a real danger to Rome: Luther is ardent and energetic, however coarse and impulsive, while Melanchthon is highly cultivated and refined, but younger and more delicate, better suited to doctrinal battles than to armed combat. The first dangerous product of this union will certainly be the Bible in German, on which they are said to be working together, and for which Melanchthon's knowledge will be like manna from heaven.

  Since I know that Your Lordship values detailed information on important matters, in the time to come I will continue to follow these two doctors with great attention, and refer everything to Your Lordship, only in the hope that I might still be of use to you.

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  I most humbly kiss Your Illustrious and Reverend Lordship's hands.

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  Wittenberg, 10th October 1518

  Your Lordship's faithful servant

  Q.

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  PART ONE

  The Coiner

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  Frankenhausen

  (1525)

  Chapter 1

  Frankenhausen, Thuringia, 15 May 1525. Afternoon.

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  Almost blindly.

  What I have to do.

  Screams in my ears already bursting with cannon-fire, bodies crashing into me. My throat choked with bloody, sweaty dust, my coughs tearing me apart.

  Terror on the faces of the fleeing people. Bandaged heads, crushed limbs... I'm constantly turning round: Elias is behind me. Huge, pushing his way through the crowd. He has Magister Thomas over his shoulders, lifeless.

  Where is the omnipresent Lord? His flock is being slaughtered.

  What I have to do. Clutching the bags tight. Mustn't stop. My dagger bumping against my side.

  Elias still behind me.

  A blurred outline runs towards me. Face half-covered with bandages, tormented flesh. A woman. She recognises us. What I have to do: the Magister mustn't be discovered. I put my finger to my lips: not a word. Shouting behind me: 'Soldiers! Soldiers!'

  I move her aside, to get to safety. An alley-way on the right. Running, Elias behind us, running headlong. What I have to do: try all the doors. The first, the second, the third, it opens. We're in.

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  We close the door behind us. The noise drops. Light filters faintly through a window. The old woman is sitting in a corner at the end of the room, on a dilapidated wicker chair. A few pathetic objects: a shabby bench, a table, coals from a recent fire in a soot-black chimney.

  I walk towards her. 'Sister, we have a wounded man. He needs a bed and some water, in the name of God...'

  Elias is standing in the doorway, filling it. Still with the Magister on his shoulders.

  'Just for a few hours, sister.'

  Her eyes are watery, seeing nothing. Her head rocks back and forth. My ears are still ringing. Elias' voice: 'What's she saying?'

  I walk closer to her. In the midst of the roaring world, a barely murmured dirge. I can't make out the words. The old woman doesn't even know we're there.

  What I have to do. No time to lose. A staircase leads upstairs, a nod to Elias, up we go, finally there's a bed where we can lay Magister Thomas. Elias wipes the sweat from his eyes.

  He looks at me: 'We've got to find Jacob and Mathias.'

  I put my hand on my dagger and make as though to leave.

  'No, I'll go, you stay with the Magister.'

  I have no time to answer, he's already on his way downstairs. Magister Thomas, motionless, staring at the ceiling. Vacant eyes, eyelids barely beating, he looks as though he isn't breathing.

  I look outside: a glimpse of houses through the window. It looks out on to the street, too high to jump. We're on the first floor, at least there's an attic. I peer at the ceiling and can only just see the cracks of a trap-door. There's a ladder on the floor. Riddled with woodworm, but it'll hold me all the same. I slip in on all fours, the roof of the loft is very low, the floor covered with straw. The beams creak with each movement. There isn't a window, just a few rays of light slanting in between the chinks: the roof-space.

  More boards, straw. I'm practically lying down. There's an opening out on to the roofs: sloping. Magister Thomas will never make it.

  I go back down to him. His lips are dry, his forehead is on fire. I try to find some water. On the floor below there are some walnuts and a jug on a table. The singsong chant drones endlessly on. When I put the water to the Magister's lips I see the bags: better hide them.

  I sit down on the stool. My legs hurt. I hold my head in my hands, just for a
moment, then the hum becomes a deafening roar of screams, horses and iron. Those bastards in the pay of the princes are entering the city. Run to the window. To the right, in the main street: horsemen, pikes levelled, are raking the road. They are furiously attacking anything that moves.

  On the other side: Elias pops out into the alley-way. He sees the horses: stops. Foot-soldiers appear behind him. There's no escape. He looks around: where is the omnipresent Lord?

  They point their spears at him.

  He looks up. He sees me.

  What he has to do. He unsheathes his sword, hurls himself at the foot-soldiers. He's ripped one open, butted another to the ground. Three soldiers are on him. Their blows bounce off him, he clutches the hilt of his sword with both hands like a scythe, still slicing away.

  They leap aside.

  Behind him: a slow, heavy gallop, the horseman charging behind him. The blow knocks Elias flying. It's over.

  No, he's getting up: a mask of blood and fury. Sword still in his hand. No one goes near him. I can hear him panting. A tug on the reins, the horse turns around. The axe is raised. Back at a gallop. Elias spreads his legs, two tree-roots. His head and arms turned to the sky, he drops his sword.

  The final blow: 'Omnia sunt communia, sons of whores!'

  His head flies into the dust.

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  The houses are being ransacked. Doors smashed in with kicks and axe-blows. We'll be next. No time to lose. I lean over him.