Chapter Text
"I never have understood," Aziraphale said, "precisely why you dislike the fourteenth century so much."
"It was so boring." Crowley flung himself backwards over the arm of the sofa, and opened one eye to gauge Aziraphale's reaction. Lately, he’d been spending most of his time here, in the back room of Aziraphale’s shop. Ever since the big bamboozle of Heaven and Hell had earned them this uneasy peace, the world outside the shop had gotten, frankly, a bit weird. It was far more fun to hang around here, lightly vexing the angel as he worked. Anyhow, Aziraphale wanted a bit of pepping up. “You were holed up in… wherever it was you were holed up in…”
“Scotland, mainly.”
Crowley nodded. “And Hell was sending me on tedious little runs all over the Continent. No one to talk to. No interesting rebellions to foment. Just horses and serfs and crop failures. Dreadfully dull.”
Upside down in his vision, Aziraphale arranged himself in infuriatingly earnest lines. "Weren't you assigned to Florence at the start of the fourteenth century? Such a dashing and romantic era. Montagues and Capulets, swordfighting in the streets" —
"Cerchi and Donati families, mainly. Yeah, they were usually brawling. But it wasn't romantic. Young men knifing each other over petty nonsense. All about what Their Nigel said to Our Sharon, and who jilted whose daughter. Sordid, brutal, bloody business. Sure, it racked up the points for wrath. I got a bonus that decade. But it was all so tiresome." Crowley craned around to peer at Aziraphale. "Why the sudden interest in the fourteenth century?”
"Because I've just bought an early fourteenth-century Italian manuscript, and I wondered if you might have known the author."
Crowley perked up. "Dante Alighieri? Guido Cavalcanti? That crowd was the only interesting bit of the whole wretched time period. Who’ve you got?”
"Lapo Saltarelli,” Aziraphale said.
"Saltarelli," mused Crowley, racking his memory for the name. Saltarelli… That beautiful, dangerous youth from Leonardo’s past, whose charming mouth had nearly been his undoing? No, it wouldn't be … Aziraphale had said early fourteenth century, and that was nearly two hundred years before he'd met Leonardo…
Chronology clicked into place, and Crowley snapped his fingers. "Lapo Saltarelli. Right. Lawyer, politician, diplomat. Got himself exiled from Florence the same time as Dante. Knew him a bit. Not well. What've you got of his? Diaries? Letters?"
"It's a sonnet."
"Really?" Crowley sat up a little. "Never knew old Lapo fancied himself a poet."
"It seems to be a political allegory. I haven't enough context to follow it properly." Aziraphale raised pleading eyebrows at him. "I was hoping you might help."
"Oh, all right." Crowley grudgingly sat all the way up. "You know what Lapo's trouble was? He thought people would be reasonable."
"What's wrong with that?"
Crowley gave a short ironic laugh. "You'll see. Right. So. Remember the families brawling in the streets about what Their Nigel said to Our Sharon? Well, just at the turn of the fourteenth century, the Pope got dragged into it."
Aziraphale’s brow creased. "You don't mean… the Pope said something to Sharon?"
"No, no. You’ve got it all wrong. Let me explain." Crowley raised a discursive finger. "Background," he said. "The Cerchi family had been feuding with the Donati family for decades. Hereditary enemies. Practically the whole of Florence was allied with one of them or the other, what with marriages and business deals and so on."
"Two households, both alike in dignity."
"Spot on. And after one particularly nasty brawl, everyone split into two parties."
"’From ancient grudge break to new mutiny,’" Aziraphale interjected.
"Pretty much, yeah. The Cerchi family and all their allies called themselves the White party. The Donati family and all their allies called themselves the Black party. With me so far?"
Aziraphale nodded. "The eternal struggle of cosmic opposites," he said. "Good against evil. Light against dark."
"Nah. It was just that a man on one side had white hair, and a man on the other side had black hair."
"Oh."
"I told you it was petty. Anyhow, the White party had all the power in Florence. But the families in the Black party did a lot of business with the Pope. They figured, if they could get him on side…"
"Ah," said Aziraphale knowingly. "They wanted him to mediate the dispute."
"Not exactly."
"Not exactly?"
"No," Crowley said. "In fact, what they said was, 'Your Holiness, those bastards in the White party are plotting to overthrow you. You'd better send some soldiers to town before the next election. Make sure they get out, and we get in. You won’t find us ungrateful.’”
Aziraphale tutted.
"Don't pretend you're surprised," said Crowley. "You've hung around the Vatican enough to know how these things go."
"At times," Aziraphale admitted, "Heaven's human allies have been… somewhat problematic."
"That's one way to put it," muttered Crowley.
"Let's stick to the point. How does Lapo Saltarelli fit into all of this?"
"I'm coming to that. Our boy Lapo was in good with the White party. His daughter was married to a Cerchi cousin, and he was doing well for himself as a lawyer and a politician. Elected to the city's ruling council, and not just once, either. Other cities even asked him to be chief justice. He had power, prestige, fancy clothes. Everyone knew Lapo. Everyone respected Lapo.”
"He sounds like a solid and trustworthy citizen," Aziraphale said.
"Or a fat cat. Depends who you ask. Anyway, in the spring of 1300, he caught three members of the Black party plotting with the Pope to get those soldiers into town and stage a coup. Huge outrage. Lapo made some impassioned speeches and got the council to throw the book at 'em.”
"Well, one must enforce the rule of law," Aziraphale said reasonably.
"The Pope didn't think so. He threw a royal wobbly." Crowley paused, considering. "A papal wobbly," he revised. "He demanded that Lapo present himself in Rome to be tried for crimes against papal authority. On pain of pain.”
"And did Lapo obey?"
"Absolutely not. He was a lawyer, remember? A clever bastard. He wrote a letter." Crowley put on his poshest voice. "'Your Holiness, with all due respect: You've got no bloody jurisdiction here. So, legally speaking, you can stick it where the sun does not shine. Hugs and kisses, Lapo Saltarelli.'"
Aziraphale tried to hide a smile. "That was your demonic influence, I presume?"
"Nah. That's just how lawyers are." Crowley leaned back. "Truth is, I never got a toehold on him. When it came to matters of the soul, the man couldn't be swayed. He was a believer. Might have been easier if he weren't."
"How so?"
"Because, when Lapo refused to go to Rome, the Pope accused him of heresy. In writing. By name."
"Oh, dear." Aziraphale looked queasy. "I know what happened to heretics in those days."
"So did Lapo," said Crowley.
"What did he do?"
"He … reconsidered his position."
"Oh?" Aziraphale's tone was troubled.
"All of a sudden, he discovered the value of a coalition government. Stood up in the council meeting and tore a strip off everyone. 'Your partisan bickering is destroying this city! We must work together! Give the Black party equal representation!’" Crowley shrugged. "Maybe he thought he had a better chance of protecting Florence if he was working with the Black party."
"Maybe he thought he could broker peace," Aziraphale suggested.
"Or maybe he was just a coward trying to save his own skin. It's hard to say. Anyway, he helped the Black party. Even snuck one of their banished leaders back inside the city walls. Lapo seemed to think they'd return the favour and help him, too, when they got back in power."
"And what happened?"
"The Pope's allies swept into Florence and put the Black party in power, all right. Slaughtered the opposition. Kidnapped their families. Put their houses to the torch."
Aziraphale sighed. "Sometimes," he said, "I really can't… " He fell silent and shook his head.
Crowley went on. "Whatever Lapo thought he was doing, it didn't work. The new Black party government didn't care that he'd crossed party lines to help them. They found Lapo guilty of gross corruption, right along with the rest of the White party. Sentenced him to exile on pain of death. He never saw Florence again."
"They didn't even try to make peace?" Aziraphale looked stricken.
"Why would they?" Crowley shrugged. "Hereditary enemies. Death to the opposition. Lapo was a fool to think he could change that. It was never going to end any other way."
"Well," said Aziraphale bleakly. "Thank you. That explains… quite a bit about his poem."
Crowley straightened up. "Right. Let's have it, then."
"You want to see the manuscript?"
"I always wondered what happened to old Lapo. Bring it over and let's have a look."
Aziraphale brought over a frame, within which was mounted a ragged bit of paper, a little more than a handspan in height and width. It was discoloured by the years and, Crowley knew, more fragile than it appeared. Aziraphale handled it reverently, as he did all of his rare books and manuscripts; when he had old paper in his hands, he even walked with a focused softness. Crowley watched him set it down, watched his gentle fingers along the edges of the frame, adjusting it to precise straightness on the tabletop.
"Here it is," said Aziraphale, unnecessarily. “It was set in this frame by the grandfather of the previous owner. I haven’t decided whether it’s worth the risk to remove it. One wouldn’t want to damage it any further. It might be Lapo’s own hand.”
Crowley peered at it. The handwriting was tall, narrow, well-educated, proud but restrained. It was a hand used to writing swiftly, without doubt and without error. The fourteen lines of the sonnet marched in formation straight down the page, as though defying the untidy damaged edges surrounding them. They looked oddly like the points of a legal defence.
It jostled a hazy memory in Crowley’s mind. Dinner at Dante’s house; they’d all been drunk; Crowley had suggested a little light heresy to Guido Cavalcanti, more out of force of habit than anything else. Across the table, a sententious middle-aged fellow had overheard. He’d launched into a philosophical argument that Crowley had been too full of wine to follow — something to do with Averroës and Aquinas — but it had involved drawing a diagram of the celestial spheres with detailed labels. Cielo di mercurio, cielo di venere, cielo del sole. He’d written his minuscule d with a particular flourish that Crowley had noticed even through the haze of the wine; it had seemed too jaunty for a man like that.
The d in the first line on this fragment bore the same little flourish. “I think it’s Lapo’s writing, yeah,” Crowley murmured.
“An original,” Aziraphale said, in tones of quiet awe.
“Go on, then,” said Crowley. “Let’s hear what he had to say.”
Aziraphale began reading aloud:
"Contr’ aggio di grand’ira benvoglienza, e per paura ardimento ho mostrato"—
Crowley made an aggrieved sound. "One line in, and he’s already turning the other cheek."
"Against great wrath, I turn benevolence," said Aziraphale. "Yes, quite orthodox."
"And by my fear, I prove my bravery," Crowley continued. "Well, at least that's not disgustingly biblical."
Aziraphale, ignoring this remark, carried on reading. "'Perduto ho il pianto vinto per sentenza'"—
"A bit of legal punning there. 'I've lost the case I won by sentence.'"
"You're losing the proper sonnet form," objected Aziraphale.
"I am not. Benevolence, sentence — it rhymes, see?"
"Yes, but the meter is lacking."
"All right, then, how would you do it?"
"It's a slant rhyme, and an indirect translation," began Aziraphale. "But perhaps 'I've lost the case I won by settlement.'"
Crowley exhaled a startled laugh. "Oh, that's devious, angel. Settlement. Resettlement. Exile. That's a twist of the knife."
Aziraphale sputtered. "I only meant" —
"No, no." Crowley waved an expansive hand. "It matches Lapo's clever-bastard sense of legal humour. He'd probably laugh. Go on."
Aziraphale settled down, and read the next line. "E tuttor vo seguendo, e son cacciato."
"Oh, I see, he's doing opposites. 'And still I keep going, still I'm hunted.'" Hearing himself, Crowley made a face. "Nggh, no, that doesn't get at the wordplay."
Aziraphale nodded. "It does work better in Italian. The word for 'keep going' literally means 'follow', so he's following and being followed."
"Yeah. And the word for 'hunted' also means 'banished.' Is there even a word in English like that?"
"I suppose you might say 'chased'?"
"Nah. I don't do virtues."
Aziraphale huffed. "Not chaste as in chastity, Crowley. The past tense of the verb to chase. To chase after. To chase away."
"Joke, angel. I know, it's blessed hard to translate. I don't think we can get the follow and chase thing working in English, but maybe there's something…" He thought a moment, then snapped his fingers. "'Still I persist, and still I am pursued.'"
"I do like the alliteration," Aziraphale admitted. "Let's see what's next: 'Del compimento sono alla comenza'"—
"Easy. 'I am at the beginning of the end.' Simple, idiomatic, iambic. Sorted."
Aziraphale made a considering noise. "Well, yes, I suppose. But one would so like to preserve Lapo's positional punning. You see, he's put compimento — 'the end' — at the start of the line, and comenza — 'the beginning' — at the end of the line. "
"Yes, I see what he did there. Clever bastard that he was. How about 'The end has come, and here I must begin'?"
"Oh, thank you." Aziraphale smiled at him, the sun breaking through clouds.
“Told you to stop saying that,” Crowley grumbled, but without much conviction.
“It should be all right, shouldn’t it?” Aziraphale said uncertainly. “They seem to be leaving us alone, ever since” —
“Just don’t make a habit of it.” Crowley leaned over and read the next line from the centuries-old page. "Fuggemi ’loco, dove era locato. That's a good image. Abandoned by the place where I was placed. Home, flying away from him, receding into the distance while he stands still."
"Home," said Aziraphale quietly. "The place where he was placed."
Crowley watched him, here in his shop, this place that was Aziraphale's place, glowing from foundation to roof-ridge with the angel's solid, steady presence. This place couldn't flee. This place wouldn't forsake them. Aziraphale had placed himself here.
(Surely this place could never abandon them.)
Aziraphale cleared his throat and went on briskly:
"E il guadagnar mi par che sia perdenza; Amar mi sembra dolce assaporato."
Crowley translated literally, "'And winning seems to me to be losing; bitterness seems to taste sweet.'"
"Such simple lines," said Aziraphale. "But the simplicity makes one feel the bare sorrow of the whole stanza. 'The end has come, and here I must begin; Abandoned by the place where I was placed—”
Crowley picked up the rhyme. "'Defeat is all that I can seem to win, and bitterness now seems the sweetest taste.'"
"He was lonely," Aziraphale said.
"He was feeling sorry for himself," corrected Crowley.
"Perhaps. Let's see what he says next. 'Così m’ha travagliato accorta cosa'" —
"Accorta means…” Crowley waved a searching hand. “Means… wise, prudent, cautious, careful. 'Thus I am troubled by a careful thing'—"
"No, no," Aziraphale objected. "That goes by far too quickly. You've got to push harder on così. You've got to emphasize 'thus.'"
"I did say 'thus.'"
"But it's not enough."
"How is it not enough?" demanded Crowley. "It's a simple word. That's what it means. What do you mean, it's not enough?"
Aziraphale's jaw set mulishly. "This is the turning point of the whole thing, Crowley. It's the pivot into the sestet. You can't just say 'thus.' It needs to carry the weight of all the lines before. Persisting and being pursued, abandoned by his place, losing when he wins, tasting bitter instead of sweet. All of these sorrows. He's being tormented in all these ways. Thus."
"That's how," said Crowley, enunciating the words one by one, "this careful creature torments me." He glared pointedly at the angel.
Aziraphale flicked up one irritated eyebrow. "That's quite good," he allowed.
Crowley muttered, "Show you torment." He glanced at the first words of the next line, and stopped muttering.
Bless it, he'd spent enough time with poets back then; he really ought to have guessed the identity of the careful creature. Now Aziraphale was going to go all dreamy and starry-eyed, and that always made something itch under Crowley’s skin, in a way he had never yet figured out how to scratch.
Well, it was too late now. Nothing for it but to saunter onwards. "Er. ‘Cioè Amore, che a vegliar dormendo / Mi face straniare ove io son conto.’ He doesn’t actually mean Love, of course,” Crowley added quickly, attempting to forestall the starry eyes. “It’s only a metaphor. He means the political beliefs that got him exiled. That’s the wisdom that torments him.”
But Aziraphale, far from sighing dreamily, was already working out the translation, his brow knitted in a tangle of grammar. "'It's Love, who, watching while sleeping / Makes me a stranger' — no, perhaps it's 'who, while I wake sleeping / Makes me a stranger'?" He huffed. "Lapo's dangling his participles."
"I'll dangle your participles," said Crowley, gaining confidence. "It's a sleepwalker zombie motif. I’d say something like 'It's Love, that waking sleep.’ I know, I know: the metre’s wrong, so you can add ‘that living death,’ even though it’s not in the original. The Stilnovo poets adored that sort of thing. Very dramatic.”
“Did they?” Aziraphale looked dubious. “It doesn’t seem like a very good image of love.”
“Guido Cavalcanti would disagree with you there. Love, devotion — they possess you body, mind, and soul. Drive you onward in a daze, like a sleepwalker or a shambling corpse. It’s hopeless to beg for mercy. Love is a cruel mistress, and you have no choice but to obey.”
“I can’t believe that,” objected Aziraphale. “Surely love gives you hope, strength, courage. Surely it inspires heroic deeds. A true knight, prepared to sacrifice all for the honor of his beloved…”
Oh, no, there were the angelic starry eyes. So Crowley said hastily, "Anyhow, the following line. 'Mi face straniare, ove io son conto.' Puts me in mind of Bob Dylan."
It worked; the stars in Aziraphale’s eyes were replaced by annoyance. "Honestly, Crowley. Now you're just making things up. I know Dante of course, and Guido Cavalcanti. But you can't expect me to believe there was a fourteenth-century Florentine poet named Bob."
"Bob Dylan, Aziraphale. "The Times They Are A-Changin'"? Blonde on Blonde? Highway 61 Revisited?"
Aziraphale's blank expression indicated that he had never visited Highway 61 at all.
Crowley gave up. "American musician," he explained. "Nineteen-sixties. Guitar."
"Ah. More of your be-bop."
"Yes. Absolutely. Anyhow, my point is, this line of Lapo’s reminds me of a line of Bob Dylan. To be on your own, with no direction home, like a complete unknown, like a rolling stone."
"Mi face straniare," said Aziraphale quietly. "Yes, I see. ‘Who makes me strange, unknown, unrecognized.’"
"Just like that."
"Love… that is, his convictions, his belief… for that, Lapo lost his friends, his reputation, his home," mused Aziraphale. "The rich and famous man becomes a stranger everywhere he goes. He wanders alone, outcast, invisible."
"Like a rolling stone," Crowley agreed.
"Sometime you'll have to read me more of this Bob Dylan."
"I'll do that, angel. I really will. Just remember you asked for it. Come on, let's keep going." Crowley read the next line. "'Che spesse volte appello fior la rosa'" —
"'When often times I call the rose flower'?" translated Aziraphale. "Where did that image come from? I suppose it must represent someone's coat of arms or flag. Not Florence — that's lilies, not roses."
"H’m,” Crowley said. “The Pope used to swan about with a golden rose, didn't he?"
"Of course," mused Aziraphale, "of course, the Rosa aurea. The golden rose, blessed by the Pope on the fourth Sunday of Lent. And in those days, presented to the most favoured representative at the papal court. An appeal to the rose could be an appeal for papal favour. But why fior la rosa, the rose flower, not just the rose?"
"Probably a flower for Florence. We could stretch the translation a bit to make it obvious. 'I beg the rose and lily: hear my plea!'"
"Even after everything, Lapo still hoped he could convince both sides to listen to reason," Aziraphale said. "To make peace."
"He never did understand that it wasn't about reason." Crowley folded his arms. "It was always about fighting."
"I suppose," said Aziraphale, "he felt he had to try."
"Yes, and look at where it got him," Crowley said bitterly.
"He admits the painful dissonance of what he's done," Aziraphale said. "His next line: 'E contradico là ’ve non contendo'."
"'I contradict where I do not contest,'" Crowley translated.
"Indeed. Contradiction in every line. Wrath and kindness, fear and courage, winning and losing, bitter and sweet. Black and white. He knows what he is," said Aziraphale, an odd light in his eyes.
"'Do I contradict myself? Very well then, I contradict myself,'" Crowley quoted. He'd meant to be ironic, but somehow, all the venom had drained from his words.
"And Lapo’s last line, Crowley. Listen. D’amor credo asbassare, e pur sormonto."
"Oh," said Crowley.
"For love, I fell," Aziraphale said softly.
Looking away, Crowley replied, "And yet, with love, I rise."
There was a little silence.
"It's only a political metaphor, of course," said Aziraphale.
"That's the fourteenth century for you," muttered Crowley. "Nothing but tedious nonsense."
(Contr' aggio di grand' ira benvoglienza, by Lapo Saltarelli. Composed sometime between his exile in 1302 and his death circa 1320-1326.)
Contr’ aggio di grand’ira benvoglienza;
E per paura ardimento ho mostrato:
Perduto ho il pianto vinto per sentenza;
E tuttor vo seguendo, e son cacciato.
Del compimento sono alla comenza;
Fuggemi ’loco, dove era locato:
E il guadagnar mi par che sia perdenza;
Amar mi sembra dolce assaporato.
Così m’ha travagliato accorta cosa,
Cioè Amore; che a vegliar dormendo,
Mi face straniare, ove io son conto.
Che spesse volte appello fior la rosa;
E contradico là ’ve non contendo:
D’amar credo asbassare, e pur sormonto.
(My translation of Lapo Saltarelli's sonnet.)
Against great wrath, I turn benevolence,
And by my fear, my bravery is proved:
I’ve lost the case I won by settlement;
Still I persist, and still I am pursued.
The end is near, and here I must begin;
Abandoned by the place where I was placed:
Defeat is all that I can seem to win;
And bitterness now seems the sweetest taste.
That's how this careful creature torments me:
It’s Love, that waking sleep and living death,
Who makes me strange, unknown, unrecognized.
I beg the rose and lily: hear my plea!
I contradict, but I do not contest:
For love, I fell. And yet, with love, I rise.