Foucault's pendulum - Umberto Eco [38]
“From prohibitions you can tell what people normally do,” Belbo said. “It’s a way of drawing a picture of daily life.”
“Let’s see,” Diotallevi said. “A Templar, annoyed at something the brothers said or did that evening, rides out at night without leave, accompanied by a little Saracen boy and with three capons hanging from his saddle. He goes to a girl of loose morals and, bestowing the capons upon her, engages in illicit intercourse. During this debauchery, the Saracen boy rides off with the horse, and our Templar, even more sweat-covered and dirty than usual, crawls home with his tail between his legs. In an attempt to pass unnoticed, he slips some of the Temple’s money to the Jewish usurer, who is waiting like a vulture on its perch...”
“Thou hast said it, Caiaphas,” Belbo remarked.
“We’re talking in stereotypes here. With the money the Templar tries to recover, if not the Saracen boy, at least a semblance of a horse. But a fellow Templar hears about the misadventure, and one night—we know that envy is endemic in such communities—he drops some heavy hints at supper, when the meat is served. The captain grows suspicious, the suspect stammers, flushes, then draws his dagger and flings himself on his brother...”
“On the treacherous sycophant,” Belbo corrected him.
“On the treacherous sycophant, good. He flings himself on the wretch, slashing his face. The wretch draws his sword, an unseemly brawl ensues, the captain with the flat of his sword tries to restore order, the other brothers snigger...”
“Drinking and blaspheming like Templars,” Belbo said.
“God’s bodkin, in God’s name, ‘swounds, God’s blood,” I said.
“Our hero is enraged, and what does a Templar do when he’s enraged?”
“He turns purple,” Belbo suggested.
“Right. He turns purple, tears off his habit, and throws it on the ground.”
“How about: ‘You can shove this tunic, you can shove your goddamn temple!’ “ I suggested. “And then he breaks the seal with his sword and announces that he’s joining the Saracens.”
“Violating at least eight precepts at one blow.”
“Anyway,” I said, driving home my point, “imagine a man like that, who says he’s joining the Saracens. And one day the king’s bailiff arrests him, shows him the white-hot irons, and says: ‘Confess, knave! Admit you stuck it up your brother’s behind!”Who, me? Your irons make me laugh. I’ll show you what a Templar is! I’ll stick it up your behind, and the pope’s. And King Philip’s, too, if he comes within reach!’ “
“A confession! That must be how it happened,” Belbo said. “Then it’s off to the dungeon with him, and a coat of oil every day so he’ll burn better when the time comes.”
“They were just a bunch of children,” Diotallevi concluded.
We were interrupted by a girl with a strawberry birthmark on her nose; she had some papers in her hand and asked if we had signed the petition for the imprisoned Argentinean comrades.’ Belbo signed without reading it. “They’re even worse off than I am,” he said to Diotallevi, who was regarding him with a bemused expression. “He can’t sign,” Belbo said to the girl. “He belongs to a small Indian sect that forbids its members to write their own names. Many of them are in jail because of government persecution.” The girl looked sympathetically at Diotallevi and passed the petition to me.
“And who are they?” I asked.
“What do you mean, who are they? Argentinean comrades.”
“But what group do they belong to?”
“The Tacuaras, I think.”
“The Tacuaras are fascists,” I said. As if I knew one group from the other.
“Fascist pig,” the girl hissed at me. She left.
“What you are saying, then,” Diotallevi asked, “is that the Templars were just poor bastards?”
“No,” I said. “Perhaps I shouldn’t have tried to liven up the story. We were talking about the rank and file, but from the beginning the order received huge donations and little by little set up commanderies throughout Europe. Alfonso of Aragon, for example, gave them a whole region. In fact, in his will he wanted to