The Ash Wednesday Supper: A Novel

By Arthur Versluis

Step into the Elizabethan world of the extraordinary Giordano Bruno:  a philosopher, a magician, a professor, a spy, an initiate in a pan-European secret society. In this vivid novel, meet kings and queens, court alchemists, great playwrights, scoundrels, and come to know the greatest minds of the Western European Renaissance.  Engage

• Language: English
• Publisher: New Cultures Press
• Release date: Jan 22, 2019
• ISBN: 9781596500273

Arthur Versluis

Arthur Versluis is the editor-in-chief of Esoterica and the founding president of the Association for the Study of Esotericism. He is the author of numerous books, including Sacred Earth, Restoring Paradise, The New Inquisitions and The Secret History of Western Sexual Mysticism. He lives in Michigan where he is a professor of American Studies at Michigan State University.

Book preview

1

To an ox give only hay, that he not trample you underfoot.

—John Trithemius

Spring, 1576

I traveled to Rome on foot, sleeping where I could find refuge. There was nowhere, and everywhere for me to go; out of the stone walls, I was freed, uncaged, Prometheus unbound. I delighted in the simplest things along the road: simply to watch the sparrows, to see the women setting wash out to dry along the river; the placidity of the rural world. I thought of returning to Nola, but with the charges of heresy unresolved, thought it best to travel first to Rome and then—and then on, for we are many, and there is much to be said, to be taught, to be given. Spending a day and a night with a group of pilgrims who were traveling to the Holy City, I learned of their various trades and lives, and they in turn wished to know of my past; having heard it, they assured me that the Pontiff would surely clear me.

We sat around a fire, for the weather was dry and cool, and a merchant who fancied himself a troubadour at heart sang ballads in the night with the accompaniment of a battered mandolin; later, when he confessed to being ignorant of the songs of Tansillo, I recited one or two, all the while thinking of my father and the melancholy poet, summoning them into the infinite mirrors of terrestrial memory.

And as the others slept all around, I sat up, glorying, reveling in the tranquil bluegreen dark that had been so transmuted by my freedom, rising infinitely out, instead of weighing down, crushing.

The next morning, though, I left them, feeling a need for solitude—for they, they would reach their object in the Holy City, while I would have merely begun my Odyssey there. My quest has no end; it is as infinite as ascension is infinite; their journey was across the horizon, while mine was up soaring ever higher on wings black and white. But shall I nowhere find home? Nitimur in cassum?

Giordano was out of breath, his chest burning, as he paused at the crest of the rocky slope, windblown and barren. The rocks jutted up and fell away around him; nearby, far below, the ocean surged and heaved. He could smell its saline acidity, hear its chaotic roll and crash against the rocks, the sound of the menstruo universali, the mater through which we rise. He sat down, his back against the rocks, and looked out the horizon; to his left, the black mouth of a cave, mouth of the mother. The wind pulled at his robes; birds wheeled, screeing.

And then, for a instant infinitely extended, he was within that Crystalline Palace once again; before him was Circe, daughter of the Sun, hair and head ablaze with light unearthly.

Come. Follow me.

September, 1576

It is true: not far from the mountain the peasants call Circe, we sat, in the rocky hills above the sea, I and my fellow travellers now absent, and invoked Circe, she who controls the sea, and the plants, and the animals—and no sooner had I done so than the Palace appeared, like no place on earth, and we cried with fear that we could not enter. At once, we were within, in places too brilliant for words, ornate—the things we learned, and saw—And Circe appeared.

We implored her to impart her light, her water of incantation to us, but she smiled, and replied only:

---

O you sorrowing ones, depart, blind as you are in all things—go and gather the fruit of those whose gaze is directed too high—Go, far and wide, on endless pilgrimages through the world, until the vase is opened, and the nectar dissolved . . .

And she was gone.

But the very stones, and twigs, and trees, and waters seemed to low with her lost presence, so quickly gone, leaving only the hint of promises to be fulfilled.

I arrived in Minerva, and was greeted effusively by Fra Alredo Caesario, but from the first the pall of parting hung over us.

Fra Alfredo regarded him with a bemused expression.

So you are the young man so renowned for Memory?

Yes, even to an audience with His Holiness, though—it seems of little value now, eh?

Lucio had mentioned that; I even seem to remember your staying here then. But where do you wish to go? To stay here?

To be honest, no. I had thought to go on, to travel, perhaps to Paris—He gestured as if to emphasize the openness of it.

The horizons are not so vast, said Fra Alfredo. There is always a course that in retrospect seemed inevitable. You are welcome to stay here as long as you wish—but—Alfredo shifted his weight uneasily—they have placed one hundred thirty articles against you already, and if they come—

He left the sentence open.

Word came within the week: Father Alfredo stopped him in the walkway that led to the street. Giordano had been left utterly alone at the monastery; rumours having circulated about him, the other monks stepped aside, silent, eyes following him, as he passed. He was on his way out to wander the twilit streets, looking, perhaps, for a bookstore, when Alfredo’s hand touched his shoulder.

They found the copies of Chrysostum and Erasmus, and several other bits of incrimination. I can do nothing, nor can Lucio.

You would do well to leave, I think, next week. Perhaps in time they will forget.

Yet Alfredo knew better even as the words left his mouth: in time they never forget. His eyes reflected his helplessness.

Why did you leave them behind?

What difference did it make? I’ve read them.

But Nolan. From now on you’re a hunted man.

So be it. I am hardly in bad company.

But this Nolan—he seems not to care, to be aloof from even such a catastrophe. Doesn’t he realize that he has given up his career, his life?

I think he does, Alfredo. I think it is a good sign.

They looked at one another, something unseen passing between them. Like—

Giordano walked out, out under the archway and out into the street, the early morning light dawning on the houses around him, casting them with a rose glow that raised them to a different level, to another vision, as though they were no longer completely material, but something else.

Light in the morning is qualitatively different than light at noon, and at eventide, he wrote, leaning against the wall of a rough brick building. The sunlight of dawn and of sunset is angular, raising things up, deifying them. The ancients revered Eos with reason.

His wandering had begun.

1576 Noli

As I write, I have forsaken all for her, all. I am now in the village of Noli, where I am teaching the science of the Sphere, and astronomy, living in the center of town, in quarters overlooking the square.

I long for my native Nola, and yet must go on; even now I can feel the wind lifting at my back, breathing my cloak.

Tutoring children: how am I to tell them that all is wrong: that there is an infinite Divinity within them which is more in them than they themselves? Seldom can one even tell adults, such as they are.

Philippo! The Nolan? Is this not one of your students?

The woman was heavyset, her dark hair pulled back, gleaming, behind her ears and up into a bun. She was holding Arturo by the hand, dragging him as if he were a recalcitrant ass to be punished. Arturo was one of the older students. He was twelve. Giordano could scarce hold back a smile at the ludicrous situation.

Yes.

He has been saying mad things to the other children, things he claims you taught him—that there are worlds within us as without us, that each world is an animal. An animal.

---

She darted an especially outraged glare at the child.

She shook the child’s hand, crushing it in emphasis. Arturo stared ahead, neither sullen nor aloof—as though he weren’t there—or as though she weren’t.  

I teach the science of astronomy, and of higher things, yes. Arturo is a bright child. Perhaps they just misunderstood.

My children did not misunderstand.

Her voice became less strident, as if realizing that she had misinterpreted the nature of things in some inexplicable way.

Perhaps. But you should teach the children what they need to know, not what will only get them into trouble, confuse them, and make them lose their senses. Teach them grammar. Grammar and . . . and thinking, not just foolishness.

Yes, yes, he said. I’ll do that very thing.

Good, she said, disarmed without quite knowing why. See that you do.

He was silent as he watched her turn, frowning, pulling the boy with her, holding her course down the street, out of the square.

21 December 1576

A pig cannot wish to be a man; indeed, it would do anything rather than become human: it would rather have the fattest sow than the loveliest woman; it would rather wallow in mud than lay in fine linen; all desire conforms to one’s species. And so it is that within man are all these desires in varying degrees. Some are at the level of the beast, some are half beast and half man, while others are wholly human, or capable of becoming so—these perceive the soul, and would give up this life for the next, the higher.

Francesco, he called as he stepped into the darkness of the small bookshop. The angular, austere bookseller turned and smiled as he saw Giordano, the thin lines around his eyes and mouth transformed into myriad crinkles.

What is it now? Do you wish even more books? I’d thought you’d read them all.

No, not quite. But I came to see you as well as the books.

That is gratifying. What is it then that you want?

I wondered if you knew of anyone of like mind to ours in this place—he leaned forward as if to give a confidence—for I’ve been accused of telling children mad lies about the stars and planets, and yet the things I tell them come only from your books.

Francesco smiled, no longer entirely at ease. Outside, several dogs trotted past, dark.

Yes—I think your learning goes deeper than my few books. But as to one of like mind to yours—no. I know of no one here, though you might speak with a man who calls himself Antonio Minutolo. He lives not far from here, and is interested, I gather, in the things you read also. But for learned ones, you will have to travel to Venice, or Paris.

I imagine you’re right. But for now—where is this Antonio? And why have I not heard of him before?

He keeps very much to himself. But to you—perhaps . . .

The house was dark inside; Giordano’s eyes were slow to adjust. He could see, on the far side of the room, dim forms which gradually took shape and solidified.

Antonio? I am Philippo Bruno, the Nolan. I knew a Minutolo from home. Perhaps you are related.

No, said the darkened figure, silhouetted by a small lantern illuminating the desk before him. That is merely a name I go by.

The peculiar darkness, the oppressive nature of the place almost caused Giordano to leave at once. But despite himself, he drew closer. The other was an old man, with a thick beard, grey and white in streaks. Before him was a book inscribed with curious, ornate symbols—triangles, vesica, figures of man within patterns of lines, three circles.

On the walls were amulets, depicting bestial images—the man with the head of a rooster, the legs of a goat; satyrs and snakes, suns and moons. As Giordano leaned forward to look, the old man grasped his head between his two palms, and though he pulled back, the grip was firm; just as quickly, the old man let him go.

You know of the teaching of Hermes?

Yes

And the art of remembering, invoking the stars; the subjugation of the beasts? The images that draw forth the Real, the Forms that show forth the true world?

Yes.

Then listen, O Asclepius, for I shall teach you the art of permutations, of combination and expansion, that you might come out of yourself at will. For there are twenty-four letters, which are the foundations of the world, and of all the creatures in it and named in it; every saying and every creature is of them, and by the revolution of the twenty-four letters do they receive their being and their not being. These are the three mothers; these the seven planetary doubles, and these, the twelve doubles of the Zodiac.

The old man’s veined hand scrawled the figures quickly, as though there were not world enough and time for what must be taught.

He spends his time at that strange one’s, he said, tapping down the sole of the shoe, his eyes on the Nolan, who had passed by in the street.

And teaches the children madness, and worse—

The other leaned forward.

Consorting with demons?

He leaned back, satisfied with the effect of his accusation, and nodded.

The rumours are everywhere. Two families have already withdrawn their children from his care, for fear of it—so I’ve heard.

---

14 February 1577

How absurd: that one whose sole aim is the Divine is accused of its antithesis.

The common life is a form of madness—no one can deny it: worse, what most call happiness is but an exacerbated madness, a momentary meeting of desire and brute satiation. For what we seek is not here—we long for it, seek it whether we know it or not, but it is not here; we must ascend higher. As Solomon said: Who increases wisdom, increases sorrow.

But when we make this observation, who would hear it rightly? To assert the truth only brings its antitheses—fear, ambition and suspicion. I remember—

Giovanni sat back in his seat and laughed: it was a hearty laugh, a laugh tinged with bitterness, cracking around the edges, thought Oduardo Cicada. It was not like that during the war.

Philippo!

Philippo emerged from around the corner of the dining room, his dark hair glinting.

Get that book, would you please?

His voice was still punctuated by laughter; brief gusts. Philippo pulled the book from the shelf, and blew the dust that adhered to its cover into the air. When a man dies he kicks the dust. As he went back into the brighter dining room, holding the book firmly, as if it were a sacred object, he heard Oduardo’s voice, filled with, satiated with laughter and ebullient mirth.

Ah yes, I remember that too. He was a stupid man, to run into battle with the back of his breeches still down! Oduardo paused. I’m happier now than I ever was, you know that, Giovanni?

And just then, in that silence, Philippo entered with the book to hear his father’s words, underlaid with some unknown, alien, ancient sorrow infinite—

No. Never were you more mad than now.

Giovanni’s face was grave, his eyebrows drawn in sternly. Philippo stood transfixed by the strangeness of the moment.

Is it madness then to be happy? Oduardo’s voice was almost hurt, tinged with a kind of tangible, newly realized pain.

His father’s eyes fixed Oduardo’s. It is.

And then, after a long pause—

Ah, Philippo, thank you. Here, we should look at this for a moment. You would be interested. 

But Oduardo’s eyes were far distant, elsewhere.

It is, then, a kind of madness to be sad, as it is to be happy. The only one who is wise is he who is neither happy nor sad, one who is beyond such states of attachment—one for whom pain is not pain, nor is pleasure pleasure, for both are limited and we—we strive for that which is boundless.

Giordano looked up from his journal, his eyes glittering, that exuberance welling up in him again.

It is a joy to be able to read such things