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the exploits of his soldier father (always away, it
seemed). And here, in this land of memory, the sun always stood
high in the sky, sweeping away any cloud before it. There was no
shadow upon those days. No shadow.
    :
    He had been a brilliant student—at least in
his own estimation, though none disagreed with that assessment. But
his family was poor, and there was no question of higher schooling
for the bright boy. A soldier’s pay did not go far; the funds were
not there.
    Were he to study further—something he deemed
his God-given right—he had only one option: The Church, which, in
his opinion, was the far lesser of the two relevant evils.
    The other, far greater evil, was to forfeit
his education and settle for a menial life. This was out of the
question.
    Thus, just turned seventeen, he also turned
monk.
    If only he had learned to hold his tongue
well enough to actually hold it.
    He was not pious, nor did he claim to be.
Not even to appease his teachers, most of whom saw and accepted him
for what he was: a young man ambitious for learning, for that was
all it took—in their estimation and experience—to fashion, in the
end, an obedient monk, true to dogma and the Holy Church: a useful
instrument.
    He would, however, soon
topple their complacent views for they had misjudged his desire for
learning, which was by no means limited to orthodox teachings, but
was a deep and irrepressible desire to know the truth ; and truth, he was soon to
realize, was not constrained by the codex of canon law and the
constitutions of his order.
    Seeing this, he deeply and
honestly rebelled against the diktat that he adopt and exclusively
subscribe not only to the Gospel truths—as found in the Good Book
itself—but to every and minute interpretation of those truths by
Roman Authority, boringly and at length spelled out in crabbed
Latin by long dead theological scholars. This is the truth , decreed his order,
and there is no other, down to the very last holy inflection, comma
and period.
    Without variation, world without end,
amen.
    Not to his taste.
    Oh, if only he had learned to hold his
tongue.
    And to tolerate stupidity.
    And to hide things better.
    The drop to finally overflow this rebellious
cup of dissent was his illegal acquisition of Erasmus of
Rotterdam’s commentaries on the works of Saint John Chrysostom and
Saint Jerome. Erasmus, as he well knew, was on the Index of
forbidden books, but a brother from Venice had whispered his name,
had told him of truths told by Erasmus but denied by the Church,
had offered to smuggle him a copy of his book and Bruno had agreed,
of course, his thirst would have it no other way.
    He had hidden the book in one of the
monastery privies, well concealed, he thought. But before too long
it was found, and eventually traced to him, led there by his own
stupidity: Too anxious to prevail in debates, and too eager to
display his brilliance, he had taken to quote from this forbidden
book—not by name, obviously, but most certainly verbatim (his
excellent memory, already in evidence, had seen to that). And most
certainly to the recognition of those elders who did not look upon
him too kindly, for they, too, had read Erasmus, the better to
expose the errors of the heretic’s views. And so, hearing young
Bruno expound upon something or other with the help of Erasmus, it
was clear to them who had hidden the book in the privy.
    And after this it was not long before the
Prior asked to see him, again, and this time told him that the
Neapolitan Inquisition had now initiated judicial process against
him. He was charged with insubordination to the monastic
authorities, and with heresy. He was urged to reflect long and hard
upon his misdeeds.
    The impatient young man reflected only
briefly.
    Then he fled.
    :
    Into years of exile.
    Ever searching, ever seeing, ever finding,
ever writing, ever fleeing, ever moving on when the Church hounds
picked up his scent and alerted their masters to