The Cellars of Notre Dame

by Barbara Frale

  She was so surprised and so happy that she even forgot to say goodbye.

  *

  The Library of the Popes was kept in the depths of the Sacred Palaces, a vast and well-ventilated room with many windows which filled its numerous corridors and corners with light. There was no furniture among the old wooden shelves, apart from a large rectangular table, upon which were reclining lecterns, and high-backed chairs, comfortable enough for reading and writing but not comfortable enough to encourage frivolous conversation.

  The floor was of painted majolica tiles which were visible only in those corners not covered by the carpets that cushioned the sound of footsteps, an annoying distraction for those studying. The ceiling was of simple white plaster, so as to multiply every single precious ray of light that entered the room. There were no paintings or frescoes, no porcelain vases or other fripperies. Nothing that did not serve the sacred duty of learning, understanding and transmitting the divine Word to posterity.

  An aroma of robust hand-made paper, glue, parchment, the well-tanned leather used for book bindings and ancient wood protected from woodworms with precious waxes and oils but without the scent of perfumes hung in the air.

  The frugal beauty of that environment was strange, given the almost ubiquitous princely pomp of the rest of the Sacred Palaces: though inside it, it was also somehow detached from the pontifical court. It resembled some spare space in which the spirit had carved out a magic circle, keeping outside its inviolable threshold every futile and vain thing which was not strictly necessary for the intellect. The library reflected the soul of the men who had collected it piece by piece, century after century, with unfailing love for Christian history, and it therefore possessed the chaste, severe, venerable smell of an abbey.

  On tiptoe, Maddalena entered the place that could be called the S of the popes’ spiritual and temporal power. A venerable shrine where Truth and Science were preserved. Only a very few, very loyal individuals had the privilege of crossing that threshold.

  She saw the person she was looking for sitting there: Jacopo Stefaneschi, Auditor of the Rota and cardinal deacon of San Giorgio al Velabro. Slender, middle-aged, friendly, intelligent and a little vain, his thick, wavy silver hair gave him the look of a talented musician infatuated with his own success. Perhaps his life’s dream would have been to travel around Europe visiting university after university and drinking from those wells of science with the consolation of having, somewhere, a home with a wife and children awaiting him. But his family had decided otherwise, and he had adapted to the circumstances of his life. Now he embellished the pontifical liturgies with his poetic finesse, and every now and then he let himself be used by the Holy Father for some diplomatic job that didn’t require him to endure too many inconveniences. Slowly, so as not to seem intrusive, Maddalena approached his sumptuous desk.

  “Good morning, your worship. His lordship my uncle the pope has entrusted me with an assignment, and I would like your help. No one knows these books as well as you.”

  It was not flattery, but pure truth; Boniface VIII turned to Stefaneschi whenever any complicated matter that had to do with culture or history needed dealing with. The previous year, when the pilgrims had flocked to St. Peter’s, invoking a jubilee indulgence of which no one in the Curia knew anything, the Pope had commissioned Stefaneschi himself to sift through the records of the oldest pontiffs in search of some evidence for this rumour for which the pilgrims demanded Boniface forgive all their sins in that year of grace one thousand three hundred, because that was what happened at the beginning of every century.

  “I am glad to help you, Caetani. What do you need to do?”

  “Research, your worship. I must consult certain medical treatises.”

  The cardinal raised a questioning eyebrow. Medical research?

  He knew, however, that the common opinion in the Curia was that the relatives of Boniface VIII were all rather eccentric types, some in one way and some in another. These Caetani, whose blood was mixed with that of the Orsini, were certainly better than Loffredo and his brothers, who terrorized Rome with their arrogance and effrontery, but they too possessed no lack of oddities. This was proven by their desire to devote themselves to medicine like two ordinary plebeians, in complete disregard of their high birth.

  If he had to choose, he would take Crescenzio and his sister a hundred times over the others, though; like any man of culture, Stefaneschi was inclined to nurture sympathy towards those who loved study, and the girl standing before him – who, according to those best positioned to know, would take vows to enter the convent and become a doctor of the church like the blessed Hildegard of Bingen – undoubtedly had an intelligent face that evidenced a clean soul, suited for science and for contemplation. So he gave her a friendly smile.

  “What texts do you need, Caetani?”

  Maddalena was overwhelmed with a terrible feeling of embarrassment. She couldn’t tell the truth, so she tried to come up with a convincing excuse.

  “I would like to consult the Dioscorides. Can I find it here?”

  Jacopo Stefaneschi smiled indulgently then got up from his desk, making sure that his long trail of purple silk fell nicely so as to highlight his bearing as he walked.

  “Of course. Here, all the knowledge of the Christian world is gathered.”

  “Only Christian science, your worship? I mean, are there also the works of pagans like Hippocrates and Galen?”

  “Of course,” he assured her. “Your uncle has a true passion for the natural sciences and medicine in particular, so that section of the Library houses some very rare texts.”

  Maddalena walked slowly towards the table at which Stefaneschi had just glanced. She tried to appear calm, so as not to betray the joyous excitement and emotion which at that moment were exploding within her heart.

  With her fingertips, she stroked the precious Moroccan leather bindings, the gilded bronze studs and even the chains which allowed those treasures to remain available to the popes without ending up in the clutches of some scholar too hungry for science to remember to be honest. She identified what she needed and then she turned back to the cardinal, on her face her most angelic smile and an innocent look that could have deceived Satan himself.

  “I see that there are also the texts of great Arab scholars translated into Latin,” she exclaimed, happily.

  “There are the fundamentals, a dozen in all,” he replied. “Your uncle had them translated by Jewish converts. There is the Dietetics of Maimonides, for example. Several texts of Averroes, by Abul-Qasim from Cordova, and several other rarities.”

  Maddalena prayed that the beating of her crazed heart was not actually as audible as it seemed to her, or at least what she could hear of it over the deafening ringing in her ears.

  “On Surgery by Abul-Qasim,” she murmured, trying to control herself. “My brother Crescenzio would like to become a surgeon. That treatise would surely be very useful to him. Could I please take a look?”

  Jacopo Stefaneschi threw open his arms.

  “My dear girl, as the nephew of His Holiness, we might say that you are at home here! I don’t myself understand how a young woman can be interested in all those hideous drawings of dismembered bodies, but curiosity a gift from the Lord. And moreover, they say it is a female trait… Help yourself.”

  Maddalena did not wait for him to tell her twice; she plucked the book from the hands of the cardinal, who unhooked it from its chain, and with her heart in her throat, walked over to a table where she could sit and study comfortably. She closed his eyes and took a deep breath, and when she was ready, she began her search.

  Grappling with that late Greek, transcribed by a clumsy copier who sometimes confused terms, it took a while; after two hours of intense study, however, all was clear to her – at least with regard to the anatomical question that Arnaldo, out of modesty, had not wanted to explain to her in person. She copied down the relevant text on a piece of paper and then stared at it intently, fascinated.
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br />   Upon those few lines, the salvation of Europe’s most powerful dynasty depended. As did, above all, peace in the Church.

  When she ran back to Arnaldo to tell him and have him confirm her conjectures, the old man listened with tears in his eyes.

  “Kibrit ahmar,” he muttered with a sob. “You are red sulphur, Maddalena. You are red sulphur. And under my guidance, you will reach perfection!”

  *

  The leopard kept his eyes lowered and half-closed, as if dreaming of the drowsiness of the torrid African forests of his birth. He squatted limply in his cage, his front paws spread, as he savoured the slow caress of his hand that made him purr like some overgrown cat, every once in a while pricking up his ears at some imperceptible sound the others could not hear.

  An astonished Pope Boniface VIII stood in front of the cage. He loved that beast very much. It had been a gift from the King of England. Under his reign, the Vatican had also been equipped with a seraglio to house the exotic and rare animals sent by the various sovereigns of the earth. Those who had the privilege of walking in the wooded boulevards of the gardens saw deer dart past, or languid peacocks fan their iridescent tails in amorous display.

  Boniface VIII, though, even took the leopard with him when he travelled, happy to keep him on a leash when he could. That fact, combined with the presence of twenty armed knights who went with him – ten to go before him and as many to follow him – was a matter of scandal to the many who accused the pontiff of imitating the customs of the pagan emperors. The heir of St. Peter should behave in a way more in keeping with the fisherman of Galilee, who had never seen leopards except in the horror of the arenas where the martyrs died, condemned .

  Grand, noble and beautiful as Moses, the elderly cardinal Matteo Rosso Orsini approached the pontiff.

  “Look at the leopard, Your Holiness,” he said slowly, “he seems docile because he is well fed. But inside, he is still a beast. Loosen a single bar of the cage, give him the slightest chance of regaining his freedom, and you will see that his true nature will emerge!”

  Surprised by those allegorical words, Boniface VIII removed his hand from the cage.

  “Speak clearly, Orsini. Do you think that the Colonnas have asked for the support of the King of France?”

  “Not only me, Your Holiness. Several members of the Sacred College are convinced of it. After all, would it seem strange to you? The enemy of one’s enemy is one’s friend, after all.”

  “Where are the Colonnas now?” asked the Pope, his voice tense.

  “In exile, Your Holiness. Meaning, on the loose who knows where. And therefore, perfectly able to go to Paris to urge Philip IV to attack you and the Church. As if the man were not already hostile enough!”

  Summoning up all his patience, Boniface VIII exhaled slowly.

  “The Colonnas… Will this accursed feud never end? Yet they came from Orvieto to ask my forgiveness. They came barefoot, dressed as penitents and with ropes around their necks!”

  “I remember, Your Holiness. Evidently, they then found it expedient to do so. I fear, however, that uprising smoulders stronger than ever under the ashes of an apparent peace.”

  Having said his piece, and fulfilled the unpleasant duty of making sure that the Pope was always on the alert and never made the mistake of lowering his guard, Matteo Rosso Orsini departed, followed by the dozen devout purple-clad clerics who accompanied him everywhere.

  When he saw that the pontiff was now alone in front of the animal’s cage, Pietro Valeriano Duraguerra came over to him and gave him an intense look of understanding. As head of the Apostolic Chancellery, Duraguerra directed the diplomacy of the Holy See, but his authority was little or nothing compared to the powerful, noble and much-listened-to Matteo Rosso.

  “You heard all that, Duraguerra,” said the pope. “What do you think?”

  “I think you’re getting a little too close to that creature, Your Holiness.”

  Boniface appreciated the humour of the comment.

  “Matteo does not err,” he said. “This leopard represents a threat to me not unlike that presented by King Philip IV. And it is less dangerous than it appears.”

  “I think I understand, Your Holiness. The king of France is far away, but more importantly, he is locked up in the hieratic majesty of his role exactly like this leopard in his seraglio. He cannot move. He cannot do anything if someone doesn’t open the cage door for him.”

  “Exactly, Duraguerra. The parasites that surround me are much more insidious than this beast behind bars. They are free. Free to harm me as they wish, and to plot behind my back.”

  “I don’t think that Cardinal Orsini would be happy to hear himself compared to a parasite, but …”.

  “They’re vipers, the lot of them!” the Pope thundered. “They only want me to wipe out the Colonnas so that they can take their place. What were we Caetani before I became a cardinal? Simple country nobles with a pope in the family, but so long ago that we had almost lost the memory of it. The Orsini, the Boccamazza, the Annibaldi, the Conti… All the lords of Rome favoured us, they gave us their unconditional support, simply because I put an end to the arrogance of the Colonna, who lorded it over Rome and Lazio to their disadvantage. What would happen now if I really forgave them? If I revoked their exile?”

  Duraguerra pulled a grim face.

  “I doubt the faction headed by the Orsini would be so ready to support you, Your Holiness. But this is the way of the world! Certain logics that drive the events of the century remain unknown to the ordinary people, and the powerful are careful not to reveal them, either out of personal interest or out of modesty. But I’ve been by your side for many years. I am the only one who knows and understands your concern.”

  “No, my friend. You are not the only one. There is also another who knows the state which I am actually in. It gives me no comfort, to be honest, but in any case, he knows.”

  “Of whom do you speak, Your Holiness?”

  “The King of France,” said Boniface VIII with firm assurance. “Him, my enemy. And he knows, because he too is in the same position as me. With his hands tied, Duraguerra. Imprisoned and kept in check by those around him.”

  A skeptical look appeared on the old cardinal’s face.

  “You cannot compare yourself to him, Holy Father,” he objected respectfully.

  “Oh yes I can! There is not much difference between us. We are both victims of the same cruel divine design: the curse of power. Lambs immolated on the altar of the sacrifice that ruling entails. Rejoice, if you are not king. Exult, if you do not have to decide for many others. When one rules, there is no room for justice or charity. All that remains is to do wrong or to suffer it.”

  Duraguerra abstained from any possible reply; it was not the moment to remind Boniface VIII how much he had wanted the papal tiara when he was still a cardinal, and how much he, as a simple monsignor, had intrigued to obtain the purple. The fate of Philip IV was of a very different nature: he had not sought the tiara – it had fallen to him to wear it after the premature death of his older brother who was supposed to have ascended to the throne. Nevertheless, once he had tasted of power, the sovereign had shown quite clearly that he liked it. And that he was able of playing that role with a proud, authoritarian air and full awareness of his sacred authority. Exactly like Benedetto Caetani.

  “There is good news, Holy Father,” he told him instead. “Your nephew Crescenzio has discovered what it is that disturbs the king’s heart so.”

  Boniface VIII read the documents that Duraguerra passed to him and after a few moments of intense reflection, handed him back the file.

  “What do you suggest, my friend?”

  “The solution is simple, Your Holiness. The king is afraid that his detractors are right and that his real father was not Philip III.”

  “And is that so?”

  “That I do not know,” Duraguerra replied, “but at the end of the day, it is not particularly important. Your nephew Crescenzio proposes
a possible solution, and it seems to me to be a sensible one. Write to the king of France, Your Holiness: an ordinary letter, perhaps a dispensation to eat meat on Fridays. The most trifling thing will serve, as long as in the document it is clearly stated that Philip IV descends from Louis IX. Let there be an unequivocal formula: . At that point, even if the king is not the legitimate son of his father, he will become so anyway, because he is the pope who says he is. Our Lord gave him the power to bind and to dissolve bonds in the Heavens as on Earth… The teaching of Saint Augustine applies: When the pontiff has spoken, then the question is closed.”

  Boniface VIII approved and gratified him with a look of intense admiration.

  “How life loves to mock us!” he commented. “Philip IV attacks me and listens to the Colonnas who question my legitimacy, and fate pays him back with the same coin! Now he is the one accused of being illegitimate. Do you see it, Duraguerra? There is not much difference between us. My papal tiara is like a sword of Damocles hanging over my head. His crown is a crown of thorns.”

  5

  CRESCENT MOON

  The moon is a signal light for the heavenly armies,

  shining gloriously in the dome of the heavens.

  I

  Standing in front of the window of his room in an unusual posture, his arms spread out wide and hands grasping the jambs and his ankles crossed, Philip looked silently at the gathering of the townspeople below on the lawn of his gardens. He thanked God that it was winter, otherwise those thousands of feet would have ruined the flowers and those thousands of greedy hands would have looted the orchard and the rows of vines without restraint.