by Ben Hopkins
All this secrecy is beginning to crawl up Manfred’s craw. “So? I ask again. What do you want from me?”
“Manfred. If no-one else will do anything, why don’t we? We’ll put up half the cost of an armed raid. We’re looking for partners. Are you in?”
“I’d like to see you two waving a weapon.” Manfred laughs.
“We’ll be silent partners in the raid,” says Emmerich, somehow managing to say it with a straight face, and without blushing.
“You mean you’ll stay at home and warm your feet by the fire whilst some real men go and risk their lives?”
Emmerich’s eyes grow cold. “We’ve found the bandits. We’re putting up half the money. We’re doing something about this problem. I grew up in the Vogesen, watching sheep. No one ever taught me how to kill a man. Now, are you in or are you out?”
“Do you want some hot soup?”
Emmerich looks at Manfred a moment, assessing the offer. Then nods. “I’ll have some, thank you.”
Manfred looks over to Rosheimer. Rosheimer bows, holds his hand to his heart, declining.
“Come on, eat with me.”
“No thank you, Herr Gerber.”
“It’s good soup.”
“Thank you, but no.”
Manfred holds Rosheimer’s gaze a moment, two moments, three moments. “All right, suit yourself.” He ladles out two bowls. Split beans, pearl barley, ox bones. And plenty of polvere forte, the hot spice mix from the Levant. Burns your mouth, makes your nose run, gives your arsehole a stinging goodbye-kiss the next morning.
He watches as Emmerich takes his first spoonful. Tastes it. Gasps a bit, then nods. “Hmm, spicy,” he says, and eats some more.
Damn. Most people who eat his soup run screaming to the nearest pitcher of water. Disappointed, Manfred shrugs, takes a big gulp, drinking straight from his bowl. He looks around the warehouse, shelves laden with rolls of fabric, with sacks of grain ready to sell in the weeks before Lent when they fetch the highest price. Now, in the Dark Weeks, commerce is quiet. But as Lent wears on, the roads open again, the River Trade starts to flow.
The pirates, those Parasites, will be waiting.
† † †
The fifth barrel of wine is being breached in the Cathedral Crossing. Sleeves wipe mouths as the cups are handed around. The New Year’s Wine, a gift from the Bishop to his congregation. The Masons have brought a barrow, and they’re piling the drunks on it, pushing them to the South Portal and throwing them outside.
Laughter. The crowds push and pulse. No one’s ever seen the Cathedral so full before. It’s always crowded for the Feast of Fools; the World and his Wife, but not like this, not so’s you can hardly move.
A wide, moon-like child’s face. A Mitre atop his head, a Crosier held upside down in his shaking hands. Riding on a donkey, round and round, round and round the Crossing, circling the wine barrel. The Cathedral Orphan Einolf has been enthroned as Bishop for the day. The drunken crowd slap the donkey’s flanks and kiss the Orphan Bishop’s spit-shiny, trembling cheeks.
The Lord of Misrule, the subdeacon, is dressed as the Pope. He stands in the pulpit, ringing Uto’s bell, and shouts. “Good News! The Virgin got knocked up! By an Angel! Be happy! Gaudete! Three Kings have come from the East! And they’re all three of them fools! Rejoice!”
The musicians squeeze their way through the crowd. The Big Drum sounds. You feel it in your stomach. Boom boom. Like the heart of a Giant beating in your guts. Boom boom. Boom boom. The band surround the pulpit, and the Lord of Misrule sings: Mir han nen Bischofen, nen Narrenbischofen nen Dreckbischofen, habemus Arschepissco-popum! . . . a foolbishop a filthbishop, we have a new Arse and piss bishop!
It’s the same song as every year, but this year it feels different. This year there’s no Order at all. Over in the Choir they’re trying to carry out a proper service and Liturgy, but Lord knows if they’ll ever get to the end and bless the bread and wine. The real Bishop, Berthold von Dietz, hasn’t been seen for a year. And there’s no Pope. Gregorius died, and Pope Celestine was only on the Roman throne a few months before he croaked too. Now the Cardinals scrap and screech like fishwives and can’t agree on a new Holy Father. Rome is the capital of a Disorder hooking its arms with the reeling, drunken, Upside-Down World. The Pope is a Satyr, the Bishop an Orphan, the Cathedral is a whorehouse tavern, swarming with drunks and bawds.
Manfred climbs a pile of stones near the Nave scaffold, takes a swig from his wineskin, looks around. A hundred candles burn in the crown-shaped iron chandelier. The cornices and turrets that hold the candles are shaped as buildings, an image of the Holy City, Jerusalem. And beneath its holy lights, Pandemonium. Surges of people, swirls of movement. Dances break out and fall apart.
Manfred feels a power here, something raw, unformed. The People’s Power, lost in drunken chaos and unbridled abandon. How to harness it? How to target it, like a crossbow quarrel, at the Diadem, the Crown, the Mitre, so that they can all Take What’s Theirs? So that Manfred can rise to be like them, the Lords of the Sword and Cross and Pen?
Manfred looks over to where Grete is drinking with her Draper friends, all in their finery, surrounded by their seamstresses and apprentices. Over there the Drapers, over here the Cobblers, in the corner, the Silversmiths. The newly formed Guilds of Hagenburg, new colleges of strength, new unions, but each to his own. How to yoke them all together, to haul the drunken, dragging world to a new horizon?
Grete sees him perched on his throne of stones. She raises her bowl of wine to him. The Lord of Misrule shrieks. Habemus Arschepissco-popum!
Manfred sinks down, rests his legs a while, sits. Why not go into business with the Jews this time? The City’s Merchants, striking a blow at banditry. Solving our own problems, our own way. Let the Count go and fuck his dogs, if that’s all he cares about.
But one thing’s clear, Manfred must lead the Expedition. And as the main risk-taker, his capital downpayment should be lower. One fifth. Let the Jews raise the missing three tenths themselves.
It’s a risk worth taking. If he routs the bandits, who’s going to remember who paid for it all? They’ll remember the Hero who wielded the sword, not the Fools who paid the gold. And in business, Reputation is everything.
He’ll do it.
Manfred raises his wine skin and drinks to himself. Suddenly the Cathedral bell tolls, loud and low, bringing him to his feet. What’s this?
Uto has taken his bell from the Deacon. Standing in the pulpit, he begins to swing it, slow and loud. His face is a picture: sombre respect. His left hand rises slowly into the air, commanding silence. High above them all, the Cathedral bell tolls once more.
Something has happened.
Shouts and whispers snake through the crowds. Quiet! Stop! Listen! Uto lets his bell ring into the rising, hushing swell. It fades out, silver to the last. A pause.
“Our Lord and Master, Bishop Berthold von Dietz . . . ” Uto’s voice breaks with tears. Real emotion? An Act? “ . . . this morning, in his Castle in Haldenheim . . . ” The crowds are now silent. Uto’s voice resounds, a cracked bell. “ . . . has passed into Glory. God rest his soul.”
Gasps and some titters. A Fools’ Day joke?
“The Canons of the Great Chapter have been summoned. Many, such as Our Lord Treasurer von Zabern, are abroad, in Rome. The convocation may take some time.”
Manfred, shocked, excited, turns, his eyes raking the congregation . . . and finds Emmerich. Schäffer’s grey eyes had sought him out too. Their gaze locks, confirms. They understand. Everything has changed.
Uto continues. “The funeral will take place the day after tomorrow, here in the Cathedral. And now, in mourning and respect, we declare today’s celebrations over.”
A wave of sound breaks into the silence. Wails and laments, a crash of chatter. Gossipers, stoked by wine, turn to their neighbours and gasp, exclaim.
Manfred jumps down from the stones, struggles towards Emmerich in the throng. “Let’s wait this out, Gerber,” says Schäffer. “Why pay for a small expedition, when Bishop Eugenius can mount a proper raid?”
Manfred peers at Emmerich, doubtful.
“Gerber. The man told us himself. Everything is set to change.”
Manfred pulls away from Schäffer. He looks for Grete amongst the gossiping crowds, and smiles. On the Feast of Fools, the World is turned upside down. And as the world is topsy turvy already, it means, on the Feast of Fools, everything is turned the Right Way Up.
For once. Just for one day.
THE CROWNED SHADOW
(EUGENIUS VON ZABERN VI. ANNO 1243)
From my balcony near the Basilica of St. Peter, I can watch the gangs roaming the streets, searching each other out. A confrontation: the two gangs face each other, shout imprecations and insults, throw stones and horse dung and rubbish at each other. Then the bravest will run forward, flashing a blade. The briefest of skirmishes, a feint at an arm or leg, a flood of insults, howls like a pack of starving, stray dogs, and then they retreat their separate ways.
Over a year and no Pope. And amongst the Cardinals, the different factions struggling for Supremacy. Those who would excommunicate Friedrich, cry “heretic,” plunder the Papal coffers, pay to send an army to Imperial Lombardy and claim it for the Pope. And Those who believe in some form of balance between Emperor and Church, who owe something to Friedrich and the Staufen clan, whose home territories have Imperial loyalties. These two main camps, and every shade of colour in between, and not even one shadow of Compromise.
Over a year and no Pope. The disunity has spread from the Curia to the streets, each faction hiring agitators and protectors, men with clubs and blades. Rome is like a wedding dance, with the squabbling conclave of Cardinals as the unmoving centre, and all around it the drunken guests wheel, turn, crash and collide, spinning in violent and vertiginous circles.
It is two weeks after Epiphany and I have only just heard of His Grace’s death. A letter has arrived from Hieronymus in Arles, where I left him on route for just this purpose; a messenger-boy halfway between Hagenburg and the Holy City. I am needed urgently in Hagenburg. It is now time for our own Conclave, our own election.
But there is one last thing in Rome that I need to do.
The rain is falling again and the roaming of the gangs has momentarily ceased. The Sext bell has not yet struck, but it will be timely to use this lull and set out. I pull on my cloak. Outside in the courtyard, my men-at-arms are waiting for me, sheltering in an alcove, warming themselves with branntwein in the absence of a fire.
† † †
Sometimes it is better to act in darkness. Even when one cannot well see what one is doing, it is better that there are no witnesses. When the sun rises and light returns to the world, then will your deeds be judged.
In these days of Chaos, the sun’s sphere is hidden and the world has turned on its dark side. Mother Church has no Holy Father, the Infidel Hordes surround the walls of Jerusalem, and the fierce armies of the Mongols are at the gates of Christendom. All is in turmoil and flux.
Of the chaos in the conclave I had of course heard from our Curia contacts, and something of the disorder of the Roman streets had been related in their letters, in outraged tones. But it was the Merchants’ news that resolved me to come. The Jews and Merchants may know nothing of the Cardinals’ deliberations, but they know everything about their own idol, Gold.
They told me in urgent whispers: the Gold is moving. The Banks are quietly, secretly fleeing the insecurity of Rome and the Status Pontificius. They are moving their capital North-West, up the Via Cassia. To Florence. New families are emerging, new financial potentates, new opportunities. Rome, the City where I lost thousands, is in chaos. Rome, the City that undid me, is undone.
Time to return, to rewrite the books under the cover of chaos and darkness.
† † †
I kiss the Bishop’s warm and swollen hand, keep hold of it, a dead weight in mine. I kneel beside his dying body and whisper to him of my Roman plan.
A constant stream of tears wells from his rheumy eyes. He blinks without ceasing, struggles for breath. His body is nearing ruin, but his mind is clear, and his ears are listening.
“I want this chance, My Lord, to make amends for my earlier errors. I was led astray by Terzani, who promised so much and delivered so little. We should move our accounts from the House of Terzani to the Bardi of Florence. Our money will be safer there. And, whilst making this move, we will be able to restructure our financial relations in Rome.”
His Grace’s eyes narrow, move. He is indicating the small pile of kerchiefs that lie beside his pillow. I take one, and wipe his eyes for him. He breathes in deeply. “Restructure?”
I must confess, I am nervous. In times of Peace and Sunlight, I would never even think of what I am about to suggest. But in times of chaos and darkness . . . “Let us cut the prebends of Carducci and the Vittorini. Cut them for good.”
My Lord’s face is a picture; a perfect marriage of shock and grudging admiration. His swollen lips contort into a smile. If he could breathe better, I am sure he would laugh. “You fox!” he rasps.
“Their influence in Rome has been waning for some years now. A river of gold flows their way from Hagenburg, and coming back to Hagenburg from them? Nothing at all. Let us cut them free.”
His hand, two pounds of dropsied, swollen meat, squeezes mine. “And their benefices, Eugenius, their Canonries?”
“They are in your gift, Your Grace.”
“You must have someone in mind . . . .”
“I would not presume . . . ”
“Who?”
“Liebenheim, the Dean’s protégé. Our Chapter needs some young blood.”
“And you will get the Dean’s vote for this? And all of his faction in the Chapter?”
Why hide it? I nod. His Grace’s face forms into a strangled approximation of a smile. “Then let’s give the second benefice to von Kolzeck.”
“That old sycophant?”
“Not him. His younger son.”
“He’s not yet eight years old.”
“Maybe so. But then your election is certain, Eugenius. The waverers will come to you. Your complexion was too Staufisch, too Imperial, too Old Alsace. With a gift to Kolzeck and a young, rising noble family, you look open to compromise.”
The words come slowly, and at great effort. The Bishop’s breath falls harder, rasps. A coughing fit comes upon him. Immediately the two valets are at hand, running from their stools by the fire, rolling his bulk forward onto his stomach where the coughs come easier, saving him from suffocation. His hunting dogs, sensing his discomfort, rise and scatter round the room, moving in agitated circles.
It is a good, long time before His Grace can breathe again. The dogs settle at his feet, the valets return, silently, to their chairs. His watery eyes fix on mine. “Do it, Eugenius. Do it, and you will win. Go to Rome.”
His hand lets go of mine, moves slowly back to rest on the bed. “I fear I will not see you again, Eugenius.” He sinks onto his back. His eyes stare at the ceiling, where the fire’s flames send a dance of shadows. “I had a dream last Sunday. I saw you enthroned. With mitre and crosier. All shining gold.”
His eyes are bright with water, rivulets run down his cheeks. “The new Cathedral, Eugenius. Promise me you will keep the work going. Promise me.”
“I promise you, Your Grace.”
His eyes close.
† † †
We are not the only ones venturing out under the cover of the rain. Old Roman women with baskets waddle to the market, priests and monks hold tight to the shelter of the walls, their hoods pulled down low, hurrying from Church to Monastery.
Gathered in a group under the archway of a grand house, one of the
gangs, eating bread and soup, watching the passing traffic of the street. Their leader is the only one standing, tossing a knife into the air and catching it. Each time it spirals three times before landing safely in his palm. He doesn’t need to look whilst doing it; instead he eyes my troop as we pass, nods me a sarcastic greeting. Groosgott, bastardi.
It is a short walk to the place we have chosen for the meeting. A small hall built adjacent to the German Church, paid for by German merchants as a meeting place and storeroom. I am early, but already they are both there. Ludovico, agent of the House of Bardi. And Guido Terzani.
Terzani’s eyes are cold, but he puts on a show of a smile. Like a peacock opening its beautiful tail and screaming its eerie cry, the combination is unnerving. “Signor Tesoriere! I swear you are even taller than when last we met. Have you grown?”
“I doubt it, Signor Terzani.”
“In boldness, certainly. I am taken aback by your brazen courage. You are moving all your accounts to this gentleman’s bank?” His hand springs towards Ludovico, a gesture both elegant and rudely dismissive at the same time.
Ludovico bows to me. “Welcome, Signore von Zabern.”
But Terzani is in full flow, “And closing your, shall we say, alliances with Carducci and Vittorini? A bold move.”
“Their fortunes are declining.”
“And so are mine, I see. Why? We Terzani also have a bureau in Florence, if that is your concern. I understand. Rome is no longer safe.”
I have seen Terzani in my dreams for nine long years. And in my dreams I have strangled him, stabbed him, broken him upon the wheel, had him flogged in public on the steps of St. Peter’s, and enjoyed every minute of the spectacle. Now I hold out my hand. “The deal is done. Your signature is required, that is all.”
He shakes my hand with sarcastic warmth. “It has been a pleasure, Signor Tesoriere. Fortune’s wheel is turning, and I am falling with Carducci and Vittorini, and you are rising. You will be Bishop, I hear?”