Secrets of Casanova

by Michaels, Greg

  Quentin led the group into the abode, set down his lantern amid a circle of primitive chairs, and invited Jacques and Petrine to partake in some rappee. Petrine accepted.

  Jacques knew the tobacco was far too pungent for his taste, but he also knew it was judicious for him to accept the man’s offer. He wrapped a blanket around Dominique’s shoulders, helped her into a chair, and sat down between her and Petrine. Quentin offered an ember he brought from the cook fire and lit the men’s pipes.

  Jacques needed information about the intaglio rubbing. He’d take Quentin into town for the main meal tomorrow. Food and drink. Men spoke freely with the joy of Bacchus in their belly.

  “Well,” Quentin began, “one great advantage with having a scant roof—I’m able to see the emerging stars in the firmament on an evening such as this.”

  “Signor Gray,” Dominique said, shuffling her feet, “why were you doing a gravestone rubbing on the wall of the basilica?”

  Jacques choked on his pipe.

  “Rubbing? On the Basilica de Santa Maria’s wall?” said Quentin, his voice rattling higher. “Hmm. Well, the patera—the pattern of the circles—intrigued me. I wished to copy it, bring it home, and admire its beautiful simplicity. Let it saturate my thinking.”

  “Ah,” Jacques feigned, overstating his earnestness by blowing a smoke ring— which a gust of wind promptly dispersed.

  Quentin Gray carefully reached into the rock cranny beside him. “Shall we enjoy the rubbing this evening?” He smiled at the adventurers before he carefully unrolled the sheet and held it to the light. “Familiar?” he asked nonchalantly.

  Simultaneously, Jacques and Dominique gave opposite answers. Their eyes met at once.

  Petrine began to chuckle. Which drew Dominique into outright laughter.

  “To be forthright, sir,” Dominique said after eyeing Jacques squarely, “the three of us saw that exact intaglio carved in stone in Jerusalem at the Stables of Solomon.”

  Jacques kneaded his pipe vigorously while observing Quentin Gray’s face.

  Quentin Gray took his time relighting Jacques’ pipe. “Stables of Solomon? Hmm,” he said. “What can that mean?”

  Jacques spoke up. “Most frankly, we hoped you could tell us what an intaglio is doing here.”

  “Most frankly, Monsieur Casanova, I don’t know. And I’ve sought an answer for some time.”

  Dominique let out an audible gasp. Jacques, too, stirred with excitement.

  Quentin Gray continued. “Yes, I, too, desire to know the significance of a carved intaglio on the wall of a church.” From his position in the chair, he pulled his legs to his body and wrapped his arms about them. He glanced over both shoulders, then spoke quietly. “Well, I suspect the Lord wishes me to show gratitude: you all did save my mortal life. So … mesdame et messieurs, what you witnessed today—it was not the first time I’ve been attacked by Catholic assassins.”

  “What?” Dominique cried.

  Quentin explained that for a score of years, he had been a member of the Society of Jesus, the Jesuits.

  “And there were attacks on your life?” barked Petrine. “For what reason?”

  “Are you as impatient as I, sir?” laughed Quentin. “Believe me, we work toward the point,” he said as he reached behind him, lifted the lantern, and placed it near his feet. “Holding high office in the Jesuit order—an immensely powerful organization—meant I was privy to many sensitive matters. Yet it was almost pure chance two of my Jesuit brothers and I uncovered what may prove to be the most nefarious subterfuge in the Church of Rome’s seventeen-hundred-year history.” Quentin’s face grew intense. “Several years ago, my brethren and I divested ourselves from the Jesuit Society to discover the truth of the matter for ourselves. And because we left the order, some allege we work against the Church. Perhaps that’s why my Jesuit brothers were murdered and I myself put on the assassination list.”

  Jacques sensed Dominique’s coming grimace. She believes the Church to be unsoiled in the ways of the world. He squeezed her hand gently.

  Petrine spoke up. “If you don’t work for the Church,” he said, genuflecting, “then you work for Lucifer?”

  “No, Petrine. I serve God. And the truth. I was placed on earth to that purpose. There is—”

  Petrine looked directly at his master. “Perhaps I work for Lucifer.” He grinned slyly.

  Jacques glared.

  Quentin began again. “Aside from the basilica’s wall, I too have seen the patera—what you call the intaglio—somewhere else.” He reached deep into his garment and pulled out a fine parchment scroll. He hesitated, then extended the scroll toward the lantern. “Here. A group of warrior-monks, religious men, called the Knights Templar produced this.”

  Jacques leaned forward; he could hardly believe his eyes. The visible outside corner of the scroll was inscribed with the miniature circles, the -^—^- figure, and 1300. He squelched the surprise in his voice. “Ahh,” he said as he pulled Quentin’s hand and the scroll closer to the lantern. “That strange design on the scroll looks like a sign for the Egyptian adept Ormus.”

  “Or perhaps the astrological symbol for Virgo.” Quentin Gray drew the scroll back. “I tend to believe this figure—the two-humped camel as I christened it—is possibly some stylized letter of a long-dead alphabet.” Quentin ran his hand across his stubbly beard. “The Pope did not officially dissolve the Templars until 1312 Anno Domini. This map must have been created by them anytime before then, or more to the point, before 1307—”

  “Could the 1300 on the scroll indicate the date, the year it was created?”

  “Possibly.”

  “Could this all be a hoax?” interjected Dominique.

  Jacques held his tongue in anticipation of Quentin’s answer.

  “No. As I was about to say, my brother Jesuits had proof positive that several scrolls were made by the Templars before their persecution in 1307 by Philippe le Bel. Men do not craft hoaxes when they are about to die.”

  “Truly, sir, truly.”

  “Philippe the Fair?” Petrine asked, scratching his front teeth with his thumbnail and smiling impiously.

  “1307,” Jacques said, raking his hand across his stubbly beard.

  Jacques locked eyes with Dominique, then gave a look to Petrine before digging deeply into his clothing, where he found his own scroll. He handed it to Quentin Gray.

  Glancing at the symbols on the outside of the scroll, Quentin rushed his palm to his gaping mouth. “Alike. Indistinguishable,” he muttered when he held it closer to the light. “This is the third I’ve seen. The second I knew of disappeared with the murder of my colleagues. It was for their scroll, I’m sure, that they were murdered. If your scroll contains text—does it have text inside it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then it may be authentic. What do you make of the miniature concentric circles?”

  Jacques offered a smug smile to Dominique. “If we examine the scroll more shrewdly, we see the miniature circles are not actually concentric. They are drawn so small that they appear to be concentric. In reality, they match what the Templars—most probably the Templars—carved into the columns of the Stables of Solomon and on your Basilica de Santa Maria. Such circles indicate Plato’s Theorem. I believe these Templar intaglios imply mathematics as part and parcel of this riddle, although I don’t know how Plato’s Theorem may come into play. Specifically, I mean.”

  “The theorem, that was the conclusion I came too also,” Quentin said. “Well done!”

  Petrine turned to Dominique. “I told you my master was a virtuoso.”

  “Yes, you did,” Dominique smiled.

  Jacques unrolled his scroll and pointed to the letters in the vertical column. “S-O-N-B-O-I-S-I-L-A. An anagram for ‘Lisbon’. That is partially what directed us here to this city.”

  Quentin nodded.

  Shortly, he and Jacques compared the verses of their scrolls. Identical. Quentin read the first two lines aloud, then shook his head. “Obs
curum per obscurius.”

  “Explaining the obscure by the means of the more obscure,” translated Jacques.

  Quentin continued, his legs still wrapped comfortably to his chest. “In truth, there are additional carved intaglios I can show you. And where—I’m thinking—maybe there’s some physical association I’ve missed.”

  “But do we know for certain that the Templars from Jerusalem brought a treasure?”

  “I fully believe the Templars had the capability.”

  “The most important question,” Jacques exclaimed. “Do we know what the Templars brought? What is the treasure?”

  “A secret which, if kept, will preserve the Church’s status in quo.”

  Dominique shook her head in confusion.

  Jacques asked, “Could the treasure, the secret, have to do with the philosopher’s stone?”

  “Ha, ho, ho, ho.” Quentin’s gray hair shook with his laughter. “If you believe my Jesuit brothers and I risked our lives to search ninety convents, numerous libraries, countless cemeteries, two universities, a dozen provincial churches, nearly forty parish churches—most of which were Jewish synagogues until their Christian ‘reconversion’ in 1497—to unearth a temporal treasure, even for the fabled lapis philosophorum—ho, ho, ho—it seems that, above all else, you treasure the material. While the treasure I seek is monumental. Would I pit myself against the whole of the Church of Rome for anything less?”

  - 31 -

  DOMINIQUE WEPT. “When I stabbed his foot, drew first blood, I thought he would quit the fight,” Dominique confided. “I’d neither desire nor will to kill the Turk. The Lord sustained me.”

  Jacques, lying on his propped elbow next to Dominique, felt his stomach tense while he wiped her tears. “I understand, Fragoletta. Tell me more, if you will." He stroked Dominique’s hand in hopes of quelling the pangs of her heart and the pain of her leg wound.

  “Francesco taught me how to disable an opponent. During a duel, I saw him stick his sword point through a soldier’s foot. The soldier quit the fight straight away.”

  “I’d no idea Francesco—”

  “There’s much you didn’t know about him. I’ve told you that, Jacques. As for me—I often defeated Francesco when we bouted. Which, in turn, means I fence better than you, at least from what I’ve seen.”

  “You have not seen me at my finest. In fact—”

  Dominique lifted a bit of Jacques’ hair from his face. “I was a skillful dancer, don’t forget. Early on, Francesco convinced me I could easily learn the footwork and arm work of swordplay.”

  “Footwork and arm work are one thing. But from where did your courage—”

  “Frightened out of my skin, Jacques. But making the hard choice, I figured I’d have a better chance against the Turk than you. He would discount me, a woman, as a fighter. Which would be a benefit. Also, I knew the weapon the Turk was most likely familiar with was the scimitar. And the scimitar is mostly a cutting weapon. He would be used to cutting.” Faint moonlight illuminated Dominique’s arm as she slashed the night sky. “Francesco impressed upon me that a slash with a sword is slower to arrive to a target than a thrust with a sword point. I would have an advantage with the thrust, the stoccata, of my smallsword.”

  “Your unique intelligence, your exceptional daring, impresses me more than you know, Fragoletta.”

  Dominique’s voice lowered. “I’d no choice but to risk everything. I did what I did—for us.”

  Jacques found himself blinking rapidly. His breathing halted.

  “The stars seem distant tonight,” whispered Dominique finally. “I didn’t want you to duel the Turk, Jacques. You’re not a fighter. You’re a lover.”

  “You know what you name me, don’t you? In the classics, the seducer is always pictured as a jester.”

  “Does that thought bother you?”

  “Demeaning laughter brings me to my knees.” Jacques adjusted his forearm on the straw mattress. “Perhaps I’ve trifled away my precious time on earth chasing the rustle of soft silk. Perhaps I’m a jester,” he said. “Tonight, I’m regretful. Since I was a young man, I’ve chosen to live, really live. But I’ve not stopped to discover if vice or virtue has lead me onward. And sometimes, late at night, a distress gnaws at me.”

  “Don’t you know you’re known throughout Europe as one of its great gamesters, as the only man to escape I Piombi, as a lover of repute, as—”

  “Yes, I’ve been famously sweet with women.” Jacques could hear anguish in his voice, and he knew it would compel Dominique to answer.

  “I sometimes feel your need to accomplish great things. I feel your urges.” She pressed her hand against his cheek. “What drives you is the agitation, the turmoil lurking in your heart, Jacques. You may not realize it’s there, but I know it to be so. That’s a woman’s way.”

  Jacques turned on his back. “I congratulate you on your womanly talent.”

  Dominique was momentarily dumbfounded. She spoke softly. “Your detachment doesn’t trouble me, Jacques. I was married to your brother. A phlegmatic temperament was my daily diet.”

  She boosted herself up on her side as the bracing wind raked branches against the stone wall behind her. “I want to ask—in Lisbon you said you wanted us to dream together. Do you carry a special dream in your heart?”

  Keenly aware of his pounding temples, Jacques closed his eyes. “I do.”

  A long pause followed.

  Dominique smiled and slapped playfully at Jacques’ shoulder. “Would you care to reveal that dream?”

  “Oh,” Jacques smirked, “would I care to reveal it?”

  Dominique nodded.

  “My dream is to return to Venice,” he said, opening his eyes.

  “An admirable goal,” said Dominique too readily. “I also long to visit Venice. After all, isn’t it the home of the Casanova brothers?”

  Jacques did not answer but saw the strain in Dominique’s smile.

  “Have you thought that the city may not be the same one you remember from your boyhood?”

  “Venice is ageless. She will always enthuse.”

  “Perhaps. And perhaps she’s only a Venice of memory.”

  “Memory? My closest friends, our pranks, my boyhood, the beginning of manhood, the home where I dreamed my first dreams. And Venice herself. A city, a republic. Truly like no other. Long live La Serenissima, Venice.”

  Dominique’s short sigh transformed into a cloudy mist, then dissolved. “I may be able to walk with a cane or crutch tomorrow, though my leg throbs mightily just now. Hold me, if you will.”

  “A moment, please. Give me a moment.”

  The moment stretched into minutes until Jacques, still not having honored Dominique’s appeal, could just make out in her soft whispers—a prayer for their safety and salvation.

  Soon afterward, he fell asleep.

  ***

  Quentin Gray rose early and prepared coffee, which he gave to each of his guests before training his eyes on the dawning sun. “Phoebus in his triumphal chariot brings us another day.”

  Jacques paced to the small fire to warm his hands. “Phoebus is a pagan god, not suited for a Christian tongue like yours.”

  “Filtered through the alembic of so many brilliant Hellenic minds, somehow I cannot find the Greek gods pagan.”

  Quentin maintained his matter-of-factness: Lisbon’s cathedrals would be packed with churchgoers, today being All Saints’ Day, when the church remembered the descent of the Holy Ghost to the apostles. This, then, would be the ideal morning to explore the deserted citadel on a promontory above Lisbon—to view the intaglios.

  Although Dominique was in pain and felt that her wound would slow the expedition, Jacques insisted that, with the aid of the crutch that Quentin had fashioned, she would be fine to make the journey. Petrine would be there, if there was a need.

  Dominique’s resistance to traveling fell on deaf ears. Contrary to the previous night’s sentiment, Jacques’ gruff manner began to sting.
>
  When the sun edged above the horizon, Quentin—packed and eager to go—gathered the adventurers and led them from the Conde de Tarouca’s palace. After a long walk and a demanding climb, during which the mournful religious chants of the saetas sounded from below, the four arrived nearly atop the plateau.

  “We’re not so high up as one would think, but this jutting terrain affords a remarkable vista, almost the whole of Lisbon,” Quentin said, glancing at Jacques.

  He pointed out the River Tagus that led into the dazzling Oeiras Bay, then the opera house, the magnificent library, and the dozens of church spires and towers. “You all may recognize the pink marble of the Royal Palace this fair November morning.”

  Jacques felt like a gull that, encircling the panorama, spied upon the great houses of the wealthy, the offices of the government, the merchants’ shops. He watched human figures sally across the Cais de Pedra, where Piccinio Rais had landed them, and soon his mind conjured up the sailors who transported Templar Crusaders—and their treasure—to a new home, hopefully Lisbon.

  Jacques turned and looked at the substantial edifice just above, one that abutted into the steep hill behind it.

  “The old citadel’s in decay,” Quentin said, “but, believe me, the tower itself has withstood time and will outlast me. The intaglios we seek are at the top.” When he began to climb the rough stairs upward, the trio followed.

  Greeted at the base of the tower by the peal of church bells rising from the city, Quentin came to a stop in the stone yard and nestled himself against the rough parapet wall.

  “And arising from fine Lisbon,” he said, “do you hear the music of Gaudeamus omnes in Deo?”

  “The introit,” Dominique said. “Yes, I do.”

  No sooner had the words left Dominique’s lips than a yawning rumble filled the air.

  “Haaah!” exclaimed Dominique and Petrine.

  Jacques looked below. Lisbon’s tall buildings began to sway like saplings in a wind.