by David Perry
Why?
I have heard rumors. People who for their own reasons, their own sins, wanted to block my son’s elevation to the priesthood. I do not listen to rumors, for nothing can bring back my dear son. But there are other rumors, Holy Father, about sins of the flesh or lusts of the mind that may have tormented my son. Is death a just sentence for one who has thought impure thoughts? If so, Holy Father, there will be no priests left in Rome, no cardinals in the Curia, and I dare say, an asterisk beside every pontiff on the throne of Peter. As Jesus said, “Let he who is without sin cast the first stone.”
Forgive me Holy Father, for I write as a woman torn by grief and plagued with doubt. In his youth, my husband, a brave carabinieri, was taken from me by criminals. Doing his job, he was gunned down by the mafia he had sworn to defeat. His son, born on the Feast of Andrea, never knew him. And now, that same son has been killed—yes, I say killed—by the fear and hypocrisy of people within the Church that he loved, the Church that he longed so to serve. His patron and guide, the great, loving, and tender Bishop of Orvieto, loved my son like a father, like the father he never had. He tended to him like Jesus the Good Shepherd tended to his sheep. I understand that this good man is now terrorized himself by the Holy See.
Holy Father, in you I place my trust, my final hope. You sit at the pinnacle of your Church, our bond between our Savior Jesus Christ and His people. But, look to those who bear you up, to those who kiss your ring and shine the pilasters of your altars. Beneath the Dome of St. Peter’s there is rust and decay and rot. Its smell has carried all the way to Orvieto. Its stench has circled the globe like a pestilence. Its latest victim is my son, but there have been more, unjustly accused to cover the odor of putrefaction coming from Rome. Please, dear Holy Father, prevent such a fate for others.
I am heartbroken and have no more tears. As that other beloved youth, David, pleaded to his Master in Psalm 130: “Out of the depths I cry to You, O Lord; Lord, hear my voice. Let your ears be attentive to my voice in supplication.”
Holy Father, be attentive to my supplication. Hear the impudent words of a poor widow and grieving mother. Forgive me my impertinence but look to the sins of your own Church. Here in Orvieto, home of the Eucharistic Sacrament made manifest by the Miracle of Bolsena, there is nothing but grief, and darkness and lies.
—Clarissa Bernardone
“Ahh!” Lee almost jumped out of his chair as Marco leaned over his shoulder, placing a glass of limoncillo in front of him. “You startled me.”
“No problem. I sorry. Prego!” Marco beamed, then looked down at the paper in Lee’s hands. His face went white and his voice became dark. “Dio mio! Per favore! Put that away! Presto, before mia nonna sees it. Ah, Nonna, there you are!”
Perplexed by Marco’s sudden transformation but nonetheless instinctively trusting it, Lee hurriedly folded up the paper and slipped it into his pocket. Turning around he came face-to-face with—“Nonna! Incontrare i miei amici Americani, Adriano e Lee.”—La Madrina.
Donna Volsini, pursed her lips and stared. “Ciao.”
CHAPTER XVI
Schism
Early March, 1528 (Julian Calendar), Orvieto
“Adivorce!” Clement screamed, loud enough for all Orvieto to hear. “After twenty-four years of marriage, King Henry VIII wants a divorce!”
“Not a divorce, Your Holiness, an annulment.”
The Pope howled.
The English knight looked down at the floor while his associate, a young priest from London, continued to bite his fingernails. A small pyramid of cuticles was fast accumulating at his feet.
“So, I have three choices, according to your arguments presented here,” Clement counted, pacing around his chamber. “One, I can declare that Henry’s marriage to Queen Catherine was never legal, and therefore the last quarter century of their relationship is null and void, thus making Henry a de facto bachelor and available to marry anyone he wishes. Oh yes, that leaves aside the issue of his daughter by Catherine, Princess Mary, who by this course would be made illegitimate. Messy, very messy. Two, I can declare that the marriage, while hitherto consummated, is now spiritually ‘dead,’ thus making King Henry a widower, Or three, I can—and I love this one—grant a petition for Henry to take Anne…Anne…what was her name?”
“Boleyn, Your Holiness.”
“Yes, I can grant a petition legalizing bigamy and allowing Henry to take this Anne Boleyn as his second wife!”
“Abraham, Jacob, King David, all had more than one wife,” the English ambassador offered.
“Solomon had seven hundred,” the young priest suggested cheerfully.
“You dare bring biblical witness to the Pope!” Clement thundered, bringing down his fist on the desk with such force that quill pens and ink wells went tumbling. “Who does Henry think he is? A Borgia? Leave me!”
The representatives from England beat a hasty retreat, almost tripping on themselves as they bolted, backward, from the papal presence. Before they could close the door themselves, Clement slammed it shut upon them.
“Ouch!”
Good, Clement thought, I hope I broke one of their noses.
Dear God, the man had more balls than the Medici coat of arms. If that didn’t take the cake for standing and leaping gall. An annulment, Henry VIII, Kind of England, Roman Catholicism’s “Defender of the Faith”—what a laugh that was”—wanted the Pope to say that his twenty-four-year union with Catherine of Aragon was in point of fact never really a marriage to start with.
Hadn’t Pope Julius given Henry a special dispensation to marry Catherine in the first place? That was something most specifically forbidden by Church law since Catherine was the widow of Henry’s older brother, Arthur. Brothers couldn’t marry their brothers’ wives. The sacredness of marriage was one of the pillars of the Church.
Clement sighed and slouched into his chair, jumping up as if burnt before settling down again somewhat more gingerly. Fixed. At least his throne had been repaired in the last few weeks since his retreat to Orvieto. His Church was in shambles, and the man he had looked to for financial salvation was now about to start a religious civil war. Even a pope couldn’t “unmarry” someone.
Clement sat, stewing, for a few minutes.
Who am I kidding, he thought. Popes could undo anything and had been doing so with alarming, profitable regularity. I’m a prime example. Dear cousin Gio was so hot to stack the deck in his favor that he made me a cardinal, even though I was the bastard son of his father’s brother. No worries. By papal dispensation, Leo X “declared” that I was “legitimate” and thus made me a cardinal. That was a pretty neat trick, and done in such haste that he didn’t even realize I wasn’t yet a priest. No matter, he promptly had me ordained—the first time in history it was done in reverse—first a cardinal, then a bishop, then a priest. Oh yes, papal dispensations were the cure for what ailed you.
Clement looked down at the floor where the parchment from King Henry’s messengers had rolled after his outburst. He stooped down stiffly and picked up the scroll. He scanned down the page. Ah yes, this was his favorite part:
Dearest Holy Father, as your most faithful Defender of the Faith, I humbly beg your forgiveness for the rashness of my youth. I see now the error and sin was mine in asking His Holiness, Pope Julius II, for a dispensation to wed Princess Catherine, a woman previously married to my brother, the sometime Prince of Wales, and would he still be alive, England’s rightful King. For in such case, I would be truly what I am meant to be, a servant to King, Country, and through your grace, Holy Father Clement, to God. I have sinned. For does it not say in Leviticus 20:21 “If a man takes his brother’s wife, it is impurity; he has uncovered his brother’s nakedness; they shall be childless.”
Fantastic, Clement thought. My God, Henry has a flare for the creative that Erasmus would envy. “Childless” he now claimed his marriage to Catherine to have been. No, not childless, sonless. And that was exactly the point. To keep England in Tudor hands, Henry nee
ded a legitimate male heir. There was the bastard, Henry FitzRoy, by one of Henry’s many mistresses, but of course, that didn’t count. Bastards couldn’t become king. But, of course, look at me, they can become Pope.
What a world in which we live, so obsessed with the sex of our rulers, all meanings intended. One day, a queen might just make as good a “king” as any man. Henry should think on that. Even the Vatican, if one believed the legend, had once been ruled by a woman pope who had passed herself off as a man. That had taken “balls” too. Clement moaned at the heretical badness of his own joke.
“Dear God.” Clement sighed and sat down heavily in his newly restored throne. I’ll never get the money now.
There was a knock at the door, six evenly space knocks to be precise, followed by three short ones in succession.
The Pope threw open the door.
“Dear boy, come in. You’re the first pleasant thing I’ve seen since Christmas.”
“Your Holiness.”
The Pope stopped the young Swiss Guard in mid-genuflection and pulled him to his chest in an affectionate and paternal hug. “My son. Welcome back. I was worried about you.”
“I have failed you, Holy Father.”
“No.” The Pope held Gio at arm’s length and fixed him with his gaze. “You have not failed me at all. The King of England has managed to throw a sabot into the gears of my plan, but because of you, I have learned of it sooner than I would have otherwise.”
“He is anxious to marry Queen Catherine’s young courtier, the Lady Anne Boleyn.”
Clement poured a glass of mulled wine for the guard and beckoned him to sit. “So, you know of His Majesty’s wishes?”
“Your Holiness, the Tudor court talks of nothing else.”
“Hmmm.” The Pope took a deep draught from his cup. He imagined it was the talk of every inn and roadside refugio between here and Calais. “We’ll see about that. Yea gods, suddenly King Henry has discovered scruples. As if any noble had to be married to have children by his mistress. We Medici—I—should know.”
The young guard laughed, and wine dribbled from his chin. “A thousand pardons, Holiness.”
Clement laughed too.
“Perhaps there is something to be gained from the English King’s ‘problem,’ Holy Father. It seems that you both want something that the other has.”
“A bribe, you mean,” Clement stated flatly.
The Swiss Guard shrugged.
“Yes, I had thought of that, King Henry gets his divorce and I get five hundred thousand ducats. Quid pro quo, as Caesar would have said.”
“It’s an idea.”
“No.” Clement stood up angrily. “No! The papacy and God have been for sale for too long.”
He remembered the already infamous words of his cousin, Pope Leo: “Since we have been given the papacy, let us now enjoy it.” Well, Leo had enjoyed it, to a fault, and left behind a legacy of culture and sexual exploits paid for with the sale of indulgences, a tawdry practice. In fairness, Pope Julius had come up with the idea first as a way to fund his constant wars to retain the Papal States, but no matter. It stops with me. “No. We will find another way.”
The two friends sat quietly for a bit.
“Holiness?”
“Yes, dear boy.”
“Are you acquainted with Hassan de Wazzan?”
“The Moor?” Clement put down his cup and leaned back. “The Andalusian who translates for Cardinal Endigo from Viterbo?”
“The very man, Holiness. He is from a rich and powerful family and has many well connected friends.”
Yes, Clement did remember de Wazzan. Cousin Gio had taken quite a shine to the handsome, ebony-skinned traveler and effected his “conversion,” as it were. To great splendor, de Wazzan had been baptized in St. Peter’s by Pope Leo himself and taken a baptismal name to honor his patron, Joannes Leo de Medici. He had been extremely kind and solicitous of Clement’s secret son, Alessandro, as well, two black faces amid the pallor of the Roman court. Clement had been touched by it.
“Leo Africanus, isn’t that what everyone calls him behind his back?”
“Yes, Your Holiness, but he prefers to be called by his birth name of Hassan.”
“I see. He has returned to the faith of his fathers, then?”
The young guard lowered his voice. “His is a proud and ancient name. I believe that his conversion was more a matter of convenience than an epiphany of the spirit.”
“You seem to know a great deal about this Moor.”
The guard smiled and started to speak, but shut his mouth. “I should not say, Holiness.”
“Speak, my son. Supposedly I hold the keys to heaven and to earth. I can keep a secret.”
Gio took a long sip from his cup. “I have met him through a friend. She is—”
“She?” Clement said with a naughty tone. “I see that we have been busy since your return from the English court.”
Gio blushed. “She is a pure and lovely girl, Holiness.”
“I’m sure she is, Gio. Go on. What is her name?”
“Sofia, Holiness. She introduced me to the Moor.”
“He is here in Orvieto?”
“Yes, Holiness. He managed to escape Rome soon after the Sack.”
“With whom are they staying?” A Muslim—or one who looked liked one—no matter how nobly born, would not have entered Orvieto without help, or some high-placed connection. Even Alessandro was safely away for the moment. His heart ached with the memory of his son.
“Moses de Blanis.”
“The Jewish banker?” Clement asked.
“Yes, Holiness. Sofia is the daughter of de Blanis. She runs his household. The mother is long dead.”
Clement emptied his cup and rose deliberately from his seat. He walked over to Gio, bent down, and kissed him on the forehead, followed by a gentle stroke to his hair.
“Well done, my Knight of the Golden Spur. Yours is a fearless curiosity. We will meet with de Blanis and de Wazzan, and with your Sofia if you like.” Clement looked around his gloomy apartments. Not quite up to the standards for a party set by the Medici. “Perhaps, they will invite us to dine with them one evening.”
“Holiness! That would be impossible! A pope cannot enter the home of a Jew!”
“Or a Moor?” Clement smiled. “My uncle, Lorenzo the Magnificent, entertained Cathars, whores, saints, sodomites, and pagans at his table and because of it, Florence is endowed with artistic greatness. When next you see your Sofia, tell her that His Holiness—no, tell her that Giulio de Medici would be honored by an invitation. We will accept.”
“As you wish, Holy Father.”
Yes, Clement thought, pouring them both another drink. I know a thing or two about the diversity of God’s creation. Judaism, Islam, Christianity, a Holy Trinity of faiths, and all from the font of Genesis. The Magi had knelt before our Lord Jesus Christ with humility, and he was a Jew. This pope, this Medici, would not be too proud to do the same.
CHAPTER XVII
Nonna
Wednesday, December 4, 2013, early afternoon, Orvieto
“La Donna Volsini is your grandmother?” Adriano asked, giving his husband a sideways glance. I wonder if Lee was right and we’ve dropped into a friendly clan of culinary mafia.
“Si, si, naturalmente.” Marco’s hand shook as he lit a cigarette. The match sputtered and went out. Adriano obliged with a lighter, knowing that Lee would later ask where he’d been hiding that. “I need drinks—no, not Volsini, let’s go to Clement’s Bar.”
Marco puffed nervously as they made their way under the arches of Via del Moro and into the least touristy of Orvieto’s public squares, Piazza del Popolo.
“Clement’s is over there. It’s running by friends of mine.”
Even though it was chilly, the trio sat down at a table outside next to an ancient fountain, now dry, so that Marco could finish his smoke. A weather-wracked coat of arms graced the lips of the denuded stone pool, now a perch for Orvieto’s after-s
chool teens.
“Tre whiskey, per favore,” Marco called out to the waiter, endowed with the trendy hipster haircut that was this year’s fashion rage among European youth. As the door opened, Madonna’s “Like a Virgin” blared on the wide-screen TV above the bar. A scroll on the screen denoted “Italian MTV” and today’s feature, “Retrospectivo ’80s.” Michael Jackson’s “Thriller” was promised next. Marco offered them cigarettes. Out of politeness, and to keep Marco talking, Adriano accepted; Lee too, but not as readily. I’ll pay for this later, Adriano thought, ignoring Lee’s scowl. It’s Europe, not California. They smoked silently until the drinks came.
“Grazie.” Marco downed the drink in a gulp and motioned for another round. Adriano and Lee followed his lead.
“Marco, I’m so sorry,” said Adriano, remembering Andrea’s private memorial on the shelf at Café Volsini. “I had no idea that we’d see La Donna Volsini at your restaurant, or that she was your grandmother. I’d never have taken the article to your restaurant if I’d known.”
“Don’t worry.” Marco waved his hand at them. “No problem. It just that when I saw the paper it bring back many sad memories. I no want mia nonna to see it. She had, how do you say, a soft part in her heart for him.”
“And you?” Lee asked. Adriano knew that Lee was angling for an answer to the question of whose team Marco played on. His foot tapped Lee’s beneath the table. Too late, the question had been asked.
“I loved him,” Marco said quietly. “Andrea was like a brother to me. I miss him very much. Molto.”
They sat quietly for a few moments. Adriano kept his foot poised over his husband’s shoe.
The fresh drinks arrived, accompanied by small bite-sized crostinis and tiny plates of pasta. The waiter returned inside and Marco lowered his voice. “Poor Andrea, everyone loved him. My nonna, my great mother, has never been the same.”
“Since she found his body,” Adriano stated simply.
“Si.” Marco took a deep drag. “It happened on his birthday. That’s why his mother named him Andrea. He was born on the Feast of Sant’Andrea, November thirtieth. We were going to have a surprise lunch for him at the restaurant. A sort of buon compleanno, how do you say—happy birthday and congratulations on becoming a priest celebration the next day. Mia nonna had make a special cake. Andrea’s mother, she was a-coming and also the lady priest from the English church and the bishop.”