by David Perry
With furtive and confused looks, they crossed themselves, kissed the Pope’s ring a final time, and backed out of the room.
When he heard the inner door close, Moses spoke. “Your knowledge of Hebrew blessings is impressive. However, I rarely hear them offered in the language of Rome.”
“My uncle, Lorenzo de Medici, was a great believer in the study of all cultures and languages.”
“A wise man,” offered Cardinal Egidio, accepting a dish of roast pheasant from de Blanis’s daughter. He served himself and passed it on to Clement, immediately to his right, seated at the head of the table. To Clement’s right, opposite Egidio, sat Hassan, attired as richly as any sultan. Next to the Moor and opposite Sofia sat Gio the Swiss Guard. Moses de Blanis sat opposite Clement at the table’s other end, flanked by the Switzer and his daughter, both of whom seemed oblivious to everyone at the table except each other. “Lorenzo the Magnificent was a student of philosophy. He agreed with the words of Epictetus: ‘All religions must be tolerate…for every man must get to heaven in his own way.’”
“Yes,” said Clement, wryly passing a salver of roast boar to Hassan. “And as the noble and much abused Seneca the Younger stated, ‘Religion is regarded by the common people as true, by the wise as false, and by the rulers as useful.’ Unfortunately, his student Nero didn’t ascribe to such humanist ideals.”
“Wasn’t it Seneca who tried to assassinate Nero.” Gio spoke up. “He committed suicide after, yes?”
“That was Nero’s version of the tale,” Wazzan replied, accepting the roast pork from the Pope. “But, of course, the rulers of imperial Rome brooked little dissent.”
“And, as has always been the case, history is written by the victors,” said Egidio. “The vanquished are usually painted as fools, heretics, or whores—excuse me, dear girl.” He bowed to Sofia at his elbow.
“No offense taken, my Lord Cardinal,” de Blanis’s daughter said demurely, but without shock. “As the great Eastern teacher called Buddha has said, ‘The sharpest sword is a word spoken in wrath.’ I find no wrath in your words, Your Eminence, only passion, which is easily forgiven.”
The Cardinal gently patted his dinner partner’s hand while everyone at the table chuckled genially.
“How true, my dear Egidio,” said Clement, looking to his young guardian, seated across from Sofia. His eyes were transfixed by her every movement and tone. My God, she is lovely. How I envy them both. “Unfortunately, now we have no victors in Italy, only the vanquished and constant war. I shudder to think who will write of these times, and we seated here.”
“Don’t worry, Your Holiness,” said Egidio, filling Clement’s cup. “To once again quote the wise Epictetus, ‘If anyone tells you that a certain person speaks ill of you, do not make excuses about what is said of you but answer, “He was ignorant of my other faults, else he would not have mentioned these alone.”’”
“Cold comfort that, my friend,” said Clement, then giving into silent thought. My faults are legion, and only exceeded by my debts. A pontificate disgraced, Rome devastated, a Church in revolt, and a Catholic king trying to divorce the Holy Roman Emperor’s aunt. “I am sure volumes of prose will be dedicated to my faults, real or imagined, by my successors, or conquerors.”
“Your Holiness,” said Sofia quietly. “Yours is not a life of mere prose for historians. It is a life and a legacy more attuned to that of a poem. Was it not Plato who said that poetry is nearer to vital truth than history?”
“Too kind, dear child. And, if I may say so, you are unusually well educated for a female,” said the Pope, with one eye toward her father. “You have a pearl of great worth in so beautiful and talented a daughter, friend Moses.”
“You honor my family, noble Medici. The gratitude, however, should go to your own Prince of Viterbo, Cardinal Egidio. From him has my library grown, and the world view of my daughter, and myself. Your Church is greatly blessed to have such a visionary scholar within its midst.”
“I couldn’t agree more,” said Clement, who was feeling suddenly transported back to the Florence of his youth, the palace of the Medici, when conversations such as this, and freedom of thought, flowed like wine at the table, unsullied by prejudice, prayers, or predilection. “Egidio is that most unique of men, of religion, a Roman; of scholarship, a Moor; of wisdom, seemingly from Solomon’s court. He has been a wise and patient teacher to both me and our revered cousin, Pope Leo. Most importantly, he has been our friend.”
“My dearest Prince,” Egidio said taking Clement’s hand in his, “you humble me with your words.”
“Indeed.” Wazzan jumped in. “It was your sainted cousin, Pope Leo, who brought me into the Christian faith, but Egidio who taught me its most valued lesson.”
“Which is?” Moses queried as he poured more wine for his daughter and young Gio.
“God is everywhere,” Wazzan said, motioning for everyone to raise their goblets. “Sometimes, he can even be found in church.”
At this, the merriment reached its greatest height, with Clement laughing so hard tears ran down his face. “God forgive you. You are a blasphemous and beloved heretic. I see that none of us here are trammeled by convention or dogma,” said the Pope, pointing his fork at the already half-consumed platter of pork in the middle of the table. Although, Moses and his daughter had eaten none, the Muslim-born Wazzan had partaken liberally.
“Born to Muhammed I was, but in the land of Andalus. There among the Iberians, the meat of the sow is, unto itself, a kind of religion. So, you see, my conversion was fed at table. I live like the birds, flitting from one country to another, trying everything and trying to harm no one. When I hear Africa derided, I say that I am of Granada. When people speak ill of Granada, then Africa is my home.”
“So, you adhere to the maxim of St. Ambrose,” prompted Cardinal Egidio. “When in Rome, do as the Romans do.”
“Well, then,” ventured Gio, grateful for a chance to offer some youthful wit, “I am proud to be a Roman, for I have always believed that one of humanity’s greatest moments was the first time a caveman threw a pig upon the fire.”
At this everyone laughed and toasted the young guard. Sofia glowed in reply.
“As it also says in the book of Kohelet, or as you gentiles call it, Ecclesiastes,” their host said and smiled. “‘Every man who eats and drinks and enjoys what is good in all his toil, it is a gift of God.’ Your presence, noble son of the Medici and highest prince of your faith, is indeed, a gift from God this night. In your honor, we have served foods to your liking. Since you grace us on the highest of my religion’s holy days, I have prepared the finest food in the manner of your court. I hope you are enjoying it.”
“My dear friend, Lord Moses de Blanis,” said Clement, wiping away the remaining tears of his mirth but finding new ones fueled by the evening’s conviviality and wine, “I am, indeed, enjoying it all. Very, very much.”
The dinner continued late into the night, flowing from dialogues inclusive of all six, sometimes separating into pairs or triads, but always retreating and progressing naturally, organically, like the tides. Shells of laughter, and occasionally bawdiness, were strewn across the sands of the crumb- and wine-stained table. Finally, driven in by an encroaching fog and the gasping torches, the party retired inside, Sofia to the kitchen to clean up in the servants’ absence, Gio at her side. Cardinal Egidio and Wazzan employed themselves, as usual, poring over the rare and leather-bound tomes of the de Blanis library. Clement followed Moses on a tour of the residence, impressed by its size and opulence, in stark contrast to the “Papal Palace.” Papal Palace indeed, Clement thought. In words only. There was nothing palatial about it, although like everything, that could be remedied with money. What a loathsome whore I’ve become. Worse than a whore, who after all performs a useful, and hopefully mutually appreciated, service. I have less than nothing to offer my host as collateral for my begging.
“Please, make yourself comfortable,” Moses said, leading them through
an intricately carved archway at the end of a long, tapestry-hung wall. It was the banker’s private study.
“My uncle Lorenzo would have been quite comfortable in your home,” said Clement, as Moses gestured for him to sit in a well-upholstered chair by a roaring hearth. Hovering in the glow of a dozen candles, antique sculptures of Etruscan, Greek, and even Oriental heritage crowned the shelves. “I salute your good fortune.”
“I take that as a great compliment, coming from not only the Pope, but more importantly from a Medici.”
Clement just nodded. They sat for a few moments in silence. Finally, Clement opened his mouth to speak, but he was interrupted before he could start.
“The year 1492,” said Moses, looking away from Clement, his face half in shadow, half orange from the cracking fire. “You remember that year?”
“Yes,” Clement said evenly. “Until last year, I thought it was the worst year in history. My uncle died that year, Lorenzo the Magnificent.”
“You never knew your father, did you?”
“No.” Clement sighed, realizing the significance of this year, this coming Easter in just a few weeks. “He was assassinated in the church on Easter Sunday, 1478. Fifty years ago this month. The Pazzi family killed him. I was born a few months after his death, and then my mother died soon thereafter. I was an orphan practically at birth.”
“The Pazzi almost killed the great Lorenzo as well.”
“Yes,” said Clement, staring fixedly at the fire. “But he lived, and took me into his home. Lorenzo raised me as his own son. Giovanni, Lorenzo’s son, Pope Leo, was my cousin, but really my brother. Michelangelo came soon thereafter, sent by his father to study under the Medici. It was a lively household.”
“I can imagine,” said Moses, stoking the fire with his boot. “A glorious time for Florence, and your family as well. That all ended when Lorenzo died in 1492, for a while, at least. Do you know what else happened that year?”
Clement coughed and turned uncomfortably in his seat. I know where this is going. “Yes, the wretched Spanish discovered their so-called ‘New World.’ Now, they pretend to be the masters of the old one. Their King, Charles, has driven me from Rome, and once again caused the Medici and my family to be expelled from Florence.”
“As was my family expelled from Spain in 1492 when your uncle died. As was the family of my friend, Hassan de Wazzan, forced to flee as well.” Moses kicked the fire again. “Ferdinand and Isabella gave the continent a united Spain, but they didn’t want Jews or Muslims to share in it.”
“And Girolamo Savonarola drove the Jews from Florence, along with my family, as soon as Lorenzo was entombed.”
Moses turned to smile at his guest, the Pope. “We have a lot in common, this Jew and this pope, do we not? Both of us are refugees.”
Clement laughed. “It would seem so.”
They sat again for a while in silence. Finally, Moses spoke, not looking at his companion. “The Medici have always been fair to we Jews. When your family was in power in Florence, my people were safe. Our businesses thrived. My family had no fear. When we needed help, your family was there. In Rome, when your cousin, Leo, was pope, we were protected. Oh yes, of course, many despised us—despise us still—but your family respected our faith, even though the Church considers us damned, and killers of Christ.”
“My church says many things,” Clement said quietly but with force. “I am supposedly its head, but my personal beliefs are nothing against the weight of Vatican history and prejudice. I have always been respectful towards and protective of Israel’s tribe.”
“Yes, yes, please—I am sorry. I didn’t mean to imply anything else. Quite the opposite.” Moses reached over and laid his hand on Clement’s knee. “I know why you are here.”
Clement sat rigidly, saying nothing. The moment was arriving.
“The Medici bank was the greatest of its age. It partnered with Jewish banks, it partnered with my family. My family has grown rich—I have grown rich. Thirty-five years ago, Spain was torturing my ancestors if they did not convert or flee. Thirty-five years ago, Savonarola was glorying in the death of Lorenzo de Medici, holding his perverse bonfires of the vanities, and driving the Jews from Florence. And, now, here we both sit in Orvieto.”
“In Orvieto.”
“A Jew bound for hell according to the frescoes on the walls of the cathedral we can see here from my window, and a pope driven from Rome and his son driven from Florence.”
“Alessandro,” Clement whispered the name.
Silence again descended upon the pair.
“And so, Your Holiness, Clement VII and Lord Giulio de Medici, I am here if you need.”
Clement looked up from his reverie directly into the eyes of Moses de Blanis. “It has been said, dear Moses, that there are only two prayers.”
“What are those, my friend?”
“Please and Thank You.”
“Indeed,” said Moses, slapping the Pope’s knee. “Well, we have uttered both tonight. Let us talk no more of this. We need no more words than that. Consider yourself taken care of, as the Medici took care of me and my family oh so many years ago.”
“Thank you,” said the Pope, and the two men turned back to the fire. Behind them, through the balcony doors, the Cathedral of Orvieto glowed in the moonlight.
Later that night, back in his dismal “palace,” Clement crawled into his creaking bed and wondered what future ages would make of such a gathering as tonight. A fallen pope, a Jew, a woman, an infidel, and a scholar gathered together in one room, when in other rooms such groups would be apostasy. If I get out of this, he thought, just before dropping off, I’m going to put Moses’s money, his loan, to good use. I’ll find a way to repay him. To repay all of these people who have taken me in, a refugee. Maybe that was the lesson of Orvieto, and he slept and dreamed of a future Orvieto. In the morning, he did not remember his dreams.
CHAPTER XXII
Strangers on a Train
Thursday, December 5, 2013, early morning, Orvieto, Scalo
The train to Rome was late.
“What are they saying?” Lee’s words came out, illustrated in foggy, icy puffs. I really should work on my Italian.
Adriano tilted his head and listened to the announcement over the public address system in Orvieto’s tiny train station. “Thirty minutes delay.”
“Do you think it will stick to that?”
Adriano shrugged. “Depende.”
“Let’s go inside for a coffee,” Lee said, rubbing his hands together. “I’m freezing.”
Walking down Orvieto’s cobblestone streets at 6:15 a.m. to make sure that they made the 7:30 a.m. train on time (“Depende!”), they had noticed the digital clock/thermometer on the pharmacy next to San Andrea stating it was four degrees.
They got to the funicular at 6:45 a.m. but found the waiting room closed. At 7:12 a.m., a woman casually drove up in a comically dented and antique red Fiat mini, parked diagonally across two spaces, lit a cigarette, and sauntered over to the ticket office and opened the door, seemingly oblivious to Lee, Adriano, and a group of locals who suddenly appeared the moment the attendant arrived. They knew the drill. So much for arriving early. Lee made a mental note. Amazingly, the tram’s 7:15 a.m. departure down the mountainside had been on time. Less than five minutes later, Adriano and Lee were shivering on the platform for Rome at the foot of the slope.
Orvieto hovered somewhere above, hidden in an early morning mist. Only at 7:35 a.m. had the announcement been made that the train would be running late.
Typical Italian operating procedure. Peg warned us, Lee thought. After more than an hour outside, they were frigid indeed. He noted that Adriano seemed annoyed with the inefficiency of it all. He was too. The fifty or so other commuters seemed to take the delay in stride and shuffled inside.
“Uno caffe latte e uno cappuccino, per favore.” Adriano rattled off their order to the matronly barista as they saddled up to the small but fully stocked train station bar. I’ll
never be able to speak this language, and certainly not that fast, Lee thought. Frank Sinatra was singing “My Way,” punctuated by steamy gurgles from the Fascist-era espresso machine.
While Adriano waited for their coffees, Lee walked across the station café-cum-newsstand to pay at the separate register counter where a girl in a Madonna T-shirt and earphones counted change. Everything in Italy seemed to require three times as many steps, staff, and patience as in the US. Of course, that was part of the charm. I wonder if I can take two months of charm. The simplest things take forever. Coffee. I need coffee.
“Scuse, Signore, you are the Americans, si?”
Lee looked down to find a cheerful, elderly priest, neatly bundled up against the cold. He was so short that the brim of his homburg hat just cleared the counter. Yoda! He was the priest from Sunday night’s service at Sant’Andrea, the one who had been the Bishop’s concelebrant.
“Si, yes, how did you know?”
The cleric shrugged with an almost elfish grin. “It’s a small town. Plus, La Donna Volsini told me.”
There was that Godfather soundtrack again.
“Uno espresso, per favore,” the priest said to the girl behind the register while he opened his small, leather change purse, creased with age and bearing the initials “N. M. / D. B.”
“Uno caffe latte, uno cappuccino, e uno espresso, per favore,” Lee managed with a painfully practiced effort to the young girl at the cash register, motioning for the priest to put away his money.
“Grazie, my son.” The priest tipped his hat. “Most kind, and your Italian is excellent.”
“No, my Italian is nonexistent, but I won’t survive if I can’t at least pay for coffee so I’m trying to learn the basics. Your English is much better. Adriano, he’s the one with a talent for language.”
“Adriano? He is your…”