by David Perry
And suddenly the young boy was weeping in his uncle’s—his father’s—arms. Giulio had waved away the servant and sat on the ground holding the boy until his crying gave way to choking sobs. The Cardinal offered his silken sleeve to the boy, who blew his nose upon it with unembarrassed enthusiasm. When he was finally quiet, Clement said to him quietly, “Ales-sandro. What else did your cousins say to you?”
Clement steeled himself for the next revelation. The cruelty of youth had no prohibitions. If they had teased the boy about his mother, the leap to saying his father was a Cardinal of the Church was not an unexpected vault. God, what hellions have sprung from the font of the Medici?
The youth looked up, wet-eyed but composed. “They said my mother was a whore and that’s why she died so soon after I was born, as a punishment. And then to make sure everyone knew she was a sinner, He made me black, just like Cain in the Bible! And my father”—Clement waited, not breathing—“and that my father died from something called sisyphus! They made it sound horrible!”
Clement inhaled, grateful and ashamed for his gratitude in the same breath. I, he thought, am the only whore here, preserving my career through the lying defense of my cousin, Lorenzo the Duke of Urbino. Yes, better for Alessandro to think that the younger Lorenzo was his father, and that the lovely young orphan, Caterina de Medici, his half-sister. As for cousin Lorenzo dying from “the French disease,” syphilis, well, that was harder to avoid than mispronouncing it as the name of the Greek demigod condemned to eternally push a boulder uphill. He’d let sleeping veneralities lie. Children were so easy to convince. They believed that God had been born of a virgin. Spinning stories to the young was so effortless. They could probably be made to believe that San Nicola could appear down chimneys with sacks of toys on his back at Christmas. Lying to children, a necessary and distasteful evil.
“Alessandro,” Giulio de Medici had sighed with a loving theatricality. “Your mother died out of happiness because she knew that only in heaven could she find more joy than witnessing the birth of something as beautiful and noble as you. Your color is not a curse. It is a blessing, it is you. It is who you are. God’s creation is a diversity of hues and yours is a rich and royal tone. Your cousins are jealous of what they do not understand, and in their jealously, are cruel. Forgive them.” Although, Clement had thought, if I could I’d throttle them both right here and now. Then, he added, quietly, forcefully, and truthfully, “And, your mother was one of the kindest, gentlest, and loveliest women ever to put foot to earth.”
“You knew her!” Alessandro had brightened. “You knew my mother?”
“Yes,” Cardinal Giulio de Medici had said simply, and with a smile he thought that he had forgotten how to conjure, had not conjured since first the luscious chocolate skin and golden heart of Simonetta had entranced him so many years ago on a visit to his cousin’s house. “I knew her very well, indeed.” Then, before Alessandro could ask again, Clement punctuated an end to the interrogation. “She was no whore. Next to the Blessed Virgin, there could be no better example of purity of heart, kindness, or compassion than your mother.” Clement started to respond with what he believed—heretical though it was for a Christian, much less the heir to St. Peter to express—there is no hell. Instead, he punctuated his lie. “No, Alessandro. Your mother is not in hell.”
“What was her name?” Alessandro asked.
“Simonetta.” Clement smiled again, enjoying the momentary truth of speaking her name. “Your mother’s name was Simonetta.”
And for all he knew, then, or now standing here as the Vicar of Christ in the Church of San Petronio in Bologna, her name still was Simonetta. The well-trod story of Alessandro’s fake patronage left no clues. A dead mother and a dead father. The truth was not so neatly tied up. Alessandro had been born, and Simonetta, like so many Medici mistresses before and yet to come, sent quietly far, far, away.
Certainly not. If she was still alive, Simonetta was not in hell. If so, cruelly a mythology existed. But neither was Clement sure she was in heaven. She had disappeared after their brief affair, paid to be discreet. He had heard that she actually had married. Happily, he hoped. Truly, he did. Her faith in Christ’s Church had been greater than his. Better to pretend to being the lover of a minor Medici—and a cruel and faithless one at that—than to admit to having lain in love and conceived with a future Prince of the Church. For her, the Church was supreme. Clement had loved her. She had given birth to their son. They had both lied to preserve his future. Theirs was already so full of lies, a fresco painted daily—quickly, in brushstrokes wide and fanciful—soon to dry into a hardened crust. Beautiful from the outside, but really just rotten eggs and paste at its core.
Clement coughed and turned resolutely from the Dantesque images before him. Yes, and here I am, he thought, Supreme Pontiff of that Supreme Church in which the mother of my son had such faith. In an hour I will lay my hands upon the head of Charles V of Spain, giving him my blessing, and he will acknowledge that as a Catholic Monarch—the Emperor, no less—that all he does is in service to God, through me. This entire charade is about making sure that people know their kings are controlled by and in service to God Almighty.
Bullshit. Clement almost spat. Complete and utter merde, as the French would say. He looked around the church in all its gaudy approximation of Rome. Banners, plaster saints, even a replica of the porphyry circle from St. Peter’s Basilica on which Charlemagne had been crowned Holy Roman Emperor on Christmas Day 800. Bread and circuses, Clement mused. Bread and circuses. Charles will pretend to be subservient to me and I will pretend not to be his hostage.
I have not lost my faith, Clement thought, striding resolutely toward the Chapel of San Abbondio where the coronation was soon to take place. This was to be a sign of Charles V’s subservience to the Pope, to Rome, and to God. My faith has lost itself. It has stumbled a long way from the sands of Palestine and the simple words of a carpenter to the gaudy gold-leaf of our present Mother Church. She is the only whore here.
“Is my mother in hell?”
The Pope again let his mind wander back to that childish conversation of more than ten years past, the only time when he and his son, his Alessandro, had actually been close, physically or emotionally. Over the years, they had drifted apart. No, not drifted. Been pulled apart. Now, behind the scenes, Pope Clement, secretly, did what he could to advance his son’s career. Clement had made Alessandro governor of Spoletto, and through the intervening years of papal and imperial intrigue, Alessandro had somehow, genuinely, become close to the Emperor Charles V. Clement heard that they were truly friends. It was Alessandro who had escorted the imperial entourage into Bologna. It was Alessandro who attended him here. It was Alessandro’s whose hand had been promised to Charles’s daughter, Margaret, a quid pro quo that served both Pope and imperium. It was a match good on paper, but one not soon consummated as Margaret was still all of seven years old. And, if all went well, soon, Charles and his troops—the same troops that had booted Clement and his curia out of Rome almost three years ago—would reestablish the Medici as rulers of Florence, this time, with Alessandro at the head, first Duke of Florence. Eventually, I’ll find a home and a husband and appropriate honors for that dear little orphan, my niece Catherine de Medici, Clement thought. Adorable child. Yes, if all goes well, my complete capitulation to the will of Charles V will serve to make my name synonymous with surrender and defeat. But, perhaps, from my ignominy, the family de Medici will live on, and who knows, perhaps be remembered.
“Is my mother in hell?”
For not the last time that day, his mind wandered back to that question and the time and place of its asking. Rome, 1519, at the home of Alfonsina Orsini, wife of the late Lorenzo, Medici central. They had all been one, big happy family there. But that didn’t last long. Leo had died. Clement had become pope. Charles had looted Rome and once again the Medici had been routed from their native Florence in the name of democracy.
Democracy. Clement ground
his teeth. The worst form of government except everything else that has ever been tried. Hmmm, I should write that down, thought the Pope, before someone else thinks of it and makes it famous?
“Your Holiness?”
The Pope turned at a quietly familiar voice, made foreign by its echo in the vast cathedral nave.
“Gio! My boy! My son!”
The two ran into each other’s arms and embraced, the most genuine of hugs.
“What are you doing here?” The Pope held his former Swiss Guard at arm’s length to inspect him. Had it really been fewer than three years since this soldier had fled with him to Orvieto following the Sack? They had lost everything, but in their loss, had found each other.
“Am I not a Swiss Guard, Holy Father?” Gio bowed low in supplication. “Where you go, there I am also.”
“You’re retired.” The Pope fixed him with a glare. “You should be with your wife in Orvieto. How are they? How are dear Sofia and her father Moses? You have better priorities than being caught up here in Bologna with all this rabble and obsequious pontificating—forgive me the pun.”
Gio laughed. “Ego absolved and yes, my family is fine. Sofia sends her love and also this.” The young knight reached into a fitchet on his shirt sand pulled out a small embroidered satchel tied with a leather cord. “Open it.”
“Gio.” Clement wagged his fingers. “Please. We are past gifts, and you shouldn’t have spent your treasure bringing a gift to a Medici, fallen though he may be.”
“Oh.” Gio smiled coyly. “It is expensive. Proof of my treasure, indeed.”
Clement untied the sack and reached in. “Oh, my boy! This is the greatest gift that ever I could receive!”
“I thought you’d be pleased!”
The Pope’s smile beamed in the oppressive vault of the church, still awaiting its legion of candles and oil lamps for the coronation. In his hand, he held a most delicate presentation, a tiny fistful of blond baby curls, tied with silk.
“A child! What is…?”
“His name is Clemente Giulio. My firstborn is named for you, Holy Father. Giulio de Medici. My friend, the father that I never knew.”
“Oh, my boy.” And Clement hugged him again, both of them with tears in their eyes. “You have given me and the world a most precious gift.”
Their reverie was interrupted by a shaft of sunlight and the muffled, now clearly heard shouts, pouring through a side door thrown open behind them. The Pope and Swiss Guard turned to see the entrant approaching as he let the heavy door slam shut behind them, once again restoring a momentary quietude.
“Your Holiness.” The elderly cardinal knelt down and kissed the papal ring. Clement pursed his lips and motioned for the cleric to rise. Gio helped the old man to his feet.
“In what can I serve you, Cardinal Farnese?” the Pope asked with a smile that bespoke an annoyed impatience for his red-robed colleague.
“The Court has been looking for you! It is time to start. The Elector Palatine of the Rhine is in position with the Orb of Empire, the Marquess of Montferrat is carrying the Golden Sceptre, the Duke of Urbino the Sword of State, and the Duke of Savoy the kingly crown. Oh, and the Spanish delegation includes the noted poet Garcilosa de la Vega and his comrade, the youthful and esteemed Duke of Alba. And, of course, Holy Father, Il Moro—I mean, the noble Duke of Penne, Governor of Spoletto. Your nephew, Alessandro de Medici, is in attendance to His Imperial Majesty.”
“Thank you. I wasn’t aware that I was keeping the Emperor waiting. I thought it was ourselves for whom Charles was waiting.”
“Of course, Holiness, of course. Most correct, but you know how these Spaniards are.” The elderly man chuckled lightly, quickly swallowing his own joke when Clement did not join him. “I was just checking to see if you needed anything.”
“I am fine, Your Eminence,” Clement snapped. “Is there anything else?”
The aging Cardinal started to speak, then wet his lips. He did it again, as if not sure of how to start.
“For God’s sake, man, speak. You look like a fish gasping for air on the beach. What is it?”
“Well”—Cardinal Farnese resumed his prattle—“there is the manner of the anointing, the application of the holy oils to the forehead of the emperor Charles. By tradition, it is done prior to the actual blessing and coronation by the Pope, usually by a senior member of the curia.” His voice trailed off.
Clement’s ironic smile went as flat as a squashed slug. “I see. Well, Your Eminence, since you were raised to the red by the Spanish Borgia Pope, Alexander the Sixth, perhaps you would do us the honor of anointing His Majesty.”
“Thank you, Your Holiness! You are most—”
“Leave us.” Clement interrupted Farnesse mid-genuflection, and pulled the ring from his grasp before his lips could brush it. “Go tell His Majesty that I will be with them shortly to start the procession.” With a wave of his hand, Clement dismissed the cleric, who backed out with a surprising speed and dexterity. As the door opened again, the cries of “Imperio! Imperio!” and “Espana! Espana!” wafted in.
“God, I loathe that man.” Clement rolled his eyes. “He can barely wait for me to die so he can become pope.”
“Your Holiness,” Gio gasped. “He’s ten years older than you! Besides, you have many years left to live, to serve.”
“Hmmm,” Clement grunted. “We’ll see about that, but mark my word. Cardinal Farnese has been waiting to swing the keys of Peter ever since that hideous Alexander the Sixth made him a cardinal, at age twenty-five no less! And all because he was the brother of Borgia’s lover, Julia Farnese. Christ on a stick. And they say we Medici are corrupt.”
“Holiness!” The young Swiss Guard guffawed, joined in chuckles by the Pontiff.
“Walk with me a bit. I’m not quite ready to let in the hoards of the Emperor’s adoring public.”
“Yes, Your Holiness.”
The pair walked on in silence for a bit, circling around the still-empty cathedral. Finally, they stopped in front of the Magi Chapel with its huge and grotesque rendering of hell and the torture of Mohammed.
“We will never have peace in the world as long as religions hate each other,” Clement sighed, staring up at Modena’s gory masterwork. One day, he thought, that painting will cause problems. Mark my word. “Jews, Muslims, Christians, all children of The Book and each so convinced that only they understand it. I am pope, and I don’t understand it.”
“You understand it better than most, and you have encouraged scholarship and cooperation between religions,” the young Swiss Guard prodded. “Even now, our friend Cardinal Egidio of Vitero is at work on Schechina, the great comparison between the Judaic Cablla and Christian mysticism. Hassan de Wazzan continues his travels, and his writings, always with an eye towards healing the rift between Islam and Christianity. Even my dear Sofia continues her education, reading about the man called Buddha and the ancient Vedic texts from the Hindu faith. All of this because you, Holy Father, the Bishop of Rome, have said it is good. You have set aside the resources of the Vatican to study and preserve such religious and spiritual study.”
Clement smiled and gently stroked Gio’s cheek. “Thank you for that, my son. But, none of it is enough. If I had a papacy of fifty years, I couldn’t undo the grotesque and glorious corruption that is Mother Church. I wanted to make our Church stronger as a way to unite all men, but I have failed. King Henry threatens to start his own Church of England because I won’t grant him a divorce. Luther’s reformation has poisoned northern Europe against me. Three Christian kings now vie to rip apart the Papal States, and with it the last barrier against complete anarchy throughout Europe. No, I have produced nothing of worth in this world. Nothing.”
“You have produced a son.” The young Swiss Guard spoke quietly.
“Yes.” The Pope smiled. “My son, Alessandro. A son in secret, for even he does not know I am his father. It is better that way. Better not to be tainted with the sins and failures of a father like me
.”
“I would be proud if you had been my father.”
“Gio.” Clement pulled the young man to his breast. “You, truly, are the son I never had. If I am remembered for anything in this world, I hope it is that I was blessed enough to have known, and loved, a boy, a man, as noble as you.”
“I love you, Holy Father. No, just father.”
“Thank you, my son.” Then, pulling himself together, the Pope took Gio’s arm. “Let us go out to greet His Imperial Majesty, King of Spain and the New World, Holy Roman Emperor, Charles the Fifth. Now, he has it all, the richest man in the world, the richest man in history.”
“There are some things even Charles will never have,” Gio said slyly. “Some things of history that are reserved only for the future, for your legacy, Pope Clement the Seventh.”
The Pope stopped and pulled Gio around to face him. “Moses has done it, hasn’t he?”
The young Swiss Guard just shrugged. “Who am I to say, Your Holiness? I am just a young mercenary sent to protect Christ’s Vicar on Earth and all that He deems important. All that he says must be preserved.”
“The Etruscan Statues of Metrodorus! They are safely hidden in Orvieto?”
“Upon this Rock, Your Holiness. Upon this Rock.”
CHAPTER LVI
Purgatory
Tuesday, December 24, 2013, Christmas Eve, 2 a.m., Orvieto
It was a cold day in hell.
In his dream, Adriano was at the ocean, on a high promontory facing an endless sea of hypnotic waves and an elusive horizon unmarred by clouds. The gentle drone of the surf lapping against the rocks lulled him to the edge. There below, Lee waved back from the water, smiling, just before a massive shark took him in its jaws and bit him in half.
Lee!
Adriano cried out his husband’s name, but only in his mind. No noise came from his lips and his throat was dry and itching. His nose was full of strange smells that he did not recognize, save one. Frankincense, like the candles at San Giovanale. His last memory was of bending down to pick up his phone before a soft leather glove slipped over his nose and mouth and a black bag smelling of that mythic gift to the Baby Jesus descended over his head. Then he drifted into unconsciousness.