by David Perry
At that, the Swiss Guard leaned over for a kiss, one that indicated a clear end to celibacy.
“There is no sin in sexuality,” said Reverend Vicky, wiping a tear from her eye. She handed a handkerchief to Arnaud and Sancarlo as well. “Sadly, our generation has learned that too late.”
Sancarlo blew his nose while Arnaud dabbed beneath his eye patch.
“Andrea,” Lee said, “I have one final question.”
“Please.”
“This entire, escapade…”
“…conspiracy,” Grigori offered.
“Yes, OK, right,” Lee said. “Things like this don’t happen for free. Who paid for all of this? Where did you get the money?”
“Ah, well,” said Andrea, for the first time squirming in caginess. “That is a question for La Donna Volsini. Grigori, would you like to field that one?”
“Let us just say that the Family Volsini have been benefactors of the Orvietani for many, many years.”
“Many,” Bishop Sancarlo added from the sidelines, with approving nods from Reverend Vicky and Archbishop Arnaud.
“Volsini philanthropy is restoring the frescoes in San Giovanale, providing help and homes to the many migrants and refugees coming to Italy’s shore,” Grigori enumerated on his fingers. “And yes, it helped fund Andrea’s recovery, escape, and new life.”
“But with what?” Adriano pushed. “That’s a lot of biscotti to sell from the floor of Café Volsini?”
Andrea just smiled. “Dear friends. To find the source of Orvieto’s riches, look not on the floor. Look beneath. Always, the treasure of Orvieto is not only upon that rock, but far below, and far older, even, than Velzna Volsini, although not older than her family or their creations.”
Like a mechanical fortune teller at a county fair, the penny dropped into Lee’s brain and his mouth popped open in a soundless epiphany. The mythical Etruscan statues of Metrodorus were no myth. They were a bank, La Banca di Volsini.
CHAPTER LXVI
Death of a Pope
September 25, 1534 (Julian Calendar), Rome
I am dying.
Clement opened his eyes for the last time and looked around his Vatican apartments. Oh well, he thought, at least I won’t have time to screw up anything else.
It was a hot, sultry afternoon in Rome. The distant rumblings of a thunderstorm promised cool relief, and perhaps a little drama, somewhere to the north. Somewhere near—
Orvieto. He turned his head as another crack echoed through the stuffy room, closer this time. Not thunder—the Pope frowned—merely the muttering of cardinals praying in the incense-heavy air. Clement raised his right hand and thirty Princes of the Church fell to their knees crossing themselves. Christ, Clement thought, I’m not blessing you. I just want a drink. He gestured again, with effort. Soon, his hands would beckon no more. No more commands. No more genuflections. No more bulls.
“Yes, Holiness? What may I get you?”
Cardinal Farnese was at his side with remarkable speed for a man his age, over ten years senior to Clement, but not surprising as he was in the first row of clerics gathered at the papal deathbed. Patience, Farnese. Patience. He would be dead soon, and Farnese would pick up this cross. God knows, Clement thought, you’ve manipulated hard enough—and waited long enough—for it. If I liked you more, I’d give you advice. But, you wouldn’t take it anyway. No one ever wanted advice from a Medici. Only money.
“Water? No wine? Please, Your Eminence, some wine…sweet, something sweet.”
The Cardinal bowed and backed away, motioning for someone at the door. Out of the corner of his eye, Clement could see a form dashing into the passageway. Don’t hurry, he thought. I can wait for a drink. I’m in no hurry…well, I’m in no hurry, but death is.
The heavens sounded again, closer this time, with a punctuation of light against the stained glass windows overlooking the construction site that was the Basilica of San Pietro. Well, I guess I won’t live to see that done. At the speed Michelangelo is taking, that’s a few popes down the road. Ah, Michelangelo, my dear childhood friend. Buonarroti Simoni was a pain in the fresco but he was undisputedly a genius.
Just three days ago, the artist had visited the dying pontiff for the last time. “Micky,” Clement had said, using his private nickname. “I have one last commission for you. The wall above the altar in the Chapel Sistina. Finish it. God knows, you’re the only one who could and should.”
Michelangelo kissed the papal ring, tears in his eyes, and answered quickly. “Si, Santo Padre. Whatever you want.”
“Resurrection,” Clement had said forcefully. “Paint me a Resurrection. And don’t let that fraud Farnese change anything. Don’t look so shocked. Of course, he’ll be the next pope. He’s dying for me to die so he can swing the Keys of Peter like an immense sack of holy testicles. God, if his sister hadn’t been the Borgia pope’s lover, he’d have stayed what he truly is, a mediocre bookkeeper. Knowing him, he’ll want something pedantic and hoary, like the last judgment. We have enough condemnation in this world, enough judgment. The resurrection is one of the only hopeful stories in that book of lies called the Bible. Make it so.” And with that the Pope had been consumed with a fit of coughing.
“Yes, Giulio,” Michelangelo had said, also using the Medici’s youthful sobriquet after the coughing subsided. “It shall be done.”
That had been three days ago, a triduum of waiting for the inevitable. More like three years, Clement thought with a sigh. Death has been stalking me since the Sack. Pity that wasn’t the case. That would have made me a martyr. Instead, I’m slowly being consumed from the inside. I’m sure someone will say I’ve been poisoned after I die. Papal murders always make for a good story. But, no such luck. I’m just worn out and burning away from the swampish fevers of Rome.
The thunder sounded again—or perhaps it was episcopal praying. He couldn’t tell. Oy, why can’t a pope just die in peace?
Clement was not afraid of dying, but he was annoyed. So many things unfinished. So many things done and undone. Clement pursed his dry, thirsty lips. For a while, he thought things were going to be all right. He managed to get that poor orphan Caterina de Medici married to the son of the King of France. Holy Roman Rat Charles V wasn’t happy about that, but, well, too bad. He had threatened to call a Church Council—undoubtedly one that would have removed Clement from Peter’s Throne—but had retreated. Predictable. He knew which side his empire was buttered on. Papal blessing, don’t forget, papal blessing. Hard to get rid of Christ’s Vicar on Earth when he’d just declared you the descendant of Charlemagne. And, of course, now the Emperor had a new best friend, Alessandro di Medici, Duke of Florence. How strange, thought Clement, more perplexed than sad. My son has become the tool of the man who destroyed his father. Oh well, God does have a sense of humor.
The thunder rolled again, the lightning closer. The Palatine shuddered. The gods were angry, or more likely, beating a celebratory tattoo for the death of the man who had lost Rome, the man who had lost the Church. A drumroll, please, for the death of the bastard, Giulio de Medici, Pope Clement Septimo.
“Your Holiness, I am here.”
The last true Medici looked up from his sweat-stained pillow and smiled.
“Gio! My son!”
The Pope reached up to hug the Swiss Guard who had become more son than his own. His arms fell back on the pillow, unable to make the short, embracing journey from shoulder to neck.
“I am here, Holy Father.”
“Father,” Clement managed to croak. The time was now close. “Only father, my son. Call me father.”
A tear flowed from the young man’s eye onto his quivering lips. Gio licked it quickly away and bit the inside of his cheek to keep his grief in check. My God, Clement thought, at least there is one person on earth who will miss me. One person on earth who loves me.
“Leave us,” Clement motioned with difficulty at the cardinals lurking by the door. “I want to be alone with my Switzer.”
&nbs
p; “But, Holiness. What if you need something?” Farnese scrambled toward the Pontiff’s side.
“Roma locuta. Causa finita est!” Clement roared, for a brief, final moment still the Pope, still Il Medici. “The only thing I need now is a peaceful death, and I won’t have that with you around. Be gone from my presence. Don’t worry, you won’t have to wait long. I want to be alone with Gio. I want to be alone with my son.”
The cardinals exchanged glances, but all bowed and retreated into the antechamber, executing their final orders from the progeny of Peter. When the door had closed, Gio sat down on the bed next to his friend.
“I love you,” they both said simultaneously, and Gio lifted his friend’s face a few inches off the pillow for a drink. “Here, a taste of something sweet. It’s from Orvieto, the first vintage from our vineyard. I call it Dolce Clementine.”
Clement sipped from the chalice with effort. “How nice, my last drink on earth is from the place on earth I love most. Orvieto.”
“Orvieto.”
The pair sat for a while not saying anything, their silence saying more than any words could convey. Suddenly, Clement stirred.
“Giovanni. The Statues of Metrodorus, they are safe?”
“Yes,” Giovanni said. “They are safe and hidden. Sofia and her father and I have made certain of that. A cat couldn’t find them.”
“Don’t be so sure.” Clement grimaced. Even the muscles of his face were failing him. “Cats are the smartest of creatures. If Plato and the Egyptians are correct, and we return after death, I want to come back as a cat.”
“Such heresy from Christ’s representative on earth.” Gio smiled with wet eyes, bending down to kiss Clement on the forehead. “Mother Church doesn’t believe in reincarnation.”
“Well, I don’t believe in Mother Church. I only believe in the here and now. And love, and family. Those Etruscan statues are your future. Keep them safe. Promise me. Never have such treasures been seen by the world. I was a terrible pope, but we Medici do know art. Promise me—they are well hidden?”
“Yes, my dearest friend. What the Romans couldn’t find will remain a mystery to everyone except my family—your family. If anyone searches for five hundred years, they will never find them, unless they are meant to.”
“My family,” Clement said, his last syllables now approaching. “Thank you for that.”
“I brought you a gift,” the Swiss Guard said, reaching into his pocket and unwrapping a tiny leather satchel. “The jeweler Cellini gave it to me. Here.”
The Pope took a small medallion into his hands and looked at the exquisite craftsmanship in gold.
“Ut populus bibat,” Clement read in Latin.
“Yes,” Gio said, no longer trying to hide the tears that flowed down his face. “‘So the people may drink.’ It’s a tribute to the work you did in Orvieto, the wells, the fountains, the aqueduct. You brought water…life… back to Orvieto. You were the resurrection of the Rock.”
Clement turned the medal over in his hands, noting as he did so that there no longer was any feeling in them. Cold. Hot. Sharp or smooth. He could feel nothing of the medal in his grasp and could barely even see it. His gaze was cloudy now, but not from the miasma of candle smoke that hung around him. His senses were shutting down. He strained to make out the image: Moses striking the rock with his staff, from which water then gushed forth.
“Thank you,” Clement said, squeezing Gio’s hand. The Swiss Guard squeezed back, but Clement felt nothing. Death was crawling up his body like water devouring a sinking ship. He hadn’t felt his feet in days. Soon, his spirit would exit through his head, and the cardinals would wield a silver hammer and tap his brow to make sure he was truly dead. Silly, Clement thought, but of course, I won’t feel it.
A huge crack of thunder shook the Vatican, instantaneous with lighting and a cascade of raindrops so huge, they echoed off the tiles overhead like marbles. The storm had arrived. Soon, it would pass, but now, it was here, directly overhead.
“Open the windows,” the Pope commanded. “I want to see the storm. I want to feel the breeze.”
Gio did so, and immediately a mighty blast of wind blew in, extinguishing all the candles and throwing a mighty wave of horizontal rain upon the bed where Clement lay dying.
Heaven, Clement thought. A final baptism from the sky. The water felt good upon his face, like a kiss. Simonetta! Suddenly, he could see her. The beautiful woman who had been his only love. And cousin Gio, raunchy, heretical, homo-fabulous, and beloved, the man who became Pope Leo X. Then, Alessandro, a beautiful black babe in his mother’s arms. Lorenzo Magnifico. Moses de Blanis. Egidio, his old friend, and Hassan de Wazzan, the wise child of Islam. Sofia, and her son, his namesake, Clement. The Pope saw him too, even though he had never seen the boy, now three years old, pulling at his mother’s smock. How was that possible? But, he saw them. Clement saw them all, and more. He saw it all. His life. Their lives. Life. He saw it, and as his last breath worked its way up his torso through his throat and into his nostrils, he grasped, tightly, the hands of the best friend he had ever known. And, he felt it. If there was a God, he was granting him one last, blessed tactile communion on earth.
“Giovanni?”
“Yes, my father?”
“Give them my love, my son. Give all of them all of my love.”
“Who, Giulio? Who?”
With his last breath, he answered, “Orvieto.”
Epilogue
Wednesday, January 22, 2014, in-flight, Dublin to San Francisco
Lee looked over at his husband, comfortably encased in his Aer Lingus first class pod, the final arrangement per Magda’s international connections. He wouldn’t be surprised if the pilot was in her Rolodex…or little black book.
“Do you think we’ll come back?”
“To Orvieto?”
Lee nodded.
“Who knows?” Adriano shrugged, eyeing the “Fasten Seat Belt” sign for its indication of freedom. He’d consumed too much good Irish whiskey at Dublin’s swanky VIP lounge, and Lee knew that his bladder must be painfully itching for relief. “We certainly have friends there now.”
“Well, co-conspirators at least.”
Adriano grunted. “We’ll definitely go back to Ireland. Grigori and Andrea made us promise.”
“Yes,” Lee said, remembering the last two weeks with the burgeoning young couple playing tour guides for them. An extended Irish double date. With Grigori at the wheel and Andrea as navigator, the foursome had circumnavigated the Emerald Isle from Cork in the South to the Giant’s Causeway in the north.
“Remember, you’ll always have a home here,” Andrea had told them.
“Yes,” said Grigori. “Think of us as your gay Irish welcome wagon.”
“Your secret gay Irish welcome wagon, not in the closet, just incognito.”
“They make a cute couple,” Adriano said, catapulting up as the light overhead blipped out. “But not as cute as us. I’ll be right back. My eyeballs are swimming.”
Lee reached up for a kiss and got it as Adriano stepped over him. Certainly not as cute as you, Lee thought. My husband has got quite a nice bum.
Settling back in his seat, with San Francisco ten hours away, he’d have plenty of time to process the past two months. It hadn’t exactly been the most relaxing of sabbaticals, but it certainly had been unique. He thought about their small apartment back in San Francisco. Two months of mail. The inevitable “How was Orvieto?” questioning and “Did you do anything interesting?” Lee almost laughed out loud. What would Brian have said?
“Be careful what you wish for.”
Next trip, actually, clearly would be Spain. Since the first icebreaking message that Adriano had received in Orvieto from his parents, a steady stream of calls, texts, emails, and postcards had ensued. Whatever bridges had been burned over the years were quickly being rebuilt.
“We can’t wait to meet Lee,” Adriano’s parents had cooed over the phone (Adriano translated).
“Yo tambien. Gracias,” Lee had managed, reading from his iPhone-enabled Google Translate. Christ, and I just learned how to find the bathroom in Italian. Of course, besides familial bonds and tentative Iberian PFLAG intentions, Spain did have gay marriage. We’ll see how long, or if, the good old US of A ever catches up.
“Look who I found!”
Lee glanced up as his husband returned, perky steward in tow with a tray of nibbles and a bottle of Vieux Clicquot on ice.
“Cedric!”
“Ta-da!” The flirty former Hotel Byron front desk man giggled with arms akimbo, putting down their treats. “Compliments of me. I’m in training! Now, I can travel for free to San Francisco! We can finally get together for that drink!”
“Great.” Lee smiled despite himself, noticing Cedric looking at Adriano like a popsicle on an August day in Texas. “Thanks for the drinks.”
“De nada.” He curtsied as he offered newspapers and magazines. “Enjoy!”
As he sashayed off, Lee and Adriano looked at each other and laughed.
“Small world,” Lee said.
“Small gay world,” Adriano said, flipping open the New York Times. “I love you, Pooh.”
“I love you too,” Lee said, reaching over for another kiss. Hmmm….a champagne kiss. Tasty. It would be good to be home, home and truly alone. “What’s new in all the news that’s fit to print?”
“Not too much. Nothing to compete with breaking up an international terrorist and sex trafficking ring run from the Vatican, but there is this comedic bit of news.”
“What?”
“Donald Trump says he may run for president in 2016.”
Lee almost spewed forth expensive sparkling wine and reached for the paper. “A reality show president? I can’t see that happening.”
“Or Magda having to work with him.”
“Well, stranger things have happened,” Lee said, squeezing his husband’s arm. “And they’ve happened to us.”
“But if it does,” Adriano said laughing. “We have somewhere to escape to.”