The Bunting Quest

by Steven Marcuson

  ‘Indeed. For example, Bunting failed to include Madagascar, which was well known to Europeans of the day. And Italy’s “boot” faces the wrong way.’

  ‘Why would he have done that, Mister Lawrance?’ queried the inspector without looking up.

  ‘How would I know, Inspector? There may not be much mystery there, though. Bunting was a man of religion … but he wasn’t a cartographer. Accuracy clearly wasn’t his main agenda.’

  ‘Yes, perhaps he had a different agenda, as you put it, Mister Lawrance?’ The inspector stopped writing, placed the notepad in his front jacket pocket and looked down at Nick, who was preparing another map for hanging. ‘Do you have copies of these maps in a book or a catalogue that I may look at?’

  ‘I can do a better than that,’ replied Nick. ‘I have originals of these maps for sale in this very exhibition.’

  The policeman was clearly perplexed by this, as Nick knew he would be. ‘I am sorry, Mister Lawrance, I do not understand. How can you have the originals if they were stolen from Amsterdam and you did not take them?’

  ‘Simple,’ said Nick, relishing the inspector’s confusion. ‘Just because a print is an antique, it is not necessarily unique, Inspector. There can be many “originals” that have survived to this day.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Mister Lawrance. I’m still confused.’

  ‘Map making was a laborious process in the sixteenth century. It took time for the cartographer to draw the original map – which could take years itself – and then a wooden block had to be carved to create copies. Like a giant stamp, I suppose. The block making was the truly painstaking part. Work was done by a highly skilled woodworking artisan. He had to carve the mapmaker’s original in every detail … and, of course, he had to do it backwards and upside down, because the block had to be a mirror image of the original. This is often thought to be another possible reason mistakes like those in Bunting’s maps were generated. In any event, the block was then covered in ink and placed in a primitive type of printing press. Paper, or its sixteenth-century equivalent, was then placed in the press and the ink squeezed onto the block, transferring the mapmaker’s design. This process could then be repeated to create as many copies as desired. Even better, the block, or stamp, could be hidden away and brought out many years later to make even more copies if, and when, they were needed.’

  ‘So that’s why there’s more than one original,’ said the inspector, quickly grasping the information.

  ‘And more,’ Nick enthused. ‘You are probably wondering why the copies, or at least why so many of them, were made in the first place. The answer is books, Inspector. These original prints were bound into books and atlases to help explain the wonders of the world to societies hungry for knowledge. This wasn’t, after all, the Dark Ages. The printing press had swept aside years of ignorance and, by the sixteenth century, in parts of Europe there was considerable scholarship. In any event, there the maps remained, pressed and protected, until people like me removed them three or four hundred years later.’

  ‘You do what? Rip these old books up to get the maps out?’

  ‘Of course we don’t! Well, we do remove them, but we do it very carefully. We don’t want to reduce the value of the maps by damaging them in any way.’

  ‘This is very interesting, Mister Lawrance,’ said the inspector eventually. ‘So, if there are so many maps in existence, then I imagine their value is vastly less than I’d assumed.’

  ‘Very good, Inspector,’ said Nick encouragingly. ‘Bunting maps do not command especially high prices. The book in which Bunting’s flawed World Map was bound was a very popular travel book and was published in a number of languages throughout Europe until 1650. So the maps do occasionally turn up on the market. They are not what I would call “cheap”, but neither are they prohibitively expensive. A couple of thousand pounds might secure one in excellent condition. One like this …’

  Nick pointed at four Bunting maps – the four Bunting maps – already hanging as part of the exhibition.

  The inspector’s long head nodded up and down as he concentrated on the maps. ‘So, why,’ he mused, ‘would somebody go to the trouble of stealing the Bunting maps in Amsterdam when there were obviously far more valuable maps on offer and other copies of the Buntings could be obtained by much less devious means?’

  ‘As I have said, Inspector, it beats me,’ said Nick. Then, moving closer to the maps, he added, ‘You may find this interesting.’ He pointed to the Bunting World Map. ‘Look at the coastline that Bunting draws of Western Australia down here at the bottom right. It is almost perfect, yes?’ Jaeger nodded his agreement. It was rudimentary but looked pretty close, at least to his untrained eye. ‘But the first European boat to land on Australian soil, the Duyfken, did so in 1606. It took another forty years before the full extent of this coastline was known.’

  ‘So, you’re saying that Herr Bunting knew more than other cartographers of his era?’

  ‘That would be highly unlikely, Inspector. No, I’m saying that what we are looking at should be impossible.’ Nick pointed his finger at the display walls. ‘Look at these world maps by Ortelius, Mercator and Munster. These are the greatest cartographers of their era. They’re all from a similar period to Bunting’s map but all show a great land mass along the whole southern third of the world: Terra Australis Incognita. Simply put, Inspector, when Bunting drew this in 1581, absolutely no one in the world could have known what the coast of Western Australia looked like. Many historians support the view that Bunting drew an imaginary coastline on the bottom right hand side of his map with no other purpose than to balance up his coastline of America, on the left-hand side of the map and by sheer chance his coastline matches the true shape. This is why we call a map like this a “cartographic curiosity”. It simply cannot be explained.’

  Bronte looked up from her desk. Her look said it was time to get a move on.

  ‘Well, Inspector, if you don’t mind, we have a big day ahead of us and I’d better get back to work.’

  ‘Excellent, Mister Lawrance, very enlightening,’ Jaeger said. ‘Here is my card. If by any chance you notice anything unusual or of particular interest in your Bunting maps tonight, perhaps you would favour me with a call?’

  Without waiting for an answer, there was an awkward nod and the inspector turned quickly. In a few large strides he’d left the gallery.

  How did he get those scars, Nick wondered, putting the inspector’s card in his jacket pocket.

  5

  The flickering shadows of the fire were the only movements in the room. The revelation had stunned Bunting into silence. ‘Padre, you are in the presence of Pope Gregory XIII.’ The Duke’s words echoed again in his head. Dear God, this cannot be, he thought – the Antichrist is here?

  But the Duke spoke again: ‘Padre, I remind you, you are in the presence of your master. Prostrate yourself!’

  These words cleared Bunting’s head. ‘He may be your master but he is no master of mine,’ he responded angrily. ‘I have but one Lord and I can assure you, sir, He is not sitting in this room!’

  ‘Ottavio, Ottavio,’ groaned the old man wearily. ‘Herr Bunting is not of our customs. Let him be.’

  The Duke lowered his eyes and bowed deeply to his master. The Pope eased himself into an upright position in the simple wooden chair. Bunting noticed that his dress was not dissimilar to his own. Both contrasted starkly with the fineries of the Duke. He noticed too that the old man had chosen to sit near the small table with the earthenware jug and rough-hewn mugs, where he normally ate his own frugal meals.

  ‘Herr Bunting, I will relate my story,’ said the Pope, ‘if you would be willing.’

  ‘Your story is of no interest to me, sir,’ replied Bunting. ‘In fact, you test my Christian charity by your very presence in this house. The followers of your Church laid waste to much of my country. They mercilessly slaughtered thousands for their beliefs. Your public celebration of the massacre of the Huguenots is reviled in thes
e parts. There have been unimaginable horrors perpetrated on your behalf of which you cannot be unaware.’

  ‘We will all be judged, Herr Bunting,’ the Pope allowed. ‘Those of the true faith and those who have strayed. Our Lord and Master will listen to all our entreaties on that Day of Judgement. However, on this day, do not let your judgement of me, your very human judgement, create a barrier to your enlightenment.’

  Bunting sighed. ‘Tell it then,’ he said abruptly.

  Pope Gregory closed his eyes for a few seconds and then spoke. ‘I was born into a high family in Bologna, in the year of our Lord 1502. My father, Pietro Buoncompagno, told me later that a fiery star lit up the snow-covered fields on the night of my birth. This was, for my family, a message from heaven: my road had been chosen. However, I ignored the sign. I instead studied Canon and Civil Law at the University of Bologna and taught there until I was in my thirty-seventh year.

  ‘Let me be clear, Herr Bunting, I fancy myself a practical man.’ Here, the Pope leaned forward and stared directly at Bunting, who noticed for the first time the old man’s tired and troubled eyes. However, amidst the loose folds of wrinkled skin, the eyes glistened brightly. ‘Apart from our Holy Father and his works, I have no time for signs and wonders, Herr Bunting.’

  The old man lifted one of the cups from the small table at his elbow, drank deeply and continued. ‘In 1539, Pope Paul III summoned me to Rome. My legal experience was an asset to His Holiness and my worth to the Vatican grew. After three years’ service I was ordained a priest.’ He hesitated for a few seconds and took a deep breath. ‘I then served His Holiness Julius III, a man whose self-gratification knew no bounds.’ The words spat out of the old man’s mouth. ‘Five long years I served that gluttonous, foul-mouthed, irresponsible fool before he drank himself to death.’ The old man’s vehemence contrasted with the gentle flickering embers of the dying fire.

  ‘Three years later, newly promoted as Bishop of Viesti, I was sent to the Council of Trent. Four miserable years I spent in that country. England is not dissimilar to Germany, filled with radicals and heretics.’

  ‘It was at Trent where you forever closed the door to reconciliation with the Protestants,’ Bunting offered, despite himself.

  The old man smiled condescendingly at the younger priest. ‘You have an interesting way of interpreting that Council’s edicts. They were specific about Christian doctrine on salvation, sacraments and biblical canon. That some protested the Church’s final interpretation of the Holy Words of the Bible, was irrelevant. The Church had spoken. Those who differ are heretics.’

  ‘So why have you come here to speak to me then? A heretic!’

  ‘I will finish my story if I may. Then I think you will understand my needs … and yours.’

  Bunting, although impatient, nodded assent.

  ‘Pius IV was well pleased with my efforts in England. On my return to Rome I was rewarded by being proclaimed a Cardinal of the Church and was sent as his Legate to the splendid court of His Majesty Philip II of Spain.’ Here the old man smiled knowingly to himself and stared into the fire for a few seconds before continuing.

  ‘Ah, Spain,’ he almost cooed. ‘The contrast with England could not have been greater. At last there was some sun and Philip, that most Catholic of Kings, a wonderful man, dedicated his reign to removing reformers and heretics from Iberia.’

  ‘The horrors of the Inquisition know no bounds in Spain,’ said Bunting sadly.

  ‘True, Herr Bunting, the Inquisition has freedom of investigation in Spain but you are wrong to use the word “horrors”. I have seen many men saved from eternal damnation by the Inquisition. They were forever grateful to the members for showing them the errors of their ways. In fact, in one investigation, I personally led the Inquisitorial team. This was the case of Archbishop Bartolome Carranza of Toledo.

  ‘How would it do if the very head of our Church in Spain was in the hands of a heretic? It was only recently that I gave my final decision on this matter, after seventeen years of thorough investigation. Carranza went to God only a few weeks after the decision; how fortunate for him that his soul will reside in heaven.’

  ‘Fortunate? His life was a nightmare for seventeen years!’

  ‘Ah, but it is a man’s immortal soul in eternity which is important, not a mere seventeen years of his life,’ responded the Pope sharply. ‘Anyway, when Pius IV died, Michelle Ghislieri was elected to the papal chair. Ah, Michelle was a man with few doubts. He insisted on discipline and morality in the Church, a return to tradition. He soon rooted out the so-called “reformers”.’

  He doesn’t sound so different to the previous incumbent, thought Bunting quietly to himself.

  ‘And,’ the Pope continued, ‘at Lepanto he showed those heathen Turks the power of Christian warriors. Over twenty thousand of them went to their watery graves that day. At least two hundred of their galleys were sunk. They say it was a miracle and that the Virgin Mother led us to victory. Isn’t that so, Ottavio?’

  Bunting had forgotten about the Duke who had been standing quietly in the shadows.

  ‘As you are aware, Your Holiness,’ the Duke replied, ‘I was present on that glorious day. I was not, however, worthy to see the Virgin myself, but I did see the terror on the Turks’ faces, as they drowned like rats. The fluttering red crosses of the Holy Leagues’ galleons would have been their last sight. We rejoiced as they struggled and tried to gasp their last desperate breaths beneath the waves.’

  The old man nodded enthusiastically. ‘Michelle even commemorated the battle by proclaiming a new Feast day: Our Lady of Victory. That is one feast day I celebrate with vigour, eh Ottavio?’

  ‘Our Church also celebrated the victory at Lepanto,’ added Bunting quietly. ‘All Christendom is indeed fearful of the Moslem invasion of our lands.’

  ‘So, perhaps we do have some interests in common, Herr Bunting. All is not yet lost. However, I have digressed and the hour is late. I will continue with my story. Please seat yourself. It is your house, and you too, Ottavio.

  Both men complied and the three sat around the small table.

  ‘Michelle died on the first of May 1572,’ the Pope went on. ‘Two weeks later, I was elected by my peers. I chose the name Gregory, in honour of the Great Gregory, that beacon of the sixth century. I was congratulated heartily by all the cardinals, each assuring me of their loyalty and support and that I was their first choice, and without doubt, the most worthy candidate. Their platitudes finished, I made my way to the papal offices at the Basilica di Santa Maria Maggiore. I had of course been there many times before in the course of my duties, but not to the inner sanctum of the residency. It surprised me with its simplicity. I had been wrong, I realised, to expect a continuation of the sumptuousness of the adjoining church, meeting rooms and banquet halls.

  ‘I was led up stairways to my bedroom and anti-chamber which were purely functional. I immediately felt at ease. Dismissing all my helpers, I sat in quiet contemplation in my new surroundings. After a while I opened my eyes and gazed at the many pictures that adorned the walls. Our infant Lord and the Virgin Mother gazed back at me knowingly. At that moment I made an oath to them and to God to fulfil my duties with honesty and integrity. As I took in more of my surroundings I noticed a door, slightly hidden behind a tapestry, in the back corner of the bedchamber. The door opened to a narrow, low-ceilinged, whitewashed hall.

  ‘I walked the few paces down this hall and arrived at a study. There was only space for a writing desk and chair. I sat at the desk and looked out of a small head-high window. I could see Rome, laid out in all its glory, with the river winding its way west, towards the sea. I realised that this room had been used by my predecessors for private contemplation and correspondence. It was at this point, Herr Bunting, that I realised that everything I had ever presumed or known was …’ The Pope hesitated and drew a deep breath, his voice now trembling. ‘Well, shall we say “twisted”.’

  ‘Twisted?’ Bunting queried.

&
nbsp; ‘I mean,’ struggled the Pope, ‘that what I am about to explain to you was so unexpected and beyond my experience, that I am no longer the person I once was. Everything is now and forever … changed.’

  He slumped forward. His hands covered his face as he struggled to speak. ‘I lifted the lid off a plain wooden box sitting in the centre of the desk and removed ancient parchments wrapped in cloth. I immediately recognised the handwriting of my predecessor, Pius V. His entry was the last of the pages of handwritten entries from all the previous Popes.’

  ‘Are you telling me,’ interrupted Bunting incredulously, ‘that you were looking at the writings of every previous Pope, from the disciple Peter to the present day?’

  The old man peered up the young priest. He seemed aged and frightened. ‘Yes,’ the Pope said. ‘But not only that. Each and every Pope had written the same words. These words:

  I, the representative of Christ on Earth, attest and witness the undisputable holy writings of our Lord Jesus, from the hand of our Lord as he wrote them in Jerusalem. These words are holy. I swear to honour and protect these words through my earthly life.’

  The old man continued in a faltering whisper. ‘The last parchment was the most ancient. I lifted it carefully from the box. I cannot put into words the overwhelming sense of dread and awe that overcame me as I gazed at the holy hand of our Lord. These were His words in His hand. How could I be worthy to behold this supreme honour and responsibility?’

  At these words the old man started to sob uncontrollably, his head moving from side to side. ‘Everything is twisted,’ he cried. ‘For now and forever.’

  The Duke hurried over to comfort the Pope who now appeared completely broken. Bunting quietly motioned to the wide-eyed Amir, who had been waiting patiently outside the room, to bring some food and rekindle the dying fire.

  Looking at the Duke, Bunting rose and said, ‘Perhaps your master would prefer to rest now and resume refreshed in the morning?’

  On hearing Bunting speak, the Pope looked up, bleary-eyed. ‘No, this matter must be finished tonight,’ he gasped. ‘This must be done.’ He nodded to the Duke, who bent down and lifted a wooden box onto the table. The Pope straightened himself and carefully released the ancient metal latch. ‘May God forgive me for what I am about to do.’