The Blackhearted Saint

by Ned Minkov

  Chapter VI

  Angelo was walking at a brisk pace across the narrow square before the Schola Apostolica – the wide two-storey building situated at the north-western end of the Vatican complex. All was quiet around, with only lower-clergy occasionally crossing the square. But even they seemed to be in no hurry, as if promenading leisurely, enjoying the fresh spring morning. It was Tuesday after Easter and peace had once again returned to the Holy See. Following the three days of festivities marking Christ’s Resurrection, life within the confines of the Vatican had fallen back into its usual routine.

  The square was bathing in sunlight, the air light and scented with the blossoms of the nearby orchards. The uplifting weather heightened Angelo’s spirits. Life has not always been that favourable to the fourteen-year-old neophyte. Born to a good family – his father had been a merchant – he had known disaster at an early age, when his mother had died while giving birth to a brother of his. His sibling had not survived either, and his father had not managed to bear the pain caused by the double loss. He had abandoned his trade and gone broke, eventually putting an end to his misery by drowning himself in the Tiber. Angelo had been barely six years old and would have faced a forlorn fate in an orphanage, had it not been for his uncle – Cardinal Marino Colonna, who had taken him under his wing. He had sent the boy to the apostolic school in the Vatican, where Angelo had been raised in the Catholic faith. Since then he had known no other life than the one in the service of God, taught him by his rigid mentor Father Luca.

  Although life as a neophyte had often been tough, he had found great comfort and solace within the Vatican’s confines. He had absorbed the atmosphere of the ancient place, filled with reverence for the grandeur of the institution and with humble gratitude for God’s grace to welcome him in His earthly domains. Even after his uncle Marino had passed away a couple of years before, Angelo had felt no sense of being left alone. He regarded the apostolic school as his home, was cozy in his bare chamber in the boarding-house. A diligent student, Angelo was highly thought of by his mentor, although Father Luca never praised him, always urging him to greater effort. The boy’s zeal to excel in the field of theology, together with his veneration for the higher clergy, had made him seek the attention of the Cardinals, whenever he spotted any of them around.

  Thus Angelo had come to know Monsignor Pietro Calvi – an intelligent man in his late forties, who had felt fatherly affection for the studious boy. Pietro had devoted some of his time in the Vatican to enlightening the young neophyte further.

  Calvi was one of the Cardinals authorized by Pope Gregory to maintain the diplomatic relations between Rome and Avignon. Supporting passionately the idea of a peaceful solution to the schism, he often traveled between the two Papal capitals, carrying out what he considered a sacred mission – the unity of all Christendom. Pietro Calvi kept aloof from both factions in the College of Cardinals – the Roman radicals, led by Balthasar Cossa and Ludovico Bonito, and the alleged Avignon loyalists. Inevitably, he was regarded by the former as one of the traitors of Gregory, because of his ambassadorship at Benedict’s. But Calvi had learnt to ignore their spiteful attitude, hoping his efforts would bear fruit.

  He had been teaching Angelo to share his belief in the eventual welfare of Christianity. Recognizing the boy as a bright and promising novice, he wanted to win him over to the righteous doctrine, as he knew Angelo would one day grow to find his place of dignity in the Vatican.

  ‘You may have lost your father when still an infant,’ he had told him once, ‘but never has the Lord abandoned you. He is your heavenly father, and a loving one, for he has guided your steps towards his worldly deputy – the Pope. He is your earthly father now and you must love him and pray for his well-being, for he has millions of sons and daughters to look after.’

  ‘I know that, Monsignor.’ Angelo would reply humbly. ‘But why are there two Popes? Isn’t there to be one Holy Father of all Christians?’

  ‘Indeed, Angelo, there should be only one,’ Calvi would reassure the boy. ‘But people are being disunited – by borders, kingdoms and sovereigns – and thus they have forgotten who their true Lord is. But God is merciful and wants them united again. So he placed another deputy of his – another Pope, to whom the ones who have abandoned the Roman Church can turn. But it is His divine providence that his people come together again – before one Pope, as they are before one God. And whoever sits on St. Peter’s Throne you will love him, Angelo, for he will be your father. And when you grow older and stronger, you will guard him, for many are the challenges God sends to our Holy Shepherds.’

  Then, Pietro had given Angelo a beautifully wrought dagger that he had bought during one of his voyages, and had made the boy swear to protect the present and future Popes from harm. And Angelo had given his pledge.

  Today, he was heading beyond the confines of his home, elated. He was due to meet again with Cardinal Calvi, who had returned to Rome for the Easter celebrations.

  Angelo traversed the hall of the apostolic school and reached the rear entrance. Next he crossed the small atrium leading to the buildings of the College of Cardinals, where the ecclesiastical chambers were situated. He entered through the marble gateway, whose huge columns on both sides supported a heavy tympanum above. The interior of the building was a breath-taking amalgam of marble and stone – remnants of the original Roman construction and the modern decoration with statues and stained-glass. Although he had already seen the interior of the building on several occasions before, and spent hours there copying old manuscripts, Angelo could not help staring around in awe, as he ascended the staircase to the second floor. The upper floor of the building was less spectacular – a narrow corridor with a dozen doors on both sides – housing the Cardinals’ quarters and some offices of the College.

  The boy walked slowly down the quiet passage to the second door on the left and knocked. No answered followed. Angelo hesitated at first, but decided to try the door. It was locked. He turned around, wondering why Monsignor Calvi was not in his chambers. Had he confused the hour and day? Then, as he was walking back towards the stairs, he heard voices behind him. He walked back down the corridor, warily. Perhaps Calvi was somewhere around? Angelo heard the voices again – they were coming from another chamber further away – and growing more and more distinct on his approach. He hesitated; maybe he had better wait for Calvi to show up? But then he made out the Cardinal’s name in the conversation.

  ‘I’m telling you, Giacopo!’ one of the voices said bleakly. ‘Calvi left for Avignon early this morning. He was instructed by Gregory himself.’

  Angelo came closer to the door. It was left slightly open. Through the aperture the boy saw the apostolic notary, Giacopo del Torso, standing with a troubled expression on his face. The other man was out of sight.

  ‘Are you sure about the nature of the instructions?’ del Torso asked.

  ‘Positively – our Holy Father summoned me yesterday, right after the Mass. He told me about this vision he had received in which God spoke to him. He will surrender his claims to the Papacy and offer Luna an agreement.’

  The notary frowned and so did Angelo on the other side of the door. Monsignor Calvi had told him how infuriated the supporters of Gregory were by his aptitude to negotiate with Benedict. The cold, even voice went on.

  ‘Go and raise Ottaviani – the man who accompanied me on our last meeting. He is at Sant’Angelo, waiting for my signal. Then go and fetch Bonito and the others. I will send a note to Gregory to receive us in the Hall. We shall meet there.’

  ‘But what are we going to do with him?’ del Torso’s tone had become anxious.

  ‘I do not think we have any other options left,’ the other man whispered, ‘but to do away with him. Listen to me, Giacopo, if we do not act –‘, suddenly he broke off, as Angelo exclaimed at hearing those last words.

  The boy put his palms over his mouth, but it was too late. Del Torso turned and stared at him, motionless and clearly startled. The boy
heard steps and then the door flew wide open. Angelo could only see the scowling face of Cardinal Balthasar Cossa before he broke into a run. He heard a shout behind his back, but did not turn back.

  He flew through the corridor and descended the stairs without taking a breath. Thoughts were crossing his mind hectically: ‘A plot to kill the Pope! Orchestrated by Cardinals!’ He had to warn Calvi, but then he remembered Cossa’s words. ‘Calvi must be miles away by now.’ What should he do?

  At the foot of the stairs Angelo stopped for a brief moment. He turned opposite to where he had entered the building. He barely knew the place, but remembered seeing a passageway leading deeper into the Vatican. He ran straight through it, a couple of times coming to a halt to make sure no one was chasing him. He finally reached a spacious foyer whose windows gave onto a beautiful garden.

  Walking along a path of slabstones at the far end of the garden, Angelo saw him – Pope Gregory XII. He was promenading leisurely, a well-clad man beside him. They seemed to be engaged in a conversation as they walked. ‘I need to warn him – my Holy Father.’

  Angelo went straight to the door. It was locked. He cast a desperate glance around. Through the window, he saw another door, just around the corner from where he stood. It was left wide open, so the boy rushed for it. Once outside, he paced briskly towards where the pontiff was, suddenly aware of the scale of what was happening and the eminence of the men involved.

  As he approached, the Pope and his companion noticed the boy and stared at him in wonder. A door opened behind their backs. Angelo froze with terror. Cardinal Balthasar Cossa and a couple of hard-looking men beside him emerged from it. The Holy Father noticed them, too, and the confusion on his face doubled. Cossa was pacing firmly towards him.

  ‘Dear Lord’, Angelo whispered desperately. ‘It is happening!’

  He caught a glimpse of a metallic flash underneath the Cardinal’s robe. The boy remembered the promise he had given Pietro Calvi. His hands searched his belt for the dagger, as his feet carried him towards the Pope. But Cossa was closer.

  ‘What is going on, brother Balthasar?’ the pontiff demanded peremptorily, as the Cardinal approached him.

  Cossa stopped before him and replied grimly:

  ‘Treason, your Holiness. You have been betrayed.’

  Angelo made a final dash. With the dagger in his hand, he lunged at the Cardinal. Pope Gregory started back, giving away a shout of surprise. It was followed by a cry, filled with pain and despair.

  Angelo dropped the dagger. It rang out as it hit the slabstones. The boy looked down to his chest to see Cossa’s hand clutching the handle of a stiletto – its thin sharp blade plunged into the young flesh. Then, Angelo collapsed on the ground.

  Pope Gregory and his companion were looking at the boy in dismay.

  ‘What was this all about?’ he asked in a muffled tone, but then gathered his wits again and added brusquely: ‘Brother Balthasar, I demand an explanation!’

  ‘There was a plot, your Holiness,’ Cossa answered firmly. ‘The Cardinals who have been deceiving you with foul talks of truce with Avignon were mere minions of Luna conspiring against you. I believe they had sent this boy to kill you.’

  The Pope looked again at Angelo’s body, in disbelief. But then his stare fixed on the dagger the boy had dropped when pierced by Cossa. On its handle, amidst other engravings, there was a silvery crescent, its edges pointing down – the symbol of Benedict XIII – El Papa Luna.

  The Director finished his narration and stared out the windows of his office. It was raining, the drops slashing against the glass outside of the panes. For a moment we both stood quiet. It was I who finally broke the silence:

  ‘Does Balthasar have the Pope killed at the end?’ I finally ventured, still captivated by the story.

  ‘No, he does not,’ the professor replied calmly. ‘Thanks to the fortunate turn of events – I mean the boy’s elimination – he uses his guile to convince Gregory that there really was a plot against him. Of course, he never proves the involvement of the so-called ‘traitors’ – the Cardinals who allegedly support Benedict. But it is enough for Gregory to drop the idea of negotiations with Avignon, though only for a short while. And by the time he renews his conscientious efforts to end the schism, Cossa has already extended further his power within the Vatican. He calls on a Council in Constance, where Gregory is forced to abdicate.’

  He looked again towards the windows, taking the sheet with the sonnet.

  ‘That was the story of Balthasar Cossa – the man who inspired this sonnet. You know,’ he added thoughtfully, ‘I think you may be right about the purpose of this, come to think of it. It might be edification after all, or at least some form of repentance.’

  I gave the Director a quizzical look, for I did not understand what he meant. Then I remembered where we had begun this intriguing story. There was one thing I still found hard to fathom.

  ‘I am still missing the main point,’ I said. ‘What does Pope John XXIII – the author of the sonnet – have to do with Balthasar Cossa and his ascent to power?’

  The professor smiled, looking into my eyes.

  ‘He has everything to do with him,’ he replied. ‘For Pope John XXIII is Balthasar Cossa.’

  His answer hung in the air for a prolonged silent while. I tried to run through the whole story in my mind and comprehend the revelation. The Director noticed my confusion and lent me a hand.

  ‘The Council in Constance results not only in the abdication of Gregory XII,’ he resumed. ‘Consequently, a new Pope is elected and by now you should have been able to guess who that is by knowing from the story about Cossa’s influence among the Cardinals. So, in 1410, Cardinal Balthasar Cossa takes the Papal name of John XXIII. As a Pope, he is accused of a number of misdeeds, such as simony, or else trading with indulgencies. The latter is a document of a person’s sins being remitted, issued by the Pope himself in exchange for a great deal of money, of course. He is also charged with assassinations of his opponents, as well as with fornication with hundreds of women, nuns among them. Pope John’s reputation is so stained that the Vatican tries to erase the memory of his rule for centuries after. Documents are destroyed; also any form of memorabilia – statues, plaques, and walls of buildings – every spot that preserved his name has been removed. Only his gold-plated tomb designed by Donatello is still kept in Florence, thanks to the Medici. The gratitude of the great family is not due to sheer affection for Cossa. Pope John XXIII establishes the Vatican Bank, allegedly run by the Medici.’

  ‘Eventually, in 1958, when Cardinal Angelo Roncalli was elected Pope, he assumed the name of John the twenty-third, putting an end to the five-century long tradition of pontiffs’ avoiding that name, because of Balthasar Cossa. Today, the once-pirate is present in the Papal chronicles as Antipope John XXIII. Apart from his tomb, only documents stored in the Vatican archives bear evidence of Cossa’s papacy and who he was in fact.’

  The Director paused. For the first time today he looked tired of relating the story of the depraved pope.

  ‘It is ironic, isn’t it?’ he added after a while. ‘That the man who incarnates the most wicked of all sins should become the saintly shepherd of all Christians. On his election and throughout his reign, he was celebrated and loved by his congregation like any other pontiff. Obviously, people did not know him, or even if they have, I don’t believe it would have made any difference.’

  He gave out a quiet sigh, followed by a snort. Then he fell silent again.

  ‘One last question, professor,’ I begged. ‘Why do you think Pope John wrote this sonnet, evidently with regret?’

  The professor smiled and lifted his spectacles to rub his eyes.

  ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘I will let you ponder it yourself. I’ll be happy to hear your suggestion later.’

  Epilogue

  The rain was easing off, though raindrops were still falling over me. I did not mind that – the murky weather was perfect for introverts like me t
o debate with themselves. As I walked lost in thought on my way back home, I felt emptiness inside. Not because I had not done any progress on the subject of my dissertation. It was rather that sort of emptiness one feels when facing an existential question, raised by some revelation.

  The mystery the Director left me to brood over – the motive behind the sonnet written by the pirate-pope – had lodged itself into my mind. Why would this man, who had abandoned his theological studies to become a pirate, lived his entire life in sin – killing people, fornicating with women, plundering ships and villages – and had risen to become the head of all Christendom, would write a confession of his depravity?

  I tried to imagine Balthasar Cossa in papal garments, seated on the Vatican’s throne. How would he have felt? I pictured him with a complacent smile on his face, secretly mocking at the congregation gathered to worship him as a Saint: him – the cutthroat, the fornicator, the blasphemer. I wondered whether the sonnet is but a piece of mockery, a way to express his complacency. What Balthasar had done was to simply take advantage of human nature. He knew sin well, for he lived a sinful life. And is not sin an integral part of human nature? Has it not been thus since the dawn of time?

  Men are both divine and evil – we are the ones who create and then corrupt our creations. Men felt love and turned it into lust. Men invented money to make life easier and instead became greedy. Men created hierarchy to put order in society and became hungry for power. Men had faith in God, but religion invented rules to prevent people from committing sins, although it is natural for them to do so. And it made them fear punishment, and hope for salvation. But at the same time, it also gave them a sense of security and of justice. Balthasar has used that mechanism to aspire to power, well aware of the sinful nature of mankind. He bribed and manipulated thus gaining influence. He relied on peoples’ repentance and thus became wealthy, but never repented of his own sins. He turned away from the Christian laws, even broke them, to prosper and eventually find himself atop all righteous.

  I wondered what moral I could draw from the story. How have men’s values changed since Balthasar Cossa’s time? Have they really changed? Are we not still but a flock of sheep, seeking security in life by following rules? Truly, the rules have changed since. Logically, when Christian dogmas lost their grasp on people’s minds, they were substituted for other ideals. One thing alone has not changed at all – people’s worshipping money, for Mammon has been perhaps the true One God of all mankind throughout human civilization. Just as Balthasar’s contemporaries strove for wealth, believing it can buy them happiness, so do we today. We do not commit simony, in order to become more powerful, but are not the wealthy and influential those who dictate our lives? We do not spend our savings on indulgencies to save our souls, but we do buy ourselves some tiny bits of happiness. Therefore, are we not also to be mocked?

  And while abiding by the laws of our society, are we not secretly worshipping those who break them? Just like the congregation at Balthasar Cossa’s feet. There have been dozens of his kind since – dictators, murderers, and fornicators, corrupt and wicked men. And have they not been adored by the multitudes? Surely, history offers many such examples. More often than not, such shady figures get away with it and even find their place in history, the story of their sins being told from one generation to the next.

  So is it not natural for men to sin? It must be, for otherwise why would we admire the ones who sin? Suppressing our own depravity, we turn the depraved into heroes. Told not to kill, we bow before murderers, like sheep worshiping their butchers. We were taught to expel lust from our souls, yet we see the ‘righteous’ paying court to the wicked. Convinced that greed is taint, we envy the wealthy and their aspiration for more. Is it because they all incarnate what has been forbidden us? Is it our true nature that makes us raise pedestals for them to look down from on us with complacency? If so, they should only be right to do it. For we – the small sinners, nailed to high ideals, look up to them – the bold, the unscrupulous, the depraved.

  And thus being the greatest sinners among us, they ascend the pulpit to become our Saints. Just like Balthasar Cossa:

  For before saints he lived by the sin,

  amidst sinners he shall rise a Saint!

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  Although built on historical facts, The Blackhearted Saint is composed mostly of fictional events and characters. However, the plot is not that far from the real story of Balthasar Cossa. The six episodes in this novella are inspired by historical data about the life of this controversial persona. In the present Note, I will reveal more details about Cossa’s part in one of the most obscure chapters of Vatican history. To anyone with the desire to find out further more about the real Balthasar Cossa I highly recommend The Life and Activity of Balthazar Cossa (Pope John XXIII) by the Greek author Alexander Paradisis – an extensive research based on original documents and facts.

  As in this book, the real Balthasar Cossa is born on the island of Ischia, in a noble family. After a short service in the army, he moves to Bologna to study Theology. It is there that he meets Yandra Cappistrana – a talented young woman from the lower nobility, hunted by the Inquisition because of her skills and knowledge in astrology and chemistry - talents regarded as witchcraft by the Church. It is Cossa’s attempt to save her from the claws of the Inquisitors the reason he flees from Bologna, taking Yandra with him. He then joins his brothers and becomes a notorious pirate. Years later, he abandons piracy to enter service to Pope Boniface IX, tormenting corrupt clergymen and supporting the Pope in his campaign to reclaim his power across Italy. It is the time of the so-called Papal Schism during which two Popes – one in Rome and one in Avignon – simultaneously claim to be the rightful heir to the Throne of Saint Peter. In this delicate time, Balthasar Cossa cunningly manages to climb up the Vatican hierarchy, always a trusted ally of number of Popes, from both Rome and Avignon, throughout the Schism. Following the Council of Constance in 1410, he becomes Pope John XXIII and remains in office until 1415 when he is forced to abdicate.

  The connection between Balthasar Cossa’s ascent to power and the Medici family is presumed by many authors on the subject, including Alexander Paradisis. It is believed that Cossa’s tomb, designed and built by Donatello in 1424, is purchased namely by the famous Florentine clan in recognition of the former Pope’s merits for their prosperity.

  The attitude of the Vatican chronologists towards the papacy of Balthasar Cossa has already been described in the present volume, in the narration of the Director. Following centuries of denial, Cossa is eventually enlisted as Antipope John XXIII, and an ending of the controversy is put in 1958 when Angelo Roncalli is elected Pope and chooses the regnal name of John XXIII, in official recognition of Balthasar Cossa’s illegitimacy. In total contrast with him, the twentieth-century Pope John XXIII is a charitable and righteous pontiff.

  Luckily, the story of the first Pope John XXIII has not been buried by the unforgiving sands of Time. It has survived for us, the seekers of ‘tales of mystery in the gales of history’, to rediscover – the tale of Balthasar Cossa – the pirate who became Pope.