From the height of the papal throne, Paul II listened attentively to the reading of the dispatches. The members of the College sat on the terraced benches that faced each other on either side of the council chamber. In the center of the nave, lit by a ray of sun, a young priest stood reciting the latest news in a neutral voice. He related developments in the violent fighting in Savoy, informed them of the state of health of the Bishop of Liège, described the horrible punishment inflicted on the heretics in Seville, and went through a financial report from Palermo, without any emotion disturbing his monotonous delivery. Nobody dared utter a word. The Pope did not tolerate any interruption. He never pronounced on any subject before he had heard this dull list of the day’s events to the end. The young orator did not classify his announcements either by chronological order or by order of importance, content merely to read them one after the other without pause or transition. So it was between a message from the Bishop of Rouen, alarmed by the precarious situation in France, and an account of the costs of repairing the palace in Avignon, that the missive from the Archdeacon of Nazareth concerning a possible Jewish plot against Rome was presented.
A slight murmur rose from the benches of bishops and archbishops. The word “Jew,” even when uttered as part of a banal communiqué, never failed to cause a certain stir. But now their eminences were confronted with another term, just as troubling and filled with mystery: “Invisible Jerusalem.” But the young priest had already moved on to something else: suggestions for the menu and floral decorations of the All Saints meal.
The Holy Father seemed to make little of these accusations coming from the Holy Land. Isolated and idle, the Archdeacon of Nazareth no doubt wanted to make a good impression. Under close watch from the Mamluks, he had proved himself incapable of recruiting local spies and saboteurs with a view to a new crusade. He could not even raise the funds necessary to maintain the basilica in Bethlehem. Claiming to be bled dry by the caliphate, his flock did not pay their tithes. Did he really think he could distinguish himself by revealing a grim conspiracy, which, even if it existed, was almost certainly the work of a handful of upstarts? Rome would only give credence to such stories when it saw a fleet of Hebrew ships sailing to attack the coast of Italy, or the Jewish quarter of some city taking up arms rather than bowing and scraping.
Paul II inquired rather about the progress of the armies of the nobles opposed to Louis XI, disappointed to learn that they were making no progress at all, held back not by the regiments of the crown, but by stupid internal divisions. Charles the Bold, Jean of Bourbon and René of Anjou were disputing the throne before they had even conquered it. The legate in Avignon was warning against a victory by Louis XI, fearing that it would involve a de facto annexation of the Comtat. As for the French clergy, it was only to be expected that it would submit to its victorious young monarch much more willingly than to the spiritual head of the Church, who, although quite venerable, was already old and lacked a firm hand.
Since the fall of Byzantium, the influence of the Papacy had continued to decline. Only the Iberian peninsula and a few Italian principalities still saw Rome as the capital of Christendom. Paul II was increasingly isolated. By fighting the humanists with all the aggressiveness of a zealot, he had lost the respect of the Sforzas and the Medicis. His nuncios reproached him for the luxury with which he surrounded himself while at the same time, from one council or synod to the next, reducing their budgets and their privileges. Ever since the clandestine republication of the seditious writings of John Wycliffe and Jan Hus, an unhealthy wind of reform had been blowing through the German, English, Czech, and Dutch dioceses, as well as everywhere that the Inquisition did not have a grip as strong as in Italy or Spain. In Paris, Guillaume Chartier did not even reply to the injunctions ordering him to forbid the opening of new printing works within his bishopric. And now the Holy Father, in no way worried by a devilish plan of the Jews to undermine his power, was busying himself choosing the food and ornaments for the forthcoming Papal receptions.
What the cardinals did not know was that, although the Pope seemed to be paying no attention to the warnings of the Archdeacon of Nazareth, it was not out of nonchalance. Quite the contrary. He secretly maintained the hope that they would be confirmed, seeing them as an unhoped for opportunity to restore his image. The announcement of a satanic plague coming from Judea would inflame the ardor of the faithful much more than the oft-repeated accusations of anathema and ritual murder. In fighting the diabolical forces of a secret Jerusalem, Rome would present itself as the last bastion of the faith. It would again be able to unite all the Catholic kings around it.
As one of his counselors spoke of the severe measures to be taken against the reformist bishops, Paul II was thinking about the best way to spread the rumor of a Jewish conspiracy. He even thought to make the task of the conspirators easier in order for the threat to take on the required scope. Pleased with this stratagem, he dismissed the College with a brief sign of the cross. Indignant, the prelates slowly left the chamber, continuing their discussions in low voices. Their reproving murmurs buzzed through the galleries until they were lost in the distance, covered by the drafts blowing in through the large windows looking out on St. Peter’s Square.
The Supreme Pontiff sat motionless, sunk in the thick cushions of his canopied chair. He sent his chamberlain to fetch the chief of the guard. The huge chamber with its marble walls stretched in front of him, empty, silent. Paul II thought about God. He imagined the Almighty, sitting up there amid the stars, gazing out at the universe. Did He feel as alone as the Pope?
A dapper-looking officer crossed the threshold with a stiff, hurried gait. He wore a ceremonial doublet and a saber whose handle was engraved with the arms of the Holy See. The chamberlain scurried after him, his nose to the ground, his back stooped. The officer stopped dead at the foot of the Papal throne and stood to attention, grotesquely frozen. With this man, Paul II did not need to bother with the mannered tone or the air of thoughtful benevolence he had to assume to address archbishops and rulers. He could speak openly, get straight to the point. In the raucous voice of an old general, he informed the officer that the Jews had just declared war on Rome.