Chapter Eighty-three

 

 

The Dark Time

 

 

As Pope Urban II, Odo de Lagery’s diplomatic finesse far surpassed the timidity of Desiderius as Pope Victor III as well as the inflexibility of the great Pope Gregory. He also kept a close eye to the pulse of the Roman population, and after being in possession of Rome for nearly a year without rebellion or incident, he decided it was finally safe to leave the city in the hands of able assistants while he traveled to conduct a series of synods with the bishops of southern Italy. His primary interest was to solidify support from them on his continued push to implement Gregorian reform.

Accordingly, in the autumn of 1089 while Tristan was conducting his diplomatic missions to the west, he met with seventy bishops in the city of Melphi which was located in south central Italy. While there he successfully promulgated decrees against the sale of Church office and the marriage of clergymen. He also managed to negotiate a lasting peace between Roger Borsa and Bohemud, the feuding Norman half-brothers who had previously only agreed to a temporary truce, and acquired formal alliances with them both. Feeling extremely successful with the completion of these important endeavors, Odo then directed his papal entourage back north for Rome.

Inexplicably, due to the Germans’ sudden and continuing success against Mathilda to the north, the fickle citizens of Rome sensed an ultimate and final victory for King Heinrich and the anti-pope after years of Investiture War. Fearing retribution and a possible sacking of the city from Heinrich, the population opened the gates of Rome to the anti-pope during Pope Urban’s absence and invited Clement to resume his papacy within the Vatican.

This was a terrible blow to Gregorian Catholics, and in particular to Pope Urban who had been so convinced that he had finally stabilized the political climate of Rome.

“Ah, I have grossly miscalculated,” he confided to his entourage as they attempted to force their way within the city. “We should have never left the city.”

Their arrival was met with resistance, and though Pope Urban was able to approach the walls of the Vatican on Christmas day and anathematize anti-pope Clement who was celebrating mass within Saint Peter’s Cathedral, Pope Urban and his followers were soon forced from the city.

As they headed south then for Lower Italy and the protection of the Normans, Odo shook his head in discouragement and cried, “After all these years of war and bloodletting, has it really come to this? Is it possible that God would favor kings over his own humble and faithful servants here on earth?”

And thus began a three year period of uncertainty during which Pope Urban II was compelled to wander the roads of southern Italy in exile. And though Odo was hailed wherever he appeared in Lower Italy and managed to hold councils, organize synods, and improve the overall character of ecclesiastical discipline, it was a desolate time for him. This desolation drove him into prayer, and it was not unusual for him to pray without interruption for days at a time. Exile also redirected him, causing him to spend more time with the poor and dispossessed, and built in him a greater appreciation of the humble masses who had little in this life. He became less political for a time, and more pious.

Odo’s exile was a difficult time for Tristan also. He continued to directly represent Pope Urban on diplomatic missions to France, Spain, Sicily, North Africa, Saxony, and Bavaria. More importantly, he even managed to make inroads into England with the resentful King William II, and facilitate the entry of Abbot Anselm into England where he was finally appointed the Archbishop of Canterbury as had been hoped years earlier. Tristan also continued to work closely with Brother Muehler and the Benedictine underground out of Monte Cassino, and frequently met Handel during his ventures here and there. Through this entire period there was a pervasive and unspoken loneliness that followed him about, like some lingering shadow that refused to dissipate, even in the light of important work amongst the most important figures of the continent. Much of this loneliness was still rooted in the memory of Mala, as well as in a profound regret over the child she bore him that he had never seen. Indeed, each time he visited Canossa, he would spend hours praying over the grave of the lost infant.

Another part of Tristan’s lingering despondency, he supposed, was himself. Although he had attained the heights in terms of career, prestige, and recognition, there existed a dark void within his soul. It was the result of two things, he decided: his uncertainty about his true relationship with God and his lack of personal fulfillment. Everything considered, he thought, I am still alone in this life… and have not met my true destiny.

As Tristan and Odo continued to work their way through this bleak period, each passing year saw new victories for Heinrich in Germany against both the Saxons and Bavarians. The same was occurring in Italy as each time Mathilda’s war weary troops ventured out from the shelter of Canossa and the Qattro Castelli, they were sent reeling backwards in one bloody defeat after another. By the third year of this demise Guillaume had attained the age of twenty-four and had become a hardened, battle scarred veteran of war, and had risen to third in command of Mathilda’s army, outranked only by General Padule and Welf the Younger.

“The years are catching up to me,” Padule confessed to Guillaume after yet another exhausting retreat into the mountains. “I can’t hold up to much more of this, you’ll have to take over soon. I only pray that we have an army left by then.”

“What about Welf. His rank is higher than mine.”

“No matter, that,” Padule sighed, spent. “Besides, Mathilda awarded him the rank only as a gesture of courtesy. After all, he’s her husband, such as he is. She no more trusts him to lead troops into battle than she would her chamber maid.”

Orla, Crowbones and Guthroth had also collected more wounds and scars. They, too, were seasoned veterans of battle, but they were no longer youngsters. By 1092 they had been embroiled in non-stop, hand-to-hand combat for seven years, and it was evident in their war-weary faces. “Will there ever be a resolution to this bloody mess?” complained Orla. “Bones of God, these people call themselves Christians, then happily butcher each other for a decade, and still there’s no end in sight.”

“Oh, the end is in sight,” replied Crowbones, “especially if we don’t win a battle soon.”

“J-ja,” frowned Guthroth.

Hroc was now nearly fourteen, and whereas others were war weary, he was still itching to enter the fray. Unlike his older brother Knud who had been smaller in stature, Hroc had grown taller than Guthroth and his upper torso had swollen in girth to nearly the size of his father and his uncle Crowbones. In fact, the Tuscans fondly referred to him as “Goliath”. While Guillaume and the Danes were in the field fighting, Hroc practiced ceaselessly with sword, ax, and pike. He had also become impressive on the back of a horse, and could wheel his mount about as a battering ram nearly as effectively as Guthroth, who was unsurpassed in using his horse as a weapon and was passing along this skill to Hroc between battles.

“I’m grown and ready, Father!” Hroc would cry each time Orla appeared back in the mountain refuge, but Orla steadily denied his son’s request with, “You’re young yet, FiveHands. Don’t be in such a hurry to join the dead.”

“But I’m ready, Father, and as big as any Tuscan within the ranks!”

“Bah, your head is bigger perhaps!”

“I’m strong, too,” Hroc insisted, “and know what I’m doing with both sword and ax, just like you.”

“Nay, you only think you do, son. You’ve never had a man come at you with blood in his eyes, intent on putting you down. Your time will come, boy. Each time I think of you going to war, I can’t dispel the image of your poor brother, Knud, lying there butchered on that field. Besides, this war is nearly done, no need in being the last one killed, especially in defeat.”

It was a dark time, then, for Mathilda, Guillaume, the Danes, and Gregorians throughout Italy. There was one person who prospered greatly during this period… Mala. Having become acquainted with several of the local politicians of neighboring city-states shortly after Balducci’s death, she became privy to information concerning city expansions and major building projects. These politicians were always looking for investment capital, of course, and this melded perfectly into Mala’s strategy of investing her wealth as opposed to sitting on it. As the war itself was being fought in the countryside and in the mountains and was being funded by the royals, nobles, and the Church, the city-states themselves continued to grow as a result of bristling trade amongst themselves and from abroad. Mala’s investments, therefore, immediately began to provide handsome returns. Furthermore, she drove hard bargains and made soliciting politicians from the various city-states compete for her capital.

This prompted her to take gambles despite Duxia’s advice to the contrary. Having become adept at manipulating finances in Tuscany, and calculating that the overseas trade was on the rise, she determined that she could do even better in a large seaport environment. Accordingly, she placed her Tuscany manor and vast farmlands under lease and moved to the bustling port of Genoa. Continuing the entrepreneurial practices she had established in Tuscany, she soon discovered that her gambles were, in fact, not gambles at all. The Genoans eagerly sought her support in construction endeavors, as well as in trading ventures to Spain, North Africa, Byzantium, and the Middle East. Within three years she was one of the wealthiest financiers in Genoa, and became a highly celebrated presence within the community. The Genoese, the vast majority being commoners themselves involved in trade, the crafts, shipping, and solicitation, respected Mala’s business acumen and held her common background up as a model rather than something to be looked sneered at.

“Oh, these people are so different than the nobles!” exclaimed Duxia. “And you have their hearts, Mala. Who would have ever imagined that you would rise to such a level? And to think that your greatest dream was once to own a little shop. Now you own entire sections of town!”

During her second year in Genoa she happened to encounter an elderly gentleman during a ship’s auction. The white-haired man kept bidding against her on the purchase of a fine French trading vessel, La Reine, that was only two-years-old and had been making voyages back and forth to North Africa. Mala had every intention of owning that ship by the end of the day, but it seemed that the elderly gentleman’s pockets were as deep as her own. Curious, she took a seat beside him and introduced herself, hoping he might back off his bids. After some initial competitive banter, the two then somehow became engaged in more personal conversation, and found themselves taking a liking to each other.

“Ah, you are a lovely young thing, my dear,” the gentleman said, “and so uncommonly clever about trade. Are you married, by chance?”

Mala laughed at this, thinking the old man would next propose. “No, Sir, I was married once, but my husband was killed in the war against Heinrich.”

“Oh, poor thing, you must be lonely then?”

Mala laughed again. “Certainly not! And if you are attempting to seduce me, Sir, my only interest at the moment is the purchase of La Reine sitting along the pier there!”

“Ah, a shame that, for if you were seeking a husband, I would fall on my knees this very moment and beg you to be my wife!”

Mala wasn’t certain, but she thought she perceived a tone of jest in this statement, which prompted her to return the favor. “Oh, so you mock me, now, eh?” she chided.

“I’m serious my dear. Look at me! I’m not a young man and don’t have much longer to go. And I’m alone in life. I wouldn’t be a bad catch for a young woman like you and I have more money than I could ever spend in my remaining years.”

“Ha! I have my own money!” Mala laughed. “But I like you, Sir.”

“Yea, and I like you.” Then he scratched at the slight stubble gracing his chin and reflected a moment. It saddens me that I’ll probably never encounter this striking woman again, he thought. Then his eyes brightened as an idea popped-up. “My dear,” he said, “why don’t we purchase this ship together and be done with this bidding war?”

“Together?” said Mala.

“Yes, certainly. We can share the cost, the risk, and the profits. A joint venture.”

“Indeed,” replied Mala. Without thinking a moment more, she said, “I accept!”

The old man passed his hand in the air and the auctioneer closed off the bids. “Sold!” he cried, “To the white haired gentleman sitting on the front row!”

“Well, it appears we have a ship, eh?” said Mala, delighted.

“Yes,” said the white-haired man, handing Mala a slip of paper. “Here are the directions to my estate outside Genoa, and if you’ll bring your representative by in the morning, I’ll have the contract drawn up and we’ll figure out what to do with this beautiful vessel.” Then he stood, with the help of his cane, and turned to leave.

“But, Sir,” said Mala, “I don’t even know your name!”

“Oh, indeed,” he replied clumsily, nearly tripping as he turned about. “I am Duke Bernard Bertucci. Many here in Genoa call me the “General”, though I am retired since the recent crusade in North Africa. I would like you to call me Bernard.”

That next morning Mala and her financial agent appeared at the Bertucci estate. “Oh, how extravagant!” she commented as the coach entered the gate and moved along the impeccably landscaped approach that wound its way to his castle.

“Indeed,” replied the agent, a man named Salvetti, “Duke Bertucci is the wealthiest man in Genoa and comes from old money. I’m surprised of his interest in a joint venture for he’s not known for either sharing or collaboration with others.”

“He likes my appearance,” said Mala matter-of-factly. Her stunning beauty had not waned a single measure though she had attained her thirtieth year, and had in fact taken on a new, even more striking elegance since taking on both emotional and financial independence.

Moments later, Mala and Salvetti were seated at a table with Bertucci and three of his financial handlers who scurried about him pointing out details of the lengthy contract they had drawn up.

“Enough!” Bertucci cried. “This is a simple enough affair. I clearly wish to enter into a fifty-fifty agreement with this young lady.”

“May I review the document,” said Salvetti, his tone all business. Then, without waiting for a response, he reached over, pulled the contract into his grip, and began examining it.

“You know,” said Bertucci, lost in Mala’s eyes, “I gave you my name yesterday, but did not think to get yours. So what’s...”

“I am Mala,” she interrupted.

He waited a moment, expecting more, but she said nothing. “Have you no last name, my dear?”

“I am a widow, Sir. When my husband died unexpectedly in battle three years ago, I decided to abandon his name and go by my birth name, which is Mala. My husband’s name, to satisfy your apparent curiosity, was Lord Vincento Balducci.”

A blow to the temple could not have unsettled the old man more than these words. “Balducci!” he cried, nearly choking on his own words. “My God! Y-you are that Romani girl he married? The dancing girl?”

“Yes, I am,” said Mala, surprised. There was no apology in her voice. “You look as though you swallowed a bird! So tell me, what is any of that to you?”

Bertucci was shaking by now, and his face red with reaction. “Oh, that bastard Balducci, he was betrothed to my daughter, Marianna until you came along!”

“I see,” said Mala, showing no emotion. “Please know that I may have “come along” as you so aptly put it, but I did not pursue Vincento, he pursued me. Nor did I suggest marriage because I denied his insistence to wed three times before finally consenting.” Then she signaled to Salvetti and stood. “Very well, Duke Bertucci, I can see that this joint venture you suggested is not going to come together then. Salvetti, call the coachman and we’ll be on our way.”

“Yes, certainly,” Salvetti replied.

“And Duke Bertucci,” Mala continued, her tone now turning cross, “I regret any inconvenience my marriage to Vincento may have caused your family. I will tell you this, so very good as Vincento was to me, he was no prize in the way he treated others. I therefore estimate that your daughter would have been miserable in the end, and if you were any judge of character at all you would already know this! Furthermore, don’t ever blame me for your daughter’s failed engagement because I have been ostracized, humiliated, and scorned by others like you in the past. Sir, those days are dead! I’ll no longer tolerate such talk from you so-called nobles, who are no nobler than my own herd of mules and jackasses back at my estates of Tuscany, and you are welcome to convey my thoughts to your daughter also!”

At the mention of his daughter, Bertucci’s face dropped. “Sh-she’s dead,” said Bertucci in a low, subdued voice. “She… died shortly after Balducci called off the wedding.”

These words and Bertucci’s expression filled Mala with remorse over the verbal lashing she had delivered to the old man. “I… I’m sorry, Sir, to hear that. I apologize for my words. It’s just that…”

“Yes, yes, I know,” grunted Bertucci with a flap of his hand, “I heard all the talk about you… and even engaged in it myself, without ever meeting you.” Then he looked up at her and said, “Your beauty struck me yesterday at the auction, to the point of absurdity for an old man like me. You interested me, and I was thinking that after the auction I would never see you again… and I didn’t want that.”

“Goodness, Duke Bertucci, what are you saying?” said Mala as Bertucci’s three financial handlers looked on, mouths ajar, their full attention focused on the Duke.

“What I’m saying, young lady is that I would like to do business with you. Oh, I’m not so foolish as to think one as young and lovely as yourself would ever take up with an old badger like myself, but we could do some business together, multiply our wealth, and be friends at least, eh?”

Mala looked at old Bertucci’s pleading eyes and settled her hands on either side of her hips as a smile began to form.

“Well,” she replied, “I was hoping to strike up a partnership to launch several overseas ventures with someone here in Genoa who has as much money as myself and you might do nicely in that regard, Duke Bertucci.”

“Ah, wonderful!” replied Bertucci, his posture loosening. “And please, call me Bernard.”