Twenty-One

 

11 July 1327

 

Pietro became even more fascinating to the people of Avignon after his now infamous encounter with Cardinal Gui. The flood of invitations gave him pause. Were they eager to meet him just for his company, or because he was surely going to die?

He accepted fewer of them than before, and made certain there would be no more readings, no more opportunities to be hanged by his father’s verse. He did accept a lovely private dinner at the Colonna palace, an unspoken apology for the unseemly confrontation he’d endured under their roof. Petrarch said it was an excellent sign, as Cardinal Sciarrillo was the papal gate-keeper, and was now kindly disposed towards Pietro.

That dinner provided Pietro with his only opportunity to ask after Tharwat, and even that was oblique. He mentioned that he’d heard the papal palace kept a menagerie, and he’d like to see it. The Colonna admitted they knew of the existence of the private zoo, but didn’t know anything about the keeper or his assistant. Pietro tried to reassure himself that if anything dramatic had occurred, these two were close enough to the papacy that they would have heard something.

He also learned that they were both to travel back to Italy at the end of August. “We have duties there. Just because His Holiness has decided to root himself here in France, it does not mean the Church has abandoned its true home. Rome was Peter’s rock, and Vatican Hill is still where the world looks for guidance.”

And you’re leaving here just as Emperor Ludwig is heading to Rome to crown himself. Meaning you plan to have a foot in both camps. But Pietro kept his insights to himself.

More worrying was the idea of losing an ally who had the Pope’s ear. Sciarrillo was a man who spoke his mind, not one who curried favour or was ever mild in company. If he felt Pietro was being abused, he would speak up. Pietro hoped his trial – for that was what it was sure to be – happened soon.

They spoke of Cangrande, of course. Stefano had met the Scaliger on several occasions. “I always found him to be a gentleman, if a bit cocksure. Likes to own whatever room he’s in. There is nothing humble in him.” Laughing, Pietro agreed, and told a few mildly embarrassing tales.

There followed some very pointed questions about recent events, and Pietro confessed that relations between Cangrande and the Emperor had not improved. Hearing this, Stefano said, “For this he burned his bridges with the Church? I hope your master knows what he is about.”

He usually does, Pietro did not say.

From there talk turned to news from Florence (where Pietro was an exile), Venice (where Pietro was under a death sentence), and finally Padua (where Pietro’s damning part of the Dente revolt was still a secret). Pietro was privy to much information about each of these places, thanks to Cangrande’s network of intelligence, but he knew the most about Padua. Though only some of it did he share that night. The rest was secret. As were his sources.

His best font of information was Petruchio’s father-in-law, Baptista Minola, struggling mightily to hold on to his minor holdings in the city and country. From him Pietro learned that his old foe Marsilio da Carrara was a worried man. Carrara’s cousin Niccolo had formed his own following and was beginning to grow larger than his frame. Baptista suspected that soon Cousin Niccolo would usurp the leadership of Padua, nominal though it was. He was courting the Ghibellines of Padua, entertaining them with lavish parties and holding secret meetings in his home. Straddling the fence of having two Ghibelline sons-in-law while living in a Guelph city, Baptista had elected to avoid such gatherings, protesting his frail health much the same way he had when suitors had called years ago.

Baptista wasn’t the only one to hear the rumours. In a pre-emptive strike, Marsilio had recently banished Niccolo’s major followers. Upon Cangrande’s return from Milano, Niccolo’s best friend was seen with the Scaliger, thick with intrigue. When that news reached Marsilio, Cousin Niccolo had fled Padua, rounded up all the other Paduan exiles (even those who had fought his brother) and brought them to Cangrande to plead for aid. The Scaliger agreed to support their efforts, but not to lend them troops – he refused to break the current truce.

But Cousin Niccolo did get troops out of Verona. He found a sympathetic ear in Mastino della Scala, who was itching to prove himself in the field. He had a private army recruited and armed by Fuchs, mostly German mercenaries from across the Alps, soldiers disaffected with the Emperor and longing for spoil. Mastino promised them wealth greater than Pluto’s mine, and they pledged their loyalty not to Verona, not to the Scaliger, but directly to Mastino.

The implication was obvious. If at some future date there was any question of succession, Mastino meant to have an army at his back that would not defect to Cesco.

There was also news from Verona that was strictly personal, related in a letter from Antony Capulletto. Leaving for Florence, Pietro’s little brother Poco had left behind a wench who’d apparently given birth to his son, now three years old. Being a relation to one of Antony’s servants, she’d come to him for help. Capulletto wrote that he’d taken the child in, for the sake of Pietro’s family. As a mark of respect, Antony even had the boy rechristened Piero.

Thus Pietro gained his first namesake, a bastard nephew who would be brought up in a house with a fresco of Pietro as a saint. Reading all this in Antony’s letter, Pietro had no idea if he should laugh or hire a swordsman to have his brother killed. Maybe Tharwat remembers his Hashashin training…

Of course, that would require knowing where Tharwat was.

At the end of June, while Petrarch was busy at the Colonna palace, Pietro did something foolish – he called on Bonagratia and Occam. Having tied himself, however philosophically, to their causes, it was more dangerous than ever to be seen with them. Yet receiving their invitation, he’d felt obliged to accept.

“Young fool,” said Occam as they again took the air of the cloistered yard. “Crossing swords with the High Inquisitor? That was utter stupidity.”

“Brave, though,” observed Bonagratia with a smile.

“Certainly. And other fools will cheer our young knight, even as he’s burned at the stake.”

“I had no choice,” said Pietro.

“Rubbish. You could easily have said many things that would have balmed that wound. Instead you gave that detestable man exactly what he wanted – a challenge. He has an unparalleled record as an Inquisitor. He convicted over nine hundred poor souls in his fifteen years in Toulouse. Breaking you will be his pleasure. Here.” Occam reached into the heavy pouch at his belt and produced two books. “Since you are committed to this folly, these may assist you.”

“More terrible tomes?” asked Petrarch. “We’re still reeling from your last one.”

Bonagratia smiled. “This might be more practical.”

“Yes. Since he armed himself with your father’s words at your last meeting, you can arm yourself with Gui’s words for your next. You may just survive.”

Pietro accepted them and glanced at the titles. Practica Inquisitionis Heretice Pravitatis and Le Catalogue des Évêques de Limoges. “Gui wrote these?”

“He did. The Latin one is his guide for inquisitors, giving examples of how to cross-examine a heretic and make even an innocent soul look guilty. He employs several logical fallacies that you should gird yourself against. The other is his own history of the Bishops of Limoges. He’s written several such, and it’s rumoured he plans to unite them into a tome of general knowledge.”

“Interesting that he wrote them in French,” observed Pietro.

“He thinks in French,” said Occam dismissively.

“As does the Pope,” observed Bonagratia.

“And Pietro, be warned. He believes in this notion of coercitio, that truth can be found through physical coercion.”

“Meaning torture,” explained Bonagratia.

Occam nodded emphatically. “There is a foolish idea that a man will speak the truth if put under enough pain. Whereas it is far more logical that a man will actually say anything, true or not, to make the pain stop. There is a reason we’ve condemned so few heretics in England. Say what you will about Edward II, but he upheld his father’s decree against torture. The Inquisitors say we are not diligent enough to root out the heretics, whereas we maintain we are not forcing innocent men to proclaim their guilt. Truth comes from reason, and a man on the rack or being flayed is anything but reasonable.”

Pietro could not help a twitching of his fingers at the thought of the skin being flensed from them. Quickly he changed the subject. “Is there any advancement of your own cases? Surely with a new Grand Penitentiary they cannot delay any longer.”

“Surely they can! They’ll fill the schedule with less contentious cases, such as, forgive me, yours. The Church is not eager to display the divisions within its holy ranks.”

“But there is progress,” said Bonagratia eagerly. “There are rumours of a congregation in some God-forsaken abbey in the north of Italy. There will meet the brothers of our fractured orders, including my beloved Michael of Cesena. They are planning it for November, and we all pray that being gathered in one room will mend the rifts and, with the guidance of God above, discover a means of going forward that will be the satisfaction of all. I hope to attend,” said Bonagratia.

“I do not,” stated Occam. “Any overt show on either of our parts would be fatal to both our causes. Though I confess it hurts my heart. I hear Guglielmo da Baskerville is going. I would enjoy seeing him again.” Shaking off a fond smile, Occam returned to his original point. “Regardless, we hope that these books will give you shafts for your bow by letting you see how he thinks.”

Thankful, Pietro took them back to Carpentras, fully intending to start poring over them that night. But he was waylaid at the front door by Petrarch’s sister. Lucia was just preparing to leave, which caused both her brothers to frown in consternation. “At this hour? Without a chaperone?”

Lucia rolled her eyes. “I’m staying in town with the Fieschi family – I’m sure I told you. Cardinal Fieschi has a niece visiting. Isabella, daughter of the Count of Savignone. I’ve been asked to be her companion and guide to Avignon. I’m certain it is entirely proper!” she huffed.

Pietro recalled the pompous and charming Cardinal Luca Fieschi, who’d joined Gui in attacking Pietro. He felt uncomfortable at the idea of a woman he’d spurned and who had access to so many of his secrets being closeted in a household aligned against him. But there was nothing to be said.

In his room, Pietro settled down to read the writings of Cardinal Bernardo Gui. To his dismay, he found the history excellent, and the cross-examination of heretics uncomfortably familiar.

♦ ◊ ♦

 

It was just a week later that a richly appointed prelate arrived at Carpentras with the sealed summons for Ser Pietro Alaghieri to appear before the Bishop of Albano, the new Grand Penitentiary, for an examination of his soul, and his master’s. In honoured attendance would be the Cardinal Orsini, Cardinal Colonna, Cardinal Fieschi, and Cardinal Guidoni – all men who had been present at the reading.

There were two more names Pietro knew only by reputation. Cardinal Bertrand del Poggetto, nephew to the pope, avowed detester of literature, and the man who had been rejected by Cangrande the year before. And Cardinal Jean de Baune, a Dominican Inquisitor who had once held office in Narbonne.

He studied the list again, and summed it up neatly. “Not a particularly friendly assembly.”

“Better many than one or two. They are like to wrangle – it’s their sport. All you have to do is divide them, or at least not give them cause to unite against your master. You shall argue for the Scaliger, and I for you,” said Petrarch, taking the parchment to read it over again.

“When?”

“Monday, the second of September. Hmm. The feast of Saint Agricola.”

“The farmer? Or the Roman general?”

“A local saint, the Bishop of Avignon five hundred years ago. The current pope created the college of Saint Agricola just six years back. It’s a very important day for locals – feasts and celebrations and what-not.”

Pietro didn’t have to search far for a reason. “They don’t want public attention focused on my trial. Which means they plan to condemn me. Not Cangrande, the crowds wouldn’t care. Me. I’m to be arrested, and they want everyone too busy reveling to make a fuss.”

“Possibly. Or it could be they’re just preparing in case you are condemned. It doesn’t mean they’ve decided in advance.”

“September second. That date is ringing bells in my head. And not for Saint Agricola.”

“Let’s see. It was the death-date for Emperor Constantius III.”

“No, something earlier. Isn’t that the date for the Battle of Actium, when Mark Antony lost his war against Augustus?”

Petrarch snapped his fingers. “Mark Antony! Yes, of course. That’s also the date in 44 that Cicero made the first of his Philippics, condemning Antony for being a tyrant. ‘Illud magis vereor ne ignorans verum iter gloriae gloriosum putes plus te unum posse quam omnis et metui a civibus tuis quam diligi malis. Quod si ita putas, totam ignoras viam gloriae.’ ” Petrarch laughed. “But I doubt they know enough of the classics to choose a date of such import deliberately. Never fear, my friend. As Cicero himself said, ‘Verum enim amicum qui intuetur, tamquam exemplar aliquod intuetur sui.’ And I am your friend, through and through.”

A friend is like a second self, thought Pietro. He then recalled the last part of that quote. And in his friend’s life he enjoys a second life after his own is finished.

I hope if things go badly, my friends do not suffer as I will.

Then his mind returned to the thing he’d been fretting over since March. Now that the date was set, time was a real factor.

If only I had an answer to my letter! Antonia – I need you!

♦ ◊ ♦

 

Two months earlier, his letter had found itself safely delivered into the hands of the person he least suspected of suffering, his sister Antonia. She received it eagerly, then steeled herself. She had promised – no secrets. So she marched directly to the door of Abbess Verdiana and knocked.

“Suor Beatrice. Come in, my child. Close the door. Now, what is it?”

“A letter. From my brother.”

“He is a long time at Avignon. I trust his petition goes well.”

“I do not know, Mother. I have not read it.”

The Abbess looked pleased. “Then let us read it together.”

It was difficult, as it was in code. But Antonia dutifully translated everything, reading the contents aloud. “He is worried for a friend, the Moor I told you of.”

“Ser Alaghieri keeps strange company.”

“They met through the Capitano. Tharwat saved my brother’s life.”

“Well then, that debt must be paid. And it’s not for me to say what friends the Capitano di Verona has. Though we must note that he, too, has been excluded from the sight of the Almighty.”

Antonia read on. She had not shared the code itself with the Abbess, but she had sworn to reveal the contents of all messages that came to her within these walls. It was the price. The price for safety.

She had tried, a year ago. Tried herself to defend her honour. But again the man had laughed at her feeble attempt with the knife, then beaten her savagely where it wouldn’t show.

The next day Cesco had broken his leg. She’d rushed to visit him, every step an agony, only to hear him declare his intention to stop his secret midnight visits. “It’s too hard. This wouldn’t have happened if I’d just stayed at home. His punishments are worse than not sleeping.” She’d pleaded with him to keep the option open, use her for a refuge when the world was too harsh, as he had as a small child. But the twelve year-old had been firm, and she had cried real tears of grief. Horribly, the relief was greater. If Cesco never came again, she would not be subject to further attacks.

But though the attacks ended, Antonia’s condition did not improve. Indeed, her nerves became worse. She found herself shrinking from shadows, fearing her own room – she’d never learned how the man had come and gone without a trace. She dedicated herself more than ever to work and prayer, so long as there were other women present. She began to loathe the society of men. She stopped going to the monastery with the tremendous library, despite the fact that Cesco was there, doing his catalogue. Even Fra Lorenzo, whom she had come to think of as a friend, was an unwelcome sight. She found herself stealing candles from the workshop where the books were made, just to leave them burning in her room at night.

Worst, in her weakest moments she found herself thinking ill of Cesco, despising his posing, his antics, his determination to be special. If he had only submitted to Cangrande, bent to his will, then none of them would have these woes. Pietro would come home, Tharwat too, and Antonia could return to her beloved convent in Ravenna.

She loathed herself for even harbouring these thoughts. In her rational mind she knew them unjust, unfair – Cesco didn’t even know of her plight! Yet she could not banish them.

Weeks and months of these constant terrors, of losing the confident young woman she’d once been into this mouse that she detested, of restless sleep and feverish work-filled days, of waiting and waiting to see if Cesco needed her.

Then all at once he’d gone to serve the Emperor. Without even a word of farewell. Leaving Antonia without a thought.

The moment she heard the news of this defection, she had steeled herself and gone to the Abbess. “Mother, I would like to join the other nuns in the main sleeping hall.”

The Abbess looked sternly up at her. “Why? Have you and your lover had a quarrel?”

Stunned and shocked, Antonia had blinked, then all at once found herself on the floor, bawling, shaking, howling. The story came tumbling out: her mothering of Cesco, the rapes, even the moon tea she had asked of Fra Lorenzo. She confessed everything that was in her, every sin, real and imagined. And Antonia had been astonished when the Abbess had knelt and held her tight, rocking her as one would a child.

When Antonia was quite recovered, the Abbess invited her to share her own rooms that night. Antonia was so relieved she almost cried again. And for the first time in months she slept soundly. The Abbess had allowed her to sleep through the night hours of observance, and even through Compline. Then they had sat together for an interview.

“Suor Beatrice, you have been subject to wicked deeds. I see now that I misjudged the situation, and I beg you to forgive me.” Her normally stern visage grew even harder. “But I trust you see your wickedness, too. This is the fruit of poisoned trees that you harvested. You came to this house filled with secrets and deceptions. You may have thought you were doing good. Surely your intentions regarding this poor child are excellent. But your misfortunes came about from being too sub rosa. Secrets are like your attacker – they require darkness to survive. Sunshine is their enemy. The sun is God’s own light. Darkness is the Devil’s realm. So secrets, good or ill, lead to deviltry. Today we start anew, you and I. You have been a tremendous asset to this house. The money your bibles fetch has allowed us to repair the dormitory roof, not to mention feeding many poor wretches who cannot feed themselves. But you have held yourself apart from us, to preserve a piece of your secular self. You must choose, girl – are you Antonia Alaghieri, of plots and secrets and lies? Or are you Suor Beatrice, a Benedictine nun, a bride of Christ, devoted to truth, chastity, and light? If the former, you must leave, despite the financial loss this house will suffer. For no good came of relationships based on lies. There will be no repercussions, no ill wishes or rumours. We will part as friends.” The Abbess had seen the stricken expression on Antonia’s face. “However, if you choose to remain, my girl, there must be no more secrets. I will keep you here, as my personal aide. You have certainly earned such a post, no one will question it. You will help me run this house. But I must know I have your absolute devotion and trust. Which means no more secrets. Of any kind.”

Antonia was desperate to accept. But she forced herself to speak the sole objection weighing upon her. “Some secrets are not mine to share.”

Frowning, Abbess Verdiana sat very still for a long time. “Very well. You may leave.”

“No! Mother, please, no! I swear I will keep no secrets of my own from you. Nor will I act in secrecy to hide the deeds of others. But I cannot break a solemn vow to God, which I would be doing were I to reveal other people’s secrets.”

The tiny woman with the slight hump of age under her mantle had gazed at Antonia for what seemed an eternity. At least she pressed her lips together and sighed through her nose. “Needs must. Certainly I cannot tell you to break a vow to God above. One member of your family has been condemned for that already. But we are agreed – no more secrets from me?” Antonia nodded submissively. “Then you may stay.”

There had been one more condition for Suor Beatrice to remain in the convent. An Abbess was, of course, not empowered by the Church to hear confession and grant absolution. Antonia was commanded to go to a priest and confess her sins, cleanse her soul before she took up her newly dedicated role. She’d fretted over the choice of priest. But at last she had chosen the one she knew best. Fra Lorenzo had been shocked, but wonderfully comforting. She found afterwards that she was not so frightened as she had been. She did not even feel uncomfortable in his presence. But then, he was a holy man. More her brother now than even Pietro or Poco.

That had been January. In the months since, Antonia felt somewhat more like herself. Abbess Verdiana was a crotchety bird, but Antonia came to know her moods and see the sense behind her commands. Having experienced the tenderness buried deep within the old woman, it coloured every order with more compassion than Suor Beatrice had perceived before.

Until this latest letter, the burden of secrets had not been too heavy. There had been a few notes from Cesco, rambling and full of boyish news. Letters from Morsicato focused mostly on his wife’s ill-health. Poco wrote occasionally from Florence, and spoke mostly nonsense. Only in Pietro’s letters were there matters that had to be spoken of indirectly. So far she had managed not to betray his confidences without breaking her vow to the Abbess.

That changed with this letter. She’d finished reading aloud the passage about facing Bernardo Gui over their father’s work (she was unable to conceal her anger at Gui, nor her pride in her brother) and was in the midst of translating the next section when all at once she stopped.

“What is it?” asked the Abbess.

“He found the answer,” said Suor Beatrice, shocked. “Well, not an answer, a clue…”

“What’s this? Another of his secrets”

“Forgive me. This will take a moment.” She read carefully over what he had written, one sentence that would cross a metaphorical line, were she to obey. For her brother wanted her to do something. It would cease to be his secret, and become hers as well. She had to either refuse her brother, or else…

“Mother, he writes to ask my help.”

“I think you must explain.”

Suor Beatrice did, telling the whole tale of Pathino, the murders, the kidnappings. She shared the drawing of the medallion. She had to pause to attend the prayers of Sext, then returned to the Abbess’ office to resume the story.

At the conclusion, the Abbess’ nostrils were flaring in anger. “And this detestable man, who murdered Lord Montecchio’s father and tried to murder the Greyhound’s heir while he was a babe in arms, this very man is now wearing holy orders, and speaking poison into Cardinal Gui’s ear?”

“So it seems.”

“And what is it that your brother wishes you to do?”

“He has some questions regarding the history of the medallion, and how it came into Pathino’s possession. He wishes me to ask among those who knew the Scaliger’s father, and to journey to Montecchio, on whose lands this evil man’s mother was in service. He wants enough information to take into court.” She went on quickly. “Mother, I know this is secular work. But the Church is involved. And this speaks directly to the interest of Verona, through the Capitano. Pathino is a definite threat. I have no doubt that he has had a hand in the excommunications of both the Scaliger and my brother. Surely it is the Church’s duty—”

“Enough, girl. This certainly is no surprise to me. I knew this day would come, when you would beg to meddle in the affairs of the world again. It is in your nature. Indeed, it is a sign that your nature is at least somewhat restored, that you wish to again partake in statecraft.”

Antonia dropped her head and forced herself to remain silent, reminding herself that she was no longer the foolish girl who took command of her father’s printing business and marched through the streets of Florence, Verona, and Ravenna as boldly as a knight in arms. She’d vowed herself to humility, then failed to show it, and so had it thrust upon her. “I will write to Pietro and tell him I cannot help him.”

“Nonsense,” said Abbess Verdiana. “You will write to him with all the answers he requires. For you are quite right about the duty of the Church. And it will garner our house the good will of the Scaliger.”

“You mean – I should venture out and find the information he needs?”

“I mean, my daughter,” said the Abbess with a downturned smile, “that I have lived in Verona a very long time. I have all the answers you require.”