Cardinal Honorius Benedetti marvelled at the relief provided by the magnificent fan made of fine strips of mother-of-pearl. It had been given to him one morning, following a long and wakeful night, by a rosy-cheeked young lady from Jumièges – a pleasant souvenir over twenty years old. One of the few remaining from his brief secular life before it was touched by grace, leaving him changed and at the same time disoriented. The only son of a wealthy burgher from Verona, he had been companionable and a lover of the fair sex. Few of his qualities predisposed him to the cloth, least of all his penchant for the material things in life, at any rate when these proved pleasurable. Nevertheless, his rise through the religious hierarchy had been vertiginous. He had been helped by a towering intellect, a vast knowledge and, as he freely admitted, by simple cunning. And, no less, by a certain appetite for power – or rather for the possibilities it offered to those who knew how to manipulate it.
The sweat was streaming down Honorius Benedetti’s face. For days now the city had been in the grip of an unbearable heatwave that seemed determined never to loosen its hold. The young Dominican sitting opposite him was surprised by his visible discomfort. Archbishop Benedetti was a small, slender, almost frail man, and it was difficult to imagine where he stored all the fluid that was drenching his silky grey hair and rolling down his forehead.
The prelate cast his eye over the nervous young friar whose hands trembled slightly as they lay stretched out on his knees. This was not the first accusation of cruelty and physical abuse involving an Inquisitor to be brought before him. Not long ago, Robert le Bougre* had caused them a good deal of trouble and disgrace. The then Pope, Gregory IX, had lost sleep over the horrors uncovered during the investigation ordered by the Church. Naturally he recalled only too well his own error of judgement, for he had seen in that repentant former Cathar* a valuable ‘rooter-out’ of heretics.
‘Brother Bartolomeo,’ continued the Cardinal, ‘what you have told me about the young Inquisitor Nicolas Florin puts me in a very awkward position.’
‘Believe me, Your Eminence, I regret it deeply,’ the novice apologised.
‘If the Church, drawing on our late lamented Gregory IX’s constitution Excommunicamus, decided to recruit her Inquisitors from the Dominican and, to a lesser extent, from the Franciscan orders, it is undoubtedly owing to their excellent knowledge of theology, but also to their humility and compassion. We have always viewed torture as the very last means of obtaining a confession and thus saving the soul of the accused. To have recourse to it from the outset of a trial is … The expression “unacceptable” that you used just now will do. For indeed, there exists a – how should I say? – a scale of penalties and punishments which can, which must be applied beforehand, whether in the form of a pilgrimage – with or without the burden of the Cross – a public beating or a fine.’
Brother Bartolomeo stifled a sigh of relief. So he had not been mistaken. The prelate measured up to his reputation for wisdom and intelligence. And yet, having finally been ushered into the study of the Pope’s private secretary, after a three-hour-long wait in the stuffy atmosphere of the anteroom, he had felt suddenly apprehensive. How would the Cardinal respond to his accusations? And was he, Bartolomeo, clear in his heart, and in his conscience, about the true nature of what had motivated his request for this interview? Was it a noble desire for justice or was there something more shameful involved: denunciation of a feared brother? For it was hopeless to try to deceive himself: Brother Nicolas Florin terrified him. It was strange how this angelic-faced young man appeared to take a sinister delight in brutalising, torturing and mutilating. He plunged his hands into the raw, screaming flesh without even a ripple of displeasure creasing his handsome brow or clouding his expression.
‘Naturally, Your Eminence, since our only duty is to achieve repentance,’ ventured Bartolomeo.
‘Hmm …’
More than anything Honorius Benedetti feared a disastrous repetition of the Robert le Bougre affair. A silent rage mingled with his political concern. The fools! Innocent III had laid down the rules governing the inquisitorial process in his papal bull Vergentis in senium. His aim had not been to exterminate individuals but to eradicate heresies that threatened the foundations of the Church, holding up, among others, the example of Christ’s poverty which – judging by the vast landed wealth of nearly all the monasteries – was not held in high esteem. As for Innocent IV, he had removed the final obstacle by permitting, from 1252 onwards, the use of torture in his papal bull Ad extirpanda.
Torturers. Inept, base torturers. Honorius Benedetti did not know whether he felt more angry or sad. And yet, if he were honest, he too had accepted the bizarre notion that love of the Saviour could, at times, be imposed by means of coercion or even extreme violence. He had felt absolved by the fact that a pope had opened the way before him. Ultimately, was not the boundless joy of having saved a soul, of having returned it to the bosom of Christ, what counted?
This young Bartolomeo and his love for his fellow man had placed him in a difficult situation, for he could no longer feign ignorance. What a fool to have received him! He should have left him mouldering in the anteroom. He might have ended up leaving, bored or annoyed. No, he was not the type to grow tired or impatient. His little mouth withered from the heat, the courage visible in his demeanour – even as his eyes were full of fear – his faltering but determined voice, all pointed to the doggedness of the pure and, in some way, evoked Archbishop Honorius Benedetti’s own distant youth. There was only one way out: punishment or absolution. Absolution would be tantamount to endorsing an unacceptable cruelty and would fuel growing criticism among thinkers throughout Europe. It would provide Philip IV of France with a rod to break their backs, even though the monarch himself had not hesitated to resort to the methods of the Inquisition* in the past. It would be – and here the childishness of this last reasoning almost brought a smile to his lips – to disappoint the young man sitting opposite him, who believed in the possibility of governing without ever being content to compromise one’s faith. So what about punishment? The prelate would be only too pleased to fight this Nicolas Florin, to make him choke on the power that had corrupted him, perhaps to demand his excommunication. And yet by sacrificing one diseased member of the flock he risked bringing disgrace upon all the Dominicans and the few Franciscans who had been named Inquisitors, and consequently upon the papacy itself. And the path from disgrace to rebellion was frequently a short one.
These were such troubled, such volatile times. The slightest scandal would be blown out of all proportion by the King of France, and other monarchs, who were just waiting for such an opportunity.
Just then, one of the innumerable chamberlains that haunted the papal palace crept silently into his study and, bending down towards his ear, informed him in a whisper that his next visitor had arrived. He thanked the man more effusively than was his custom. At last, the excuse he had been waiting for to rid himself of the novice.
‘Brother Bartolomeo, someone is waiting to see me.’
The other man leapt to his feet, blushing. The Cardinal reassured him with a gesture and continued:
‘I am obliged to you, my son. I am unable, you understand, to reach any decision regarding the fate of Nicolas Florin on my own. However, I assure you that His Holiness will no more tolerate such monstrosities than I. They go against our faith and are a discredit to us all. Go in peace. Justice will soon be done.’
Bartolomeo left the vast chamber as though he were floating on air. How foolish he had been to harbour so many doubts and fears! His daily tormentor, the man who hounded, humiliated and tempted him, would soon darken his days, and his nights, no more. The butcher of humble folk would vanish like a bad dream.
He smiled feebly at the hooded figure waiting in the anteroom. It was only once he was outside, striding across the vast square with the euphoria of the triumphant, that it occurred to him that the person must have been very hot wearing all those clothes.