The Blackhearted Saint by Ned Minkov
Chapter V
Shadows his home, serpents – his kin,
With vice his glory is forever stain’d.
The wide atrium of St. Peter’s Basilica resounded with the toll of the bells announcing the end of vespers. It was Holy Thursday and the Christian world celebrated the Lord’s Last Supper. All the basilicas in Rome sang with the heavenly chorus of their belfries. Like any of them, St. Peter was crowded both inside and all around.
With the last toll fading away, Cardinal Balthasar Cossa left the basilica through a side door leading to a narrow alley out of the Vatican. At the end of the passage, surrounded by the solid structures of the Papal domains, he emerged on the wide square in front of the Basilica. The place was also jammed with worshipers, gathered for the mass at the heart of Christendom, where the Holy Father was lavishing his blessings on his flock. Thousands of candle-lights were flickering in the evening, creating a faerie scene in unison with fires burning on both sides of the gateway to the Basilica.
“And Jesus said to Peter: ‘Shepherd my sheep,’” Balthasar thought, watching the crowd struggling to get closer to their holy shepherd and hear his sacred words.
He pushed his way through the crowd, his scarlet garments and the heavy golden crucifix hidden underneath his black cloak. He was being jostled by the crowd, heading as he was against the current. When he finally reached a quiet by-street, the tension inside him abated. He was pacing slowly now, relaxed and reassured in the shadows of the buildings on both sides of him. Darkness had always been a source of comfort to Balthasar. He felt more self-confident under the cover of the night. He despised the bustle and clamour of the day and crowds called forth a sense of insecurity in him. Even now, empowered by the Cardinal dignity and being referred to as His Eminence, Balthasar only regained courage in the seclusion of darkness and in the anonymity of his cloak.
Still, walking along the cobbled street, he felt unrest surging inside him. He had been hiding in shadows for as long as he remembered – always waiting for the night to fall, always stealing in stealth. He was now a Cardinal, and a powerful one at that, for he was a trustee of the Pope himself and every important decision made in the Vatican was first submitted to his approval. Yet every night he had to pick his way along secluded alleys like the one he was pacing now. Be it to visit one of the women he was fornicating with regularly, or to meet some of his informants, he always walked alone in the dangerous streets of the Eternal City.
Balthasar tried to chase his anxious thoughts away from his mind. He had made his choices long ago and there was no turning back. To him darkness had become a step-mother he had learnt to love and turn to when in need of protection. Truly, he wanted to step out in the light and confess his sins to the world – no longer hiding, no longer walking in the gloom. But Balthasar had also learnt to be patient, knowing full well that if the desired end was to be achieved, darkness remained the staunchest of allies.
Cardinal Cossa reached the end of the silent alley. At the back of a huge two-storey building a small single-horse carriage was waiting for him. The lackey was sitting on the bench, holding the sturdy mare in place, so that the Cardinal could settle himself comfortably in the seat. Once the eminent passenger was comfortable, the young man jerked the reins and the carriage set out towards the wide promenade along the Tiber.
The turbulent waters of the river were running with a roar, producing foamy waves that contrasted with the black surface. The seasonal heavy rains heralding the arrival of spring had awoken the power of the Tiber. There had been several floods in the past, causing the Romans to fear the majestic river as much as they took pride in it.
The swift currents reminded Balthasar of the last few years of his life. They had passed in mad pursuit of his ambitions. And things had gone well so far, in this wild race. In just a few years he had climbed up the ecclesiastical ladder – from a dubiously appointed bishop with a shady past to a powerful Cardinal held in dread and respect by all. The privileged start he owed to the late Pope Boniface and to the luck he had had capturing the ship carrying the pontiff off the Sardinia. But his way to Rome afterwards had been far from easy. During his spell in Bologna, Balthasar had not only been indulging the privileges his high position offered him. He had taken full advantage of it and had gained formidable influence in and outside of his diocese. It had provided him with precious new acquaintances with rich and powerful figures around the country. Relying on his father’s long-time friendship with the Florentine banker Giovanni di Bicci – the patriarch of the Medici family – Cossa had had a solid backing which allowed him to aim even higher – at the very Vatican. However, Balthasar’s energetic ascent had also left a bitter taste to linger, mingled with the delight of success. Now, watching the Tiber from on top his carriage, the Cardinal came to think of the close people whom he had abandoned while pursuing his career.
‘Just like the river leaves the mountains where its spring is, runs along villages, forests and leaves them too behind…’ he thought.
Thus, Balthasar had turned his back on his family – he had not seen them ever since his raid on Amalfi. He had used his father’s name to gain acceptance in the houses of nobles, most importantly of the Medici’s, but he knew that he would never again be welcome at home. He had broken off any contacts with his brothers – still pirates, for associating them with Balthasar’s now good name was undesirable. But most of all he regretted leaving even Yandra behind. The only woman he had ever had deep feelings for had refused to move to Rome with him. She had talked sense into him, reminding him that following him might cost him dearly, given her heretical practices. And there he was now – alone in the dark hours of Holy Thursday, traveling in secret along the empty streets of Rome.
Once again Balthasar had to try and chase away the melancholy from his mind. He needed to concentrate on the matters at hand. A sudden turn of events was a constant occurrence around him these days and he needed to act as swiftly as possible. Success was as close as downfall, and nothing short of all was at stake. And he was well aware of how hard the rise to power is.
The huge financial support di Bicci had provided had been sufficient for Balthasar to acquire the Cardinal dignity. From this eminent vantage point, he had had the power to promote the interests of his benefactor, as the Vatican’s political sway was just as unconditional as its otherworldly authority. But Balthasar Cossa had been reluctant to content himself with that. The Vatican was the hub of political scheming and once he had secured his place there, he had determined to go all the way up to the top. The Episcopal dignity that he had been granted by Boniface was no unwonted practice of the high clergy, as Balthasar had discovered. Simony – or trading with holy offices – had quickly become an easy way for the Pope, as well as for Cardinals, to lay their hands on wealth. And the Holy See had much more to offer the cunning opportunist that the former cut-throats’ captain had become.
Balthasar had entered the College of Cardinals in times of trouble. The successor of the late Pope Boniface IX – Innocent VII – had been a weak pontiff who had not managed to survive the storm brewing within the Vatican during his rule. He had died two years following his election. The current Pope – Gregory XII – had had the uneasy task of trying to keep the Holy See together and to vindicate his authority in the eyes of his powerful opponent – the Avignon Pope Benedict XIII. Throughout the rule of the weak Innocent, Benedict had gained the loyalty of some Vatican Cardinals by means of bribery and promises of bounty. As a result, an invisible struggle had been simmering between the supporters of Gregory and the minions of Avignon, who were trying to undermine his power.
Balthasar had discerned the opportunity to expand his own influence within the Vatican. He had made public his strong support of Gregory, thus gaining the pontiff’s trust and becoming one of his few confidants. At the same time, Cossa had been investing the wealth acquired through simony to build up a web of spies and informers, to keep one step ahead of the Cardinals loyal to the Palais des Papes. He had a
It was one of the Secret Council’s meetings that Cardinal Cossa was heading towards tonight. The carriage was following a route specified by His Eminence beforehand – through narrow streets he had presumed would be empty, the masses being held in the basilicas all over the city. They had gone off course a few times – when the lackey had spotted casual worshippers on their way back home earlier, or on the orders of his master, over-anxious about being followed. Finally, the carriage pulled out of the maze of narrow alleys onto the open square surrounding the Coliseum, its wheels rattling on the flagstones. It skirted round the ancient amphitheatre, both lackey and passenger indifferent to its sublimity, only to dive into another side-road. Shortly after it had left the great building behind, the carriage pulled up in front of a heavy wooden gate. It was wide open, so the Cardinal alighted briskly and entered a rectangular courtyard, surrounded by wooden arcades supporting a red-tiled roof.
The place was empty save for a couple of men clad in a similar way to Balthasar – dark cloaks covering their spare figures. They kept themselves between two columns, supporting the whitewashed façade of Basilica di San Clemente. The courtyard where Cardinal Cossa now stood was in fact the atrium to the basilica built in the late eleventh century.
Balthasar walked towards the two men. Their faces were shadowed by their hoods, as was his, but once he approached, they removed them to make themselves known.
‘Good evening, Monsignor Cossa,’ the Cardinal was greeted by a hollow-cheeked man he knew by the name of Tommaso Manzoli – the minister of San Clemente. ‘The others are gathered downstairs awaiting your arrival.’ he added.
‘Do inform them that I am here and that I shall join them in a minute,’ Balthasar commanded him in a peremptory tone. Once Manzoli had disappeared obediently inside the basilica, he turned to the other man. ‘Be welcome to the Eternal city, brother.’
Ottaviano Ottaviani, a patrician of Florence, smiled under his prominent nose and embraced Cossa. He was a political activist highly recommended to Balthasar by Giovanni di Bicci. The two had got on rather well during the bishop’s stay in Florence, so Cossa had invited Ottaviani to Rome, considering him a useful addition to the council.
‘How did the mass go?’ Balthasar asked. ‘It appears that Manzoli has sent the congregation away earlier than expected.’
‘There were not too many of them.’ the patrician replied. ‘I guess most attended the liturgy at St. Peter’s.’
‘And in what spirits are the other brethren?’
‘They seem to be on edge. Those who arrived before the end of the mass could hardly wait for everyone to leave and slipped in right after. Your being late must have got on their nerves.’
‘So much the better’, Balthasar smiled. ‘It would make them the more resolute. Let us join them, shall we?’
The two men entered the basilica. The interior of the nave was decorated richly – stained glass filled the narrow windows behind the marble columns of arcades. The floor was inlaid in the Cosmati style – named after the Roman dynasty of architects famous for their decorative church floors. The apse above the episcopal seat was ornate with twelfth-century Byzantine mosaics.
However, Cardinal Cossa and his companion paid little attention to this exquisite interior. Once inside, they stepped down narrow stairs descending steeply to a lower level of San Clemente – the remains of the ancient basilica. The home of a Roman nobleman of yore, it had been converted to a temple in the late fourth century and dedicated to Pope Clement I.
Balthasar and Ottaviani found themselves in a narrow corridor leading to a small chamber. Manzoli was waiting for them on the threshold. He bowed slightly and left for the stairs back to the basilica above. The two men stepped inside. A long wooden table stood in the middle of the room, surrounded by a dozen of crude wooden stools. The latter were all occupied, save for two at the near end of the table. The members of the Council were looking at the late arrivals, their faces illuminated by the candle-light.
‘Good evening, brothers,’ Balthasar spoke in an even voice. ‘I beg you to forgive my delay.’
‘Good evening, brother Balthasar,’ Cossa was answered by a harsh-looking, stout man, his short grayish hair giving him a lordly air. ‘Thanks be to God that you have not forgotten to join us tonight.’ he added with a sardonic smile. His name was Ludovico Bonito, Archbishop of Tarento, and like Cossa, he also enjoyed the trust of the Pope. That was why he was the only one on the Council who never refrained from criticizing Balthasar.
Balthasar gave Bonito a curt nod, dismissing the caustic remark, though not without a hint of annoyance, and spoke again to all the men present:
‘Now that all of us are gathered together, let us begin our discussion, for before long our absence will raise questions in the Vatican, especially at that late hour and on Holy Thursday.’ Cardinal Cossa paused to meet the eyes set on him. They gave away respect and expectation, save for Ludovico Bonito’s, who was watching bleakly the table before him. Balthasar went on.
‘You are all well aware of how complicated our circumstances have grown lately,’ he said. ‘Pope Gregory no longer listens to our reasoning. His Holiness believes a peaceful exodus from the schism is in sight, and it is exactly his peaceful disposition that renders him weak. He has been disillusioned by that Antichrist in Avignon, while Luna’s minions have been plotting to take over the Vatican.’ Balthasar paused again to let the others ponder over his words and then added: ‘Unless we act with resolution, we might well witness the fall of our Holy Church.’
‘Cossa is right,’ the apostolic notary Giacopo del Torso broke the silence. ‘Benedict’s suggestions that we should negotiate the end of the dissent by making mutual compromises might be to the liking of the Pope, but it will cost him his head. Luna is greedy and insolent. He will see Gregory off and move in to Rome, as if it were his birth right.’
‘Or even worse,’ Balthasar added, ‘he may disband the Vatican and set the Holy See in the Palais des Papes for good.’
It was Ludovico Bonito’s turn to speak his mind.
‘Gregory is disillusioned by Benedict and his minions – this you are right about. The question is what we – the enlightened ones on the matter – should do, when our Holy Father no longer listens to us?’
‘Yes, we can hardly talk sense into him.’ Cossa agreed grimly. ‘He is so obsessed with his diplomatic attitude towards Avignon that he regards us – his supporters – with suspicion, while courting those mercenary traitors, paid by Benedict to dethrone him.’
‘Indeed he is.’ the words of consent came from Monsignor Bandello Bandelli. The bishop of Rimini was a stumpy man with obtrusive manners, but a sharp mind. ‘The latest news is that Gregory intends to put that pseudo cardinal Philip de Brion in charge of the treasury – to refute Benedict’s accusations of embezzlement.’
‘Yes, it is because a rumour reached him about funds being drawn out for some rogue council of Cardinals,’ Balthasar said brusquely, glancing around. All of them looked down, except Cardinal Bonito.
‘Then what do you suggest that we should do, brother Cossa?’ the latter asked defiantly.
‘It seems to me, brothers,’ Balthasar spoke resolutely, ‘that we are in desperate need of action, for despair there is plenty about the present situation.’ He paused to let his words take effect. Most of the others gave him sidelong looks, in silent anticipation.
‘Pop
No one spoke – all were looking at Cossa deeply shocked. Even Ludovico Bonito’s confidence seemed shaken. Still, it was he who finally ventured an opinion:
‘Even if we come to agreement to act as you are suggesting,’ he began warily, ‘the people might regard it as treason. You know how sensitive they are about their pontiff and we might well provoke a revolt as a result.’
‘Do not worry about the people.’ Balthasar replied with contempt. ‘They do not worry Benedict – you can be sure about that. Did you not see them today – on the steps in front of St. Peter’s? They shall worship anyone who sits on the throne – even if it is the Devil himself. If we act swiftly and have a new Pope enthroned immediately after Gregory is down, the people will celebrate, as they are wont, their new Holy Father, no matter how he is elected.’ A sardonic grin appeared on his face and he added in Latin: ‘Aures habent et non audient – Ears they do have, but hear they shall not.’
Bonito did not even attempt a retort. The great Cardinal was so dumbfounded by Cossa that he was at a loss for words.
Balthasar sensed he was the undisputed victor on that meeting.
‘If any of you has something to say, let him speak.’
No one did. Then, Cardinal Cossa rose from his chair, followed by Ottaviani.
‘Therefore we shall act,’ he spoke grimly. ‘Immediately after Resurrection, you shall receive my notice of how we shall proceed.’
A minute later, Balthasar and his Florentine companion were crossing the atrium of San Clemente.
‘So has the matter been settled?’ Ottaviani could hardly believe what he had just witnessed. ‘To be honest, I was expecting a prolonged debate.’
‘Such is the way of power,’ the Cardinal replied curtly. ‘The more ruthless the suggestion – the less likely the dissent.’