Tim Willocks

by Tim Willocks

  Ludovico listened to the latest news as he ate. A rash of murderous plots in the College of Cardinals between the French and Hapsburgian parties had culminated in a knife fight in the half-built transept of Santa Maria degli Angeli. Next winter’s famine—a certainty since torrential rains had caused the second catastrophic crop failure in a row—had triggered a frenzy of profiteering in grain futures, from which the Pope expected to bloat yet further his fortune. Four thousand beggars had been driven outside the walls at spear point, in order that they might starve to death elsewhere. The miasmas from their corpses had caused a plague scare and the riots that resulted had only been suppressed by burning down a section of laborers’ boardinghouses, with the loss of some several dozen lives.

  In the Eternal City, it seemed, all was much as usual.

  As it was, also, throughout Europe. The Spanish Hapsburgs and the French Valois remained at daggers drawn over a variety of squabbles, including various disputed fragments of Italy. The two royal families had used Italy as a battleground for a century, carving it up between them this way and that, and according its natives little more respect than they did the aborigines of Mexico. Charles Quintus had even sacked Rome itself and imprisoned the Pope. His son, Philip, now systematically looted the country’s richest regions—Milan and the north, Naples and the south. Every Italian patriot, including Ludovico and Ghisleri, loathed both dynasties with passion. An Italy independent of Spanish and French invaders alike was their long-held dream, but its realization had been thwarted, most of all by a succession of corrupt popes who lacked the vision or leadership to bind the various Italian states together. That and a lack of diplomatic and military resources. These political crises, long unresolved, were what drove Ghisleri’s desire to claim the papal throne.

  Ludovico finished his cheese and broached with Ghisleri the subject that had brought him so far: the fate of the Religion, its place in the larger scheme, and the part Ludovico might play.

  “Malta?” said Ghisleri. He was white-haired and bony and at sixty-one his mind was keener than ever. “Most of these fools can’t mark it on a map, yet this summer the city talks of little else. Every royal house in Europe wants to wrap itself in the cloak of borrowed glory.” He snorted. “Even Elizabeth, the English heresiarch, has had the gall to order Masses for the knights’ deliverance. As for Medici, you’d think he was standing on the battlements waving a sword, instead of lying in bed while his boys take it in turns to suck his cock.”

  “Medici is a pimp,” agreed Ludovico. “If he knew I were here in your rooms he’d have my life. But I enjoy his trust.”

  “Good.” Ghisleri gave Ludovico’s arm a squeeze. “Good.”

  Giovanni Medici was Pope Pius IV. He’d reigned for almost five years and on merit—intellectual and otherwise—should never have ascended the Chair of Saint Peter at all. His only qualification for the office had been three decades of toadying in the Vatican’s shadowy precincts. After three months’ bitter stalemate in the Conclave of ’59, his election had been a sordid compromise—paid for by the Farnese clan—to prevent Ghisleri’s accession to the papal throne. Medici was no friend to the Inquisition. He was soft on heresy and had opened the gates of the jails and set free many dissidents. Corrupt to the bone, he’d created forty-six new cardinals—more than in the entire previous century—with each paying his price in one coin or another. And in an attempt to buy immortality, he’d lavished the millions of scudi screwed from the pockets of the peasantry on further architectural embellishment of his gaudy capital.

  Now Medici was old and weak. His neglect of the twofold threat from Lutheranism and Islam had earned him many new enemies. Among his more fanatical detractors there were rumors of assassins. It was widely known that the most he’d done for the Order of the Knights of Saint John in their present troubles was to send a paltry ten thousand scudi from his gold-plated lavatory. In this feverish political season, the valor of Malta was a reproach to papal indolence. Medici was now desperate to be seen as Malta’s champion. It was this need that Ludovico intended to exploit.

  “What is the mood of the knights?” asked Ghisleri.

  “Defiant,” replied Ludovico.

  “Can they win?”

  “With God’s favor, La Valette believes they can.”

  “And you?”

  “If the knights prove as fanatic as their word, yes, they might well prevail.”

  “The Religion and the Inquisition should be natural allies. The sword and the book.” Ghisleri tugged on his beard. “And under the aegis of a cleansed and revitalized Vatican—”

  Ludovico punctured his fantasy. “La Valette trusts no one outside the Order.”

  “Including Medici?”

  “Especially Medici. Medici ignored La Valette’s ambassador for months.”

  “Trust me, Giovanni Medici won’t survive the year,” said Ghisleri.

  Ludovico wondered how so. To wear the Shoes of the Fisherman, Ghisleri would have liquidated every red hat in the conclave. But Ghisleri’s expression suggested he ask no more.

  “If His Holiness’s successor”—by this Ghisleri meant himself—“could count on the political allegiance of the Order—a victorious Order, the heroes of all Europe—he’d wield a power that no pope has enjoyed in generations.”

  Ludovico nodded. All popes wanted to control the Knights of Saint John: for their military power and their great prestige, for their vast lands and wealth. If the Vatican seized the reins of the Religion, its power would once again rival that of a major nation-state. But no pope had ever succeeded in winning this prize.

  “Princes respect victory even more than purity of blood, and certainly more than piety,” rasped Ghisleri. “The Religion, if it survives, would embody all three. Such ambassadors—already woven through the bloodlines of the European aristocracy?—they’d be priceless.” His rheumy eyes shone in the candlelight. “If I—if the Vatican could forge an alliance with the Religion and use it to unite the Italian princes, and win the favor of the French, then might we begin to counter Spanish power. Then might Italy forge its own destiny, as in times gone by.”

  “The knights scorn European bickering,” said Ludovico. “They live to fight Islam. They still dream of Jerusalem.”

  “Do you?”

  “I dream of an Italy freed from foreign armies, and ruled and united by the Church, as do you. But you will never win the allegiance of the knights while La Valette reigns. He’s too entirely French, and a Gascon to boot.”

  “You’ve given some thought to a solution,” Ghisleri said.

  “We must engineer the election of an Italian as the knights’ Grand Master.”

  Ghisleri’s brow furrowed. Ludovico knew why. The Religion’s electoral college was the most complex ever invented, superbly devised to prevent any outside interference, especially from Rome. On the death of a Grand Master his successor had to be elected within three days. This alone sealed the process among those knights present on the island at the time. Even so, seventy-two hours of feverish intrigue invariably followed—bribery, arm-twisting, blackmail, and extravagant oaths—amongst the brethren of the eight competing langues. Many went about wearing masks to disguise their allegiances, so Ludovico had been told. The knights, after all, were a heady distillation of noble blood and carried in their veins the most ancient of aristocratic vices: an obsession with power. Their intricate electoral system, developed over centuries, had only made the contest the more furious.

  “Is it possible?” said Ghisleri.

  “The mechanism of the election is Byzantine,” said Ludovico. “Each langue meets in its own chapel and elects one knight to represent it. These eight then choose a President of the Election. They also choose a triumvirate consisting of one knight, one chaplain, and one brother serjeant at arms, each from a different langue. From this point the president, plus the original conclave of eight, take no further part in the proceedings. The newly convened triumvirate now choose a fourth member, then these four choose a fifth
, then the five choose a sixth, the six a seventh, and so on—each new member from a different langue than the one preceding—until their number totals sixteen electors. At least eleven of these electors must be Knights of Justice, but none may be a Grand Cross. These sixteen, at last, cast their votes for the new Grand Master, with the president using a casting vote in the event of a tie.”

  Ghisleri took all this in. He said, “An Italian Grand Master would be marvelous. And I’ve fixed as many elections as any man in Rome. But given these fantastic safeguards? How?”

  “With your blessing,” said Ludovico, “I intend to become a knight of the Holy Religion.”

  Ghisleri stared at him.

  “Once inside the convent,” continued Ludovico, “I can canvass for the appropriate candidate.”

  “And who is that?” said Ghisleri.

  “A brilliant soldier—admired by every langue for his leadership in war—and a man you yourself know well.”

  “Pietro Del Monte,” said Ghisleri.

  Ludovico nodded. Del Monte was Prior of the Langue of Italy and Admiral of the Religion’s navy. At sixty-five, his reputation was unsurpassed.

  Ludovico went on. “His only weakness—a lack of political sophistication—is to our advantage. He’ll be susceptible to your, or I should say, to the pontiff’s needs. And the other langues will find him the least disagreeable nominee against their own aspirants.”

  “How so?” asked Ghisleri.

  “In the face of the Turk, any of the brethren would lay down his life for the others. Yet they do not lack for internal rivalries. The French have dominated the order for most of the century. The Spaniards, Catalans, and Portuguese resent this bitterly. A Frenchman, De L’Isle-Adam, lost Rhodes, and even La Valette is not unsullied by intrigue and disaster—eighteen thousand Spaniards slaughtered at Jerba; the failure to liberate Tripoli; Zoara was their worst defeat since Rhodes. It was French treachery that lost Tripoli in the first place and La Valette not only freed the culprit, Gaspard Vallier, from jail but also promoted him Bailiff of Largo. Even in peace the French and Spanish squabble and politics is never more vicious than in time of war. Each camp would oppose the other’s candidate. It won’t take more than the application of reason—and the distribution of the necessary favors—to make Del Monte the wartime heir assumptive.”

  “You know this for certain?”

  “The knights are practical men. Battle is unpredictable and La Valette’s love of war exceeds all other passions. Hell’s legions could not keep him from the walls. If La Valette were to die in battle”—at this Ghisleri’s brow rose—“then the usual electoral machinations would be impossible, or, rather, suicidal. Morale would demand that a new Grand Master be ordained at once. And in such dire circumstances the serious contenders can be counted on one hand. Del Monte is one of them. With my help, he would win.”

  “And if Del Monte is dead too?”

  “Mathurin Romegas, General of the Galleys and a great hero, is to be counted on that same hand. Less pliable, perhaps, than Del Monte but a good son of Italy.”

  Ghisleri tented his fingers and looked down at the table. He was troubled.

  Ludovico said, “The Cross is not given to those with weak backs.”

  Ghisleri raised his eyes. “If La Valette were to die in battle. And if not in battle?”

  Ludovico said, “Your conscience should not trouble itself. Nor should you be apprised of any more. All I need is your blessing to join the Religion.”

  “My blessing, should I give it, is the least of your needs. Entry to their Order is a prize not easily won. More to the point, they’ll hardly welcome an inquisitor into their ranks.”

  “I’ve done nothing to incur their enmity—to their surprise—and I enjoy the respect of La Valette, for I’ve promised to argue his case before the Holy Father. Two further steps will win me their affection. The first is to make a significant military contribution to their defenses.”

  “At this late date that’s beyond the powers of Rome.”

  “But not beyond the Spanish Viceroy of Sicily, Garcia de Toledo.”

  “Toledo will intervene or not based on the interests of himself and Madrid.”

  “Quite. At present, the risks of providing the large reinforcement that La Valette has begged for are too great. But consider this, for we can be sure that Toledo has done so. If the Religion defeat the Turk unaided, all glory is theirs. If, rather, the Religion are annihilated, then a Turkish army ground down to the bone by a bitter siege and stranded on a barren island a thousand miles from home would be tempting prey for the kind of army Toledo will have mustered in Sicily by early autumn. The Religion’s tragic demise followed by a brilliant reconquista would carve Toledo’s name on the Stone of Ages.”

  “Is he capable of such perfidy?”

  “He’s Castilian.”

  “And the Emperor Philip too would let Malta fall?”

  “If he could thereby regain it as a purely Spanish stronghold, why not? Charles Quintus leased Malta to the knights just to get them out of his hair after their expulsion from Rhodes. At the time the island was impoverished and of little strategic importance. But that was forty years ago—before Suleiman’s maturity, before the disasters in North Africa, before Quintus split the empire between his sons, before Luther split Christendom down the middle. Since the knights arrived in Malta, the world has turned upside down.”

  Ghisleri shook his head. He was not yet convinced.

  Ludovico said, “Toledo hesitates because the loss both of Malta and of Spain’s Mediterranean fleet would be a disaster too great to bear. And where the Turks are concerned, disaster has far too many precedents. Toledo will bide his time and see which way the wind blows. But if I can persuade him to send a small relief—say a thousand men?—then Toledo can claim he did his best, and La Valette’s knights will cheer me to the echo, inquisitor or no.”

  Ghisleri weighed the possibilities. “But can our congregation muster the required inducements? Bribing the rich is expensive, which is why I’m not pontiff already. Toledo is no pauper, nor is Spanish cupidity mere legend.”

  “The advancements, wealth, and sacred relics within the gift of the Holy Father far exceed those of our congregation. The Vatican could provide more than enough to bribe not only Toledo but key elements within the Religion too.” Ludovico leaned forward. “Let Medici pay the piper. While we call the tune.”

  Again Ghisleri tugged on his long white beard. “Your stratagem would appeal to Medici as much as to his successor. And you’d carry the full authority of the papal will.”

  “Tomorrow,” said Ludovico, “I’ll feign my arrival in Rome and report to Medici as if to him alone. The Pope will provide the instruments and promises I need.”

  “Then you’ll return to Malta?”

  “To Sicily and Garcia de Toledo, and thence to Malta.”

  “And if Malta has already fallen to the Turk?”

  Ludovico didn’t answer. He stood up. “Once I show my face at the Vatican, I’ll be watched for the remainder of my stay. We two shall not meet again before I leave.”

  Ghisleri frowned. “You said two steps were needed before the Religion would take you to their bosom. What is the second?”

  “I will join the knights on the ramparts and blood myself in battle with the infidel.”

  A different set of emotions colored Ghisleri’s eyes. He reached out a hand and placed it on Ludovico’s arm. “I beg you, go no further than Sicily.”

  Ludovico looked at him without reply.

  “You’re closer to me than any son could be,” Ghisleri said. “And every bit as dear.”

  Ludovico, unaccustomed to affection, found himself moved. He did not reply.

  “You’re still a young man,” said Ghisleri. “One day you could wear the Fisherman’s Ring yourself. Indeed, that is my hope and my prayer.”

  Ludovico knew this. He’d envisioned every step that it would take, like a path of boulders strewn across a torrent. Yet he craved
to achieve the impossible. He craved La Valette’s downfall. He craved the judgment of battle. These petty cravings, he believed, were the expression of a power both fundamental and profound: the Will of God.

  “Do you forbid me to go?” he asked.

  Ghisleri sighed. He shook his head. “And if you die?”

  Ludovico said, “I’m committed to God’s keeping. Do I have your blessing?”

  “As member of our holy congregation? Or as a Knight of Saint John?”

  “As whatever I need to be to serve the Will of God.”

  Tuesday, June 5, 1565

  The Waterfront—The Borgo—The Night

  Night. Wind. Stars. Sea. Stones.

  The days were hot and had no pity, but the nights were cool, as this one was cool, and Amparo’s green linen dress wasn’t enough to keep her warm. She wrapped thin arms about her knees and shivered in the breeze. The shallow undulations of the sea were ribboned with silver and a gibbous moon lay low amid Heaven’s dust. Direction meant nothing to Amparo, any more than did Time. From where she sat, tucked among the stacks of lumber on Kalkara Bay, these gentle friends—wind, sea, stars, moon, night—were all she could know and they brought her comfort. In her lap lay her shew stone in its cylinder of leather. She’d tried to read the secrets in its glass by the light of the moon but the Angels hadn’t spoken. All she had seen were whorls of color. Pretty patterns but no more. Had the Angels fled from the hatred that flourished all about her? Or because Amparo was in love and no longer needed their guidance?

  Tannhauser was out among the heathen, somewhere beyond the monstrous walls that closed them all inside and made her feel trapped. With neither him nor Buraq to fill the hours, the day had passed slowly. The quartermaster had scolded her for wasting water on her flowers and she’d had little else to do but watch them die. By sunset, Tannhauser had not returned. Exhausted by the waiting and the worry, she’d wandered to the waterfront to take the silence. Silence had been all but driven out of this place. Cannon shook the earth from sunrise to dusk. From the infirmary random screams pierced her spine. Men shouted or muttered prayers. Whips and whistles and curses drove the work gangs, poor wretches in chains, who in this city of endless high walls were forced to build yet more. In the auberge, Carla brooded, for she could not find her boy. Perhaps, though she had not said so, Carla was also downcast because Tannhauser had taken Amparo as his lover.