The Blessed

by Lisa T. Bergren

  The Gifted stood in silence as Armand set it in place. They all waited, as if something would occur now that the map was in its apparent place of destiny.

  “Now what?” Vito finally voiced. “Aren’t the very rocks supposed to cry out or something, Father?”

  Father Piero ignored him and nestled his chin in his hand, studying the map. He paced slowly about the sanctuary, studying each crevice, each ledge, each symbol upon the marble floor tiles that marked the kings’ final resting places. He returned to the group, where they all waited, shifting from one foot to the other in expectation. “I have no idea,” he said helplessly, arms out in surrender. “Is it merely a sign that we are where we were destined to be? A nod from our Lord?”

  The others looked back to him in consternation. Surely there was something more . . . but what? They all set about the chapel, tapping on walls of stone and wood, examining every inch. All except Cardinal Boeri.

  “And so the legend is true,” the cardinal said in a low tone, moving toward the altar. “An entire map of Christendom in glass . . . I never knew whether to believe it. And when I heard of your attempts to retrieve the pieces in Venezia, I could see God’s own plan unfolding.” He knelt down and touched the lower center portion in reverence.

  “What is that?” Piero asked, kneeling beside the cardinal. He pointed to the center of the piece, where an ivory orb had been inserted into the teal glass.

  “I know not,” said the cardinal.

  “If this is the land mass that forms Italia,” Gaspare said, pointing, “this is out at sea.”

  Again, they all stared at it, thinking that something would happen, now that it was all in place. But nothing transpired. No movement, no sound, no enlightenment.

  Gianni glanced at Daria, so beautiful, even in her frustration, especially in the warm streaming light that gained strength as the sun set. The light illuminated russet tones in her dark hair not normally visible, and tiny hairs along her cheek and ear. He reached out to touch her and then paused.

  She looked at him with a smile of confusion at his odd hesitation, probably wondering if it was because they were surrounded by others. But he was staring at the rose window nestled beneath the roof and the warm light streaming through, moving slowly forward toward them as the sun set.

  “Move, all of you,” he grumbled. “Quickly! Stand aside! To the side of the chapel!”

  The people all did as he bid, their expressions denoting fear and anger at his demanding tone.

  “Look!” he said. “Look to the window!”

  They all stared up at the window and down to its stream of light, centered on the rose-colored orb in the middle. It came toward them as a beam from heaven, inching directly toward the glass map, first a Roman foot away, then eating up a finger width at a time.

  The hair on the back of Gianni’s neck stood on end again. Was that the form of an angel’s shoulder in the stream of light? The curve of a head? The bend of an elbow?

  Tessa broke through the chapel door, panting as if she had run all the way. Her face was already aglow. “They are here! Here!” she said in a reverent whisper. “Do you see them? Do you see them?”

  “We see them, child,” Daria whispered. “Come, come beside us,” she said, lifting a hand to gesture the girl forward.

  One by one they all fell to their knees, unable to watch as the light beam fell upon the glass, because they could not tear their eyes from the silhouette of God’s holy army within the room. It was as if the angels marched back and forth before them, one moment visible, the next moving out of sight, another replacing the last.

  “Look,” Tessa said, pointing to the front of the church. “You must look forward.”

  The others did as she bid. The sun had hit the glass map and cast a reflection on the far wall, evolving as quickly as the sun moved. They were torn between falling flat upon their faces before the altar and staring, unblinking, at the vision at the back of the chapel. On the back wall was a cross and crucifix, of good quality, but like a hundred others in the region. An emaciated Christ figure hung in death, blood streaming from his wrists and crossed ankles, his rib cage sticking out. But as the beam of light streamed over the angled map and illuminated the back wall, a silhouette of a massive Christ seemed to emerge and grow out from the body, strong and sure, arms outstretched but lower, as if in invitation.

  Cardinal Boeri crossed himself and went flat to the floor, with the bishop beside him, but the rest remained upright. As the light continued to move, the image changed. The silhouette of Christ remained, but his arms rose higher and higher, until he held them like a master dominating his realm. Behind the figure was a map of the world. Every continent. Every sea.

  “They are singing,” Tessa whispered in wonder. “Do you hear them? It is so beautiful!”

  Gianni listened hard, but could hear only the blood thrumming through his ears. His eyes scanned the map. This was clearly for them. What were they to do? Where were they to go? Surely their Lord did not intend for them to try to reach every nation with their message? The task was too big, too daunting. They were but mortals!

  “They grow louder,” Tessa whispered again, an edge of fear in her voice.

  The rumbling beneath their feet might have been building for some time before they noticed it. Dimly, Gianni heard the screams and shouts of servants and knights outside the chapel. All at once, he became aware of it fully as the ground shook beneath his knees, knocking him down to his arms. He crawled to Daria and covered her with his body, wondering if the ceiling would come down atop them. And then the quake receded.

  When he opened his eyes, the light beam was gone, the sun now lower than the cliffs to the west. There were no more angels visible in the room, and to the front of the chapel, no more figure of his Messiah. The front plaster had cracked, massive fissures now visible behind the lonely Christ figure atop his cross.

  But then he saw it.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  IT was a doorway, or the edge of one anyway.

  “When I asked if the rocks would cry out, it was only in jest,” Vito whispered over his shoulder.

  “Call for a stone mason,” Count Armand said, edging near.

  “Nay. We must keep this to ourselves,” Father Piero said. “Please. Let the servants know that you are all right, so they do not come seeking you. And tell them the chapel is damaged and no one is to enter until you tell them they may.”

  Count Armand, like an altar boy, obediently set off to do as he bid. Piero reached out and placed a hand on the plaster. It pulled off easily. “Quickly, see if you can help me free it,” he directed, eyeing the cardinal. Why did Boeri not seem surprised by this?

  The men set to work.

  In a short time, they had a narrow entry.

  Tessa and Gaspare brought candles near, and Gianni reached for the nearest torches atop the walls, dipping them into the candles’ flames and handing one to Father Piero, the other to Hasani. The men disappeared into the narrow crevasse in the wall, warm light inviting the others inward.

  Daria gathered her skirt into a bundle so that it would be out of the way and followed them. Directly behind the false back of the chapel was a steep stairwell and then a narrow passageway, which opened up into a shallow but massively tall chapel ceiling.

  Vito whistled as he came through, gazing up at towering domes above them, carved out of the limestone. There were three, soaring thirty feet above them, with perfect red Egyptian marble columns. In between were smaller green marble columns, with what he assumed were saints atop them.

  “We knew it was here,” Count Armand said, looking upward. He took a torch from Hasani and stepped forward. “All this time . . .” His words broke off as the light caught a gold-gilt altar. Beneath it was a golden box, with seraphim on either side.

  They all moved nearer, holding their breath as the count knelt and brushed off centuries of dust from the top. Above him was a fresco of the three kings of old, nearing the manger of the Christ.

&nb
sp; He handed the torch back to Hasani and tenderly, reverently opened the box, moving aside the lid guarded by images of God’s own. He gestured to Hasani to bring the light closer and then cautiously reached in. He took out a piece of an ancient board, rough-hewn and raw, dark with age. “It is here,” he whispered. “Our Lord Jesus might have touched this, once.”

  Slowly they each sank to their knees, overwhelmed.

  But the light of the second torch moved behind them, and gradually Daria, Gianni, and Gaspare followed Father Piero’s gaze upward. He waited for them. When he had their full attention, he lifted the torch to illuminate the small sculpture atop the first column. It was a soldier, dressed as a Roman of old. But it had Gianni’s face. Piero moved to the second, and the others rose from their knees to come closer, no one saying a word. He lifted the torch to the next figure. A patrician woman, with the face of Daria. He stared at her meaningfully, then lowered the torch. On each marble column was the etching of a sixten-pointed star, and across its center, a peacock feather.

  “And so the legends collide,” Vito mumbled in awe. “The story of our Lord’s manger, and the story of the Gifted.”

  They moved on, from one figure to the next. A small priest, obviously Piero. A girl child resembling Tessa. A large, broad-shouldered man with Gaspare’s eyes and nose and chin. The tall, haunting African face of Hasani. And the last, a gentle, middle-aged woman. “Our prophetess, I assume,” Father Piero said, squinting his eyes as if to memorize her looks. “Just as Gaspare’s mother’s figures represented.”

  “A woman as prophet? That’ll go over well with the boys in Avignon,” Vito said.

  Daria gave him a playful shove.

  “What?” he asked, playing the fool.

  Count Armand waited for them to come closer, his face a mask of serious intent. “My ancestors must have built the false chapel centuries before it was dismantled. Somehow, some way, they knew that this chamber had to be hidden away, preserved, with both the relic and the signs that the house of Les Baux and the house of d’Angelo would one day share much.” He studied each of them, the torch’s flame lighting one side of his face, leaving the other side in deep shadow. “My father had somehow seen this place—there must be another secret entry. He knew you, recognized you. It had to be because he had seen the statues.”

  A flicker of gold caught Gianni’s eye behind the count, but then Armand’s words drew his attention again.

  “My friends, it was clear from the start that our paths were to intersect. With each day that passes, I know more of our Lord’s intent. And his intent for me is this . . . to serve you, with all that I have, all that I can gain. I pledge again to you all my life, my resources, my men. I will do all that I am able to aid you, wherever it might lead. For you serve our one and true God, and your mission is blessed indeed.”

  Gianni stared at Father Piero, seeing his own question reflected in the priest’s eyes. But just where was this mission to end? He stood to take Count Armand’s arm, accepting his pledge, but stilled.

  The count, confused, paused and then turned to follow his gaze.

  Gianni took the torch and raised it higher. “Quickly, Tessa, come here.”

  The girl moved to him at once, and he handed her the torch, then lifted her to his shoulders. “Raise it high, as high as you can.”

  The others gathered around them, able to see the gilt lettering reflected in the light of the torch. Around the bottom of each dome were words. In the first the words read, Deus providet, Deus creat, Deus respicit, Deus ducit. God provides, God creates, God watches, God leads.

  In the second, the words read, Christus salvat, Christus amat, Christus docet, Christus manet. Christ saves, Christ loves, Christ teaches, Christ remains.

  All were words they might expect to find in a chapel. But what followed was far from usual. Praediti Dei, communicate dona vestra populis Dei.

  Father Piero moved forward and read aloud what Gianni suddenly had no voice to cover, translating as he did so. “Gifted of God, share your gifts with the people of God.”

  They all stood in silence for a moment.

  Father Piero glanced at Cardinal Boeri, who nodded. The two churchmen shared a long, hard gaze.

  “Another clue for you, the Gifted,” Cardinal Boeri said, still studying the priest. “It is all coming into line now, is it not? With the letter?”

  They all stared hard at him, again rendered mute. Only Hasani seemed unsurprised.

  “You . . . know of our letter?” Gianni asked. With measured action, he lowered Tessa to the floor. She stared up at him in concern, obviously feeling the sudden tension.

  “I know it, my friend. Moreover, I have a missing portion.” He looked to Gianni, his expression a mix of confession and intrigue.

  Gianni rushed across the room, looking as if he wanted to take the cardinal’s robe in his hands and shake him. Bishop di Mino edged closer as if he meant to defend the cardinal from Gianni. “You have a portion of our letter? Our letter? You knew? You knew of our prophecy all along? All those years I served under you . . . you knew?”

  The cardinal shook his head, lifting his hands to placate the large knight. “Nay, Gianni. I always understood you were special, that we were of one heart, with similar goals. But I had no idea, really never considered the possibility that the prophecy might unfold in my time . . . until I knew of the Sorcerer and . . .” He paused, paced, and lifted a hand to his skullcap, looking a bit faint in the face of his furious ex-captain’s glare. “My letter contains only pictures of our priest, here, and of a woman who looks curiously like the lady atop that column,” he said, nodding at the prophetess. “It speaks of pursuing change, change within the Church. It speaks of leading the men back to the road of righteousness. To getting back to the Church that Christ intended. But most worrisome is the prophecy of how the Church will be infiltrated by the devil himself. It was what fueled my work for so many years in Roma, Gianni, the same work that drew you to my side. I did not wish for the evil one to enter the church’s walls. I so desired Roma to be pure, a beacon . . .”

  “The letter, does it sound Pauline?” Father Piero asked quietly.

  “It echoes of Saint Paul, but I believe it is Apollos. I have read other works by him, in the Church archives of Ephesus. He was a learned man, well capable of authorship.” He looked about at each of them. “I have always meant to share my letter with you, but I had to be certain . . . utterly certain that you were the Gifted mentioned in the letter. Merely my possession of it places me at risk within the Church, let alone my assertion that it is prophecy worthy of Church canonization.”

  Daria reached out to place a hand on Gianni’s arm. He still looked furious, as if the cardinal had betrayed him. Slowly the knight straightened, and the cardinal ran a nervous hand down the front of his cassock. Gianni turned, gazing back up to the domes of the ancient chapel. “Perhaps . . . ’tis time to fetch the letter and share it with us, Cardinal Boeri.”

  Avignon

  AMBROGIO walked down the massive hallways of the new wing of the palace, following Simone and their benefactor, Cardinal Stefani, rubbing his aching hands as they moved. When Daria had healed him, the bones had been straightened. The feeling had returned to each digit, as had full flexion. But after hours of work upon the frescoes of the pope’s dining hall, the massive tinel, capable of seating more than three hundred souls, his hands ached, as if echoing complaint of an old, forgotten injury.

  Stefani emerged in the tinel again, admiring and praising their work in depicting the heavenly realms with an undulating, cloudy blue fresco across the massive, barrel-vaulted ceiling. Bronze stars were already being formed by countless metalsmiths, which would later be inserted among the heavens’ clouds.

  Ambrogio coughed. Several fires, the remnants of the fresco firing, still spewed smoke into the great hall. His eyes, he knew, were much like Simone’s, bloodshot and teary in protest. Their faces and necks were covered in soot. All he wanted was to take a bath, have a bite of bread
and several swigs of wine, and lay his head down atop a pillow.

  But Stefani insisted upon showing them an inner papal gallery, their next assignment. Pope Cornelius was reportedly very pleased with their work and had asked Simone and his new friend to review the gallery and suggest appropriate frescoes. But still they remained in the Grand Tinel, looking from one end to the other. Cardinal Stefani was suggesting to Simone that more could be made of the lower walls. Mayhap a forest scene? A pilgrimage? The famous wedding feast?

  The far door opened again, and Ambrogio watched as two more cardinals entered, followed closely behind by a grand noble dressed in a fur-lined cape. Ambrogio’s eyes narrowed as he noticed the way the man pushed back the edge of his winter cape over his shoulder and touched an eye patch.

  Abramo Amidei.

  Ambrogio ducked and turned. It was imperative that the man not yet know that he was present. He had had so little time to gather information, scant scraps here and there from the scaffolding as churchmen passed below in deep conversation or disagreement, or servants tossed gossip back and forth, impossible to discern truth from lie.

  “Permesso, my lords,” he said lowly, glancing backward to see the cardinals and Abramo edging closer, their eyes thankfully drawn again and again to the ceiling. “I confess I suffer much from the day’s smoke. I am in need of food and a bath. Might we see to the papal chambers now and return to this conversation on the morrow?”

  Cardinal Stefani gazed at him in consternation and irritation. Ambrogio knew that only his reputation as one of the finest artists available kept the good cardinal from chastising his ill manners, regardless of his physical state. The cardinal forced a smile to his face and raised his hands, gesturing them forward through the door that led to the papal gallery.

  Ambrogio was the first one through, and he turned to watch the cardinal and Simone follow, and the men beyond them, now halfway down the massive tinel hall.

  Abramo Amidei stared straight at him.