“What is it?”
“Arsenic, but within a bottle that is labeled lungwort.” She held it to his nose. “Smell of it. Do you detect the garlic-like odor? It burns at your innards.”
The steward gasped. “Poison? Someone has dared to try to murder the Holy Father?”
“Abramo Amidei,” she said, wiping her hands. “Every last one of the Gifted and our company was outside your door last night, praying that God would save you. Guards arrived, narrowly keeping Amidei and Morano from entering. He has had previous access?”
“Amidei is but one of many who has neared us in the last weeks,” the pope said softly.
“You know as well as I that he is the dragon, the one prophesied to work against the Gifted, against all who live and breathe to serve God. Look at his coat of arms! Look to your very own copies of our letter!”
“Coincidence,” he dismissed with a wave of his hand. “The dragon is . . . a common enough emblem. Amidei has many . . . friends in this court.”
“Yes, friends among the most influential of your cardinals,” she said. “Great is your intelligence, and wide is your own web in gathering information. You have heard the rumors, of dark ceremonies, of sin masquerading as piety. Cardinal Boeri has told you what Amidei is capable of, and lately he has taken Cardinal Morano under his wing, forming him into the future pontiff. Morano is innocent, I’m quite sure of it, but he has allowed Amidei to use him. Only one thing stood in the way of Amidei’s plans coming to fruition. You.”
She rose and paced back and forth. Piero urged her on with a silent nod. “He has given funds to many churches, as a means of securing devotion among their churchmen. He owns them, Holy Father,” she said, reaching for his hand in her urgency, “in more ways than one. You must wrest them away from his grip before it is too late.”
The pontiff stared at her for a moment and shook off her hand. “Leave us now. This conversation is at an end. We shall see you again when we begin our formal audience.”
Daria pulled back, confused.
“Grave are your charges, woman . . . against men . . . close to us.”
“Yes,” she said softly.
“It is only right . . . to allow these men . . . to defend themselves. No more whisperings in dark halls. Open, frank dialogue is what we seek. God will shine in the daylight.”
“Post tenebras, lux,” she whispered. She gathered up her herbs and cloth and packed them into her chest of medicinals, then looked up to the pope. “Will you not look upon the others outside your door? Give them your blessing, your praise, for calling God to enter these hallowed halls and heal the Holy Father?”
He waved her away, eyes closing in weariness.
She frowned at Piero as he took the medicinal chest from her hands. “How much has Amidei given to his own personal causes to buy him that much devotion?” she whispered. “To allow Judas to hover about?”
Piero raised a brow. “It must be considerable indeed.”
THE audience was called two days later. The pope appeared, looking considerably better than he had two days ago, and coughed only on occasion. Amidei hovered, entering and exiting the hall at odd times, mayhap a move designed to draw the cardinals’ attention to him, remind them of promises made.
For the most part, the Gifted ignored him, focusing on words exchanged between the pontiff, Piero, and Josephine, who arose to be their best defense, turning every question back to Scripture, demanding again and again to show them all where the Word said they were not to be doing as they had been gifted by God to do.
The doge and Conte and Contessa Morassi sat through the entire first day, waiting to be called upon for their testimony. But the pope carefully avoided even looking in their direction, let alone allowing them to say what they had come to say.
And despite the fact they had clearly spared his life—and that the pope had called them to help him out of an apparent, desperate need—he seemed intent upon seeing his sacred duty through. To ascertain, as he put it, “whether you be renegade, heretic, or saint.”
“Is it your intention,” said the pope now, “to continue to baptize outside Church gates?”
Josephine rose. “Peter said, ‘Repent and be baptized, every one of you, in the name of Jesus Christ for the forgiveness of sins. And you will receive the gift of the Holy Spirit. The promise is for you and your children and for all who are far off—for all whom the Lord our God will call.’ ”
“You take that Scripture as justification for your actions?”
“All that we need, Holiness,” Piero said soberly, looking from Josephine to the pope. “But God is urging me to speak the Word more than baptize and get into disagreements with you, as Paul did with the Corinthians. ‘For Christ did not send me to baptize, but to preach the gospel—not with words of human wisdom, lest the cross of Christ be emptied of its power.’ ”
“A simple yes or no will do,” said the pope dryly. “You presume we do not know our Scriptures, little brother and sister?”
“We beg your forgiveness, Your Holiness. My sole concern is to follow the call that Christ has placed in me, and do so with everything I have in me. This is the core of what we believe: that we are to devote ourselves, like the first believers, to studying the Word, to fellowship, and yes, even breaking bread together. Only within the Word can we find the truth we seek. We do not look to the wisdom or traditions of man, for in man, the Church becomes lost.”
The pope rose, waving a bit on his feet, flushing at the neck. “I am the Church. You promote heresy, madness among the commoners.”
“No, Your Holiness,” Piero said, bowing, regretting his words but unable to say anything but this. “We are the Church. We are the Body. Born to live and act in Christ’s name, by the power of the Holy Spirit. To do as he bids, wherever, whenever, he bids it. If we were to ignore that call, now that would be heretical.”
The pope said nothing. Round and round had they gone on these facts, saying them again and again, with every different phrase possible.
“Sleep this night, ‘Gifted’ of God. But be aware that we must hear far different things from you on the morrow. Our patience wanes. You are on a path toward excommunication and the Court of Apostolic Causes. And you, priest,” he said, pointing at Piero, “shall be defrocked.”
“It matters not,” Piero said steadily, “for God sees me as I am, shall use me wherever I am for the remainder of my days, whether I wear the robes of a priest or wander about in animal skins.”
The court erupted.
THE next morning, the pope ignored the Gifted and turned to the doge. “You and the Conte and Contessa Morassi must desire to be soon on your way. You wish to say something in public defense of these men and women?” he asked.
“I do,” the doge said. He lumbered to his feet.
“Be about it then.”
“These men and women came to my city. I can personally attest to the fact that they healed more than fifteen on our isle of lepers, citizens who now work and live among us in the Rialto again. They restored husbands and fathers, sisters and mothers, daughters and sons.”
The pope sat back in his chair. “Our court has heard whisperings. These healings have been authenticated?”
“By Cardinal Boeri himself. He was in Venezia when the Gifted came to us.”
The pope’s eyes flitted over Boeri and back to the doge.
“They healed a madman, long stationed on a corner of the Dusodoro district,” he said. “This was a man who screamed through the night, keeping neighbors awake for hours, for years. No one remembers him with sound mind. He now is clean and well and works with the sisters in the Hospital of the Saints.”
The pope looked over to Daria. “Your ‘madman’ must have had some physical ailment. She is a healer. I take no issue with using her gifts as a physician.”
“I do not wish to be a physician,” Daria said, standing. “I only wish to heal as God bids.”
The pope frowned. “What is the difference?”
“T
he difference is that I go where God, not man, calls me. To those he calls me to heal. I can administer medicines, but only God can heal.”
“Did you not come to us, in our chamber, to heal us, when our own physicians could not?”
The court erupted in gasps. Apparently, many had not yet learned of this. Daria studied the pontiff. Was he allowing her an opening? Using his own healing as a means of defense?
“I did, three nights past.”
“And the next morning we were remarkably better,” he said.
“Because God laid his hand upon you,” she said. “I treated you. But God healed you.”
“But we had sent for you,” he said.
“We were called by God to go to you even before your steward even arrived at our door. We were making our way to the papal chambers—”
The pope laughed. “How did you intend to gain entrance?”
“If we could not gain entrance, we planned to pray for you, as close as we could get to you. And we intended to stop your assassin, even if we had to forfeit our own lives to do so.”
A lady screamed and fainted at the mention of an assassin in the house of the pope. Men shouted, and the audience dissolved in private conversation.
“You shall be quiet!” the pope said, rising. He turned to Piero. “How do we know that you are not the papal assassin? And if it wasn’t you, how did you come to know of this intrigue?”
“Hasani was granted a vision,” he said, lifting his hand for the sheets. Hasani rose, handed them to him, and then sat back down.
A steward took them from him and passed them along to the pope. He studied them for a long moment and allowed his eyes to move to where Amidei stood. To his credit, Amidei did not waver under his gaze.
The pope’s red-rimmed eyes moved back to Hasani, standing behind Piero. “He is your seer? A slave?”
“Freed man, long a member of the d’Angelo household.”
“And how often do his visions hold true?”
“We have yet to see one not come to fruition,” Piero said, knowing the pope was seeing Hasani’s drawing become reality—the conical hat of the pope being placed on Cardinal Morano’s head. “Although at times, the outcome is different than we expect.”
The pope rested his elbow on the throne chair and rubbed his temples. “How many of these drawings has he done?”
Piero glanced over his shoulder. Hasani stared downward. “I am uncertain, but I have seen stacks and stacks of them in rooms we have had to leave behind.”
“So you have no others here, now?”
“Nay,” Piero said, relieved to be able to answer in honesty and not relinquish anything Hasani was not ready to share.
“Are there others in the manor in Villeneuve-des-Avignon?”
Piero’s eyes widened, and slowly he turned to Hasani, hoping the man had not left more there, that he had hidden them, somewhere along the way.
Compelled to honesty, the regal, tall man nodded once.
“Go and fetch those drawings from the manor,” the pope muttered to a clerk. The man set off at once.
The pope sat in silence for a time, then looked again to Piero. “Your letter speaks of seven in your number. We know Lady de Capezzana is your healer, you a man of wisdom—although we confess we believe that to be a matter of debate—the black man is your seer, one who receives visions. By her tone, Josephine is your prophetess. Sir de Capezzana is your man of faith.” His eyes went to the knight, taking in the stance of his shoulders, chin. “Who is your discerner? The one who can determine light from dark?”
“I am,” said Tessa, standing on shaking legs. But her arms were at her sides, her hands in fists of defiance.
The pope stared hard at her. After a long moment, he asked, “And your man of miracles?”
Gaspare rose beside Tessa.
THE pope continued to question the Gifted, the Morassis, and the doge for days, at first seeming to wish to guide them onto a safer path, persuade them to relinquish those things the papacy could not condone—baptism, communion, and other sacraments outside of the Church and not on Church-sanctioned days—and find the means to bless their gifting, utilize it for, as he put it, “the glory of God.”
But as the third day edged into the fourth, the pope became visibly wearied and agitated. Daria feared that he had taxed his weakened health, the task too much as he tried to heal. “His color is poor,” she whispered to Gianni, but her husband’s attention was upon Josephine as she moved forward to once again respond to the pope’s questions.
After a time, the pope stared at Josephine with deadened eyes for a long moment, then moved on to look at Piero. Lastly, he looked upon Daria. “It deeply saddens us that it has come to this. However, we see no other recourse. We hereby send you to the Court of Apostolic Causes. We command the court to begin proceedings by defrocking Father Piero. We send any of you”—he paused to look at each of the Gifted and their supporters, including the Conte and Contessa Morassi and the doge—“with the recommendation that anyone who refuses to denounce their previous involvement with these people, recant their intentions to proceed in holy matters when we have specifically asked you to refrain, must be excommunicated.”
Piero absorbed his words, closing his eyes at the last. Excommunication—damned to eternal hell, with no method to return. And yet he no longer believed the pope held such power; only his Savior could save or condemn. There was simply no scriptural basis for it. He was more concerned for the people . . . that anyone in papal territory would be sure to avoid them, going as far as to refuse them food, water, lodging, or they would risk excommunication themselves. What would that do to their ministry? Their desire to reach the people with the Good News? But God was not surprised at this; he knew they would face this day. A warm assurance washed over his heart.
He opened his eyes to stare back into Cornelius’s. “So be it,” he said softly.
THEY were called before the Court of Apostolic Causes three days later, led by armed guards to the massive hall, with soaring ribs that met in domes, and placed in line behind others condemned to final judgment.
The Great Audience Hall was packed as they at last were called forth. Word had spread that the Gifted were to be questioned, and that the process would begin with the defrocking of a priest. People jostled on the sides, but Daria had a hard time keeping her eyes from Piero. What would this mean to him? Was there not any other way?
He looked back at her, as always making her feel as if he could read her thoughts. He gave her a tender smile and leaned toward her. “I do not fear this, daughter. God can work through all things. You’ve seen it. After the darkness, light. Right?”
She nodded, quick tears in her eyes.
“Father Piero, chaplain of Sir Gianni and Lady de Capezzana,” called a steward, reading from a parchment scroll.
Piero cleared his throat and stepped forward. “I am here.”
“Step forward, please,” said the man, pointing to a spot right beside him.
Piero moved forward, and the process began, just as he had described to them the night before. At the fore of the massive hall was a round bench at which the judge sat. A barrier separated them from the rest of the hall. Against the east wall was a lovely fresco of Calvary, and on the north wall a massive rendering of the Last Judgment, to remind all under whose judgment they would ultimately sit—Christ’s. In the Court of the Rota, named for the wheel-like round bench, up to ten thousand petitions were heard a year. The Lord’s Commissioner or chief auditor, a formidable man named Bishop Matteo du Puy, sat beneath a coat of arms and keystone labeled “S.P.Q.R.”
Piero eyed Cardinal Boeri, who saw it, too. The initials stood for “The Senate and the People of Rome,” a nod toward the papacy’s original roots. The cardinal returned his gaze with understanding. No priest ever wanted to be here, in this court, accused of anything.
Atop Piero’s simple robe, they placed a cape of gilt ribbons and a white silk. They placed a stole of silver and gold around his neck, w
ith the holy emblems denoting the Alpha and Omega on either tip. Over one arm they placed a censer of gold, its holy fragrance still smoking out the holes. And in his hands they placed a golden box, holding the heavenly host.
Bishop du Puy stared hard at Piero from under bushy, furrowed brows. “My brother, you were once sworn to uphold the causes of Christ, to abide by the authority of the Holy Roman Church, to honor the Rule, to lead life without error and to shelter others. You hold in your hands the treasures of the Church. You wear the most highly esteemed and honorable robes of the Church. Will you forsake us? Or shall you repent and recant?”
Piero looked down and thought for a long moment, holding his slight shoulders straight. Then he looked back to the bishop and said, “Blessed and holy Court, I honor what you do in attempting to keep the sheep within the gates.” He eyed Abramo Amidei and turned slightly toward him. “Wolves prowl about and we must be ever vigilant. For we are the shepherds, left to lead and protect the sheep.”
“I ask you, Father, to keep your eyes on me,” said du Puy, “as you speak to the Court.”
Piero turned without pause. “As a fellow shepherd of the flock, I recognize that my ways are unorthodox. That my guidance of my small flock was not along a road I was authorized by the Church to enter. And yet,” he said, picking up his chin, “I see no reason for the Church to block a road that our Lord and Savior himself has asked me to walk. If he asks, I shall go. Would this blessed Court ask me to deny a call of Christ? Is it not what brought each of us into the brotherhood of faith? Nay. I maintain there is nothing for me to repent of or recant. To do so would be akin to denying my Savior.”
The bishop rose, flushing red at the neck at Piero’s impudence. His mouth was set in a grim line. He gave a signal, and they began the process of defrocking Piero as a priest of the Church, beginning a litany in Latin.
Daria’s tears crested her lids and slid down her cheeks.
A hand reached for hers. Gianni. And after a moment, another reached for her hand. Tessa. She looked down to the child and over her head and then back again, wanting to make certain that her eyes did not betray her. Anette Devenue des Baux. Her husband, Lord Devenue. And right behind them, the others who had witnessed the healings. They had returned to Avignon as promised.
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