The Vault of bones bp-2

by Pip Vaughan-Hughes

  Our escort whisked us past and into a quarter I had never entered. We had left the city behind – or so it seemed, for past the Coliseum the buildings thinned out and suddenly we were in farmland. Or rather, it was like entering a vast garden, for in the distance, all along the skyline, the jagged walls of Rome stood guard. We were climbing a hill, walking past churches and here and there a lone tower that threatened the poor farmers' huts that stood amongst the vineyards and fields of vegetables that were just now sprouting shoots and fronds of exultant green. Olives and figs grew on either side, and the din of human tongues was supplanted by the chit-chat of starlings and finches. Away to our right our path – in truth it was a rather grand road, paved with cut stone – was flanked by a high brick bridge, which began down near the Coliseum but which ran away out of sight over the crest of the nearest hill, upon which stood a great church rising amidst a village of smaller churches and cloisters. The strange bridge seemed to be purposeless, for it forded no stream and carried no road, but where it led was no mystery, for though I had never seen it, like every Christian man I knew what church stood upon a hill just within the city walls of Rome: Saint John Lateran, the pope's church, and next to it his palace.

  At our swift pace we were there in the broad square before the church much faster than I would have liked, and our escort ushered us past the broad rise of steps that led to the church and through a gate into a courtyard. I fully expected to be strung up on the spot, but instead the officer gave us a courteous bow and led us inside the palace.

  We were met, in some inner state chamber, by a cardinal, a sick-looking man in late middle age, who nonetheless was the first cardinal I had ever met and who therefore set my knees atremble with awe until I remembered that I had long since left the Church, and that I need not fear its lords, at least in principle: for as our current predicament showed, in practice any lord was dangerous whether he wore purple or cloth-of-gold. This cardinal was not especially happy to see us, and I suspected we had disturbed either prayer or breakfast, for he sniffed at us impatiently, and informed us that His Holiness desired to speak with one Michel de Montalhac, whom he presumed one of us to be. His Holiness was currently residing in Viterbo whilst the populace of Rome overcame its troubles and ceased to act like feral children – this last delivered with a sniff of extra severity – and so he regretted, et cetera et cetera, but we would have to take horse. This very moment. No delay possible. And out he swept in a petulant fuss of purple silk.

  So it was out to another yard with us, where our escort – the same officer, but different men – waited with a pair of horses for us. Now here was mortification indeed, for I was forced to admit I had not ridden a horse since I was a lad, and then only Dartmoor ponies and mules. The soldiers exchanged looks of amused disbelief, and even the Captain permitted himself a little smile as he scribbled a message for Gilles on a hastily procured scrap of parchment, but at last a kindly guard took pity upon me and offered to lead my mount until I felt at ease on her back, and so we set off. It was strange to see the Captain swing himself up on to his horse as if he rode every day of his life, when in truth I had never, in two years, seen him mount so much as a dog-cart. I myself was very frightened, up there upon the back of my mare, but it was a fear based upon concrete circumstances – the danger of a broken limb or at least humiliation – and so allowed me to forget, for a few miles, what fate must have in store for us. And although I sat stiff with fear for a mile or so, after I saw that I was not to be thrown or devoured by the great creature I began to grow more confident, and after an hour I was trotting along unaided.

  Of the journey to Viterbo there is little to tell, save that it began to rain as we left the city and poured the rest of that day and the second too, and the sky was so low that the skirts of the clouds trailed upon the sodden ground. My world shrank to that portion of grey misery that was framed by the dripping window of my hood. We rode all day, and my arse, besieged by hard saddle and sodden britches, was chafed raw. That night we took our rest at Sutri, in a rich pilgrims' way station where our status as guests of His Holiness brought us abundant food and a comfortable bed, but we were not at ease, despite our escort's attempts to draw us out. For the Captain was polite but distant, and I was so caught between indignation and terror that I could muster up nothing but the sorriest parlour-talk.

  There were not sufficient beds, it being a busy time on the Pilgrims' Way, and so while the Captain was invited to bed down with the captain of our guards – Captain with captain: there would be a song about that, I vowed, should I ever make it back to the Cormaran – I had to make do with a straw pallet in the corridor, along with the other soldiers and a heap of pilgrims, all snoring, farting and reeking of wet clothes and feet. It was no worse than sleeping below decks on a ship, though, and once I had overcome my damp shivers and made myself a little warmth, it occurred to me that, if the pope intended us any harm, his men would hardly be allowing us this casual freedom on the way to his lair. So I did sleep, after a fashion, and awoke with a stiff neck and a sleeping pilgrim hugging my legs as if they were his wife.

  We set out again into the weather, and reached the town of Viterbo midway between lunch and dinner – or so we guessed, for we had seen neither glimpse nor glimmer of the sun's face the whole long, wet day. I was not cheered by the town, for it hid behind forbidding walls of some ominous grey stone, and the houses within those walls were all of a kind: grey and dour. There was no one about, and the rain poured from roofs and made brooks of the streets. Up these our party splashed, up to the walls of a building, half church, half fortress, that hunkered down amongst the grey houses like a defeated titan.

  'The palace of the pope!' exclaimed our officer, trying to sound haughty, no doubt, but merely seeming wet and out of sorts.

  'Mayhap they have lit a fire for us’ muttered the Captain, and seeing my expression, he added: 'Not that kind of fire, Petroc! We are safe, I promise.'

  The gates thudded wetly behind us. I looked around and saw a large open space that looked something like a builder's yard: some grand project had got under way, and blocks and carved pieces of that depressing grey stone lay scattered about everywhere amongst wooden scaffolding, winches and buckets. We parted with our horses, I with great joy, for I could hardly walk, so chafed was my crotch. The grand doorway of the palace was guarded by men in shining mail coats who did not so much as glance at us as we entered.

  Inside the palace it was gloomier than out, for no one had yet lit the torches that jutted from the wall, but at least it was dry: so dry, in fact, that I caught the stony astringency in the back of my throat and almost coughed. The air smelled faintly of incense, of beeswax and of dust. But before I could take stock, we were called to one side, into a sort of guardroom, and there up a plain flight of spiral stairs, along an unadorned corridor of stone and into a room, quite large and as austere as everything else I had so far seen. On the bed, which was large and of a dark wood, two sets of clothing were set out, and when I saw them my heart thumped, for they seemed to be priests' robes: simple things of black and white. What dreadful mockery was this? But while I quavered, the Captain had shucked off his wet clothes and pulled on the dry ones, and I saw that they were not vestments after all, but ordinary tunic and breeches, somewhat old-fashioned but made of fine cloth.

  'How considerate’ said the Captain. 'Mine fit rather well. And yours?'

  'Not too bad’ I admitted. It was somewhat delicious to draw on the clean, dry things after two days of sodden misery. 'I thought they were clerical robes, actually. Some sort of jest.' I swallowed. 'Or worse. I have heard that the heretic-finders dress their victims in such things before

  'Petroc! Your imagination is a rich and wonderful thing, to be sure, but calm yourself, I pray you! You and I would be hanging from the Tor di Nona by now if our host meant us ill. That I promise you.' The Captain combed out his lank hair with his fingers as he spoke. ‘We are to be fed, not cooked. Sit down.' He pointed to the bed. I plopped down upo
n it obediently. He stood before me, arms crossed.

  'Now then. I have not spoken of this since we were… invited upon this journey, for although our hosts seem pleasant enough, I'll wager their ears are sharper than their swords. And besides, I have been sunk deep in my thoughts, for which I apologise. But here is something that will cheer you. Do you remember our conversation with Baldwin?' I nodded. 'Of course you do. Then you will remember that I told that foolish young man that I had supped with popes and emperors. That, Patch, was no idle boast. The truth is that I know old Ugolino de Segni, who now delights in the name of Gregory, ninth of that name, Pontifex Maximus, et cetera, et cetera… I know Pope Gregory rather well’ You know the pope? I was aghast.

  'Extraordinary, isn't it? But in fact, not really that extraordinary. I knew him long before he took up Peter's keys. He was a diplomat, you know, roaming about the lands of the Church drumming up alliances against the German emperors. What better way to seal an alliance amongst clerics than with the gift of a relic? I became a trusted purveyor, and in time an occasional dinner companion. He is a very learned man, our Ugolino. I tend to keep off ecclesiastical topics, however, and fortunately we share an interest in philosophy. I can talk a little – and he a great deal – upon the subject of Aristotle, and things that branch off from there, and so we count each other as friends. There is no real foundation for it, but then again, he is the pope and, by definition, friendless in the earthly sense. You might find him a little unearthly, Patch. He is uncommonly ancient, but sharp as a pin. Be calm and close-lipped. I will handle the conversation’

  And that was the end of our talk, for at that moment a rap came at the door and a cleric in the robes of some important office entered. It was time for our audience.

  Later, I realised it was a shame that I could not remember more about the pope's palace. I dimly recalled heavily armed guards in the papal livery – many of them, guarding a great many doors that stood at the end of a great many stone corridors. Although the place was not unlike a monastery, in that it was cold, austere and very old, I felt as if we were descending into the earth, and that the successor of Saint Peter must dwell in some cavern in the depths like a lonely old spider. So I had little but an impression of gloom and disquiet, although I also knew that for the privilege I had been accorded the armies of pilgrims who came to Rome every year would have paid almost any price. But those pilgrims would be bringing home tales to tell to their families and friends, and I had no home, no family. Another pair of halberds clanged in front of us, and I winced. Then the final door swung open, and we walked on into the light of a thousand candles.

  Pope Gregory the Ninth was truly ancient. The wizened man who hardly filled his robes – let alone the great throne, raised on a red-draped dais, in which he slumped, looking unnervingly like a child's doll – did not, on first inspection, seem to be living at all. Less like a doll, I thought, imitating the Captain's reverent shuffle along the carpet that led to the throne, than a well-preserved relic. But as we grew closer I saw that I was very much mistaken if I thought that life had deserted this creature. For, although his eyes drooped and wept thin trickles of rheum down his leathery cheeks, they burned like pale embers. I noticed that the Captain was being deferential only to a point. He performed the bare minimum of obeisances, drawing – or so I perhaps fancied – disapproving glares from the clerics who surrounded us. But I did not have the Captain's strength of will, and scraped and simpered my way along behind him until all of a sudden the Captain came to a halt and I all but slammed into his back. The pope was holding up a ring-festooned hand – a claw, really: no more than a simulacrum of a living hand – and was glaring at us with what seemed to be unrestrained fury. I glanced nervously at the Captain, but he was smiling broadly, and now I saw that what I had mistaken for rage on the face of the Holy Father was in fact a fond smile, or as much of one as those moribund features could form. There was another wave of the claw, and two priests came forward with chairs and planted them on the carpet behind us. The claw bade us sit.

  Welcome, Signor de Montalhac. And welcome, Petrus Zennorius.' The pope's voice belied his necrotic form. It was deep and rich. If I had not seen the body from which it issued, I would have said it came from a man at the height of his powers.

  ‘I am overjoyed that you have ceased your endless peregrinations long enough to pay our city a visit, but I understand my simple invitation to luncheon somehow translated into your good selves being frogmarched here by a squadron of my troops! So sorry, so sorry.' Try as I might, I could not discern a speck of sincerity in the pope's apology. You will forgive me, of course,' he went on. It was not a suggestion. 'I have always enjoyed our meetings.'

  As have I, Your Holiness,' replied the Captain, with complete sincerity. I was astonished. Here was Captain Jean de Montalhac, whom I respected and admired above all other living men, but who made his living from – I shall not be reticent, as the Captain never was – from thievery, deception, usury and sacrilege, talking to God's representative on earth as if to a favourite uncle.

  We are old friends, are we not?' said Gregory, as if to confirm what I had been thinking. ‘I hope so,' said the Captain, simply.

  'I was sure of it. And because of our long friendship, and my appreciation – nay, I will say admiration – for your knowledge and experience in certain areas close to both our hearts, I would talk with you about a matter that has come to my attention. It is a matter that concerns me very deeply in one area, and it should, I hope, concern you just as deeply in another. And now, while it was a pleasure to meet your young colleague, I think perhaps

  Your Holiness, Master Petrus should stay, if you will permit him to do so. He has my fullest confidence, both as to his integrity and his discretion, and besides, I intend to tell him word for word of our conversation in any case.'

  The pope tipped his head back on its skinny neck and laughed, somewhat raggedly. ‘Your candour, Montalhac: so shocking’ He stopped laughing abruptly, and leaned forward, fixing me with his eyes. I flinched.

  'Master Zennorius. I hold a million or more souls in the palm of this hand’ He held it out to me, and suddenly balled it into a knobbed, bony fist. 'If Signor de Montalhac has given you his confidence, then so shall I. Do you know what that means?' I nodded my head.

  'The emperor himself does not have my confidence, my child. Almost all of those present in this room do not. And you know of what I am speaking?' Gregory's eyes burned into me.

  ‘Your Holiness, I only meant that I understood the stupendous honour you bestow upon me,' I stammered. So much for keeping my mouth shut. I had the sensation that my bowels were about to let go.

  'Ah. There is more than that. Tell me what you are thinking, boy.' I believe I could actually feel his gaze scalding me. Having no idea how to reply, and suddenly in immediate fear for my life, I closed my eyes. My thoughts whirled, but suddenly, in broad Devon tones, my mind provided the answer. It is the pope, you numbskull, I told myself. Tell him the fucking truth. I opened my eyes. Something like a smirk was playing upon Gregory's desiccated lips.

  'This morning I stood on the Pons San Petri, Your Holiness, from where I could see your prison, your fortress and your church. Your trust is to be found somewhere between those three points.' I bowed my head, and waited for the gaudy men-at-arms to drag me away. There was a noise like dry twigs being snapped, and I looked up. The pope had slapped his hands together, and now pointed a skeletal finger at the Captain.

  'How do you teach your pupils, de Montalhac? What power do you hold over them, that they will put their head into the lion's mouth? Your young man is truthful, and bold, and he sees the way of things. And in that I see you. Well done, my child,' he said to me. 'But do you fear me?' 'Very much, Your Holiness,' I said emphatically.

  'That is good. I have had word of you, boy. Of your bereavement.' I blinked at him, and he smiled, thinly. You may stay,' he said, and sat back with a sound like old brambles dragged across a windowpane.

  At a signal fr
om the pope, an official-looking man came up to receive his whispered orders. There was a slight commotion as the room was cleared. A band of serving-men brought us wine and sweet cakes, and the Captain gestured that I should take a little of each, although I was almost too nervous to move my hands. Meanwhile the pope and the Captain chatted easily, of which discourse I can recall only that their words were utterly inconsequential.

  'Now, to business,' said the pope, after he too had taken a few sips of wine. 'How fared you with the boy de Courtenay? Did he entertain you well?'

  The Captain set down his goblet very carefully, and examined his thumbnail for a long moment.

  'Tolerably well, Your Holiness,' he replied. 'His table is somewhat meagre in comparison to your own, but he served something rather appetising nonetheless.'

  'Of course he did. That is the matter in hand. It is of great import to me, and it can be made of equal import to you, de Montalhac. I will be brief, as I grow a little weary. You would be well advised not to grow old, young man,' he told me, drolly – or at least, I hoped he was being droll, as he had just made it very plain that he could prevent any further ageing on my part with a twitch of his eyebrow. I attempted an obsequious laugh, but instead made a sound like a costive raven.

  'Now’ said the pope, appearing not to have noticed. ‘You have met the new Emperor of Romania, so-called. Having met him, you will perhaps understand why he is something of a worry to me. My uncle – Pope Innocent, boy – caused nothing but trouble when he allowed the Venetians to take Constantinople. Each sovereign has been a disaster, each worse than the last. And the present one, this Baldwin, shows no sign of being any better. His own family regard him as a simpleton. However, I have met him, and now so have you. He is no simpleton, but he is in a great deal of trouble, and he knows it. His empire’ he curled his lips derisively, 'is bankrupt and under siege from Greeks, Slavs, Turks. It cannot stand without outside help.'