by Derek Wilson
‘Yes. But I prefer not to think about it.’
We talked a while longer in desultory fashion, but my grasp on the conversation dwindled rapidly. My head pulsated and my limbs still trembled as a result of my recent ordeal. I slumped back against the wall and, uncomfortable as that sitting posture was, I dozed.
Rough hands pulled me back into consciousness.
‘Come with us!’ A tall friar leered down at me.
He and a stocky companion pulled me to my feet and, with one grasping each arm, I was propelled through the door and into a cloister. We turned a corner, then passed through a doorway into a large room whose walls and ceiling were crammed with frescoes in the antique style. Benches lined the walls and on a raised platform in front of the altar stood a wide table behind which five men were seated, one of whom had paper and ink before him to take notes. It took no guesswork for me to know that I was in the chapter house described by young Antonio. This was the Dominicans’ meeting chamber where they conducted their business and, doubtless, where they interrogated victims suspected of heresy. Still flanked by my guardians I was made to stand in the centre of the room, some three metres from the table.
The central figure, the prior, a diminutive man with deep-set eyes set in a face the colour of a midwinter’s moon, opened the proceedings. ‘Nicholas Bourbon, you have come here from your own country to spread the damnable heresy of Martin Luther and will be taken to Rome to be examined and sentenced by a special bureau His Holiness, Paul III, is setting up to eradicate all error from the church. Today’s proceedings are purely advisory. It lies within my power to recommend mercy or to demand that God’s honour is fully satisfied by the exercise of his holy law against an unrepentant sinner. I therefore urge you to answer truthfully all our questions, to submit yourself fully to our authority and to show contrition.’
Silence followed. A few moments only. Yet it seemed timeless. As though my whole life had been condensed into it. I felt no fear and I was conscious that I felt no fear. It was as though I was standing outside myself, a spectator curious to see how Nicholas Bourbon would react. Perhaps my mind was numb. Perhaps my experience in Paris all those years ago had somehow strengthened my resistance. I returned the gaze of those dark eyes in their depressed sockets and it was the prior who blinked and looked away. When he spoke, his tone was obviously intended to intimidate, but it had the effect of buttressing my resistance.
‘Well?’ The prior scowled. ‘Have you no answer?’
‘I was not aware that I had been asked a question.’
‘Then I will be specific: do you submit yourself to the authority of this tribunal?’
‘No. I am a subject of His Majesty King Francis of France.’
He looked up sharply. ‘King Francis? We have been informed that you come from the kingdom of Navarre.’
‘I am a citizen of Lyon, which to the best of my knowledge still lies within the domain of His Most Christian Majesty. Currently, I have the honour to be in the service of the king’s sister, Her Highness the Queen of Navarre. I do not think either will be pleased to learn that their jurisdiction is being usurped.’
‘Irrelevant!’ The angry snarl was doglike – characteristic, perhaps, of the nickname domini canes. ‘All Christian men are subject to Christ’s vicar. He has been given the authority to punish heretics.’
‘Really? You honestly believe that our Lord has entrusted all his power and authority to the Pope? Has he not declared, “Vengeance is mine; I will repay”?’
Colour was creeping into the prior’s flaccid cheeks. ‘This is not a theological debating chamber. You are here to answer the charge that you came to Florence to peddle Lutheran heresy.’
‘I came to Florence on the Queen of Navarre’s instruction to buy books for the royal library.’
‘You came to distribute damnable, filthy pictures like this.’ He waved a sheet before him, then handed it to the secretary, who brought it to me.
It was a vigorous woodblock engraving depicting a duel between Luther and the Pope. The latter wielded a heavy sword, while his assailant lunged forward brandishing a pen. Under other circumstances it would have brought a smile to my lips. Now I simply said calmly, ‘I have never seen this before.’
Prior Girolamo leaned forward, arms folded before him, a triumphant sneer on his lips. ‘Then how do you explain its presence in your lodging?’
‘Since it has never belonged to me, logic suggests three possible answers. One: it was placed there by someone who wished to convince you that I am a colporteur of heretical images. Two: it was never there and, once again, some enemy has procured it to deceive you into bringing this accusation. Three: you are complicit in a fraud against an innocent visitor to your city.’
‘You dare to accuse me of lying?’ The words were uttered in a sibilant half-whimper.
‘Not at all. I would never accuse anyone without unchallengeable evidence.’
There was a whispered conversation between the friars. At last the prior shook his head and sat back. Once again he spoke quietly, but he was obviously wrestling with his anger. ‘Signor Bourbon, you are trying my patience.’
‘Then we both find ourselves in the same condition,’ I countered. ‘However, as intelligent men we can easily resolve the issue of this “evidence”.’ I hurried on before the prior could interrupt. ‘If I had come here to distribute these disgusting images, presumably several would have been found in my lodging and several more would have been in circulation on the streets. Now, according to your information, were more than one found in the room I occupied briefly in the city and after I had departed, having received an offer of hospitality from Signor Frescobaldi? Further to that, have they only been in circulation since my arrival in Florence?’
‘You will answer questions, not ask them. You are connected to this heretical material in other ways. It originated in England, in the propaganda machine of Thomas Cromwell, who was recently executed for heresy.’
‘My understanding,’ I said, ‘is that Cromwell suffered death as a traitor, not a heretic.’
‘Whatever!’ He waved a hand. ‘It seems that his reach extends from beyond the grave. His agents are still at work. These images came recently from a press in Basel, as you know since you are part of his pernicious network.’
‘Again, I refute that accusation.’
‘Do you deny that you have been asking questions about this damnable heretic ever since you came to Florence?’
‘No.’
‘A disciple trying to keep alive the memory of his dead master.’
‘Rather a curious scholar seeking to discover how he came by his damnable heresy.’
‘You are, then, determined not to allow us to help you? You realize you are forcing us to send you in chains to Rome with our recommendation that you be burned as a contumacious heretic?’ The pitch of his voice was rising as his emotion resisted his efforts to control it. ‘We do not wish to do that. Our Lord said that there is joy in heaven when a sinner repents. We seek to share that joy with Blessed Mary and all the saints. Confess your sins and I assure you you will find clemency. Our only desire is to save your soul. We will allow you a few minutes to reflect on your situation.’ He stood up. ‘If you value your life you will come to the right decision.’ He strode out and his assistants shuffled after him.
This was, I well knew, a common tactic used by many interrogators to break the resistance of prisoners not easily cowed by threats. Argument frequently confirms them in their opinions. Remove it and the demons of doubt and fear make their insidious entry. My hands began to tremble. I clasped them together across my chest. This, then, I thought, was how martyrs felt. Confronted by the unrelenting opposition of a powerful religious regime, isolated from the comfort of friends and the encouragement of fellow believers, they were driven to seek inner strength. Did I have that resource? I had surprised mysel
f by my argument with the prior. But that, as he had correctly observed, was mere theological debate, far removed from the realities of life and death. Was I the stuff of which martyrs were made? I doubted it. At some point I would probably crack. Most people did.
Light was now fading from the lofty chamber. Servants entered to light candles and lamps. I turned my gaze to one of the wall-filling murals that had so offended young Antonio. It represented a procession of multi-hued humanity. At the lower, mundane level some people were worshipping, while some of their heedless fellows were resisting the call to mass. In the centre of the composition this theme of pious sheep and worldly goats was taken up to the spiritual level: sinners sought their own pleasures in the thickets of sin, while their blessed neighbours were presented with crowns and ushered through the gate of heaven to share the joy and glory of Christ’s presence that filled the apex of the entire fresco.
Dotted throughout the painting, like commas in a paragraph, were sundry Dominicans, standing out in their black robes over white vestments. Here they stood, at every moment of human life – praying, preaching, teaching, blessing, admonishing and, finally, presenting the saved to St Peter. The message was vivid, but the viewer could respond to it in one of two ways: with gratitude for the selfless service of the Dominican order or with trembling fear for the awesome power with which it had been invested.
Time passed. My legs grew achingly tired. My two guards also showed signs of restlessness. Yet the members of the tribunal did not reappear. Was this yet another interrogation tactic, inducing weariness of body and spirit, so that I would submit more readily to verbal bullying? By my reckoning the greater part of an hour passed before the far door reopened.
But not to admit the prior and his companions. Only the secretary entered. He walked to the table and gathered up his papers. When he spoke it was to my guards.
‘Take him back to the cell. ’Tis time for vespers. We will resume our investigation tomorrow.’
Back in the cell Antonio was sleeping when I returned. As I sat down on the edge of the bed he awoke.
‘Hello,’ he said. ‘What happened?’
‘I was given a lengthy browbeating. Have you not had the same treatment?’
‘I?’ He laughed. ‘I am of no importance to the black beetles. I know no heretics.’
‘Nor do I, but that is irrelevant. For these men truth is whatever can be made to serve their own interests.’
‘Did you find out what they are going to do with us?’
‘The prior says he will send us to Rome – very reluctantly, of course.’
‘Hypocrite!’
‘I am not so sure. I have a vague feeling – and ’tis certainly no more than that – that he would rather not hand our fate over to his superiors in Rome.’
‘Pray God you are right.’
‘Amen. But build no hopes upon my words. They are a poor foundation.’
‘Is there anything we can do?’
‘We might confess what they want us to confess. If these beetles, as you call them, really want to keep matters in their own hands, they might claim the prestige of having converted two heretics.’
‘From heresies neither of us holds.’
‘Exactly. Sweet Jesus, I am so frustrated; so angry with myself.’
‘Yourself?’
‘My ignorance. I understand not the politics of this place. As we both know, it is that that matters. Not holy truth; just unholy power.’
He shrugged. ‘I cannot help. I know nothing of politics – and I want to know nothing.’
‘My friend, I suspect you know more than you think. You said earlier that Cosimo de’ Medici loves not the Dominicans. Is that because they have influence with the people?’
‘Certainly there are some who come here to seek their prayers, and to pay for their prayers, but there are others who despise them because they practise not what they preach.’
‘So, making victims of us would be of use to the Dominicans for two reasons: it would enhance their reputation as champions of Catholic truth and it would warn any malcontents of what happens to those who oppose their power.’
‘That may be so,’ Antonio shrugged, ‘but it does not help us to get out of here.’
He was right, of course. There was nothing we could do but pray for some miraculous deliverance. It was now dark in our cell and clearly our captors were not going to provide us with candles or anything such as blankets or pillows that might have offered the tiniest degree of comfort. We discussed how we might gain some sleep. Antonio offered to recline on the floor, but his constant shuffling back and forth on the cold stone made it obvious that I could not let him continue there. At length we managed to lie head to tail on the narrow bed, and arrange our cloaks to cover as much of us as possible.
A restless night was followed by a tedious day, and another. The only intrusions on our seclusion were the occasional visits of two lay brothers, one of whom stood guard at the door while the other brought food – always a soft, tasteless dough and vegetables boiled into anonymity. Antonio suggested that we should rush them next time they came and make a bid for freedom. I dissuaded him, pointing out that though I shared his frustration, a scuffle in the cloister would only bring other friars running.
‘At least we will be no worse for trying,’ my young friend grumbled.
‘Be not sure,’ I said. ‘Our captors have the power to make life even more unpleasant for us than it is.’
‘More unpleasant?’ Antonio growled the words.
‘Aye. Think how it would be if they manacled us – perhaps to each other.’
‘So you think we should sit here for weeks, months or years and do nothing about it?’ He scowled angrily. ‘You might accept that. You have tasted something of life. I have not yet begun to live. I have plans, ambitions.’ He sat heavily on the bed. ‘This is so pointless. What do they expect to gain from it?’
‘I think you have answered your own question. If we fall to arguing with each other we will become our own torturers. The time might come when we are so exhausted by lack of sleep or by hunger or sheer boredom that we will do anything, say anything they want, in order just to escape from one another. Our only weapon, dull-edged though it is, is patience. Let us not give the beetles satisfaction by falling out.’
Antonio grunted. ‘I suppose you think I am hot-headed.’
‘Oh yes,’ I replied, ‘delightfully so.’
To my relief, Antonio laughed. ‘Yet, you too must be frustrated. You came to Florence to gather information about this English friend of yours, but you end up here, where you can learn nothing.’
‘I have been thinking about that – obviously. Yet, you know, I realize that I have been learning something about Thomas Cromwell. He must have been much like you when he came here all those years ago. Like you he was hard-working, eager to learn – and as brilliant at his art as you are at yours. Oh, and he certainly loathed monks and friars.’
‘What was his craft?’
‘Not as easy to define as yours. He too made pictures, but his brushes were people and his pigments were ideas. He came to learn about money and merchandise at the Frescobaldi bank. He excelled, as you do, in his vocation. He absorbed what his seniors taught him about trade, the exchange markets, buying and selling, but he brought a critical mind to all this. Just as you dismiss as dated and unoriginal Andrea di Bonaiuto’s frescoes in the chapter house, so he saw that there were better, modern ways of doing business.’
‘Signor Bronzino says we must always pursue perfection.’
‘Very true, but the path we tread will not always be a straight line.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘The Greeks – Plato, for example – had a word for it: kyklos, “cycle”. What appears to be a straight line in human progress is often a circuit – old ideas rediscovered, embellish
ed, adapted to new situations. Plato was thinking particularly of political organizations, but the idea has wide application. For example, Florence today is much as it was when Cromwell lived here.’
‘Surely not . . .’
‘Consider this and tell me what you think I am describing: a city riven by the rivalry of wealthy families; rule by a council versus rule by a powerful individual; constant interference from Rome; church leaders striving to combat new, supposedly “heretical” beliefs; political leaders looking to Spain or France to buttress their power; artists and musicians almost coming to blows as they clash over new ways to express old truth.’
‘That describes our present situation quite well.’
‘Indeed, and it also describes Florence in the early years of the century when Cromwell lived here.’
‘So he did not enjoy his time in Florence, then?’
‘On the contrary, he loved Florence – the clash of personalities and ideas; the excitement of a volatile political situation. He found all this stimulating. He still spoke of it years later, when I met him. I often heard him say, “Florence is a place that makes you think.”’
From that moment we spent much of the day in intelligent conversation. It seemed that, in the midst of my misfortunes, I had gained a new pupil.
That night, despite the discomfort, I actually slept. I was woken by an urgent whisper.
I groaned. ‘Antonio, try to sleep, and in God’s name, let me.’
‘No sound, Signor Bourbon. Just come.’ The urgent command was not from the young artist.
I moved myself into a sitting position and tried to make out shapes in the darkness. The speaker standing before me was outlined against a paler rectangle where the door stood. It was open.
I felt my arm being gripped firmly. Someone drew me out of the room and into the cloister. There were other people there. None spoke. They moved as one along the walkway and I, as though tied to them by invisible cords, moved also. Faint light from a half-moon lay across the sward within the arcaded square. We turned through a door and were once more in the dark. Someone uncovered a closed lamp. It revealed a narrow corridor. We passed along, took another turning, went through another door and were out in the public square.
