Iacobus

by Matilde Asensi

  It was dark when, suddenly transformed into a couple of Frankish poverellos, the Commander and I had to face questions from the papal patrols who were doing the night watch around the citadel. We simply told them that we has been called to the Notre Dame des Doms Cathedral, where an old woman with no family was dying in the sacristy. It was an absurd answer and if the soldiers had taken a moment to think, they would have realized that at this time of night not even Franciscan freires leave their convent for an old woman who must have been very well spiritually and sacramentally taken care of by a prelate of the church in which she was supposedly dying. But they didn’t catch on and let us continue without further problems. I always say that people don’t think enough.

  Since Notre Dame des Doms was next to the Bishop’s Castle — within the grounds protected by the ancient Roman walls —, it was the perfect destination, as it allowed us to go in the right direction without arousing suspicions. We finally left it behind and heading off to the side we soon found ourselves in front of the gates of the papal stables.

  “Look,” whispered frey Robert. “They’re closed.”

  There didn’t seem to be anyone around, so we pushed the wooden doors open and went in. Inside the stables it was hot and wet. Some of the animals were alerted by our presence and whinnied and stamped restlessly but luckily not a soul appeared to see what was going on.

  A lantern strategically placed in the tack room showed us the way, and so, following similar signals, we entered the Pope’s private chamber through a hidden door in the wall, concealed behind a heavy damask tapestry. A roaring fire warmed the room which was dominated by an enormous canopy bed whose curtains were embroidered with papal shields. On a plain wooden table, three gold chalices and a silver jug filled with wine indicated that our presence was expected and that we should await the arrival of our host.

  “The strange thing is …,” whispered frey Robert; he only reached my shoulders, so he barely looked at me when he spoke, “is that an Episcopal palace can be vacated without anybody asking any questions.”

  “Listen,” I said. “They are all downstairs. Can you not hear, sire, the chanting of the Matutinale under your feet …? The Pope must have called all of the staff to prayer to let us enter freely.”

  “You’re right. This Pope is as sly as a fox. Did you know that despite his elderly age, in less than a year he has firmly taken the reins of the Curia and has filled the empty chests of the Apostolic Treasure? We are talking about millions of gold florins.”

  “I’ve spent almost a year and a half locked in a Mauricense monastery,” I apologized for my ignorance, “and I don’t know much about the things that have been going on in the world.”

  “Well you see, the general consensus is that after spending two years locked in conclave without making a decision, the Council Fathers decided to cut their losses and go with the lesser evil. However, despite having been appointed due to sheer boredom, John XXII has proved to be an excellent choice. He has a strong character, very bold and tenacious, and one by one he is resolving all of the problems that the Church had up until his arrival.”

  While frey Robert explained the spectacular feats of the new pope with obvious admiration, I noticed that the prayers had come to an end and I began to hear the stealthy footsteps and muffled voices of the servants outside the room. We didn’t have to wait long before the door opened and His Holiness, John XXII, made an appearance in the bedroom, preceded by an eager and solicitous cubicularius.

  John XXII, born Jacques Dueze, was a small, insignificant-looking man who moved with grace and elegance, as if he was dancing a mysterious dance and only he could hear the music. He had small, round eyes that were very close together, and his whole face pointed down towards his chin — eyes, nose and lips —, which gave him the strange appearance of a dangerous bird of prey. He wore a great purple cloak whose tail dragged across the floor and he moved like a dog following his master. When he removed his biretta, his noble, small head looked skinned and round like a ball. Despite our Franciscan habits, frey Robert and I knelt on one knee in a military gesture and bent our heads, awaiting his blessing, a blessing that was delayed until exhaustion because while we were kneeling His Holiness made himself comfortable in a brocade chair, the cubicularius carefully arranged his robes, and he drank a chalice of hot wine without paying us the slightest attention. He then cleared his throat and finally offered us the beautiful pastoral ring, made from a single, huge ruby, for us to kiss.

  “Pax vobiscum.” he murmured routinely.

  “Et cum spiritu tuo,” replied frey Robert and I, as if one man.

  “Rise, Hospital knights. Take a seat.” The cubicularius presented us with chalices of hot wine which we avidly held between our hands and prepared ourselves to listen to what the Holy Father had to say.

  “You must be Galceran of Born,” began the Holy Father, “the one they call the Perquisitore.”

  “Yes, Your Holiness.”

  “You must feel proud of yourself, Knight Born.” His voice was sharp and high-pitched and he drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair while he spoke. “Your seneschal in Rhodes speaks very highly of you. When We requested help, he told Us that he had the perfect man for the delicate mission that We are going to entrust you with. Just so that you know, he said that as well as a devout monk, you are a man of many means and with many tricks up his sleeve, with a renowned ability for discovering the truth, and that not only do you have a great reputation as a wise, responsible and competent doctor but you also know how to investigate and solve the problems which no one else is able to solve. Is that true, sire Galceran?”

  “I wouldn’t go that far, Your Holiness,” I muttered, overwhelmed, “although it is true that I have helped to successfully solve various mysteries. You know that when it comes down to it, men are men, even though the Spirit safeguards the salvation of their souls.”

  The pope waved his hand in boredom and gathered the folds of his cloak. I thought that I had said too much and told myself not to open my mouth until I was specifically requested to do so.

  “Very well, sire Galceran, I trust your abilities to make an important decision that could change the course of my reign. Of course, nothing said here can leave these four walls …. I appeal to your vow of obedience.”

  “Freire Galceran of Born will say nothing, Your Holiness,” confirmed frey Robert.

  The Pope nodded his head several times.

  “So be it. I suppose,” he began, “that you have heard of the unpleasant events that led to my predecessor, Clement, eradicating the dangerous Order of the Temple, have you not?” he inquired, looking into my eyes.

  For a split second, a look of incredulous surprise and distaste crossed my face but as soon as I noticed what I was doing, I quickly took control of the contractions that had begun in my face muscles. “By any chance, does the mission that His Holiness is thinking of entrusting me with have anything to do with the Templars?” By God, if it did, he had just thrown me into the lion’s den.

  I had heard the story so many times and knew the details so terribly well that the accumulation of circumstances hit me as I remained under the cold and inquisitive watch of John XXII.

  Three years before, on the 19th of March 1314, Jaques de Molay, Grand Master of the extinguished Templar Order, and Geoffroy of Charney, Preceptor of Normandy, were burnt alive, guilty of perjury and heresy. That was the tragic culmination of seven years of persecution and torture that ended the most powerful military Order of Christendom. For two centuries, the Templars had owned more than half of the European territories and had been in possession of so many riches that no one had ever been able to quantify its wealth. The Temple was, de facto, the main banker for the great lords and the major Christian kingdoms of the West and it held the royal treasury of France from the time of Louis IX the Saint. As was said, and rightly so, this was precisely the reason for its misfortune, as the grandson of St. Louis, Philip IV the Fair, overwhelmed by his constant lack of money
and humiliated by his economic vassalage, had given his keeper of the seal and confidant, William of Nogaret, the task of slowly creating favorable conditions for the dismemberment and ultimate extinction of the Templar Order, whose first arrests had been carried out in October 1307.

  The reason given to the surprised kings of Europe by Philip to justify this affront against the all-powerful Order included the overwhelming evidence he had which, it was said, proved that the Templars had committed crimes ranging from heresy to sacrilege, sodomy, and even idolatry, to blasphemy, witchcraft and the terrible repudiation. In total, the Temple freires themselves confessed to fourteen accusations under the iron torture. But while the English, German, Aragonese, Castilian and Portuguese monarchies very much doubted those accusations, His Holiness, Pope Clement V, under terrible pressure from King Philip — who had given him the papacy —, decided to suppress the Order of the Knights Templar by means of the Considerantes Dudum bull, immediately dictating Pastoralis praeementiae and Faciens misericordiam which forced all the Christian kingdoms to place any Templars in their territory under the jurisdiction of the Inquisition.

  From that time on, the Frankish monarchy was legally authorized to carry out his vengeance, granting full freedom of action to its royal keeper of the seal, William of Nogaret. Thirty-six freires milites died during the interrogations, fifty-four were burnt at the stake, those who refused to recognize their crimes were sentenced to life imprisonment and only those who publicly accepted their accusations were released in 1312, quickly vanishing from Paris and France over the forthcoming days.

  I was thinking about all of this when the voice of His Holiness, John XXII, brought me back to reality.

  “So you are aware,” continued the Pope, “of the Frankish Templar’s diaspora to kingdoms more benevolent than those of the Capetians’, and the training, with Our permission, of new military Orders, smaller and more dangerous which now carry out some of the more insignificant services previously provided by the milites Templi. Well, this is all now turning into a surprising mix to complicate even further the difficult political balance at this time between the Christian kingdoms. I’m sure you know that the Portuguese Templars were treated very differently to their brothers in other countries.” I nodded slowly. “In fact, Portugal was the only kingdom in Christendom that was not subjected to the Inquisition, thus saving it from the rack and buskins. And why has this kingdom disobeyed all of the papal mandates? Because Don Denis, King of Portugal, is a fervent supporter of the Templar spirit. And now …,” shouted His Holiness indignantly, “and now he wants to go even further and laugh at Us!”

  He downed the contents of his chalice in a single gulp and let it fall on the table with a blow. The cubicularius rushed to refill it.

  “Listen carefully, freire, We recently received an unbelievable visit from one of Don Denis’ messengers, requesting authorization to create a new military Order in Portugal which would be given the name of the Order of the Knights of Christ. The King’s audacity goes as far as sending a messenger, a renowned Templar, João Lourenço, who is patiently awaiting Our reply, whatever it may be, in the citadel, to later return to his king on horseback.

  What do you make of it all, Galceran of Born?”

  “I think that the King of Portugal is acting on very well thought-out plans, Holy Father.”

  “And how is that, freire?”

  “It’s obvious that he is planning to allow the Temple to continue in his kingdom, and the fact that he sent a Templar as an ambassador proves that he is not afraid of offending you with his disobedience,” I said, continuing with my argument to the evident interest of the Pope. “As You know, the real name of the Order of the Temple was the Order of the Poor Knights of Christ. The Temple part came about from their first residence in the Holy Land, the Temple of Solomon, a gift to the first nine founders from King Baldwin II of Jerusalem. Therefore, the difference between the names of both Orders, the one he wants to found, the Knights of Christ, and the demised Order of the Poor Knights of Christ, is just one word, and it’s a good thing that it is demised seeing that, without a doubt, the Templars were anything but poor. At least now, the King of Portugal is showing some dignity.”

  “What else?”

  “If he is planning to allow the Temple to exist in his kingdom, he will need to not just change the name but he will also have to return its previous possessions. Who do they belong to at this time?”

  “To the King,” said the Pope with resentment. “He was in charge of seizing the Templar assets as ordered by the papal bulls of Our predecessor, Clement, and he is now quite calmly informing Us that he will give these assets to the new Order and, with even greater audacity, as if there was any lacking from this shameful tapestry, he informs us that the Knights of Christ will be governed by the Rule of the Knights of Calatrava, based on the Cistercian ordinances which, take note — and the Portuguese King didn’t say this, no, the Portuguese King kept this quiet! —, are identical to those of the Rule of the milites Templi Salomonis.”

  He took another large swig from his chalice, draining it in one go again, and let it fall back on the table with a blow. He was so furious that even his eyes were red with anger. Without a doubt he had a very bloody and bilious nature, very different from the image of impassive gentleness he had displayed upon entering and I wasn’t surprised about what frey Robert had said about his rapid triumphs and energetic character.

  “And I’m sure that you will be asking yourself what all this has to do with you. Well, if we put aside the fact that Don Denis wants to humiliate Us in front of the world, laugh at the Church and mock his shepherd, there are still a few details left untold …. Imagine that, because of these shameful reasons, We don’t give him permission. What could happen?”

  “I don’t know …,” I interrupted without realizing.

  “We have not finished, freire!” he shouted. “If the Order of the Templar sees its desire to rise from the ashes in Portugal as unsuccessful, it would probably cherish the idea of a new Pope who is more compliant with its plans, and we must not rule out the possibility that, in addition to João Lourenço, who was sent to Us by Don Denis, there are other Templars camouflaged in the citadel awaiting Our reply to finish with Us if necessary.”

  “If that were the case, Holy Father,” I dared to comment, “the Templar Order would be risking the possibility that the next pontiff would also refuse to give them permission. And then what would they do? Assassinate one pope after another until one gave into their wishes?”

  “O.K., I know where you’re going with this, sire Galceran, but you are wrong! It isn’t about the next pontiff, or the next fifty pontiffs. This is about Us, freire, of Our poor life sacrificed to serving God and the Church! The question is, would the Templars dare to kill Us if We deny it permission? Maybe not, maybe the fame hanging over the Order is exaggerated. Do you remember the curse of Jacques de Molay? Have you heard the story …?”

  According to the legend circulating the world from one mouth to another, when Jacques de Molay, the last Grand Templar Master, was burnt alive, a gush of wind blew the flames to one side and the prisoner was briefly exposed. Just then, taking advantage of the wind, the Grand Master, who had his head turned towards the palace window where the King, the Pope and the royal keeper of the seal were standing, screamed at the top of his lungs:

  “Nekam, Adonai! Chol-Begoal! Pope Clement …, Knight William of Nogaret …, King Philip: I summon you to appear before the Court of God within a year to receive your fair punishment. Cursed! Cursed! All cursed until the thirteenth generation of your races!”

  An ominous silence ended his words before his image was lost forever amongst the flames. The terrible thing was that the three of them were indeed dead before that time.

  Maybe the rumors circulating about these deaths,” continued John XXII “are no more than hoaxes, vulgar gossip, lies circulated by the Order itself to increase its prestige as a secret and powerful military wing, from which no one can
escape. What do you think, freire?”

  “It is possible, Your Holiness.”

  “Yes, it is possible … But We do not like possibilities and would like you to find out the truth. This is the mission We are entrusting you with: We want evidence, freire Galceran, evidence that scientifically proves whether or not the deaths of King Philip, of the advisor Nogaret and of Pope Clement were a product of God’s will or, on the contrary, of the will of that miserable Jacques de Molay. Your profession as a doctor and your renowned wisdom are invaluable for this task. Use your skills to serve the Church and bring Us the evidence that We request. Think that if the deaths were the will of Our Lord, We could comfortably deny the request of Don Denis without fear of being assassinated but if they were the work of the Order of the Temple, then all of Christianity will live under the threat of the murderous sword of criminals who call themselves monks.”

  “This is a huge task, Your Holiness,” I protested; I could feel the sweat pouring down my sides and my hair sticking to my neck. “I don’t think that I can do it. It will be impossible for me find the answers to your questions, especially if it was the Templars who killed them.”

  “It’s an order, freire Galceran of Born,” the Grand Commander of France whispered gently but firmly.

  “So be it, Knight Galceran, get started as soon as possible! We have little time. Remember that the Templar is waiting for us in the citadel.”

  I shook my head helplessly. It was an unrealistic mission, impossible in every way but there was no escape: I had received an order that I could not, under any circumstances, disobey. So I quashed my indignation and gave in.

  “I will need some things to get started, Your Holiness: narratives, chronicles, medical reports, Church documents relating to the death of Pope Clement, as well as permission to interview certain witnesses, to check archives, to ….”