The Vault of Bones (10 page)

'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 from 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.'

'He was abroad when he inherited the throne, was he not?' asked the Captain.

'He was - in fact he was here in Rome, begging me for money’ The pope sighed. 'He has many relations here in the West, and he has begged from all of them. And of course, because my uncle made the installation of those Frankish buffoons - those
Latins
- on the throne of Constantine a sort of holy enterprise, I have been under some pressure to contribute something myself’

'Fascinating’ said the Captain. His face was a bland mask.

'No, it is not. It is exceedingly tiresome’ snapped Gregory. 'I have had to make appeals, much against my better judgement. I preached a crusade against the Bulgars. I have called upon the Catholic monarchs to send men and money, but they have not. Of course not! Why on earth should they? The enterprise is doomed, and all those with sense know it. I have opened the strongbox of Saint Peter and given him some small tokens, but Baldwin's hunger is born of desperation, and it is boundless.'

‘I, for one, would not be in his shoes,' said the Captain.

The pope sighed again. 'I am lecturing. There is a reason for this, however. I ...' He straightened up and looked around him, and in that instant the years seemed to fall away and he seemed, for a brief moment, young, vital and even more dangerous. Then he slumped once more. 'The execrable Baldwin stooped low - very low indeed. He sought to bribe me -
me,
Christ's Vicar on earth!'

What with?' asked the Captain, as if on cue, leaning forward intently.

'The contents of the Pharos Chapel in Constantine's palace!' hissed Gregory.

'My word,' said the Captain, both eyebrows up now, but no more than that hint of emotion on his face. 'What did Your Holiness do?'

I refused, naturally!' said Gregory, slapping his knees angrily. 'I could not but refuse.'

'Of course not. But even so ...' the Captain began.

'Do you think I turned down de Courtenay s offer happily?' asked the pope. We have, you and I, talked of the Pharos Chapel many times. There is no doubt in my mind that its riches belong here, in Rome. But for Baldwin to buy me with ...' he shook his head. 'If I had accepted, I would have been a greater sinner than Simon Magus. Good God,' he went on, ‘I have accumulated a great store of regrets in my long life, but this may be one of the greatest.'

You could take no other course, and it is a mark of your strength and wisdom, Your Holiness.' The Captain paused, as if a little surprised at his own words. 'And what do you believe Baldwin will do now?' he went on.

'He will tout his treasures around Christendom like a common peddler’ spat Gregory. 'That is what you discussed, is it not?'

I prayed for the ground to swallow me up, but the Captain merely chuckled. 'Naturally’ he said.

'It is most vexing. I was tempted to excommunicate Baldwin on the spot for his temerity, but I need him. There is some indication that the thorn who presently festers most painfully in my flesh - I mean Frederick von Hohenstaufen, boy, who carries the title of Holy Roman Emperor as if he were biting his thumb at Our Lord Jesu himself - some hint that Frederick may be thinking of an alliance with Baldwin's enemy John Vatatzes, who is a true monarch, by all accounts, and would dearly like his throne in Constantinople back. That I cannot allow. I have to prop up the Latins like so many stuffed corpses, if only to stop Frederick's canker from spreading eastwards.'

'But meanwhile, Your Holiness, you will be all too aware that I can do nothing for Baldwin, much as it would profit me so to do’ said the Captain, coolly. 'Unless ...' I held my breath.

'Pardon, your pardon, de Montalhac’ said the Pope, chuckling. 'There is, of course, something I require, as always.' Apparently distracted, he stuck a finger into one white-tufted earhole and searched intently. Then he signalled for more wine.

'I have been thinking of what fate I would prefer for Baldwin's treasure if I cannot possess it myself’ he said at last. 'The worst possible thing would be for it to be divided up, scattered like so much plunder. The worth of each individual piece is incalculable, of course - spiritual worth as well as monetary. But how much greater is that spiritual worth when the treasure is intact!'

'Are you asking me to act as broker?' said the Captain. 'Perhaps. Yes. Yes, I am.'

You honour me. I accept. And does Your Holiness wish to discuss the details now? We can

'No, no’ snapped Gregory. He pressed his knuckles to his forehead for a moment, and took a deep breath. 'Baldwin has a benefactor in mind. If I might risk a guess as to whom ... But no, dear Michel, perhaps you would save me the bother. Tell me.'