Читать книгу The Season of the Beast - Андреа Жапп - Страница 12

THE confused nightmare. Francesco de Leone sat up with a start on his straw mattress, his shirt drenched in sweat. He concentrated on breathing slowly to try to calm his wildly beating heart. Above all he wanted to avoid going back to sleep for fear the dream would continue.

And yet the Knight Hospitaller of Justice and Grace11 had lived so long with this fear that he often wondered if he would ever be rid of it. The nightmare was more like a bad dream that had no end and always began with the echo of footsteps – his footsteps – on a stone floor. He was walking along the ambulatory of a church, brushing the rood screen shielding the chancel, trying by the weak light filtering through the dome to study the shadows massed behind the columns. What church was this? The rotunda suggested the Holy Sepulchre in Jerusalem or even the bravura architecture of the dome of the Hagia Sophia in Constantinople. Or could it be the Santa Costanza in Rome, the church which he believed opened onto the Light? What did it matter? In his dream, he knew exactly what he was looking for within those colossal walls of pinkish stone. He tried to catch up with the silently moving figure, betrayed only by the slight rustle of fabric. It was the figure of a woman, a woman hiding. It was at this point in the dream that he realised he was chasing her and that the design of the church, centred on the chancel, was hindering him. The figure circled as he circled, always a few steps ahead of him as though anticipating his movements, staying on the outside of the ambulatory while he moved along on the inside.

Francesco de Leone’s hand reached slowly for the pommel of his sword, even as an overwhelming love made his eyes fill with tears. Why was he chasing this woman? Who was she? Was she real?

He gave a loud sigh, exhausted but tense at the same time. Only old women believed dreams were premonitions. And yet he had dreamt of the deaths of his sister and his mother only to discover their corpses soon afterwards.

He looked up at the tiny arrow slit opening onto the sky. The fragrant Cypriot night had no calming effect on him. He had been to so many places, known so many people that he could barely remember the town where he was born. He was from nowhere and felt like a stranger in this vast citadel, reconquered, following the siege of Acre in 1291, after a fierce battle led by the Knights Templar* and the Hospitallers. Guillaume de Beaujeu, the Grand-Master of the Knights Templar, had lost his life and Jean de Villiers, Grand-Master of the Knights Hospitallers, had been a hair’s breadth from succumbing to his wounds. Only seven Hospitallers and ten Templars had survived the siege and the ensuing battle that signalled the end of Christendom in the Orient.

Most of the Knights Templar had returned to the West. As for the Knights Hospitaller, their hurried retreat to Cyprus had taken place with the mild opposition of the ruler of the island, King Henri II of Lusignan, who had reluctantly allowed them to settle in the town of Limassol on the southern coast. The monarch was worried about what might soon become a state within a state – both orders being exempt from all authority save that of the Pope. Lusignan had imposed on them boundless restrictions. Thus, to a man, their number on the island must never exceed seventy knights plus their entourages. It was a clever way of curbing their expansion and above all their influence. The Holy Knights were forced to submit while they waited for more auspicious times. It mattered little. Cyprus was a mere step, a brief respite that would allow them to recover their strength and regroup before reconquering the Holy Land. For the birthplace of Our Lord must not remain in the hands of the infidels. Guillaume de Villaret, who in 1296 succeeded his brother as Grand-Master, had had a premonition, and his attention was now turned to Rhodes, a fresh refuge for his order.

Francesco de Leone experienced a frisson of elation and joy when he imagined advancing towards the Holy Sepulchre, raised on the site where Joseph of Arimathea’s garden had once stood. It was in the crypt beneath the church that Constantine’s mother had discovered the cross.

He would fall to his knees on the flagstones, warm from the fierce desert sun outside. He envisaged the tip of his out-stretched hand brushing the strap of the sandal. He was ready to lay down his life with devotion and infinite humility for this deed; it was the Knight’s supreme sacrifice.

The time had not yet arrived. Hours, days, months, even years, lay ahead. So many things must come to pass before then. Had he lost his way? Was his faith no longer entirely pure? Was he not beginning to enjoy the scheming of the powerful, which he was supposed to thwart?

He stood up. Despite his relative youth he felt as if he were a thousand years old. The human heart held few mysteries for him; it had afforded him some rare but dazzling moments of wonder and a great many more of despair, even disgust. To love man in Christ’s image seemed to him at times an impossible ideal. And yet he would do well to conceal this chink in his faith. All the more so as man was not his mission; his mission, his many missions were Him. It was the indescribable joy of sacrifice that sustained Francesco de Leone during his darkest hours.

He moved noiselessly through the wing containing the cells and dormitory. Reaching the outside, he slipped on his sandals before crossing to the centre of a vast courtyard where the building housing the hospital was located.

He briskly descended the steps leading to the morgue beneath the infirmary. It was in this cramped cellar that bodies were laid out awaiting burial, their decomposition accelerated by the sweltering heat. On that particular morning, it was empty – not that the Knight would have been disturbed by the sight of a corpse. He had seen so many dead bodies, had advanced among them, stepping over them and occasionally turning one to search for a familiar face, blood up to his ankles. At the far end of the cellar a small postern door led to the carp pond chiselled out of the granite rock. This fish farm, inspired by a thousand-year-old Chinese tradition, provided additional food for the residents of the citadel and represented an economy since the carp lived on chicken excrement. His ablutions in the icy water of the deep pond, and the carp – rendered blind by years of darkness – brushing against his calves, did nothing to dislodge the profound unease he had felt since he awoke that morning.

By the time he entered the chapel to join the prior, who also occupied the position of Grand-Commander, dawn was just breaking.

Arnaud de Viancourt, a small slim man with light-grey hair and an ageless face, turned to him smiling, and folded his hands across his black monk’s habit.

‘Let us go outside, brother, and make the most of these few hours of relative coolness,’ he suggested.

Francesco de Leone nodded, certain that the early-morning air was not the reason for the frail man’s proposition. He was afraid of the spies Lusignan had placed everywhere, perhaps even within their order.

The two men walked for a while, their heads bowed and the hoods of their cloaks raised. Leone followed Arnaud de Viancourt to the great stone wall. His relationship with Guillaume de Villaret, their current Grand-Master, was founded upon the loyalty that bound the two men, as well as their intellectual complementarity. And yet the prior was unaware that this mutual trust had its limits; Guillaume de Villaret was well acquainted with the fears, hopes and motives of his Grand-Commander – as was his nephew and likely successor, Foulques de Villaret – but the reverse was not true.

Arnaud de Viancourt stopped walking and looked around carefully to make sure they were alone.

‘Listen to the cicadas, brother. Like us they wake at dawn. What wonderful stubbornness they possess, do they not? But are they aware of why they sing? Surely not. Cicadas do not question their lot.’

‘Then I am a cicada.’

‘Like all of us here.’

Francesco waited. The prior was given to these preambles, to speaking in metaphors. Arnaud de Viancourt’s mind made him think of a gigantic universal chessboard whose pieces were constantly moving and never obeyed the same rules. He wove such a complex web and it was easy to lose sight of the individual threads. Then suddenly each element would fall into place to form a perfect whole.

The prior said in an almost detached voice, as though he were thinking aloud:

‘Our late lamented Holy Father Boniface VIII* had the makings of an emperor. He dreamed of installing a papal theocracy, a Christian empire united under one sole power …’

The veiled criticism was not lost on Francesco. Boniface had ruled with a rod of iron and been little disposed to dialogue, and his intransigence had won him many critics even within the Church.

‘… His successor Nicolas Boccasini, our Pope Benoît XI,* is quite unlike him. No doubt his election surprised him more than anyone. Should I confess, brother, that we fear for his life? He wisely pardoned Philip the Fair for attempting to murder his predecessor.’

The idea that Benoît’s life might be threatened filled the Knight with silent dread. The new Pope’s purity of vision, his spiritualism even, was a cornerstone of the century-old combat which Leone had devoted himself to. He waited, however, for the other man to continue. The prior proceeded with customary caution:

‘It … It has been brought to our attention that Benoît intended to excommunicate Guillaume de Nogaret,* the monarch’s ubiquitous shadow, who only played an accidental part in that abomination, although rumour has it Nogaret insulted Boniface. Be that as it may, Benoît must be seen to respond, to hold somebody to account. Complete absolution would undermine the Pope’s already wavering authority.’ He sighed before continuing. ‘King Philip is no fool and he won’t stop there. He needs a compliant pope and will have him elected if necessary. He will no longer tolerate any forces of opposition that might interfere with his plans. If our fears are justified and the Pope’s succession is imminent we could find ourselves on very uncertain, not to say dangerous ground. We are no less in the firing line than the Knights Templar. I need not go on – you know as well as I.’

Francesco de Leone gazed up at the sky. The last stars were fading. Was the newly elected Pope’s life really in danger? The prior digressed:

‘Are they not miraculous? We might fear they will fade forever, and yet each evening they return to us, piercing the blackest night.’

Arnaud de Viancourt glanced at the taciturn Knight. The man never ceased to amaze him. Leone could have become one of the pillars of the Italian-speaking world – as admiral of the Hospitaller fleet or even a Grand-Master of their order. The noble blood that flowed in his veins, his bravery and his intelligence predisposed him to it. And yet he had refused these honours, these burdensome responsibilities. Why? Certainly not for fear of not measuring up to the task, even less so out of immaturity. Perhaps it was simply pride, a gentle pure sort of pride that made him long to give his life for his faith. An implacable, terrible pride that convinced him that he alone was capable of following his mission through to the end.

The old man observed his fellow Knight once more. He was tall, his features delicate but well defined. His honey-blond hair and dark blue eyes betrayed his northern Italian origins. The shapely sensuality of his lips might have suggested a carnal nature, and yet the prior was in no doubt as to his complete chastity – imperative in their order. What most astonished him was the extraordinary versatility of his brilliant mind, a strength that sometimes frightened him. Locked behind that lofty, pale brow was a world to which no one possessed the keys.

Leone was filled with foreboding. What would become of his quest without the private, not to say secret, backing of the Pope? He sensed that the drawn-out silence of his superior required a response.

‘Are your suspicions about this … threat to our Holy Father related to the names Nogaret or Philip?’

‘It is hard to tell the difference between the two. The critics abound: no one knows who governs France, Philip or his counsellors Nogaret, Pons d’Aumelas, Enguerran de Marigny, to name but a few. Do not be misled by my words. Philip is a stubborn, hard-hearted man and well known for his ruthlessness. Even so, to answer your question: no, King Philip is too convinced of his legitimacy to stoop to commit murder against God’s representative on earth. We believe he will do as he did with Boniface and demand his removal from office. As for Nogaret – I doubt it. He is a man of faith and of the law. Moreover, were he to conceive such a plot without the endorsement of his monarch, he would be forced to commit – or have someone commit – a devious abhorrent form of murder, and I do not see him as a poisoner. However …’ Arnaud de Viancourt accentuated his pause with a slight nervous gesture of his hand ‘… a zealous follower might interpret and carry out their desires.’

‘It wouldn’t be the first time,’ avowed Leone, feeling a frisson of horror at the idea.

‘Hmm …’

‘Should we stay close to the Pope, then, in order to safeguard his life? I would willingly defend it with my own.’

As he spoke, the Knight was certain that the prior had been leading up to something else. The palpable sorrow in the man’s eyes as he stared at Leone told him he had not been mistaken.

‘My friend, my brother, you must know how difficult, nay, impossible it is to prevent this horror, and do we still have time? Of course Benoît’s life is our first priority. As we speak, two of our brave brothers are at his side, protecting him with their constant vigilance, tracking the would-be poisoners. However, if … If he were to pass away … In our grief we must not forget the future …’

Leone finished the sentence for him, pronouncing the painful words he knew nevertheless to be true:

‘… which we must already begin forging if we are to prevent the destruction of Christendom.’

These words applied equally to the sacred mission to which he had committed himself body and soul, and about which Arnaud de Viancourt knew nothing. About which no one must know.

‘The future, indeed. Benoît’s succession – if our desperate attempts of the last few weeks to prevent it fail.’

‘Are we hoping that an intervention on our part might influence events?’

‘Hope? There is always hope, brother. Hope is our main strength. But hope is not enough in this instance. We must be certain that King Philip IV’s plan fails. If his counsellors succeed, as I fear they will, in electing a puppet pope to the Vatican, they will be free to attack those whom they cannot control as they would wish – that is to say, the Order of the Knights Templar and our own, since we are considered to be the Pope’s personal guard, a wealthy guard – and you know as well as I do of the King’s need for money.’

‘In which case the Templars are first in the line of fire,’ observed Leone. ‘Their extreme power has become their failing. The wealth that passes through their hands incites greed in others. Their system of depositing and transferring funds from one side of the world to the other has greatly facilitated this. Crusaders and pilgrims to the Holy Land need no longer live in fear of being robbed. Additionally, they receive a stream of donations and alms from all over Christendom.’

‘We benefit from it as much as they, and I must remind you that we are almost certainly as wealthy,’ corrected Arnaud de Viancourt.

‘True, but the Templars are censured for their arrogance, their privileges, their wealth, even for being idle and uncharitable, whereas we are spared such criticism. There is no better way to fuel a fire than with jealousy and envy.’

‘That is no reason to think, or more precisely to make others think, that this money has yielded such profits that they are now sitting on a veritable fortune. Have you ever asked yourself, Francesco, why Philip the Fair withdrew the administration of the royal finances from the Paris Templars in 1295 and entrusted it to the Italian moneylenders?’

‘It was simpler for him to cancel his debt to the moneylenders by arresting them and confiscating their assets. The same strategy would have proved more risky if used against the Templars.’

‘Precisely. And yet strangely enough two years ago the King granted the same Templars the right to collect taxes. Is it not a contradiction?’

‘A measure which, when added to the rumours already circulating about the Templars, provoked the anger of the people.’ The scattered elements of the prior’s discourse had come together in Leone’s mind, and he continued, ‘So this is part of a long-term strategy thought up by the King in order to discredit the Templars permanently.’

‘Stoking the fire as you said just now.’

The prior’s words trailed off in a sigh. The prospect of the fate that awaited them had troubled him for so long now. Francesco de Leone finished his train of thought for him:

‘And so the fire is already blazing. A conflagration would suit the King of France’s purposes very well, and the other monarchs of Europe will not be displeased by the prospect of strengthening their power with regard to the Church. The defeat at Acre will only serve to kindle the flames. Their reasoning will be simple: why so much wealth and power for these military orders that lose us the Holy Land? In other words we cannot expect any help from outside. None will be forthcoming unless the other monarchs smell Philip the Fair’s possible defeat, in which case they would flock to the Pope’s side.’

‘What a curious monologue-for-two our discussion is turning out to be, brother,’ observed the prior. ‘Is it possible that we have foreseen the future since we refer to it in the same terms?’ A sudden sadness caused his pale features to stiffen. ‘I am old, Francesco. Every day I count the tasks I am no longer able to undertake. All the years of war, crusades, death and blood … All the years of obedience and self-denial. To what end?’

‘Do you doubt your commitment, the sincerity of our order, of our mission, or worse still of your faith?’

‘Nay, brother, certainly I do not doubt our order or my faith. I doubt only myself, my failing strength and ability. At times I feel like a frightened old woman whose only recourse is to tears.’

‘Self-doubt, when mastered, is a friend to all men except fools and simpletons. Self-doubt is the resounding proof that we are but an infinitesimal, troubled part of the divine understanding. We are aware of our failings, yet we progress.’

‘You are still young.’

‘Not so young any more. I shall be twenty-six this coming March.’

‘I am fifty-seven and nearing my end. It will be a glorious reward, I believe. I shall at last enter the Light. Until then my task is to continue to fight with you as my magnificent warrior, Francesco. Our enemies will use any means, including ignoble ones. It is a secret war, but a merciless one. And it has already begun.’

Leone sensed the prior’s hesitation. What was he holding back? Knowing that a direct question would be awkward, he tried to curb his impatience.

‘Are we to prevent Benoît’s murder and the election of a pope favourable to Philip?’

Arnaud de Viancourt looked down, as though searching for the right words, before replying:

‘What you do not yet know, brother, is that the old idea advocated twelve years ago by Pope Nicholas IV in his encyclical Dura nimis, of uniting the military orders, primarily those of the Templars and Hospitallers, is still alive.’

‘Yet our relations with the Templars are … strained,’ Leone argued.

Viancourt hesitated before deciding to keep quiet about the pace of negotiations between their Grand-Master, the Pope and the King of France. The union would benefit the Hospitallers who would take control of the other orders. A confrontation with the Templars, who would not willingly give up their autonomy, was imminent, all the more so as Jacques de Molay, the Templars’ Grand-Master, was a traditionalist. An out-standing soldier and man of faith, he was weakened by his political naivety and blinkered by pride.

‘Strained … That is putting it mildly. Philip the Fair is a fervent advocate of this union.’

Leone raised his eyebrows.

‘His position is most surprising. A single order under the Pope’s authority would represent an even greater threat to him.’

‘That is true. However, the situation would be reversed if the union took place under his authority. Philip plans to name one of his sons Grand-Master of the newly constituted order.’

‘The Pope will never agree to it.’

‘The question is whether he will be in a position to refuse,’ the prior clarified.

‘And so we return to the problem of preventing the election of a pope favourable to Philip,’ murmured Leone.

‘Indeed. But do we have the right to influence the history of Christendom? The question plagues me.’

‘Do we have the choice?’ the Knight corrected gently.

‘I am afraid the coming years will provide us with little room for manoeuvre. Therefore, no, we do not have the choice.’

The prior became engrossed in the study of a tuft of wild grass that had pushed its roots between two large blocks of stone. He murmured softly:

‘The sheer tenacity of life. What a supreme miracle.’

He continued in a firmer voice:

‘How should I put this? A fortuitous and unwitting intermediary will … assist us against his will.’

The prior cleared his throat. Leone looked enquiringly at Arnaud de Viancourt, sensing that what he was about to say vexed him. He was not mistaken.

‘Good God, even his name is … difficult for me to pronounce.’ He sighed before confessing, ‘This intermediary is none other than Giotto Capella, one of the best-known Lombardy moneylenders of the Place de Paris.’

Leone grew faint and his eyes closed. He tried to protest but Viancourt interrupted:

‘No. There is nothing you can say that I do not already know. I also know that time cannot heal all wounds. I spent days searching for another solution, in vain. Capella will never escape his tainted past. It is our trump card.’

Leone propped himself against the wall of broad, rough-hewn stones. He was overwhelmed by his emotions and struggling with his hatred. In truth he had been fighting it for so long now it had become like an unwanted companion he had learnt over the years to silence and control. And yet he knew if he freed himself, if he rid his soul of the loathing he felt for Capella he would be one step closer to the Light. In a faltering voice he said:

‘Blackmail? What if Capella is a reformed man, what if he simply acted out of cowardice …? One needs to have experienced terrible fear in order to forgive a coward. I was so young then, but now …’

Arnaud de Viancourt replied in a despondent voice:

‘Brother, what purity of soul you possess. Many men would have been incapable …’ He stopped himself, deeming it unacceptable to add to the pain Leone was clearly already suffering. ‘Why should Capella help us in return for nothing when we have so little that interests him, and the King so much? I doubt it and it grieves me. Do men change unless they are compelled to? You may judge for yourself, brother. I know you to be a formidable judge of men’s souls. You will soon perceive how much he has changed, or simply how willing he is to oblige. I hope for our sake – and for his too – that you will deem the letter we have prepared for him superfluous. I sincerely hope you find the solace of forgiveness – forgetting is human, forgiving is divine. If such is the case you may destroy the missive. Otherwise … I regret inflicting this ordeal on you but you must leave for France straight away. I have prepared letters of introduction as well as a leave of absence12 of unspecified duration. You will stay in our commanderies as and when required. You will find all the comfort and spiritual succour you need there. Giotto Capella should enable you to come within reach of our most redoubtable enemy, Guillaume de Nogaret. If we are right and Nogaret is already looking for a replacement pope, he will need money, a great deal of money. We suspect that the French cardinals are among the candidates of the King’s Counsellor. They are licentious and extravagant and will not pass up this opportunity to fill their purses. To begin with your task will consist in identifying the most likely candidate, for there are already several lining up. At best a name, or at worst two, Francesco. It is our only chance of intervening before it is too late.’

So everything had long been decided. The prior’s uncertainty and regrets were doubtless sincere, but he and the Grand-Master had already woven their web.

A clamour of contrasting emotions raged inside Francesco de Leone. An incredible feeling of hope overlaid his hatred for Capella.

Arville-en-Perche, France, site of one of the Templars’ most important commanderies. The place where for months he had despaired of arriving, the place where another door, surely the decisive one, would open for him. His throat was dry, and he limited himself to a brief remark:

‘They say Guillaume de Nogaret is a dangerous man.’

‘He is. And all the more so as he possesses one of the most brilliant minds I have ever known. Remember, he is the worthy successor of Pierre Flote and, like him, a jurist and staunch advocate of the supremacy of the monarchy’s power over that of the French clergy. We must under no circumstances allow a schism to occur in the Church, or any part of it to break away from the authority of the Pope. If this religious and political controversy were to assume greater proportions the result would be catastrophic.’

‘For the monarchy’s power would become a divine right. Philip would rule directly through God, making him the highest authority in the realm.’

The prior nodded. He had spent entire nights devising strategies to defend against the coming avalanche, only at dawn to reject every last one as hopeless. The only remaining solution was to anticipate and prevent Philip from putting an end to the supreme authority of the Church over all the monarchs of Christendom.

Leone had regained some of his composure. He felt far away from the island sanctuary. He was already there, in the one place where his quest could continue.

‘What practical information can you provide that will help me to …’ he began, when Arnaud de Viancourt interrupted him:

‘We are groping in the dark, brother. Any conjecture on my part would be a dangerous imprudence.’

‘And my weapons, my powers?’

The prior appeared to hesitate and then, in a clipped tone that left the Knight unperturbed, he replied:

‘The choice is yours, provided they serve Christ, the Pope and … our order.’

Had he been in any doubt this declaration would have made it clear. Like the other orders, the Knights Hospitaller were strictly hierarchical and individual initiatives were strongly discouraged. The free rein given him was easy to interpret: the order was facing the most ruinous crisis it had known since its formation almost two centuries earlier.

‘Will my mission be recorded?’

‘You are not afraid, are you, Francesco? I cannot believe it. No. You know how suspicious we are of written records. That is why we only recently felt the need to have one of our own, Guillaume de Saint-Estène, copy out our founding texts. Few written transcripts of our rules exist and they must never find their way outside the order or be copied, as you know. You are not afraid, are you?’ the prior repeated.

‘No,’ murmured Francesco de Leone and smiled. His first smile that early morning.

He knew that true fear would come later. What he felt now was an intense pressure crushing him, and he had to stop himself from slumping to his knees on the dust-covered ground to pray or perhaps even to cry out.

The last hours of daylight lingered in the west. Francesco de Leone had worked like a slave the whole day long, missing both meals as part of a private fast. He had helped care for ‘our lords the sick’ – one of the duties of the Order of the Hospitallers that distinguished it from the other military orders – as well as providing training in the use of arms for some of the recently admitted novices. The heat and physical exhaustion had offered him a vague respite.

Might Benoît die? Might everything fall into place now? After four long years of a quest that had been as discreet and unrelenting as it had been fruitless, might a political threat lead him to a doorway hitherto hidden? The reason for his journey was admittedly this difficult mission. And yet the coincidence seemed too great for it to be entirely accidental. A sign. He had waited so long for the Sign. He was going to France, to the country where the Ineffable Trace had re-emerged and with full powers granted to him by the prior and consequently by the Grand-Master himself. He was going to discover there at last, perhaps, the meaning of the Light that had immersed him for a fleeting and divine moment at the heart of the Santa Costanza in Rome.

A ripple of anxiety coursed through him like a fever. What if it were only another illusion, another deadly disappointment? Would he have the strength to go on?

That choice was not his to make either.

Hoc quicumque stolam sanguine proluit, absergit maculas; et roseum decus, quo fiat similis protinus Angelis.13