Moreover, he had a fine sense of occasion, and refused absolutely to look absurd. Rather than entering in with one priest behind him, no assistants and no one to watch, he strolled in alone with a goblet of some drink in his hand, sat heavily on his throne, leaned back, and called out to the officiating priest:
“Come on, then. Get on with it. I haven’t got all morning.”
The priest bowed and made a blessing. The choir, looking solemn or bored or resentful according to their characters, filed in and the singing began. The new music, rising and falling, twisting in and out of itself, doubling back, created in the air for as long as it lasted a perfect resemblance of the wonders of creation, and the love of God. Too complex, it seemed, for man to grasp as a whole, but so beautiful that Olivier again thought of Rebecca and Sophia and their belief in the evil of the world. So it might be, he thought. The world of spirit might be far finer, more pure, and closer to the divine. But nothing that can produce such beauty can be irredeemable; if men can produce such harmonies, hear them with their ears, sing them with their voices and their instruments, there must be goodness in the material.
Then the contrast, between the calm beauty of the music and the dire state of his own predicament, came back to him once more. He stiffened and prepared himself as the music came to an end, and an echoing silence descended on the chapel, broken only by the pope beating on the arm of his throne with his hand and calling out in a loud voice, “Very fine, very fine, boys. My thanks to you all. Makes me feel better already. Now, get out of here, and tomorrow I’d like that piece you did last week again. By that Italian fellow, you remember?”
The choirmaster nodded and bowed, and with a loud cackle of pleasure, Clement bounded out of his throne, bowed solemnly to the altar, then rubbed his hands.
“Nothing like a bit of music for stirring up an appetite, I think. I’m starving.”
He turned, took a step toward the door, then stopped as he saw Olivier, standing in front of him. There was a moment of screaming silence as Olivier realized how alarming he must look—unshaven, swaddled in a dirty cloak, the look of the hunted about him already. He kneeled down swiftly when he saw from the look on the pope’s face that he was frightened out of his wits.
“My deepest apologies, Holiness. My name is Olivier de Noyen, one of Cardinal Ceccani’s people. I wish to beg for an audience.”
Clement peered at him more closely. “De Noyen? Good God, man, what’s with you? You look like a gypsy. How dare you come before me in such a state?”
“I apologize again. I would not have done so if it had not been urgent.”
“You’ll have to wait. I want my breakfast.”
“This is more important than breakfast, Holiness.”
Clement frowned. “Young man, nothing is more important than breakfast.” He looked exasperated, but saw in the dogged look on the young man’s face that there was something he should hear. This was not frivolous, a demand for a favor, or yet another madman who believed he knew how to cure the plague or bring the Muslims to Christ.
“I will not readily forgive this.”
“As you choose, Holiness. What you do with me is of little importance as long as you hear me.”
Clement signaled to one of the guards at the door, who stepped forward. “Search him,” he ordered. “See he has no weapons. Then bring him to my chamber.”
And with a mighty scowl and a ruined morning, God’s vicegerent on earth stamped out of the chapel.
“WELL THEN? Get on with it. What is so important that you ruin my music, my breakfast, and my morning?”
“Holiness, do you wish to take the papacy to Rome?” “A strange way to start. Why do you ask such a thing?”
“Because you may have to. There is a plan to make sure you have no alternative but to leave this city. Aigues-Mortes is to be delivered to the English. When it is, the king of France will blame the Countess of Provence and want you to condemn her. You will have a hard time refusing him, I think. And if you condemn her, your chances of buying this city from her, or even remaining in it, will be small.”
Clement’s mind, subtle in matters of theology, was direct when it came to statesmanship, but now it hardly needed either. He scarcely needed to think at all to grasp that such an unfolding of events would be catastrophic. He would be reduced in an instant from serene overlord of Christendom to wandering priest, or at best a local magnate, battling against the petty warlords of Rome. Who would allow him to be peace-maker between French and English, to dictate the policies of the empire, to call up and direct a crusade, when he could not even keep his own house in order?
“You know this? Or is it something you have imagined to win my attention?”
“I am a mere servant, and a poet, Holiness. I have no taste for intrigue. I could not have invented this. I have read a letter, setting out just such a plan.”
“From? To?”
“It was written by the Bishop of Winchester. To Cardinal Ceccani.”
Clement sat down and thought. Then he wagged his finger at Olivier. “I know you, young man. You are Ceccani’s favorite. And yet you come here to tell me this? Why would you do such a thing?”
“Because I want a reward.” He could have given a long justification to exculpate himself, to demonstrate that he acted with honor, appealed to higher motives. He did not do so; he was selling his master; he knew it and did not wish to disguise it.
“And that is?”
“I want my teacher and his servant released from this place. The two Jews. They have done no wrong, the accusation was made simply to weaken Cardinal de Deaux. And I want you to stop this campaign against the Jews before any more people die. If all Jews are threatened, then so are they, as long as they live.”
Clement waved his hands in irritation as if to dismiss the very idea. “The world is crumbling into ruin. Armies are marching. Men and women are dying everywhere, in huge numbers. Fields are abandoned and towns deserted. The wrath of the Lord is upon us and He may be intending to destroy the whole of creation. People are without leaders and direction. They want to be given a reason for this, so they can be reassured, so they will return to their prayers and their obediences. All this is going on, and you are concerned about the safety of two Jews?”
Olivier stayed silent. He was not meant to reply.
“I wish to do something which will make my name light up history,” Clement said. “I will be remembered as the man who rid the world, once and for all, of the scourge of these people. Who eradicated a daily offense against God. For more than a thousand years they have had their chance, and for all that, they have spat on the truth as they once spat on Our Lord. This is the moment to strike against them. Do you doubt it is a noble thing? A necessary, justified act, delayed for too long already? The Jews must convert, or be killed. Ceccani is right; it will bring men back together with a common purpose; reunite them with the church. I have merely to say the word, and it will be done.”
Olivier lifted his head and looked at him. “Then do not say it, sir. A conversion by force cannot be pleasing to God, only to men. The Lord built His church on love and faith, not on lies and threats. Obedience is nothing without faith. When Saint Peter took up a sword against the soldier, He took that sword from him and healed the man’s ear. And you are his heir on earth; take the sword from Ceccani’s hand as well; do not do what he suggests. Rather, do the opposite; extend your protection and love to these people, just as Christ loved sinners as much as He loved those who had faith. Live up to the name you chose when you ascended to Peter’s chair. Be clement by nature, as well as by name. Let that be your memorial. So that in the future men will think of you and say, ‘He had such love for humanity he gave the cloak of his protection even to the Jews. And by doing so, let all men see that as God is love, so is His church, even for the worst sinners, and for those most deserving punishment.’ ”
Olivier took a deep breath, then continued: “Otherwise, you will spend the rest of your life wandering the world, homeless and friendless. Men will laugh at you, no one will listen to you. Because I will not tell you how the gates of Aigues-Mortes will be opened, or when, and you will not be able to discover enough in time to stop it.”
Clement was sitting, listening to his words carefully, not throwing him from the room as he deserved. Olivier had touched something in him, he knew. But he was not there yet. “You have not yet convinced me this is anything other than some sort of elaborate trick,” he said. “You say you have seen a letter, but you do not produce it. Is there such a thing? If there is, perhaps it was written by one of his enemies? You say you have a letter proving
