Authors: David Wisehart
“And the Devil himself.”
William laughed. “How can it
be otherwise?”
“You make an excellent
heretic, Father.”
“For believing God omnipotent?
No, Giovanni. The heresy is to believe that man has any power over God. God
obeys His own will, not ours. We cannot force His hand.”
“But we have free will.”
“In some things, yes. We can
choose to love or hate.”
“A righteous man should go
to Heaven.”
“But will he? You cannot tie
the hands of God. You cannot obligate Him with your actions. God can send an
evil man to Heaven or a good man to Hell.”
“I must have skipped that
verse.”
“King David committed
adultery and murder, yet he was beloved of God.”
Giovanni mulled this over.
“Dante saw David in Paradise, and several popes in Hell.”
“I might nominate several
more.”
“But the pope has Peter’s
keys.”
“God cannot be bound by any
pope or priest or pilgrimage. Nor by your prayers, Giovanni. Whether you pray
for rain or not is of no consequence to God.”
“And yet, Father, you are
constantly at prayer.”
William nodded. “‘
per
omnem orationem et obsecrationem orantes omni tempore.
’”
“
Argumentum ad
verecundiam,
” Giovanni remarked. “A
logical fallacy.”
“Is God’s authority false?
Are the scriptures false?”
“I thought you were a man of
logic.”
“And a man of God.”
“Aren’t they the same
thing?”
“Are they?”
The wind shifted, blowing
smoke in Giovanni’s face. He leaned back and covered his eyes. When he opened
them again they gleamed with the spark of a new argument. “Aquinas says God
cannot create a self-contradiction.”
“Aquinas was a brilliant
fool,” said William. “He knew Aristotle better than he knew God. Aquinas could
not conceive of a paradoxical Creator. Can God create a stone so heavy He
cannot lift it? Can He make a promise so binding He cannot break it? When God
grants a revelation, must it come to pass? If the Bible is the word of God, is
He bound by it? Can an all-powerful God bind Himself? The mind reels and falls
back on faith. If God is omnipotent, then no laws can bind Him—neither
the laws of nature nor the laws of logic. This was Aquinas’s great mistake,
conflating logic with theology.”
“So prayer is, by your own
reasoning, unreasonable.”
“It has no place on the path
of reason.”
“Then why do you pray?”
“It is the path of love.”
The hermitages were small
cells cut into the mountainside, honeycombing the cliff and overlooking the
ravine. Nadja entered one of the cells and found it empty and unadorned, except
for a stone pillow. A man might sit or lie down if he bent his legs, but even
Nadja could not stand up straight inside. Stepping out, she saw an old hermit
treading down the trail. The man wore sackcloth and carried a stick. When he
was still some ways off, he raised a hand in greeting.
She heard William mutter to
Giovanni, “Fraticello.”
Marco called out, “Hello
there!”
“Keep your voice low,”
William said.
The Fraticello arrived
moments later. “God’s blessings upon you, my friends.”
William answered for the group.
“And you, brother.”
He asked directions to the
monastery of Santo Spirito, and the man said it was just beyond the ridge.
“I am Brother Sebastian,” he
added.
“William of Ockham.”
The man’s eyes lit up.
“William of Ockham? Author of the
Summa logicae
?”
William nodded.
“And the
Opus nonaginta
dierum
?”
“Indeed.”
“And
Dialogus de
potestate Papae et Imperatoris
?”
“I commend you on your
library.”
“I heard you were dead.”
William shrugged. “I had not
heard that.”
He introduced the others.
Giovanni said, “We’re
looking for Cola di Rienzo.”
“I know the name,” said
Brother Sebastian.
“Is he here?”
“That I cannot tell you. We
do not trade much in names here. The hermits keep to themselves, as you might
imagine, and we respect their privacy.”
“Might we ask around?” said
William.
“You are free to roam the
mountain, but the monastery has rules. You understand.”
“We mean no trouble.”
“Let me consult the abbot.
If Rienzo is on the mountain, he will know of it.”
Brother Sebastian invited
them to Santo Spirito, but told them to leave behind their mounts and
possessions.
Marco refused. “I will not
go unarmed.”
“My friend is wounded and a
bit too wary,” William told the Fraticello. “Let him keep his walking stick.”
Brother Sebastian stared at
the Holy Lance. “That’s no walking stick.”
“It is many things. If my
friend may carry his stick, I will vouch for his good behavior.”
“No weapons in the
monastery. If he will not come without it, then he is not welcome here.”
“Then neither am I,” William
said. “You may tell your abbot how you turned me out.”
He led his companions back
down the trail. They had not gone five steps before Brother Sebastian said,
“Please. Brother William. Forgive me.”
“For what?”
“I have been rude. Let me
take this up with the abbot. Perhaps we can come to some arrangement.”
At nightfall he returned
with a proposal: “The knight may bring his lance, but no other weapons, and no
armor. The girl must hide her sex and promise to remain silent.” He held a
hooded robe for her to wear. She consented.
“Follow me,” said the
Fraticello. He crossed himself. “
Iesus Christi custodiat animam meam.
”
The abbey of Santo Spirito
was built in the hollow of a rocky spur that beetled the valley. What had once
been a church was now a collection of small rooms run by the Celestines after
the example of Pietro di Morrone, the hermit who became a pope against his will
and later abdicated, only to be imprisoned and killed by his successor.
These new hermits, too, had
no love for the world beyond the mountain. Brother Sebastian and two others sat
with William and Giovanni around the fireplace, beneath a fresco of Pope
Celestine.
“We know little of this
pestilence,” said Brother Sebastian. “The news we get is unreliable. We heard
you were dead, Brother William, yet here you are.”
“Not for long,” William
said. “You should come with us.”
Brother Elias frowned.
“Leave the mountain?”
“For a holy cause.”
“There is evil enough in the
world,” said Brother Leo, “without stirring up more.”
“Evil has stirred,” William
said.
“I do not doubt it.”
“Then join us. Help us.
Think of it—an army of holy men to harrow Hell. What a glory that would
be!”
Brother Leo folded his
hands. “There is glory in prayer, Brother William. Perhaps you should join us.
Stay here. Teach the others. You have the wisdom of many years. If the world
outside is as bad as you say, we must redouble our commitments and remain
vigilant in our duties—not abandon our watch when God needs us most.”
“If the Apocalypse is at
hand,” said Brother Elias, “perhaps we should welcome it.”
Brother Leo concurred. “The
righteous need not fear the end of the world.”
“A fine argument in favor of
evil,” said William. “Why not do the Devil’s work, if it will speed the Second
Coming?”
“I did not mean—”
“Of course not. I cast no
aspersions. But Christ will return in His own good time. As for us, the matter
is clear: if we can fight the Devil, we must.”
“But must we be fools? We
cannot fight the Devil in his domain.”
“The world is his domain.”
“You ask too much,” said
Brother Sebastian. “You risk too much. Are you prepared to lose everything?”
“Everything but my soul.”
“Even your life, Brother
William?”
“I have given my life to
God. He may claim it when He will.”
Giovanni sat by the hearth
with William and Brother Elias after the others had gone to their rooms.
“There is a technique known
to the contemplative masters of the north,” said William. “It is simply this:
fix your thought upon a single word.”
“What word?” Giovanni asked.
“For some it is ‘God’. For
others, ‘love’. It must be short, and have a deep and special meaning for you.”
Brother Elias nodded. “And
what is your word, Brother William?”
“Hope.”
Without warning the church
door opened, welcoming the wind and the leaves and a hermit cloaked in rags.
The stranger closed the door and joined the other men by the fire. He kept his
cowl up, his features hidden. Giovanni studied the stranger’s hands as they
took in the warmth of the fire. They were soft hands, uncalloused by wheat
fields or battlefields.
The hands of a scholar.
The stranger said, “Are you
the men who asked for Cola di Rienzo?”
Giovanni answered, “Are you
the man we seek?”
“I am a man who can deliver
a message.”
“My message is for Rienzo,”
said Giovanni. “I must give it to him personally.”
“Who sent you?”
“Francesco Petrarch.”
The hermit considered this a
moment before speaking. “When he gave you this message, what else did he say?”
“He quoted our Lord Jesus
Christ: ‘
et dicebat eis vobis datum est mysterium regni Dei illis autem qui
foris sunt in parabolis omnia fiunt ut videntes videant et non videant et
audientes audiant et non intellegant nequando convertantur et dimittantur eis
peccata.
’”
The hermit nodded, then
translated the passage into the vernacular: “And He said to them, ‘To you it is
given to know the mystery of the kingdom of God, but to those outside it is
preached in parables, so that those who see will not perceive, and those who
hear will not comprehend, lest they be converted and their sins forgiven.’”
The stranger pulled back the
hood of his robe to reveal his gaunt face. He was a handsome man of middle
years, with a clean-shaven head and kind eyes.
“I am Cola di Rienzo.”
CHAPTER 18
Rienzo broke the wax seal
and opened the letter. “Is this a jape?”
“What’s wrong?” Giovanni
asked.
Rienzo showed him the
message. It was blank.
Giovanni wondered if the
words were written in lemon juice. “Hold it closer to the light,” he suggested,
but further examination revealed nothing.
Rienzo set the paper aside.
“Tell me everything Francesco said. Start from the beginning.”
They were still discussing
this when Marco entered, bearing the Lance. “I heard we had a visitor.”
Rienzo stared at the new
arrival. A look of doubt melted into a smile. “Marco.” He hugged the knight and
kissed him on both cheeks.
Marco looked bewildered.
“You know me?”
Rienzo laughed. “If I’m not
mistaken, old friend, you are the message.”
When the others had gone to
their cells for the night, Marco followed Rienzo to his hermitage cut from the
hill. The interior was not built for two. Marco sat outside the entrance as Rienzo
spoke from within.
“Be my captain again. You
could have your old life back.”
“I know nothing of that
life,” Marco said.
“The people still love me
and pray for my return.”
“They pray for survival.”
“And I will give it to them.
A return to the days of milk and honey. With you at my side, we could rebuild
the empire.”
Rienzo spoke of former days.
Marco listened with interest, hoping to hear the truth in Rienzo’s words, but
the knight remembered nothing of their journey to Avignon to meet Pope Clement
VI, nor of Rienzo’s coronation as tribune of Rome, nor of slaying Stephen
Colonna at the San Lorenzo gate. These were legends from another man’s past.
Rienzo sighed. He set his
gaze upon on the Lance. “Tell me, Marco. What is that weapon?”
“Nadja believes it is the
Holy Lance.”
“Where did you find it?”
“Petrarch’s collection.”
“My collection,” Rienzo
said.