The Inquisitor's Key (10 page)

All the world’s a stage,
I thought drowsily.
All of Avignon’s a stage.

The tune of Miranda’s childhood lullaby entered my sleepy head.
Sur le pont d’Avignon.
How did it go? I couldn’t recall the words so I substituted new ones, the only words I could think of that fit the half-remembered tune carrying me down, down, deep into sleep.

Avignon, Avignon. All roads lead to Avignon. Avignon, Avignon…

AVIGNON
1328

AVIGNON, AVIGNON. WHY DID HE COME TO AVIGNON?

For the old man who is groaning on the rack, the road has led inexorably to Avignon, and to this agonizing moment, but why? Because, he reminds himself, it is God’s will. There is no moment but this moment; no reality but this pain; no will but God’s will.

He gasps as the lever swings again, the taut ropes creak under the added strain, and the ratchet clicks into the next cog in the gear. He has been on the rack for an hour now, and each quiet, metallic click of the ratchet, as the jailer lifts the lever that turns the gear, brings the excruciating certainty that this time, surely, his limbs will be torn from their sockets.

A rotund figure, cloaked in white, stands beside the jailer and leans over the old man. The robe is topped by a conical white hood; within its dark interior, the eyes burn like coals. “I put you to the question once more. Tell me the truth. Where did you learn these errors?”

“What errors?” gasps the old man. “Tell me, Fournier.”

The hooded figure draws an angry breath. “There are no names here. Only you, heretic, and I, Inquisitor.”

“You want the truth? Here is the truth: You are Jacques Fournier, a shoemaker’s son turned cardinal, and you are afraid, or you would not be hiding beneath that hood. But does the hood change your voice, alter your fears and your weaknesses? Does your beloved white robe hide the belt of fat that your gluttony
has fastened around your belly? Will these ropes sunder the name Eckhart when they tear apart my body?”

“Insolence will not save you. Insolence to this holy office only confirms that you are indeed a heretic. You have preached that God is not an intelligent being. Who taught you that heresy?”

“God taught me that, Fournier. God is not a being; God is
more
than a being. God is everything.”

“You understand nothing of God.”

“Of course not. If I could understand God, he would not be truly God. God is as far above my intelligence, Fournier, as you are below it.”

The Inquisitor pushes the jailer away from the lever and seizes it himself, then leans into it with his considerable weight. It is an action Fournier has imagined performing a thousand times or more these past fourteen years—ever since the day the two Templar heretics were burned on the Isle of the Jews. Ever since the day Eckhart dared to criticize inquisitors, prompting young Fournier to fume
God is not pleased
. The ratchet clicks once, clicks twice, as the older, heavier Fournier forces the lever and turns the gear. The body of the aged man on the rack reaches a breaking point; tendons tear, and he screams before losing consciousness.

When he comes to, he is crumpled on the cold stone floor of a low-vaulted cell, which is tucked into the foundations of a building that is formidable on the outside, palatial on the inside.

TWO FLOORS ABOVE THE CRUMPLED OLD MAN, THE
Inquisitor sits in a carved chair in a marbled audience hall. Atop the white robe he has draped a red shawl, and he has exchanged the Inquisitor’s hood for the broad-brimmed red hat that marks him as a cardinal, a Prince of the Church. Facing him, on a throne, slumps His Holiness, Pope John XXII, who croaks out a question. “Are you sure of this, Jacques?”

“Quite sure, Holy Father. I have put him to the question sev
eral times.”

“You mean…?”

“Yes, Your Holiness. Today I nearly tore him apart, yet he clung defiantly to his heresies. You’ve read his defense; he accuses his critics of ‘ignorance and stupidity.’ He is as arrogant and proud as Lucifer himself.”

The pontiff sighs, or wheezes. “We had hoped you’d be able to correct his understanding. Your success in rooting out the Cathar heretics in Montaillou was remarkable.”

“The Cathar heretics in Montaillou were simpletons, Holy Father. Shepherds and shopkeepers. Consider the woman Beatrice. She didn’t consider it a sin to have carnal relations with a priest, because it brought them both pleasure—and besides, her husband gave her permission. Idiots, all of them.”

The pope waves his hand impatiently. “Yes, yes; I’ve read the transcript of her confession. Hers and hundreds of others. You were very thorough in your pursuit of heresy. And
quite
exhaustive in your record keeping.” Fournier feels a flash of anger; is the pontiff mocking him now? The old man sighs before continuing. “So in view of your prior success with heretics, we had hoped you could bring Eckhart to heel.”

“Eckhart is no country bumpkin,” snaps the cardinal. “Some compare him with Aquinas. He has a quick wit and a dangerous mind. And he delights in spinning circles around those who are less nimble.”

“Has he spun circles around you, Jacques?”

The plump cardinal gives the shriveled pontiff a mirthless smile. “It’s hard to spin circles when one is stretched on the rack.”

“Will he ever confess his errors and submit himself to correction, do you think?”

“Never, Holiness. He’s old, arrogant, and stubborn.”

“A pity. Well, do what you must to keep him from leading more people astray. Still, it would be good if he could be brought to repentance before he dies.”

Fournier smiles a broader, more genuine, more sinister smile. “I pray without ceasing that he will die in a state of grace, Holy Father.”

SIENA, ITALY
1328

SIMONE MARTINI LEANS FORWARD AND STARES INTO
the eyes of Jesus, frowning. The Savior’s face is scarcely a foot away, and Simone’s not sure he likes what he sees. Can these really be the eyes of the Son of the Almighty? If so, shouldn’t they be larger, wiser, more…
godlike,
somehow?

“Not bad,” says a voice, so unexpected and startling that Simone jerks upright, whacks his head on a ceiling beam, and nearly topples off the scaffold—a twenty-foot fall to a stone floor, which would surely smash his skull like a ripe melon. His surprise and dizziness swiftly give way to pain and to anger. Who has dared to interrupt him at this delicate moment, as he’s making the final repair to the fresco? Didn’t he give strict instructions that he was not to be disturbed? The paint must be applied before the plaster dries; otherwise it won’t bond properly and the fresco will be ruined. Truth be told, Simone had been on the verge of laying down his paintbrush, satisfied with the Savior’s eyes after all. Still, he finds the intrusion doubly infuriating: His order was ignored, and now a bump on his head hurts like the devil. Rubbing the rising knot, he looks down to see which of his assistants has just earned a thumping.

But it’s not an assistant. Simone can’t see the man’s features—the hood of a cloak shrouds the face in shadow—but Simone knows his half-dozen apprentices by their shape and stance, and this stooped, stumpy creature isn’t one of them. “The face is quite
good,” the stranger adds. “But the hands are too small and the fingers are
much
too short.” Simone can hardly believe his ears. Who is this rude fellow, and how dare he criticize the work of Siena’s most respected painter? “If you’re depicting Christ giving a blessing, the right hand must be more prominent; the first two fingers must be long and slender.”
Insolence!
thinks Simone.
Insufferable insolence!
Quivering with rage, he scampers down the scaffold and draws back his fist.

The little stranger removes his hood, and Simone gasps. “Master Giotto!”

Giotto di Bondoni, the best artist in Tuscany—and therefore the best in the world—springs into an old man’s parody of a fighter’s crouch. Then he laughs, steps forward, and flings his arms around Simone in a hug. When he releases him, he steps back and surveys the immense fresco, which covers an entire wall of Siena’s Palazzo Pubblico, the city’s center of government. Originally painted by Simone in 1315, the fresco depicts the Virgin Mary surrounded by saints and—above her, at the top of the painting—Jesus, raising his right hand in benediction. During a storm a few weeks ago, a leak in the roof damaged a bit of the painting. Had the rivulets appeared a few inches lower—streaking Christ’s cheeks, rather than discoloring his hair—the change would have been hailed as a miracle: “Behold! The Savior weeps!” Instead, it was dismissed as water damage, requiring a big scaffold and a small repair.

The old master makes a sweeping gesture that encompasses the entire fresco. “Not bad,” he says again, this time in a voice whose warmth and admiration are unmistakable. “Not bad at all, especially for a plaster boy who was always slow.”

Now it’s Simone’s turn to laugh. “I wasn’t slow—just overworked. You were too cheap to hire enough helpers.”

“Cheap?
Cheap?
Are you kidding? Do you know what I got paid for those frescoes in Padua? Nothing. Less than nothing. Three years I worked like a dog in that chapel, and that bastard
Scrovegni paid me a pittance. You know what I had to do to make ends meet? I’m ashamed to tell you, Simone. I made copies of Duccio’s paintings and signed his name—pretended they were
his
work!—because Duccio fetched better prices than I did back then. And that’s not the worst of it. Once, when I needed money to buy more pigments, I put greasy pig bones in gilded boxes and sold them as relics of saints.” Simone is shocked; he opens his mouth to ask a question, but Giotto waves him off. “I don’t want to talk about it. It’s too degrading.” He makes a face of distaste. “And the Scrovegnis rich as kings. You know how they made their money, yes?” Simone shrugs; he’d heard the rumors, of course, swapped by gossiping assistants as they mixed plaster or ground pigments, but he’s not sure how much he’s supposed to know. And besides, he doesn’t want to deprive Master Giotto of the pleasure of telling the story. “Usury,” Giotto hisses. “Lending money at ruinous rates. Worse than the Jews, that family. Ever read Dante’s
Inferno
?” Simone shakes his head. “Dante puts Scrovegni’s father in the seventh circle of Hell for usury. I’d put Scrovegni the younger in the eighth circle, for fraud. Usurers, liars, and thieves, the whole family.”

Giotto spits—right on the floor of the public palace, the most beautiful building in Siena!—then looks again at the fresco, and beams. “Ah, but this is wonderful, Simone. Huge, too—
almost
as big as my
Last Judgment
in the Scrovegni chapel.” He turns to Simone and looks his former apprentice up and down. “How old are you now?”

“Forty-four, Master Giotto.”

“Amazing. You were a beardless boy when you mixed plaster for me in Scrovegni’s chapel.”

“That was twenty-five years ago, master.”

“Amazing,” he repeats. “Just think, Simone—if you’re already painting so big and so well at forty-four, what will you be doing at sixty-two, when you’re as old as I am?”

“I’ll be studying the things you’re painting at eighty,” the
younger man answers, “despairing of ever catching up.”

“Nonsense.” Giotto shakes his head and rolls his eyes, but Simone can tell by the half-suppressed smile that the compliment is appreciated. “I hear you married into a family of painters. Memmo’s daughter—what’s her name?”

“Giovanna.”

“Ah, yes. I remember her as a pretty little girl. And do you and Giovanna have a brood, a passel of little Martinis?”

“Not yet,” says Simone, wishing that Giotto had not broached this subject, a source of sadness between him and Giovanna.

“A man as handsome as you should make many babies, Simone. Look at me—I am the ugliest man in Florence, but I have six children. Do you wish to know my secret?” Simone nods, miserable but polite. “The darkness.”

“The darkness? How do you mean?”

“In the darkness, Simone, I am as handsome as any man!” The old painter laughs at his joke. “Now clean your brushes and come with me. We’re dining with your father-in-law. I’ve just seen his frescoes in San Gimignano, and I want to know how he did it.”

“Did what, Master Giotto?”

“Got paid to paint men and women—
naked
men and women!—bathing together, going to
bed
together! On the walls in the palace of government! A man can bear to paint only so many martyrs and virgins. Let us move to San Gimignano, Simone—or better yet, to Avignon; that’s where the money is now—and let us start a new fashion of painting there. Courtesans, concubines, and lusty country wenches. Get me those commissions, my boy, and I will pay you ten times more than I paid you to mix plaster.”

Simone laughs. “At that rate, Master Giotto, I would still starve.”

Avignon
The Present

I’D BEEN UP SINCE 5
A.M
., DESPITE THE FACT THAT I’D
been wandering the streets with Stefan until one, and I was obsessively checking my e-mail inbox every five minutes. I’d hoped Joe might send me a picture of his facial reconstruction by now. It was 8
A.M
. in Avignon, which made it 2
A.M
. for Joe; I couldn’t imagine he was still up and working.

I’d just decided to head downstairs for a croissant when my computer chirped to announce a new e-mail. My heart began to thump when I saw that it was from Joe. I opened it eagerly but there was no message, only a small icon indicating that an image file was attached. I clicked on the attachment, and with maddening, line-by-line slowness the masklike image of a clay face materialized on the screen. Joe had done it; he’d restored a face to the skull from the Palace of the Popes.

As I studied the features, I had the eerie feeling that I knew the guy, or at least that I’d seen him before. Was it just that I’d seen
Joe’s work before? Facial reconstructions, especially when done by the same forensic artist, do share similarities: “white female #7”; “black male #4.” Was that the reason this face looked familiar? I turned away, looked out the window to clear my mind, and then directed my gaze at the screen again.

Again I felt the tingle of unexpected familiarity. Who
was
this guy, and why did I think I knew him? It wasn’t simply that this was another generic white male, similar to a hundred other reconstructions I’d seen. This face was distinctive, the face of a unique individual: long and narrow, with prominent cheekbones and a slightly crooked nose, perhaps broken once in a fight. I’d noticed the general features when I’d examined the skull, but they were more pronounced now that Joe had fleshed out the bones.

Suddenly a synapse in my sleep-deprived brain fired. Pulse racing, I fired off a message to Joe:
got it. great work—thanks. are you still there?

yes,
came his answer a few seconds later.

can you do a couple of quick tweaks?

A pause.
what sort of tweaks?

can you give him long hair? and a mustache and beard? oh, and maybe smooth out some of the wrinkles, take 10 years off him?

As I waited for his response, I feared he might balk.

so, you want me to give him rogaine & botox—er, claytox, right, doc?

right, joe.

no problem.

I breathed a sigh of relief, then sent another message:
not to sound pushy, but how long will that take?

depends. you want it fast, or want it good?

I smiled.
start with fast,
I wrote back.
if i need good, I’ll beg you for that tomorrow.

good answer. fast is lots easier for me right now—just got a new case I need to jump on. give me twenty minutes. i’ll tinker with it and shoot you a revision ASAP.

Twenty minutes was going to drive me crazy, so I went downstairs to grab breakfast. In my nervousness, I wolfed down three croissants and a dozen strawberries. Just as I reached the top of the stairs and opened the door of my room, I heard the chime of a new message arriving.

how’s this?
was written above the revised image.

How was it? It was astonishing.

If Joe’s facial reconstruction was accurate, the bones of Avignon belonged to a guy who was a dead ringer for the man on the Shroud of Turin.