The Name of the Rose (42 page)

I have already told the rest of the story. John wanted him at Avignon. He himself wanted and did not want to go, and the next day's meeting was to decide on the form and guarantees of a journey that should not appear as an act of submission or as an act of defiance. I don't believe Michael had ever met John personally, at least not as pope. In any event, he hadn't seen him for a long time, and Michael's friends hastened to paint the portrait of that simoniac in the darkest hues.

“One thing you must learn,” William said to him, “is never to trust his oaths, which he always maintains to the letter, violating their substance.”

“Everyone knows,” Ubertino said, “what happened at the time of his election. . . .”

“I wouldn't call it an election, but an imposition!” one man at the table cried, a man I later heard them call Hugh of Newcastle, whose accent was similar to my master's. “For that matter, the death of Clement the Fifth itself was never very clear. The King had never forgiven him for having promised to try Boniface the Eighth posthumously and then doing everything he could to avoid repudiating his predecessor. Nobody really knows how Clement died, at Carpentras. The fact is that when the cardinals met in Carpentras for the conclave, the new Pope didn't materialize, because (quite rightly) the argument shifted to the choice between Avignon and Rome. I don't know exactly what happened at that time—it was a massacre, I'm told—with the cardinals threatened by the nephew of the dead Pope, their servants slaughtered, the palace set afire, the cardinals appealing to the King, who says he never wanted the Pope to desert Rome and they should be patient and make a good choice. . . . Then Philip the Fair died, again God only knows how. . . .”

“Or the Devil knows,” Ubertino said, blessing himself, in which he was imitated by all the others.

“Or the Devil knows,” Hugh agreed, with a sneer. “Anyway, another king succeeds, survives eighteen months, and dies. His newborn heir also dies in a few days' time, and the regent, the King's brother, assumes the throne. . . .”

“And this is Philip the Fifth. The very one who, when he was still Count of Poitiers, stopped the cardinals who were fleeing from Carpentras,” Michael said.

“Yes,” Hugh went on. “He puts them again into conclave in Lyons, in the Dominicans' convent, swearing he will defend their safety and not keep them prisoner. But once they place themselves in his power, he does not just have them locked up (which is the custom, after all), but every day reduces their food until they come to a decision. And each one promises to support his claim to the throne. When he does assume the throne, the cardinals are so weary of being prisoners after two years, and so afraid of staying there for the rest of their lives, eating badly, that they agree to everything, the gluttons, and on the throne of Peter they put that gnome, who is now over seventy. . . .”

“Gnome, yes, true,” Ubertino said, laughing. “And rather consumptive-looking, but stronger and shrewder than anyone thought!”

“Son of a cobbler,” one of the legates grumbled.

“Christ was the son of a carpenter,” Ubertino reproached him. “That is not the point. He is a cultivated man, he studied law at Montpellier and medicine in Paris, he cultivated his friendships in the ways best suited to win the episcopal seats and the cardinal's hat when it seemed opportune to him, and as counselor of Robert the Wise in Naples he amazed many with his acumen. When Bishop of Avignon, he gave all the right advice (right, that is, for the outcome of that squalid venture) to Philip the Fair about how to ruin the Templars. And after his election he managed to foil a plot of cardinals who wanted to kill him. . . . But this is not what I meant to talk about: I was speaking of his ability to betray vows without being accused of swearing falsely. To be elected, he promised Cardinal Orsini he would return the papal seat to Rome, and when he was elected he swore on the consecrated host that if he were not to keep his promise, he would never mount a horse or a mule again. Well, you know what that fox did? After he had himself crowned in Lyons (against the will of the King, who wanted the ceremony to take place in Avignon), he traveled from Lyons to Avignon by boat!”

The monks all laughed. The Pope was a perjurer, but there was no denying he had a certain ingeniousness.

“He is without shame,” William remarked. “Didn't Hugh say that John made no attempt to conceal his bad faith? Haven't you, Ubertino, told about what he said to Orsini on the day of his arrival in Avignon?”

“To be sure,” Ubertino said. “He said to him that the sky of France was so beautiful he could not see why he should set foot in a city full of ruins, like Rome. And inasmuch as the Pope, like Peter, had the power to bind and to loosen, he was now exercising this power: and he decided to remain where he was, where he enjoyed being. And when Orsini tried to remind him that it was his duty to live on the Vatican hill, he recalled him sharply to obedience and broke off the discussion. But I have not finished the story of the oath. On disembarking from the boat, John was to have mounted a white horse, to be followed by the cardinals on black horses, according to tradition. Instead he went to the episcopal palace on foot. Nor have I ever heard of his riding a horse again. And this is the man, Michael, you expect to abide by the guarantees he will give you?”

Michael remained silent for a long time. Then he said, “I can understand the Pope's wish to remain in Avignon, and I will not dispute it. But he cannot dispute our desire for poverty and our interpretation of the example of Christ.”

“Don't be ingenuous, Michael,” William spoke up, “your wishes, ours, make his appear sinister. You must realize that for centuries a greedier man has never ascended the papal throne. The whore of Babylon against whom our Ubertino used to fulminate, the corrupt popes described by the poets of your country like that Alighieri, were meek lambs and sober compared to John. He is a thieving magpie, and in Avignon there is more trafficking than in Florence!”

“You must know well the kind of tradesman you will be dealing with,” said Ubertino. “He is a Midas: everything he touches becomes gold and flows into the coffers of Avignon. Whenever I entered his apartments I found bankers, moneychangers, and clerics counting florins and piling them neatly one on top of another. . . . And you will see the palace he has had built for himself, with riches that were once attributed only to the Emperor of Byzantium or the Great Khan of the Tartars. And now you understand why he issued all those bulls against the ideal of poverty. But do you know that he has driven the Dominicans, in their hatred of our order, to carve statues of Christ with a royal crown, a tunic of purple and gold, and sumptuous sandals? In Avignon they display crucifixes where Christ is nailed by a single hand while the other touches a purse hanging from his belt, to indicate that he authorizes the use of money for religious ends. . . .”

“Oh, how shameless!” Michael cried. “But this is outright blasphemy!”

“He has added,” William went on, “a third crown to the papal tiara, hasn't he, Ubertino?”

“Certainly. At the beginning of the millennium Pope Hildebrand had assumed one, with the legend ‘Corona regni de manu Dei'; the infamous Boniface later added a second, writing on it ‘Diadema imperii de manu Petri'; and John has simply perfected the symbol: three crowns, the spiritual power, the temporal, and the ecclesiastical. A symbol worthy of the Persian kings, a pagan symbol . . .”

There was one monk who till then had remained silent, busily and devoutly consuming the good dishes the abbot had sent to the table. With an absent eye he followed the various discussions, emitting every now and then a sarcastic laugh at the Pope's expense, or a grunt of approval at the other monks' indignant exclamations. Otherwise he was intent on wiping from his chin the juices and bits of meat that escaped his toothless but voracious mouth, and the only times he had spoken a word to one of his neighbors were to praise some delicacy. I learned later that he was Master Jerome, that Bishop of Kaffa whom, a few days before, Ubertino had thought dead—and I must add that the news of his death two years earlier continued to circulate as the truth throughout Christendom for a long time, because I also heard it afterward. Actually, he died a few months after that meeting of ours, and I still think he died of the great anger that filled him at the next day's meeting; I would almost believe he exploded at once, so fragile was he of body and so bilious of humor.

At this point he intervened in the discussion, speaking with his mouth full: “And then, you know, the villain issued a constitution concerning the taxae sacrae poenitentiariae in which he exploits the sins of religious in order to squeeze out more money. If an ecclesiastic commits a carnal sin, with a nun, with a relative, or even with an ordinary woman, he can be absolved only by paying sixty-seven gold pieces and twelve pence. And if he commits bestiality, it is more than two hundred pieces, but if he has committed it only with youths or animals, and not with females, the fine is reduced by one hundred. And a nun who has given herself to many men, either all at once or at different times, inside the convent or out, if she then wants to become abbess, must pay one hundred thirty-one gold pieces and fifteen pence. . . .”

“Come, come, Messer Jerome,” Ubertino protested, “you know how little I love the Pope, but on this point I must defend him! It is a slander circulated in Avignon. I have never seen this constitution!”

“It exists,” Jerome declared vigorously. “I have not seen it, either, but it exists.”

Ubertino shook his head, and the others fell silent. I realized they were accustomed to not paying great heed to Master Jerome, whom William had called a fool the other day. William tried to resume the conversation: “Whether true or false, this rumor tells us about the morality in Avignon. When John ascended the throne there was talk of a treasure of seventy thousand florins and now there are those who say he has amassed more than ten million.”

“It is true,” Ubertino said. “Ah, Michael, Michael, you have no idea of the shameful things I had to see in Avignon!”

“Let us try to be honest,” Michael said. “We know that our own people have also committed excesses. I have been told of Franciscans who made armed attacks on Dominican convents and despoiled their rival monks to impose poverty on them. . . . This is why I dared not oppose John at the time of the events in Provence. . . . I want to come to an agreement with him; I will not humiliate his pride, I will only ask him not to humiliate our humility. I will not speak to him of money, I will ask him only to agree to a sound interpretation of Scripture. And this is what we must do with his envoys tomorrow. After all, they are men of theology, and not all will be greedy like John. When some wise men have determined an interpretation of Scripture, he will not be able to—”

“He?” Ubertino interrupted him. “Why, you do not yet know his follies in the field of theology! He really wants to bind everything with his own hand, on earth and in heaven. On earth we have seen what he does. As for heaven . . . Well, he has not yet expressed the ideas I cannot divulge to you—not publicly, at least—but I know for certain that he has whispered them to his henchmen. He is planning some mad if not perverse propositions that would change the very substance of doctrine and would deprive our preaching of all power!”

“What are they?” many asked.

“Ask Berengar; he knows, he told me of them.” Ubertino had turned to Berengar Talloni, who over the past years had been one of the most determined adversaries of the Pope at his own court. Having come from Avignon, he had joined the group of the other Franciscans two days earlier and had arrived at the abbey with them.

“It is a murky and almost incredible story,” Berengar said. “It seems John is planning to declare that the just will not enjoy the beatific vision until after judgment. For some time he has been reflecting on the ninth verse of the sixth chapter of the Apocalypse, where the opening of the fifth seal is discussed, where under the altar appear those who were slain for testifying to the word of God and who ask for justice. To each is given a white robe, and they are told to be patient a little longer. . . . A sign, John argues, that they will not be able to see God in his essence until the last judgment is fulfilled.”

“To whom has he said these things?” Michael asked, horrified.

“So far only to a few intimates, but word has spread; they say he is preparing an open declaration, not immediately, perhaps in a few years. He is consulting his theologians. . . .”

“Ha ha!” Jerome sneered as he ate.

“And, more, it seems that he wants to go further and assert that nor will hell be open before that day . . . not even for the devils!”

“Lord Jesus, assist us!” Jerome cried. “And what will we tell sinners, then, if we cannot threaten them with a hell that is already open the moment they die?”

“We are in the hands of a madman,” Ubertino said. “But I do not understand why he wants to assert these things. . . .”

“The whole doctrine of indulgences goes up in smoke,” Jerome complained, “and not even he will be able to sell any after that. Why should a priest who has committed the sin of bestiality pay so many gold pieces to avoid such a remote punishment?”

“Not so remote,” Ubertino said firmly. “The hour is at hand!”

“You know that, dear brother, but the faithful do not know it. This is how things stand!” cried Jerome, who no longer seemed to be enjoying his food.

“But why does he do it?” asked Michael of Cesena.

“I don't believe there's a reason,” William said. “It's an act of pride. He wants to be truly the one who decides for heaven and earth. I knew of these whisperings—William of Occam had written me. We shall see in the end whether the Pope has his way or the theologians have theirs, the voice of the whole church, the very wishes of the people of God, the bishops. . . .”