“Benedict, you probably know, was my master and I his student in my seminary days.” With his fingers, Jacques brushed his cheek. “And although I do have a special request for His Holiness, I’ll not beg the man for money,” he joked.
“Anon, anon,” answered the fat clergyman. “You know, of
course, that
any
Christian is at liberty to appear before the Pope once the Pontiff opens his door?” Staring at Jacques, the cardinal tapped on his desk. “Something in this smells of urgency,” he said. “My advice to thee? Do not be in a hurry in this agitated city. Rome is a silly woman, with indolence being one of her primary vices. Even the Vatican cannot escape her slothfulness.”
“A dwindling purse hastens my actions.”
“Your misfortune has a great deal to do with the merciless French society about which I warned you, doesn’t it?”
“Do I dare mention Marquise D’Ampie—on her back—in a
garden?”
The cardinal returned a throaty laugh. “When you wrote from Paris, you might have included the scandalous details,” the cardinal said. “The sweltering man in scarlet who sits before you wants details. Tawdry details. None of which, I assure you, shall I repeat to the Pope—when I request an audience for you.”
Jacques smiled. “I thank you, Your Complacency.”
Both men joined in jolly laughter that rang through the hallways of the holy Vatican. Jacques stood, then bowed deeply. “And may I congratulate you, Your Eminence, on your promotion to cardinal?”
“It goes without saying that I deserve the admiration, if not the position.” The clergyman threw back his head in a cackle, coughed a raw cough, and slapped his wig and biretta back on his pate.
***
At the inn early the following morning, Jacques smiled when he opened the note Cardinal de Bernis had sent: “You will meet Pope Benedict at Palazzo di Monte Cavallo, the summer residence of the Pontiff. Cardinal Allesandro Albani, Imperial Ambassador in Rome, is assigned to conduct you to Benedict.”
Jacques readied himself, gave minor instructions to Petrine, and
sat briefly with Dominique. He told her of his friendship with
Benedict from long ago and spoke in vague terms of an earnest request he would make to the Pontiff. Dominique was disappointed to stay at the inn but reminded herself that she knew little Italian, something that might hamper the mission. Jacques bid her adieu with a long kiss, which he hoped hid the slim mistrust he’d had of the woman since the debacle at Grimani’s
fête
.
As soon as he left the lodgings, he began to chart his stratagem—how to launch his subtle diversion, where to direct his fusillade—in a word, how to trick His Holiness, the Pope.
Jacques knew that the smokescreen he planned—his request to the Pope to reenter Venice—could easily be read as impudence, and at the smallest nod from the Venetian State Inquisitori, the Pontiff might, with a papal ordinance, demand he leave Rome.
This request to the cleric, however, was a risk worth taking—for Jacques’ true objective was access to the
Index librorum prohibitorum,
the Church’s ‘Index of Forbidden Books.’ As certain books were condemned by the Church, so, too, were the Knights Templar condemned. In searching the Index, Jacques hoped to gain esoteric, noteworthy knowledge of the Templars.
He had a starting point for his search but, he worried, perhaps the ending point as well.
***
Jacques, bedecked in his best attire, sat in Imperial Ambassador Albani’s meticulously arranged office. The portly cardinal spoke with great solemnity.
“I am instructed to introduce you to the Pontifex Maximus, he who bridges the void between this world and—”
“The kingdom that is not of this world,” Jacques repeated in
unison with the cardinal, thankful at last for his school days in seminary.
Albani looked up. “Follow me,” he said, pushing by Jacques.
“You may kiss the Holy Father’s foot this morning at nine o’clock.”
Now Jacques stood before the Pontiff almost fifteen years after they’d first made their special acquaintance. Cares had worn the man, but certainly he was recognizable, his features agreeable and regular. With a bow, Jacques acknowledged the head of the faithful who sat atop the papal throne; then he kissed the cross embroidered on his holy slipper.
The two exchanged warm and earnest greetings. It boded well that the Pope had invited no one else to view the audience.
“We keep in mind,” said Benedict XIV, “that as a student you
attended mass every day, often went to sermons, and were
exemplary in the recitation of the
Oratio quadraginta horarum
.” He extended his right hand to rest lightly on Jacques, whose stomach now tingled with excitement. “We also recall, signor, that you often
forsook
our services in Padua when we intoned the rosary.”
“Holy Father, I’ve worse transgressions,” Jacques mustered as sincerely as possible. “Although I’ve never taken the Lord’s name in vain, I’ve sinned exceedingly. I’ve not used the talents God gave me to exult His name. It’s no secret.”
“No secret.”
“I prostrate myself at your feet to receive absolution.”
The Pontiff removed his hand from Jacques’ shoulder and
paused for a great while before giving his benediction. At last he asked what he could do for Jacques.
The adventurer stood straight and tall. “I ask for your
intercession so that I may freely return to Venice.”
His Holiness interlaced his fingers in his lap. His features grew harder.
“It’s true, Your Holiness, I escaped from the Inquisitori’s
dreadful prison in Venice, which makes me well aware of the risk I take in coming to Rome. I’m alert to the prospect of expulsion, and I would hope that you too might find that possibility distasteful.” Following this, Jacques did not look at the Pope, but resumed his speech, his eyes remaining downcast. “God has the power to change those creatures that require it. I’m in deep need of His salvation, His love, His joy, His authority.”
“We recall, Giacomo Casanova, you possessed at all times the cloak of sincerity, whether it was genuine or no.”
Jacques felt his neck tighten.
The Pope continued. “If you were to return to your motherland, you would be required to present yourself before the secretary of the tribunal of Venice.”
Jacques was prepared. “I’m willing to hazard that if Your Holiness might supply me with a letter of recommendation in your own hand. With such a letter, I would not risk being imprisoned in I Piombi again.”
Pope Benedict leaned back in his throne and steepled his fingers over his lips.
He doesn’t figure my strategy
.
Good
. “Most Holy Father,” Jacques
exclaimed, “profound remorse eats, devours my heart—for not
living my life as a servant of the true Church,” he lied. “As a penance, I beg
your permission to defend the Holy Roman Church with my intellect. Consider—for an infamous libertine to attack and defeat
those hostile to religion and the virtues it prescribes—wouldn’t this be powerful propaganda to aid the Church? To explain: I’ve settled in Paris—”
“A wicked city.”
“A malevolent city, Your Holiness. One that is infecting the
remainder of Catholic France. I’ve witnessed Monsieur de Voltaire and the philosophes assault the Holy Church in every conceivable manner, while throughout Europe other heretics also poison the minds of Catholics.” Jacques went to one knee. “I request access to the Index librorum prohibitorum.”
“Access to the forbidden books?”
“Yes, Most Holy Father. That I might study the vile arguments of the heretic to refute their godless logic. To defend and uphold your Holy Church.”
“The Vatican has theologians who act in this capacity.”
“But none such as I.”
His Holiness, the Pope, stared at the cherubim and seraphim on the ceiling, stroking his garments.
Jacques’ stomach grew hard as an oak bough. Moments passed. And now—although his bended knee was beginning to pain him—
he forged a sparkle in his eye, cleared his throat, and whispered
softly but firmly. “Even in these days, Eminence, you’ve the
physique
of a poet. And I’ve not forgotten your sweet—and most holy—touch.”
Benedict’s cheeks reddened. But at Jacques he gazed, tendering an ever-so-slight and lecherous smile. Jacques returned the kindness.
In good time, His Holiness answered with a benediction, then spoke plainly. “No, you may not return to Venice with our blessing and recommendation. Not until I see and read six pamphlets and
two books from your pen. All defending the Church. For this
ambitious task, you may have access to the Index.”
Jacques could barely hide his elation. “Your Eminence, in his wisdom, pleases me so. Before long I’ll return, pamphlets in hand.”
Jacques rose and made his exit.
Winding his way back to his lodgings, he turned the corner of a narrow Roman street and, feeling a newfound spring in his step, broke into a loud laugh. His strategy had succeeded! For the time being, he was free to concentrate on the day ahead.
***
Jacques knew that Dominique would be as exuberant as a foal in a field to see the sights of the Eternal City. The Coliseum, the Piazza di Spagna, the Trevi Fountain. A leisurely tour began when he fetched her at the inn.
The lovers strolled away the early afternoon, marveling at a few local sights around the inn until, toward the end of the day, Jacques hired a cab, blindfolded Dominique, and read poetry to her as the
hackney proceeded to the far north of the city. When the driver
stilled his horses on the Via Cassia, Jacques carefully guided Dominique out of the cab. He stood the woman facing in the direction he wished. “You may now take off your blindfold and open your eyes.”
It took a moment for Dominique’s eyes to stop fluttering, then at the first view of the still far-distant St. Peter’s Basilica, she gasped. Her eyes fully roved the landscape. A minute more passed before words came.
“Unforgettable.” She turned to Jacques. “This is the heart of my religion. The Roman Catholic Church. Surely if the spirit of Christ lives on this earth in the hearts of men, he does so in this magnificent and dignified temple.”
A vivid image of Vicomte de Fragonard rushed through Jacques’ mind. “Here on this earth, I have met God,” the Vicomte had said. Jacques shuddered and squeezed Dominique’s hand.
On the hackney ride back to their lodgings, Dominique
expressed her jubilation.
Not so Jacques.
From his carriage window, he’d caught sight of a passing coach.
The colors of the coach’s trappings were argent and crimson. But
what was the coat of arms on the door? Jacques could not be confident of what he’d barely seen.
If it happens that the Venetian dog named Michele Grimani wants his gold louis returned, let him sniff someone else. I’ll not abide him in Rome.
AT DAYBREAK, JACQUES
and the frail Cardinal Passonei ambled
toward the humorless exterior of the Vatican Library, the sun
blunted behind the stone building.
“Yesterday after your audience, His Holiness spoke exceedingly well of you, Signor Casanova,” said the old cardinal, peering over the top of his spectacles.
The man’s shallow breaths and an unusually high-pitched tone convinced Jacques the clergyman lied; he’d probably not even
seen
the Pope, let alone spoken to him. Assigned a lonely, humble duty, the clergyman simply yearned to feel important.
“Are you previously acquainted with the Pontiff?” Cardinal Passonei asked while ushering Jacques inside the building.
Jacques smiled and nodded, resolving to prevail in silence. He would let his silence inspire gossip. And gossip would enhance his reputation and give him standing with those in the Vatican. He might need allies in this new realm.
The clergyman and the adventurer continued their walk through a long corridor, passing several rooms filled with studious men, quills in hand, laboring at their workbenches.
Cardinal Passonei spoke. “These scribes copy old and important
documents, many of which are decaying. So sad.” After a dozen steps more, he stopped, held up a thick black key, and inserted it
into the
lock of the door. “Shall we enter the Index forthwith?” Moments later, Jacques stepped into the most secret of places and was pleasantly surprised that the sun shown through enormous Palladian windows and that the interior granite walls kept the temperature
reasonable.
“Welcome to the Index librorum prohibitorum,” the Cardinal said. “On that table is the guide to the codices in this archive. But the manuscripts have been shifted from shelf to shelf over the centuries, so at times the guide may be of little help. As you see, most of the leather-bound books are laid horizontally, according to the ancient
custom. Return them to their stack that way, please.” Cardinal
Passonei
wagged his finger. “Remember, please, you’re not permitted in any
other room in this building. And I shall be outside the door to
accompany you when you find it necessary to come or go for any reason. Have you any questions?”
“I have a single question,” replied Jacques, “and it appears you are most qualified to answer it, Cardinal Passonei.”
The old churchman broke into a sudden broad smile that further wrinkled his pale, worn countenance. Jacques took a step closer.
“For reasons I had best divulge to you later, I seek knowledge of the treacherous Knights Templar. I’ve been assured,” Jacques lied, “that you, of all churchmen, know this Index intimately. Before I review the guide, would you show me the particular books in this room that contain the Templar writings?”
Cardinal Passonei looked wide eyed.
“I hope to be able to report your good works to the Pontiff,” Jacques added.
The frail man seized his thick key with both hands, then pointed with it. “Why, that entire wall of books over there,” said Passonei,
“is heretical in one way or another. On that wall you will
unquestionably find what you search for.”