Q - Luther Blissett, page 56
If the outlook remains unchanged, he will not hesitate to use it. He told me to stay alert, but he is still keeping his plans secret.
He could use The Benefit to attack Pole and the Spirituali head on, accusing the Englishman of being the real author of a book excommunicated by the Council. He could put the pressure on some of the smaller fry in the Viterbo circle, to make him confess. But he would have to do it now, which would mean exposing himself personally. It would be risky. Carafa doesn't like putting himself in the middle of enemy fire. If I know him, he'll choose another way: he'll circulate rumours, increasingly insistent, increasingly detailed, about the potential consequences of Reginald Pole's ascent to the Papal Throne. The Pope supporting doctrines excommunicated by the Council of Trent. Images of disintegration, dark omens of a paradoxical and irresolvable conflict, the dramatic weakening of the Church of Rome, its total dependence on the secular authority of the Emperor.
A gloomy picture designed to instil fear in many people, and one which could cause decisive votes to be cast.
Only then will Carafa become involved, once the Conclave is under way, as the bringer of order and superior reason. Carafa the Conciliator.
It makes me laugh.
* * *
Rome, 10th November 1549
* * *
Paul III Farnese is dead. One of the most influential dynasties in Europe has come to an end.
A slow death, and now they are all holding their breath, as though frozen by a sense of something imminent. The question is no longer which family will be next to hold the reins of pontifical power. That no longer comes into it. What is at stake is the role of the Church, and the conception of the power that it will have to exercise. We have reached the end of an era, and find ourselves in the midst of a very fierce confrontation between two factions, two opposing conceptions of Christianity.
One thing alone is certain. There's no turning back.
No longer will we see powerful families taking their turns on the throne, forming and breaking alliances. Instead a whole constellation of forces, apparatuses and new entities that are emerging with great vigour, will have to be kept in balance. The Lutheran church, Calvin and his followers, the Inquisition, the charitable orders, The Jesuits, with that man Ignatius who won't leave anyone in peace. And all that in order to face the changing fates of empires, kingdoms and principalities.
However different the aims of these most bitter adversaries may be, both Carafa and Pole know that the Church will have to be something different now from what it has been in the past. They are looking ahead, far away from the old models.
* * *
Rome, 29th November 1549
* * *
The cardinals have gone into the Conclave. In the alleyways of Rome the betting is on Pole. The favourite.
I have bet against him
Following Carafa's instructions, I am going around the groups of priests, clerics, onlookers, gamblers and working men who crowd the city squares. I disorient them with indiscretions concerning the true authors of The Benefit of Christ Crucified. I'm not alone.
The Spirituali will try to resolve matters very soon, taking advantage of the fact that the French cardinals have been delayed. They have had a difficult journey, both by land and sea, passing through the territories of the Emperor, who is trying to obstruct their arrival.
They don't have the numbers to withstand the spirituali. Carafa is going to have to instil his proverbial terror into the hearts of those who are wavering.
* * *
Rome, 3rd December 1549
* * *
Black smoke. Twenty-one votes for Pole. He would need twenty-eight to win the two-thirds majority that he needs.
It's always a mystery how information manages to get out of the Conclave, but a few times a day out it comes, always punctual and highly detailed.
* * *
Rome, 4th December 1549
* * *
Black smoke. Pole got twenty-four votes. The consensus is growing, but rumours are circulating that the French cardinals are about to arrive. If Carafa can defer Pole's election by one more day, the Englishman could be out of the game.
* * *
Rome, 5th December 1549
* * *
Rumours indicate that Carafa has delivered his accusation.
Not a head-on attack, that isn't his style. More of a warning, an invitation to reflect upon the risks that need to be avoided. He will certainly have suggested to those venerable ears what a paradox it would be, and what a huge problem, to have a Pope who had co-authored The Benefit of Christ Crucified, a book excommunicated by the Council. He is sure to have summoned up, for the benefit of those old men, images of the terrible battles between bishops and popes that the Church knew in times past.
He has instilled doubt into those who have already returned that seraphic English smile.
The vote will be held this afternoon.
* * *
He has got a message through to me. A short one, just enough to suggest the tension that the old Theatine must be feeling. The spirituali have reached an agreement with three neutral cardinals: if Pole wins twenty-six votes, they will transfer their votes to him. If that happens, my instructions are to contact Dominican headquarters straight away.
If that happens it's all over.
The vote is in an hour.
* * *
I pass the time nervously.
* * *
Twenty-five votes. There was one missing, only one.
They stared at each other for a long time.
No other hand was raised.
Black smoke.
* * *
Rome, 6th December 1549
* * *
French cardinals in the Conclave. Pole can't win now.
We have been dangling from a thread, and it hasn't broken.
* * *
Rome, 14th January 1550
* * *
Exhausting. They've been shut in there for forty-eight days now. There is no agreement: a new name comes up every day, and no one can believe it.
They're even betting on who won't get out of the Conclave alive. Very powerful old men wearing themselves out in sealed chambers amidst the stench of piss and excrement. I can imagine the tired voices, the enfeebled bodies, the fuddled brains. Ideal for Carafa.
* * *
Rome, 8th February 1550
* * *
White smoke.
Nuntio vobis magnum gaudium. Habemus papam. Sibi nomen imposuit Iulius III.
Seventy-three days to get halfway through this century and reach a compromise: Giovanni Maria Del Monte, Cardinal Bishop of Palestrina.
Julius III.
Chapter 32
Ferrara, 21st March 1550
* * *
We slip silently down the alleyway, without a backward glance. Stop and pretend to chat: no one is following us.
We carry on till we get to the house: three knocks, then another one.
'Who is it?'
'Pietro and Titian.'
The door opens, a round face with a curly black beard and pointed moustache. 'Come in, come in. We've been waiting for you.'
He leads us through a workshop cluttered with tools and work-benches. The floor is covered with shavings that crunch beneath our feet.
We climb a staircase to his apartment. There are four men waiting for us, recruited over the past year and rebaptised by Titian in person.
The carpenter shows us to some chairs that smell of freshly cut wood.
'Have you explained everything?'
'It's better if you do...'
I nod before he finishes his sentence.
I study them carefully: deferential faces.
'It's quite simple. Pietro and I are planning to call a council and bring all the brothers together. We've got to know one another, and know how many we are.' A couple of them give a start. 'So far all I have done is baptise. Preach and baptise, never stopping for a moment. Over the past few months Pietro has travelled the length and breadth of the Great Duchy and the Marches. Now it's time to meet. And for you to do your part.'
One man has no scruples about interrupting me: 'When?'
Disapproving glances from the others, but I'm not bothered. 'In the autumn. I haven't decided where yet. Right now we're going to have to get moving to contact all communities between here and the Abruzzi. Each community will have to send two representatives. The location that we choose for the council will be announced once they have reached Ferrara. It's better not to run pointless risks.
* * *
Ferrara, 21st March 1550, an hour earlier
* * *
'What do we need a council for?'
'We have to know how many there are of us. We've got to get organised.'
'It's dangerous, Titian, the Inquisition...'
'The Inquisition barely knows who I am. It knows nothing about you, and it certainly doesn't suspect there are large numbers of us. Don't worry. Just go on using my name, it's the only one the brethren need to know.'
'But if one of them was captured, you'd be the first to go down.'
'I would. Just me, no one else. You know them: they're not interested in the proselytes, it's the heresiarch they're after.'
We laugh.
'May God preserve us, but a council would expose everyone to the risk of discovery.'
'It'll be clandestine. Listen to me carefully, Pietro: that's why I don't want more than two representatives per community. There won't be fewer than fifty of us, but there won't be more than a hundred.'
'Why don't we wait to see what the new Pope does? We don't know if he's going to side with the zelanti or the spirituali...'
'He isn't going to side with anyone.'
'What?'
'He isn't going to side with anyone, I've met him. He isn't going to go along with one group or the other, it's the most difficult path to take, because it means he has to keep everyone happy: and the interests of some are the ruin of the others.'
'What... When did you meet the Pope?'
'Before he was elected. I spent a long time talking to him. He has the same opinion of the Inquisition as we do. He's against the methods of Carafa and his friends. He knows that if he gives them carte blanche we'll end up with a massacre of the innocents. He promised me he would personally intercede with the General of the Benedictines to get Fontanini out of prison.'
'What Fontanini? Benedetto of Mantua? The author of the Benefit?'
'He's out now. Isn't that a sign that we can breathe a bit easier? We'll have to hold our council as soon as possible, before the balance shifts again, perhaps even forcing the Pope's hand. I'm almost certain that Julius III is basically open to dialogue with the reformed faith, except that he can't say as much or state it explicitly, because he knows that his election was the result of a compromise. He has to behave accordingly. What is it you lot say? Run with the hare and hunt with the hounds.'
'If you think it's the right thing to do, I'm with you.'
* * *
Pietro Manelfi walks beside me down the Via delle Volte. I met him in Florence: he was a cleric from the Marche, an unruly subject of the Pope. His spiritual torments had begun years ago, leading him to abandon his seminary and slide ever faster down that thin line that separates mystical inspiration from heresy. I gave him the answers he was looking for, and he attached himself to me like a dog to its master: Titian's first disciple. To put him to the test, I sent him to his own part of the world to recruit proselytes. Then he joined me here, full of hope. He prays too many times a day, but he has an exceptional memory, he remembers the home towns, names and professions of everyone who's been baptised, and he helps me to stay in contact with all the brothers. He tells everyone about me: outside of Ferrara no one knows anyone else apart from the mysterious Titian. If they were to be arrested, they couldn't betray each other: just Titian, the hare, the target.
We pass underneath the arches that stretch over the street, a street that never sleeps: a great hubbub of tanners, blacksmiths and cobblers by day; breasts and thighs by night. We slip silently into the alleyway, without a backward glance. We stop and pretend to chat: no one is following us.
We carry on till we to the house: three knocks, then another one.
'Who is it?'
'Pietro and Titian.'
* * *
Ferrara's fine. It's a city where everything moves at a particular pace, where everything fits together nicely. But it isn't like Venice. Venice is complicated, in Venice if you so much as move a pin you always run the risk of sticking it in a giant's arse.
Ferrara is small and clings to the edge of the river, but even so you can still get lost in the older alleyways. Ferrara is freer, lighter, less crowded, without so many cops and spies. In Venice there's always someone keeping an eye on you, not here, you walk without ever having to stop, pretend you've taken a wrong turning, see if there's someone in yet another absurd disguise walking behind you. A salutary habit, but pointless in Ferrara, you can rest easy here. Ercole II is wreathed in smiles about the new Pope, but at the same time he allows the most active and dangerous minds in Italy to find refuge here. He likes to have his palace filled with men of letters, and he never allows the flame to go out on the tomb of the poet Ludovico Ariosto, whom the people here venerate like a saint. It really must be irksome for him to know that that there's no one of that calibre in his court. Then there's Renée, the widow of Alfonso d'Este, who has no scruples about displaying her Calvinist sympathies. A considerable number of people have taken refuge behind the princess's skirts, to escape the police and the inquisitors.
As in Venice, no harm is done to the Jews, but here they chiefly practise usury, lending money at a lower rate of interest than their cousins in the lagoon, and they do excellent business. The money keeps on circulating, it never stops, and that's a sign of the city's good health. Justice is administered equably, without too many magistrates and policemen and courts taking months to decide the respective competences if someone died during a brawl. They act swiftly here, if you attract too much attention they walk you to the border. If you kill someone they walk you to the executioner, an old drunk who lives on the northern walls and sings obscene ditties to himself as he works. If two people have a score to settle they make an appointment to meet in the duelling alley, a narrow little street closed on both sides by densely-barred gates: two go in, only one comes out. It's all done without too much noise, without disturbing the city's peaceful activity.
My Anabaptist is right in his element here.
I've assembled half a dozen adepts, not all of them Ferrarese, who are willing to leave for other towns to spread the new faith and go around rebaptising. At the same time I'm taking care of the other part of myself, meeting Beatrice in her house, which I enter via a narrow passageway at the back.
The Miquez brothers have brought me messages sent by Chiú, landlord of the Gorgadello, the best cellar in the city, right beside the Cathedral. It's said that Ariosto used to go and get drunk there, and some of the regulars can even remember hearing him declaim the verses of his Orlando Furioso on more than one occasion. Chiucchiolino, or Chiú as he's known to everyone who's run up a tab with him, is an impressive creature: he has eyes on either side of his head, like a toad, pointing in different directions. His forehead is covered with a leonine mane of black curls, thick and coarse like a boar's bristles. He's an important man, an essential part of the city. If you have a problem you can talk to Chiú about it, and he'll be able to recommend someone who will almost certainly be able to sort out your difficulties. Chiú is the bank of secrets. You can tell him everything and be sure that he won't open his mouth to anyone, he'll accumulate information in his safe and return it to you with interest in the form of advice, names and addresses for you to make use of as you will. My secrets are in that bank as well. The key: a few conventional signs. Wine: no news. Spirits: important information.
Spirits today. To the Miquez house at dusk.
* * *
Across town to my house. A little room where I can shed Titian's clothes for a bit and get a few hours' rest.
I light the fire in the little hearth and put the water on to heat up. Venice has got me accustomed to washing frequently, so much so that it's become a habit. An inconvenient and expensive habit for someone who's always on the move.
I stay naked, and investigate what the accumulation of fifty years has done to my limbs. Ancient scars and the odd white hair on my chest. Fortunately I've never given my muscles time to relax too much: the strength is still there, it's just more solid and leathery. But I have permanent rheumatism. It only ever lets up in the summer, when I stretch out in the sun like a lizard, drying out all the humidity of these low lands. I've also discovered that I can no longer bend my spine completely, or I get the most terrible pains, and where possible I avoid riding on horseback.
Strange how in old age you learn to appreciate simple actions, how you're more willing to waste time rocking yourself in a comfortable chair, in the shade of a tree, or rolling over in bed trying to think of a good reason to get up.
I meticulously dry every corner of my body, lie down on the bed and close my eyes. The minute I find myself shivering I take my clean clothes out of the trunk that is the only other piece of furniture in the room. My elegant Venetian clothes. A broad-brimmed hat to hide my face, my sharp stiletto to wear in my belt. The bells: it's almost time to go.
