The Parchment (13 page)

As the path bent to the east, Hugh could see a vast assembly gathered in a meadow just to the east of Clermont Ferrand. A raised altar had been built in the center of the field.

“Is that where we are going, Mother—is that where the pope is?”

“Yes, he will stand on the altar and speak to us. We must pick a good spot so we can see him.”

Hugh suddenly felt grown-up. He was determined to find his mother not just a good place to see the pope but the best place. Dodging through the crowd, he pulled his embarrassed mother behind him. Suddenly, Hugh heard a far-off cry: “The pope is coming.” Jumping up from their seats on the ground, people surged forward to touch the pope and receive his blessing. Hugh and his
mother had their pick of spaces on the grass. The seven-year old felt proud that he was able to do this for his mother. He knew what seeing the pope meant to her.

As the cheering came closer, a cold, tingling sensation ran down Hugh's spine. His heart pounded. He had never experienced anything like this before. Caught up in the excitement, some farmhands standing nearby tossed their caps in the air like schoolboys. Hugh marveled at how high some of the men could pitch them. He wanted to join the toss but knew he would not be able to throw his cap half as high as the others. One of the farmhands saw Hugh's hesitation. “Just throw it—it does not matter how high it goes. It is in honor of Pope Urban. Every hat goes high enough.” Hugh pulled off his cap and made the toss. His cap hardly went above his head. Hugh tossed it again; this time it went higher than before. Again and again he tossed it, each time trying to touch the sky. On all sides, caps flew up to the heavens like prayers in honor of the pope.

A long procession of prelates and clergy ascended the steps to the altar platform. Everywhere Hugh looked there was a rainbow of colors. Befitting their status as Princes of the Church, cardinals stood next to the altar dressed in their bright scarlet robes; behind them were rows of purple-clad bishops and monsignori, and back farther still, a sea of white-surpliced priests. As if to frame the picture in darker shades, hooded monks dressed in black and brown robes lined the edges of the altar platform. Nobility from the neighboring regions of France sat on benches facing the altar—each prominently displaying his rank.

As the procession ended, Hugh jumped up and down, trying to see the pope. A solitary figure climbed the steps of the altar platform. When the crowd saw him, they began to cheer and clap their hands. Hugh knew instinctively that this man must be the pope. Still he was puzzled. This man wore a golden robe embroidered with silver threads, not the white garments Hugh's brother had predicted. While he did wear a conical-shaped hat, the man carried a shepherd's staff instead of a magician's wand. Without a wand, how could this man be a magician and without being a magician, how could he be the pope? Hugh had no answer to his questions. He decided to wait and see what would happen.

A hush fell over the vast assembly as the pope walked to the top step of the altar and sat on a carved wood throne. At a signal from a priest, several cardinals and bishops ascended the steps and prostrated themselves before the pope. After the cardinals and bishops had returned to their places, a group of nobles came forward and repeated the ritual. Hugh's mother whispered in his ear: “They do it as a sign of obedience to Pope Urban.”

Once the homages had ended, Hugh saw the pope rise from the throne and hand his staff to a priest standing next to him. For a moment, Hugh became excited — perhaps now the pope would take a wand and perform magic for the vast crowd. To Hugh's disappointment, however, the pope did nothing of the kind. Instead he came down the steps of the altar and walked to the edge of the platform. He raised his hands to signal the crowd to be silent. Standing on the edge of the platform, Pope Urban towered over the crowd of the faithful like a giant elm towers over the forest that surrounds it.

“In the Year of the Incarnation of our Lord 1095, I — Urban, Bishop of Rome and Servant of the Servants of God—stand humbly before you. Today, God calls all of us to a great purpose. The Tomb of Christ is in Saracen hands. As Christians, we are summoned to redeem it, to liberate the place where our Lord and Savior died at the hands of the Jews. We are summoned also to redeem from the Saracen the relics of the holy martyrs and saints who died for Christ. To these great matters, God calls each and every one of us — the knight from Burgundy, the serf from England, the priest from Navarre, the merchant from Visby. Christians of Europe, embrace the Cross as your symbol. March to Jerusalem to do God's will. Rescue the holy places from the Saracen. Bring back the relics of our holy martyrs and saints. If a Crusader sets out on this sacred journey and makes a true and perfect act of contrition, all punishment for his sins will be remitted.”

Hugh was not prepared for what happened next. The pope walked back to the altar and genuflected before a golden box that had been placed in front of the tabernacle.

“What is in the box, Mother?”

“Relics of Jesus.”

Urban lifted the reliquary box high above his head and turned back and faced the multitude in front of him. At that moment, a shaft of light broke through the overcast sky and shone directly on the pope. “Behold a relic of the True Cross on which our Lord and Savior died to save us from sin.” At the sight of the most sacred relic in all of Christendom, the crowd gasped audibly. Sensing the electricity of the moment, the pope cried out in a loud voice: “Christians, march to Jerusalem and free the Tomb of Christ.”

Hugh did not know from where the cry originated. Some say it came from an old beggar who sat far back in the crowd. Others say it came from one of God's angels who was seen in the heavens. No matter! As Pope Urban stood holding the relic of the True Cross, someone cried out in a loud voice: “God Wills It!” The cry was first taken up by ten of the faithful, then by a hundred, then by thousands. It was an indescribable moment.

Hugh's mother grasped her son tightly as the roar of the crowd grew deafening. “God Wills It!” “God Wills It!” On an impulse, Hugh broke free from his mother and ran toward the altar platform. He dodged several soldiers and bounded up the steps two at a time. When he reached the top step, Hugh paused; his legs felt numb. The cries of “God Wills It” stopped as all eyes became fixed on the small child standing before Pope Urban.

“Holy Father,” Hugh blurted out the words. “Let me go to Palestine to free the Tomb of Christ.”

Urban smiled and put a hand on Hugh's shoulder. “You are too young, my son, but you can go when you are older.”

Urban took a small gold cross from around his neck and put it in Hugh's hand. Then as if he had been his natural father, the pope lifted Hugh high up above his head and proclaimed in a loud voice, “Here is the first to respond to God's call.”

The shouts of “God Wills It” started up again louder than before. As Urban put Hugh down, a bishop whispered in the pontiff's ear. “It's time, Holiness. The crowd may grow unruly.” The pope nodded. Walking to the front of the altar platform, Urban lifted his right arm and imparted his papal blessing.
“In Nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti
.” The words of the benediction echoed across the meadow. Taking his staff, the pope descended the platform.

As he looked at the vast crowd spread out beneath him, Hugh stood at the portal to another world. He had experienced God's irresistible call to service. He made a promise that, when he was older, he would answer Pope Urban's call. He would go to the Holy Land and rescue the Tomb of Christ from the Saracen. As a light rain began to fall, Hugh wept.

Calvaux and Barbo stopped outside the entrance to the Apostolic Palace.

Barbo smiled. “That's the end of chapter one of my dissertation on the Templars.”

“So years later, to fulfill his childhood promise, Hugh des Payens founded the Templars.”

“Yes.”

Calvaux thought for a moment. “There's a contradiction in all this. Urban's desire to free the Holy Land caused the death and enslavement of thousands. Hugh's plan to create an order of monks resulted in the creation of the best fighting force of the Middle Ages.”

“Come to my office at four o'clock this afternoon. I want to hear your views on the Middle East.”

“I am not an expert on the Middle East, Francesco.”

Barbo smiled at Calvaux. “Jean, you are too self-effacing. You've lived in Egypt, speak fluent Arabic, and lead a diocese with a large Middle Eastern population.”

“But what about my audience with His Holiness?”

“Come to my office at four, Jean.”

TANGLED L
GIC

F
ATHER
A
LESSANDRI ESCORTED
Detective Cameri into Cardinal Barbo's office. The secretary of state rose to greet his visitor.

“Signor Cameri, it is not often that I receive a visit from the Rome Police Department. How can I help you?” Barbo motioned Cameri to a seat in front of the cardinal's desk.

“Your Eminence, thank you for seeing me without an appointment. You must be so busy.”

Instinctively, Barbo sensed that Cameri was not someone to take lightly. “How can I help you, Detective?”

“There was an automobile accident on Via di San Marco last night. An American professor was killed and another taken to Gemelli Hospital in critical condition.”

Cardinal Barbo shrugged his shoulders. “I saw something on the television about it.”

“Your name came up in the course of the investigation.”

Barbo looked quizzically at Cameri. “I don't understand.”

“Before he died, Professor Bielgard whispered your name to the doctor who was treating him.”

Barbo sipped some water from a glass on his desk. “I imagine that's possible. Professor Bielgard had been in my office several days ago.”

“Why was that?” Cameri's voice hardened.

“He and his colleague ... what was her name?”

“Jane Michellini.”

“Yes. They had discovered some manuscripts relating to the abdication of Pope Celestine V in 1294. I thanked them for the manuscripts and that was that.”

Cameri continued his questioning. “Were they trying to sell them to you?”

“No. The manuscripts were from the Vatican Library. We do not buy our own property. Now if you will excuse me.” The cardinal stood up from his chair signaling that the meeting was over.

Cameri slowly gathered up his papers “If Professor Bielgard had spoken to you about Celestine V, why would he repeat your name as he was dying? It makes no sense.”

“Detective Cameri, as a priest, I often see things that do not make sense. Men say many things during their last moments.” Barbo walked toward the door. “Leave your business card with Father Alessandri. If I think of anything more, I'll have Alessandri call.”

“Just one more question, Your Eminence.”

Barbo turned to Cameri with an annoyed look. “And what is that?”

“Do you know Pietro Visconti?”

“Yes.” Barbo was taken aback by the question

“You had dinner with him last night.”

“Yes.”

“Everyone knows who's on his client list. We have police files on most of them. Don't you think it strange that a Prince of the Church would be seen dining with such a man?”

Barbo shot an angry look at Cameri. “I doubt you have files on his client Fiat or Banca di Roma. Signor Visconti generously supports many Vatican charities. Now if you would excuse me, Signor Cameri. Father Alessandri will see you out.”

Cameri bowed stiffly to Barbo.

“In the future, Signor Cameri, any request to see a member of the Curia should be made to the Office of Vatican Security through your government's Ministry of the Interior. Sometimes the Rome Police forget that the Holy See is a sovereign nation.

Cardinal Calvaux spent a good part of the afternoon in the Do-mus corresponding with his diocese by email. At 3:15, he logged off the internet to prepare for his four o'clock meeting with Barbo.
He threw cold water on his face and put on his gold pectoral cross over his cassock. He debated wearing his cardinal's sash or fascia. Although the sash was uncomfortable, Calvaux knew that there would be disapproving looks from some of his fellow cardinals if he did not wear it. Ecclesiastical dress in the Vatican was more formal than in Marseilles.

When he stepped off the elevator into the lobby of the Domus, Calvaux noticed a large crowd gathered around a television monitor at the front desk. The concierge frantically motioned the cardinal to join them.

“Your Eminence, the Israelis are attacking the Church of the Holy Sepulchre. There are rumors of heavy casualties.” Calvaux reflexively made the sign of the cross. He dropped his briefcase on a chair in the lobby and dashed out of the Domus. He sprinted across St. Peter's Square and pushed through the metal detector at the entrance to the Apostolic Palace. Bounding up the palace stairs three at a time, he startled a group of nuns on their way to lunch. Breathless, Calvaux burst into Alessandri's office.

“The Israelis are invading the Church of the Holy Sepulchre. Does Cardinal Barbo know?”

“Yes, we've gotten scores of phone calls. Cardinal Barbo is in his office. He's expecting you.”