The Secrets of Casanova (23 page)

“I want you to see this,” he said to Dominique. “Are you familiar with a clepsydra?”

She shook her head.

A number of manuscripts lay on the workbenches. From the Latin inscriptions Jacques noted, it was clear these codices belonged to the office of the Holy Inquisition, and in this copy room, all were opened to an identical place.

Jacques eyed the water clock over Dominique’s shoulder, then
glanced back at a codex. Its date: 1310. Its title: “Interrogation of
Bertrand de Saint-Clair, Deputy Master of the Knights Templar. Domenico—.” He couldn’t make out the text that followed, but no
matter.

He placed his finger to his lips to indicate silence before guiding Dominique to a seat. Sighing, she gave a quick shake of her head and sat but said nothing, while Jacques joined her and began to inspect the musty codex, his fingers attuned to the roughness of each page.

He read: “‘Where is the document?’ asked the Inquisitor again and again.

‘I, a Templar, have taken the vow of poverty and of chastity. I will never in battle seek mercy or seek to ransom myself or my
fellows.’”

Jacques turned a page.

“‘Where are the documents? You know of what I speak. Where will we find them?’

“The Templar begged to be set free.

“‘What is the meaning of Baphomet?’ urged the Inquisitor over and over. ‘What did your brother Templars find in their excavations at the Stables of Solomon?’”

A shiver shook Jacques’ neck and shoulders.

“
Quoi
?” whispered Dominique.

“I’ll share in a few moments.” He lowered his eyes to the codex.

Jacques felt his palms grow sweaty; he rubbed them against his waistcoat. Four hundred years after the Templars’ interrogation, the Holy Inquisition was still reviled in many quarters as a fanatical arm of the Church made up of men who’d employed monstrous cruelties to achieve their religious ends.

Suddenly, Dominique jolted. Jacques turned and saw a shadow
envelop her face: Cardinal Passonei loomed beside her while directly behind him hulked a stranger larger than any man Jacques had ever seen.

The cardinal leaned on the edge of the table and spoke in a disquieting tone. “You are not permitted in this room. Mark well
what’s before you for there will be no more reading in these rooms. Regretfully, I’ve no choice but to inform His Holiness.”

“No choice,” agreed the onerous stranger.

Dominique squeezed Jacques’ knee under the table, then turned to him. “Let’s leave,” she said. “Please. Please.”

Jacques pursed his lips, glanced once more at the codex—then rose with great solemnity.

“This matter will be dealt with,” said Cardinal Passonei. The
hulking man snapped his head in agreement.

***

Late that afternoon, Jacques sat in his lodgings, foot tapping
against his chair, fingers scraping across his unshaven chin,
wondering
what Cardinal Passonei might tell the Pope. How severe an
indiscretion was it to enter an off-limits room in the Vatican? To read a codex of the Holy Inquisition? What chastisement would the Pope give? Had Jacques squandered his opportunity?

Another worry: finances. Jacques had secured a stake from de Bernis, but he knew that any future loans would come with further obligations. He supposed there were worse burdens than having carnal relations with attractive actresses for the stimulation of the cardinal. But he didn’t relish being a prostitute for another man’s gold. He was his own man.

The chatter in Jacques’ head seemed unending.

For two days, he waited at the lodgings for some news from the Vatican. Making love to Dominique lessened his frustrations, but as
the hours rolled by and no word came, he ached to confess his
scheming. But he knew: honorable as Dominique was, she would not tolerate his unprincipled behavior. He must not confide in her.

On the third morning, Jacques decided to pursue more practical
matters. Deciding that in any future audiences at the Vatican it
would be in his best interest to appear an imposing personage, Jacques borrowed from Cardinal de Bernis a number of jeweled rings, a snuffbox, and a watch chain studded with diamonds, emeralds, and rubies. With the jeweler’s finest wire wrap, he attached some of the larger gems around his smallsword and scabbard. The clergy, for all their religion, were men of the temporal world.

It was later that day when Jacques received at his lodgings—much to his astonishment—the much-needed company of a
cameriere
of His Holiness, the Pope. The man, on his Most Holy Master’s
behalf, conferred a diploma fixed with the papal seal that declared Jacques a doctor of civil and canon law, an apostolic prothonotary
extra urbem
.
Further, the cameriere placed around Jacques’ neck a broad poppy-red ribbon to which was attached the cross of the Order of the Golden Spur.

Dominique was overjoyed at the award.

Jacques was mystified, yet enraptured. After the Pope’s man left, he rushed from his lodgings and took a cabriolet straight to the Vatican office of Cardinal de Bernis.

Jacques stood before the cardinal’s broad desk, his shoulders pulled back, his chest blown forward.

“This is an honor I must share with
you
, good friend,” he said to Cardinal de Bernis. He proudly fondled his ribbon and cross.

“Ho, ho” de Bernis snickered. “Ho, ho. The Pope has hit upon
your weakness.” The fat cardinal sat behind his desk drenched in sweat, fanning himself as if his life depended on it. “Yes, two centuries ago the Order of the Golden Spur was presented to the Catholic great, but for as long as I can remember, the popes have presented that handsome cross and imposing ribbon to heal superficial vanities. When you broke the Vatican’s rules, it proved to His Eminence you can’t be trusted. But he’s been gracious to present you a fancy ribbon and prize rather than turn you out.”

It was as if a freezing wind invaded Jacques’ veins. His mouth dropped open, then twisted into a grimace.

“The Order of the Golden Spur plays to your self-importance, you see?”

Jacques did not see. He slapped his hands together. “I’ll not be laughed at, not be outdone by a mere Pope.”

“Are you not grateful for
some
of His Holiness’s good favor? You spent time in the Index librorum prohibitorum, after all.”

“You
know
what dispensations I asked of the Pope?”

“Don’t be naive. I’ve ears in all places.”

“And eyes, as I recall.”

“Yes,” Cardinal de Bernis laughed, “and eyes. But to continue—you were permitted in the archives, but what information you desired, I don’t exactly know.”

“Knowledge of the Knights Templar.”

“And did you find what you hoped for?”

“None. Passonei cornered me.”

“That feeble old cardinal cornered you?”

Jacques blanched at the question. “My mistress and I—we were caught in flagrante delicto, in the act,” he lied, stamping his heel on the floor.

The cardinal slapped his palms to his cheeks, laughing.

“Wait, wait!,” cried Jacques. “What is Baphomet?”

“Baphomet? Never heard of it.”

“What are the Stables of Solomon?”

“Stables of Solomon?” De Bernis quit fanning, wiped his
sweating brow, and folded a hand across his paunch. “Mm. I’ve visited those chambers. I believe it was on an excursion years ago. To purchase relics for—”

“I overlooked your expertise.”

“Yes, I suppose I am an expert. Relics,” reflected the cardinal.
“My excursion must have been to—oh, yes, it was Jerusalem.
Perhaps to purchase the cloth from Edessa on which Christ imprinted his face. Or the hair of John the Baptist or—”

“But you were at the Stables of Solomon?”

“Yes. A plain, if extraordinarily large, stable—the chambers in the Temple Mount—where it’s quietly rumored the Knights Templar buried a fabulous treasure. Or dug one up. Or some such strange thing. What is the Stables of Solomon to you?”

“Probably nothing.” Jacques felt a tickle in his stomach when he realized his quest might take him across the seas into another world altogether. “But with the slimmest of chances, it may lead me to—well, let us say I hope to reward your financial generosity soon, and in full measure.” Jacques clenched his jaw. “Would you intercede with the Pope to allow me into the archives again?”

“It seems that in the brief wag of a tongue—for the time being—
I’m no longer in favor with this Pope,” said de Bernis. “The
instability of alliances in the Vatican amazes even such a jaded one as I.”

The dire look in de Bernis’s eye told Jacques that this was the
truth.

“What are the chances of reentering the Index?” asked Jacques.

“Surreptitiously, you mean?”

Jacques nodded.

“Impossible. I truly and sternly advise against it. The Church can dole out, shall we say, stringent punishment when it pleases to do
so. We here in Rome are our own kingdom, as you know.” The
cardinal chewed his lower lip. “You’ve reached a stalemate with the Vatican.”

Jacques sat in the chair opposite the clergyman, elbows on
thighs, chin in hands. “Then to Jerusalem,” he finally said. “I accept this quest as my private challenge. I’ll see this to the end. And when you are again permitted in the Pope’s company, you may whisper in his ear that I, not being an easily manipulated puppet, plan to—”

“Do not make promises you cannot keep,” huffed the fat
cardinal as he rose from his seat. “It might interest thee to know,” said de
Bernis—trying to redirect the tone of the conversation—“I took a meeting
yesterday with one of your Venetian countrymen, an imposing gentleman. We talked of your homeland. He said the Republic of
Venice was in a precarious condition. One wind or the other might topple it. ‘God’s blood,’ I told the knave, ‘that’s been obvious for—’”

Jacques raised his hand. Hearing the sad truth about Venice, his home, even dressed up in the cardinal’s humorous language, did not please him.

“Also of note,” said de Bernis wistfully, “I’ve heard your mother is again on the stage.”

Jacques flushed. “And who might care?”

“It was her introduction that initially brought you to me, was it not?”

“No.”

“It would appear I’m digging a deeper hole,” confessed de
Bernis. He leaned across his desk. “Let me be forthright. One of us is always
leaving just when life becomes fascinating. Why not settle for a
while? Your apostolic prothonotary from the Pope is useless in securing a
law clerk’s position for you, but I’m certain I can find you
employment,
Jacques. Secretary for a notable, perhaps? Something in the
diplomatic
circle? Rome is handwoven for a curious, intelligent, and quick-
witted person like you.”

Jacques thought for a moment.

“I can’t tolerate the morals here.”

At this comment, de Bernis’ eyes glowed. He dissolved into a jolly laugh.

Jacques joined him almost at once.

“At the least I can provide another private dinner to send you off.”

“To send me off? Or to send you off?”

Again the pair laughed. Cardinal de Bernis held his sides, then leaned back in his seat, nearly exhausted from the merriment.

Jacques said: “I’ll make my decision after conferring with my
Frenchwoman. Then you shall hear from me.” Jacques stood up.
“But
to think I would consider leaving Rome without playing a single
hand of
cards. What’s happened to me? In the meantime, I return the accoutrement you loaned me.”

“Fine, sir.”

“As asymptotes to the hyperbola—to speak in mathematical
terms—we will meet somewhere. It’s certain.” He took the fat, sweaty hand of his friend de Bernis, kissed it, and placed it against his
cheek.

The cardinal smiled a sweet smile and spoke. “I love you, too,
young friend.”

Just before Jacques left the room, de Bernis spoke with a
profound
intensity. “A subtle warning, Jacques. I mentioned a Venetian
gentleman a moment ago: Cavaliere Michele Grimani. He knows you.”

Jacques covered his surprise. “Yes, he knows me. And I know him.”
And I’ll kill him if he nears me.”

AT EVENTIDE, THE AIR WAS STIFLING.
Dominique stood on an empty Rome street corner wrangling with Petrine about whether a day’s visit to Pompeii was feasible. It had been her father’s fondest wish to see the ruins of the city. Besides, the trio could set sail to the Holy Land from Naples, just a short distance from Pompeii.

Jacques smiled at the thought that each of his companions had a vote for
his
future.

“We’ll be sailing to Jerusalem,” he said. “We’ll not visit Pompeii or Naples, Fragoletta.” Jacques passed a knowing glance to Petrine, then turned to Dominique. “Carlo Brose, the devious man to whom I introduced you at L’affaire de Voltaire, has many powerful friends in Naples and Pompeii and virtually owns the authorities, especially after the success of his pamphlet praising those cities.”

Dominique crossed her arms, waiting.

Jacques smiled faintly. “When living a life of adventure, it’s often easy to be misled by underhanded rivals. I’ll not be hung for
trifles.”

By late evening, Jacques had booked three passages to Acre and arranged a guide and camels from there to Jerusalem. During that
time, he also dispatched Petrine to deliver a note to Cardinal de
Bernis—the note firmly declining the clergyman’s offer to stay in Rome.

“And it’s worth repeating,” Jacques said when he, Dominique, and Petrine were finally face-to-face in their lodgings that night. “We must be cautious on this journey. We’re on to dangerous and unusual endeavors. Let’s purchase unadorned clothes and sell these we wear. Dominique, you will be especially looked to. A plain dress and domino will arouse no pity nor dazzle fellow passengers or seamen. I, myself, will drab down and—”