The Inquisitor's Key (26 page)

Simone clambers down the ladder, calling, “And where will I find these twenty eggs, laid by twenty pious hens to glorify God, His Holiness Pope Benedict, and French fresco painters?”

D’Albon laughs and moves his index finger in a downward spiral. “All the way down, at the bottom of the tower, where it’s nice and cool. Soon it will become the subtreasury, filled with gold, silver, and jewels. But for now, it’s the egg cellar. Eggs and plaster and rags.”

Simone ducks through the doorway into the spiral staircase and starts down, but then—on impulse—he stops and looks overhead. The stairs continue upward, apparently to the roof, and Simone decides to take a quick detour before fetching the eggs. He jogs up the first spiral, walks briskly up the second, and lumbers up the third, huffing by the time he steps onto the rooftop.

The view from the roof is dizzying and dazzling. To the west, the arches of Saint Bénézet’s Bridge cascade across the Rhône to Villeneuve. At their far end is another square tower, this one built by the king of France to collect bridge tolls…and to remind the sometimes arrogant residents of Avignon who holds the real reins of power in this part of God’s world. From below, d’Albon’s voice wafts upward; an apprentice is getting a scolding for his clumsy plasterwork, and Simone turns from the view and scurries for the cellar.

Spiraling down turn after turn, he feels his head begin to spin, and he stops near the bottom and leans on the wall to steady himself. It’s cool and dark down here—there are no windows in the
tower’s lower levels, only narrow slits that provide stingy hints of light and air. In the chamber just below him, he hears a gritty, sliding sound, punctuated by grunts of exertion. Curious now, he descends the final few stairs and peeks into the chamber—the egg cellar that will soon brim with treasure. By the golden glow of a flickering lamp, he sees a portly workman shoving a heavy chest into a deep niche in the wall, then wedging a flat stone over the opening and slathering mortar around the edges. The man’s troweling technique appears oddly awkward, and his work looks shoddy. Simone’s puzzlement only increases when the man finishes sealing the stone in place; when he stands, Simone sees that the pale garment he’d taken for a workman’s smock is instead a floor-length white robe. A Cistercian monk’s robe. The kind of robe favored, as everyone knows, by Pope Benedict himself: the White Cardinal who has become the White Pope.

Suddenly Simone senses the vulnerability of his position: lurking in the stairwell spying on some furtive secret of the pope’s. Edging back up the stairs one level, Simone ducks into a dark, vacant room and waits until he hears footsteps. From his hiding place, he sees the white-robed figure pass by like some stout, panting ghost. Once the footfalls and panting have faded, Simone hurries back to the cellar. He should collect the eggs and hurry upstairs with them—the French painters will be running out of tempera any minute now, if they haven’t already—but his curiosity triumphs over his sense of responsibility. Crossing to the far wall, he squats beside the mortar bucket and studies the crude handiwork, as if close inspection of the wall’s surface might reveal what’s hidden inside. Hidden by the pope himself! But why? Why hide a treasure chest inside the wall, when the entire room, floor to ceiling, is meant to be heaped with riches? In any case, why not order a real mason to do the work?

Astonished by his own sudden boldness, Simone picks up the trowel and uses the tip to scrape out the line of mortar holding the flat stone in position. Then he pries the panel free, leans it
against the wall, and tugs the chest from its niche. The chest, a stone box, is wired shut, and the wires are crimped together with lead seals—the seals of Benedict XII!—to protect the contents. Rubies and emeralds? Gold florins? Perhaps even the Holy Grail?

Throwing aside any last vestiges of caution or respect for authority, Simone cuts the wires with the edge of the trowel and pries the close-fitting lid loose. Even before he lifts it off and sets it aside, the smell of death wafts out, so he’s not completely unprepared to see bones inside. Simone’s not squeamish—given that so many artists’ models are beggars and whores, a painter can’t afford to be squeamish—so it’s natural for him to take a closer look at the bones.

He starts with the skull. Cupping it carefully in both hands, he lifts it from its nest of ribs and raises it to eye level. The face is long and narrow, the cheekbones high and prominent, the forehead slightly lower than he would have expected. He rotates the skull in his hands, looking to see if there is damage—marks of a violent death—but there is none. As the skull comes full circle in his hands, Simone’s visual memory tells him there is something familiar about its shape and proportions. He frowns, trying to place it, and suddenly lays the skull aside and roots in the box until he finds what he’s looking for: the bones of a forearm, which are—as he knew they would be—slightly splintered at their lower ends, just above where they once joined the wrist. Just where a spike would have passed through them on its way into the wood of a cross.

He rummages in the box for the other arm, and then for the feet. All four extremities bear the ragged, splintery evidence of piercings. Martini lays the limbs on the shelf alongside the skull and stares at them, the bones that were within the flesh he studied and sketched so attentively.

His mind ranges back to that odd night seven years ago, when he spent hours drawing by flickering lamplight, capturing every detail of the fresh corpse laid out on the floor of the cell. He re
members the parting words of the jailer: “I do believe he was a holy man…. His only sin was his holiness.”

He fits the lid back onto the box. Then, acting on an impulse he could not have put into words, he reaches for a pair of tools lying on the floor—a chisel and a hammer—and swiftly incises a broad cross on the stone lid of the box. Then, beneath the cross, using the pointed corner of the chisel’s blade, he gouges the outline of a lamb. Working swiftly—for the mortar in the bucket will harden soon, and he is surely risking his life to tamper with the pope’s sealed secret—he replaces the box in its niche, wedges the slab back into place, and trowels mortar into the joints, taking care to mimic the Holy Father’s sloppy workmanship.

As he slathers the final bit of mortar into the gap between the stones, Simone wonders why God has put this dead man—this blameless man, if the jailer’s report was true—in Simone’s path not once, but twice now.

He rises, and starts up the steps. Only then does he remember and turn back. God might require penance of him soon, but d’Albon’s painters needed twenty eggs half an hour ago.

Avignon
The Present

ELISABETH SURVEYED THE LEFTOVER FRUIT AND PASTRIES
with surprise when she came to collect the breakfast tray, then peered at the untouched cup of espresso. “What,” she asked in astonishment, “no
Monsieur l’Inspecteur
?” She cast a glance at the cornflower-blue sky. “Did the sun fail to rise today? Is the world coming to the end?”

“I’m as amazed as you are.”

Instead of taking away the tray, she sat down in Descartes’s usual chair beside the fountain. “I am glad he is not here,” she said.

“I don’t blame you. He’s been eating berries and croissants by the truckload.” I didn’t mention the takeaway treats he always tucked in his pockets.

Her brow furrowed for a moment, then she beamed. “
Ah, non
. I do not mean for that reason. I am glad because I wish to talk to you. I have something news to tell you. I think you will be happy to hear it.”

“Have you been playing detective again, Elisabeth?” The last time she’d looked this excited was when she’d shared her theory about our “zhondo”: that the unknown skeleton from the palace might be that of Meister Eckhart.

She clapped her hands with delight. “
Oui!
Remember what you told me?” She leaned closer and spoke in a low, conspiratorial voice. “That the man had a unique shape? Legs that came almost up to the neck?”

I laughed. “Maybe not quite
that
long. But yes, very long legs for a man his size. As long as mine, and I’m much taller than he was.”

“Yes. So. Last week I got in touch with my cousin—I told you he is a Dominican, yes?” I nodded. “I do not tell him why I ask, so don’t worry, I keep the secret. But I ask him, ‘What do the Dominicans know about the appearance of Eckhart—his size, his shape?’
Mon Dieu,
my cousin thinks I am crazy, but he says, ‘Okay, I will do some research.’ And this morning, I have an e-mail from him. No one painted a picture of Eckhart until hundreds of years after he died, so we don’t know what his face looked like.
But
. Sometimes, behind the back, the other friars called him
Ciconia Dei.
” She leaned back, looking pleased with herself.

“Why did they call him that?”

Her eyes danced and her smug smile broadened. “It is Latin. It means ‘the stork of God.’”

AVIGNON
1337

MARTINI AVOIDS LAURA AS ASSIDUOUSLY AS PETRARCH
seeks her out. Whenever Petrarch is in Avignon, he dogs the poor woman’s steps, carefully trailing twenty or thirty paces behind her, scrupulously praying a stone’s throw away: close enough to see her, close enough to be seen—his melancholy face, his artfully downcast gaze—yet far enough that the distance is conspicuously chaste. For Simone, on the other hand, no distance would be chaste or ethereal if he were in her presence, so he steers clear altogether.

And yet there’s no escaping her, or at least the reminders of her; in a way, she trails Simone as relentlessly as Petrarch trails her. Scarcely a day goes by without some count or marquis or emissary or lady seeking him out, taking him aside, and murmuring in his ear, as if it were a secret, “I know you painted the lady Laura’s portrait for poor Petrarch. I have seen it—and such a likeness!” Apparently everyone in Avignon has seen the secret
portrait…and yet he knows that is not so, for occasionally, to test the admirers, he poses trick questions, which nearly always trip them up: “And what did you think of the emerald necklace she wore?” he might ask, or perhaps, “Was the blue of her eyes perhaps too deep?”

Astonishing, how the small, secret portrait of Laura—seen by few but praised by many—has put Martini’s name on the lips of all. Petrarch has now written not one, but two sonnets praising the picture. These have been copied and put into wide circulation, perhaps by other poets, but perhaps by Petrarch himself, not one for self-effacement. Martini had been appalled by the poems, but he’d be a fool to turn down the well-heeled clients that the poems have brought him. One of them, Cardinal Corsini—even more prone to self-admiration than Petrarch, if such a thing is possible—has commissioned a portrait of his own dearly beloved: himself.

Between the portraits and the frescoes in the pope’s bedchamber, Simone is now laden with work, and gradually the death portrait of Christ seems less urgent. The pope’s frescoes are nearly finished. The twenty-four panels that crown the bedroom’s walls depict scenes from the four Gospels, although—high on the walls as they are—who will be able to see and appreciate their details? The frescoes in the window recesses depict architectural features—arches, columns, and coffers—that heighten the illusion of depth, making the walls appear not merely six feet thick, but ten or twelve, so His Holiness can sleep secure in the knowledge of the strength of his fortress.

Simone now employs two assistants to do the drudge work for him: painting backgrounds and draperies and inscriptions, freeing Simone to focus on what he does best, and prefers above all: the faces and bodies that everyone tells him are more lifelike than any other painter’s—and it’s true! He’s buried in commissions, working harder than he has ever worked in his life.

His latest project is a set of four frescoes commissioned for
the portico of the cathedral. One of them,
Andrea Corsini Healing a Blind Man,
is paying the bills for the other three scenes, in a manner of speaking. The painting depicts a miracle that—according to the Corsini family, at least—occurred only a few years earlier, right here on the cathedral’s front porch, one morning before Mass. A wondrous event, if true, restoring sight to a blind man, yet Simone can’t help suspecting that the painting isn’t motivated purely by piety. The Corsinis have launched a vigorous campaign to have Andrea declared a saint, and the fresco is central to their strategy: “See,” it seems to say, “the proof is right before your eyes. You’d have to be blind yourself not to see it.”

The second fresco, the
Madonna of Humility,
is obligatory—the cathedral is, after all, dedicated to Mary. This one, too, Simone finds it hard to put his whole heart into. Perhaps he’s grown skeptical about the miracle of the Virgin Birth, but more likely he’s simply tired of painting mothers and babies year after year, especially as Giovanna grows sadder and sadder about her barren womb.

The third scene, by contrast—
The Blessing Christ
—is a source of satisfaction and deep pride to Simone. Jesus seems to float in the sky; his right hand is raised in benediction, and his left cradles an orb. Within the orb, Simone has represented the world in miniature: a landscape, rippling waters, and a starry sky, all artfully contained inside the sphere. The Savior’s gaze is strong and direct, as if our Lord were locking eyes with each viewer, one by one. Such an intimate, powerful gaze is bold and without precedent—unlike any portrait of Jesus that Simone has ever done, or ever seen. Surely this homage to Christ will bless the man who painted it; surely this will wash away Simone’s secret guilt.

The fourth of the portal frescoes shows Saint George slaying a dragon and rescuing a princess. Not surprisingly, this fresco is livelier than the other three. Simone is not the first painter to por
tray the heroic deed, but he is the first—of this he feels sure—to bring such vivid drama to it. The knight, on horseback, charges forward, his lance gripped in both hands, galloping over the bones of earlier knights who died fighting the beast. The dragon rears up to fight, its scaly back arched, its talons clawing for the horse. The eyes are glittering with reptilian hate, and the sharp-toothed mouth is open to unleash a blast of fire. But the creature is a split second too slow: Although the dragon’s body has not yet had time to register it, the mortal blow has, at the very instant portrayed, been delivered. With unerring aim, Saint George has thrust his lance straight into the beast’s open mouth, with such force that it has pierced the throat completely and emerged at the back of the neck, its sharp tip drenched with blood.

But despite its brilliance and drama, the Saint George fresco proves to be Simone’s undoing. In portraying the princess rescued from the dragon, Simon has impulsively given the princess the face of the lady Laura. To be sure, the face is small—only a few inches high—but the few people who have glimpsed the work in progress seem far more interested in the princess than in the miracle worker Corsini, the Virgin, the Christ, or the dragon-slaying saint. As he puts the final touches on the dragon, Simone considers altering the princess’s face, but stubbornness or pride overrules the voice of caution, and he leaves it unchanged.

On the Sunday morning that the frescoes are unveiled, a huge throng gathers before Mass to file through the portico and view the paintings. On hand to bask in their admiration is Simone, standing just inside the door with Giovanna beaming beside him. A hundred people have already filed through to gawk and congratulate, and another two hundred still crowd the stairway and street outside. Simone leans out the doorway to see how the line is moving, and what he sees nearly drops him to his knees. She—the young countess herself, Laura de Noves—is at the top of the
stairs, stepping onto the porch. Dressed in the green silk, she wears a pendant around her neck; the stone, which rests on her breastbone, is a large ruby, cut in the shape of a teardrop…or a flame. Inching along beside her, his hand resting possessively on the small of her back, is a thin, sallow man with sparse red hair and watery blue eyes. Trailing the couple is a nursemaid, carrying a small child on her hip. The boy’s hair, eyes, and skin are black, brown, and tan: the earthy tones of Siena; the earthy tones of Simone—his father!

Simone staggers backward into the nave, then flees to a side door, leaving behind hundreds of disappointed admirers. Just before stepping through the door, he turns and sees his wife staring at Laura and the baby, Madonna and child. Even in the dim light of the church, Simone can see recognition, shock, and betrayal dawning—no, flashing like lightning—across Giovanna’s face as she takes in the pale woman and the dark boy who is so clearly Simone’s.

Simone stumbles down the hill and hurries to his studio, where he sinks onto a stool and slumps forward onto the table. The cathedral frescoes were not his penance after all—if anything, he realizes, the foolish arrogance of the Saint George scene only added to his guilt, because Giovanna is now wounded by the knowledge that he has been unfaithful to her…and has even fathered the son that she has never been able to give him. Now, not only has Simone betrayed her trust, he has broken her heart, shattered her innocence. He groans and sobs as he comprehends the full extent of his shame. Then, with startling, piercing clarity, he suddenly understands the penance he must perform. Somehow, he thinks, I must find a way to portray the death of innocence—my innocence, Giovanna’s innocence, the world’s innocence. And how better to represent the death of innocence, he realizes, than a death portrait of the innocent Christ modeled on the blameless dead man God has sent his way again. What was
it the jailer had said? “His sin, I think, was to be holy, to be free of sin”?

Clearing off his worktable and unrolling his dusty sketches of the dead monk, Eckhart, Simone finally begins the penance he has been avoiding these past two years. The penance for betraying Giovanna.