The Inquisitor's Key (9 page)

Zigging and zagging through the labyrinthine streets, I made my way toward what I hoped was the Palace of the Popes. Sure
enough, above a nearby rooftop loomed a massive tower, fifteen stories high. The battlements at the top overhung the tower’s wall slightly; moonlight streamed down through narrow slits in the overhangs, streaking the stones of the wall. The slits, I realized as I reached the tower’s base and peered up, would allow boiling oil to be poured down onto attackers—or, at the moment, down onto me.
So much for turning the other cheek,
I mused.

The buttressed foundations seemed to grow like stony roots from the rock. A cobblestone pedestrian alley, carved deep into the rock, wound upward along the base of the palace here. Threading my way through the tight passage and passing beneath the thick arch of a flying buttress, I emerged into the great square fronted by the Palace of the Popes.

I found myself at the southeastern corner of the palace, far from the main entrance, and at the opposite end from the cathedral. The walls gleamed silvery white in the moonlight, with deep shadows delineating the arches and overhangs and arrow slits in the masonry. As I studied the details, a shaft of light at the base of the wall caught my eye. A small wooden door at the corner of the palace opened, and a man in black emerged, closing and locking the door behind him. He started across the square, and his walk—a loping gait with a slight limp—looked familiar. “Stefan?” I was only thirty feet from him, but the rushing wind swept my words away, so I called again, louder. “Stefan!” He whirled, scanning the square, coiling into a crouch as if to run. “Stefan, it’s Bill Brockton,” I yelled, waving both arms. He un-coiled and met me halfway.

“
Mon Dieu,
Bill,
quelle surprise
. What are you doing here at the middle of night?”

“I couldn’t sleep,” I said. “The wind, I guess—rattling the rooftops and rattling me. So I decided to take a walk, see the city by moonlight. What are
you
doing here at this time of night?”

He rolled his eyes. “A rah,” he said.

“Excuse me? What’s a ‘rah’?”

“A rodent. A big mouse.”

“Oh, a
rat,
” I said, remembering that the French tended to swallow the ends of their words.

He looked impatient. “
Oui,
a rah-
t
.” The way he emphasized the
t
this time, it almost sounded as if he’d spat it at me. “I finally got the motion detector working correctly,” he went on. “I have it linked to my computer, and something set it off a few minutes ago. So I came quickly. But it was just a big rat, eating a sandwich I left in the corner of the
trésorerie
at lunch today.
Quelle peste!
”

“Better a rat than a thief, though,” I offered. “And at least you know the alarm works.”

“
Bien sûr!
Of course. But now I’m on the edge, so it’s difficult to sleep.”

“You’re welcome to join me on a walk, if you want.”

He seemed surprised by the offer. “
Oui
,
pourquoi pas?
Midnight in the city of the popes. I will be your tour guide.”

Damn,
I thought.
Be careful what you wish for.

Stefan gestured at the façade of the palace. The tour was beginning. “This part closest to us,” he announced, “is the ‘new palace,’ built by Clement the Sixth between 1342 and 1352.”

“He was the pope who protected the Jews during the plague?”

“Exactement.”

“Busy guy.”

“
Oui.
So, the big windows at this end of the building? The audience hall, where he held court. Above is his private chapel. Chapel—ha! It’s bigger than the cathedral! You know what Clement said about being pope?” I shook my head, as he’d hoped I would. “Clement said none of his predecessors knew how to be pope.”

“What did he mean?”

“He meant that none of the others knew how to throw such big parties. He was also called ‘Clement the Magnificent.’ When he was crowned as pope, he gave a feast for three thousand
people. He served one thousand sheep, nine hundred goats, a hundred cows, a hundred calves, and sixty pigs.”

“Goodness. That’s, what, ten, twenty pounds of meat for every person?”

“Ah, but there is more. Much more. Ten thousand chickens. Fourteen hundred geese. Three hundred fish—”

“Only three hundred?”

He stretched his arms wide—“Pike, very big fish”—then transformed the gesture into a shrug. “But also, Catholics eat a lot of fish, so maybe it was not considered a delicacy.” He held up a finger. “Plus fifty thousand cheeses. And for dessert? Fifty thousand tarts.”

“That’s not possible. Surely somebody exaggerated.”

“
Non, non, pas du tout
. We have the book of accounts. It records what they bought, and how much it cost.”

“How much did it cost?”

“More than I will earn in my entire life. But it was a smart investment. It made him a favorite with the people who mattered—kings and queens and dukes. And, of course, with his cardinals and bishops, who sent him money they collected in their churches.” Turning away from the palace, he pointed to a building on the opposite side of the square. “Do you know this building?” I shook my head. “It’s just as important as the palace.”

“What is it?”

“The papal mint.”

“Mint, as in money?”

He nodded. “The popes coined their own money, and they built this mint here. They made gold florins in the mint, then stored them in the treasury in the palace.”

“The popes had their own mint? That seems ironic, since Jesus chased the money changers out of the temple in Jerusalem.”

“If you look for inconsistencies, you will find a million. The popes had armies. They had mistresses. They had children. They poisoned their rivals. They lived like kings and emperors;
better
than kings and emperors.”

“And nobody objected?”

“Oh, sure,” he said. “Some of the Franciscans—founded by Saint Francis of Assisi—they were very critical. They said monks and priests and popes should live in poverty, like Jesus. Pope John the Twenty-Second didn’t like that. He condemned the most outspoken ones. He had many Franciscans—monks, even nuns—burned at the stake.”

By now we’d reached the upper end of the square, where the palace sat cheek by jowl with the cathedral. Here the square lay well below the palace and the cathedral, and an immense staircase led up to a broad terrace in front of the church. The terrace held an immense crucifix, surrounded by statues of angels and weeping followers; high above it, atop the bell tower of the cathedral, the large gilded statue of Mary gazed down on her crucified son, her arms stretched downward as if in appeal.

Stefan pointed to our left, the northern end of the square, which was bordered by a large, elegant building. “Speaking of wealth, here’s one of the
livrées
.”

“The what?” The word he’d said rhymed with
eBay,
but I knew that wasn’t right.

“
Livrées.
The cardinals’ palaces.” The building was immense—twice the size of the White House, maybe three times. “There were more than twenty
livrées
here and across the river in Villeneuve. Today, only two
livrées
are still standing in Avignon. This one, the Petit Palais—the Little Palace—is now a museum. Beautiful medieval paintings inside. The other one is the
bibliothèque,
the public library. You have seen it,
oui
?” I nodded. “Come. I have two other places to show you on our moonlight tour of the city of the popes.”

We recrossed the palace square, and then another narrow plaza; after a few more turns, Stefan stopped on a narrow street and pointed to the entrance of an old building. I read the sign above the door—T
HÉÂTRE DES
H
ALLES
—and turned to him with
a puzzled look. “A theater. So?”

“
Non, non.
Well, okay,
oui,
a theater. But read the other sign. The small one, beside the door.” On the wall was a historic plaque like the one I’d seen on the old prison. Beneath the French inscription was an English translation:
Here, in the 14
^th
century, stood a church where Petrarch first saw his Laura.
Stefan studied me. “You know Petrarch?”

I sensed another lecture coming. “Famous poet and philosopher, if my ancient memory serves.” Stefan nodded. “Somehow I’d thought Petrarch was Italian, not French.”

“
Oui, tous les deux.
Both. His family was Italian, but they moved to France. He lived in Avignon for years.”

“That must have been exciting for a poet.”

“Yes and no,” he said. “He found his muse here—this Laura.” He gestured at the plaque, as if it were the woman herself. “But Avignon? Petrarch hated it. Despised it. He called it a sewer, called it Babylon. Called the papacy ‘the whore of Babylon.’”

“Strong words.”

“Some of his words were even stronger. ‘Prostitutes swarm on the papal beds,’ he wrote. He accused the pope and his entourage of rape, of incest, of orgies.”

“So why did he stay in such an evil place? He couldn’t leave Laura?”

Stefan smiled. “Perhaps. But also, he was nursing at the breast of the whore of Babylon.”

“Excuse me?”

“He was the private chaplain to one of the Italian cardinals. The pope’s money supported Petrarch while he composed love poems and attacked the papacy.” Stefan glanced at his watch. “Come.”

After several twists and turns, we started down yet another narrow street, Rue Saint-Agricol. He stopped in front of an arched opening between two small shops and pointed. A narrow vaulted passage, almost a tunnel, led through the walls, passing beneath the upper stories of a building, and then opened into a
small courtyard. Within the courtyard were several large cloth umbrellas and café tables. I looked at him, puzzled; what was he showing me?

“Here. The last stop on our midnight tour.” He led me farther into the courtyard. The back wall of the courtyard was formed by the side of an ancient stone building forty or fifty feet high. Arches in the wall showed traces of former glory: the outlines of tall Gothic windows whose stained glass was long since gone and whose stone tracery had been filled in centuries ago. “This building was once the chapel of the Knights Templar. You know about the Templars?”

“A little. Not much more than you said the other day, the day I arrived. The Templars escorted pilgrims to the Holy Land during the time of the Crusades, right?” He nodded. “And fought the Muslims.” Another nod. “And they made Dan Brown a zillionaire a few years ago.”

His brow furrowed. “Dan Brown?”

“He wrote
The Da Vinci Code
.”

“Ah,
oui
.” He snorted. “The book that says Jesus and Mary Magdalene made a baby, and the Templars guard their descendants. Crazy bool-shit. The Templars were destroyed by the king and the pope seven hundred years ago. King Philip owed them a lot of money. Instead of paying back the money, he accused them of heresy, locked them up, and took all their money and property. He made Pope Clement his accomplice.”

“Clement? The Magnificent? I hate to hear that. I was starting to like the Magnificent.”

“
Non, non,
not that Clement. The previous one—Clement the Fifth. Clement the Fifth was the first French pope, the first Avignon pope. He was the marionette—the puppet, I think you say—of King Philip. The king forced Clement to abolish the order and excommunicate the Templars, even though they had done nothing wrong. Shameful.”

“Too bad,” I said. “Clement the Magnificent sounds like a
better guy than Clement the Puppet. No wonder he got a better nickname.” Stefan walked to the heavy wooden door of the chapel and began tugging at the handle. “Stefan! What are you doing?”

“It’s okay,” he said. “I have a key. The owner is a friend of mine.” He opened the door and stepped inside. “Come on, don’t you want to see?”

I followed him through the doorway, expecting an empty, ruined shell. But in the opposite wall, three of the soaring leaded-glass windows remained intact; moonlight poured through them, illuminating an astonishing sight. The chapel’s high, vaulted interior was filled with tiers of modern, auditorium-style seats on elevated risers. The seats faced what had once been the altar; in its place now was a small stage. Over the stage and directly over our heads as well, gleaming metal trusses held clusters of high-intensity spotlights.

Stefan laughed at my obvious confusion. “Not what you thought, huh? It’s a theater and conference center now. It’s all set up now for the festival. The Avignon Theater Festival starts in two weeks. There are theaters all over the city—fifty, maybe even a hundred small theaters. There will be a thousand performances in Avignon during the three weeks of the festival. Performances all day, all evening, sometimes even all night. One year, in the courtyard at the Palace of the Popes, I watched a ballet that started at sunset and finished at sunrise the next morning. Crazy. Exhausting. Also
magnifique
.” He gestured at the stage in the chapel. “Someone should write a special drama for this place,” he went on. “Something about religion and money and power. A deadly combination, don’t you think?”

“Certainly for the Templars,” I agreed.

We left the chapel; he locked the door behind us, and we returned through the narrow passageway to Rue Saint-Agricol. He pointed me toward Lumani and stood at the opening. When I looked back from the corner, he was still there, watching and
waving good night as I turned down another corner of the maze.

When I reached the inn and crawled into bed, my mind finally spiraling toward sleep, I thought about Stefan’s account of the Templars; about the dangers of mixing religion with money and power; about Avignon’s long history of drama. The modern theater festival surely paled in comparison to the real-life pageants and power plays enacted here centuries earlier by popes and peasants, kings and cardinals, painters and poets. And a man who appeared to have been nailed to a cross seven centuries ago. Or was it twenty centuries ago?