

The Blackhearted Saint

by

Ned Minkov

SMASHWORDS EDITION

*****

Published by:

Ned Minkov on Smashwords

Cover design by:

Ned Minkov

Copyright 2011 Ned Minkov

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*****

I would like to thank Mr. Asparouh Velkov for helping me refine the manuscript and turn it into a book worth publishing. I would also like to express my gratitude to Erin Sanchez for the reassuring talks while preparing for my debut as an author.

### Prologue

I walked out of my rental apartment rather reluctantly. It was 7:30 a.m. and the November chill was making me shiver. The streets outside were swathed in a dense fog, seasonal for this time of year. The University campus across the hoar-frosted meadow could barely be made out through the grayish curtain.

Usually, I found such weather romantic – its air of mystery, its feel of depression. Not this time round though. I was still sleepy and regretful that I had to exchange my cosy, snug bed for the cold outside. I'd much rather have lain in for another couple of hours. However, no one was likely to finish my Ph.D. dissertation for me. And as the deadline was looming larger and larger, I could not sleep peacefully, anyway. That was why I had made up my mind to get to work earlier that day instead of wasting yet another morning at home.

I was headed towards the Library – the only facility of the University that was outside the campus. It was on the far end of the park opposite to where the faculties were located. А long, narrow alley lead to the mansion-like building of the Library through a thick forest. The mist concealed the trees which, along with the chilly air, rendered the place ghostly, as if I were crossing a cemetery. Yet, as I was walking along the alley, I found its silent seclusion comforting. And I needed this comfort, for I had been feeling troubled too often lately.

I realized that the deadline for finishing my dissertation would coincide with my start in life. Ever since I had walked into the university for the first time, I had been striving towards this turn in my life. My parents had spent years working hard so as to make sure that I not lack comfort or proper education. Now, they expected me to graduate and find a decent, well-paid job and enjoy the good life they had struggled for. Then, the question of what a good life should consist in I had discussed with my colleagues at university, who in turn had inherited a notion from their parents and followed their examples. Raised in upper-middle-class families like me, they were accustomed to driving nice cars, to wearing expensive clothes, to living in spacious apartments or houses around Campus. And they had taken it for granted that these possessions should be the values to be striving after. Consequently, most of them had graduated, had begun working, and some were already married – their ideal of a perfect life fulfilled.

I myself had not been that impatient to take these steps. Although I also recognized the family as a cornerstone of general happiness and had been in a relationship with a wonderful smart girl for three years, I was not confident that I was willing to go all the way. This entailed, as my parents' example had showed me, entering the vicious circle of work, loans, mortgages, savings, and planning from which there was no way out. Besides, I had begun wondering whether marriage itself was merely another form of possession.

Thus, I had applied for a Ph.D. program, hoping it would allow me time enough to figure out what I truly wanted from life. But this retreat of mine was now coming to an end, while the answer kept eluding me. The topic I had chosen for my dissertation had something to do, though remotely, with my attempts to solve this existential riddle of mine: The Sacred Dimensions of Secular Values in Italian Renaissance Poetry. I had been hoping that the wisdom of ancient men would cast some light on the essentials of life. However, instead of finding an answer to my troubles, I was left under the impression of having escaped reality. And reality in modern society meant calculating in money's worth everything.

When had people lost their ideals, such as love, honour, and goodness, substituting them for the pursuit of wealth and possessions? Are there any high values still valid, or have they all been buried in the past? Has man discarded the unworldly from his nature, to strive after material comforts? Is that what life's purpose should be?'

Such were the thoughts crossing my mind as I approached the Library. I decided to put an end to these troubled reflections of mine and leave them aside. Surely, there would be plenty of time to think the matter over. I had enough on my mind as it was. And there I was, entering what was later to become my office – the old University Library. Being no stranger to this building, I easily found my way to the reading hall. Even before resuming work on my dissertation, I used to spend time by its tall windows over a random book. One can say it was my retreat and indeed it was. The silence, along with the scent of wood and of old books, made it the perfect place to collect my thoughts, to hide from the otherwise hectic pace of life at the University.

Next to the hall's entrance there stood a row of four computer workstations. I tapped on the screen of the nearest one and entered my faculty number and password. Then I opened the Library catalogue and made a search for the books I needed. After choosing a few titles, I went to one of the desks facing the tall windows of the hall. I was the only person in the room, so I did not have to wait long for my order. A frail woman in her late fifties entered the hall through a SERVICE door carrying a small pile of books. She put them on the desk, smiling kindly, although somewhat forcedly, then quickly turned around and left.

I went through the books which contained the poetry, mainly sonnets, of Italian Renaissance authors. Most of the works in the volumes were written by the significant poets of that time – Petrarch, Boccaccio, and Alighieri. So far in the rough copy of my dissertation, I had reproduced what experts had written on the subject, regarding mainly love as the universal value. Now, I wanted to continue with my own analysis of a less familiar author, and hopefully a one who could add something more beside romance as the life's ultimate purpose. But, as I leafed through the pages, the prospect of realizing my ambition grew less likely with each book I went through. Even in the old library's vast collection, my two-hour search came to nothing, except for a few odd sonnets by anonymous authors. I was feeling completely disheartened, when I took the last book and stared at its paper cover. It was very old and its wretched look had made me leave it for last. I opened it. It began with Petrarch's Qual Donna Attende A Gloriosa Fama - another dead end to my research. But what intrigued me was the elegant Italic font in which the poems were printed. I had always been fascinated with the art of calligraphy and with scripts in general. So I went through the pages with keen interest, as if I were reading those lines for the first time. On turning yet another page somewhere towards the middle of the book, I noticed something funny about the following sheet. Its colour was different to the rest. It seemed much older, as the paper had yellowed with age, and the ink was slightly washed out. Still, it was legible and I was staring at yet another sonnet.

One I had never read before. I went through the lines attentively, translating the text in my mind:

With his soul turned away from God,

And mind yielded to profane learning;

Succumbed to flesh's sinful yearnings,

Heaven's grace to embrace – he did not.

His path of life – by the Devil wrought:

### In his wake – death and ruins burning;

From his heart all sanctity spurning:

### Not lead by God – by the Devil caught.

For his faith he turned into mortal sin,

### He shall rest in his golden restraint.

Shadows his home, serpents – his kin,

With vice his glory is forever stain'd.

### For before saints he lived by the sin,

amidst sinners he shall rise a Saint!

It was written in Italian, just like the rest of the works in the book. But, at the bottom of the page, there was an inscription, a line of characters, which on closer inspection I realized was a series of letters and numbers in Latin:

### MCCCCXIIOANESXXIII

My first guess was that it indicated when the sonnet had been written: MCCCCXII was the Latin for 1412. This meant my find was a Renaissance piece, but written far too late for it to be the work of any of the authors collected in the book. I was fascinated by the melody of its rhymes and by its literary figures. However, my initial excitement quickly dissipated. I did not know who the author of the sonnet was and in any case could not analyse an anonymous poet with a single work. Nevertheless, I decided to take a closer look at the odd page. The other side of the sheet was blank and as I was turning it over, it detached itself. My hand froze, holding the loose sheet. I thought I had involuntarily ripped it off, but then I saw that its inner side was intact. Apparently, someone had tucked it in neatly between the pages.

'So this sonnet must have been left inside the book centuries after it was originally written', I mused. But who could possibly be its author? I certainly had to make some enquiries and luckily, I knew whom I should turn to.

The Library Director's office was a sequestered room on the northern side of the imposing mansard roof of the building. The Director himself was an elderly professor at the University, a distinguished expert in the History of Culture. I had attended his lecture on The Vatican's Cultural Heritage as a second year student. He had spent a couple of years as a visiting lecturer in the Università di Sapienza in Rome, and rumour had it that he had been granted access to the Vatican Archives.

I knocked on the massive wooden door and pricked up my ears for a reply.

'Come in!' the answer came in a low, deep voice. I pushed the door open and stepped into the office.

Holding a newspaper, the Director sat, in a leather armchair by a decorated tea-table with a steaming cup of fine china on it. Lifted over his horn-rimmed glasses his eyes were set on me.

'How can I help you, young man?' he asked.

I began by presenting myself, unsure about how to make my request for help.

'I have been working on a dissertation on Early Renaissance Italian poetry.' I explained. 'I was going through some volumes, when I stumbled upon this particular book.' I extended my left arm with the old book in hand. The Director kept staring at me questioningly. 'It contains sonnets by Petrarch and Alighieri, mostly, but I found this odd sheet of paper tucked in between its pages.'

As I showed him the sheet, I noticed that the Director remained somewhat unimpressed. After a brief moment of silence, he threw the newspaper on the tea-table and beckoned me to draw closer.

'Take a seat, will you?' he pointed to another leather arm-chair facing his. Although he seemed a bit irritated, he was forcing himself to be polite, observing me, as I sat down.

'So, what is so strange about this sheet of paper?' he asked. By his tone alone, I could tell that he already knew the answer.

'There's a sonnet, sir', I went on 'And a date, an inscription in Latin written at the end. But what I need to know is who the author of this work is.'

'May I have a look?' he requested the paper and I handed it out to him. He examined it briefly and looked back at me.

'So, you are saying that the inscription below is a date, aren't you?'

'I have basic knowledge of Latin, Sir. The numbers at the beginning of the inscription read 1412, unless I am mistaken. And the ones that follow must be those of the exact date. What I need to know however is the author's–'

'But you do have the author's name', the Director interrupted me, smiling.

'What do you mean? I do? But where is it?' I could hardly conceal my excitement.

'Here, let me show you.'

He took the newspaper and produced a pencil from the pocket of his worn-out coat. Then he rewrote the inscription in a margin of the paper and handed it out to me.

I looked at the writing. It was the same as on the old sheet from the book, only I noticed that he had left a couple of spaces in the line:

### MCCCCXI IOANES XXIII

I tried to decipher the copied inscription.

'I can now see that the first set of letters refer to the year 1411 rather than 1412, as I thought. But who and what could IOANES and the number 23 stand for? Is it...'

Then it dawned on me.

'John the XXIII? Perhaps Pope John the XXIII?'

'Exactly', the professor confirmed. 'This sonnet was written by Pope John XXIII in the year 1411.'

'Written by Pope John XXIII.' I repeated, puzzling over my discovery. 'Is it some sort of an edifying address?' I asked, as I knew of such a form of address that had been used by the popes. It came along with anathemas of notorious sinners and served the purpose of public edification.

'If it was what you suggest,' the Director said, 'it would have been written in Latin rather than in Italian. No, this is something more than a mere letter of edification.' He rose from his chair and walked to a cupboard whence he took out another china cup and a small saucer.

'Would you like some tea?' he asked rhetorically, while reaching for a tea-pot and pouring some of the beverage into the cup. 'The story of this sonnet isn't short, but, as you will soon find out, it is certainly fascinating. It is a tale from the past which few know the truth about.'

I was sincerely disappointed by the fact that the sonnet had been written by a pope. In this case, it was very unlikely that I could use it for my dissertation. But the tinge of mystery in the Director's voice whetted my curiosity. I took a sip of tea, confirming my anticipation.

He settled himself back down in his chair, took the sheet with the sonnet and stared at it, before handing it back to me.

'Read it once again before we begin', he urged me. 'But first, what can you tell me about this sonnet?'

'It is an Italian-style sonnet', I said. 'The year in which it was written and the rhyme patterns tell for sure that it is a Petrarchian one, a style named after the famous sonneteer of the Italian Renaissance. It has fourteen lines divided into two parts. The first eight follow their own rhyme scheme, meaning that in each four lines, the first one rhymes with the fourth, while the second with the third. The remaining sestet uses a regular rhyme scheme – the first line rhymes with the third and the fifth, whereas the second – with the fourth and the sixth.'

'Excellent! Only its author is not Petrarch,' the professor said. 'That's does not apply here. Rather, this particular sonnet relates the sinful crimes committed by a single man. His name is Balthasar Cossa and this is the story of his life.'

Chapter I

### With his soul turned away from God,

### And mind yielded to profane learning;

Federico Monticelli removed the black cowl covering his head. Underneath the thick woolen cloth there spread long tar-black hair. Against it, his pale complexion gave him a ghostly look. His dark eyes, sunken in their shadowy sockets, were fixed on the doorway of the old one-storey building before him. Dreadful chants accompanied by piercing screams echoed within the stone walls. But Monticelli's face showed no trace of fear of these disturbing noises. On the contrary, a smug smile formed under his prominent aquiline nose.

Federico Monticelli descended from a centuries-old family of servants devoted to the Throne of Saint Peter and its powerful Church. The patriarch of the Monticellis had been a bishop of the holy city of Antioch, after its reconquest by the Papal forces during the First Crusade in 1098. The last four of Federico's forefathers had been respected persecutors of the Holy Inqusition. And Federico had followed in their footsteps.

Tonight, he was engaged in his favourite professional duty: the hunt for heretics.

He turned towards the dozen soldiers lined behind him, waiting for his orders under cover of the night. They were heavily armed - some of them with fauchards, the rest with short swords. All wore steel breastplates over their tunics. Their faces, illuminated by their torches, revealed the same determination as their leader's. Federico gave the soldiers a sign by nodding his head. Then he entered the building with half of them following him silently. The rest scattered around, surrounding the place on all sides.

Monticelli and his men advanced stealthily along a wide corridor, illuminating their way with the torches. At its end they came upon an opening leading to a room. As he reached the threshold, Federico made a sign to his companions to halt. Keeping his body pressed close against the wall by the edge of the door, he cautiously took a look inside.

The room was more spacious than he had imagined. Its walls matched their appearance on the outside – bare, gray masonry; the floor was tiled with irregularly shaped slabs of stone. Piles of hay lay stacked in heaps in the corners, suggesting the building was commonly used as a cattle-shed. But what Federico had come for was the scene taking place at the far end of the room.

A group of people were standing around a rectangular stone table resembling an altar. One of them, whose silhouette gave away the slender physique of a woman, stood above a motionless body lying on the table. She was dressed in a white robe, her head covered by a cowl in the same colour. Seven other figures were sitting in chairs arranged in a semi-circle around the woman, staring at her and at the body before her. They were wearing mantles like hers, only theirs were black. The whole place was gloomy, illuminated only by the four candles placed in each corner of the table. Their flickering flames cast light upon the improvised altar, so that they made the face of the body look as if it were wincing from time to time, creating the impression that it might still be alive.

The woman was holding what looked like a chalice and was slowly pouring its contents on the chest of the body, making slow circles with her hand. While performing these gestures, she sang drawlingly a song in an unfamiliar tongue, pitching her voice high to nearly screaming at times. As they watched the ritual, the people in the chairs kept chanting in a low-voiced chorus.

Federico was watching the scene quietly. He had spent months trying to find out where these heretics held their pagan gatherings. In the meantime, he had learnt a lot about this small society, whose leader was the woman in white. They worshipped ancient gods and, as rumor had it, carried out animal sacrifices before statues of those gods. Had they reached the point of making a human sacrifice tonight?

On Monticelli's waving, the soldiers rushed into the room. Mayhem followed. Shouts echoed between the walls. The soldiers knocked some of the men down with the handles of their weapons and proceeded to tie their wrists. One tried to resist the arrest and was pierced through the chest with a sword. Another one escaped with the woman in white through another opening in the wall opposite to where the soldiers had come in. Federico, however, was not worried – his men lay in ambush outside, being ordered to kill any escapee on the spot.

When the commotion was over, the inquisitor walked into the room. Four men were standing with their caps removed, guarded by the soldiers. They were all young and were glancing around with desperate expressions on their faces. Monticelli stepped over the corpse of their slain comrade and stood astride another one lying on the ground, heavily wounded. Federico cast a glance at the terrified men and spoke with a cold, even voice:

'You are all arrested on a charge of heresy.' he announced. 'My men will take you to a place where you will be allowed to repent and meet face to face with God's justice.'

As if on his command, the soldiers pushed the four men back towards the door. As soon as they'd left, however, another soldier came in. He was one of those supposed to be guarding on the outside. He walked up to the inquisitor and spoke:

'Signor Monticelli, we met the two who tried to escape arrest.' he said. 'We killed the man as he lunged at us with a knife. But the woman managed to escape, while we were dealing with him.'

Federico looked in the soldier's eyes. His face twisted in a spiteful grimace. He was about to speak something, but then he suddenly turned around and approached the stone table. The body was still lying on its cold surface. It was completely naked except for a stripe of cloth girt around the loins. The inquisitor took the glove off his right hand. He ran his fingers across the pale skin and stared at the white powder sticking onto them. The whole body was covered with it. Federico thought it might not be dead, but lulled to sleep by some of the white-clad witch's potions. He checked the man's nostrils for breathing. There was none.

'Pile up the hay and the chairs around this table and set fire to them,' he ordered the soldier who was still waiting a word from his commander. Monticelli pointed to the wounded heretic on the floor:

'Throw him onto the pile, too. He won't make it through the night, anyway.' Then he walked out where his black horse was waiting for him, held by the reins by his servant.

The soldier called a fellow of his to help him carry out the orders of the inquisitor. The two of them took hay from the corners of the room and piled it up by the stone table. Next they threw the chairs onto and around the haystack. The unconscious man, whom Monticelli had sentenced to death offhandedly, was placed flat on two of the chairs. They grabbed the candles from the table and threw them onto the hay. Then they hastened to leave the shed, before it filled with smoke, running out on the heels of the others.

The stone surface was heating up beyond bearing, when the eyelids of the powdered body opened. The dark eyes of the man glanced at the flames whose burning tongues his body had already tasted. Despite the painful tension in his lungs, for the heated air was no longer breathable, he managed to raise himself slowly up to a sitting position. His limbs were tingling, so he had to suffer until his blood regained its circulation. In a few seconds, as the flames grew too tall for him to be able to remain there any longer, he jumped off the table to his feet and ran through the curtain of black smoke. He headed not towards the opening through which the soldiers had left, but for the opposite one – the one through which they had come. He was aware that they might still be outside, so he had to find a spot away from the smoke, but one where he would nevertheless remain unnoticed. He reached the passage leading to the room he had just escaped from and where he could finally exhale. The air there was fresh, for it was the other opening that drew the smoke. Inhaling and exhaling, he mustered up all his strength, trying to figure out a way back to the city.

He was a student of Theology at the University of Bologna. He had just slipped the clutches of the Holy Inquisition by the skin of his teeth. Had he been caught, the fact that he was studying to be God's servant, a clergyman, would have been sufficient reason for him to be tortured to death by this beast of a man – Federico Monticelli. The young man recalled the day he met the woman who, as he had heard from the soldier, had also managed to evade a certain death. He had no regrets about following her to this abandoned place, nor about participating in her barbaric rituals. He had fallen in love with the mysterious lady since the moment he had met her. Her name was Yandra and her ominous invocations not only did not dishearten the infatuated student, but, on the contrary, fuelled his attraction to and desire for her further.

He took a short cut across the fields back to the city. He needed to find some rag to drape his naked body in, not least because of the chill that made him shake like a leaf. He had to be back at his boarding house before daybreak; that is, before questions were raised about his absence.

The Director rose from his chair, taking the tea-pot with him. He refilled it with water and put it on a small portable hot-plate.

'This right here I bought on my first day as Director, twenty-two years ago', he said, as he turned the appliance on. 'It takes half an hour just to boil some water on it. However, I'm not throwing it away. Besides, I see you're cup is still full.'

I was so consumed following his words, as he related the story of Cossa's first misdeed that I had forgotten about the tea he had offered me.

'So, this man Balthasar is a heretic?' I asked, as I took a sip of the beverage.

The professor returned to his seat.

'Well, he gets himself involved in heresy, that's for sure', he said. 'But it is only one of the sins he commits. The life he lives is in complete antagonism to the Christian dogmas, as you will see for yourself, as we move on.'

'And is that why Pope John XXIII writes this sonnet about his life?' I asked. 'He stigmatized him and his deeds to teach people how not to live?'

'Perhaps you could explain it that way-', the Director said and looked at me with same hint of mystery in both his eyes and words.

Then, he added.

'Be patient, my boy. The story of Balthasar Cossa has just begun to unveil before you. I promise you that in the end, you will find this sonnet to be far more significant, than it seems to you now.'

Chapter II

### Succumbed to flesh's sinful yearnings,

### Heaven's grace to embrace – he did not.

The imposing two-storey villa faced a small, paved square a little way off the busiest marketplace in Bologna. It was one of the quietest nooks of the bustling town. Built in the early Romanesque style, the snow-white building could not pass unnoticed even at night. The splendour of its façade caught the eye even behind the row of cypresses in the garden before the steps leading to the main entrance. A large tympanum with carved battle scenes was carried by two solid columns that protruded from the thick walls. The latter framed the massive front door of the building. Four arched windows on each storey matched the ornate exterior of the structure.

This was the residence of Baron Flavio d'Avenucci, one of the most influential men in Bologna. By the age of forty-six, d'Avenucci had amassed a fortune through staunch loyalty to the Pepolis – the noble family ruling over the city. His political orientation had also earned him fame and respect in Bolognese society. Thus he had become a desired son-in-law by most public figures in Bologna. His unattractiveness and the coarseness of his manner were no longer repulsive to women, and still less to their fathers. The prospect of getting their daughter married to a man so close to the Pepolis was most tempting to the petty nobility. Thus Baron d'Avenucci had had the opportunity to make a choice and had recently married a young woman named Bianca. She was the youngest daughter of Signor Alberto Domenichino – a navy veteran from an old Genoese family, who had served in the fleet of Paganino Doria in the famous victory over the Venetians in the battle of Sapienza.

It was the beautiful Bianca who was now observing from the window of her bedroom the clamour down in the villa's courtyard. The sun had just set beyond the horizon in the west, leaving only a thin crimson stripe on the roofs of the nearby buildings. A faint breeze had brought freshness, cooling the swelter of the July afternoon. Under the window, D'Avenucci's servants and valets were rushing to and fro, in preparation for the reception their master was giving that evening. A large number of guests were expected to honour the Baron's invitation, so there was still a lot to be done in the short time left. Tables were being arranged both inside the villa and out in the yard, and every cranny of the place was being polished. However, Bianca was in no mood for socializing. As a wife of a powerful aristocrat, she was obliged to be a public figure as well. Like most of the women with her background, she had no affections for her husband. Since adolescence, she had been brought up to be a loyal spouse of a man like d'Avenucci. Her well-being, her family's honour and prosperity apart, depended on her devotion to such a kind of life. Therefore, she could not help having to seek for true, albeit clandestine love and affection.

And Bianca had found them, very recently.

A week ago, while promenading around the marketplace, she had met a tall, elegant man who had caught her attention with his manners. How unlike the Baron's! They had exchanged glances for what had seemed to her eternity. He looked to be about her age, his dark eyes and short, curly hair the colour of a raven. And although she had thought that he possibly could give her the love she craved for, she had turned around and headed back home confused, for she had never before tried to attract a man. Nor had she had the courage do so then. Bianca had hastened to get back to her secluded chamber and weep over her loneliness. That is why she had not noticed that the charming man was following her. She had only found out on the following day. Going out for her habitual promenade, she had found the young man waiting in front of her house, a red rose in hand, dressed in a splendid black-velvet vest over a dark-green shirt – the colour of love. The outfit bespoke a hint of nobility which matched his fine air. Initially, she had ignored him, but he had kept coming back every day over the following week. Once they had even spoken briefly. Later, he had accompanied her for an hour. And still later, he had inquired whether he could pay her a visit.

'What a nerve' she had answered. 'I am a married woman!'

'And I am a man in love!' he had replied.

She had turned away and run back to the villa. She had been feeling ashamed of herself ever since. She didn't even know his name. He had not introduced himself, nor had she asked about it. The only thing she knew was that she did indeed want to have his love. Even if only once.

A knock on the door of her bedroom interrupted her fancies.

'Come in', she answered.

The door opened and d'Avenucci's face appeared. He spread what he believed to be his charming smile.

'Dear Bianca, are you getting ready for the evening?' he asked with a childlike sing-song intonation. He was twice her age and thought that treating her like a little girl would break the ice between them. She hated that.

'I was just about to', she said. 'I'll be ready in time, I promise.'

'Surely you will put on the dress I brought you from Genoa last week?'

'I will.' she acquiesced, forcing a smile meant to conceal her gloomy mood.

The reception had gathered many of the most influential figures in Bologna – all of them with a noble title or of high clerical dignity. There were also merchants from other cities, who happened to be around on that day, as well as respected mentors from the University. No invitations had been sent in advance. By now Baron d'Avenucci's receptions were very popular and figured high on the agenda of the city's high life. Everyone was welcome, as long as they had a title, or was a prominent person, or else was able to donate a significant sum to the City Council, whose most recent member was d'Avenucci.

The Baron and his wife descended the inner staircase to the entrance hall.

The couple drew the attention of the guests with their magnificent apparel. Bianca wore a long crimson dress with funnel sleeves. A white-pearls necklace adorned her delicate neck. Her husband was dressed in a florid doublet, the colour of his wife's dress, golden embroidery covering his chest. A heavy chain indicating his high rank hung around his thick neck, while a broad-brimmed, flat cap concealed his bald head, slightly tilted over his forehead.

The hosts were met with polite nods and raised glasses filled with wine. D'Avenucci immediately set about bragging about the source of the precious liquid.

'It is from the vines of my cousin, the Duke of Pavia!'

Bianca stood by his side, as she was supposed to throughout the evening, conversing with the wives of the Baron's guests.

A man in scarlet garments made his way towards the hosting couple and saluted d'Avenucci.

'It is my honour to welcome you at my home, Monsignor', the Baron answered. The honourable guest was Cardinal Giovanni Savelli, the Bishop of Bologna. He was also the rector of the University. After exchanging a few words in a highly polite manner with d'Avenucci, the Cardinal waved to a young man, standing by the front door. The latter understood Savelli's sign and approached with a slow, but elegant gait. He smiled at the host and extended his hand. The Cardinal introduced him to the Baron.

'Signor d'Avenucci, I would like to introduce to you one of the most diligent among my neophytes.' he said. 'His name is Balthasar Cossa and his father is the Baron of Ischia, a remarkable person of an age-old family.'

As d'Avenucci listened to Savelli's praises for the young man and his origins, Bianca turned to see her husband's new acquaintances. When she met the face of the young student, she was rooted to the spot. The short black ringlets of his hair, the deep dark eyes, and the captivating smile were impossible to mistake. She was looking at her nameless admirer. Balthasar gave away no trace of recognition. He remained indifferent to the glances they exchanged. For the rest of the evening, he ignored the woman, as if he had just met her for the first time. While Bianca was nervously following her husband among the guests, Cossa was enjoying small talks with the people Cardinal Savelli introduced him to. The young woman felt devastated. She was glad that Balthazar had kept his calm, but at the same time she was yearning for his attention. She was secretly hoping that he would choose an opportune moment to speak to her. But it was all in vain. The reason why Balthasar did not try to engage her in conversation was that he was stalking someone else. As he walked around with the Cardinal, exchanging pleasantries with the other guests, he kept both his eyes and his mind on the host. He was following each movement of the Baron, trying to maintain a short distance between him and d'Avenucci. What Balthasar himself did not notice was that while he was stalking the Baron, someone else, besides Bianca, was watching him closely.

After a long discussion with one of the guests, d'Avenucci excused himself and headed towards the exit to the courtyard. He left his half-full goblet of wine on a table near the door and beckoned to the Cardinal to accompany him outside. It was the moment Balthasar had been awaiting all evening. He stole up to the side table, looked around to make sure nobody was watching him and poured the content of a small phial into the Baron's wine. As he made to rejoin the company, a hand grabbed his right arm. Balthasar turned his face showing only the slightest look of surprise. But his alarm flared out no sooner than his gaze met the cold, sunken eyes of Federico Monticelli. The Inquisitor was staring quizzically at the young student.

'Excuse me for disturbing you,' Monticelli said, 'but I was wondering if we have met before?'

'I cannot recall such occurrence, signor.' Balthasar answered. 'But I believe I have heard of you. Aren't you Signor Monticelli, the Head of the Holy Inquisition in Bologna?'

'Indeed, I am', Monticelli said with his deep, even voice. 'And may I ask you for your name?'

'My name is Balthasar Cossa, signor, and I am a student of theology at the University. Cardinal Savelli, who is one of my mentors, invited me to accompany him at this reception.'

'I see', Monticelli murmured. 'Once again, I am sorry to have bothered you, but I was sure your face had rung a bell. Do enjoy the evening, signor Cossa.' As the Inquisitor drew back, Balthasar gave a furtive sigh of relief, before mixing into the crowd.

Later that night, Bianca was lying in her bed next to her husband who was already asleep. Although she felt tired after the reception, the eagerly expected slumber still eluded her. She had not been able to bring herself to stop thinking over Balthasar's behaviour throughout the evening. Why had he avoided her all the time? Why had he not uttered a single word? She felt desperate, as if all the hope she had harboured the last few days had evaporated.

Suddenly, her attention was drawn by a rustle through the window that she had left open, so that cool air may enter the room. She darted a frightened look. A dark silhouette of a man appeared in the window frame.

'Oh, God, who are you?' Bianca tried to shout, but her fright choked her words to a constrained groan.

'Signora d'Avenucci', the figure said in a calm voice. 'Please, do not be scared.'

Bianca watched in silent disbelief, as the figure stepped into the room. Was she dreaming? From the words the man spoke, she could recognize the voice she had kept recalling over the past week. Only tonight had she added a name to the coveted person. Now, he was in her room – Balthasar Cossa.

A shiver of anxiety got the better of her surprise.

'Are you insane?' she whispered. 'My husband will wake up and then you'll be in great trouble. He might even kill you.'

'Your husband won't wake up earlier than tomorrow noon', Balthasar reassured her, now standing in front of her. 'I poured some soporific into his wine. He will sleep like a log.'

Bianca noticed his lips curl into a charming smile.

'Why are you here?' she asked, jumping out of her bed.

'To see you, signora – just as I have promised.'

'You must leave. You should not be in my bedroom.' Bianca tried to send him away, but the words did not come out as firmly as she intended.

'Maybe I should not. But it was the only way to spend some time with you', he said and stood so close to her that she could smell his scent.

'Do you really want me to leave?'

She stared in his eyes which looked bottomless in the dark. She made to say something, but could not. She felt arousal gain the upper hand. She realized that what was happening was exactly what she had yearned for in the past few days.

Balthasar gently wrapped his hands around her slender waist. His touch sent a shudder running through her whole body. He kissed her. Breathless from all the excitement she felt, she surrendered any resistance and pressed herself against him.

He released her from her nightdress and started kissing her naked breasts. Then he laid her on the bed, next to her husband, who was sleeping on its right side, with his back towards them. The next moment their bodies were swaying in the rapture of their lustful sin. The only thing that drowned their voluptuous moans was d'Avenucci's snoring.

Later that night, Balthasar climbed back down the tree through the window. He jumped over the hedge surrounding d'Avenucci's villa and swiftly disappeared along the quiet street. Once he was no longer to be seen, a figure emerged from the shadows of the small square facing the villa. Federico Monticelli glanced at the tree in front which Cossa had climbed up and down within the last hour. He turned around and walked away in an opposite to Balthasar's direction.

The Director finished his narration and remained silent for a moment, deep in thought. I was so fascinated with the story that I was startled by the sudden pause.

'And what happens next?' I asked. 'The Inquisitor tells Bianca's husband about what he saw?'

'No.' he answered. 'But on the very next day he goes straight to Alberto Domenichino – Bianca's father. He tells him about Balthasar's visit and the probable consequences to his family's relations with d'Avenucci. Then he offers Domenichino to take care of the young lover and thus save both his reputation and finances. The old navy man agrees. Luckily for Balthasar, Domenichino's maid who is one of Cossa's many mistresses overhears her master's conversation with Monticelli and warns Balthasar. The young man has no other choice – apparently the Inquisitor has remembered his face from that night in the cattle-shed and is suspecting him of having connections with The Woman in White. And connected they are – she is his dearest mistress.'

'Hah, it seems that Balthasar is a rather lustful character', I commented.

'Indeed,' the professor agreed. 'Lust is one of his natural vices, the one he displays most readily. And although it almost costs him his life, and on more than one occasion, he never quite gives up his love for women.'

'And where does he go after learning that Monticelli is after him?' I reminded the Director.

'Well, he takes Yandra – his heretical girlfriend – whom he aids and abets, and the two of them gain the only possible safe haven left. Balthasar has three elder brothers, who own a small fleet attacking cargo ships as well as villages along the Italian and African coastlines. In other words – they are pirates. And Balthasar joins them.'

'A theology student turns pirate?' I was beginning to suspect that the professor was inventing.

'Listen carefully, as the story unravels!' he went on. 'Nothing in the life of Balthasar Cossa is left undone. His studies at the University of Bologna serve him well in the years after he gives up scouring the seas and the lands. But let us not get ahead of ourselves! We now come to the next episode of Cossa's life – the piracy.'

### Chapter III

### His path of life – by the Devil wrought:

### In his wake – death and ruins burning;

The Majestueuse was floating gracefully on the quiet waters off the Sardinian shores. Mild wind filled out the sails of the large three-mast galley as it entered the Strait of Bonifacio between the islands of Sardinia and Corsica. Rather than looming larger upon the approach of the vessel, the coasts appeared to be receding to the eyes of the crew, for a thick fog had swathed the strait. Now the men had gathered on the main-deck, desperately straining their eyes to pierce through the impenetrable gray curtain. On the aft-deck stood the stout figure of the captain – Pierre Grimoard – barking commands to the helmsman, his eyes set on the leaden world to the fore of the ship. The general tension had got the better of him, too. In his mind, he was cursing their bad luck. They had had to lift anchor from the port of Marseille early the previous day. Pierre himself had chosen the time of departure, being well aware of the peculiarities of the route. The Majestueuse was supposed to reach the Strait of Bonifacio by dusk, before the fog – so typical of the place – settled over the treacherous passage. But his precautions had proven futile, for another factor – much weightier than his authority – had postponed the departure with a few hours. Hence the crew had found themselves struggling to pick their way through the narrows between Sardinia and the Maddalena islands.

The latter islands were three bits of land off the north-eastern coast of Sardinia. The waters separating them from the large island were shallow, but sheltered from the roughness of the Strait. Normally, the depth would have been a problem for the large galley, so Pierre would never have chosen this route. But, unlike during its usual voyages, when it carried loads of precious cargo, this time the Majestueuse was empty and therefore light, but for a very important passenger, accompanied by his guards. Pierre did not know who the man was, for he had boarded the vessel in secret, wrapped in a hooded mantle. The captain had been ordered to carry out the transportation through a letter by the Count of Provence himself. The name of the passenger had not been mentioned, only that he had to be shipped to Naples. Pierre had known better than to inquire about him – the promised payment was enough information for him.

'Larboard!' a shout from the crew split the silence, startling Pierre. 'There was something in the fog, did you see it?' It was one of the sailors raising the alarm, drawing everyone's attention to the railing on the left of the deck.

The captain tried to penetrate the grayish curtain to no avail. The fog stood still. The leaden water of the strait was motionless, only slightly stirred by the galley's prominent hull.

Pierre flipped his gaze back to the fore of the ship. The silhouettes of rocks could hardly be made out against the mist, wrapping the shoreline.

'Two rudders to larboard, then steady as she goes!' he ordered the helmsman.

As the galley began turning slowly, another cry came from the crew on the deck, this time followed by agitated clamour among the men:

'It's a ship! Captain, she's heading towards us!'

Pierre saw a bow, then a whole galley, just a bit smaller than the Majestueuse, tearing the fog apart and heading straight towards them. By instinct, he made to shout an order to the helmsman, but it was too late – the heavy bronze-plated bow struck the side of the Majestueuse with a thunderous crack. Splinters of wood went flying in all directions. The men on the ship were sent down to the board by the sheer force of the impact.

Pierre reeled, managed to clutch at the rail of the aft-deck. Once stable, he began examining the damage the crash had inflicted on his ship. The larboard was shattered. Luckily, it was the upper section that had taken the blow and the bow of the other galley had not wedged into it, causing the Majestueuse to drift slightly off course. As it slowly moved round the other ship's side, Pierre walked to the left section of the stern to take a closer look at its deck. Nobody was to be seen aboard. Loose sails and ropes hung all over from the masts above. Apart from their waving in the gentle breeze, not a single motion stirred the stagnation on board the vessel.

A ghost ship.

The confusion and alarm among the crew having subsided, the men had once again gathered by the larboard. They were glancing curiously at the intruder, muffled whispers revealing their unrest.

'Throw the hooks over the railings, lads,' Pierre shouted to them. 'Pull her near, so that we can examine this lady in distress!'

A husky man stepped in front of the other sailors. Although looking tough, he spoke with the shyness of a boy.

'Is it reasonable, Captain?' he asked. 'She looks like a drifting tomb to me. She is either abandoned by its crew and there is nothing on board, or she is carrying the dead bodies of her men.'

Nods and whispers of agreement came from among the other sailors.

Pierre Grimoard had spent enough time among the likes of them and was only too familiar with the superstition of seamen. But he was a captain and it was a question of honour and duty not to turn his back on fellow sailors in trouble.

'Do as you're told', he ordered again. 'Stay here, if you will. I will go and find out myself the plight of that ship.'

The crewmen did not seem any the happier, but rolled up their sleeves and brought out the long thick ropes with solid iron hooks attached at one end. With no further ado, the galley in distress was pulled parallel with the Majestueuse, so that the larboards of both ships leaned against one another. As they touched, a fiendish howl split the silence hanging heavy over the waters, coming from the aft section of the deserted ship. It sounded as if from a hunter's horn, only deeper, louder and fearsome.

Terror-stricken, the sailors aboard the Majestueuse dropped the ropes and stepped back from the portside.

'This is a Devil's ship,' one of them cried out. 'Cut the ropes, damn it! Cut'em, men, or our souls will join her drifting in the fog!'

But it was too late. As the howl of the horn faded away, another one, mightier, followed – a war-cry coming from dozens of men. The sails covering the ghost-ship's deck were swept aside; the doors of the aft-castle opened. From all directions men streamed out of their hiding places onto the deck and over the railings, pouring over the Majestueuse and its bewildered crew.

Pierre Grimoard watched the attack from the aft-deck in total disbelief. This was no galley in distress. It was an ambush – and a cunning one to boot. Sea-robbers lurking in the fog – scores of them were now onboard his ship. He had not even had a chance to react, to shout any command to his men. He unsheathed his saber, as he saw two of the pirates climbing the stairs towards him, each of them clutching a small axe. Pierre made a short step back with his right foot, ready to lunge a deadly blow. The first man rushed to him with a bestial roar. Pierre swiftly swung on his left foot and dodged the coup. The pirate could not help stooping, under his impetus. Without hesitating for a second, Pierre brought his saber down onto the man's back. Muffled crack and the desperate cry of the slain were heard as steel met with spine. Pierre lifted his weapon, turning to face his other attacker. Too late – all that the captain saw was the heavy blade of the small axe flying towards his head. Darkness covered his sight – his scull had been split.

Balthasar Cossa could hardly breathe in. His body was spinning around the deck of the assaulted ship. The short sword in his right hand slashed flesh and bone with each swing, while the stiletto in his left penetrated bodies all around. He was involved in a murderous dance, bringing death to every poor soul that happened to stand in his way.

Balthasar had been expecting the collision with the large galley hidden under the staircase of the aft-deck of his ship. A hunter's horn in hand, he had been waiting for the fish to take the bait. All had gone exactly according to his plan. The scouts he had positioned on the cliffs at the northern coast of Sardinia had come down to report they had spotted the three-mast hailing from Provence. The plan had taken shape in Balthasar's head as the fog had been slowly wrapping the Strait of Bonifacio, where his ship had been anchored. It had looked like a shot in the dark, but he had been resolute enough to give it a try. He had striven to excel, to go one better than his older brothers. He had taken part in their raids, followed their lead long enough. The time had come for him to become a leader.

The plan had worked out perfectly well. Balthasar's galley had been directed towards the carefully advancing cargo ship with a surprising precision. The whole crew had been patiently lying low, so that nobody be seen on deck, waiting for his signal. The howl from the horn had had a terrifying effect – it had sounded as if coming from the depths of hell, carried by and reverberating in the fog. The Provencal crew had been taken by surprise. But the battle was yet to be won. Balthasar's men were outnumbered and the slight advantage they had gained thanks to the sudden assault was quickly lost, as soon as the opposition seized their weapons.

Balthasar had been among the first to jump over the railings and onboard the Majestueuse. Now, he was in the midst of the panic-stricken sailors. Fortunately, there was someone to watch his back. Yandra had followed him into the fight, dressed in the same way as the other pirates – in tight woolen pants and a white shirt with a leather jerkin over it. Her long black hair was neatly tucked under a black kerchief. She clutched a saber in one hand and a small battle axe in the other. The instrument was very common among pirates – a useful tool when at sea and extremely efficient in fight.

The skirmish did not last long. The pirates had caught the Provencal crew off guard. By now most of them were lying sprawled on the deck – either killed or heavily wounded. Others had surrendered and were being tied up to the railings. As he watched the dread on their faces, Balthasar had thought that the killed sailors would give up fighting, once his men had assaulted the ship. But pirates were not a diplomatic breed. Once there was precious loot at stake, they turned into rapacious beasts.

'Captain Cossa,' he heard someone calling him. He turned towards the forecastle of the galley. One of his men stood over the trap-door leading to the lower decks, where the cargo was usually stored. The man was trying to suppress a shock. 'There is nothing down there, captain!'

'Nothing?' Balthasar almost yelled at him. 'What do you mean, there is nothing?'

He paced to the trap-door and kneeled over it to take a look inside. Another two of his men were in the store-room, holding torches to illuminate the place. It was completely void.

Balthasar stood back up, giving away a loud curse.

'This does not make any sense!' he said more to himself than to the others. 'Why would a ship like this travel these waters empty? Why not wait for the fog to clear away rather than run a risk in the strait, if not in a hurry?'

As he was speaking, pacing around the deck, the door of the aft castle of the galley opened. A soldier came out slowly, cautiously. Two of the pirates rushed towards him. The soldier extended his hand and threw a fauchard down at his feet.

'Stop!' Balthasar commanded. His men stopped dead in their tracks.

A man stepped out of the door behind the soldier, with another two guards in train. He cut an odd, stumped figure, among the soldiers in plain blue-and-white surcoats. Their keep wore a long brown mantle revealing exquisite garments underneath. A golden crucifix hung on his neck against a red coat, richly embroidered with gold-lace.

The man stood in front of the soldiers, observing the carnage on the deck. He appeared to be in his early fifties, but had the grace of a youth. Dozens of eyes were riveted on him, as if they were watching the resurrected Christ walking out of his sepulcher. His blue eyes, hidden under the bulge of a wrinkled forehead, fixed on Balthasar – the only man onboard who looked as determined as him. Then he spoke softly:

'Are you looking for cargo, captain?' His question bore a hint of irony, his voice – self-confident. Then, the man spread his hands to reveal even more of the splendour of his apparel. 'If so, I suppose that you are looking for me!'

'And who are you?' Balthasar asked, still rooted to the spot in bewilderment.

The answer came soft-spoken:

'I am the Pope.'

'The Pope?' I asked the professor, puzzled. 'Is that Pope John XXIII, the author of the sonnet?'

'No,' replied the Director, 'this is one of his predecessors – Boniface IX. You see, at the end of the fourteenth century, the popes leave Rome, where strong opposition has been building up against them, and move to Avignon, in the County of Provence. Pope Gregory XI is the first to return to Rome in 1377. However, Popes continue to be elected in Avignon, which leads to the so-called Western Schism - one Pope enthroned in the Vatican and another in the Palais des Papes in Avignon, both claiming to be the rightful pontiff.'

'And what was Pope Boniface doing on board that ship sailing from Provence?' I asked, trying to fit this episode in the story implicating Balthasar Cossa, Pope John XXIII, and the sonnet I had come across by chance.

'When Balthasar and his men ambush the Provencal galley in the Strait of Bonifacio –mind the coincidence of names! – Boniface is returning from a secret meeting. He travels to Provence in secret, and so he intends to return thence. He meets with the Count of Provence, probably in an attempt to gain his support against his rival the Pope in Avignon.'

'And what happens next aboard the ship commandeered by Cossa?'

'Well,' the professor sighed, 'history is silent about it. All that is known for sure is that Boniface returns to Rome. It appears that he manages to strike a bargain with Balthasar over his release and transportation to Italy.'

'In exchange for what?' I asked.

'In exchange for a promise to grant him a clerical dignity – this I am certain about. He offered him to put down the saber and return to land as a servant of God.'

'And Balthasar accepts?' I could not believe such a turn in the story.

'Do you know what the name of Balthasar means?' the Director answered with a surprising question. I did not. 'It comes from the name of the ancient Phoenician god Ba'al and its literal meaning is 'God protect the king.' It may also be translated as 'God protect the priest,' for in ancient societies kings are also the high priests of their subjects. As I have already said, nothing in the life of Balthasar Cossa is left undone. Have you forgotten what he is a student of back in Bologna?'

'How appropriate that is.' I agreed. This story sounded like a folklore tale where nothing happens by chance, I mused. Still, I did not doubt the truthfulness of the Director's narration. The professor went on:

'Yes, he must have accepted the offer. But he does not instantly give up piracy. He will have taken the promise of the corrupt Pope with a pinch of salt. If one is to survive, let alone rise in the depraved world of the clergy, one needs to have solid wealth in hand. That is why he sets sail for one last bold venture.'

### Chapter VI

### From his heart all sanctity spurning:

### Not lead by God – by the Devil caught.

The small town of Amalfi descended the steep slope of a mountain all the way down to the azure linen of the sea. For centuries since the formation of the settlement, its dwellers had lived in unity, enjoying independence of the rest of the country. Monks of the monastery, perched on top of a cliff above the houses, came to the town market daily to exchange herbs, fruits, and pottery they had made for other goods. Fishermen, whose boats plied the small bay, supplied the town with fish and oysters.

On a cool morning, an elderly fisherman who had risen before dawn was walking down the pier to prepare his boat for the day at sea. The air was carrying the scent of the early-morning coast. The rocks lining the shoreline were covered with seaweed, washed out by the nocturnal tide. The surface of the water was flat as a mirror, not a single wave disturbed its peace.

The old man was uncoiling the boat's ropes from the moor, when something on the horizon attracted his attention. He stared intently at the line where the sea met with the still dark sky. At first he could distinguish very vaguely, but in a few seconds, his eyes getting used to the distant gloom, the silhouette of a ship outlined itself at the mouth of the bay.

Suspicion arose in the fisherman's mind. He scanned the bay and spotted another ship further to the north. No boats were visible but following the shoreline northwards, he suddenly exclaimed with surprise. More than a dozen boats were rocking on the water, a mile away from the tiny wharf. There was no trace of movement around them, but even as the fisherman was staring in dismay, he heard shouts of alarm behind his back.

From where the town was.

The monks in the old monastery built on the cliffs above Amalfi had just left the church after the morning mass. They had heard the clamour at the port below, and had gathered in the inner courtyard, anxious about its cause. Suddenly, a man rushed in through the front gate of the monastery. He stopped to regain his breath in the middle of the yard. Everybody recognized Roberto – the hermit who lived in a wooden shed in the mountain, who was in the habit of gathering mushrooms and herbs and of exchanging them for bread and milk at the market. He was always welcome in the monastery, but now the monks felt uneasy about his presence.

'What brings you here, Roberto?' Abbot Pietro, the head of the monastery, asked. 'What trouble has stirred your peace?'

'Pirates, Father!' the man spoke loudly, the words bursting out of his chest. 'Pirates have attacked the town. I saw them from the hills. There's panic among the townsfolk. The pirates are sacking their houses. They will soon be here, too.'

'Calm down, Roberto.' Father Pietro put his hand on the hermit's shoulder, trying to soothe him. 'Pirates they might be, but they wouldn't dare come in here with blood on their hands. Pirates are a superstitious lot, and although they believe in heretic creatures and even extol the Devil himself, they nevertheless fear God's justice.'

In the small town, below the monastery havoc was wreaked. Barns were being set on fire; houses were being rummaged by the savage men of the sea. Women and children were running down the streets screaming.

Balthasar Cossa, clad in a black shirt and leather pants, a black mantle fluttering on his back, was crossing the tidy square. His dark eyes were scanning the turmoil around. He passed by a wounded man lying on the pavement, staring in despair at a mad-eyed pirate who was raping a young woman, probably the man's daughter. Several other local dwellers lay around either dead or bleeding.

Balthasar headed towards the far end of the town, accompanied by a dozen of his men, including Yandra – his heretical mistress. They reached a mansion erected at the foot of the mountain, where a narrow path began climbing towards the cliffs above. As the pirates approached the building, a small party of men emerged from it. They were led by a tall man in his late sixties, or so his long, wavy, silvery hair suggested. He stood in front of Balthasar, blocking his way, taking his measure. A barely noticeable smile spread on the pirate's face.

'Greetings, father', he said. 'I was just coming home, but I did not expect to meet you on my way there.'

'And didn't it occur to you that the town you've been sacking is a stone's throw away from your homeland?' Balthasar's father asked in a tone demanding explanation. 'I had that feeling that I would meet you amidst this bloody plunder, but I am still surprised you could be that disgraceful!'

'You do not seem happy to see your son, father?' the young Cossa parried the question affectedly.

'For God's sake, Balthasar, aren't the shores of Africa and Europe enough to satiate your hunger for looting? Last night I was guest to my dear friend Rossi's, the bailiff of this town, only to wake up to find you pillaging the place this morning! Just across the bay from your home!'

'The town is of no interest to me, father. I left my men take a rest after the long voyage we've had. And it is exactly for God's sake, and the sake of our family, that I've come back here. For I've come not to steal, but to claim what rightfully belongs to the Cossas. Namely, the monastery.'

'What are you talking about? What has the monastery got to do with it?'

'I think you know that only too well, father.' Cossa shifted his eyes to the cliffs above. 'Four hundred years ago, our forefather Tadius donated fifty pounds of gold to the monks. They traveled round the region, raising money for the new church they were building inside. Tadius gave them the gold, in exchange of which he requested from the then-abbot to send one of the monks to Ischia to be the island's pastor, for there was none at the time. The abbot pledged his word – a promise he never kept. That's the story you used to tell me, when I was a little boy. Now, I'm here to avenge our family, and restore the gold to its rightful owners.'

'You are mad, Balthasar' his father's eyes flickered with anger. 'This story is just a legend. There had been rumours about the amount of gold Tadius had donated, but no proof of it whatsoever. He is said to have been a very pious man. He donated gold because of his faith, willing that it be preserved in these lands.'

'And so he died before faith was brought to his homeland,' Balthasar kept his tone down, his words coming out firmly. 'As for the gold, I have come to see for myself, father. I met this man, Giovanni, who had served in the monastery for years. He says our family's gold is everywhere to be seen inside the church. It covers the altars, the apse, even the candlesticks are molded out of it.' As he spoke, his pupils widened. His father recognized the flame of greed on his son's face. Balthasar went on: 'One day Giovanni managed to sneak into the monastery cellar. Usually locked, with only the abbot having a key, he somehow found an opportunity to follow the old man. He swore to me he saw a chest full of gold – old Roman solidi – the remnant of Tadius's donation, stashed there, used not for the righteous purpose. Giovanni was expelled from the monastery later that day for what he saw.'

His father's anger was growing into a fury:

'And you believe the words of some petty scoundrel?' he yelled at Balthasar. 'You will dare profane the place out of greed?'

'No, father, I seek justice for our family,' Balthasar replied. 'Even if it comes four centuries late. I'll see you at home, father.'

Balthasar waved to his companions and the group paced towards the dusty road, meandering uphill between the rocks.

In a little while the pirates reached the flat top of the cliff where the monastery stood. They approached the entrance leading to the inner courtyard of the cloister silently and with caution.

'Do you think they might be armed?' Yandra asked Balthasar. He snorted at the suggestion and then added:

'These are not the Inquisition, my dear.' Yet he remained on his guard. It proved to have been needless, for, as they stepped inside, they faced the monks huddled together in front of the church at the far end of the yard with Abbot Pietro at the head of the group. Balthasar realized their arrival had been anticipated. However, he did not let this perplex him at all.

'Good day, Father', he spoke aloud. 'How is God doing with his faithful servants in this savage place?' His words were followed by the laughter of his men. The abbot did not seem to be offended by the outrageous blasphemy.

'What do you want from us, signor...' he asked, waiting for the man in black apparel to introduce himself and explain the purpose of his intrusion.

'Captain Balthasar Cossa, ad limina apostolorum,' the pirate answered, slightly bowing his head. On the threshold of the apostles, the line in Latin he added was usually used to suggest a visit to a place of worship, for example, before the Pope in Rome. In a pirate's mouth, however, it came more as ridicule.

'I doubt it that you've come here to seek God's blessings, signor Cossa,' the abbot said. Confusion was growing in his mind. How could a pirate speak those words in Latin, typical of the clergy rather than of scoundrels of his kind?

'I have come here to seek justice for a misdeed done by a predecessor of yours,' Cossa answered, his mockery suddenly turning into accusation.

'And what misdeed could a dead monk have done to you, could I ask?'

'Not to me, but to my entire kin, rather. Are you aware of how Tadius Cossa has contributed to this monastery?'

'Of course, I am aware of that,' Father Pietro answered, still unaware of the pirates' intentions. 'Tadius Cossa's name is carved on the eastern wall of the church, as it was his generosity that helped its building.'

'That is correct.' Balthasar continued. 'And it was the ingratitude of the monks in this cloister that stained my family's honor. Now I am here to correct this injustice by claiming back the gold on behalf of my home.'

The abbot was dumbfounded. He knew only too well that no good would come out of arguing with a pirate.

'I do not know what injustice you mean, but I will not let you desecrate this place. Have you got no fear of God?'

'God has had many chances to punish me,' Balthasar answered with an audacious smile. 'Unlike him, however, I take mine when I get them.' Then, he turned towards his men and ordered:

'Shatter the doors to every room in the monastery and find the cellar!'

The pirates dispersed in all directions to search the building. Balthasar and Yandra remained in the courtyard with the monks, still keeping behind the abbot, watching the raid in silent dismay. None could muster the courage to vent his protest to those savages of pirates. After a while, one of Balthasar's men came back to his leader.

'Captain Cossa, we have searched the cellar out,' he said. By his fluster, Balthasar understood that something was wrong.

'Have you found the gold?' he snapped, making the pirate take a step back. 'Speak, Guindaccio, where is it?'

'There was nothing in the cellar apart from some stocked food and wine. The door was not even locked.'

Balthasar closed his eyes in an attempt to contain the anger seething inside him. He looked to the abbot and uttered threateningly:

'Where have you hidden the gold, Father?' he asked. 'Tell me before I have lost my patience!'

The abbot remained calm, an act of bravery, while the pirates ran back to their captain, empty-handed.

'I have no idea what gold you are seeking in the cellar of our humble monastery.' he said. 'All the gold your forefather Tadius donated is built into the church, decorating this temple of God, according to Tadius's wish.'

'You are lying,' Balthasar spoke with contempt. 'I spoke to a former lay brother of yours – Giovanni. He swore to me he had seen the gold stashed in the cellar. That is why you expelled him.'

Abbot Pietro answered, this time more confidently:

'Then he is the one lying to you, signor Cossa. Giovanni was a thief, we found him sneaking into the cellar and stealing food. That is the reason why he was banished from this place.'

'Liar!' Balthasar cried and reached to unsheathe his sword. Yandra stopped him, placing her hands on his chest.

'Balthasar, don't do this!' she urged him. 'Can't you see he is telling the truth? I saw this man, Giovanni; there was nothing honest or trustworthy about him. Don't do something you will regret all your life.'

Cossa released the grasp of his hand on the handle of his weapon. He looked at Yandra's face for reassurance. She was his guardian angel; also his conscience, for his own had been lost years ago. He moved his gaze to the abbot and the monks, then to the church behind them. No, he was not going to leave empty-handed.

'I still want my family's gold back,' he spoke below his breath. He turned towards his men and gave them orders:

'Take everything from the church that has gold on it – everything!'

The pirates did not even look at each other. They could recognize when their leader was enraged, so they knew better than to raise questions or objections.

The monks, on the other hand, had reached the point of desperation. They lined in front of the church, blocking the intruders' way. Abbot Pietro tried to talk sense into Cossa:

'Have you got no conscience, signor', he asked. 'Call back your men before any blood is spilt on God's land.'

Balthasar's response to the old man's appeal was to draw his sword and pace towards the monks. He aimed a blow at one of them. The weapon struck the man's shoulder and he dropped on the ground. The rest of the monks watched the scene in terror. However, having fallen, their brother clutched his shoulder with his other hand. He seemed to be in pain, but was not seriously wounded. The strike had been with the flat side of Balthasar's sword.

'Next time I will draw blood!' the pirates' captain warned them.

Meanwhile his men had entered the church. Clanks and rattles were coming from inside. After a few minutes, the pirates came out one by one, each of them holding golden and gold-plated items – candlesticks, ornaments from the apse, goblets, even the gold-laced altar cloth.

Balthasar, who had been overseeing the whole operation silently, waved to his men to follow him, walking towards the gate leading out of the monastery.

Father Pietro and his monks watched the procession with pained expressions. Some of them were weeping.

Father Pietro could not help making a few steps in the wake of the looters, clenching his fists and shouting after them.

'May this gold you now take away decorate the walls of your grave, Balthasar Cossa!'

The Director looked at me while uttering the abbot's words.

'Now, that is truly a sinful crime, if you ask me,' was all I could say.

'Still, it's not Balthasar's worst,' the professor answered. 'The gold he steals from the monastery is to help him achieve his ambitions, and they are not righteous, either, to say the least. The irony is that after his death, Balthasar Cossa is buried in a tomb plated with sheets of gold, made by Donatello himself.'

'The famous sculptor from Florence?' I could not conceal my disbelief.

'Well, I think you are the one writing a dissertation on the Italian Renaissance, aren't you?' the Director answered laughing. 'How many Donatellos do you know?'

My eyes moved onto the sonnet. I read the corresponding lines aloud:

### For his faith he turned into mortal sin,

### He shall rest in his golden restraint.

'His golden restraint,' I muttered, and then asked, 'but how come a mere pirate became so important that one of the most significant artists of the Renaissance decorates his tomb?'

'You are well on your way to find out. But let us first see what figures next in Cossa's agenda. With enough riches at his disposal, he makes land and pays a visit to Pope Boniface – you already know how they know each other. Boniface keeps his promise and grants Balthasar an Episcopal dignity or, in other words, Balthasar Cossa becomes the new Bishop of Bologna. It sounds like fiction, but it is not. You see, Boniface is a man who can assess people – he recognizes Cossa's makings and sends him to Bologna for two reasons: first, this is the city Balthasar prefers himself, and secondly, but more importantly, it is one of the major cities that is still reluctant to support Boniface in his opposition to the Avignon Papacy.'

'And the pirates' captain is supposed to win the desired support?' I asked, this time with honest skepticism.

'Of course, he is. The clerical intrigues at that time were played out by fair means or foul – at times drawing more blood than wars. Is not a cut-throat the perfect choice for the job?'

'Alright, maybe he is.' I yielded to his arguments. 'But what about the people in Bologna – as we know, Cossa already has enemies there.'

'That is true,' the Director agreed. 'However, with all the gold he has, along with the fact that he is the new bishop, people know better than to speak against him. But the Episcopal dignity is not the end of Balthasar's ambitions. Once he strengthens his position in the Bolognese society, he considers the time has come for him to move further on. He goes to Florence to meet an old friend of his father's – the patriarch of a rising prosperous family.'

The professor looked again at me. He was urging me to guess.

'The Medici?' that was my first thought.

'That's right,' the Director nodded. 'Giovanni di Bicci de' Medici is a banker and therefore the wealthiest and most powerful man in Florence. He wants to expand his influence outside the city, especially to Rome. Although he supports Boniface, he understands the fragile situation in the Vatican and wants to place a strong figure, faithful to him only, to promote his own interests in the Papacy. Balthasar Cossa appears to be the right man for the task. He is determined, cunning, and financially backed by di Bicci – a candidate for the Cardinal's garb loyal to the House of Medici.'

I could not think of anything else to ask. I eagerly expected the professor to continue his story of this depraved, yet remarkable man.

Chapter V

### Shadows his home, serpents – his kin,

### With vice his glory is forever stain'd.

The wide atrium of St. Peter's Basilica resounded with the toll of the bells announcing the end of vespers. It was Holy Thursday and the Christian world celebrated the Lord's Last Supper. All the basilicas in Rome sang with the heavenly chorus of their belfries. Like any of them, St. Peter was crowded both inside and all around.

With the last toll fading away, Cardinal Balthasar Cossa left the basilica through a side door leading to a narrow alley out of the Vatican. At the end of the passage, surrounded by the solid structures of the Papal domains, he emerged on the wide square in front of the Basilica. The place was also jammed with worshipers, gathered for the mass at the heart of Christendom, where the Holy Father was lavishing his blessings on his flock. Thousands of candle-lights were flickering in the evening, creating a faerie scene in unison with fires burning on both sides of the gateway to the Basilica.

"And Jesus said to Peter: 'Shepherd my sheep,'" Balthasar thought, watching the crowd struggling to get closer to their holy shepherd and hear his sacred words.

He pushed his way through the crowd, his scarlet garments and the heavy golden crucifix hidden underneath his black cloak. He was being jostled by the crowd, heading as he was against the current. When he finally reached a quiet by-street, the tension inside him abated. He was pacing slowly now, relaxed and reassured in the shadows of the buildings on both sides of him. Darkness had always been a source of comfort to Balthasar. He felt more self-confident under the cover of the night. He despised the bustle and clamour of the day and crowds called forth a sense of insecurity in him. Even now, empowered by the Cardinal dignity and being referred to as His Eminence, Balthasar only regained courage in the seclusion of darkness and in the anonymity of his cloak.

Still, walking along the cobbled street, he felt unrest surging inside him. He had been hiding in shadows for as long as he remembered – always waiting for the night to fall, always stealing in stealth. He was now a Cardinal, and a powerful one at that, for he was a trustee of the Pope himself and every important decision made in the Vatican was first submitted to his approval. Yet every night he had to pick his way along secluded alleys like the one he was pacing now. Be it to visit one of the women he was fornicating with regularly, or to meet some of his informants, he always walked alone in the dangerous streets of the Eternal City.

Balthasar tried to chase his anxious thoughts away from his mind. He had made his choices long ago and there was no turning back. To him darkness had become a step-mother he had learnt to love and turn to when in need of protection. Truly, he wanted to step out in the light and confess his sins to the world – no longer hiding, no longer walking in the gloom. But Balthasar had also learnt to be patient, knowing full well that if the desired end was to be achieved, darkness remained the staunchest of allies.

Cardinal Cossa reached the end of the silent alley. At the back of a huge two-storey building a small single-horse carriage was waiting for him. The lackey was sitting on the bench, holding the sturdy mare in place, so that the Cardinal could settle himself comfortably in the seat. Once the eminent passenger was comfortable, the young man jerked the reins and the carriage set out towards the wide promenade along the Tiber.

The turbulent waters of the river were running with a roar, producing foamy waves that contrasted with the black surface. The seasonal heavy rains heralding the arrival of spring had awoken the power of the Tiber. There had been several floods in the past, causing the Romans to fear the majestic river as much as they took pride in it.

The swift currents reminded Balthasar of the last few years of his life. They had passed in mad pursuit of his ambitions. And things had gone well so far, in this wild race. In just a few years he had climbed up the ecclesiastical ladder – from a dubiously appointed bishop with a shady past to a powerful Cardinal held in dread and respect by all. The privileged start he owed to the late Pope Boniface and to the luck he had had capturing the ship carrying the pontiff off the Sardinia. But his way to Rome afterwards had been far from easy. During his spell in Bologna, Balthasar had not only been indulging the privileges his high position offered him. He had taken full advantage of it and had gained formidable influence in and outside of his diocese. It had provided him with precious new acquaintances with rich and powerful figures around the country. Relying on his father's long-time friendship with the Florentine banker Giovanni di Bicci – the patriarch of the Medici family – Cossa had had a solid backing which allowed him to aim even higher – at the very Vatican. However, Balthasar's energetic ascent had also left a bitter taste to linger, mingled with the delight of success. Now, watching the Tiber from on top his carriage, the Cardinal came to think of the close people whom he had abandoned while pursuing his career.

'Just like the river leaves the mountains where its spring is, runs along villages, forests and leaves them too behind...' he thought.

Thus, Balthasar had turned his back on his family – he had not seen them ever since his raid on Amalfi. He had used his father's name to gain acceptance in the houses of nobles, most importantly of the Medici's, but he knew that he would never again be welcome at home. He had broken off any contacts with his brothers – still pirates, for associating them with Balthasar's now good name was undesirable. But most of all he regretted leaving even Yandra behind. The only woman he had ever had deep feelings for had refused to move to Rome with him. She had talked sense into him, reminding him that following him might cost him dearly, given her heretical practices. And there he was now – alone in the dark hours of Holy Thursday, traveling in secret along the empty streets of Rome.

Once again Balthasar had to try and chase away the melancholy from his mind. He needed to concentrate on the matters at hand. A sudden turn of events was a constant occurrence around him these days and he needed to act as swiftly as possible. Success was as close as downfall, and nothing short of all was at stake. And he was well aware of how hard the rise to power is.

The huge financial support di Bicci had provided had been sufficient for Balthasar to acquire the Cardinal dignity. From this eminent vantage point, he had had the power to promote the interests of his benefactor, as the Vatican's political sway was just as unconditional as its otherworldly authority. But Balthasar Cossa had been reluctant to content himself with that. The Vatican was the hub of political scheming and once he had secured his place there, he had determined to go all the way up to the top. The Episcopal dignity that he had been granted by Boniface was no unwonted practice of the high clergy, as Balthasar had discovered. Simony – or trading with holy offices – had quickly become an easy way for the Pope, as well as for Cardinals, to lay their hands on wealth. And the Holy See had much more to offer the cunning opportunist that the former cut-throats' captain had become.

Balthasar had entered the College of Cardinals in times of trouble. The successor of the late Pope Boniface IX – Innocent VII – had been a weak pontiff who had not managed to survive the storm brewing within the Vatican during his rule. He had died two years following his election. The current Pope – Gregory XII – had had the uneasy task of trying to keep the Holy See together and to vindicate his authority in the eyes of his powerful opponent – the Avignon Pope Benedict XIII. Throughout the rule of the weak Innocent, Benedict had gained the loyalty of some Vatican Cardinals by means of bribery and promises of bounty. As a result, an invisible struggle had been simmering between the supporters of Gregory and the minions of Avignon, who were trying to undermine his power.

Balthasar had discerned the opportunity to expand his own influence within the Vatican. He had made public his strong support of Gregory, thus gaining the pontiff's trust and becoming one of his few confidants. At the same time, Cossa had been investing the wealth acquired through simony to build up a web of spies and informers, to keep one step ahead of the Cardinals loyal to the Palais des Papes. He had also counted on the Cardinals supporting Pope Gregory. Balthasar had distinguished the likes of him among them – the cunning and ambitious – and had convened a secret council where they discussed the prospects of the Papacy. They had quickly discovered mutual profit, judging Gregory's incapability of repelling the deceptive influence the Anti-pope of Avignon exerted on him. The Papa Luna, as Benedict was often referred to in ecclesiastical circles, had let Gregory believe in his willingness to renounce his claims to the Papacy, once the Roman pontiff did so. But Balthasar and his companions were aware of the unholy motive behind such false meekness.

It was one of the Secret Council's meetings that Cardinal Cossa was heading towards tonight. The carriage was following a route specified by His Eminence beforehand – through narrow streets he had presumed would be empty, the masses being held in the basilicas all over the city. They had gone off course a few times – when the lackey had spotted casual worshippers on their way back home earlier, or on the orders of his master, over-anxious about being followed. Finally, the carriage pulled out of the maze of narrow alleys onto the open square surrounding the Coliseum, its wheels rattling on the flagstones. It skirted round the ancient amphitheatre, both lackey and passenger indifferent to its sublimity, only to dive into another side-road. Shortly after it had left the great building behind, the carriage pulled up in front of a heavy wooden gate. It was wide open, so the Cardinal alighted briskly and entered a rectangular courtyard, surrounded by wooden arcades supporting a red-tiled roof.

The place was empty save for a couple of men clad in a similar way to Balthasar – dark cloaks covering their spare figures. They kept themselves between two columns, supporting the whitewashed façade of Basilica di San Clemente. The courtyard where Cardinal Cossa now stood was in fact the atrium to the basilica built in the late eleventh century.

Balthasar walked towards the two men. Their faces were shadowed by their hoods, as was his, but once he approached, they removed them to make themselves known.

'Good evening, Monsignor Cossa,' the Cardinal was greeted by a hollow-cheeked man he knew by the name of Tommaso Manzoli – the minister of San Clemente. 'The others are gathered downstairs awaiting your arrival.' he added.

'Do inform them that I am here and that I shall join them in a minute,' Balthasar commanded him in a peremptory tone. Once Manzoli had disappeared obediently inside the basilica, he turned to the other man. 'Be welcome to the Eternal city, brother.'

Ottaviano Ottaviani, a patrician of Florence, smiled under his prominent nose and embraced Cossa. He was a political activist highly recommended to Balthasar by Giovanni di Bicci. The two had got on rather well during the bishop's stay in Florence, so Cossa had invited Ottaviani to Rome, considering him a useful addition to the council.

'How did the mass go?' Balthasar asked. 'It appears that Manzoli has sent the congregation away earlier than expected.'

'There were not too many of them.' the patrician replied. 'I guess most attended the liturgy at St. Peter's.'

'And in what spirits are the other brethren?'

'They seem to be on edge. Those who arrived before the end of the mass could hardly wait for everyone to leave and slipped in right after. Your being late must have got on their nerves.'

'So much the better', Balthasar smiled. 'It would make them the more resolute. Let us join them, shall we?'

The two men entered the basilica. The interior of the nave was decorated richly – stained glass filled the narrow windows behind the marble columns of arcades. The floor was inlaid in the Cosmati style – named after the Roman dynasty of architects famous for their decorative church floors. The apse above the episcopal seat was ornate with twelfth-century Byzantine mosaics.

However, Cardinal Cossa and his companion paid little attention to this exquisite interior. Once inside, they stepped down narrow stairs descending steeply to a lower level of San Clemente – the remains of the ancient basilica. The home of a Roman nobleman of yore, it had been converted to a temple in the late fourth century and dedicated to Pope Clement I.

Balthasar and Ottaviani found themselves in a narrow corridor leading to a small chamber. Manzoli was waiting for them on the threshold. He bowed slightly and left for the stairs back to the basilica above. The two men stepped inside. A long wooden table stood in the middle of the room, surrounded by a dozen of crude wooden stools. The latter were all occupied, save for two at the near end of the table. The members of the Council were looking at the late arrivals, their faces illuminated by the candle-light.

'Good evening, brothers,' Balthasar spoke in an even voice. 'I beg you to forgive my delay.'

'Good evening, brother Balthasar,' Cossa was answered by a harsh-looking, stout man, his short grayish hair giving him a lordly air. 'Thanks be to God that you have not forgotten to join us tonight.' he added with a sardonic smile. His name was Ludovico Bonito, Archbishop of Tarento, and like Cossa, he also enjoyed the trust of the Pope. That was why he was the only one on the Council who never refrained from criticizing Balthasar.

Balthasar gave Bonito a curt nod, dismissing the caustic remark, though not without a hint of annoyance, and spoke again to all the men present:

'Now that all of us are gathered together, let us begin our discussion, for before long our absence will raise questions in the Vatican, especially at that late hour and on Holy Thursday.' Cardinal Cossa paused to meet the eyes set on him. They gave away respect and expectation, save for Ludovico Bonito's, who was watching bleakly the table before him. Balthasar went on.

'You are all well aware of how complicated our circumstances have grown lately,' he said. 'Pope Gregory no longer listens to our reasoning. His Holiness believes a peaceful exodus from the schism is in sight, and it is exactly his peaceful disposition that renders him weak. He has been disillusioned by that Antichrist in Avignon, while Luna's minions have been plotting to take over the Vatican.' Balthasar paused again to let the others ponder over his words and then added: 'Unless we act with resolution, we might well witness the fall of our Holy Church.'

'Cossa is right,' the apostolic notary Giacopo del Torso broke the silence. 'Benedict's suggestions that we should negotiate the end of the dissent by making mutual compromises might be to the liking of the Pope, but it will cost him his head. Luna is greedy and insolent. He will see Gregory off and move in to Rome, as if it were his birth right.'

'Or even worse,' Balthasar added, 'he may disband the Vatican and set the Holy See in the Palais des Papes for good.'

It was Ludovico Bonito's turn to speak his mind.

'Gregory is disillusioned by Benedict and his minions – this you are right about. The question is what we – the enlightened ones on the matter – should do, when our Holy Father no longer listens to us?'

'Yes, we can hardly talk sense into him.' Cossa agreed grimly. 'He is so obsessed with his diplomatic attitude towards Avignon that he regards us – his supporters – with suspicion, while courting those mercenary traitors, paid by Benedict to dethrone him.'

'Indeed he is.' the words of consent came from Monsignor Bandello Bandelli. The bishop of Rimini was a stumpy man with obtrusive manners, but a sharp mind. 'The latest news is that Gregory intends to put that pseudo cardinal Philip de Brion in charge of the treasury – to refute Benedict's accusations of embezzlement.'

'Yes, it is because a rumour reached him about funds being drawn out for some rogue council of Cardinals,' Balthasar said brusquely, glancing around. All of them looked down, except Cardinal Bonito.

'Then what do you suggest that we should do, brother Cossa?' the latter asked defiantly.

'It seems to me, brothers,' Balthasar spoke resolutely, 'that we are in desperate need of action, for despair there is plenty about the present situation.' He paused to let his words take effect. Most of the others gave him sidelong looks, in silent anticipation.

'Pope Gregory is our Holy Father,' Balthasar went on. 'But it appears that we no longer are his beloved sons. His acts and his yielding to Luna's deceit endanger our welfare, as well as the prosperity of our Church. Therefore, I find it to be our duty to protect the Holy See by eliminating its head, which is now turned to a fatal direction.'

No one spoke – all were looking at Cossa deeply shocked. Even Ludovico Bonito's confidence seemed shaken. Still, it was he who finally ventured an opinion:

'Even if we come to agreement to act as you are suggesting,' he began warily, 'the people might regard it as treason. You know how sensitive they are about their pontiff and we might well provoke a revolt as a result.'

'Do not worry about the people.' Balthasar replied with contempt. 'They do not worry Benedict – you can be sure about that. Did you not see them today – on the steps in front of St. Peter's? They shall worship anyone who sits on the throne – even if it is the Devil himself. If we act swiftly and have a new Pope enthroned immediately after Gregory is down, the people will celebrate, as they are wont, their new Holy Father, no matter how he is elected.' A sardonic grin appeared on his face and he added in Latin: 'Aures habent et non audient – Ears they do have, but hear they shall not.'

Bonito did not even attempt a retort. The great Cardinal was so dumbfounded by Cossa that he was at a loss for words.

Balthasar sensed he was the undisputed victor on that meeting.

'If any of you has something to say, let him speak.'

No one did. Then, Cardinal Cossa rose from his chair, followed by Ottaviani.

'Therefore we shall act,' he spoke grimly. 'Immediately after Resurrection, you shall receive my notice of how we shall proceed.'

A minute later, Balthasar and his Florentine companion were crossing the atrium of San Clemente.

'So has the matter been settled?' Ottaviani could hardly believe what he had just witnessed. 'To be honest, I was expecting a prolonged debate.'

'Such is the way of power,' the Cardinal replied curtly. 'The more ruthless the suggestion – the less likely the dissent.'

Chapter VI

Angelo was walking at a brisk pace across the narrow square before the Schola Apostolica – the wide two-storey building situated at the north-western end of the Vatican complex. All was quiet around, with only lower-clergy occasionally crossing the square. But even they seemed to be in no hurry, as if promenading leisurely, enjoying the fresh spring morning. It was Tuesday after Easter and peace had once again returned to the Holy See. Following the three days of festivities marking Christ's Resurrection, life within the confines of the Vatican had fallen back into its usual routine.

The square was bathing in sunlight, the air light and scented with the blossoms of the nearby orchards. The uplifting weather heightened Angelo's spirits. Life has not always been that favourable to the fourteen-year-old neophyte. Born to a good family – his father had been a merchant – he had known disaster at an early age, when his mother had died while giving birth to a brother of his. His sibling had not survived either, and his father had not managed to bear the pain caused by the double loss. He had abandoned his trade and gone broke, eventually putting an end to his misery by drowning himself in the Tiber. Angelo had been barely six years old and would have faced a forlorn fate in an orphanage, had it not been for his uncle – Cardinal Marino Colonna, who had taken him under his wing. He had sent the boy to the apostolic school in the Vatican, where Angelo had been raised in the Catholic faith. Since then he had known no other life than the one in the service of God, taught him by his rigid mentor Father Luca.

Although life as a neophyte had often been tough, he had found great comfort and solace within the Vatican's confines. He had absorbed the atmosphere of the ancient place, filled with reverence for the grandeur of the institution and with humble gratitude for God's grace to welcome him in His earthly domains. Even after his uncle Marino had passed away a couple of years before, Angelo had felt no sense of being left alone. He regarded the apostolic school as his home, was cozy in his bare chamber in the boarding-house. A diligent student, Angelo was highly thought of by his mentor, although Father Luca never praised him, always urging him to greater effort. The boy's zeal to excel in the field of theology, together with his veneration for the higher clergy, had made him seek the attention of the Cardinals, whenever he spotted any of them around.

Thus Angelo had come to know Monsignor Pietro Calvi – an intelligent man in his late forties, who had felt fatherly affection for the studious boy. Pietro had devoted some of his time in the Vatican to enlightening the young neophyte further.

Calvi was one of the Cardinals authorized by Pope Gregory to maintain the diplomatic relations between Rome and Avignon. Supporting passionately the idea of a peaceful solution to the schism, he often traveled between the two Papal capitals, carrying out what he considered a sacred mission – the unity of all Christendom. Pietro Calvi kept aloof from both factions in the College of Cardinals – the Roman radicals, led by Balthasar Cossa and Ludovico Bonito, and the alleged Avignon loyalists. Inevitably, he was regarded by the former as one of the traitors of Gregory, because of his ambassadorship at Benedict's. But Calvi had learnt to ignore their spiteful attitude, hoping his efforts would bear fruit.

He had been teaching Angelo to share his belief in the eventual welfare of Christianity. Recognizing the boy as a bright and promising novice, he wanted to win him over to the righteous doctrine, as he knew Angelo would one day grow to find his place of dignity in the Vatican.

'You may have lost your father when still an infant,' he had told him once, 'but never has the Lord abandoned you. He is your heavenly father, and a loving one, for he has guided your steps towards his worldly deputy – the Pope. He is your earthly father now and you must love him and pray for his well-being, for he has millions of sons and daughters to look after.'

'I know that, Monsignor.' Angelo would reply humbly. 'But why are there two Popes? Isn't there to be one Holy Father of all Christians?'

'Indeed, Angelo, there should be only one,' Calvi would reassure the boy. 'But people are being disunited – by borders, kingdoms and sovereigns – and thus they have forgotten who their true Lord is. But God is merciful and wants them united again. So he placed another deputy of his – another Pope, to whom the ones who have abandoned the Roman Church can turn. But it is His divine providence that his people come together again – before one Pope, as they are before one God. And whoever sits on St. Peter's Throne you will love him, Angelo, for he will be your father. And when you grow older and stronger, you will guard him, for many are the challenges God sends to our Holy Shepherds.'

Then, Pietro had given Angelo a beautifully wrought dagger that he had bought during one of his voyages, and had made the boy swear to protect the present and future Popes from harm. And Angelo had given his pledge.

Today, he was heading beyond the confines of his home, elated. He was due to meet again with Cardinal Calvi, who had returned to Rome for the Easter celebrations.

Angelo traversed the hall of the apostolic school and reached the rear entrance. Next he crossed the small atrium leading to the buildings of the College of Cardinals, where the ecclesiastical chambers were situated. He entered through the marble gateway, whose huge columns on both sides supported a heavy tympanum above. The interior of the building was a breath-taking amalgam of marble and stone – remnants of the original Roman construction and the modern decoration with statues and stained-glass. Although he had already seen the interior of the building on several occasions before, and spent hours there copying old manuscripts, Angelo could not help staring around in awe, as he ascended the staircase to the second floor. The upper floor of the building was less spectacular – a narrow corridor with a dozen doors on both sides – housing the Cardinals' quarters and some offices of the College.

The boy walked slowly down the quiet passage to the second door on the left and knocked. No answered followed. Angelo hesitated at first, but decided to try the door. It was locked. He turned around, wondering why Monsignor Calvi was not in his chambers. Had he confused the hour and day? Then, as he was walking back towards the stairs, he heard voices behind him. He walked back down the corridor, warily. Perhaps Calvi was somewhere around? Angelo heard the voices again – they were coming from another chamber further away – and growing more and more distinct on his approach. He hesitated; maybe he had better wait for Calvi to show up? But then he made out the Cardinal's name in the conversation.

'I'm telling you, Giacopo!' one of the voices said bleakly. 'Calvi left for Avignon early this morning. He was instructed by Gregory himself.'

Angelo came closer to the door. It was left slightly open. Through the aperture the boy saw the apostolic notary, Giacopo del Torso, standing with a troubled expression on his face. The other man was out of sight.

'Are you sure about the nature of the instructions?' del Torso asked.

'Positively – our Holy Father summoned me yesterday, right after the Mass. He told me about this vision he had received in which God spoke to him. He will surrender his claims to the Papacy and offer Luna an agreement.'

The notary frowned and so did Angelo on the other side of the door. Monsignor Calvi had told him how infuriated the supporters of Gregory were by his aptitude to negotiate with Benedict. The cold, even voice went on.

'Go and raise Ottaviani – the man who accompanied me on our last meeting. He is at Sant'Angelo, waiting for my signal. Then go and fetch Bonito and the others. I will send a note to Gregory to receive us in the Hall. We shall meet there.'

'But what are we going to do with him?' del Torso's tone had become anxious.

'I do not think we have any other options left,' the other man whispered, 'but to do away with him. Listen to me, Giacopo, if we do not act –', suddenly he broke off, as Angelo exclaimed at hearing those last words.

The boy put his palms over his mouth, but it was too late. Del Torso turned and stared at him, motionless and clearly startled. The boy heard steps and then the door flew wide open. Angelo could only see the scowling face of Cardinal Balthasar Cossa before he broke into a run. He heard a shout behind his back, but did not turn back.

He flew through the corridor and descended the stairs without taking a breath. Thoughts were crossing his mind hectically: 'A plot to kill the Pope! Orchestrated by Cardinals!' He had to warn Calvi, but then he remembered Cossa's words. 'Calvi must be miles away by now.' What should he do?

At the foot of the stairs Angelo stopped for a brief moment. He turned opposite to where he had entered the building. He barely knew the place, but remembered seeing a passageway leading deeper into the Vatican. He ran straight through it, a couple of times coming to a halt to make sure no one was chasing him. He finally reached a spacious foyer whose windows gave onto a beautiful garden.

Walking along a path of slabstones at the far end of the garden, Angelo saw him – Pope Gregory XII. He was promenading leisurely, a well-clad man beside him. They seemed to be engaged in a conversation as they walked. 'I need to warn him – my Holy Father.'

Angelo went straight to the door. It was locked. He cast a desperate glance around. Through the window, he saw another door, just around the corner from where he stood. It was left wide open, so the boy rushed for it. Once outside, he paced briskly towards where the pontiff was, suddenly aware of the scale of what was happening and the eminence of the men involved.

As he approached, the Pope and his companion noticed the boy and stared at him in wonder. A door opened behind their backs. Angelo froze with terror. Cardinal Balthasar Cossa and a couple of hard-looking men beside him emerged from it. The Holy Father noticed them, too, and the confusion on his face doubled. Cossa was pacing firmly towards him.

'Dear Lord', Angelo whispered desperately. 'It is happening!'

He caught a glimpse of a metallic flash underneath the Cardinal's robe. The boy remembered the promise he had given Pietro Calvi. His hands searched his belt for the dagger, as his feet carried him towards the Pope. But Cossa was closer.

'What is going on, brother Balthasar?' the pontiff demanded peremptorily, as the Cardinal approached him.

Cossa stopped before him and replied grimly:

'Treason, your Holiness. You have been betrayed.'

Angelo made a final dash. With the dagger in his hand, he lunged at the Cardinal. Pope Gregory started back, giving away a shout of surprise. It was followed by a cry, filled with pain and despair.

Angelo dropped the dagger. It rang out as it hit the slabstones. The boy looked down to his chest to see Cossa's hand clutching the handle of a stiletto – its thin sharp blade plunged into the young flesh. Then, Angelo collapsed on the ground.

Pope Gregory and his companion were looking at the boy in dismay.

'What was this all about?' he asked in a muffled tone, but then gathered his wits again and added brusquely: 'Brother Balthasar, I demand an explanation!'

'There was a plot, your Holiness,' Cossa answered firmly. 'The Cardinals who have been deceiving you with foul talks of truce with Avignon were mere minions of Luna conspiring against you. I believe they had sent this boy to kill you.'

The Pope looked again at Angelo's body, in disbelief. But then his stare fixed on the dagger the boy had dropped when pierced by Cossa. On its handle, amidst other engravings, there was a silvery crescent, its edges pointing down – the symbol of Benedict XIII – El Papa Luna.

The Director finished his narration and stared out the windows of his office. It was raining, the drops slashing against the glass outside of the panes. For a moment we both stood quiet. It was I who finally broke the silence:

'Does Balthasar have the Pope killed at the end?' I finally ventured, still captivated by the story.

'No, he does not,' the professor replied calmly. 'Thanks to the fortunate turn of events – I mean the boy's elimination – he uses his guile to convince Gregory that there really was a plot against him. Of course, he never proves the involvement of the so-called 'traitors' – the Cardinals who allegedly support Benedict. But it is enough for Gregory to drop the idea of negotiations with Avignon, though only for a short while. And by the time he renews his conscientious efforts to end the schism, Cossa has already extended further his power within the Vatican. He calls on a Council in Constance, where Gregory is forced to abdicate.'

He looked again towards the windows, taking the sheet with the sonnet.

'That was the story of Balthasar Cossa – the man who inspired this sonnet. You know,' he added thoughtfully, 'I think you may be right about the purpose of this, come to think of it. It might be edification after all, or at least some form of repentance.'

I gave the Director a quizzical look, for I did not understand what he meant. Then I remembered where we had begun this intriguing story. There was one thing I still found hard to fathom.

'I am still missing the main point,' I said. 'What does Pope John XXIII – the author of the sonnet – have to do with Balthasar Cossa and his ascent to power?'

The professor smiled, looking into my eyes.

'He has everything to do with him,' he replied. 'For Pope John XXIII is Balthasar Cossa.'

His answer hung in the air for a prolonged silent while. I tried to run through the whole story in my mind and comprehend the revelation. The Director noticed my confusion and lent me a hand.

'The Council in Constance results not only in the abdication of Gregory XII,' he resumed. 'Consequently, a new Pope is elected and by now you should have been able to guess who that is by knowing from the story about Cossa's influence among the Cardinals. So, in 1410, Cardinal Balthasar Cossa takes the Papal name of John XXIII. As a Pope, he is accused of a number of misdeeds, such as simony, or else trading with indulgencies. The latter is a document of a person's sins being remitted, issued by the Pope himself in exchange for a great deal of money, of course. He is also charged with assassinations of his opponents, as well as with fornication with hundreds of women, nuns among them. Pope John's reputation is so stained that the Vatican tries to erase the memory of his rule for centuries after. Documents are destroyed; also any form of memorabilia – statues, plaques, and walls of buildings – every spot that preserved his name has been removed. Only his gold-plated tomb designed by Donatello is still kept in Florence, thanks to the Medici. The gratitude of the great family is not due to sheer affection for Cossa. Pope John XXIII establishes the Vatican Bank, allegedly run by the Medici.'

'Eventually, in 1958, when Cardinal Angelo Roncalli was elected Pope, he assumed the name of John the twenty-third, putting an end to the five-century long tradition of pontiffs' avoiding that name, because of Balthasar Cossa. Today, the once-pirate is present in the Papal chronicles as Antipope John XXIII. Apart from his tomb, only documents stored in the Vatican archives bear evidence of Cossa's papacy and who he was in fact.'

The Director paused. For the first time today he looked tired of relating the story of the depraved pope.

'It is ironic, isn't it?' he added after a while. 'That the man who incarnates the most wicked of all sins should become the saintly shepherd of all Christians. On his election and throughout his reign, he was celebrated and loved by his congregation like any other pontiff. Obviously, people did not know him, or even if they have, I don't believe it would have made any difference.'

He gave out a quiet sigh, followed by a snort. Then he fell silent again.

'One last question, professor,' I begged. 'Why do you think Pope John wrote this sonnet, evidently with regret?'

The professor smiled and lifted his spectacles to rub his eyes.

'I don't know,' he said. 'I will let you ponder it yourself. I'll be happy to hear your suggestion later.'

### Epilogue

The rain was easing off, though raindrops were still falling over me. I did not mind that – the murky weather was perfect for introverts like me to debate with themselves. As I walked lost in thought on my way back home, I felt emptiness inside. Not because I had not done any progress on the subject of my dissertation. It was rather that sort of emptiness one feels when facing an existential question, raised by some revelation.

The mystery the Director left me to brood over – the motive behind the sonnet written by the pirate-pope – had lodged itself into my mind. Why would this man, who had abandoned his theological studies to become a pirate, lived his entire life in sin – killing people, fornicating with women, plundering ships and villages – and had risen to become the head of all Christendom, would write a confession of his depravity?

I tried to imagine Balthasar Cossa in papal garments, seated on the Vatican's throne. How would he have felt? I pictured him with a complacent smile on his face, secretly mocking at the congregation gathered to worship him as a Saint: him – the cutthroat, the fornicator, the blasphemer. I wondered whether the sonnet is but a piece of mockery, a way to express his complacency. What Balthasar had done was to simply take advantage of human nature. He knew sin well, for he lived a sinful life. And is not sin an integral part of human nature? Has it not been thus since the dawn of time?

Men are both divine and evil – we are the ones who create and then corrupt our creations. Men felt love and turned it into lust. Men invented money to make life easier and instead became greedy. Men created hierarchy to put order in society and became hungry for power. Men had faith in God, but religion invented rules to prevent people from committing sins, although it is natural for them to do so. And it made them fear punishment, and hope for salvation. But at the same time, it also gave them a sense of security and of justice. Balthasar has used that mechanism to aspire to power, well aware of the sinful nature of mankind. He bribed and manipulated thus gaining influence. He relied on peoples' repentance and thus became wealthy, but never repented of his own sins. He turned away from the Christian laws, even broke them, to prosper and eventually find himself atop all righteous.

I wondered what moral I could draw from the story. How have men's values changed since Balthasar Cossa's time? Have they really changed? Are we not still but a flock of sheep, seeking security in life by following rules? Truly, the rules have changed since. Logically, when Christian dogmas lost their grasp on people's minds, they were substituted for other ideals. One thing alone has not changed at all – people's worshipping money, for Mammon has been perhaps the true One God of all mankind throughout human civilization. Just as Balthasar's contemporaries strove for wealth, believing it can buy them happiness, so do we today. We do not commit simony, in order to become more powerful, but are not the wealthy and influential those who dictate our lives? We do not spend our savings on indulgencies to save our souls, but we do buy ourselves some tiny bits of happiness. Therefore, are we not also to be mocked?

And while abiding by the laws of our society, are we not secretly worshipping those who break them? Just like the congregation at Balthasar Cossa's feet. There have been dozens of his kind since – dictators, murderers, and fornicators, corrupt and wicked men. And have they not been adored by the multitudes? Surely, history offers many such examples. More often than not, such shady figures get away with it and even find their place in history, the story of their sins being told from one generation to the next.

So is it not natural for men to sin? It must be, for otherwise why would we admire the ones who sin? Suppressing our own depravity, we turn the depraved into heroes. Told not to kill, we bow before murderers, like sheep worshiping their butchers. We were taught to expel lust from our souls, yet we see the 'righteous' paying court to the wicked. Convinced that greed is taint, we envy the wealthy and their aspiration for more. Is it because they all incarnate what has been forbidden us? Is it our true nature that makes us raise pedestals for them to look down from on us with complacency? If so, they should only be right to do it. For we – the small sinners, nailed to high ideals, look up to them – the bold, the unscrupulous, the depraved.

And thus being the greatest sinners among us, they ascend the pulpit to become our Saints. Just like Balthasar Cossa:

### For before saints he lived by the sin,

amidst sinners he shall rise a Saint!

### AUTHOR'S NOTE

Although built on historical facts, The Blackhearted Saint is composed mostly of fictional events and characters. However, the plot is not that far from the real story of Balthasar Cossa. The six episodes in this novella are inspired by historical data about the life of this controversial persona. In the present Note, I will reveal more details about Cossa's part in one of the most obscure chapters of Vatican history. To anyone with the desire to find out further more about the real Balthasar Cossa I highly recommend The Life and Activity of Balthazar Cossa (Pope John XXIII) by the Greek author Alexander Paradisis – an extensive research based on original documents and facts.

As in this book, the real Balthasar Cossa is born on the island of Ischia, in a noble family. After a short service in the army, he moves to Bologna to study Theology. It is there that he meets Yandra Cappistrana – a talented young woman from the lower nobility, hunted by the Inquisition because of her skills and knowledge in astrology and chemistry - talents regarded as witchcraft by the Church. It is Cossa's attempt to save her from the claws of the Inquisitors the reason he flees from Bologna, taking Yandra with him. He then joins his brothers and becomes a notorious pirate. Years later, he abandons piracy to enter service to Pope Boniface IX, tormenting corrupt clergymen and supporting the Pope in his campaign to reclaim his power across Italy. It is the time of the so-called Papal Schism during which two Popes – one in Rome and one in Avignon – simultaneously claim to be the rightful heir to the Throne of Saint Peter. In this delicate time, Balthasar Cossa cunningly manages to climb up the Vatican hierarchy, always a trusted ally of number of Popes, from both Rome and Avignon, throughout the Schism. Following the Council of Constance in 1410, he becomes Pope John XXIII and remains in office until 1415 when he is forced to abdicate.

The connection between Balthasar Cossa's ascent to power and the Medici family is presumed by many authors on the subject, including Alexander Paradisis. It is believed that Cossa's tomb, designed and built by Donatello in 1424, is purchased namely by the famous Florentine clan in recognition of the former Pope's merits for their prosperity.

The attitude of the Vatican chronologists towards the papacy of Balthasar Cossa has already been described in the present volume, in the narration of the Director. Following centuries of denial, Cossa is eventually enlisted as Antipope John XXIII, and an ending of the controversy is put in 1958 when Angelo Roncalli is elected Pope and chooses the regnal name of John XXIII, in official recognition of Balthasar Cossa's illegitimacy. In total contrast with him, the twentieth-century Pope John XXIII is a charitable and righteous pontiff.

Luckily, the story of the first Pope John XXIII has not been buried by the unforgiving sands of Time. It has survived for us, the seekers of 'tales of mystery in the gales of history', to rediscover – the tale of Balthasar Cossa – the pirate who became Pope.
