"The Vault of bones" - читать интересную книгу автора (Vaughan-Hughes Pip)

Chapter Five

After the two knights had shown us out of the inn we strolled in silence across the square. The Captain was frowning slightly.

'Did that meet your expectations?' I asked, insanely curious.

He paused and bought us each a peach from an old woman. It was early for peaches and it was a little woody, but the sweet flesh was welcome after Baldwin's tart wine. 'It could hardly have gone better’ he said, a little distantly. What, then?'

‘I do not know, Patch’ he said. 'It was all so simple, was it not?'

'Certainly’ I agreed. Young Baldwin is desperate. He will do anything you say.'

"Young" Baldwin, is it? He is older than you, I think. No, that is right. This is a moment I have thought about for many years: as I told you, the ultimate of prizes. And it appears the boy has placed everything in my hands. I suppose that I cannot quite believe it.'

And he said no more, leaving me fairly boiling with excitement. So wrapped up was I in the complexities of what I had heard, and what I was now imagining, that I barely noticed the streets we were passing through, and even the squatting menace of the Castel SantAngelo failed to make me look up from the cobblestones. It was not until we were upon the marble pavement of Saint Peters Bridge that my reverie was broken, and that was only because the Captain had caught me by the arm. Urn?' I muttered. 'Hold up, lad’ said the Captain. He sounded tense.

Then I saw why. A small company of soldiers, I hurriedly counted eight of them – were strung out across our path. They did not loll, like most soldiers do when they wish to be menacing, but stood like statues. Five of them held short, broad-bladed spears, and all wore both swords and knives over surcoats of red and yellow. They all wore kettle-helms, brightly polished and gleaming, except for one man, the tallest, who was bareheaded. What is this?' I hissed.

'They wear the livery of the pope,' the Captain answered under his breath. 'Keep still, Patch. And on your life, do not touch your blade’ The tall man stepped towards us, hand raised imperiously.

'In the name of the Holy Father, halt!' he proclaimed, somewhat unnecessarily, for we were rooted to the spot. 'Signor Michel de Montalhac?' he asked. 'At your service’ the Captain answered levelly.

‘You will accompany me immediately. You too’ he added, with a haughty jerk of his chin in my direction. Without turning, he snapped his fingers, and his men started towards us. I noted, with more than a little unease, that they marched in perfect step with each other.

'Please walk ahead’ said the officer, for so I assumed him to be, with perfect politeness.

Well, well. This day grows ever more interesting’ said the Captain calmly.

'My God, sir, what do you mean? What is happening?' I hissed.

We have just received an invitation from the pope himself. Do not worry, lad: all this nonsense is merely a bit of mummery, meant to impress us. You are thinking of the poor flitches hanging from the tower over there, are you not?' I nodded, biting my lip. Well, do not fear. Those to whom the pope wishes harm are visited in the dead of night. You would do well to fear a knock at your door, but polished helmets at midday? Mere Roman nonsense. And besides, His Holiness is in Viterbo, I believe’ 'So what is all this about, then?'

The Captain gave one of his French shrugs. A diversion’ he said, carelessly.

And so we walked – calmly, for despite their order, our escort was polite enough not to hurry us – across the bridge, past the Tor di Nona and into the narrow streets beyond. Mummery it may have been, but the crowds parted before us as water divides around the prow of a ship. Through the broad ways we passed, through squares where marketing wives gawped at us, under beetling towers hung with flags, past knots of urchins who mocked us with great skill, for mockery was their stock-in-trade and they took pride in it. I did not notice much of this, for despite the Captain's easy words I did not feel at ease, and kept my eyes on the ground, watching my feet pace out the flagstones that lay between me and God knew what fate. The towers of the noble families loomed over us on all sides like a sinister forest of branchless trees: columns of brick all emblazoned and battlemented with the furious pride of their makers. Then we were in that quarter where the ancient ruins are more plentiful than the works of modern man, but even these are piled up with more brick towers and strange little fortlets that perch upon the ancient marble like the daubed nests of swallows. And then a great shape rose before us, squatting, heavy as the sins of the world, upon the earth. The Coliseum, almost domestic at this time of day: as we skirted it, I noticed that here and there a face peered out of a window in a crudely bricked-up arch, or a flag of newly washed clothing flapped pathetically.

Our escort whisked us past and into a quarter I had never entered. We had left the city behind – or so it seemed, for past the Coliseum the buildings thinned out and suddenly we were in farmland. Or rather, it was like entering a vast garden, for in the distance, all along the skyline, the jagged walls of Rome stood guard. We were climbing a hill, walking past churches and here and there a lone tower that threatened the poor farmers' huts that stood amongst the vineyards and fields of vegetables that were just now sprouting shoots and fronds of exultant green. Olives and figs grew on either side, and the din of human tongues was supplanted by the chit-chat of starlings and finches. Away to our right our path – in truth it was a rather grand road, paved with cut stone – was flanked by a high brick bridge, which began down near the Coliseum but which ran away out of sight over the crest of the nearest hill, upon which stood a great church rising amidst a village of smaller churches and cloisters. The strange bridge seemed to be purposeless, for it forded no stream and carried no road, but where it led was no mystery, for though I had never seen it, like every Christian man I knew what church stood upon a hill just within the city walls of Rome: Saint John Lateran, the pope's church, and next to it his palace.

At our swift pace we were there in the broad square before the church much faster than I would have liked, and our escort ushered us past the broad rise of steps that led to the church and through a gate into a courtyard. I fully expected to be strung up on the spot, but instead the officer gave us a courteous bow and led us inside the palace.

We were met, in some inner state chamber, by a cardinal, a sick-looking man in late middle age, who nonetheless was the first cardinal I had ever met and who therefore set my knees atremble with awe until I remembered that I had long since left the Church, and that I need not fear its lords, at least in principle: for as our current predicament showed, in practice any lord was dangerous whether he wore purple or cloth-of-gold. This cardinal was not especially happy to see us, and I suspected we had disturbed either prayer or breakfast, for he sniffed at us impatiently, and informed us that His Holiness desired to speak with one Michel de Montalhac, whom he presumed one of us to be. His Holiness was currently residing in Viterbo whilst the populace of Rome overcame its troubles and ceased to act like feral children – this last delivered with a sniff of extra severity – and so he regretted, et cetera et cetera, but we would have to take horse. This very moment. No delay possible. And out he swept in a petulant fuss of purple silk.

So it was out to another yard with us, where our escort – the same officer, but different men – waited with a pair of horses for us. Now here was mortification indeed, for I was forced to admit I had not ridden a horse since I was a lad, and then only Dartmoor ponies and mules. The soldiers exchanged looks of amused disbelief, and even the Captain permitted himself a little smile as he scribbled a message for Gilles on a hastily procured scrap of parchment, but at last a kindly guard took pity upon me and offered to lead my mount until I felt at ease on her back, and so we set off. It was strange to see the Captain swing himself up on to his horse as if he rode every day of his life, when in truth I had never, in two years, seen him mount so much as a dog-cart. I myself was very frightened, up there upon the back of my mare, but it was a fear based upon concrete circumstances – the danger of a broken limb or at least humiliation – and so allowed me to forget, for a few miles, what fate must have in store for us. And although I sat stiff with fear for a mile or so, after I saw that I was not to be thrown or devoured by the great creature I began to grow more confident, and after an hour I was trotting along unaided.

Of the journey to Viterbo there is little to tell, save that it began to rain as we left the city and poured the rest of that day and the second too, and the sky was so low that the skirts of the clouds trailed upon the sodden ground. My world shrank to that portion of grey misery that was framed by the dripping window of my hood. We rode all day, and my arse, besieged by hard saddle and sodden britches, was chafed raw. That night we took our rest at Sutri, in a rich pilgrims' way station where our status as guests of His Holiness brought us abundant food and a comfortable bed, but we were not at ease, despite our escort's attempts to draw us out. For the Captain was polite but distant, and I was so caught between indignation and terror that I could muster up nothing but the sorriest parlour-talk.

There were not sufficient beds, it being a busy time on the Pilgrims' Way, and so while the Captain was invited to bed down with the captain of our guards – Captain with captain: there would be a song about that, I vowed, should I ever make it back to the Cormaran – I had to make do with a straw pallet in the corridor, along with the other soldiers and a heap of pilgrims, all snoring, farting and reeking of wet clothes and feet. It was no worse than sleeping below decks on a ship, though, and once I had overcome my damp shivers and made myself a little warmth, it occurred to me that, if the pope intended us any harm, his men would hardly be allowing us this casual freedom on the way to his lair. So I did sleep, after a fashion, and awoke with a stiff neck and a sleeping pilgrim hugging my legs as if they were his wife.

We set out again into the weather, and reached the town of Viterbo midway between lunch and dinner – or so we guessed, for we had seen neither glimpse nor glimmer of the sun's face the whole long, wet day. I was not cheered by the town, for it hid behind forbidding walls of some ominous grey stone, and the houses within those walls were all of a kind: grey and dour. There was no one about, and the rain poured from roofs and made brooks of the streets. Up these our party splashed, up to the walls of a building, half church, half fortress, that hunkered down amongst the grey houses like a defeated titan.

'The palace of the pope!' exclaimed our officer, trying to sound haughty, no doubt, but merely seeming wet and out of sorts.

'Mayhap they have lit a fire for us’ muttered the Captain, and seeing my expression, he added: 'Not that kind of fire, Petroc! We are safe, I promise.'

The gates thudded wetly behind us. I looked around and saw a large open space that looked something like a builder's yard: some grand project had got under way, and blocks and carved pieces of that depressing grey stone lay scattered about everywhere amongst wooden scaffolding, winches and buckets. We parted with our horses, I with great joy, for I could hardly walk, so chafed was my crotch. The grand doorway of the palace was guarded by men in shining mail coats who did not so much as glance at us as we entered.

Inside the palace it was gloomier than out, for no one had yet lit the torches that jutted from the wall, but at least it was dry: so dry, in fact, that I caught the stony astringency in the back of my throat and almost coughed. The air smelled faintly of incense, of beeswax and of dust. But before I could take stock, we were called to one side, into a sort of guardroom, and there up a plain flight of spiral stairs, along an unadorned corridor of stone and into a room, quite large and as austere as everything else I had so far seen. On the bed, which was large and of a dark wood, two sets of clothing were set out, and when I saw them my heart thumped, for they seemed to be priests' robes: simple things of black and white. What dreadful mockery was this? But while I quavered, the Captain had shucked off his wet clothes and pulled on the dry ones, and I saw that they were not vestments after all, but ordinary tunic and breeches, somewhat old-fashioned but made of fine cloth.

'How considerate’ said the Captain. 'Mine fit rather well. And yours?'

'Not too bad’ I admitted. It was somewhat delicious to draw on the clean, dry things after two days of sodden misery. 'I thought they were clerical robes, actually. Some sort of jest.' I swallowed. 'Or worse. I have heard that the heretic-finders dress their victims in such things before

'Petroc! Your imagination is a rich and wonderful thing, to be sure, but calm yourself, I pray you! You and I would be hanging from the Tor di Nona by now if our host meant us ill. That I promise you.' The Captain combed out his lank hair with his fingers as he spoke. ‘We are to be fed, not cooked. Sit down.' He pointed to the bed. I plopped down upon it obediently. He stood before me, arms crossed.

'Now then. I have not spoken of this since we were… invited upon this journey, for although our hosts seem pleasant enough, I'll wager their ears are sharper than their swords. And besides, I have been sunk deep in my thoughts, for which I apologise. But here is something that will cheer you. Do you remember our conversation with Baldwin?' I nodded. 'Of course you do. Then you will remember that I told that foolish young man that I had supped with popes and emperors. That, Patch, was no idle boast. The truth is that I know old Ugolino de Segni, who now delights in the name of Gregory, ninth of that name, Pontifex Maximus, et cetera, et cetera… I know Pope Gregory rather well’ You know the pope? I was aghast.

'Extraordinary, isn't it? But in fact, not really that extraordinary. I knew him long before he took up Peter's keys. He was a diplomat, you know, roaming about the lands of the Church drumming up alliances against the German emperors. What better way to seal an alliance amongst clerics than with the gift of a relic? I became a trusted purveyor, and in time an occasional dinner companion. He is a very learned man, our Ugolino. I tend to keep off ecclesiastical topics, however, and fortunately we share an interest in philosophy. I can talk a little – and he a great deal – upon the subject of Aristotle, and things that branch off from there, and so we count each other as friends. There is no real foundation for it, but then again, he is the pope and, by definition, friendless in the earthly sense. You might find him a little unearthly, Patch. He is uncommonly ancient, but sharp as a pin. Be calm and close-lipped. I will handle the conversation’

And that was the end of our talk, for at that moment a rap came at the door and a cleric in the robes of some important office entered. It was time for our audience.

Later, I realised it was a shame that I could not remember more about the pope's palace. I dimly recalled heavily armed guards in the papal livery – many of them, guarding a great many doors that stood at the end of a great many stone corridors. Although the place was not unlike a monastery, in that it was cold, austere and very old, I felt as if we were descending into the earth, and that the successor of Saint Peter must dwell in some cavern in the depths like a lonely old spider. So I had little but an impression of gloom and disquiet, although I also knew that for the privilege I had been accorded the armies of pilgrims who came to Rome every year would have paid almost any price. But those pilgrims would be bringing home tales to tell to their families and friends, and I had no home, no family. Another pair of halberds clanged in front of us, and I winced. Then the final door swung open, and we walked on into the light of a thousand candles.

Pope Gregory the Ninth was truly ancient. The wizened man who hardly filled his robes – let alone the great throne, raised on a red-draped dais, in which he slumped, looking unnervingly like a child's doll – did not, on first inspection, seem to be living at all. Less like a doll, I thought, imitating the Captain's reverent shuffle along the carpet that led to the throne, than a well-preserved relic. But as we grew closer I saw that I was very much mistaken if I thought that life had deserted this creature. For, although his eyes drooped and wept thin trickles of rheum down his leathery cheeks, they burned like pale embers. I noticed that the Captain was being deferential only to a point. He performed the bare minimum of obeisances, drawing – or so I perhaps fancied – disapproving glares from the clerics who surrounded us. But I did not have the Captain's strength of will, and scraped and simpered my way along behind him until all of a sudden the Captain came to a halt and I all but slammed into his back. The pope was holding up a ring-festooned hand – a claw, really: no more than a simulacrum of a living hand – and was glaring at us with what seemed to be unrestrained fury. I glanced nervously at the Captain, but he was smiling broadly, and now I saw that what I had mistaken for rage on the face of the Holy Father was in fact a fond smile, or as much of one as those moribund features could form. There was another wave of the claw, and two priests came forward with chairs and planted them on the carpet behind us. The claw bade us sit.

Welcome, Signor de Montalhac. And welcome, Petrus Zennorius.' The pope's voice belied his necrotic form. It was deep and rich. If I had not seen the body from which it issued, I would have said it came from a man at the height of his powers.

‘I am overjoyed that you have ceased your endless peregrinations long enough to pay our city a visit, but I understand my simple invitation to luncheon somehow translated into your good selves being frogmarched here by a squadron of my troops! So sorry, so sorry.' Try as I might, I could not discern a speck of sincerity in the pope's apology. You will forgive me, of course,' he went on. It was not a suggestion. 'I have always enjoyed our meetings.'

As have I, Your Holiness,' replied the Captain, with complete sincerity. I was astonished. Here was Captain Jean de Montalhac, whom I respected and admired above all other living men, but who made his living from – I shall not be reticent, as the Captain never was – from thievery, deception, usury and sacrilege, talking to God's representative on earth as if to a favourite uncle.

We are old friends, are we not?' said Gregory, as if to confirm what I had been thinking. ‘I hope so,' said the Captain, simply.

'I was sure of it. And because of our long friendship, and my appreciation – nay, I will say admiration – for your knowledge and experience in certain areas close to both our hearts, I would talk with you about a matter that has come to my attention. It is a matter that concerns me very deeply in one area, and it should, I hope, concern you just as deeply in another. And now, while it was a pleasure to meet your young colleague, I think perhaps

Your Holiness, Master Petrus should stay, if you will permit him to do so. He has my fullest confidence, both as to his integrity and his discretion, and besides, I intend to tell him word for word of our conversation in any case.'

The pope tipped his head back on its skinny neck and laughed, somewhat raggedly. ‘Your candour, Montalhac: so shocking’ He stopped laughing abruptly, and leaned forward, fixing me with his eyes. I flinched.

'Master Zennorius. I hold a million or more souls in the palm of this hand’ He held it out to me, and suddenly balled it into a knobbed, bony fist. 'If Signor de Montalhac has given you his confidence, then so shall I. Do you know what that means?' I nodded my head.

'The emperor himself does not have my confidence, my child. Almost all of those present in this room do not. And you know of what I am speaking?' Gregory's eyes burned into me.

‘Your Holiness, I only meant that I understood the stupendous honour you bestow upon me,' I stammered. So much for keeping my mouth shut. I had the sensation that my bowels were about to let go.

'Ah. There is more than that. Tell me what you are thinking, boy.' I believe I could actually feel his gaze scalding me. Having no idea how to reply, and suddenly in immediate fear for my life, I closed my eyes. My thoughts whirled, but suddenly, in broad Devon tones, my mind provided the answer. It is the pope, you numbskull, I told myself. Tell him the fucking truth. I opened my eyes. Something like a smirk was playing upon Gregory's desiccated lips.

'This morning I stood on the Pons San Petri, Your Holiness, from where I could see your prison, your fortress and your church. Your trust is to be found somewhere between those three points.' I bowed my head, and waited for the gaudy men-at-arms to drag me away. There was a noise like dry twigs being snapped, and I looked up. The pope had slapped his hands together, and now pointed a skeletal finger at the Captain.

'How do you teach your pupils, de Montalhac? What power do you hold over them, that they will put their head into the lion's mouth? Your young man is truthful, and bold, and he sees the way of things. And in that I see you. Well done, my child,' he said to me. 'But do you fear me?' 'Very much, Your Holiness,' I said emphatically.

'That is good. I have had word of you, boy. Of your bereavement.' I blinked at him, and he smiled, thinly. You may stay,' he said, and sat back with a sound like old brambles dragged across a windowpane.

At a signal from the pope, an official-looking man came up to receive his whispered orders. There was a slight commotion as the room was cleared. A band of serving-men brought us wine and sweet cakes, and the Captain gestured that I should take a little of each, although I was almost too nervous to move my hands. Meanwhile the pope and the Captain chatted easily, of which discourse I can recall only that their words were utterly inconsequential.

'Now, to business,' said the pope, after he too had taken a few sips of wine. 'How fared you with the boy de Courtenay? Did he entertain you well?'

The Captain set down his goblet very carefully, and examined his thumbnail for a long moment.

'Tolerably well, Your Holiness,' he replied. 'His table is somewhat meagre in comparison to your own, but he served something rather appetising nonetheless.'

'Of course he did. That is the matter in hand. It is of great import to me, and it can be made of equal import to you, de Montalhac. I will be brief, as I grow a little weary. You would be well advised not to grow old, young man,' he told me, drolly – or at least, I hoped he was being droll, as he had just made it very plain that he could prevent any further ageing on my part with a twitch of his eyebrow. I attempted an obsequious laugh, but instead made a sound like a costive raven.

'Now’ said the pope, appearing not to have noticed. ‘You have met the new Emperor of Romania, so-called. Having met him, you will perhaps understand why he is something of a worry to me. My uncle – Pope Innocent, boy – caused nothing but trouble when he allowed the Venetians to take Constantinople. Each sovereign has been a disaster, each worse than the last. And the present one, this Baldwin, shows no sign of being any better. His own family regard him as a simpleton. However, I have met him, and now so have you. He is no simpleton, but he is in a great deal of trouble, and he knows it. His empire’ he curled his lips derisively, 'is bankrupt and under siege from Greeks, Slavs, Turks. It cannot stand without outside help.'

'He was abroad when he inherited the throne, was he not?' asked the Captain.

'He was – in fact he was here in Rome, begging me for money’ The pope sighed. 'He has many relations here in the West, and he has begged from all of them. And of course, because my uncle made the installation of those Frankish buffoons – those Latins – on the throne of Constantine a sort of holy enterprise, I have been under some pressure to contribute something myself’ 'Fascinating’ said the Captain. His face was a bland mask.

'No, it is not. It is exceedingly tiresome’ snapped Gregory. 'I have had to make appeals, much against my better judgement. I preached a crusade against the Bulgars. I have called upon the Catholic monarchs to send men and money, but they have not. Of course not! Why on earth should they? The enterprise is doomed, and all those with sense know it. I have opened the strongbox of Saint Peter and given him some small tokens, but Baldwin's hunger is born of desperation, and it is boundless.' ‘I, for one, would not be in his shoes,' said the Captain.

The pope sighed again. 'I am lecturing. There is a reason for this, however. I…' He straightened up and looked around him, and in that instant the years seemed to fall away and he seemed, for a brief moment, young, vital and even more dangerous. Then he slumped once more. 'The execrable Baldwin stooped low – very low indeed. He sought to bribe me – me, Christ's Vicar on earth!'

What with?' asked the Captain, as if on cue, leaning forward intently.

'The contents of the Pharos Chapel in Constantine's palace!' hissed Gregory.

'My word,' said the Captain, both eyebrows up now, but no more than that hint of emotion on his face. 'What did Your Holiness do?'

I refused, naturally!' said Gregory, slapping his knees angrily. 'I could not but refuse.' 'Of course not. But even so…' the Captain began.

'Do you think I turned down de Courtenay s offer happily?' asked the pope. We have, you and I, talked of the Pharos Chapel many times. There is no doubt in my mind that its riches belong here, in Rome. But for Baldwin to buy me with…' he shook his head. 'If I had accepted, I would have been a greater sinner than Simon Magus. Good God,' he went on, ‘I have accumulated a great store of regrets in my long life, but this may be one of the greatest.'

You could take no other course, and it is a mark of your strength and wisdom, Your Holiness.' The Captain paused, as if a little surprised at his own words. 'And what do you believe Baldwin will do now?' he went on.

'He will tout his treasures around Christendom like a common peddler’ spat Gregory. 'That is what you discussed, is it not?'

I prayed for the ground to swallow me up, but the Captain merely chuckled. 'Naturally’ he said.

'It is most vexing. I was tempted to excommunicate Baldwin on the spot for his temerity, but I need him. There is some indication that the thorn who presently festers most painfully in my flesh – I mean Frederick von Hohenstaufen, boy, who carries the title of Holy Roman Emperor as if he were biting his thumb at Our Lord Jesu himself – some hint that Frederick may be thinking of an alliance with Baldwin's enemy John Vatatzes, who is a true monarch, by all accounts, and would dearly like his throne in Constantinople back. That I cannot allow. I have to prop up the Latins like so many stuffed corpses, if only to stop Frederick's canker from spreading eastwards.'

'But meanwhile, Your Holiness, you will be all too aware that I can do nothing for Baldwin, much as it would profit me so to do’ said the Captain, coolly. 'Unless…' I held my breath.

'Pardon, your pardon, de Montalhac’ said the Pope, chuckling. 'There is, of course, something I require, as always.' Apparently distracted, he stuck a finger into one white-tufted earhole and searched intently. Then he signalled for more wine.

'I have been thinking of what fate I would prefer for Baldwin's treasure if I cannot possess it myself’ he said at last. 'The worst possible thing would be for it to be divided up, scattered like so much plunder. The worth of each individual piece is incalculable, of course – spiritual worth as well as monetary. But how much greater is that spiritual worth when the treasure is intact!' 'Are you asking me to act as broker?' said the Captain. 'Perhaps. Yes. Yes, I am.'

You honour me. I accept. And does Your Holiness wish to discuss the details now? We can

'No, no’ snapped Gregory. He pressed his knuckles to his forehead for a moment, and took a deep breath. 'Baldwin has a benefactor in mind. If I might risk a guess as to whom… But no, dear Michel, perhaps you would save me the bother. Tell me.' 'Louis Capet.'

The pope let out a gasp. He slapped the arm of his throne. 'God be praised!' he croaked. 'Might I ask why?' asked the Captain delicately.

'Because Louis is a good and holy man. Because he is a great friend to the Church. And I will soon need him against that horse-fly Frederick Hohenstaufen. I want you to arrange it. Make no mistake, though: this has been my wish all along. It is merely convenient that Baldwin has reached the same conclusion. So! It will be simple. Louis is a great collector, of course, and conveniently, he desires the things of which we speak.' 'I am aware of that’ said the Captain.

'But of course, how simple I am being. You are a close acquaintance of the king, are you not?'

The Captain shrugged modestly. 'I have had the pleasure of his conversation – and his patronage – more than once’ he murmured. 'Indeed, we have touched upon this very subject – the Pharos Chapel, that is.'

'So much the better, dear de Montalhac! It will be an easy matter for you. You must discover a way for Baldwin's treasure to be translated to France, and for Baldwin to receive, ah, gratitude from Louis, commensurate to his needs. To that end, I desire that you set out no later than tomorrow for Paris.' He gripped the sides of his throne and struggled to his feet. It was clear that our audience was at an end. I surreptitiously brushed cake crumbs from my tunic and stood up alongside the Captain.

It has been a great pleasure, as it ever is,' said the pope. ‘I pray that the Almighty will grant us more such meetings before I am taken.'

The Captain bowed deeply, and I followed suit. Gregory held out his wizened hand, and first the Captain, then I, bent to kiss the great ring that glimmered against the deathly pale flesh. I made ready to leave, but the Captain paused.

‘Your Holiness, if I am to be broker, who, then, is my client?' he asked. The pope drew himself up to his full height on the dais: he was far taller than I had expected, and he towered over us.

'Our Lord Jesus Christ!' he thundered, pointing up towards the shadowed ceiling. The Captain gave a French shrug, a flick of his chin.

Who, then, will be paying my commission?' he asked, levelly.

Gregory the ninth blinked owlishly for a moment, and then began to cackle. Reaching into his robes, he brought out two slim rolls of parchment sealed with great gobs of red wax and handed them to the Captain.

'I am certain that Our Lord will provide,' he said, and at that point his cackle was overtaken by a fit of coughing. He sat down again heavily and waved us away. The Captain took me gently by the arm and together we walked carefully back down the carpet. Halberds were drawn aside, the door groaned on its hinges, and we were out, into the cold grey halls of Viterbo stone.