Q, Luther Blissett [children's ebooks online .txt] 📗
- Author: Luther Blissett
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And this Titian said that the Anabaptists had the blessing of Our Lord Julius III, and that he was able to bear witness to this because he had met him before he was made Pope.
Interrogatus an credat dectum Ticianum convenisse ad cardinalem Ioannem Mariam Del Monte, respondit:
The said Titian told me he had spoken to the above most reverend Cardinal for an entire night discussing various matters. And in particular that most notorious book, Beneficium Christi_, and its author, friar Benedetto Fontanini of Mantua. Titian told me he had asked His Lordship concerning the heresy of this book, and His Lordship agreed that there was none. Item he asked His Lordship to intercede on behalf of the said Fontanini, imprisoned in Padua, insisting on his innocence. He ordered that Fontanini be freed, I believed Titian’s story._
_Item Titian frequented many men of letters, courtiers and even fine lords, seeking to persuade them all of the goodness of the Anabaptist doctrine and the aforementioned Benefit of Christ Crucified. This he did in Florence with the courtiers of Cosimo de’ Medici, and also in Ferrara, and with Princess Ren�e d’Este._
Item the same office of persuading Our Lord of the Anabaptist doctrine was performed by Titian, named in my confession, for whom I have no surname and for that reason I know he brought this Anabaptist doctrine to Italy, and is always going around preaching and teaching this doctrine.
He waits for Jo�o to finish reading as well. ‘This is the most surprising part of the Manelfi confession, the deposition that Pietro Manelfi made to Leandro Alberti, the Inquisitor of Bologna. One copy has already reached Rome along with the penitent man himself, and you can be certain that it will be duly purged from the files the moment one of Carafa’s men has the opportunity to set eyes upon it. The second copy, complete with signatures and counter-signatures, I received from the same Alberti, with the task of delivering it to Carafa in person. I copied out this passage before depositing the whole dossier with the branch of the Fuggers at the German Fondaco. It is certainly the most precious deposit that they have ever had in their coffers, and fortunately they are unaware of the fact: here it is clearly written that the man most wanted by the Inquisition, Titian the Baptist, was able to approach Cardinal Del Monte before he was elected Pope, and persuade him of the innocence of The Benefit of Christ, to the point of driving him to intercede in the matter of the author’s incarceration. Fontanini really did leave prison thanks to the intercession of a powerful man. The General of the Benedictine order knows Pope Del Monte personally. There is tangible proof of the veracity of the story.’
My laughter rings out in confirmation. ‘It sounds crazy, but it’s the truth.’
Miquez is still puzzled: ‘I still don’t understand what’s so precious about this confession.’
Gresbeck says in a serious voice, ‘Ghislieri and his mates are nailing the spirituali one by one as responsible for the distribution of The Benefit of Christ in their dioceses. Carafa, at the Council of Trent, is openly accusing them of failing to obstruct its circulation, and in many cases of having encouraged it. What do you think would happen if the inquisitors themselves became aware of the Pope’s interest in the author and the contents of The Benefit of Christ? What would happen if the cardinals under investigation availed themselves of this deposition, and used it to free themselves from the accusations that have been brought against them?’
Jo�o leans on the table. ‘Carafa would be fucked. But who’s to guarantee that this document really exists?’
‘Neither of us has anything left to lose.’
Venice, 5th November 1551
Two days’ vigil and only eight hours of sleep is enough to prevent an aching fifty-year-old from doing up his jacket properly. Only at the third attempt do I finally regain the confidence to perform my everyday activities. I drag up from my stomach the agitation that is required to banish fatigue.
Gresbeck is already in the hall, wrapped in his coat, his back leaning against the chest of drawers and his head thrown back, as though trying to concentrate by taking long, deep breaths. He won’t be carrying firearms. A short blade, the absolute minimum. He’s as old as I am. More exhausted. I can trust him.�
A twinge in my wrist, always tightly wrapped in a light and brightly coloured oriental fabric, folded over itself several times, five inches long, covering a little less than half of my forearm.
He will go into the agency without arousing suspicions. He has carte blanche there. The Fuggers know who they have to side with.
Tight gloves of black leather, gleaming, soft, tanned by Spaniards, given to me by the young Bernardo Miquez.
Fate’s strange, scores aren’t settled as you would expect. I catch my reflection in the sumptuous mirror — same height as myself, twice as broad, — of the Miquez residence at the far end of the Giudecca. Not as you would expect. A sparse grey beard frames my face.
He’ll have to stick around there for as long as it takes to withdraw the dossier, no time for niceties.
That old bump squashes the tip of my nose slightly to the left. My hair is pulled back behind the nape of my neck and smoothed with oil, a gift from Beatrice. My guns are crossed in my belt, I brush my hand over the handle of the knife fastened behind my back.
He’s going to come towards me, passing me the little cloth bag that holds the document.
I cover my arms by pulling the hem of my cloak over my shoulder. A glance at Heinrich, reflected in the mirror, in the same position.�
Sebastiano is waiting for us by the boat.
After the swap, we will exit on the opposite side of the Fondaco, straight on to the Grand Canal. From there to the Caratello. Then to the mainland.
All of a sudden Jo�o appears, and everything is in place. A nod to Gresbeck and off we go.
We turn into the Rio del Vin, between the domes of St Mark’s and the campanile of San Zaccaria. Sebastiano is in charge of the boat, Gresbeck and I are seated opposite one another. He rubs his neck for a long time to ease the tension in his muscles. No one feels the need to speak. After a wide bend we turn into the broad, winding Rio di San Severo. We pass beneath a few bridges before we get to the Rio di San Giovanni, and then on the left the canal opens up and continues straight ahead.
Once we’re on the mainland, head at breakneck speed for Trent, going up the Brenta Valley. Two days’ gallop, stopping only to change horses, escorted by the best men the Miquez brothers can supply. We have to get to Pole at all costs.
At the crossing with the Rio dei Miracoli we turn left, into the Rio del Fondaco. We disembark.
To deliver Manelfi’s confession into the hands of the English cardinal. Only Heinrich can do it.
Twenty-five yards or so and we’re in. The great commotion of groups of people talking by the entrance; my glance meets Duarte’s. Just a nod of the head. Gresbeck is beside me. We enter the square courtyard of the German Fondaco.�
At its centre stands the well, raised up on its two stone steps. My place. Businessmen coming and going, the inevitable pouring of beer.
Gresbeck walks beneath the portico to the left, making for the Fugger agency. When he reaches the third arch he goes in.
I touch the gun-handles under my cloak.�
Three porticoed storeys rise up along the four sides of the courtyard. Five arcades, ten on each of the upper floors, diminishing in size the higher they get.
To the right four people are engaged in an intense discussion, counting on the tips of their fingers.
A man leaning against a pillar, by the exit leading on to the Canal.
In the corner, behind me, some Germans pass pieces of paper to each other.�
My gaze continues on its way. Other busy men are constantly crossing the portico. From the first floor comes the sound of the customers of the brewery facing on to the courtyard, lost in chatter.
At the main entrance, away from all the coming and going, two men dressed in black, keeping to the sides.
Swellings under their capes.
They’re staring at the door of the bank.
Shit.
Gresbeck is still inside. The four men to my right haven’t stopped counting. The furthest one away gestures towards the agency. He glances towards the upper arches, behind me.
I turn around. Another cop is keeping his eye on the bank.
The one leaning against the pillar is still there. His eyes facing in the same direction.
It’s a trap.
They’ve got us.
Back to the main entrance. The two black crows have been made agitated by the racket coming from outside.
Duarte walks into the Fondaco at the head of the Rialto merchants. The noise mounts.
The agency.
Gresbeck comes towards me. He raises his arm, aiming his gun.
He’s fucked me over again.
He fires.
A man behind me collapses, falling back into the well. The clank of iron hitting the ground.�
The merchants invade the courtyard.
Gresbeck holds the bag out to me. ‘Move it, damn you!’
An indistinct uproar, I’m swallowed up by the crowd, I push my way through the sea of people shielding me, shouting in every imaginable language.
Pietro Perna grabs the bag off me, swapping it for an identical one.
He winks: ‘Habemus papam!’
He slips out of the throng, towards the main entrance. Manelfi’s confession is safe.
I yield to the tide of Rialto merchants swarming in the opposite direction, towards the Canal-side exit. I can’t see Gresbeck. I get back to the front entrance, driven along by a knot of shouting men who appear to have lost their minds. Blows, shouts. The policeman at the door is quickly overwhelmed. Gresbeck reappears at my side, a doorway opens and we are flung on to the boat.
Away, away, to the Caratello.�
*
We pass beneath the Rialto, Sebastiano driving the boat with all his strength, and slip into Rio San Salvador.
My hands are trembling with agitation. I’m on fire, from head to toe.
I’m not sure what’s happened. Opposite me Gresbeck’s face seems calm, surprisingly impassive.
As we turn right into the Rio degli Scoacamini, he takes out some gunpowder and reloads his gun. He turns around and nods with a reassuring expression: they’re not following us.
I put my ideas in order, run my hands over my face.
‘Where did you get that?’
‘Gert, you can deposit anything you like with the Fuggers. I know what you were thinking. But as you see your trust was not misplaced. Neither was it in M�nster: Heinrich Gresbeck has been a good lieutenant.’
‘I thought that bullet was meant for me.’
‘Those were Carafa’s hired killers. I was the one they were after. I wonder how they could have been there waiting for me.’
Rio dei Fuseri, we go up it as far as the Rio di San Luca to emerge back on to the Grand Canal. We head straight up the Rio dei Meloni.
‘The
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