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stroke. His great adversary on the papal throne, elected by his most vehement enemy: the Emperor. There isn’t a day to lose: Carafa is inciting his French ally to make a move. He wants to tear up the picture as it stands, slow things down and start the game all over again,

The king of France, Henri II, following in his father’s footsteps, has renewed his alliance with the Protestant princes. Carafa is spurring him on to fight again, but there is a lot of resistance: finances are always shaky, internal balances uneasy, people are becoming increasingly detached from Italian affairs. The head of the Holy Office will have to employ all his skill to overturn an outcome that would be fatal to him.

The atmosphere is one of score-settling. The winner will have no scruples about sweeping his adversary away. The calculation never stops: every vote cast could be crucial. Everything is being promised to everyone. The conflict is entirely driven by the privileges that are to be distributed and the time that remains.

Carafa will face his most crucial moment when the fortunes of the hated Emperor are at their zenith; you can almost touch his black moods and his icy determination. Here in Viterbo, on the other hand, people’s faces are much more relaxed, people are confident that they will soon see the ‘harvesting of an ancient seed’, as they call the outcome that seems to be on the cards. The Englishman dispenses smiles and a few calm words, while euphoria grows within him

Viterbo, 7th September 1549

Farnese is a long time dying. The Spirituali are starting to stamp their heels, their smiles are looking forced: all this waiting is getting to them. They are afraid of events that might alter a balance that is currently in their favour. No longer hiding it, they fear Carafa’s every move.

And they are right to do so. The old Theatine always has a secret weapon in waiting, the extrema ratio of a war that he cannot lose: The Benefit of Christ Crucified.

If the outlook remains unchanged, he will not hesitate to use it. He told me to stay alert, but he is still keeping his plans secret.

He could use The Benefit to attack Pole and the Spirituali head on, accusing the Englishman of being the real author of a book excommunicated by the Council. He could put the pressure on some of the smaller fry in the Viterbo circle, to make him confess. But he would have to do it now, which would mean exposing himself personally. It would be risky. Carafa doesn’t like putting himself in the middle of enemy fire. If I know him, he’ll choose another way: he’ll circulate rumours, increasingly insistent, increasingly detailed, about the potential consequences of Reginald Pole’s ascent to the Papal Throne. The Pope supporting doctrines excommunicated by the Council of Trent. Images of disintegration, dark omens of a paradoxical and irresolvable conflict, the dramatic weakening of the Church of Rome, its total dependence on the secular authority of the Emperor.

A gloomy picture designed to instil fear in many people, and one which could cause decisive votes to be cast.

Only then will Carafa become involved, once the Conclave is under way, as the bringer of order and superior reason. Carafa the Conciliator.

It makes me laugh.

Rome, 10th November 1549

Paul III Farnese is dead. One of the most influential dynasties in Europe has come to an end.

A slow death, and now they are all holding their breath, as though frozen by a sense of something imminent. The question is no longer which family will be next to hold the reins of pontifical power. That no longer comes into it. What is at stake is the role of the Church, and the conception of the power that it will have to exercise. We have reached the end of an era, and find ourselves in the midst of a very fierce confrontation between two factions, two opposing conceptions of Christianity.

One thing alone is certain. There’s no turning back.

No longer will we see powerful families taking their turns on the throne, forming and breaking alliances. Instead a whole constellation of forces, apparatuses and new entities that are emerging with great vigour, will have to be kept in balance. The Lutheran church, Calvin and his followers, the Inquisition, the charitable orders, The Jesuits, with that man Ignatius who won’t leave anyone in peace. And all that in order to face the changing fates of empires, kingdoms and principalities.

However different the aims of these most bitter adversaries may be, both Carafa and Pole know that the Church will have to be something different now from what it has been in the past. They are looking ahead, far away from the old models.

Rome, 29th November 1549

The cardinals have gone into the Conclave. In the alleyways of Rome the betting is on Pole. The favourite.�

I have bet against him

Following Carafa’s instructions, I am going around the groups of priests, clerics, onlookers, gamblers and working men who crowd the city squares. I disorient them with indiscretions concerning the true authors of The Benefit of Christ Crucified. I’m not alone.

The Spirituali will try to resolve matters very soon, taking advantage of the fact that the French cardinals have been delayed. They have had a difficult journey, both by land and sea, passing through the territories of the Emperor, who is trying to obstruct their arrival.

They don’t have the numbers to withstand the spirituali. Carafa is going to have to instil his proverbial terror into the hearts of those who are wavering.

Rome, 3rd December 1549

Black smoke. Twenty-one votes for Pole. He would need twenty-eight to win the two-thirds majority that he needs.

It’s always a mystery how information manages to get out of the Conclave, but a few times a day out it comes, always punctual and highly detailed.

Rome, 4th December 1549

Black smoke. Pole got twenty-four votes. The consensus is growing, but rumours are circulating that the French cardinals are about to arrive. If Carafa can defer Pole’s election by one more day, the Englishman could be out of the game.

Rome, 5th December 1549

Rumours indicate that Carafa has delivered his accusation.

Not a head-on attack, that isn’t his style. More of a warning, an invitation to reflect upon the risks that need to be avoided. He will certainly have suggested to those venerable ears what a paradox it would be, and what a huge problem, to have a Pope who had co-authored The Benefit of Christ Crucified, a book excommunicated by the Council. He is sure to have summoned up, for the benefit of those old men, images of the terrible battles between bishops and popes that the Church knew in times past.

He has instilled doubt into those who have already returned that seraphic English smile.

The vote will be held this afternoon.

He has got a message through to me. A short one, just enough to suggest the tension that the old Theatine must be feeling. The spirituali have reached an agreement with three neutral cardinals: if Pole wins twenty-six votes, they will transfer their votes to him. If that happens, my instructions are to contact Dominican headquarters straight away.

If that happens it’s all over.

The vote is in an hour.

I pass the time nervously.

Twenty-five votes. There was one missing, only one.

They stared at each other for a long time.

No other hand was raised.

Black smoke.

Rome, 6th December 1549

French cardinals in the Conclave. Pole can’t win now.

We have been dangling from a thread, and it hasn’t broken.

Rome, 14th January 1550

Exhausting. They’ve been shut in there for forty-eight days now. There is no agreement: a new name comes up every day, and no one can believe it.

They’re even betting on who won’t get out of the Conclave alive. Very powerful old men wearing themselves out in sealed chambers amidst the stench of piss and excrement. I can imagine the tired voices, the enfeebled bodies, the fuddled brains. Ideal for Carafa.

Rome, 8th February 1550

White smoke.

Nuntio vobis magnum gaudium. Habemus papam. Sibi nomen imposuit Iulius III.

Seventy-three days to get halfway through this century and reach a compromise: Giovanni Maria Del Monte, Cardinal Bishop of Palestrina.

Julius III.�

Chapter 32

Ferrara, 21st March 1550

We slip silently down the alleyway, without a backward glance. Stop and pretend to chat: no one is following us.

We carry on till we get to the house: three knocks, then another one.

‘Who is it?’

‘Pietro and Titian.’

The door opens, a round face with a curly black beard and pointed moustache. ‘Come in, come in. We’ve been waiting for you.’

He leads us through a workshop cluttered with tools and work-benches. The floor is covered with shavings that crunch beneath our feet.

We climb a staircase to his apartment. There are four men waiting for us, recruited over the past year and rebaptised by Titian in person.

The carpenter shows us to some chairs that smell of freshly cut wood.

‘Have you explained everything?’

‘It’s better if you do…’

I nod before he finishes his sentence.�

I study them carefully: deferential faces.

‘It’s quite simple. Pietro and I are planning to call a council and bring all the brothers together. We’ve got to know one another, and know how many we are.’ A couple of them give a start. ‘So far all I have done is baptise. Preach and baptise, never stopping for a moment. Over the past few months Pietro has travelled the length and breadth of the Great Duchy and the Marches. Now it’s time to meet. And for you to do your part.’

One man has no scruples about interrupting me: ‘When?’

Disapproving glances from the others, but I’m not bothered. ‘In the autumn. I haven’t decided where yet. Right now we’re going to have to get moving to contact all communities between here and the Abruzzi. Each community will have to send two representatives. The location that we choose for the council will be announced once they have reached Ferrara. It’s better not to run pointless risks.

*

Ferrara, 21st March 1550, an hour earlier

‘What do we need a council for?’

‘We have to know how many there are of us. We’ve got to get organised.’

‘It’s dangerous, Titian, the Inquisition…’

‘The Inquisition barely knows who I am. It knows nothing about you, and it certainly doesn’t suspect there are large numbers of us. Don’t worry. Just go on using my name, it’s the only one the brethren need to know.’

‘But if one of them was captured, you’d be the first to go down.’

‘I would. Just me, no one else. You know them: they’re not interested in the proselytes, it’s the heresiarch they’re after.’

We laugh.

‘May God preserve us, but a council would expose everyone to the risk of discovery.’

‘It’ll be clandestine. Listen to me carefully, Pietro: that’s why I don’t want more than two representatives per community. There won’t be fewer than fifty of us, but there won’t be more than a hundred.’

‘Why don’t we wait to see what the new Pope does? We don’t know if he’s going to side with the zelanti or the spirituali…’

‘He isn’t going to side with anyone.’

‘What?’

‘He isn’t going to side with anyone, I’ve met him. He isn’t going to go along with one group or the other, it’s the most difficult path to take, because it means he has to keep everyone happy: and the interests of some are the ruin of the others.’

‘What… When did you meet the Pope?’

‘Before he was elected. I spent a long

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