The Vault of bones

Epilogue

Venice, August 1239 ‘There is a narrow little tavern in the weave of narrow streets east of the fish market of Venice. It is indistinguishable from two score or more others, the low-ceilinged, stuffy places where the fishermen and labourers of the Republic go to quench their endless thirsts for wine and for sharp-edged gossip. Doubtless I could not find it again now, and if I did I might not recognise it. Perhaps that was why-Michael Scotus had summoned me there. A note had come to the Ca' Kanzir just after the house had risen, and I had slipped out and searched the alleys until I had found the tavern's sign, proclaiming – what? A bunch of grapes, a fox, two ravens? I do not remember. But there in the shadows was a slender form I recognised at once. Doctor Scotus pushed back his cowl and regarded me with his grey, timeless stare.

Well met, Petroc of Auneford,' he said. 'I hoped we might see each other again.'

'But not so soon!' I cried. 'This is an unexpected-' He silenced me with a raised finger.

'Let us be quiet, and quick,' he said calmly. 'I am supposed to be somewhere else altogether.' He let the words hang in the close, ham-scented air, and for a moment I wondered where exacdy he meant, for he did not seem to be entirely here. But I blinked and he still sat before me, no phantom, but an old man in a travel-stained cloak.

'The war that my dear old friend Mesarites hoped to ward off has come’ he said, and I nodded. The news had been bad, if one loved the pope: the whole of Italy's middle portion had been taken by the Emperor Frederick, and his lieutenants were barking at the edge of the Lagoon: every morning new pillars of doleful battle-smoke rose across the water, black and shimmering against the hazy mountains. 'Perhaps it is not Armageddon – not yet’ he went on. 'But there will be no getting between these two dogs now, not until they have destroyed each other. In any case, I did not come to give you the news. No: I heard of your… of your survival, and rather more. The Crown of Thorns will be in Paris by now, I suppose. And you look well.'

I nodded. It was true: my body had healed, and I had discovered that, underneath the scabs of grief and hurt I was still a young man after all. Joy and delight had begun to uncurl their shy petals again, but slowly. ‘I am well’ I agreed. ‘I thought so. Now then: to work. Nicholas Querini.' 'He is fled to Stampalia’ I said, surprised. 'In disgrace.'

'A mild sort of disgrace though’ said Doctor Scotus. 'It would not do for the Doge to cut Venice off from all the Querini riches, especially with battle so near.'

'He is ruined’ I protested. 'Exiled. He will never sit on the council, and his enemies are crowing.' But then I shook my head. Once I had wished the man dead with such vehemence that I feared it had poisoned my blood. And although I had seen him brought low, seen his spirit felled like a rotten tree, thoughts of revenge still came back to taunt me.

'Men as powerful as Querini are hard to ruin for good’ said Scotus. Which brings me to my point. When I left you I made my choice and went south, to Gregory. I cannot say that it was the right choice, but at least I was able to whisper some words into his old ears’ 'Meaning what?' I said, puzzled.

'Meaning, my lad, that the pope knows that it was Querini who foiled his plans to wed Baldwin to…' He paused, but I nodded him on. He caught my eye and smiled. 'Well, then. And he knows that Querini has been guilty of simony. The one, the other…' He made a balance with his hands. 'But together?' His hands dropped to the table with a thump, palms up. 'His Holiness does not enjoy being thwarted or toyed with, and if he was ever a patient man he is one no longer. Did you know that simony is a heresy? Of course you did. Peter of Verona, as the pope's Inquisitor here in the north, has decreed that Querini be tried as a heretic'

'Peter of Verona?' I remembered the shrewd-eyed, half-jolly friar from Viterbo. 'But he will not hurt Querini! He was the man's spy!'

'Ah.' Doctor Scotus snatched a bluebottle out of the air and smeared it into the table. There is no justice in this life, as you have found to your cost,' he said softly. 'But there is always cruelty. As a physician I was taught to balance the humours of the body. Let us think of this as redressing the cruel humours of the world, if only in the smallest way: hardly more important, really, than the death of a fly.' 'So the Inquisitor will turn on his paymaster?'

'Oh, the saintly Peter did not spy for money. Querini gave him influence in the lands of Venice, the better to carry out his hunt. Who used who? It is a moral question I should not dare to answer.' He gave a faint smile. 'All this Gregory knew: he chose his Inquisitor well. You knew that Peter was once a Cathar? Well, like many converts he is a fanatic. Gregory allowed him to play up to Querini, for he has no need to doubt his loyalty. Indeed, he used Peter to take a closer look at the Captain and, I dare say, you yourself. Apparently you satisfied His Holiness that you would be worthy instruments of his will. '

'Instruments? Dearest Doctor, if you can discern some form in all these past horrors, indeed you deserve your reputation’

'Oh, there was form, certainly there was. Three wills, those of Gregory, Querini and Captain de Montalhac – and latterly your own, lad, if we talk of reputations – twining and striving like serpents for mastery. You should not be so very disappointed that Gregory has won, for he is the greatest prince on earth – he is fighting this war to prove it’

'So we are the losers’ I muttered. I did not wish the night of despair, so recently faded, to return again, but the darkness seemed to be gathering.

'Did you not hear what I told you? Querini has been summoned to answer charges of heresy. He is at this moment sailing towards Rome’

'A rich man need not fear such a charge’ I scoffed. 'No one is ever declared a heretic because of simony’

'Peter has been diligent. Querini will land in Ostia to find himself an outcast. But there is an invitation, a friendly one, inviting him to the Castel Sant Angelo to explain himself to a sympathetic Holy Father. My dear lad, he will find that Gregory is not there. The Castel Sant’Angelo is the pope's fortress, and his prison. It used to be a tomb, did you know that? Hadrian's tomb. It has depths that you, delicate soul that you are, ought not even to imagine, wormy tunnels gnawed through ancient mausoleums and sewers, into which the Tiber seeps like dead men's sweat. Querini will be set there to wait, in hope of a trial, of forgiveness, and he will wait for ever.' I found myself looking into Michael's grey eyes, and in their depths, where time seemed to quaver like faded grass in the wind, I glimpsed a sudden darkness. A chill shot through me, but then the old man smiled, and I found myself letting out a great sigh of release.

'The worthy Peter's eyes are many and sharp, lad, so I had better be on my way. Ah: one other matter. Would it give you any satisfaction to triumph after all, even if neither Querini nor old Gregory ever knew about it?'

'Of course!' I laughed. 'But I ask for nothing. I am glad to even draw breath, if you would know the truth.'

"Then my physician's work is done. Now: that thing you took from Constantinople, so beloved by Mesarites?' I nodded. 'It is safe,' I said.

'Good. I think de Montalhac has a plan for it. I renounce my claim. Do what he wishes, and there is your victory. Best do it quick, though, while the Inquisitor's gaze is elsewhere.'

He rose, and we embraced, and then he was gone, and I was left alone in the bright sunshine, blinking like a barn owl, catching the faint smell of burning on the north wind. Two days later, very early in the morning, only the fish market was awake. Boats were coming in, and dripping baskets of eels, crabs, cuttlefish, clams and mantis shrimp were being slapped down on the slimy stone pavement. Michel de Montalhac and I walked through the throng, and paid the drowsy traghetto men to row us across to Santa Sophia. We walked quickly through the empty streets as the mist trickled over the edges of the canals and the sparrows started complaining to one another from every tree and rooftop.

Past churches and monasteries, past sleepy priests and famished monks who did not give us a second glance, across the Rio del Paradiso and through the square of Santa Maria Formosa. We were silent, but it was a companionable silence, and we were not in any great hurry. Anyone watching us would have seen two friends, one older, with the suggestion of a limp, the other a younger man carrying a small seaman's pack of oiled cloth.

We walked for a long while, and the streets began to grow narrower and more down at heel. There was more life here. Workshops were already clanking and sawing away, children were running errands and even a few optimistic whores were seeing if anyone could possibly be in the mood, for it was going to be a lovely day, and what better way to begin it? But we pressed on until the acrid stench of boiling pitch began to sting our nostrils, and we knew we had reached our destination.

The Captain knocked four times on a door up a narrow alleyway no wider than a man. The door opened, and a black-swathed figure beckoned us inside. We found ourselves in a large room, very clean and bare, empty save for two old women sitting on a bench, and three men in plain black robes. Someone was leaving soon on a long journey, for saddlebags and a bedroll were lying by the door. The Captain exchanged greetings, while I hung back. The man who opened the door asked the Captain a question. He nodded, and the other man stepped back and spread his arms wide. His fellows did the same, and the Captain sank to the floor and prostrated himself. I heard murmured prayers in the soft, lilting tongue of Provence, and to my surprise it was the Lord's Prayer. I wondered if I should kneel as well, but felt awkward, and so remained standing.

The Cathars' prayers were at an end. The Captain was helped to his feet, and concerned questions were asked about his leg, his hip. He waved them off, and signalled to me. I undid my pack, and laid it on the ground. I drew out a plain box of ancient wood, shiny from centuries of touch. The Captain gave a nod, and I opened the lid and drew out a square of cloth, wide as a bedsheet, stained and yellow with age. He rose to his feet, and the cloth unfolded and rose with him. The men in the black robes gasped. They recoiled, and then one by one they came closer and examined the cloth. Now the women rose and looked also. They shook their heads in dismay, and one hugged the other, hiding her face in her friend's head-cloth.

The Captain laid his hand on my shoulder, and, very relieved, I hastily returned the cloth to its resting place and closed the lid.

Everyone stepped back, and the box was left: there in the middle of the floor. There was a long silence. The old women went back to their bench. Finally, the man who prayed took the Captain in his arms and they swayed together as they took their leave. I felt awkward once more, and offered my hand, which was shaken warmly. The other two men picked up the box gingerly, and I gave them my empty pack. The perfecti bowed once more, and the Captain gave a strange smile in which joy struggled with longing, and turned towards the door.

Outside, the streets were full of noise. The great Arsenal of Venice was about to give birth to another galley. We hurried down alleys and across bridges until at last we came out on to the wide seafront. We paused and looked at the ships, and began to stroll, easily, unburdened. We were almost at the palace of the Doges when the bells in the campanile of San Marco started to chime, a low, liver-shaking knell, and then every bell in Venice began to ring, until the very waters of the Lagoon were trembling, rilled by the throbbing waves of sound. It was Sunday, and away to the south, past the zone of war, past the disputed areas, across the mountains in Rome, the pope was rising, stiff and crippled, from his throne in the Lateran. In Venice, a Good Christian was setting off for his home outside Toulouse.

Leaning against the wall of the palace, Captain de Montalhac and I began to laugh. No one could hear us, and we stood there for a while in the sun, mouths open, eyes watering.

Is this really hell?' I asked the Captain, suddenly. He frowned, and then started to laugh again. A couple of Franciscans, late for Mass, scowled at us as they hurried by. – 'Oh yes’ he said at last. 'Yes, my friend. This truly is hell’

Historical note

This is a work of fiction, and as such is constructed from a jumble of what if?'s. But here are some facts: The Crown of Thorns was taken to Venice in 1237 by one Nicholas Querini as security for a debt of 13,134 pounds of gold. King Louis IX of France, through the agency of Andrew of Longjumeau and James of Paris, redeemed the Crown from Venice for 135,000 gold livres, half the annual worth of the kingdom of France. He built the Saint Chapelle in Paris to house it, and went on to buy most of the other items in the Pharos Chapel. Baldwin de Courtenay did not return to Constantinople until 1240. He was always desperate for money, and at one point was reduced to mortgaging his own son to Venice. John Vatatzes' successor finally took back Constantinople in 1261. The Franks had crippled Byzantium beyond repair, though, and it finally fell to the Ottoman Turks on 29 May, 1453 Baldwin spent the rest of his life as an emperor without an empire, wandering about the courts of Europe in the vain hope that someone would get Constantinople back for him. No one did. He died in Sicily in 1273. In 1238, the Abbot of San Giorgio Maggiore, Pietro Querini, obtained the body of Saint Eustichius from Constantinople. In 1310, the Querinis, together with the Tiepolos, attempted to overthrow the Venetian Republic and set up a despotate. Their rising failed, and the Querini Palace in San Polo was confiscated and turned into a slaughterhouse. The Mandylion of Edessa vanished sometime after the Franks sacked Constantinople in 1204. Nicholas Mesarites saw it in 1201, and Robert de Clari says it was in the Bucoleon Palace in 1205. Then it disappears from history.