Damn, I thought. Be careful what you wish for.
Stefan gestured at the façade of the palace. The tour was beginning. “This part closest to us,” he announced, “is the ‘new palace,’ built by Clement the Sixth between 1342 and 1352.”
“He was the pope who protected the Jews during the plague?”
“Exactement.”
“Busy guy.”
“Oui. So, the big windows at this end of the building? The audience hall, where he held court. Above is his private chapel. Chapel — ha! It’s bigger than the cathedral! You know what Clement said about being pope?” I shook my head, as he’d hoped I would. “Clement said none of his predecessors knew how to be pope.”
“What did he mean?”
“He meant that none of the others knew how to throw such big parties. He was also called ‘Clement the Magnificent.’ When he was crowned as pope, he gave a feast for three thousand people. He served one thousand sheep, nine hundred goats, a hundred cows, a hundred calves, and sixty pigs.”
“Goodness. That’s, what, ten, twenty pounds of meat for every person?”
“Ah, but there is more. Much more. Ten thousand chickens. Fourteen hundred geese. Three hundred fish—”
“Only three hundred?”
He stretched his arms wide—“Pike, very big fish”—then transformed the gesture into a shrug. “But also, Catholics eat a lot of fish, so maybe it was not considered a delicacy.” He held up a finger. “Plus fifty thousand cheeses. And for dessert? Fifty thousand tarts.”
“That’s not possible. Surely somebody exaggerated.”
“Non, non, pas du tout. We have the book of accounts. It records what they bought, and how much it cost.”
“How much did it cost?”
“More than I will earn in my entire life. But it was a smart investment. It made him a favorite with the people who mattered — kings and queens and dukes. And, of course, with his cardinals and bishops, who sent him money they collected in their churches.” Turning away from the palace, he pointed to a building on the opposite side of the square. “Do you know this building?” I shook my head. “It’s just as important as the palace.”
“What is it?”
“The papal mint.”
“Mint, as in money?”
He nodded. “The popes coined their own money, and they built this mint here. They made gold florins in the mint, then stored them in the treasury in the palace.”
“The popes had their own mint? That seems ironic, since Jesus chased the money changers out of the temple in Jerusalem.”
“If you look for inconsistencies, you will find a million. The popes had armies. They had mistresses. They had children. They poisoned their rivals. They lived like kings and emperors; better than kings and emperors.”
“And nobody objected?”
“Oh, sure,” he said. “Some of the Franciscans — founded by Saint Francis of Assisi — they were very critical. They said monks and priests and popes should live in poverty, like Jesus. Pope John the Twenty-Second didn’t like that. He condemned the most outspoken ones. He had many Franciscans — monks, even nuns — burned at the stake.”
By now we’d reached the upper end of the square, where the palace sat cheek by jowl with the cathedral. Here the square lay well below the palace and the cathedral, and an immense staircase led up to a broad terrace in front of the church. The terrace held an immense crucifix, surrounded by statues of angels and weeping followers; high above it, atop the bell tower of the cathedral, the large gilded statue of Mary gazed down on her crucified son, her arms stretched downward as if in appeal.
Stefan pointed to our left, the northern end of the square, which was bordered by a large, elegant building. “Speaking of wealth, here’s one of the livrées.”
“The what?” The word he’d said rhymed with eBay, but I knew that wasn’t right.
“Livrées. The cardinals’ palaces.” The building was immense — twice the size of the White House, maybe three times. “There were more than twenty livrées here and across the river in Villeneuve. Today, only two livrées are still standing in Avignon. This one, the Petit Palais — the Little Palace — is now a museum. Beautiful medieval paintings inside. The other one is the bibliothèque, the public library. You have seen it, oui?” I nodded. “Come. I have two other places to show you on our moonlight tour of the city of the popes.”
We recrossed the palace square, and then another narrow plaza; after a few more turns, Stefan stopped on a narrow street and pointed to the entrance of an old building. I read the sign above the door — THÉÂTRE DES HALLES — and turned to him with a puzzled look. “A theater. So?”
“Non, non. Well, okay, oui, a theater. But read the other sign. The small one, beside the door.” On the wall was a historic plaque like the one I’d seen on the old prison. Beneath the French inscription was an English translation: Here, in the 14th century, stood a church where Petrarch first saw his Laura. Stefan studied me. “You know Petrarch?”
I sensed another lecture coming. “Famous poet and philosopher, if my ancient memory serves.” Stefan nodded. “Somehow I’d thought Petrarch was Italian, not French.”
“Oui, tous les deux. Both. His family was Italian, but they moved to France. He lived in Avignon for years.”
“That must have been exciting for a poet.”
“Yes and no,” he said. “He found his muse here — this Laura.” He gestured at the plaque, as if it were the woman herself. “But Avignon? Petrarch hated it. Despised it. He called it a sewer, called it Babylon. Called the papacy ‘the whore of Babylon.’”
“Strong words.”
“Some of his words were even stronger. ‘Prostitutes swarm on the papal beds,’ he wrote. He accused the pope and his entourage of rape, of incest, of orgies.”
“So why did he stay in such an evil place? He couldn’t leave Laura?”
Stefan smiled. “Perhaps. But also, he was nursing at the breast of the whore of Babylon.”
“Excuse me?”
“He was the private chaplain to one of the Italian cardinals. The pope’s money supported Petrarch while he composed love poems and attacked the papacy.” Stefan glanced at his watch. “Come.”
After several twists and turns, we started down yet another narrow street, Rue Saint-Agricol. He stopped in front of an arched opening between two small shops and pointed. A narrow vaulted passage, almost a tunnel, led through the walls, passing beneath the upper stories of a building, and then opened into a small courtyard. Within the courtyard were several large cloth umbrellas and café tables. I looked at him, puzzled; what was he showing me?
“Here. The last stop on our midnight tour.” He led me farther into the courtyard. The back wall of the courtyard was formed by the side of an ancient stone building forty or fifty feet high. Arches in the wall showed traces of former glory: the outlines of tall Gothic windows whose stained glass was long since gone and whose stone tracery had been filled in centuries ago. “This building was once the chapel of the Knights Templar. You know about the Templars?”
“A little. Not much more than you said the other day, the day I arrived. The Templars escorted pilgrims to the Holy Land during the time of the Crusades, right?” He nodded. “And fought the Muslims.” Another nod. “And they made Dan Brown a zillionaire a few years ago.”