But then there had come this proposal. He had been loitering outside a wine shop when he had seen a man whom he knew to be a servant of Sciarra Colonna; the man, noticing him, asked him whether he could ride and wield a sword. ‘If you can, and you serve my lord,’ he told Toscanello, ‘you will be paid in gold.’
That had been a week ago. Now, here he was, in a foreign land south of Rome, with over a thousand others, robbing the Pope himself.
Some of the men had declared themselves unwilling to attack when they learned who the target would be, but it only took one man being beaten to the ground by Sciarra Colonna for the rest to realise that they were happy to rob even Pope Boniface VIII.
In truth, most were anyway. They were all aware of the corruption of the Pope’s rule. He had succeeded to the Papal throne because his predecessor, poor Celestine V, had been so wildly unsuitable. Everyone knew the story. When Pope Nicholas IV had died, no one could agree who should replace him. As usual, the Cardinals had been locked in their room to make the choice, with God guiding their way for them, but with clans like the Colonna and Orsini unwilling to give way and lose influence by choosing someone not of their blood, the process dragged on for eighteen months.
It was Pietro of Morrone who broke the deadlock. The old hermit, highly respected by all because he lived a life so austere it was a miracle he lived at all, wrote to the Cardinals threatening them with God’s severe vengeance, should they not hurry and make a decision. To Pietro’s horror, they did. They picked him.
There was a need for intense persuasion and diplomacy. Pietro was happier in his cave with his whips, so he might flagellate himself without interruption. He needed little food, and existed in a quiet manner, rarely speaking except to praise God and pray. Yet even he could not argue with the will of God, so he agreed, and two years after the death of Nicholas, at last there was a new Pope: Celestine V. He lasted four months.
A simple man, he wanted nothing for himself. His first command, on entering the new Papal palace at Naples, was that a wooden cell be built, in which he could sleep. He was entirely unprepared for the magnificence of his new position — nor for the deviousness and acquisitiveness of his Cardinals.
Unused to the grandeur of his new life, he was entirely overwhelmed. He wanted to be efficient, and signed all the papers thrust before him. Unknowingly, he approved benefices and appointments to the greedy. Some even had him sign blank sheets which they could later sell on for huge profits. The corruption of the Church rose to unthought-of levels. And Celestine grew sickened as he realised how ineffectual he really was.
The fiasco lasted four months. At the end of that time, the poor old man had had enough. He knew that he was no Pope. All he wanted was to leave the debauchery and avarice behind, to go back to his little cave and the simplicity of his past life. He told his Cardinals that he must abdicate. And that was when Benedetto Gaetani became Boniface VIII.
But people muttered that no man could merely resign from a position which God had granted. God’s vicar on earth was installed by God, and no human, not even the Pope himself, could resist His will. So they looked on Boniface as being a usurper. The real Pope was still Celestine.
It was worrying enough to make Boniface send to have Celestine arrested, and although it took five months to track him down, at last Celestine was discovered at the coast, desperately seeking a ship to take him over the Adriatic. Brought back to Rome and thrown into the Papal prison, Fumone, there he languished until Boniface ordered his death. The old man could hardly have put up much of a struggle as a pillow was placed over his face and he was gradually suffocated.
So, now people looked upon Boniface as both an imposter and a murderer. He had stolen all the wealth he could from the Papacy, and even made the astonishing claim that, as God’s vicar, he held authority over all — even secular Lords and Kings. All must accept his lordship as a condition of their soul’s salvation.
Not all agreed. Kings were given their crowns and thrones in the same manner as the Pope: they were given them by God. The King of France in particular was unimpressed. Confrontation was inevitable. And when Philip the Fair decided to take action, his enemies would do well to fly.
It was because of him that they were all here today, Toscanello knew. It was the French King’s money which had paid for them all, and it was his servant, Sieur Guillaume de Nogaret, who was directing them. All in order to capture the Pope and bring him back to France.
Toscanello didn’t care, though. All he knew was that he’d been given food and wine, and his purse stood to be heavier when they returned. For the moment his belly wasn’t complaining, and life was good.
There was a shout from one little shed, and Toscanello saw a figure dart from it and bolt across the court. He looked around, but no one else appeared to have seen the fellow, so he gripped his sword in his hand and pelted along in pursuit.
The other man must have been the winner of the clerk’s hundred-yard dash, from the speed he went at. In fact, for all his clerical garb, Toscanello reckoned he must be a lay brother in the Pope’s service, for he had never seen a clerk run so fast before — up one narrow alley, then vaulting a low wall which Toscanello himself found challenging, before springing over a series of barrels behind the brewery, and hurling himself bodily at a door nearby. It slammed open, showering dust like a small explosion of gunpowder, and crashed shut again as Toscanello reached it. Unheeding of any possible danger, he kicked at it without slowing, and the door was flung wide. Under this second assault, a timber cracked, and the whole frame sagged, hitting the ground and remaining still as Toscanello ran on inside.
It was a large storage vault, he saw. There were barrels lined up, some massive ones for fermenting wines, while further away he saw bales of goods imported from all over Christendom. And beyond them, a shadow, and the patter of sandalled feet.
Toscanello grunted to himself, and then set off again, his boots slapping on the paved floor. It was a huge room, this, larger than any he’d seen before. Probably used to store all that was necessary to feed the army of hangers-on which the Pope took with him everywhere. Not that many of them had stayed behind with their master; they had all melted away in the hour or so before the arrival of Guillaume and Sciarra’s army. Only the Pope and a few loyal attendants remained, and this one fellow, too.
His behaviour was odd. Most of the clerks here had submitted immediately, hoping that by surrendering, they might save themselves further pain. Not so this one. He was running as though he thought he might be able to save himself somehow.
Toscanello shrugged. There was a door at the far side. He saw it close, and ran towards it, reaching it in time to hear the bolt sliding over.
‘Shit!’ He experimentally slammed the pommel of his sword into the old wood, and saw it dent and shiver. It was enough. He pounded on the door with all his might, until at last a plank burst apart, and he could reach in. Groping wildly, he found the bolt and opened it, shoving the door wide.
And found himself at the rear of the Pope’s palace. A door was slammed a short way away, and he saw that it was the entrance to an undercroft.
‘We’ll dig him out,’ a voice rasped, and Toscanello looked up to see Paolo striding towards him. Toscanello had never liked Paolo, and the feeling was mutual. Paolo had been a paid man-at-arms to a Roman family, and looked down upon all those who were born outside of Rome itself. Still worse, all those who weren’t actually warriors. But he had three men with him, who may not have been Romans, but all had the same aristocratic contempt for peasants. Toscanello sheathed his sword and nodded, then turned and walked back the way he had come. It was plain enough that Paolo reckoned there could be a rich reward in following the man.