The Pope nodded. But something about his lips told me that he was skeptical. I liked him for it, foreseeing an interesting mental skirmish, such as I had not enjoyed for a century.
“I have brought with me the Holy Grail, the cup out of which our Saviour drank at the Last Supper. My ancestor kept it hidden in a secret vault, which no one could unlock save he who lived a life that was truly Christ-like. Seven years, Holy Father, I spent in prayer and fasting. One morning, the vault miraculously opened by itself. The glory of it made me swoon. When I regained consciousness, the Holy Cup, filled to the brim with red wine, was in my hand. I drank it, and my body which had been emaciated from starvation, suddenly felt lithe and powerful as a youth’s.”
Alexander continued to smile enigmatically. “It is well to live a Christian life, and the rewards are many and great. May I see the Holy Grail, Count?”
The cup was a fine piece of Eastern workmanship—jade studded with emeralds. The Pope fondled it in his plump hands. He closed his eyes a little. I could not help thinking that he compared the sensation to the touch of a woman’s breast.
“It is indeed beautiful, Count, and he who made it was an artist.”
“The Lord Himself inspired his hands.”
He raised his left brow and smacked his lips, as Nero was in the habit of doing. “Every true artist, Count, is inspired by the Lord, even if he paints the manhood of a faun or the breasts of a Diana.”
I yearned to tell him: “Magnificent Pagan!” but for the time being, my rôle was that of a perfect Christian. I smiled, pained a little.
He laughed. “Count, you must not take words too literally. I mean that all art is divine.”
“Yes, Holy Father.”
He placed the Holy Grail upon the Decameron.
“Beauty is beauty everywhere.”
“Your Holiness, the Holy Grail is not only beautiful. It possesses miraculous power. Anyone drinking a drop of wine out of it, or merely touching it with his lips, regains youth and strength.”
The Pope raised the cup to his lips.
“Provided,” I continued, “his life be as pure and undefiled as a child’s.”
“Of course,” he smiled, replacing the cup upon the table.
“Holy Father, it would be selfish for me to keep so precious a thing for myself.”
He looked at me, closing his left eye.
“It belongs to all Christendom.”
The Pope meditated, one palm upon the table, the other upon his leg.
“How can the religion of our Lord Jesus flourish unless all believers pay Peter’s pence to Saint Peter?”
He continued to remain pensive.
“Holy Father, if the world hears of the cup which works miracles, sacrifices will roll like a flood into the Papal exchequer.”
The Pope stood up. His weight did not diminish his stature. He was taller than Nero, but shorter than Charlemagne. He walked over to the window, breathed deeply, caressed his robe.
“Count, are you the only one who knows of the story of the Holy Grail?”
“Yes, Your Holiness, but by this time, Rome certainly knows of my existence. Rome and the world will listen to my tale.”
“How so?”
“For three days, Your Holiness, clad in this armor, I rode through the city upon a white charger. The people are much intrigued. If it becomes known that a descendant of Count de Cartaphile has come to the Eternal City to bring to the Father of Christendom the Lord’s Cup at the Last Supper, the four corners of the earth will reverberate with thanksgiving.”
He interrupted me.
“So be it!”
We remained silent for a while.
“And what reward do you expect, Count?”
“Reward?”
“It is in the nature of man to demand payment.”
“Your blessing, Holy Father, is the only reward I crave.”
He scrutinized me. “You make yourself suspicious, my son.”
“Suspicious?”
“You ride through the city on a white charger, dressed in armor.
You bring me a precious cup of splendid oriental workmanship. You insist upon its miraculous power. No, it can hardly be that you desire no other reward save my blessing.”
“I am the true descendant of Count de Cartaphile who saved the Tomb.”
“That is a fairy-tale, and I am inclined to think that you are aware of it, Count.”
His perspicacity pleased and astonished me.
“Count, it is better to make the people believe than to believe oneself. An actor who really feels his part is not half the artist, nor half as effective as one who has learned his rôle perfectly, and gives the illusion of feeling. I prefer to deal with an intelligent scoundrel rather than with a zealot. The scoundrel, at least, has his price.
“Zealots are a great source of danger and infernal bores. Only recently, I was constrained to order the burning of Savonarola, Prior of San Marco in Florence. He was a scholar and a pious man, but lacking in humor as a man upon the rack. I was sorry to consign him to the flames, but he was undermining the structure of our Church. Besides, his implacable hatred of life revenged itself upon beauty. One statue is worth more than a hundred priors…”
He reseated himself. “Well?” he asked.
“Your Holiness, I am not a zealot nor do I bequeath the Holy Grail for any other purpose except that of enriching the Church. I am satisfied to bask in her glory. I should also like to bequeath to your Holiness the ancient armor worn by my sire– —”
The Pope laughed. “I hope sincerely that you are merely acting. A man capable of such jests delights me immensely. Who are you?”
His eyes, hidden a little in the heavy bags of flesh, darted sharp short rays. He was certainly keener than Nero, taught in all the delicate nuances of the sophistry of the Church, and accustomed, like the rest of his family to subtle intrigues. It would not be so easy to extricate myself from his suspicion, but the elements of danger added zest to the conversation. I was prepared for everything. The Borgias were famous for the poisons they administered to their prisoners and to their guests—candarella, a mixture of arsenic, quicksilver and opium. I had hidden a powerful antidote in the gold cross on my chest.
“Who are you?” Alexander reiterated.
“I am Count de Cartaphile, Your Holiness.”
He shook his head. “I know the genealogy of the Holy Roman Empire. There never was a Count de Cartaphile except, of course, in the legends of the Church.”
I smiled. “It certainly would be neither proper nor indeed prudent to contradict Your Holiness.”
“Fear nothing. You are my guest. Accept at least this much in return for your precious gifts.”
“Holy Father, no greater honor has ever been mine.”
“You bribed my officer, did you not, Count?”
This time I was really startled.
He laughed. “Am I not right?”
“Holy Father, I– —”
“Do not fear, my son. I am your Father Confessor.”
“I bribed him, Your Holiness.”
“Of course. I know he is very faithful. He allows no visitors to disturb me, except for a consideration. A saint who fasts and prays for seven years lacks the knowledge of human nature and the sense of humor to bribe an officer of Christ’s Vicar on Earth.”
I smiled.
“And do you think that Pope Alexander the Sixth, a Borgia, would allow a knight in full armor to ride through the streets of Rome for three days in succession, without investigating?”
“It was for the very purpose of attracting your attention, Holy Father, that I rode through the city. Even a man who fasts for seven years knows– —”
He shook his head. “A man who fasts for seven years and prays incessantly as—Count de Cartaphile—would not offer the Holy Grail to Alexander the Sixth. He would declaim hoarsely against a Pope who neither fasts nor prays. He would not understand at all the difference between a religious faith and a gigantic government.”
“Is not faith the supreme tenet of the Church?”