Excerpt from Chapter Three:
Chapter 3
Shimmering through a purple band of wispy clouds, the orange sun touched the western mountains behind the silhouette of Florence. Paulo had only another mile or so before he reached the city limits.
While he wondered if he should chance an evening audience with Archbishop Fadesti, two familiar horsemen appeared on the road ahead. Even though they were as shadows, with the sun at their backs, Paulo smiled, knowing they could only be Gigantus and Midgetti, his two dearest player friends. As fellow actors and entertainers, Gigantus and Midgetti rarely went anywhere without one another.
Towering over almost every living creature, Gigantus measured a clean seven feet with his socks on. He rode a large chestnut horse, equal to his stature, measuring at least thirteen-hands. Gigantus’ chiseled, clean-shaven face was uncommonly handsome, with a strong angular jaw, and classic Roman nose. Wavy black hair, falling to his shoulders, complemented his furrowed brow and large black eyes whenever in deep contemplation. The whole package made him appear quite stately and intelligent, but in fact he was dumber than a cockroach pie. During most performances the players used him as a prop or an object of desire for the ladies. He was ordered to say nothing, unless it was a life or death matter. All the players knew Gigantus had a tiny brain, but his heart was huge. He always shared his food, even if he was left hungry. He’d gallantly defend anyone from suspected injustice, but only if his trusted friend Midgetti confirmed his suspicion.
Midgetti rode beside Gigantus on a tan, shaggy-haired Shetland. Although he stood slightly under four feet, Midgetti was, without question, the lead player. He wrote all the plays, arranged all the shows, and in general taught everyone the fine art of theater. In his own way, Midgitti was as handsome as the majestic Gigantus. His heart-shaped face, piercing blue eyes and rosy cheeks beamed with the love of life and country. Though his short legs bowed outward from birth, making him waddle as he walked, his skill as an orator would be the envy of any priest or politician.
As the horses drew near, Paulo called out, “Midgetti…Gigantus, what brings you to Florence? Are you not amazed I’m a free man once again?”
“Look, Gigantus, our ace player has become a monk,” said Midgetti, as Gigantus offered a vacant stare and a warm smile. “How in the world did you manage that, and get out of jail too, Paulo?” asked Midgetti.
The two men dismounted and rushed to Paulo, embracing him. After Paulo told them how he switched places with his brother in jail, Midgetti grieved with him for Peto, and then praised him for his clever escape. All the while Gigantus stood nodding his head, smiling, pretending he understood the conversation.
“What of the players, Midgetti? Where are the rest of them?” asked Paulo.
“We had to split for the winter, but we will meet again in Rome come spring.”
“So what will you do now? Why are you leaving Florence?”
“Our wagon is not far from here. We were hoping to get one last two-man-show, but no takers. We’ve run out of food, and money, Paulo. Can you help us?”
Paulo went into his saddlebags and retrieved a loaf of hard-crust bread and a dried fish. Handing them the food, he asked, “What of all the money from the golden crucifix and chalice? Did you manage to help the farmers?”
Gigantus split the loaf, and in a matter of moments it vanished into his mouth. While Midgetti chewed on a bite of dried fish, he explained, “That money went further than we ever expected. The only thing we forgot was us. We should’ve kept enough to make it through this winter. Anyway, the main thing now is that you are out of jail.”
“I can help you get through this winter, Midgetti, if you’re willing to help me with an important mission to Rome.”
“I’m all ears, my friend.”
Midgetti listened earnestly as Paulo told of the young boy who nearly committed suicide because of Archbishop Fadesti’s sexual abuse. He also shared his plan to expose the so-called holy man before he became a vested Cardinal.
Paulo laid his hand on Midgetti’s shoulder. “Take your wagon and wait for us on the road south to Rome. Then, hide the wagon in the forest, and dress Gigantus in the Swiss Guard uniform we used in the Vatican play last year. When the Archbishop’s wagon approaches, you and Gigantus will appear as if the Vatican has sent escorts from Rome.”
“But what excuse do I have for being with a Swiss Guard, Paulo?” asked Midgetti.
“There’s no doubt in my mind whatsoever that you will come up with the perfect excuse for tagging along. Fadesti will, no doubt, take plenty of food and drink for the five-day journey. You will be welcome to it until we reach Rome. By then we’ll have to come up with another plan.”
Paulo gave them all the food in his saddlebags, embraced them and assured Midgetti the Vatican bound wagon would leave for Rome the next day, giving the players plenty of time to set up on the road and wait.
*****
Paulo gasped as he turned onto the street leading to Duomo, the Cathedral of Florence. He’d never seen a dome on any building as large as Duomo.
Alongside the cathedral were elegant six-story church buildings that housed church officials and administration staff. Coming out of a nearby front door, a nun paused to adjust her habit.
“Excuse me, sister. I’ve come from Assisi to escort Archbishop Fadesti to Rome. Do you know where I can find him?”
Smiling, the nun arched her eyebrows saying, “Oh, a Franciscan Brother. We haven’t seen many of you around here lately. If you go to the next door, the Archbishop’s apartment is on the third floor.”
After thanking the nun, Paulo made his way to the third floor and knocked. A tall, skinny priest with a large nose opened the door, and in English said, “Are you Brother Peto Cardinalli?”
“Si.”
“Well, Brother, being two days late will not start you off on the right foot with the Archbishop. He is quite eager to meet the Pope, and has been rather cranky waiting for you. The first rule, while you’re assigned to his holiness, is to refrain from speaking Italian. The Archbishop wishes his entire staff to speak English. When he finally meets the Holy See, he wants to showcase his multilingual abilities. You can speak English, can’t you?”
Realizing he had to take on his brother’s persona, Paulo took it a step further and pretended not only to have a speech impediment, but also to feign stupidity.
“That’sa no problem, Fatha, I’ma speak really good English since a way, way back. I know lotta big words’a too.”
A curious look appeared on the priest’s face. “Do you think you just spoke proper English?”
“You bet, Papa. I’ma gifted?”
The Priest grimaced, saying, “You just called me ‘Papa’.”
“No! Really? Some time’a my words, they mix up ina’ my brain. Please’a forgive me. Papa means almost same’a ting as a fatha, no?”
“What seminary did you attend?” asked the priest suspiciously.
“Peto Cardinelli attend’a the same school as Saint Francis. The one in the sissy.”
“What? The sissy? Oh, you mean Assisi.”
“Right. That’sa what I say.”
The priest shook his head, clearly frustrated. “Follow me, Brother Cardinelli, the Archbishop is just finishing dinner. He’ll be glad to see you…I think.”
The priest hurried through the apartment, with the small monk following right behind. Taking in all of the lavish furnishings, Paulo noticed oil paintings of previous Popes, in gold baroque frames, in every room. Each piece of furniture was ornate, hand-carved wood, and the floors were covered end to end in Persian rugs.
When they stepped into the dining room, the tall priest pointed to a chair against the wall and told Paulo to sit and wait until he was formally introduced.
Across the room, seated in the center of a long dining room table, sat Archbishop Fadesti. Paulo couldn’t get over the width of the man. He was able to see below the table, where the Archbishop’s body appeared almost as a circle. With no visible neck, Fadesti’s pink, hairless, face boasted three chins. His bulbous eyes popped out so far that when he blinked, they looked like goose eggs under the lids.
On the plate in front of him sat a pile of broiled chicken and baked potatoes. Paulo’s stomach turned as the ravenous priest pulled a leg apart and sucked in the meat with one motion. Paulo heard air enter the priest’s mouth as he chewed, and then snorted as he searched the bone for more chicken.
Shifting in his seat, disgusted, Paulo’s attention went to the boy sitting next to the Archbishop. At once he remembered what Giaggi told him, and reasoned that Fadesti was now doing the same sick, perverted things to this poor boy.
The boy looked terrified. His face was turned away, looking in the direction he wanted to run.
Paulo’s blood boiled, but he knew he had to remain focused until he had Fadesti all to himself on the road to Rome. So he reached in his pocket and pulled out his white juggling stones. Tilting his chair back to the wall, he began to juggle.
The tall priest who first greeted Paulo leaned in from the door and shook his head, indicating Paulo should stop.
“Oh, please’a,” said Paulo, “Look at the boy. He’sa so sad, no? I make’a him laugh.”
Entertained himself at Paulo’s juggling, the priest looked to the Archbishop. When Fadesti smiled, wiping the grease from his face with a towel, the priest took his former position at the door; his eyes fixed to the stones.
Still juggling, Paulo sauntered to the center of the room, and quickly added a fourth stone to the mix. Higher and higher he threw them, as the boy became transfixed; a faint smile appearing on his face.
“Father Roberto, who is this wonderful Franciscan Monk?” asked the Archbishop with a burp.
“He is Brother Peto Cardinelli, from Assisi. He is the monk who is to escort you to Rome.”
The Archbishop took another swig of beer, and rested his hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Don’t stop juggling, Brother Cardinelli, but why were you so late coming here?”
Paulo almost lost his rhythm when he saw Fadesti touch the boy. “I was’a seeing my brother in jail. That Paulo, he’sa always in trouble. I’ma so sorry, your holy-less. I’ma gonna make up for it, you see.”
“Did you just say, ‘your holy-less’?” asked the Archbishop.
“I donna tink so. You must’a forgive me, your holy-less, I have a speech appedament.”
Fadesti’s right eye arched. “You said it again. Didn’t he, Roberto?”
Father Roberto stepped forward. “It sounded that way to me, Eminence.”
Paulo stopped juggling, put the stones in his robe, and approached the dining room table. “I’ma so sorry right now…my heart, she’s in a knot. I did not mean what’a you thought I said, because’a the word ‘HOLYLESS’ means’a you not holy at all. It means’a you would be a big’a phony, all full’a sins. It’sa mean you got a black heart that stinks’a like death. How can I tink that’a way? I just met you. See?”
The Archbishop was partially convinced by Paulo’s sincerity and shrugged it off as he took the boy by the arm and led him from the room. “Make sure you’re ready for the journey to Rome as soon as the sun rises. My aides will have the wagon packed and ready to go, waiting out in front of the building. If you’re not there when I arrive, I’ll march you straight back to Assisi. Are we clear, Brother Juggles?”
“Oh, that’sa very clear to me, your Nemisis, I’ma gonna sleep in the wagon, that’sa how bad I wanna please you.”
The Archbishop suddenly stopped and turned, “Father Roberto, what did he just say, ‘EMINENCE or NEMISIS?”
“I believe he said NEMISIS, Eminence.”
Glaring at Paulo, the Archbishop asked, “Do you know what ‘nemisis’ means?”
“Si! I mean’a… yes. My tongue, she slipped again. I’ma so sorry, I’ma gonna poke myself in the eye later. Nemisis mean’a you a source of’a downfall or ruin. But that’sa no true, right? They gonna make you a holy Cardinal, right?. So I must’a said that’a word that means’a you really important and holy.”
The Archbishop turned and said, “Enough!”
Walking down the corridor with Father Roberto and the boy, Paulo heard him say, “I think Brother Cardinelli juggles more than those white stones. What say you, Father?”
“Be careful on your journey, Eminence. This monk may not be a priest at all. I will have word sent to the seminary in Assisi asking about his identity, and so-called speech impediment. I’ll send a messenger to Rome as soon as I know something.”
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