The buttressed foundations seemed to grow like stony roots from the rock. A cobblestone pedestrian alley, carved deep into the rock, wound upward along the base of the palace here. Threading my way through the tight passage and passing beneath the thick arch of a flying buttress, I emerged into the great square fronted by the Palace of the Popes.
I found myself at the southeastern corner of the palace, far from the main entrance, and at the opposite end from the cathedral. The walls gleamed silvery white in the moonlight, with deep shadows delineating the arches and overhangs and arrow slits in the masonry. As I studied the details, a shaft of light at the base of the wall caught my eye. A small wooden door at the corner of the palace opened, and a man in black emerged, closing and locking the door behind him. He started across the square, and his walk—a loping gait with a slight limp—looked familiar. “Stefan?” I was only thirty feet from him, but the rushing wind swept my words away, so I called again, louder. “Stefan!” He whirled, scanning the square, coiling into a crouch as if to run. “Stefan, it’s Bill Brockton,” I yelled, waving both arms. He un-coiled and met me halfway.
“Mon Dieu, Bill, quelle surprise. What are you doing here at the middle of night?”
“I couldn’t sleep,” I said. “The wind, I guess—rattling the rooftops and rattling me. So I decided to take a walk, see the city by moonlight. What are you doing here at this time of night?”
He rolled his eyes. “A rah,” he said.
“Excuse me? What’s a ‘rah’?”
“A rodent. A big mouse.”
“Oh, a rat,” I said, remembering that the French tended to swallow the ends of their words.
He looked impatient. “Oui, a rah-t.” The way he emphasized the t this time, it almost sounded as if he’d spat it at me. “I finally got the motion detector working correctly,” he went on. “I have it linked to my computer, and something set it off a few minutes ago. So I came quickly. But it was just a big rat, eating a sandwich I left in the corner of the trésorerie at lunch today. Quelle peste!”
“Better a rat than a thief, though,” I offered. “And at least you know the alarm works.”
“Bien s?r! Of course. But now I’m on the edge, so it’s difficult to sleep.”
“You’re welcome to join me on a walk, if you want.”
He seemed surprised by the offer. “Oui, pourquoi pas? Midnight in the city of the popes. I will be your tour guide.”
Damn, I thought. Be careful what you wish for.
Stefan gestured at the fa?ade 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.”