Chapter 4
CHAPTER 4
J ASON C ARDINAL R ICHTER HAD OFTEN FANTASIZED ABOUT THE DEVIL. Was he real? Was he even a he? Like many, he thought of the devil in the abstract. A concept. The reverse of God. The epitome of temptation. Then there was John 8:44. Whenever he speaks a lie, he speaks from his own nature, for he is a liar and the father of lies. One other thing was also certain. The devil never came dressed in a red cape, with pointy horns, holding a pitchfork. Instead, he always appeared as nothing you’d ever wished for.
So he wondered.
Why had the devil come to see him?
“I am not na?ve,” Casaburi said. “I fully understand that some of the positions my party takes on various issues could be… uncomfortable… for the church. But let us be real. That could be said of everyone. We all have our bias and prejudices. Our loves and hates. But we have a 60-plus percent approval rating from the Italian electorate. We control nearly a majority of parliament. After the coming elections that will most likely be a majority. Which means our esteemed president will have no choice but to appoint our party leader as prime minister.”
“But to achieve that majority status in parliament you have to win thirty-eight of the contested seats. That might prove insurmountable.”
“Not if the Vatican focuses its considerable resources on swaying the electorate.”
He chuckled. “You overestimate us.”
“The church’s influence is enormous, and we both know that. Your priests can change hearts and minds across the peninsula.”
“The Curia will not authorize it,” he said. “I explored that possibility. I truly did. Tell your party leaders that they will have to find another way.”
Luckily, he’d anticipated rejection. So he’d come prepared.
“Try again,” he said. “This time use these two words. Pignus Christi. ”
Had he heard right? The Pledge of Christ? He was curious. “What do you know of such things?”
“A great deal. They are not secret. History records them. An ancient promise that the church instituted from its beginnings, yet rarely gave.”
He wondered about Casaburi’s interest. He knew the man to be forty-two years old, born to the north, in Tuscany, to a working-class family. He had a modest education that included a university degree. He was a member of parliament, longtime secretary of the National Freedom Party, charged with its everyday administration.
Nothing really remarkable about him.
Including his appearance.
Tall, lanky, the face raggedly handsome with a strong jaw, a straight nose, and a pair of pale, almost artless brown eyes. A thick patch of dark hair, graying at the temples, contributed to an accommodating look that was easily photographed. He was impeccably dressed in a pin-striped charcoal suit, crisp white shirt, and purple tie. Everything he knew about this ambitious politician signaled trouble—truly the devil—and he regretted becoming entangled with him.
But entangled he was.
Casaburi sat straight in his chair. “One of the Pignus Christi in particular is relevant here. In 1512 Pope Julius II was dying. He’d been a busy man. He’d reclaimed the Papal States. Driven most foreign invaders from Italy. Rebuilt Rome. Ordered the Sistine Chapel painted. Furthered the arts. Started construction on St. Peter’s Basilica. Restored the papacy to a political superiority. He was a great pope. The Warrior Pope. But he also bankrupted the church in the process. Of course, the Vatican was already deep in debt thanks to the Borgias and Alexander VI. So before Julius died he made a deal with the Medici. The family had been banished from their beloved Florence and they wanted to return.”
“All of that appears in the history books,” he said. “Except the part about a deal.”
“Giuliano di Lorenzo de’ Medici was head of the family. A likable young man. Capable too. But being the third son, he had quite the inferiority complex. So, trying to make a name for himself, Giuliano made a deal with Julius II. He loaned the church ten million gold florins. An enormous sum at the time. Lucky for Julius the Medici possessed gold and property in abundance. But to secure that loan Julius had to give the Medici collateral.”
“As I recall my history,” he said. “Julius had Florence surrounded by an army, ready to lay siege.”
“That he did. But Giuliano didn’t care. He wanted real collateral. Julius had none, other than the Pignus Christi . A pledge, in writing, signed by the pope himself, under a sworn oath to God, promising in perpetuity to repay the debt. Which Julius signed, and after 513 years that debt remains unpaid. Surely you know about such things.”
Yes, he did. He served on the Commission of Cardinals, a five-member body appointed by the pope to oversee the Institute for the Works of Religion or, as it was more commonly known, the Vatican Bank. Which was not a bank in the traditional sense. Instead, it collected, accounted for, invested, and distributed the church’s wealth. The problem? That had historically been done with remarkable confusion, official bungling, no independent oversight, and outright corruption and abuse. Not even popes knew the truth about its dealings, a willful ignorance that many had seemed to bask within. Scandals had become all too frequent, and there’d been many attempts at major reforms. The latest pope had tried his hand and appointed five cardinals whom he thought capable of making changes. But instead of positive moves, more corruption had seeped to the surface through the ongoing fraud trial of six defendants.
A five-hundred-year-old promise from the Middle Ages?
What possible relevance could that have?
“Why did you come to me? There are other cardinals much more politically connected. I work only with the bank.”
“Which is precisely why I chose you. You alone will understand the gravity of the debt the church owes.”
He shrugged. “Could we not simply ignore any pledge, assuming for a moment it still even exists? That was a long time ago.”
Casaburi chuckled. “Which the church is quite the expert at doing. But really? That would be your solution? The pope gave his word, in writing, upon an oath sworn to God, and you simply ignore it? What do you think 1.2 billion Catholics would think of that?”
Not much, he silently admitted. But still. “It is ancient history.”
“How hard would it be to have the faithful obey the commands of the pope when the church itself is a liar?” Casaburi asked. “What kind of panic do you think will ensue when people realize that something so basic and fundamental as their church is founded on nothingness. No honor. No integrity. No nothing. Have you not taken enough abuse with your questionable positions on sexual predators? What has that cost, just in terms of credibility?”
He knew the answer. A lot. “You seem quite the expert on this Pledge of Christ.”
Casaburi nodded. “It was memorialized in two writings. Each identical. Both signed by the pope. One was kept with the church, the other with the Medici.”
He needed to make clear, “The Medici family effectively ended in 1737, when the last male royal heir died. Then, six years later, the final female heir died. There are no more legitimate royal Medicis in that line. It is extinct. So even if this Pledge of Christ exists, it would only be viable to a lawful Medici.”
“I am a legitimate Medici. A legal royal heir.”
“That’s impossible.”
“I assure you, it is not.”
From everything he knew about Eric Casaburi, the man was regarded as braggadocious and narcissistic. As a minister in parliament Casaburi had never sponsored a single piece of meaningful legislation. He spent the majority of his time managing the National Freedom Party, talking to the media, and speaking at political gatherings, promising only that he and his party would deliver the direct opposite of the current ruling majority. What that might be was never detailed. He, and his party, were the precise definition of style over substance. But in today’s Italy, where the people were clamoring for change, tired of the same old, same old, that empty rhetoric had found a welcome home.
“You have DNA evidence of your ancestry?”
“I do. My family’s Medici roots are not something we speak of in public. The story of the Pignus Christi signed by Julius II has been with us for generations. And DNA evidence does not lie.”
“You will have to prove all of that,” he made clear.
“I will. But keep this in mind. The Florentine florin was struck from 1252 to 1533, with no significant change in its design or metal content. It contained 3.5 grams of pure gold. The Medici loaned ten million florins to the church. In today’s value that is 2.3 billion euros.”
“A significant sum,” he said.
Casaburi stood. “Then interest, for over five hundred years, has to be added to that. Which is substantial. Ten percent, I am told. The resulting balance would be in the hundreds of billions of euros.”
He stayed seated and kept a calm demeanor. “You seem to know a great deal about this pledge. Do you have the Medici copy?”
“Of course. I would not be here without it.”
“Why is this only being demanded now?”
“You have to ask that?”
Of course. “I assume that in return for our political support, this matter will never see the light of day?”
“It would not be in our best interests to bankrupt the Holy See. We prefer to be in partnership with you. But if you decide to support our opponents? Then our empathy would wane, and we would see what the people think of another example of Catholic hypocrisy.”
“Does the party know of your… Medici connection?”
“Not in the least. My task as party secretary is to advance our aims. How I do that is my concern. Results are what they want.” Casaburi stepped for the door. “I look forward to hearing from you.”
“Soon? I assume.”
“I will give you until Friday at noon.”
Four days.
Casaburi opened the door.
And left.