nothing.”
“And then what happened?”
“The Moors returned to their room and the Pope instantly felt much better. His breathing improved, his fever disappeared and he stopped sweating. Then, when he was just about to come downstairs to continue his journey, he shuddered, bent over and began to vomit blood. Your cousin and I were terrified. The first thing we thought of was to request help from the doctors, so I ran back to their room. However, in less than ten minutes they had disappeared. There was not a trace of their presence in the room; it was as if they had never been there. No clothes, no books, no indents in the bed, no signs of food. Nothing. You can imagine our anguish! The Pope continued vomiting blood and writhing in pain. Your cousin grabbed me by the neck and said ‘Listen, you rogue! I don’t know how much those assassins paid you to help them kill the Pope but I swear that the storms of the Inquisition await you if you don’t tell me right now what poison you gave him.’ I swore and swore again that I didn’t know what he was talking about, that I had also been tricked and that however good a Cardinal and a servant he was, he would also be put before the Inquisition for allowing two Moors to poison the Pope.”
François gave an endless sigh and was quiet. He seemed to be reliving the agony of that day, the panic he had felt upon seeing His Holiness Clement V die in his house, which was pretty much his fault.
“The Holy Father was also bleeding from … behind, you know what I mean. A river, sire, a river of blood flowed from above and from below.”
“Red or black?”
“What?”
“The blood, damn it, the blood! Red or black?”
“Black, sire, very black, dark,” he said.
“And so, scared, my cousin, Cardinal Henry of Saint-Valerie and yourself swore not to say anything to anyone, and given that the doctors had vanished into thin air, you both promised to never mention this incident in the declarations following the death. Am I wrong?”
“No, sire, you are not wrong, that is what happened.”
“But God was not happy, my friend, and He sent the Holy Mother so as my cousin would repent that evil oath that has surely kept him in purgatory until today, until this very time when you have spoken.”
“Yes, yes!” yelled the poor wretch with his eyes filled with tears. “And you can’t imagine how happy I am to have freed my soul and that of your cousin from the fires of hell!”
“And I am glad to have been an instrument of Our Lord to perform such a marvelous task,” I declared with pride. “I will never forget you, dear François. You have made me very happy allowing me to fulfill this holy mission.”
“I will always be indebted to you for saving my soul, sire, always!”
“Just one more thing … By any chance, do you remember the names of those Arabs?”
“And what good could that do?” he asked me, surprised.
“Nothing, nothing,” I agreed. “I’m sure they are false names anyway. But if I ever come across an Arab doctor who answers to one of those names, you can be sure that he will pay with his life for the harm he caused to my cousin and to yourself.”
François’ eyes rested on me with wet veneration, and I couldn’t help but feel a slight stab in my conscience.
“I don’t remember very well but I think that one of them answered to the name of Fat something or other and the other ….” He frowned in an effort to remember. “The other was something like Ada-bal … Adabal, Adabal, Adabal …,” he said. “Adabal Ka, I think but I’m not sure. Wait! Wait a minute! I remember that that night, when everything had finished and the retinue had left with the body, I made a note of the names of those doctors in case I was interrogated.”
“Well thought! Please find that note.”
“I put it over here,” he said, standing up and going over to a corner of the dining room where, hanging from the beams of the roof, were pots and meats hung out to
“And then what happened?”
“The Moors returned to their room and the Pope instantly felt much better. His breathing improved, his fever disappeared and he stopped sweating. Then, when he was just about to come downstairs to continue his journey, he shuddered, bent over and began to vomit blood. Your cousin and I were terrified. The first thing we thought of was to request help from the doctors, so I ran back to their room. However, in less than ten minutes they had disappeared. There was not a trace of their presence in the room; it was as if they had never been there. No clothes, no books, no indents in the bed, no signs of food. Nothing. You can imagine our anguish! The Pope continued vomiting blood and writhing in pain. Your cousin grabbed me by the neck and said ‘Listen, you rogue! I don’t know how much those assassins paid you to help them kill the Pope but I swear that the storms of the Inquisition await you if you don’t tell me right now what poison you gave him.’ I swore and swore again that I didn’t know what he was talking about, that I had also been tricked and that however good a Cardinal and a servant he was, he would also be put before the Inquisition for allowing two Moors to poison the Pope.”
François gave an endless sigh and was quiet. He seemed to be reliving the agony of that day, the panic he had felt upon seeing His Holiness Clement V die in his house, which was pretty much his fault.
“The Holy Father was also bleeding from … behind, you know what I mean. A river, sire, a river of blood flowed from above and from below.”
“Red or black?”
“What?”
“The blood, damn it, the blood! Red or black?”
“Black, sire, very black, dark,” he said.
“And so, scared, my cousin, Cardinal Henry of Saint-Valerie and yourself swore not to say anything to anyone, and given that the doctors had vanished into thin air, you both promised to never mention this incident in the declarations following the death. Am I wrong?”
“No, sire, you are not wrong, that is what happened.”
“But God was not happy, my friend, and He sent the Holy Mother so as my cousin would repent that evil oath that has surely kept him in purgatory until today, until this very time when you have spoken.”
“Yes, yes!” yelled the poor wretch with his eyes filled with tears. “And you can’t imagine how happy I am to have freed my soul and that of your cousin from the fires of hell!”
“And I am glad to have been an instrument of Our Lord to perform such a marvelous task,” I declared with pride. “I will never forget you, dear François. You have made me very happy allowing me to fulfill this holy mission.”
“I will always be indebted to you for saving my soul, sire, always!”
“Just one more thing … By any chance, do you remember the names of those Arabs?”
“And what good could that do?” he asked me, surprised.
“Nothing, nothing,” I agreed. “I’m sure they are false names anyway. But if I ever come across an Arab doctor who answers to one of those names, you can be sure that he will pay with his life for the harm he caused to my cousin and to yourself.”
François’ eyes rested on me with wet veneration, and I couldn’t help but feel a slight stab in my conscience.
“I don’t remember very well but I think that one of them answered to the name of Fat something or other and the other ….” He frowned in an effort to remember. “The other was something like Ada-bal … Adabal, Adabal, Adabal …,” he said. “Adabal Ka, I think but I’m not sure. Wait! Wait a minute! I remember that that night, when everything had finished and the retinue had left with the body, I made a note of the names of those doctors in case I was interrogated.”
“Well thought! Please find that note.”
“I put it over here,” he said, standing up and going over to a corner of the dining room where, hanging from the beams of the roof, were pots and meats hung out to
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