The Family - Mario Puzo [98]
Suddenly he felt a joy that he had rarely felt—not even with his children, the women he loved, the treasures he counted for the Crusades. He felt a belief in his Christ that was so pure that all the pomp, all the power vanished, and it seemed he was all of light. As that feeling faded, he wondered if his son Cesare could ever feel this ecstasy of mercy.
The next petitioner was an altogether different kettle of fish, Alexander thought. He would have to keep his wits about him and not go soft. A hard bargain had to be made, and he must not weaken. This client would inspire not a drop of mercy. He replaced the miter on his head.
“Shall I wait in the anteroom?” Cesare asked, but the Pope beckoned Cesare to follow him.
“You may find this interesting,” he said.
For this meeting, Alexander selected another reception room that was not so forgiving. Its walls were painted with the portraits of warrior Popes, striking down the enemies of the church with sword and holy water. Depictions of saints being beheaded by the Infidel, Christs on crosses with thorned crowns and halls painted bright red. It was the Salon of Martyrs, more than appropriate to this interview.
The man presented to the Pope was the head of the noble and rich Venetian family of Rosamundi. He owned a hundred ships that traded all over the world. Like a true Venetian, his wealth was a closely guarded secret.
This Baldo Rosamundi, a man over seventy, was dressed respectfully in black and white, but wore precious stones as buttons. And on his face was the look of a man prepared to do serious business, as the two men had done together when Alexander was a cardinal.
“So you think your granddaughter should be canonized,” Alexander said cheerfully.
Baldo Rosamundi spoke respectfully. “Holy Father, that would be presumptuous of me. It is the people of Venice who began the petition to make her a saint. It is the holy officers of your church who investigated the claim and pushed it forward. I understand that it is only you, the Holy Father, who can give the final approval.”
Alexander had been briefed by the bishop designated as Protector of the Faith, whose role it was to investigate claims for canonization. It was quite an ordinary case. Doria Rosamundi would be a white saint, not a red saint. That is, she would be elevated to sainthood on the grounds of an impeccably virtuous life: a life of poverty, chastity, and good works, with an improbable miracle or two thrown in. There were hundreds of such claims each year. Alexander had no affection for white saints; he preferred those who died as martyrs for the Holy Church—the red saints.
The documentation showed that Doria Rosamundi had scorned the good life of her rich family. She had ministered to the poor, and since there were not enough of them in Venice—a city that did not allow even the freedom of poverty—she had traveled throughout the small towns of Sicily gathering orphan children to care for. She had been chaste, she had lived in poverty, and most important she had fearlessly tended victims of the plagues that constantly struck the general population. And then she herself had died at the age of twenty-five of one of these plagues. She had been dead only ten years when her family initiated the process of canonization.
Of course, as proof, there had been miracles. During the last plague, some of the victims had been pronounced dead and put on the stacks of corpses for burning. But when Doria had prayed over them, they had miraculously come back to life.
After her death, prayers at her tomb had produced some cures for deadly illnesses. And on the blue Mediterranean waters, sailors saw her face hovering over their ships in great storms. Document after document attested to these miracles. Everything had been investigated, and none had been disproven. And it helped that the great wealth of the Rosamundi could help to push this petition up