Da Vinci's Last Supper

Chapter 5

The mere mention of Father Rodrigo of Salamanca was enough to strike fear into the hearts of many an honest Catholic. Amongst the Spaniard’s various papal duties was that of ‘Inquisitor’, a role he relished as he traversed Italy with a license to condemn those he perceived guilty of crimes against the Church. He had ordered the execution of more souls than he could recall. It had only been a few winters previous, when still in Spain, Father Rodrigo had been called upon to investigate allegations of heresy and witchcraft.

Late one November night, he had arrived with a small band of soldiers under his command during a heavy downpour at the ancient town of Cartagena. Abbot Ferdinand, who had sent for him, was waiting with a remnant of faithful monks and nuns in a state of desperation inside a small stone church on the outskirts of the port when Father Rodrigo arrived. Abbot Ferdinand told their sorry tale of blood and feathers on the floor of the Monastery of the Blessed Virgin atop the hill overlooking the town. A jewelled crucifix had been torn from the wall above the monastery altar and positioned in a pentagram, upside down and dipped in blood. The monks and nuns occupying the monastery were drunk and naked and indulging in all manner of Devil worship and licentious behaviour.

‘The vile song of witches has been heard throughout the night, terrifying the townsfolk,’ the Abbot had claimed. ‘Many have fled along the coast to relatives.’

Father Rodrigo considered their comments carefully, along with the horrific accounts the Abbot and his companions told of how Satan had seized the minds of many they once considered brothers and sisters in Christ.

Of the weeks that followed it was Abbot Ferdinand, along with the poor frightened monks and nuns Father Rodrigo had first encountered, who were the first to be found guilty of heresy. It was Father Rodrigo who signed their death warrants and who stood proudly to the right of the hangman when each one of these innocent Catholics was executed. The power he wielded, he did so with zeal, deriving satisfaction from the fear he struck into innocent and guilty alike. Such a reputation proved invaluable to the Pope when sending the surly Spanish priest on diplomatic missions.

Having been thwarted on several occasions by Il Moro’s powerful brother Cardinal Ascanio Sforza, who was Vice-Chancellor of the Holy Roman Church, the notorious Inquisitor had a particular disdain for the House of Sforza. The conniving Cardinal had used his influence to hinder the Inquisitor when he had laid accusations of heresy against several prominent individuals, who Father Rodrigo suspected had paid handsomely for the Cardinal’s protection. Therefore, when he was informed by His Holiness that his next diplomatic mission was to Cardinal Sforza’s usurper of a brother, Ludovico Sforza, Duke of Milan, his black heart beat with menace.

Even Il Moro was not inclined to look the blood-stained Priest in the eye when he arrived in Milan one windswept winter’s day to fulfil his business from Rome.

‘If you wish the Holy Father’s blessing, we would like to see a commission of deep religious significance handed to an artist in whom there is evidence of piety,’ said Father Rodrigo of Salamanca.

‘Leonardo is my artist in residence, I am sure he is worthy,’ Il Moro said with the slightest quiver in his voice, one not lost on the smirking Inquisitor.

‘Leonardo is a bastard and a sodomite!’ was Father Rodrigo’s terse reply.

‘Every artist in Italy is either a bastard, a sodomite or both,’ replied Il Moro.

‘My Lord, rumours abound that Leonardo secretly uses cadavers. Any man practising such diabolism cannot be considered worthy to depict Christ.’

‘I have also heard it said that Leonardo flies around the rooftops of Milan with a broom between his legs, but in all my nights observing the stars from my balcony I have yet to see such a sight. If I paid attention to every piece of tittle-tattle that swept past my ears, then I’d be more worried that either the Pope or the King of France has designs to take my land.’ Bowing slightly, Father Rodrigo continued in a more conciliatory tone.

"Well, my Lord, if you will vouch for the man, I will pass your recommendation to His Holiness.’

In the pretence of warming his hands over a blazing log fire, Il Moro turned his back upon his papal emissary. ‘A room has been prepared for you,’ he said, studying the flickering flames.

‘I thank you for your hospitality,’ replied the priest. The proud Spaniard promptly turned on his heels leaving Il Moro to breathe a sigh of relief.

‘That man could curdle the milk in a dead goat,’ he said to his secretary, who stepped up once their unwholesome guest had vanished from sight.

The following morning, the Inquisitor attended the early morning service of Lauds, where he was dissatisfied with every detail of the ritual. The incense was not pure enough; the prayers were said too quickly; some of the chants were out of tune. Afterwards, he lambasted the poor priest officiating, meticulously pointing out to the startled man, who was deaf in one ear, a list of his shortcomings. Unfortunately, due to the poor man’s disability, the sting in Father Rodrigo’s venom was somewhat wasted. Frustrated, the Inquisitor gave up and took route to the stables, saddled his horse and, in full force of a downpour, commenced his return journey to Rome.

‘Rain, rain and more blasted rain!’ Father Rodrigo complained to the young novice who had been assigned to accompany him on his journey. ‘Only an Englishman would feel welcome here,’ he said as he passed out of the southern gate without so much as a backwards glance.

During his return journey to Rome, Father Rodrigo rued the decline of the Catholic Church’s influence under the reign of Pope Alexander VI (Rodrigo Borgia), a despot who owed his rise to the Papal throne to a successful arrangement he had undertaken with Il Moro’s brother, Cardinal Ascanio Sforza. It was the good Cardinal’s clandestine activities that secured Rodrigo Borgia the necessary votes to become Pope. Of course, the Cardinal’s brother, Ludovico benefited substantially from his brother’s favourable position and new-found wealth.

After a gruelling journey when the rain he had encountered in Milan followed him for the greater part of his return to Rome, Father Rodrigo of Salamanca entered the ornate office of the Pope where he grudgingly bowed and kissed the sacred Fisherman’s ring.

‘How was Milan?’ enquired the Pope.

‘Wet, Your Holiness.’

‘And Il Moro? Is he satisfied with a Papal blessing for his commission?’

‘God has delivered to Rome the greatest artists in the land. You should make it a condition of your Papal approval that it is an artist from Rome who is sent to Milan to fulfil so important a commission.’

‘If Il Moro wants an artist from Rome, let him approach us formally and we will agree terms. If no such approach is made, then he has other artists at his disposal.’

‘By others you mean that bastard Leonardo da Vinci,’ uttered Father Rodrigo.

‘Italy is a land of bastards. Why, I have even fathered a few myself.’ His Holiness

replied, relishing the chance to watch his Inquisitor squirm uncomfortably. ‘Now go. I will speak no more on this.’

Marching out of the Pope’s private chambers, Father Rodrigo passed a bronze statue of Our Lord upon the cross and fell prostrate before it. ‘My Lord, he has defiled the Holy office and made a mockery of your name. He is a usurper to the throne of Saint Peter. By the cross and all the holy saints may I live to see the day when a righteous Pope governs your Church.’

The devout Father rose to his feet and kissed the silver crucifix around his neck. He had heard the rumours of regular evenings of debauchery where drunken revellers spurred on by prostitutes were awarded marks out of ten for virility by seeing who among them could ejaculate the furthest. If that were not enough, Pope Alexander VI openly kept a mistress, Vannozza (Giovanna) dei Cattanei. Their bastard children not only stayed in the Vatican, they were even promoted to office.

Even though Rodrigo Borgia was a Spaniard, Father Rodrigo felt ashamed that a fellow countryman had demeaned the Papacy with such vile behaviour. With trembling lips, he proceeded through the east wing of the Curia, comforting himself with the thought that there were others like him in Rome who had not sullied themselves with drunkenness and immorality. Men like Cardinal Giuliano della Rovere who loathed the Borgia Pope, believed that along with Cardinal Sforza they had conspired to prevent him from being elected to Papal office. The brass knocker on Cardinal Rovere’s door was shaped like the head of a lion. Rodrigo slammed it so hard the oak door juddered. It was only after he had knocked several times that the Cardinal sheepishly opened the door.

‘Welcome Father,’ said Cardinal Rovere. ‘My apologies for the delay in answering, but these are troubled days in Saint Peter’s.’ Cardinal Rovere was a stern looking man with an uncompromising air and a long white beard who, in his scarlet Cardinal’s robes, fitted in perfectly with the opulence of his surroundings. Upon his walls hung a richly embroidered tapestry of the battle of Ostia and the elaborately tailored silk-thread Chasuble that had been worn by his uncle, Pope Sixtus IV, on his coronation as Pope. Father Rodrigo poured out his frustrations.

‘I rejoiced at the sight of white smoke over Saint Peter’s, believing it was you who had taken the Papal sceptre. Now my heart grows wearier by the day, witnessing the evils done in the name of the Church.’ Father Rodrigo suddenly stopped. He knew he could speak openly in front of Cardinal Rovere but in his enthusiasm, he forgot to take into account another who was present, Cardinal Alessandro Orsini, a thin rakish Vatican stalwart.

‘I assure you, Father Rodrigo, Cardinal Orsini is a man to be trusted.’ Satisfied, the Spaniard continued. ‘Bastards, thieves, fornicators, sodomites and heretics of every hue are commonplace in our blessed city. Unless we act to stop the likes of the Borgias and the Sforzas, the very institution of the Church will be threatened.’

Cardinal Orsini filled a gold goblet with wine, which he passed to the distressed Spaniard. ‘My son, when God looks down upon this earth, let me assure you he is well pleased by the purity of your words and actions.’

‘There are those in the Vatican who now conspire to take my life,’ said a stern-faced Cardinal Rovere. ‘But I believe God will preserve it for this divine purpose, to rid the world of Rodrigo Borgia. On that day, I will be made Pope. Until then, it is not safe for me here, and for that reason, I leave soon for the Court of Avignon. There, I plan to form an alliance with King Charles VIII of France and lure him into some pretext for declaring war upon Pope Alexander VI, and in return secure the Duchy of Milan for the French and Naples too, which he has long held aspirations for.’

Cardinal Orsini leant in to speak. ‘This time Cardinal Sforza’s wealth won’t save him. He will come to ruin once the French take Milan from his murdering dog of a brother, and Rodrigo Borgia is stripped of the Papacy.’

There was never any proof Cardinal Sforza had committed the crime of simony, yet rumours abounded that Rodrigo Borgia had paid handsomely with four cartloads of silver for the Cardinal’s assistance in bribing sufficient numbers of The Sacred College of Cardinals, to cast their vote for Rodrigo Borgia.

‘When God pronounces his judgment upon the Borgias and Sforzas, what punishment do you forecast?’ the Inquisitor asked. Cardinal Rovere placed a hand over Father Rodrigo’s and clasped it firmly.

‘My dear friend, the trial of such slippery individuals would need to be judged by a man of calibre, one who could not be bribed. I had hoped you would be willing to oversee such proceedings?’ Humbled by his mentor’s request, Father Rodrigo bowed.

‘Your Grace,’ he said as he kissed the Cardinal’s sapphire ring. ‘It would be an honour to root out and punish the enemies of the Church.’ He kissed the Cardinal’s ring a second time and then raised his gold goblet to Cardinal Rovere. ‘To your health, wealth and future success.’

Feeling rejuvenated, the scheming Father finally left Cardinal Rovere’s office. Speaking to himself, he knelt down before a gilded gold cross. ‘Sforza or not, I swear before Almighty God, I will see Il Moro hung as a heretic. As for that Florentine bastard da Vinci, he too will feel the wind beneath his swinging feet.’