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The Lesser Deliberations of the Papal Court

Volume One: The Devil's Bitter Brew

By O.S. LawrenchukPublished about a year ago 24 min read
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1. Prologue

The Pope took his coffee black.

It was brought to him promptly by a servant, polished shoes echoing off marble floors, and set beside his gilded throne on a silver tray. Steam caught on a draft wafted an aroma both pleasant and strange to his nose. It was earthy and nutty, with a hint of caramel; distinctly different from the wines and ales he was accustomed to. So Inviting, the Pope thought, though the sentiment was somewhat undercut by the way his servant winced as he placed his fingers on the handle of the ceramic cup.

It was amusing, thought the Pope, that the boy seemed to feel personally responsible for his opinion of the beverage, but he kept his expression neutral all the same. It appeared, in fact, as he lifted the cup to his lips, that all of Saint Peter’s Basilica had become tense. Scanning the hall, he saw a sea of wide-eyed stares fixed upon him. All the nobility of Italy was seated there on cedar benches, unblinking, daring not to breathe, watching his every motion. Some had traveled far and wide for this moment.

He let the cup linger near the Rubicon for a moment, reflecting on the years which led him here, or perhaps simply toying with the curious strain of his esteemed audience, and then he took a careful sip, and the course of history was changed.

Pope Clement VIII loved coffee. He loved it so much that he wanted to close his eyes, smile wide, and let out a long, satisfied aah. But he was the Pope. So instead he maintained an expression which promised thoughtful reflection. He had a reputation for stern and measured deliberation, and saw no reason to disillusion his audience. They expected God’s own judgement today.

He took another sip. Aah, he thought.

2. The Captivity of Maximilien d’Orange

Maximilien d’Orange was a Frenchman born low in the line of succession to a family low in nobility. Despite this misfortune, he had managed to turn his miserable holdings in Orange into negligible holdings in Rome, and then at last into quaint holdings on the wealthy and beautiful island of Cyprus. A moderate estate, a retinue of servants, some degree of authority and a connection to the upper strata… the achievement took the lion’s share of his life, but d’Orange had become a man of consequence and station, and he was happy.

The number of years the Frenchman spent to build his little piece of heaven was quite similar to the number of seconds it took for the Ottoman Turks to repossess it. In the autumn of 1590, Suleiman the Magnificent had decided that the island would better prosper under the teachings of Muhammad, his soldiers rushed across the region to make it so, and d’Orange was exchanged his lofty estate for a dark, remote prison.

There he lived for two long, resentful years…

*

“Back! Back to the walls, you dogs!” Came a shout through the bars of his prison. The guard’s Latin was broken, and further muddled by his ugly eastern accent. Irritating enough to merit a retort, sure, but Maximilien d’Orange had found that he’d spent too long in this place, and was tired of those kinds of games. So, he left acts of defiance to the younger prisoners and shuffled cooperatively to the back of the cell. Only when everyone was lined neatly against cold stone, did the guard nod to an associate at the top of a flight of stairs, who then banged on a wooden door. The door swung open.

“Move!” Shouted a voice at the top, and then two sets of feet began to thump down the steps. One set belonged to another guard, dressed similarly in the silky eastern clothes of an Ottoman serviceman, the other belonged to an Italian, perhaps in his thirties, bearded and disheveled from what d’Orange could only assume was the result of infidel hospitality.

The new prisoner looked around unsurely. There were perhaps forty people sharing the cell; Frenchmen, Slavs, Africans… Many were from the Italian peninsula, most were war captives. All were admitted in the same fashion; existing tenants corralled against the wall, a shove in the back, and then they’d leave you to acquaint yourself with home.

D’Orange had seen it dozens of times, and always he’d make a point to ask for news from the outside. “Surrendered in good order, treated fairly,” a prisoner told him years ago. “Children stolen for slaves, others flayed in public as an offering to their twisted gods,” said another, some time later. It was hard to decide what was true, with so many different stories. “A thousand warships at sea, bearing the holy cross. They had not arrived in time, alas, but revenge will be swift in the coming.” He liked that report the most.

Only, nothing happened. The days came and went in dull routine. D’Orange woke and brooded, slept, woke, and brooded some more. The cells would dwindle as prisoners were ransomed, transferred, or otherwise reassigned, and the prison would grow quiet. This Italian was the first new prisoner since the promise of revenge.

“You there,” d’Orange intended to say, though his voice was rusty from disuse.

The newcomer turned to the sound all the same, and d’Orange waved him over.

“Greetings,” The Italian said, “my name is Mr. Polo.”

“I am Maximilien d’Orange,” said d’Orange, clearing his voice. “Are you from the peninsula?”

“Venice,” replied Polo.

“Excellent. What news in the war? How deeply have we reinvested?” It had been many months since d’Orange was last informed. By now the Papal armies could be a mile away for all he knew, preparing to sweep the last of the Turks from the island.

“War?” Polo blinked. “Sir, these lands are at peace.” He dusted off a patch of stone with his sleeve and sat cross legged on the floor.

"Peace..?" D’Orange did not understand. These were the enemies of God, they’d been at war since Pope Urban, and besides, the Papal armies had been in sight of shore…

“But the warships… the holy fleet…”

“Warships? I fear not, sir. When last I looked to sea, it was trade ships in the harbor— my own included.”

Impossible. Cyprus was an enormous source of wealth for the Papal States— he had made his own fortune here. To give all this up without a fight..? And what of his estate, his servants?

“If it truly is as you say, Mr. Polo,” he began. “If there is no more war, then why are you here?”

The Italian’s eyes lit up with mischief and desire. He shifted closer to d’Orange– uncomfortably close– and spoke at a whisper.

“Because, I took something.” Polo looked around to ensure that no guard was listening to their conversation. “A… treasure… beyond price.” The warm breath of the Italian’s words blanketed his face and neck. He found he was intrigued.

“What treasure?” He whispered back. D’Orange’s thoughts were drawn to the holy grail, the true cross, relics ancient and wondrous.

Discreetly, Polo reached into his pocket, and opened his hand to reveal a small handful of white beans.

“These.” The disillusion was cold water in the face.

“What is this?!” D’Orange shouted, bursting their bubble of secrecy. The heads of both guards and prisoners turned to the commotion.

“Discretion, sir, please!” Polo begged, “I hadn’t considered that news might not have reached this place in some time. I can explain.”

D’Orange squinted at the Italian. The man seemed sincere, though he wasn’t always an expert at determining these things.

“Go on, then.” He said, cautiously.

“You see,” began Polo, composing himself like a performer beginning a monologue at the theatre. “It all began at the gates of a path that tradesmen and adventurers alike call the Silk Road…”

A long winded and well traveled man was Mr. Polo. He spoke in detail of far away lands where people built their homes in gold, of places where armies of centaurs volleyed arrows at one another from unbelievable distances. Mostly, he spoke of desert oases and other hidden places where people traded priceless jewels for common tools.

When a ceasefire was called between Pope Clement VIII and Suleiman the Magnificent, and the Sultan’s harbors opened, suddenly those things which were once within the grasp of only the most daring adventurers had become available wholesale. One item– as Mr. Polo finally arrived at his promised explanation– was found to be prized among all others in the West.

“These beans are dried, and baked, before they are allowed to depart from the Ethiopian Plateaus, so that no others may plant them. You see? From there they are ground and boiled into a most wondrous beverage. But, had I spirited away a crate of these…” Mr. Polo glanced reverently to his palm, “Why, I might have been the richest man alive.”

Maximilien d’Orange shook his head. “True Christians should not debase themselves with heathen vanity. Besides, the enemy’s riches should be claimed by the sword, not suckled at like some helpless newborn.” And yet, he respected the exploits of this Mr. Polo, as he, too, knew what it was to act daringly to secure fortunes beyond one’s station.

In the oppressive dimness of that island prison, Maximilien d’Orange and Mr. Polo the adventurer became friends. Polo made a promise that if he should make it home safe, he would pay the other’s ransom– and so he did. For his own part, d’Orange revealed that he was a historian, of sorts, and could put Mr. Polo’s adventures together in a book, if he had any interest in such things– and so he did.

Privately, d’Orange made a more sacred promise to himself; that he would not rest until he returned to his rightful estate by force, and scatter any infidel that stood in his way.

3. Café Orsini

The Grifona sailed into sight of the Christian mainland in the spring of 1593, more than ten years since Maximilien had last seen it. The sun was rising over the horizon and bathing the coastline in a luxurious sheen. When the ship could go no further, d’Orange was transferred onto a smaller vessel and ferried up the Tiber, where familiar buildings began to appear along the riverside.

They looked different now, however. Whereas the structures on the outskirts of Rome were once mostly abandoned and decrepit, what he saw now were bustling districts of industry. And when the ferry brought him into the heart of the city, there could be no denying it; this place was rich. D’Orange stepped off the ferry and onto the cobbled streets, and found an old friend waiting for him there.

“Virginio Orsini.” Maximilien d’Orange said with surprise. “Is that really you?” The man called Orsini smiled and opened his arms wide.

“Welcome back to the mainland, old friend.”

Just as with the city and its outskirts, Virginio Orsini looked as though he had been prospering in his absence. His robe was decorated with red silk, his neck and hands were decorated with gold jewelry, and he was fat.

“How did you know?” He asked. The ransom of Maximilien d’Orange would not be consequential news in the city of Rome, he was sure, and it didn’t seem likely that Orsini and Polo would have met to speak of it.

“The manifest, Maximilien. You were brought home on the Grifona, yes? That is my ship!”

“Well, I appreciate the kindness, Orsini.” A ship owner, and a rich man now it seemed. It was admirable that the man would take the time to welcome him from captivity… though he could not help but think that just one of those rings on his fingers could have ransomed him back at once.

“Come, Maximilien! You cannot have had a proper meal in years.” And so the two men walked along the cobblestones, and d’Orange listened to his old friend brag about the years which had been so kind to him of late.

“No, no simple priest anymore, they call me Cardinal Orsini, now. In fact, I come to you direct from a consistory within the Vatican walls– ah, here. This is the place.”

They stopped at a pretty shop with tables outside where people could sit and eat in the warm spring weather. Orsini claimed one of the tables for themselves.

“A Cardinal, truly?” Said d’Orange.

“That is excellent. Hear me, old friend: I don’t know what infidel deception has led his Holiness to assent to this ceasefire while Cyprus falls from his hands, but we must petition him to see reason. I know that if we work together we can–”

“Now, hold on Maximilien!” Orsini interjected with amusement.

“You’ve been home mere moments and already you speak of war? Rest a moment, please! Have a drink and some food.” Orsini waved down an attendant and gestured an order.

“Cyprus is my home,” d’Orange corrected.

“Be that as it may, allow yourself to settle– enjoy the new Rome before rushing back to bloodshed, would you? Look! Our drinks are here.” The attendant placed a cup in front of each of them, and retreated with a bow.

“Perhaps you are right,” d’Orange allowed.

“Yes, that’s the spirit!” said Orsini, taking a drink from his cup. “Aaah.

And then Orsini resumed his gloating. He’d risen the ranks of the clergy with good work and convenient connections. His new district as a Cardinal oversaw lands well positioned for profitable trade. His friends on the island were providing him premium rates on goods, and securing them for him faster than his rivals.

“Yes, business is-a-booming, old friend. And with so much work to be done to manage it all, I’d be delighted if you would consider partnering with me and–”

“Wait,” said d’Orange. Friends on the island. What island? He can’t mean..?

“What is this?” D’Orange squinted at his friend, and began to see him as though for the first time. The silk, the gold jewelry– which appeared to have strange eastern markings on them. He took a drink from his cup as he thought.

Now that he was thinking of it, the captain of the Grifona had gone well out of his way to offer him transportation back to the mainland. His tongue was suddenly overcome with bitterness. He looked down at his drink.

“What is this?!” It was pitch black, with an overbearing scent. Maximilien d’Orange pushed his chair back and stood. It was coffee. He was drinking coffee. Orsini was drinking coffee.

“Now, hold on, Maximilien. My friends just wanted to make amends, that’s all– to make the best of unfortunate circumstances, you could say.” D’Orange could feel the color draining from his face.

“What…you…” He looked around at the pretty shop. Everyone there was drinking coffee. Eastern incense filled the air. There was a painting of the Sultan on the walls, regal and looking down his nose at Christian patrons. And the sign above the entrance… Café Arabica di Orsini. The Christian world has gone mad.

“You’re a heathen. You’re all heathens!” Maximilien d’Orange felt as though he was going to be sick. He kicked his chair aside and ran. He ran as far away from his once-called-friend as his feet would take him, dizzied by confusing thoughts swimming in his mind.

4. The Devil’s Bitter Brew

“Turn away from this bitter invention of the Devil!” cried Maximilien d’Orange atop a soap-box in the street, across from the Café Arabica di Orsini. It was summer now, and the city was crowded with aristocrats, peasants, citizens, and foreigners. Most paid him little mind, though he was unconcerned. His resolve was strong, his message clear.

“Drink not of the Devil’s bitter brew!” He shouted on a warm autumn day, with a modest crowd gathered around his platform. “It has been sent to us from lands most foul to test the resolve of true and godly men!” Occasionally, one from his flock would cry out in support.

“Beware the deceitful agents of the infidel!” Was his warning as the weather began to turn. The familiar girthy figure of Cardinal Virginio Orsini caught his eye that day, trying to scurry past into his shop. “For they infiltrate our most holy places and pour poison into the ears of our shepherds.” At that, Orsini and d’Orange met eyes, the latter’s were hard and full of scorn. Orsini simply shook his head and stepped out of the cold.

Maximilien d’Orange had built a following over the months spent standing atop his soap-box in the street. And near the end of winter, one had stayed behind for Maximilien d’Orange after the preaching was all finished, and begged privately for a word. Anne d’Escars de Givry, the man said, by way of greeting. Cardinal Anne d’Escars de Givry.

“I’ve listened to you much this past year.” The Cardinal admitted. “And I think your words are true.”

The two sat together over wine, and spoke of the shamefulness of today’s culture. They spoke of the glory of the days before the ceasefire, before the supplication of the Christian West to sinful materialism, when their identity was yet pure. Finally, when the two were good and drunk, and d’Orange had encouraged the Cardinal sufficiently, d’Escars dared to make a promise.

“There will be a consistory in the spring. A standard affair.” Anne d’Escars swirled his wine in his hand, and took a thoughtful sip.

“With the dust of peace settling, the Vatican will move to consolidate this new state of affairs, and then there will be no going back.”

“So you must stop them!” D’Orange said with urgency.

“Yes,” said d’Escars, “And that I will.”

One might think, given past events in the life of Maximilien d’Orange, that he would have built a healthy skepticism for grand promises of vengeance and holy revolution, though perhaps it is a failing of the faithful that that is rarely so. Therefore, when d’Orange and d’Escars left the wine shop late that winter night– never to see each other again– the spirits of Maximilien were higher than the heavens. He spent that night walking under the stars and thinking of his home in Cyprus, which he loved and missed so much.

The years that followed were hard, and discouraging. Maximilien continued to preach in the streets, and watched, slowly, as the world began to move on, as his following dwindled away to nothing. One autumn day, the attendant of the Café Arabica di Orsini took pity upon the soap-box preacher, and walked out into the rain.

“Drink not of the Devil’s Bitter Brew…” said d’Orange, to nobody, eyes unfocused and wet. “The saracens have– hmmm?” He noticed the barman standing below him, sheltered beneath an umbrella. In his hand was a steaming cup.

“Maximilien,” he said. “Please. There is no one left to listen, and it is cold.” Warily, he extended the cup in offering.

“I think… that if you just tried it– just once– you would see that there is no conspiracy against your soul within this cup. Please, it is just a drink, Mr. d’Orange. There is no evil here.”

Maximilien d’Orange narrowed his eyes at the man. He was tired, and cold, and the drink looked like the kind of thing that might warm him to his bones. He found that he was tempted, and then became revulsed at that feeling of temptation. He will poison me.

“Preposterous,” said d’Orange. “That you would think I would consider such an offer. No true Christian will ever fall for such a trick. Begone, heathen.” The attendant looked sad, and sighed, but turned to leave all the same.

“As you will, then.”

Thinking back, d’Orange would consider that moment to be the hardest his faith was ever tested, and, in the early days of the year 1600, Maximilien d’Orange received news that would finally make him feel as though he’d been rewarded for that faith.

5. The Lesser Deliberations of the Papal Court

Cardinal Anne d’Escars de Givry woke early on the morning of the debates, and walked through the Old Gardens of the Vatican City towards the Belvedere Courtyard, where the College of Cardinals would later gather. It was an indirect route, but at this hour the Gardens were empty, except for songbirds perched among the Italian Pines and Lebanese Cedars that flanked the neatly trimmed grass walking path.

Just as he was hoping, d’Escars felt very soothed and tranquil amidst the solitude and the birdsong. I will not rise to anger today, he vowed, reflecting on arguments passed, and arguments yet to come.

The deliberations regarding the import and consumption of coffee within the Papal States had begun five years previously, when d’Escars, nursing a particularly painful hangover, stood his ground at the Consistory of 1595. The College of Cardinals had convened, and were listening as a Herald listed off the orders of the day.

“The trial and sentencing of the heretic Giordano Bruno will go forwards as planned, and on schedule” he began, to no objection. Mr. Bruno would be sentenced to death or exile with little afterthought, they all knew; no need for preamble.

“Funds will be allotted to his holiness Cardinal Cisneros, to thereby procure Mr. Bartolomé De Las Casas for a firsthand account of the alleged destruction of the Indies.” It seemed that there was some mistreatment occurring within the Spanish Colonies. D’Escars preferred to leave the Spanish to their own affairs, though he was happy to consent to the allocation of funds; he often made use of them too, and did not want to start a precedent of questioning expenses.

“A tariff of two percent has been proposed,” the Herald next read from his scroll. Here we go, d’Escars thought, steadying himself. It did not help that his head was pounding.

“...of two percent, for all goods arriving from the harbors of the Sultan. If there are–”

“I object!” Cardinal Anne d’Escars de Givry shouted, a little louder than he'd intended. The Herald paused, and looked down at him over his reading glasses.

“Uh, all right then,” he said, making a little tick on the scroll with a quill. The other Cardinals were looking at him, eyebrows raised. “The objection of his holiness Cardinal de Givry has been noted, and will be discussed two weeks hence.” The Herald finished the orders of the day, rolled up his scroll, and the meeting was concluded.

It was a further shock to the College, he remembered, when they had reconvened two weeks later, and instead of proposing an amended tariff on eastern goods, had called for an outright ban on the importation and consumption of coffee in the Papal States and all Christian lands beyond. De Givry’s name rang out that year, as every citizen in the peninsula discussed and questioned such an aggressive stance.

The debates that followed began with attempted civility. A committee of Cardinals presented d’Escars with an account of what they had claimed to be unanimously positive effects, such as the apparent eradication of day-time drunkenness and belligerence (as coffee had displaced wine and beer as the preferred morning indulgence), and economic growth to a degree almost unheard of. D’Escars rebutted that the drink was poison, and sprouted from the hell-soil of Muslim Ethiopia. To that, the committee was able to offer no response.

Further discussions were marked by the formation of factions supporting or opposing the ban. The two sides fought contentiously and without progress, with meetings often becoming reduced to personal attacks and filibuster.

“Could it be possible,” Cardinal Orsini wondered aloud at the consistory of 1597, “that the good Cardinal d’Escars is motivated in fact by the plummeting demand for the French wines of his vineyard?”

“Ah, the Cardinal Arabica speaks of motivation!” D’Escars remembered throwing back at him, to the laughter of his faction. He may have also thrown a stool, but his recollection of the day was blurry.

Cardinal d’Escars closed his eyes. The sun was peeking over the foliage of the Old Gardens, and birds were filling the air with song. They had spent so long squabbling with one another that the century had turned and still there was no progress. He was tired. He wanted to come to an accord, to convince the College of his cause, but he could not do that if he allowed himself to be riled at a whim. I will not rise to anger, he vowed once more, and stepped into the Courtyard.

*

“We will now commence further deliberations regarding the import and consumption of coffee within the Papal States.” the Herald announced, as the College came to order. D’Escars assumed his place within the assembly, and took a steadying breath.

“His holiness Cardinal Pietro Aldobrandini has asked to begin the session with a few words,” said the Herald, as attention shifted to the young Cardinal with black hair and a smile full of mischief. Cardinal Aldobrandini was a member of the pro-trade faction, and a nephew of the Pope besides.

“Thank you, good Herald. Just a moment please, if you would,” said Aldobrandini, lifting a small porcelain cup to his lips. He took a long, theatrical sip of espresso, and let out a sigh that would turn heads in a brothel. D’Escars snapped, and another consistory was lost to havoc.

“You are the antichrist, and I swear to God I will see you burn!” Shouted d’Escars. All at once the seventy red-robed brothers of the College of Cardinals leapt head first into a melee, shouting, shoving, and cursing one another. Confused guards leapt from their posts and worked to separate the realm’s most holy and pious men, as they tore at each other’s clothes and skin. “The Devil has done this!” One Cardinal cried out amidst the carnage. “Look how his bitter poison has taken hold of them!”

It took the strength of the sentries and effects of exhaustion, but a semblance of order was eventually restored to the courtyard. The sentiment among them, as they tended to their torn robes and swollen lips, was that this had been their worst consistory in ages. The College of Cardinals agreed that day that all hope of an accord was lost, and in their darkest hour, a revelation was born.

It was agreed, at the Spring Consistory of 1600, that agency was to be surrendered to a higher power. They would serve a cup of coffee to God’s representative on earth, and through him God’s voice would speak in judgement, and thus would the matter be resolved, once and for all.

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6. Epilogue

Such were the events that led to the final trial and verdict of Pope Clement VIII at the turn of the seventeenth century. News spread to reach the ears of Maximilien d’Orange, the citizens of the Papal States, and beyond. The nobility of Europe gathered in Saint Peter’s Basilica, and the legality of coffee north of the Mediterranean rested for one small moment on one man’s palette.

The Pope died peacefully in his sleep four years later in the spring of 1604. His successor, Pope Leo XI, was often heard to remark that the beverage was a tad bitter for his liking, but by then verdict was cemented into law, and the faith had moved on to other pressing matters.

In the end, coffee did not appear to corrupt the minds of true and godly men, there remained a respectable place in Italian markets for French wine, and people like Maximilien d’Orange and Anne d’Escars de Givry held on to their grudges, but learned to live on.

As for the College of Cardinals, the half-decade of animosity was already beginning to fade from memory, as they had begun to turn their attentions toward the corset– a scandalous new Parisian garment eliciting thoughts most impure– and could not wait to convene for the opening arguments.

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