Kotikokura nodded.

“You, however, have changed considerably, Kotikokura. You are hardly recognizable. They even mistook you once or twice for my younger brother.”

Kotikokura grinned.

“When you reach maturity, will you become Ca-ta-pha?”

He laughed.

“Would that please you greatly?”

He nodded vigorously.

“Is Ca-ta-pha the highest peak to which man may aspire?”

He nodded.

“Then has Ca-ta-pha simply turned about himself, when he believed that he was climbing the staircase to the stars?”

“Ca-ta-pha god.”

“So be it then! Let Ca-ta-pha turn and turn, like the sun—and by turning, radiate light! Kotikokura shall be his moon—the reflection of Ca-ta-pha and”—Kotikokura grinned—”grin as a moon should.”

His Holiness Alexander VI, was financially embarrassed. The money received from the sale of indulgences fell far below expectations. Italy was overtaxed. Beyond the Alps, the people groaned and grumbled. Still, he had made a vow to finish the inner buildings of the Vatican during his lifetime. Who could tell how suddenly the Scissors of Time would snap the thread? Bricks and marble and cement remained like hills of debris in the yard of the Vatican, while the walls gaped and the rain splashed upon the foundation.

Rome felt the tension of her master.

Alexander intrigued me. He wore his sins—incest, sodomy, murder—gracefully like a cloak. His extraordinary political sagacity, his love for the arts, were woven into the pattern. I was anxious to meet the vicar of Christ and Priapus!

“Kotikokura, having gathered fame, let us profit thereby.”

Kotikokura looked at me, a thousand questions dancing in his eyes.

“The great-grandson of Count de Cartaphile shall profit by the exploits of his ancestor.”

Dressed in ancient armor, inlaid with crosses, and accompanied by Kotikokura, I rode solemnly upon a tall white horse through the main streets of Rome.

People gathered in clusters whispering, or followed us at a respectable distance. Some knelt, many crossed themselves, or bowed deeply. For three days, I repeated my silent and peaceful conquest of the city. On the fourth morning, I stopped at the gate of the Vatican, and begged admittance to the Holy Father. Meeting some resistance, I bribed my way to his door.

Kotikokura remained outside with our horses.

The Pope’s study overlooked his gardens, and from the open window came the delightful perfume of violets and lilacs. His Holiness was sitting at a long table whose massive legs were carved in the shape of young bulls, the coat of arms of the Borgias. A large copy of the Decameron, illuminated and encrusted, occupied the center of the table. His Holiness was dressed in white from head to foot. There was devouring curiosity in his eyes, but also irony played like lightning about his lips and chin, and his large wide forehead radiated intelligence.

I knelt. He lifted slightly his foot encased in a gold-embroidered white slipper. I kissed the sharp point. He made the sign of the cross over me and bade me rise.

“Are you indeed the great-grandson of Count de Cartaphile?”

“I am, Your Holiness—this is the very armor he wore when he delivered the Holy Tomb from the hands of the Infidels.”

The Pope nodded. But something about his lips told me that he was skeptical. I liked him for it, foreseeing an interesting mental skirmish, such as I had not enjoyed for a century.

“I have brought with me the Holy Grail, the cup out of which our Saviour drank at the Last Supper. My ancestor kept it hidden in a secret vault, which no one could unlock save he who lived a life that was truly Christ-like. Seven years, Holy Father, I spent in prayer and fasting. One morning, the vault miraculously opened by itself. The glory of it made me swoon. When I regained consciousness, the Holy Cup, filled to the brim with red wine, was in my hand. I drank it, and my body which had been emaciated from starvation, suddenly felt lithe and powerful as a youth’s.”

Alexander continued to smile enigmatically. “It is well to live a Christian life, and the rewards are many and great. May I see the Holy Grail, Count?”

The cup was a fine piece of Eastern workmanship—jade studded with emeralds. The Pope fondled it in his plump hands. He closed his eyes a little. I could not help thinking that he compared the sensation to the touch of a woman’s breast.

“It is indeed beautiful, Count, and he who made it was an artist.”

“The Lord Himself inspired his hands.”

He raised his left brow and smacked his lips, as Nero was in the habit of doing. “Every true artist, Count, is inspired by the Lord, even if he paints the manhood of a faun or the breasts of a Diana.”

I yearned to tell him: “Magnificent Pagan!” but for the time being, my rôle was that of a perfect Christian. I smiled, pained a little.

He laughed. “Count, you must not take words too literally. I mean that all art is divine.”

“Yes, Holy Father.”

He placed the Holy Grail upon the Decameron.

“Beauty is beauty everywhere.”

“Your Holiness, the Holy Grail is not only beautiful. It possesses miraculous power. Anyone drinking a drop of wine out of it, or merely touching it with his lips, regains youth and strength.”

The Pope raised the cup to his lips.

“Provided,” I continued, “his life be as pure and undefiled as a child’s.”

“Of course,” he smiled, replacing the cup upon the table.

“Holy Father, it would be selfish for me to keep so precious a thing for myself.”

He looked at me, closing his left eye.

“It belongs to all Christendom.”

The Pope meditated, one palm upon the table, the other upon his leg.

“How can the religion of our Lord Jesus flourish unless all believers pay Peter’s pence to Saint Peter?”

He continued to remain pensive.

“Holy Father, if the world hears of the cup which works miracles, sacrifices will roll like a flood into the Papal exchequer.”

The Pope stood up. His weight did not diminish his stature. He was taller than Nero, but shorter than Charlemagne. He walked over to the window, breathed deeply, caressed his robe.

“Count, are you the only one who knows of the story of the Holy Grail?”

“Yes, Your Holiness, but by this time, Rome certainly knows of my existence. Rome and the world will listen to my tale.”

“How so?”

“For three days, Your Holiness, clad in this armor, I rode through the city upon a white charger. The people are much intrigued. If it becomes known that a descendant of Count de Cartaphile has come to the Eternal City to bring to the Father of Christendom the Lord’s Cup at the Last Supper, the four corners of the earth will reverberate with thanksgiving.”

He interrupted me.

“So be it!”

We remained silent for a while.

“And what reward do you expect, Count?”

“Reward?”

“It is in the nature of man to demand payment.”

“Your blessing, Holy Father, is the only reward I crave.”

He scrutinized me. “You make yourself suspicious, my son.”

“Suspicious?”

“You ride through the city on a white charger, dressed in armor.

You bring me a precious cup of splendid oriental workmanship. You insist upon its miraculous power. No, it can hardly be that you desire no other reward save my blessing.”

“I am the true descendant of Count de Cartaphile who saved the Tomb.”

“That is a fairy-tale, and I am inclined to think that you are aware of it, Count.”

His perspicacity pleased and astonished me.

“Count, it is better to make the people believe than to believe oneself. An actor who really feels his part is not half the artist, nor half as effective as one who has learned his rôle perfectly, and gives the illusion of feeling. I prefer to deal with an intelligent scoundrel rather than with a zealot. The scoundrel, at least, has his price.