“Zealots are a great source of danger and infernal bores. Only recently, I was constrained to order the burning of Savonarola, Prior of San Marco in Florence. He was a scholar and a pious man, but lacking in humor as a man upon the rack. I was sorry to consign him to the flames, but he was undermining the structure of our Church. Besides, his implacable hatred of life revenged itself upon beauty. One statue is worth more than a hundred priors…”

He reseated himself. “Well?” he asked.

“Your Holiness, I am not a zealot nor do I bequeath the Holy Grail for any other purpose except that of enriching the Church. I am satisfied to bask in her glory. I should also like to bequeath to your Holiness the ancient armor worn by my sire– —”

The Pope laughed. “I hope sincerely that you are merely acting. A man capable of such jests delights me immensely. Who are you?”

His eyes, hidden a little in the heavy bags of flesh, darted sharp short rays. He was certainly keener than Nero, taught in all the delicate nuances of the sophistry of the Church, and accustomed, like the rest of his family to subtle intrigues. It would not be so easy to extricate myself from his suspicion, but the elements of danger added zest to the conversation. I was prepared for everything. The Borgias were famous for the poisons they administered to their prisoners and to their guests—candarella, a mixture of arsenic, quicksilver and opium. I had hidden a powerful antidote in the gold cross on my chest.

“Who are you?” Alexander reiterated.

“I am Count de Cartaphile, Your Holiness.”

He shook his head. “I know the genealogy of the Holy Roman Empire. There never was a Count de Cartaphile except, of course, in the legends of the Church.”

I smiled. “It certainly would be neither proper nor indeed prudent to contradict Your Holiness.”

“Fear nothing. You are my guest. Accept at least this much in return for your precious gifts.”

“Holy Father, no greater honor has ever been mine.”

“You bribed my officer, did you not, Count?”

This time I was really startled.

He laughed. “Am I not right?”

“Holy Father, I– —”

“Do not fear, my son. I am your Father Confessor.”

“I bribed him, Your Holiness.”

“Of course. I know he is very faithful. He allows no visitors to disturb me, except for a consideration. A saint who fasts and prays for seven years lacks the knowledge of human nature and the sense of humor to bribe an officer of Christ’s Vicar on Earth.”

I smiled.

“And do you think that Pope Alexander the Sixth, a Borgia, would allow a knight in full armor to ride through the streets of Rome for three days in succession, without investigating?”

“It was for the very purpose of attracting your attention, Holy Father, that I rode through the city. Even a man who fasts for seven years knows– —”

He shook his head. “A man who fasts for seven years and prays incessantly as—Count de Cartaphile—would not offer the Holy Grail to Alexander the Sixth. He would declaim hoarsely against a Pope who neither fasts nor prays. He would not understand at all the difference between a religious faith and a gigantic government.”

“Is not faith the supreme tenet of the Church?”

He struck the table with his fist. “No!”

I was uneasy. Was the Holy father always so frank? Did he single me out because I was a stranger? Was he attempting to draw me out? What was his ulterior motive?

“No!” he repeated. “The Roman Empire prospered without a special religion. Greece flourished on skepticism. What is needed is a strong hand and a cool head. Life is not an affair of prayer and fasting, Count. If we followed the example of the Saints we would be barefooted, ragged and ignorant.”

“It is not a question of this world, Your Holiness, but of the next. ‘What shall it profit a man if he gain the whole world and lose his soul?’ ”

“Tut, tut! The soul? What is the soul?”

I remembered suddenly Pilate. ‘Truth? What is truth?’

“Is there no soul, Your Holiness?”

“The soul is an illusion engendered by man’s fear of death. The sane man squeezes out of the earth all the pleasures it is capable of offering. Carpe diem!”

I remained silent.

“What is the soul, Count, compared to the senses—to the exquisite intelligent senses? You ought to know what I mean. You have traveled much and if your name belies you not—loved much.”

How much of my history did he know? This man was truly uncanny.

“I have traveled a little, it is true.”

He laughed. “Is it a little to travel through China and India?”

I smiled. “It is not possible to dissimulate before you, Your Holiness.”

“The cup comes from China. Of course, no one save you and I must know it. You speak to your valet sometimes in an African dialect. And a man like you would not miss India—the home of all cults and plagues.”

A Cardinal entered, red-faced and important.

“Well?” Alexander asked.

“The royal ambassadors are impatient, Your Holiness.”

“That is well, Monseigneur. They will accept our terms. Bring me the map.”

The Cardinal bowed and walked out.

“The Chinese understand life and know how to turn excruciating pain into exquisite pleasure. You certainly,” he leered lewdly, “must know the secret of unendurable pleasure indefinitely prolonged…?”

Each word rolled upon his tongue like a delicate morsel.

I stared, amazed. Did there exist, perhaps, some organization or brotherhood of voluptuaries throughout the world, which initiated its members into the secret of unendurable pleasure indefinitely prolonged…? Was Alexander VI a member of this fraternity?

The Cardinal returned with a large map. The Pope bent over it, then taking his goose-quill, drew several bold lines, dividing the world between Spain and Portugal.

“Summon the ambassadors.”

The ambassadors appeared. His Holiness showed them the map. Pointing his stubby forefinger to the map, he said: “Henceforth, these lands and these seas belong to His Majesty, the most Catholic King of Spain, and these to His Majesty, the most Christian King of Portugal.”

The ambassadors looked startled.

“Whatever new or old lands Colón and his followers may discover, I likewise allot to Spain.”

“But Your Holiness,” the Portuguese Ambassador ventured, “my exalted sovereign– —”

Alexander continued, without heeding the interruption: “Except these islands, which by right of conquest appertain to His Majesty, the King of Portugal and his descendants forever.”

The Ambassador repeated timidly, “Your Holiness…”

Alexander raised his finger. “Peace! Peace! The Vicar of Christ has spoken. Neither the word nor the sword shall erase the faintest line that his hand has drawn.”

His Holiness extended his hand. The two ambassadors kissed the ring obsequiously and walked out, their backs to the door.

“God speed,” Alexander pronounced, making the sign of the cross.

The Pope rang a small gold bell. An officer entered.

“Captain, relieve the Count of his armor.”

The Pope caressed the Holy Grail.

“Captain, place the armor in the corner.”

The officer obeyed, waited a moment, and left.

“Sit down, Count.”

I seated myself.

“Clothes shape our personality. In that armor, you were Count de Cartaphile who fasted for seven years that he might possess the Holy Grail which his ancestor had obtained from the hands of our Lord.” He looked at me, and smiled. “Now you are a gentleman, relieved of the burden of piety and sanctity—a scholar, a master of wit.”

I nodded.

“And my guest.”

What was the sinister meaning of the word “guest”?

“This cup is too exquisite for the coarse lips of the multitude, but the Church needs money. We shall remember your deed and weave a beautiful legend about the myth of your ancestor. Posterity could do no more—even for Jesus.”