Chapter 40: That Was an Army

Luca.

Anselmo’s gaze was far from friendly; indeed, it carried a trace of menace. Since the day he had taken up his post in Luca, he had discovered that the Cluniac reforms, so fervently championed by the reformist faction, had yet to be fully implemented. Even here in Italy, in Luca—so close to Rome itself…

Anselmo clenched his teeth.

He looked at the priests assembled before him, and could not suppress the anger that crept into his voice.

“Well? How many among you bought your offices? How many have secretly taken wives? And how many gained their positions through connections rather than merit?”

The clergy all lowered their heads, not daring to meet Anselmo’s glare.

Everyone knew that Anselmo himself was the greatest beneficiary of nepotism.

He was, after all, the pope’s own nephew.

Still, though none dared to speak, the resentment in their hearts did not dissipate.

“I am truly disappointed in you,” Anselmo said, his hand curling into a fist. “I will give you two weeks. In that time, you had best cleanse yourselves of every impurity, and devote yourselves wholly to the service of God.”

With these words, Anselmo swept the room with a cold gaze.

He could not comprehend why these men clung so stubbornly to the entanglements of the secular world.

To enter the church and serve God was already an honor they should cherish.

“After two weeks, if I find anyone still at fault, I will show no mercy. You will be expelled from the church, laicized, and sent to live out your days as ordinary men.”

With that, Anselmo turned on his heel and left the church in a swirl of robes.

Only after his departure did the clergy dare to lift their eyes.

They all turned to the archpriest, hoping to see what the second-in-command would do.

Alas, the archpriest was just as helpless.

“This time, I fear there’s no escaping our fate,” he said. “His Holiness the Pope will show us no leniency.”

“What do you mean? Is he really going to cast us out?”

Complaints broke out among the priests of Luca, voices raised in protest, as if their outcry might move Anselmo to change his mind.

In truth, their grievances were not without reason.

The current Pope Alexander II, before entering Rome as a cardinal, had himself been the bishop of Luca.

In a sense, they were his own loyal followers, his townsmen.

Given that, what harm was there in a little indulgence? Surely the pope, of all people, understood the old adage that when one man attains greatness, all his kin benefit along with him.

But Anselmo did not understand.

When he returned to his carriage, his face was still dark.

“Milord, Lady Bianca has requested that you come to her home to preach—”

“Not today.” Anselmo flicked his sleeve, changing his plans for the day on the spot.

Lady Bianca was, in fact, one of his lovers. Upon his arrival in Luca, the nobility had hosted banquets in his honor. The morning after one such gathering, Anselmo had awakened to find himself in Lady Bianca’s bed.

“Take me back to my residence,” he ordered.

The coachman did not dare utter a word more. In just a few brief exchanges, he had sensed Anselmo’s foul mood. Though he did not know the cause, he knew better than to provoke his master further.

As the old nag pulled the carriage along, its wheels clattered over the road. When they passed through a muddy patch, the jolt sent water splashing, causing townsfolk on either side to scatter.

Inside, Anselmo pondered his next move.

If he were to purge these men, where would he find replacements?

Perhaps it would be best to recruit from the Abbey of Cluny.

As a breeding ground for reformist clergy, the abbey was always a wellspring of talent—or so Anselmo believed.

Suddenly, the carriage halted.

Anselmo, whose anger had just begun to subside, was instantly annoyed.

How many unexpected troubles would this day bring?

“Milord, some visitors have arrived from outside the city. They claim to be from Pisa—the bishop himself. He says he wishes to speak with you. Shall I take you to him now?”

The Bishop of Pisa? Anselmo immediately instructed the coachman, “Take me there at once.”

The coachman nodded without hesitation and drove straight to the city walls.

Expecting to meet at the gates, Anselmo was surprised when the soldiers led him up to the ramparts. Only then did a sense of unease begin to creep over him.

Reaching the top, he looked down and saw a troop of cavalry assembled below.

The riders wore an assortment of armor, bearing the banner of the Republic of Pisa, flaunting their strength with an air of arrogance.

At their head rode a man on a black steed, whose white clerical robes stood out in striking contrast.

“Anselmo, do you remember me?”

Leo reined in his horse at the foot of the wall.

At the sight of Leo, Anselmo was at first stunned. He paced a few steps on the rampart, as if unable to believe what he saw, and looked again and again at Leo.

“Bishop Anselmo, I heard you’ve been made bishop of Luca. I came especially to request your blessing,” Leo called up, folding his hands. “Bishop Anselmo, would you care to come to Pisa?”

“To Pisa? Out of the question.”

Anselmo refused outright, then fixed Leo with a questioning stare.

“I have to ask, how did you obtain your holy office?”

At this, Leo knew exactly what was coming—reformist clergy always harped on the same issues, especially the denouncement of simony.

He spread his hands, looking utterly unabashed.

“I was appointed by the Duchess of Tuscany.”

“Very well. Let me ask you another question: Where is Boniface?”

Standing beside Leo, Corrado lowered his head almost imperceptibly.

“How should I know? Who is Boniface?” Leo replied innocently. “I’ve neither met nor heard of anyone by that name. Anselmo, I really can’t answer your question.”

Such a slippery response left Anselmo at a loss.

He had studied theology assiduously since childhood, but no one had ever taught him how to handle situations like this.

Left with no other recourse, Anselmo steeled himself and pointed at Leo.

“Leo, you are not a bishop appointed by the Holy See! I will never consecrate you! What’s more, you are a heretic! I swear before God, I will never consort with your kind!”

That was precisely the reaction Leo had sought.

He smiled up at Anselmo, who stood atop the wall as if basking in his own righteousness.

Fortunately, Leo had never intended to reason with him.

He looked up at Anselmo, wondering how much longer the man could maintain his airs.

“Let’s go. We’re done here,” Leo said to Giovanni at his side.

Giovanni nodded. His soldiers from Pisa had long been itching for a fight.

On the wall, Anselmo watched Leo and his party turn away and heaved a long sigh of relief. Never before had he faced such a confrontation; the feeling of being coerced was most unpleasant.

It hardened his resolve: in the future, all clergy who defied authority must be purged.

Leaving such men in the church could only spell disaster for the Holy See.

“Milord, just now, you truly had the bearing of a hero.”

The captain of the guard had sensed Anselmo’s mood and hurried over, showering him with flattery.

The captain’s lackeys followed suit, joining in the chorus of praise.

Anselmo allowed himself a moment of satisfaction.

Still, as a clergyman, he knew he must maintain a facade of humility.

“I was only doing my duty,” Anselmo replied. “The Holy See will never compromise with evil, no matter how powerful our adversaries may be—”

Before he could finish, cries of alarm broke out among the soldiers on the wall.

Their shouts drowned out all praise for Anselmo.

Startled, Anselmo turned around, bracing himself on the parapet and gazing into the distance.

“What is that…?”

Upon seeing the black lines appear on the horizon, Anselmo felt his palms begin to sweat uncontrollably.

It was an army.