The Stone Collector

CHAPTER 1

Rome - February 17, 1600

Giordano Bruno tugged the chains that shackled him to the Inquisitor's wagon. The hood of his brown woolen robe flew from side-to-side as he yanked on his restraints. His high-pitched keening saturated the air while the cart rambled into the Campo dei Fiori from the Via del Pellegrino at the northwest entrance to the piazza.  

Bruno's eyes bulged wide.  He struggled to cry out through the metal horse bit, which had been fitted with a spike to secure his tongue and fastened with leather straps behind his neck, abrading his mouth. Fury and frustration boiled out of him in strangled screams, but he could not utter one last defiant word against the Holy See and the Inquisition's fabricated charges of heresy.

Why don't they just cut his throat? It would be more humane than this, Galileo said, shaking his head.

Michel couldn't find words to answer his brother. Galileo's demonstration of support for Bruno was useless. He hadn't wanted to come today, but joined him only after Galileo insisted he would otherwise go alone. Michel feared his brother would find out he, too, was a disciple of Bruno, as were many other students in the crowd. Galileo had only known Bruno as a brilliant scientist. But Michel knew a darker secret about Bruno, one the Church would never expose publicly.

The bulk of the crowd stood shoulder-to-shoulder, huddled against the harsh winter wind. The Galilei brothers stood among the spectators in front of the stairs leading up to the executioner's platform at the center of the square. The procession labored along the northern edge of the plaza, passing darkened doorways yawning like mouths frozen in anguish.

The cortege turned toward the center of the piazza. The rhythmic clanking of wagon wheels on cobblestones echoed throughout the canyon of smoke-scarred commercial buildings.

Michel looked away from the spectacle and stared at the stone giglios shaped in the form of fleur-de-lis that supported the cornices of tired stone buildings, weathered by age and disrepair. They looked defeated, like so many of Bruno's fellow scientists and students who came to support their mentor.

The mournful cry of a stranger in the crowd brought Michel back to the moment.

Please, Leo, pull up the hood on your cloak. Spies will be everywhere in the crowd, making a target list of sympathetic scientists for the Holy See, Michel said, moving close to his brother to shelter the prominent visage of Galileo's flaming red hair and  long flowing beard.

I will not! Galileo shouted.

Michel put his arm around Galileo's shoulders and looked around furtively. His mountainous silhouette threw a shadow over his brother. He had an unobstructed view of the ebb and flow of the crowd. He was a commanding presence, tall for a Venetian, well over six-and-a-half-feet. He had a bushy black beard and long black hair, and his jaw was permanently fixed into a menacing scowl. People usually cowered when he approached, but today, the crowd ignored him, more interested in the debacle unfolding before them.

The cart was preceded by two members of the Vatican's Swiss Guard, dressed in red-plumed helmets and black breastplates covering gold-and-blue-striped doublets with matching breeches. Their long pikes were thrust forward to assure no one got in their way. The Guard was followed by three black-hooded lay brothers of the Confederation of Saint John the Beheaded, volunteers whose last act of mercy was to provide companionship to the condemned as he was led to his execution.

Michel glared at the two priests in black robes trailing the wagon. Each held a large silver cross at arm's length, aimed toward the accused, while mumbling incantations. These pious men were the Black Friars, zealots from the Dominican order. Their official responsibility was to snatch Bruno's soul from Satan at the moment of his death. But he knew their real purpose. They were there to dismember Bruno's body after his death and throw the chunks of flesh and bone into the fire to assure no relics of the martyr would be preserved for worship by his followers. Their final task would be to gather his ashes and cast them into the Tiber River, banishing his worldly remains forever like a puff of smoke.

Look at what they've done to him, Galileo said to his younger brother. He can't weigh more than a hundred pounds. What was his crime? Speaking the truth, and for that, they tortured him and condemned him as a heretic.

Michel did not respond. Bruno was hated by the Church for being a Copernican, embracing the theory that all planets revolved around the sun and flagrantly defying Church doctrine that decreed they circled the earth. But Bruno had ventured into a dangerous area of study, one he called natural magic. It was his own brand of sorcery, one he had derived from the ancient Greek ritual of enchanted circles and modified by his experiences traveling the world as a young man. His fate was sealed when Pope Clement VIII discovered Bruno credited much of the meditative techniques he used to manipulate nature's laws to an oracle he had studied under in Brazil who taught him how to leave the outermost ring of an enchanted circle and permit his spirit to soar unfettered. The idea of an oracle who could release a mortal soul from earthly bonds was anathema to Church doctrine, especially since the oracle was a woman.

Look at this travesty, Michel, Galileo said, shaking his head. I never thought I would live to see the day when the Holy See would stoop to this level of depravity. Fiori is now known throughout Europe as the square where scientific truth is martyred.

This execution is more than another demonstration of Pope Clement's power. It's meant to send a message to Venice that he will not tolerate its challenge to the Church's scientific positions, a mantle you will carry once Bruno is gone, Michel said.

The procession neared the executioner's platform. The crowd pressed closer  Their rank body odor swirled through the air like ink on water. They were gathered to witness the spectacle of the most renowned apostle of science burning at the stake.

Say no more, Michel. I don't want to hear another lecture about my recklessness in coming to Rome to try to intercede with the Court of Inquisition on Bruno's behalf.

Leo, look around you. This execution is a stage set for the world to see. Clement chose Jubilee celebration so he would be assured of a huge crowd for the punishment of the Church's most renowned critic, Michel said,  surveying the crowd. This execution is a warning to anyone who challenges the Church's authority.

The scarlet robes and four-cornered hats of the Vatican's cardinals were prominently dispersed throughout the plaza. Their numbers included the ten members of the Roman Inquisition, whose purses were once again fattened by the Church's right of confiscation of an accused man's property. They stood out as beacons of color in the depressing canvas of drab brown and black winter garments, murmuring prayers to sanctify the spectacle. Their servants carried large silver crosses they used to push away worshipers who got too close. The hypocritical display of piety disgusted him.

Roman society was different from Michel's home in Venice. Here, the Vatican and its bureaucrats ruled with complete authority. They also employed the largest number of people. A cardinal commanded a retinue of at least two hundred workers that could easily be forced into service for any event the Holy See deemed important, such as this one. Others who heeded the Vatican's call were the architects, masons, carpenters and painters. They built lavish homes for the Church elite, and the cabinetmakers, artists, sculptors and gardeners adorned them. Those who fed and dressed the eminences were also at their disposal to attend any function the Vatican deemed appropriate. Michel longed to be back in Venice where influential families, like the Medicis, ruled in cooperation with the doge. Their independence from the Holy See was a source of pride. Michel feared the pope would never acquiesce to Venice's autonomy. Pope Clement struggled for control.

It's a travesty to name this square 'field of flowers' and then turn it into a theater of torture. There are no flowers left, Galileo said, leaning into his brother’s embrace. It's a tragedy. Hundreds have burned here. This place has become the stage for the final act of punishment for the Church's heretical sons.

Many in the crowd were beggars, dressed in tattered winter garments, and stray children, feeding off the excitement. Others were maidservants and noblemen, all jostling for a better view. Some jeered and mocked the accused. Others were there to pay their respects. But many attendees were students and scientists who admired Bruno and had come to offer what little support they could to a man condemned to such a hideous end.

You don't have to watch any more of this, Leo. You've paid your respects. Giordano will go to his death, knowing he had your support and loyalty.

Galileo blanched. You are wrong. He must not endure this agony alone. Truth cannot be extinguished like a candle in a foul wind.

A few in the crowd turned their attention from the procession to point at Galileo and whisper to others close by. The surge of the crowd had moved them close to the stairs leading up to the executioner’s platform.

Please, let's at least move to the back of the crowd, so that if a riot should break out, I can get you out of the square safely, Michel said.

The cart approached the scaffold. The crowd noise fell to a whisper. Two henchmen of the Inquisition, wearing black leather tunics and cloth masks, descended and unlocked the manacles from Bruno's chafed and bleeding wrists. Both hands were purple and swollen.

They pulled him from the wagon and dragged him up the rough wooden stairs. Galileo let out a soft moan. At the top of the platform, Bruno fell to his knees. The executioners ripped off his shroud, forcing him to stand, displaying him naked before the crowd.

Michel clenched and unclenched his fists.  He stared at the bulging ribs protruding from the scientist's emaciated body. The veins in Bruno's bruised arms and legs stood out, a tapestry of blue webbing on a pallet of alabaster skin.  His head and beard had been shaved clean as part of the Church's formal Ritual of Degradation. Scabbed cuts showed he had struggled against the ordeal. Open sores covered his feet, souvenirs of the last weeks spent in the pit of the Torre dell 'Annona, the papal prison.

Bruno tried to hold his head high. His face looked lifeless and grey, like chiseled stone. He stood up, favoring his right leg, the bulge from a broken bone sticking out below his knee. His eyes stared blankly into the crowd. The months in prison had taken their toll.

The clouds were pregnant with moisture, and the air was cold and damp. Michel stood rod straight, watching the vile exhibition.   

Bruno's gaze seemed to fall on the spot where the brothers stood. Michel wondered if Bruno's mind had finally found a place to hide from his suffering. The condemned man's eyes bulged, recognizing his student. He emitted a high-pitched scream. The eerie sound silenced the crowd, causing many to wrap their winter garments tighter against the penetrating chill.

The executioners grabbed Bruno's arms and wrestled him to the thick wooden post fixed to the center of the platform. They tied him with hemp ropes, first at his ankles, then spiraling upward around his legs and cinched fast under his arms.

Michel swallowed hard and wiped a tear from his cheek.

After Bruno was secured, one of the Black Friars approached the accused, as was the custom, and asked him loudly, God the Father, through your infinite wisdom, you have created this sinner who has shunned your love. I ask you now, Giordano Bruno, to recant, one last time.

Bruno tried to respond, but the mouth harness rendered him incapable of uttering an intelligible reply. Without making any attempt to understand the condemned's response, the priest turned briskly and clapped his hands to signal the executioners it was time to light the fires. The thigh- high piles of wood surrounding Bruno began to crackle from the flames.

Dear God! Galileo said in a hoarse whisper, turning away. This is depraved. I know the spilling of blood goes against Church Doctrine, the Synod of Verona forbids it, but this is torture. Burning a man alive. It's contemptible—barbaric.

Michel couldn't bear to tell his brother what he had learned the night before; Pope Clement had added his own dark perversion to the spectacle. By ordering the wood piles placed just far enough away from the condemned man's body to ensure his flesh would not ignite, the accused would suffer for at least two hours before his blood boiled and his heart burst, writhing in agony, dying by degrees.

As the fires roared, the regulars elbowed their way to the front of the platform to get the best view. Around the square, doors and windows of the three- and four-story-buildings were locked and barred by merchants to prevent any damage, in case the crowd became violent. Michel turned and searched the crowd, recognizing many of Bruno's students staring numbly, their faces blank as they witnessed the horror, their hopes shattered when each, in turn, realized there would be no reprieve.

The heat from the fire scalded Bruno's legs. He howled, straining at his bindings, trying to claw his way up the restraining pole.  He gasped for air, his breath quickening, fighting the stifling vortex of flames. His face was mottled red, like rotting plums.

Michel’s stomach heaved. He bent over and vomited, splashing the remains of his breakfast on the cape of the man next to him. He feared he would carry the memory of Bruno's contorted face with him forever. He couldn't bear to watch any more of this. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed Galileo glancing around the square.

Michel stood up, wiping his mouth with the sleeve of his tunic, and searched the faces in the crowd. Priests filtered through the crowd writing in their journals. His worst fear was coming to pass.

Pope Clement’s spies are wading into the crowd, Leo. He'll be told you were here. It will convince him you support Bruno and the teaching of Copernicus. You will be accused of being a sorcerer and a heretic. If they are willing to kill a scientist as famous as Bruno, they will not hesitate to lock you away in the dungeons of the Inquisition or burn you at the stake in this square. Please, let's be off, back to Venice where we will be safe.

Michel’s insides crawled.. He turned back toward the burning, fighting the urge to be sick again.

I must stay until his ashes are tossed into the river. If Bruno's supporters scatter like fireflies when their principles are tested, the Vatican will know it has won. Bruno will have died in vain, Galileo said.

Anger flared. Michel grew tired of his older brother's idealism. At thirty years old, he couldn't remember a time when he wasn't defending his brother or trying to keep him safe.

No one will know who among the crowd came to support Bruno or who came to be entertained by his death. Staying here any longer will only put both of us in danger if your presence is discovered by Pope Clement.

All the wood piles were consumed. The crackling of flames grew louder. Bruno's legs blackened and charred. The broken bone in his right leg popped out through his sizzling flesh. His face  looked away from the cross fastened to the platform before him, one last act of contempt for the Church's authority.

The cold air pressed down, sifting the smoke and ash through the spectators closest to the scaffold. Michel's hair was filled with grit, and the swirling smoke stung his eyes. The acrid smell burned his nose and throat.

The crowd drew back as if they could distance themselves from this macabre tragedy. Those who had jeered and hooted fell silent. The executioners and attending priests climbed down from the platform and were barely visible through the billowing smoke.

Please, Leo, we have to leave. Think about Marina. She's pregnant with your first child. You now have responsibilities, even if you're not going to marry her.

Michel noticed a disturbance at the far corner of the plaza. Something had shifted, something had changed. Unease rippled through the crowd. Shouts could be heard over the roaring blaze.

Soldiers are sealing the exits to the square. We have to get out of here now.  

Black-robed priests bearing the insignia of the Holy See on their chests waded into the square from every corner, followed by soldiers carrying iron shackles. Some of the spectators were seized and placed in chains, others ran in panic.

Michel spun, searching for an escape route. He had waited too long to leave the square. Everything closed in on them. He fought to get enough air in his lungs. Pulling up his hood, he grabbed his brother's arm, pushing his way through the throngs of crying, screaming people in a desperate attempt to escape the trap. 

This is insanity! Michel shouted. dragging his brother through the crowd. His worst fear was playing out, a purge of dissident scientists had begun. Keep your head down and hold on to me. If we get separated, run to the south side of the plaza.

Michel tried to remember the layout of Campo dei Fiori. With brute strength, he forced his way toward the steps of the Santa Brigada Church. A chill slithered down his spine when he heard Galileo's name called out by one of the priests of the Inquisition. His lungs strained to catch his breath, shuddering. Men shouted all around him, Seize that man. No, that one there.

A man grabbed Galileo's arm tugging him toward a priest. The captor shouted, I have him. He's over . . .  Michel's anger flared and the man's words were strangled in his throat. He grabbed the man from behind and threw him, like a child's rag doll, to the ground under an onrush of panicked spectators.

Both brothers burrowed through the crowd to its ragged edge and made their way to the old church.. With a final burst of energy, he lifted Galileo over his shoulder and rushed up the stone steps, into the alcove on the east side of the church. He tried the door. Locked. He quickly put his brother down against the rough stone wall of the church. Galileo stared up at him wide-eyed.

Michel threw his great bulk against the door. Nothing. He tried again and again. Finally, there was a loud crack, and one of the vertical planks split. He redoubled his efforts, pounding repeatedly with his shoulder until it splintered and broke. He squeezed his big hand through the opening. His fingers barely brushed the inside latch. Cramming his hand further into the opening, the skin tore away from his knuckles. He managed to flip the lever, unlocking the door.

He hauled Galileo to his feet, and they barreled inside. Michel staggered and fell to the ground, fighting to catch his breath The last echo of their forced entry faded among the giant slabs of white marble surrounding the nave of the cathedral. The silence quickly engulfed them.

Michel's heart pounded with renewed urgency when angry shouts rose from the melee swirling through the plaza. They had no time to waste. He grabbed Galileo and fled to the rear entrance of the church and out onto the narrow alleyway, never once looking back to see if they were pursued.

CHAPTER 2

Amsterdam - August 15, 2016

Nick approached the furry vagrant carefully, lowering his six-foot-two-inch frame onto one knee, while unwrapping the tinfoil that contained the remains of his lunch. The dog followed his every move. He was careful not to place the care package too close to the puddles of water from the afternoon rain. The traffic thumped along overhead. The city went about its business, oblivious to the hardship of this homeless animal.

Nick rose to leave, his damaged right knee protesting. Four years serving in the US Army Rangers had left its scars. His recently polished black wingtip dress shoes scraped the cobblestone walkway, sending echoes through the confined space of the canal overpass. The dog stared at him, perfectly still, not making any effort to approach the offered meal.

Jenny would have taken this dog home. She had been gone for five years now, and the memory of her still left him feeling broken inside.

Okay, buddy, it's time for me to go. I'll try to come back tomorrow and see how you're doing.

He looked at his watch. He had no more time to linger. He didn't want to be late for this appointment. He assumed a Jesuit teacher would be obsessive about punctuality. It had taken him months to get this interview for a graduate research assistantship, and he wasn't going to blow it by not showing up on time.

Climbing the rough stone staircase, he noticed the pink and white water lilies starting to sprout under the bridge. It was comforting to see nothing had changed since he strolled along this canal with Jenny. The city still maintained natural gardens to provide a nesting place for water birds looking for a home in the otherwise harsh urban environment. A pair of coots collected debris for their nest while a large blue heron stood sentinel in a tree over the canal, watching for any movement in the water that might signal a meal at hand. He closed his eyes and smelled the sweet fragrance of the lilies. It reminded him of a more innocent time. He wished he could turn back the clock.

He followed the Heren Canal until it ended. The air was still here. Four-story walk-up apartment buildings bordered the narrow streets on either side of the canal. There was no water traffic, just a few ducks swimming in lazy circles. As he looked down the row of barges, he spotted The Albatross, his destination and the home of Marteen Van den Bosch, esteemed professor of biology at St. Francis Xavier University. The boat was painted black above the waterline. A string of small white lights along the deck twinkled in the early sunset, highlighting the houseplants that lined the gunwales. The boat was probably built ages ago to transport mountains of coal to and from the city. There were hundreds of them, customized to reflect the tastes of their owners, moored along the canals in the inner city, each providing quaint and inexpensive housing to a burgeoning population.

The hollow gong of a church bell brought Nick back to reality. He picked up his pace, anxious to start his rehearsed speech. He was a pretty good student back in the day, but at thirty years old, hitting the books again would be tough. He had to get his head together. Selling a cannabis research project to a Jesuit university wouldn't be easy.

Nick crossed the cobblestone bridge and approached the barge, dancing deftly through  the maze of orphaned bikes scattered next to the mooring. The early evening crowd emerged from their homes, mostly couples arm-in-arm, out for a stroll. Low whispers and laughter followed him down the street. A large family of swans swam back and forth in front of the Albatross, single file, in size order. The barge community was probably an easy source for an evening meal.

The deck was lined with a variety of areca palms and elephant ear philodendron.  Variegated leaves poked out through the larger plants to add texture to the variety of greenery. Clusters of blue bells overflowed their pots on the upper deck, cascading down the side of the cabin like paint dripping on a garage sale dresser. Boxes under every window sprouted clumps of red and yellow verbena. The smell of fresh baked bread filled the air. His stomach growled, and he wished he had eaten a more substantial lunch.

Nick hopped down from the street onto the deck of the Albatross. The solid structure gave a reassuring thud. He fought to steadied himself and heard a small snicker. He looked over to see a smiling face staring at him through the open doorway.

I see you found your way without mishap, said a short, rotund fellow with rosy cheeks and bushy white hair, standing in the shadow of the doorway. His extended hand held a glass of white wine. Okay so far.

Marteen Van den Bosch resembled a miniature Saint Nicholas. He put down his wine glass and held out his pudgy little hand to shake. His eyes twinkled. The strength of his grip surprised Nick.

I'm actually pretty familiar with this part of town. My wife and I lived in a small walk-up a few blocks from here for a short time after we finished college. Coming from land-locked Nebraska, she fell in love with Amsterdam's network of romantic canals.

Do you still live in the city or have you found your way into the countryside? Van den Bosch asked as he turned to lead Nick into the barge. 

Nick took a big gulp of wine and blurted, My wife died from cancer five years ago.

Van den Bosch faced Nick. I'm sorry, son. Sometimes God's plan is difficult to understand.

After watching an angel tortured beyond reason for eight months, finally dying in agony, I don't much care to try to understand God's plan,