Pope Faliero
Part the Second:
A quick disclaimer: despite all things
that I put down on paper, I bear no ill
to rollmops, or to bigus. On occasion
I'll even do couscous and vodka.
Gastronomically I'm equal-opportunity.
Ahem. Two years have passed
since we last saw our hero push a speech
and many things have happened.
Among all else, the Pope discovered
to his chagrin, that he was Gregory
the Ninth and not the Sixth. Likewise
he realized that the AAR he’s in
has “coll
age” and not “coll
ege”
in its title. He scratched his head a little,
but then
got it. In any case, enough
digressions – Once More into the Fray!
Pope is dozing on a chair. Bocconcino enters, puts out the candles one by one. A cock crows. The Pope mutters something in his sleep, then wakes up.
Pope:
‘Tis already morning! How
quick time flies.
Where am I?
Bocconcino:
In Kairouan, quite clearly, your Papacity.
Pope:
Wherefore?
Bocconcino:
Prithee nuncle, make me not elucidate.
Pope:
I command it, else I make you
wear the motley.
Bocconcino:
We are at war, my Pontiff; your campaign
through heathen Africa had seen me
breathing sand and eating
couscous
for two unending years.
Pope:
Well - are we winning?
Bocconcino:
I thought you were bronchitic, not senile!
Pope:
Thy impudence annoyes me. Carry on
with your sad telling of the trials,
the times and tribulations of Pope Gregory.
The
audience demands it. I would fain
have told it all myself, but I do fear my illness
shall prove a problem.
Bocconcino:
Alright, your Popandopoulous majesty;
just as you wish, I’ll tell your tale.
It is not I that speaks henceforth,
it is my love that speaks. A love
for Pope and Peter’s Seat; thus all my words
are
truth and solemn balm for weary ears.
Turns to the audience
He dealt with all sorts of
revolting
revolters fairly but firmly. The cedars
of Atlas make fantastic gallows.
He
taxed his vassals to the bone;
he thought up
Indulgences
and in the selfsame breath
waxed eloquent of
Poverty to Clergy.
he spared not bishopric or widowed countess
to get the golden stuffing for his coffers
a Pope after my own heart;
Pope:
Yes indeed. My Polish vassals
like as not would have misused the gold
and spent it all importing
sauerkraut and
vodka;
those useless
bigus-eaters.
Bocconcino continues:
His Popishness has
spent the money wisely
by building several exalted churches
and libraries commissioned by the dozen;
okay, half-dozen. Okay, three.
But it had nothing – you hear – nothing,
to do with gaining piety and prestige. He did it
out of the goodness of his heart.
On the domestic front, moreover
the Pope’s keen interest resulted in a breakthrough
of
musically staggering proportions.
it is decided that they’ll call this thing
“Gregorian”
to let the Pope’s fame linger through posterity.
At least ‘twas Barbaresco that decreed it
in his new position as the chorus master.
Pope:
I made him chorus master? Well.
Now he has both wine and novices aplenty.
And flatters me with music. How I wish
I were remembered as a sovereign
and conqueror instead of music-lover.
Enter Provolone.
Provolone:
And so you shall, my Papal Majesty
the heathens are retreating.
We’ve weathered the long storm!
Pope:
Too early for rejoicing! Alas for me,
alas for my ambitions! The unquiet
neighbours, the Mohammedan couscous-eaters,
they let me have no rest. Venice,
Venice my fair! I have no wish
to keep on gaining sand and rocks and Arabs
through force of arms. The Poles are bad enough.
My vassals are all useless. On their behalf
I went to war with Spain and Africa,
and nearly lost. They were no help at all;
their armies scattered. After two years of war
where
all was hazarded and given,
we signed
humiliating peace with Spain -
but ground down Africa. For what? For sand?
A motley'd fool I’d be if I were freely
for sand my Papacy to give and hazard!
Oh, if it were Venice. I’d give up Africa.
A hundred
galleys are a million times
more regal than ten thousand camels!
But
camels are all I’ve got. And so, we fight.
Provolone, help me.
Provolone:
With what?
Pope:
Help me get off this chair, you fool.
Provolone helps the Pope. Both step outside the tent
Bragadoccio and Ahmed,
the guards, are slacking next to the entrance. Seeing the Pope they smarten up. The Pope heads towards a horse. Bragadoccio and Ahmed help him up to the saddle
Pope:
There, my good men. One final battle,
and from henceforth all of these lands
once God-forsaken will be ours,
Wisely and
gently ruled from Rome,
with
reasonable taxes and minimal oppression.
Give me one victory; one final triumph,
and then this war will end.
Ahmed:
Inshallah! Peace at last!
Bragadoccio:
Peace? I’ve got two wives to feed!
Who’ll pay me?
Pope (proudly):
Behold, my men are lions, and God is with me.
What can go wrong?
Suddenly the sky darkens, then distant thunder rolls. The Pope looks pale and surprised.
Then he begins coughing up blood
Pope:
I bleed! My God – wherefore you choose this hour
to teach me of the final mystery?
My triumph, modest as it is, is now denied.
But see! I did your bidding! I spread your rule
your
holy word, both kind and terrible
through your divinely-lead bureaucracy
throughout these heathen wastes!
I bled for you, and even now
I spill my blood.
All for this silent, this ineffable command.
Farewell, ambition. Farewell Glory.
Oh cruel world, remember Pope Faliero
if even for his interest in music.
And Lord of Hosts, forgive
the old man his deathbed words of apostasy.
This final trial is too much for any man.
Bocconcino – shrive me!
Pope slumps over the saddle, dead. A somber, silent moment..
Bocconcino, Provolone, Ahmed and Bragadoccio stand around looking stunned.
Enter Messenger
Messenger:
He’s dead? Convenient! So there’s no need
to kill him. Back in Rome they have decided
he has outlived his usefulness. The
Emperor
sends you gentlemen his warmest greetings.
He
hopes you welcome your next Pontiff –
a pious, gentle man without undue ambitions
and a full-blooded German.
Exit Messenger.
Everyone is silent. It starts raining. A camel wanders past.
but. . . 
